#like By the slightest. i think his limbs are extended so his clothes can fit him properly :3 his ass is still bigger than vashs 🏆 i compare

[ruporas]

the miniwoos are all here!! i have so many boxes… full of woo… i’ll be starting on packing so he can be ready for shipping in january!!🥺 thank you for all the patience!!

[ettawritesnstudies]

Trick or treat? >:D

Treat! I feel like you would appreciate the time I accidentally wrote a diatribe about the right kind of medieval weaponry for a smol fae girl

......

The twins call the Changeling to choose after Hannah steps away. There are assortments of swords and bows, axes and maces, spears and polearms with dozens of different heads. She has no idea what she’s looking for, nor the slightest idea how any of these are supposed to work. Is she supposed to have a preference? She doesn’t belong here, surrounded by such capable warriors. If Quercu weren’t here to spot her, she’d glamour herself into the wall and avoid all this trouble.

Quercu, of course, notices her hesitancy and steps forward to heft a mace. “You’ll want something light, if you’re going to be flying.” She drops the mace with a CLANG, prompting an indignant cry from Marco, who rushes over to set it aright.

Next Quercu takes a sword. It’s light, with a long thin blade, almost whiplike. The Changeling recognizes it as the same kind of sword the Twins were practicing when she first met them.

“That’s a foil,” Marco says. “Great for quick attacks, but it requires a lot of control. It might be difficult to learn in a matter of days. Not to say I don’t think you’re capable,” he amends, turning to Cecelia as Quercu puts it back in the rack, “You’d be excellent if you had the time, but it’s a weapon for finesse and style. You need something more protective.”

Quercu nods her agreement. “Besides, its too shiny. Her best asset will be her mobility and glamours. You can extend a glamour to an object you’re holding, like the clothes you’re wearing, but it’s more difficult with something like this.”

She picks up a bow next and draws it, testing the weight. “This would allow you to keep your distance. It’s possible to use one while flying, but it can be tricky to master the timing between wing beats, and especially more difficult to hit a moving target, as you’re moving. This will be best for sneak attacks if you’re stationary and concealed in the trees.”

“Best not to give her the English longbow though. That’s got a draw weight of a hundred twenty pounds.”

“I’m sure the Sprite can manage it,” Quercu says, passing the length of smooth curved wood to Cecelia. As it passes from hand to hand, the bow shrinks slightly, and her palms slips comfortably into the grip. The magic preserves the energy wound up in the bowstring, and when she tries to pull it back, she manages to reach halfway to her chin before she gives up and slowly releases it.

Marco raises his eyebrows, impressed. “Cheater.”

“What?! What did I do?”

“You ever heard of the square cube law?”

The Changeling only gawks at him, completely befuddled. No wonder Hannah gets along with him. They’re both nerds.

“It’s the reason ants can carry so much. Fae skirt around that rule and benefit from it in ways we can’t. It’s a function of your wings too. It’s all rather fascinating.”

“Cut it out, Marco!” his twin calls from the other side, where he’s fitting Hannah into her fencing gear. “This is a fighting lesson, not a physics lecture.”

“Physics is a battle of the mind, I’ll have you know,” Marco snips back. He laughs though, and takes the English longbow from her hands, instead handing her a smaller bow with curved limbs.

“Try the recurve. It’ll be easier to maneuver in tight spaces as well if you’re in the trees.”

This bow pulls back with a little effort, but she can draw it reliably, and so she agrees with the choice. He also provides her with a quiver stocked with arrows, which has a specially made strap to fit between her wings comfortably and not impede their movement.

“She also needs something for flight. Meele, but something that allows her to keep her distance,” Quercu muses. After perusing the long rack of polearms, she finally settles on a simple spear. “This will have the easiest learning curve.”

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: V

“I must admit, I thought I’d like to make you mine

As I went about my business through the warning signs

End up meeting in the hallway every single time

And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

— Only Angel, Harry Styles

A/N: this chapter...it was probably my fav to write, so far!!! i just adore these two clueless morons so much like i just can’t shut up about them. quite a bit happens in this part and it’s all to build that slow burn, friends to lovers shit we all know and love baYBEEEEE!!! and also The Crew make an appearance because hello we love to see it, we truly do 😌😌😌 especially the man, the myth, the legend, Mitch Rowland and honestly?? this is HIS chapter fuck vampirerry!!! but yeah i hope y’all like what’s in store for the Dynamic Duo this time around and remember that feedback is truly, madly, deeply™ appreciated! and if you enjoy it, please reblog it! spreading content keep creators motivated! without further delay, let’s dive in  😼  

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

word count: 34k 

content/warnings: witty banter, some nice fluff, jacuzzi sex, more fluff, a very testing phone call, some face f*cking, a soft shower, rough degradation, the return of The Handcuffs, an unexpected visit from The Three Stooges, more cheeky banter because that’s their brand, and the reveal of jealous asshole Harry 

///   

Y/N giddly accepts Harry’s offer to stay the weekend and the vampire can confidently say it’s one of the best he’s had in the last decade. 

He’d startled even himself when the suggestion had risen abruptly from his mouth, leaving him blinking blankly as a result. He rarely allows anyone to spend more than a day in his condo— his friends being the only exception— because he’s grown to like the quiet solitude that comes with living on his own. He very solemnly has people over whom he hasn’t known for at least a few years, and that rule is reinforced on stricter grounds when it comes to humans. Especially when the only true connection they could possibly carry to him is through the area between their legs. 

But Harry has become strangely fond of Y/N in the last four weeks— fond enough to freely refer to her as a friend and endeared enough to bypass the fact that she’s mortal. She just looks so unbelievably cute padding around his apartment barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of crumpled, sunflower-doodled panties and his Nike olive green jumper, her hair a mangled mess with traces of his cologne smeared across the bruised skin of her neck. Admittedly, it’s a sight he wants to see more often, which is a stab at his ego because he’s never been one to dwell on sentimentality— not for a while. It’s a bit cliche and gross, in his opinion, but when it comes to this one particular girl...well, maybe it’s not too bad. Indulging some soft pastimes can't do much damage, especially when it aids his plan to keep her interested until he himself grows bored. 

It can only do good, which is probably what had spurred him into asking her to extend her stay. For once, he found himself not craving his usual silent seclusion. Not when that self-imposed isolation could be filled with her loud laughter, warm lips, and sweet moans instead. 

And much to his satisfaction, Harry gets just that. 

For the next two days, the creature gets all of his needs and wants attended to, both recreational and intimate. Y/N seems to enjoy it thoroughly, as well, walking— or rather waddling, really, thanks to some of their raunchier activities— around his flat happily, constantly clad in a pair of his boxers and one of his graphic tees. He gets off on it— it’s hard not to, especially with the way she fits his clothes so effortlessly, almost as if she was made to fill them. Or the way the scent of his shampoo is combed through every strand of her hair, his smell slathered all over her as if she’s unconsciously trying to mark herself as his. Or the way new love bites cover the ones his blood had nearly faded, which she dotes shamelessly by pushing all her hair behind her shoulders so Harry can get a perfect view of every welt he’s left behind on her throat. Or the way she unapologetically giggles at all his jokes and crude humor, and how she paddles his witty banter right back at him with that clever gleam in her irises. 

He gets off on the way Y/N cuddles into him on the couch while they’re watching some mindless Food Network series, her body heat expelling the stiff coldness from his limbs. The way she kisses tenderly along the underside of his jaw, forefinger tracing over his Adam’s Apple teasingly, a smile spreading against his skin when she feels it bob heavily. The way she’ll sneak her hand between his thighs and palm him over his briefs, taking the shell of his ear between her teeth and hissing lowly when his cock twitches against her fingers, her voice soft as silk but heavy with dirty intentions. “Want to make you feel good again, H. Can I?” 

The human girl is a blessing, while simultaneously being a walking, talking sin, and the monster’s never been more willing to damn himself to Hell. And he would gladly do it, if he wasn’t already living it in the form of blood-driven eternity.

It’s an eventful weekend, that’s for sure, and despite the fact that they share an abundance of memorable moments, there are a few that Harry deems especially unforgettable. 

The jacuzzi sex sits at the top of that list. 

Y/N had practically squealed when she’d laid eyes on the glorified tub in his bathroom, pacing over to it excitedly and leaning down to run her fingers over the control panel along the rim. Her voice had come out whispered, full of child-like wonder. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Harry had walked over to stand beside her, his icy digits pressing on top of her warm own, finagling the buttons into his preferred settings. Hot water begins to shoot out of all the polished jets one by one, slowly filling the pool and covering the dark marble wrap-around ledge used as seating. The vampire quickly fetches the bag of lavender Epsom salts he keeps close by, scooping a couple handfuls into the frothing hot tub, along with pouring in a decent amount of jasmine bubble bath. 

His lips jolt when he catches Y/N eyeing the jacuzzi in awe, her hands clasped to her chest in delight as she teeters back and forth ever so slightly on her heels. The water shuts off once it reaches the appropriate level, leaving behind a thick, luxurious sheet of suds that smells of sugary florals and clean linen. The second the jets retract, Harry doesn’t even have time to make a comment before Y/N begins stripping down hurriedly, obviously restless to take on this new experience. 

Harry spontaneously jerks to the side out of habit, averting his sight to allow her some privacy. His tone is soft and amused. “Clean towels are in the hamper along the other side of the tub.” He signals blindly towards where he knows the basket is situated. “Call me back in when you need help with the shower knobs. And don’t—”

The immortal spots something streak across his peripheral vision, cocking his head a bit just in time to see her flower-print panties toss onto the tiled floor. He rolls his eyes playfully, scoffing to himself at the innocence of the article. It matches her persona perfectly. 

He hears a splash crack through the air behind him, meaning that Y/N has submerged herself in the water and that it is now safe for him to turn around without threatening her decency. However, he doesn’t think she’d mind if he did and he finds himself wondering why he’d looked away in the first place. The answer comes to him simply: it was a residual mannerism from the era he was raised in. His default Victorian etiquette can be so fucking annoying sometimes. 

He spins around on his socked heels, lean arms folding casually across his broad chest, naked tattoos glinting under the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom. He slinks his head to the side, entertained at the view he finds. Y/N is sitting amidst the blanket of pink bubbles, covered up to her shoulders as she cups soap into her palms, blowing at it and watching the suds float across the air before popping. The adorable smile that breaks across her face makes Harry’s stomach flutter. 

The vampire steps forward to catch her attention, leaning a hip against the edge of the tub and pursing his lips to hide an adoring grin. The corners of his mouth betray him as soon as Y/N looks up at him, hair slicked back with water and bubbles, matted to the sides of her neck and across her jaw as she beams up at him. 

“Your place is literally an adult playground.” The human states wistfully, her arms floating across the surface of the bath as she drifts closer to him, creating more suds. “You’re gonna have to get me kicked out tomorrow ‘cause I’m not leaving on my own.” 

Harry snorts, ducking down and wiping some soap off the tips of her eyelashes. “I don’t think security detail was part of the lease, so I might have to do it myself.”

“I can easily take you.” Y/N remarks jokingly, waving a hand dismissively. “Better make some space, I’m moving in next week.” 

“I’d say I would start clearing out my storage room for you,” Harry leans forward, ghosting his lips over hers and thumbing over the curve of her chin, batting his lashes sultrily, “but I think we both know you’d end up in my bed either way. Best leave it as is.” 

“Yeah,” Y/N momentarily glimpses down at his mouth, eyes glitzing with the slightest bit of hunger, “I think it's best if we just split the bed.” 

“Oh, we’ll definitely split the bed— split it right down the middle.” Harry grips her jaw firmly and locks her into a wet, sloppy kiss for a few elongated heartbeats, tugging at her bottom lip and biting it jestingly before pulling back. 

Y/N chases after him, craving more of his taste, but the boy draws back fully and pats at her cheek with smug finality. Her begrudging pout makes him release a boyish giggle. “Anyways, as I was saying before, my last rule: Don’t pee in the tub. Cleaning it is a bitch and that’s the last thing I want to deal with.” 

The mortal laughs airily, nodding her head in confirmation that she understands. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Thank you.” Her friend huffs, shoulders slumping dramatically in relief. Harry takes on a theatrical ominous edge, quirking his brows warningly. “Didn’t end well for the last person who did.” 

“Is that so?” Y/N inquires daringly, lowering herself deeper into the water until it covers her chin. “What happened? Did you have to take on the role of executioner again?”

Harry thinks back to that instance, shaking his head in amusement at the memory. It had been Niall— anything that has to do with testing his patience almost always leads to Niall— and to make a long story short, the Irish bloke had ended up having to regrow an ear. But he can’t necessarily confess that supernatural event to Y/N, no matter how funny it is, so he just shrugs offhandedly and gives her a dark look full of faux mystery, voice adopting the same affect. “I’ve already said too much.” 

The young woman casts her eyes up to the ceiling humorously. “Moron.” 

“Watch it, love.” Harry tuts, narrowing his eyes at her pointedly in an attempt to suppress the smirk that is about to stem from his next comment. “I’m not the one with the degradation kink here.” 

Y/N scrunches her face at him mockingly, trying to hide the way his quip had made her heart hiccup. She mimics his accent, sticking up her middle finger from beneath a mountain of rosy bubbles. “Piss off.” 

“Gladly.” Harry bites back cheekily in an American accent. He leans down, retrieving his Nike sweater and her underwear from the rumpled pile on the ground, his intentions set on taking them across the hall to the laundry room with the rest of her clothes. That way, her stuff will be nice and clean for when she needs it again Sunday night. “Just call if you need me, yeah?” 

Harry gets about three feet towards the door before Y/N’s soft voice halts him, piping up as gentle and timid as usual. “Wait…”

The vampire glances over his shoulder, eyebrows poised in question as he absentmindedly flips his jumper inside-out in anticipation for the wash. 

Y/N swims across the extent of the jacuzzi until she’s right in front of where he’d stopped, resting her forearms along the rim and plopping her chin atop her folded hands. She gazes up at Harry through her lashes and he can see the manner in which she shifts her footing beneath the small waves, almost as preparing to stand up from the water. “Don’t go.” 

Harry’s eyes go half-lidded in a flat expression as he hangs his sweatshirt over the inside of his elbow. “Didn’t you literally just tell me to piss off five seconds ago?”

“I changed my mind.” 

“Well, that’s just too bad. You already hurt my feelings. No take-backs.” 

“Idiot.”

“Try again.” 

“What’s that one insult British people say? Oh, yeah! Knobhead.” 

“You’re really not helping your case here.” 

Y/N sighs in exasperation, using her palms to boost herself up until she’s standing fully inside the hot tub. Water cascades down her shoulders and out of her sopping hair, following the curves of her bare torso and trickling across her jaw. She teeters forward until her face is only a few inches away from Harry’s, lulling her head to the side expectantly with a certain slyness swirling around her pupils. She chews on her lower lip as she gives him a suggestive once-over. “How about now? Does this help my case?”

Harry keeps his eyes pinned to her own, refusing to submit to temptation. He knows exactly what she’s trying to do, and he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of allowing it to work. Not yet, at least. He wants her to beg for it. 

The creature twists towards her entirely, irises bright with the excitement of a new challenge. Even with the slight elevation the jacuzzi provides, Harry still towers over Y/N at least a good four inches. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough that she has to tilt her chin up to maintain direct eye contact. The tip of his cold nose brushes over hers, eyebrows shrugging tauntingly. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, darling.”

Y/N reaches forward without breaking their stares, taking the clothes from Harry’s grasp and haphazardly chucking them onto the towel hamper. Now with his arms free, the immortal props his hands onto his hips, his biceps and shoulders flexing with the motions. He’s peacocking to try and intimate her, and in any other circumstance, it would probably work, but Y/N knows she has the upper-hand at the moment; she’s naked and wet and docile, and with the way Harry’s handsome features are hardening in determination, she can tell she’s whittling him down. All it would take is one well-coordinated touch here, a lingering stroke there, and maybe a gentle caress of her lips down the valley of his pectorals…

Y/N goes for something better. She reaches upwards to intertwine her fingers around the nape of Harry’s neck, tugging him closer until their chests meld together, the heat from the water radiating off her waxy skin and sinking into his freezing own. His breathing catches as soon as he feels her pert nipples press into his chest and even though he’s keeping his sight trained on her face, he can just barely see the curves of her breasts less than a foot below. Their close proximity is making them swell upwards, urging him to give in and have his way with her however he wants. And fuck, does he want to. But he’s not going to let her bait him that easily— who would he be if he allowed this human girl to toy with him in such a fashion? Harry never lets anyone puppet him— not anymore, not ever again— and especially not when it comes to sex, which is one of his most skilled domains. He certainly isn’t going to let her win. 

Harry grabs Y/N’s wrists from where they are perched around his neck, giving her a hard look that lets her know who’s in charge of the situation. He brings her hands up before her face, flipping them over so she gets a proper view of the faint bruising that lines her flesh, leftover from the previous evening’s restraints. When he speaks, it’s low and throaty with a condescending undercurrent. “Remember what happened last time you acted like a brat?”

Images flash by the forefront of Y/N’s mind like a film on fast-forward, recalling the night to which Harry is referring. The young man had tied her to her headboard and fingered her until she was left a teary mess, refusing to let her orgasm each time she got close. Then, he had tossed the girl onto her tummy and rammed into her from behind until her aged bedframe had nearly splintered. If she focuses intently enough, she can still feel the satisfying ache he had left behind, which had haunted her for days afterwards. 

The mortal swallows heavily, nodding her head a tad. 

Harry raises an eyebrow with an awaiting air. “Remember what I said about using your words?”

Y/N bobs her head again quickly. After a moment, she realizes her repeated mistake, clearing her throat softly in order to fix it. “Yes.”

“Good.” The vampire drops her hands, coasting his palms up her neck to cup either sides of her jaw, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones almost tenderly. “Now let me ask you again. Do you remember what happened last time you acted like a little brat?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Do you want a repeat of that?”

“No, I—” Y/N pauses in hindsight, retracting her previous statement. “Well, actually…”

Harry’s ruby lips string into a coy smirk at her response, well acquainted with where her thoughts are leading. He presses their foreheads together, the damp stickiness of her warm flesh sending a shiver toppling down his spine. “Let me guess. You want a repeat of the part where I shoved your face into a pillow and fucked you until you squirted all over me?” 

He can feel blood surge into her cheeks beneath his fingertips as a result of his vulgar words. “Yes, please.”

Harry gnaws along the inside of his cheek as he recalls that event. He can practically feel her gushing around his cock all over again, her walls tightening around him as her whole body trembled in his grasp, her shattered whimpers stinging his ears as he continued to slam into her until she’d completely drenched both of their thighs. His eyelids fall shut in dreamy recollection and an image skims by of his initial rings marked across her ass; it nearly sends his knees out from under him. “Fuck, that was so hot, wasn’t it?”

“So fucking hot.” Y/N sighs shakily, lashes fluttering as his warm breath washes across her tingling mouth. “Harry, I just...I just want to ride you so fucking bad right now.”

“Yeah? Is that what you want?” Harry touches over her quivering bottom lip, somehow managing to feel her pulse. It’s battering so hard, he could probably sense it through any spot on her body, at this point. “You want me to sit in there with you just so you can bounce on my cock, baby?” 

“Please…” Y/N sounds as if she’s on the verge of crying, all of her desperate need translating into her wrecked voice. Her next phrase is something she doesn’t think she’s ever spoken before, but the intensity of the moment just feels so right to test it out, and Harry feels like the right person to test it with. After another heavy gulp and a lick at her dry lips, she chimes up once again, bashful and pliant. “Please, Daddy?”

The sound of a sharp inhale echoes off the marble and porcelain walls of the bathroom, stemming from Harry’s garbled throat. It feels like the temperature in the atmosphere has gone up twenty degrees, invisible flames lapping across the muscles of his taut back and across the tendons of his tight shoulders. His entire body seems to go into shock, lungs stuttering and stomach hollowing out. His lashes snap shut without a heartbeat to spare, webs of black veins materializing over the whites of his eyes as a reaction to Y/N’s brazen comment. 

He has been indulging fantasies of her calling him that specific name for weeks now, but had never asked out of respect for her boundaries. He figured that if she had an affinity for it, it would eventually make its way out of her mouth during one of their sessions, and he had been willing to be patient enough to wait. It had paid off, it seems. 

Harry releases his grip on the girl’s face, reaching down to messily shove his black briefs down his clammy thighs, eyes flickering open now that he has forced some control into his demeanor. He sets his intent on her expression, the jade of his irises bleeding lust as he catches her gawking at him. Y/N gazes down at where he’s occupied, her lips parting slightly with starved awe as his underwear falls away to pool at his feet, revealing the part of him she has grown so addicted to in the last month. It looks so pretty, with a neatly trimmed pubic area, thick girth, and pleasurable length. She never knew cocks could be appealing, considering she always found their appearance so odd and irrelevant. That is, until Harry. It appears she thought a lot of sexual things irrelevant until Harry. 

He kicks away his clothes, nudging at her boiling cheeks with his nose to garner attention, his tone low and inexplicably strained. “Say it again.”

Y/N’s fingers curl into loose fists against his heaving chest as she gathers her bearings, shuddering with a difficult exhale. She says it a bit louder this time, but still inherently weak, almost as if she’s scared their shadows might overhear. “Please, Daddy?”

Harry’s brows furrow with puncurting desire, a broken groan stirring deep in his lungs. “God, that sounds so good coming from your mouth. Been wanting to hear you say it for ages now.” 

“Really?”

He nods fervently, nose bumping hers with every movement and he takes this chance to peek down at her naked figure, swallowing thickly at how incredible her breasts look flushed to his pecs. “Think about it constantly. Always wondered what it would take to get it out of you.” 

“I wish you’d just told me.” The human mumbles, tracing his cupid’s bow with the crest of her own. “I’ve been wanting to say it for a while now.” 

Harry chuckles lightly, humming in amusement as he snakes a strong arm around the dip of her spine, drawing her closer as much as possible. He just wants to feel every inch of her wet, velvety skin. “Well, now you can say it all you want. Over and over and over, while I make your knees shake and your back arch.” 

Y/N sputters out a bundle of feathery giggles, looping her arms around his neck and carding her fingers into his shiny curls, pulling his lips down to meet hers in a restless kiss full of quiet whines and snippets of laughter. She talks into his mouth, starting to pant as the pace becomes more passionate, full of eager tongues and nipping teeth. “Now will you please get in and let me fuck you?” 

Harry mounts one knee onto the edge of the hot tub, his free hand jutting down against the marble for reinforcement as the other keeps her trapped against his body. “Yeah...Yeah, I think I will.” 

He crawls into the heated water, submerging up to his waist due to his height. Once he’s balanced himself within the pool, the palm pressed to the brim slips away, replacing the cold stone with the simmering skin of Y/N’s jaw once again. He tangles his fingers into her hair as he nurses her face to the side, deepening their prolonged kiss, and the whimper she pours into his mouth makes every cell in his body throb with longing. Y/N’s hands ride down his lean stomach and over his pelvic bones, fingers twitching the closer she gets to his cock. She stops right before she reaches his base, wracked with the slightest bit of shy hesitation. 

“Go ahead, doll.” Harry murmurs softly, hips bucking forward once against the pads of her digits. “I want you to touch me.”

Y/N’s palm disappears below the mounds of bubbles, cupping over his cock and giving it a rough grope. Harry gasps brokenly against her lips at the sensation, the corners of his mouth ticking upwards into a blissful simper when her breathing throttles just a smidge. Y/N gradually begins to work him below the gentle waves of the water, eyes rolling back when she feels him harden in her hold. She’ll never get used to how erotic it is having Harry shatter under her influence.

“I think it's funny,” she begins, voice delicate and humorous, contradicting the insistent actions she’s partaking below, “how you were threatening me with orgasm denial two minutes ago and now you’re being all nice.” 

The vampire thrusts slightly against her strokes, tiny noises escaping his taut throat as a familiar boiling begins to simmer in his veins. His tone is detached and pinched with the effort of maintaining composure. “S’hardly a fair point, considering you caught me off guard with that pet name.”

“Is that so?” The girl inquires playfully, giving the tip of his cock a hard squeeze and scoffing against his mouth when he releases a tight grunt. 

“Mm. You always…” Harry draws back from her intoxicating mouth, looking down at her over the crests of his tinted cheekbones to admire the faint imprint of his teeth along her swollen lips. His mind feels like it’s been pumped with syrup, thoughts swishing around lazily, his emotions still somewhat exposed from the mishap that had occurred during their breakfast serenade. It had been over two hours ago, but the wound was still fresh in his subconscious, causing small pinpricks of anxiety to stain his otherwise carefree personality. He feels as if his chest had been cut open with a scalpel, his insides had been rearranged out of order, and the gash had been resewn brutishly; he feels disarrayed and defiled. And because of some simple human girl who’s as fragile and insipidly transparent as glass. 

The immortal’s voice comes out as a whisper, carrying the weight of his confused, raw state. “You always catch me off guard.” 

Y/N blinks up at him innocently, gnawing on her bottom lip at his sweet compliment, her heart somersaulting within her ribcage. “You catch me off guard, too. Always keep me on my toes, which is something I was never really used to.” 

“Do you...” Harry forces down the lump in his throat, allowing himself to be vulnerable for the sake of seeking an answer. Though their problems are vastly different— she’s referring to her small-town, conservative mentality, whereas he’s shouldering two hundred years worth of emotional trauma— he’s more than happy to absorb any advice she could possibly offer. He needs to know how to shut this off; he hates feeling so unsure of himself. It’s like he’s wading through a forest blindfolded, disoriented and uncalibrated with no sense of direction or purpose. He hasn’t felt this helpless since… “Do you hate it?”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut, lashes dusting the apples of her cheeks in a way that Harry deems almost ethereal. She shakes her head lightly in his grasp, a hazy smile adorning her face. “Do I hate that you take me out of my comfort zone? I don’t think I do, actually. I like it. I like that every moment we spend together is something new. I was so used to following the status quo and retracing other’s steps, I never noticed how boring it all was. But you’re never boring. You make everything fun and adventurous, and it’s just so...” 

Y/N laughs a tad, trying to come up with a word she can’t quite place, too distracted in how her friend’s thumbs are caressing her jaw. The hand she has below the water has stopped its motions all together, her focus placed solely on the young man’s beautiful features. The copper specks in his eyes glitter in the white light of the bathroom, looking like polished amber gems. “Uhm...It’s...It’s so—”

“Scary...but exhilarating.” Harry finishes her sentence, a quivering sigh coaxing out of his tight chest. He feels like he’s going to vomit. 

Y/N bobs her head in agreement, hands drifting to wrap around his dainty wrists, giving them a soft squeeze as if to reassure herself that he’s real. “Yeah, that’s it. It’s...exciting, kind of.” 

The creature swallows heavily and releases her face, peeling his eyes away from Y/N’s for fear of letting her see him so defenseless, brows creasing in burning unsettlement. Instead, he lends his attention to outlining the speckling of white strewn into the dark marble of the bathroom wall, using that distraction to calm the raging in his belly. Out of the edge of his vision, he can see Y/N’s face fall, the grip she has on his wrists loosening. A spike of pain shoots through his unbeating heart— similar to what he had endured earlier— at the sadness behind her gesture, but he stifles it with stubborn spite. This isn’t him. It hasn’t been for decades now, and he’d grown to like it as so. In his experience, attachment leads to suffering, and suffering leads to misery. And with all of the centuries he has ahead of him, misery is the last companion he needs. 

Harry clears his throat emptily, slashing through the tension that had suspended in the air between them. He glimpses down at her, undoing the knot between his eyebrows and putting as much playful ease into his irises as he can muster, urging the corners of his lips into his signature smirk. “I guess we just excite each other, then. Though that’s become pretty obvious by now, I think.” 

Y/N purses her mouth to hide the immature grin his innuendo is attempting to weed out, all awkwardness dissipating from her aura. “I guess we do.” 

The monster ducks down to flirt his lips over the human’s, arms tying around her lower back and hiking her upwards. Y/N yelps in surprise, instinctively clamping her legs around his waist and giggling as he lugs her from side to side jokingly, pretending he’s about to drop her into the pool. “Why don’t we go back to exciting one another, hm?” 

Y/N’s nose rubs across the bridge of Harry’s and she gasps lightly when she feels the head of his cock prod at her entrance, dipping in a bit to tease her, spreading her open just enough to wheedle a soft hiss. She shivers in his arms despite the heat wafting up from the warm water, a very different type of warmth pouring into the area between her legs. The girl clings to the sides of the English boy’s neck, spinning a damp curl around her forefinger— he’d gotten his hair wet when he’d splashed into the jacuzzi, and the manner in which his ringlets are gluing across his flexing neck and sharp jaw is doing her in. 

She gives a small nod, eyes flickering down to his tempting lips and back up at his devious gaze. “Yeah, alright.” 

In Harry’s expert opinion, it’s safe to say they definitely excite each other. It’s pretty evident in the way their bodies mold perfectly, satisfying their own desires while simultaneously fulfilling the other’s. The vampire ends up sitting on top of the ledge that circles the inside wall of the pool, his head hanging over the edge with his mouth parted in an open grin, filthy moans and needy whines pouring from his tongue freely as Y/N rocks onto his slick cock. The girl balances herself on her knees, backside crashing down against his thighs in harsh slams full of reckless urgency— she needs this more than she’d ever care to admit. Her nails dig into Harry’s strong shoulders for stability, head thrown back in sheer bliss as her chest bounces with every thrust, the trench of her tummy rippling with contented heat. He just makes her feel so fucking full.

“God, y-you’re so big.” Y/N mewls, swinging her hips in small circles that draw an array of fractured sounds of pleasure from Harry’s taut throat. “You stretch me out so fucking good, Har.” 

Harry’s hands tighten into fists against the glossy plastic of the jacuzzi, arms slung casually over the sides of the tub in a relaxed posture. He doesn’t want to bother with taking control at this particular moment; he’s too busy reveling in the ecstasy Y/N is pounding into his system. He jolts with every rough dip of her hips, the corners of his raw lips winking his dimples awake as he looks up at her through barely-cracked eyes, the weight of his mounting orgasm heavy on his lashes. “Love that cock, don’t you? Can tell by the way you always kiss it right before you take it down your throat.” 

Y/N grapples onto her friend's neck blindly, one palm grasping the center of his jugular as the other cradles his defined jaw, her thumb smearing across his lips as a result of her choppy movements. Harry cranes his head forward a bit to get a better view, pressing a gentle kiss to the pad of her finger as an appreciative thrum rumbles against the hand she has covering his Adam’s Apple. “You look so beautiful when you fuck me all desperate like that.”

Y/N whimpers as she swivels against his lap eagerly, driving herself towards a climax that she knows will leave her utterly ruined. Harry glances down to where their centers meet below the water, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he peers through the violently sloshing waves and frothy suds, watching Y/N glide over him easily now that she’d gotten used to his size. He leans forward, slowly planting a trail of suckling kisses up the center of his friend’s tummy and over the valley of her chest, looking upwards through his long lashes and smiling lewdly into her flesh every time her walls squeeze at the action. She’s so snug around him, he’s convinced no one could ever fit him this well. 

His words come out as a raspy growl. “You’re such a tight little thing. Never get tired of that perfect cunt. S’like you were made to take me this deep.” 

Y/N collapses forward, her grip shooting up to trade his face with his drenched curls. She sponges her mouth messily over his, gasping onto his tongue as the motions of the water batter against her sensitive clit. Her brows cinch with hunger, tone pleading. “Touch me. Please? Want— Want your hands on me while I ride you.” 

Harry shakes his head tauntingly, licking across her top lip and teething at the crescent above it. “I don’t think so, angel. I like seeing you do all the work, for once. You look so good using me to get yourself off.” 

The girl fists at his hair almost cruelly, her sanity gradually slipping. “But I...I like it when you use me, too.” 

“Trust me, I’m well aware.” The vampire muses arrogantly, spreading his meaty thighs wider so that her strokes have a more profound impact. His position works as intended, seen in how Y/N slows for a second when she sinks down to the hilt, a breathy, “Fuck, that’s so deep.” scraping past the cracks of her gritted teeth. 

Harry bucks upward symbolically, signaling for her to regain her rhythm; one look at his dominantly smug expression has her abiding instantly. He lays his head against his bare shoulder, studying every clench of her belly and every heave of her breasts, etching this picture into his extensive list of memories. His voice flows out as thick and silky as molasses. “I just can’t get enough of watching you make yourself cum around my cock.” 

“I j-just want you to fuck me.” Y/N is nearly sobbing, her fingertips carving into his scalp as she kisses over his colored cheeks and tinged nose, trying to swindle him into giving her what she wants. “I’ll do anything you want. Promise.” 

“Always so willing, aren’t you?” Harry chuckles darkly, groaning lightly when she suddenly tenses around his length. He can feel his nails breaking the skin of his palms as his fists contract. “You want me to make you scream, is that it? Want Daddy to pound you until you can’t stand anymore?”  

Hearing him refer to himself that way sends electricity coursing down her spine. “Want it so bad.” 

The creature reaches up with his index finger and brushes a sopping strand of hair out of Y/N’s face, tucking it behind her ear and tracing down her cheekbone admiringly. After a few seconds of thought, he appraises her with a decision, licking across his top teeth and pressing his tongue along the inside of his cheek teasingly. “Let’s make a deal, then. How about you get yourself right on the edge for me, and then I’ll flip you around and finish you off. Sound fair?” 

Y/N doesn’t need to be told twice. She regains her previous stride with more fervor and speed, hellbent on pushing herself to the seam of climax so she can let Harry take the reins. The young man watches her with sinful intent tainting the emerald of his irises, the golden smudges around his pupils glinting blood red for a single heartbeat. He decides he’ll lend his expertise just once, extending his arm and fiddling with the settings on the control panel of the hot tub, preparing a surprise he knows his guest will thoroughly enjoy. 

When the jets suddenly rumble to life, Y/N’s jumps in shock, the loud sound startling her clouded brain. But then two concentrated streams of water hit her right between her legs and she nearly faints as newfound bliss erupts through every fiber of her being. The insistent spray toys with her clit in a fashion that is indescribable, revving her closer to release as the overwhelming sensation pairs with the rapture Harry’s cock is hammering into her. She won’t last long, and he knows it. 

The monster eyes her reaction attentively, his forefinger lulling upwards across the water-proof screen of the controls, raising the intensity of the jets. The fragmented moan that betrays the human goes right to his core. He then slides his finger back down, reducing the powerful force to softer bursts. Y/N whines in protest against his mouth, begging him to set it higher like before. And Harry does, giving her exactly what she craves with one easy swoop. Y/N’s forehead falls against his jaw, her shallow breaths puffing down his collarbones and heating his icy skin. 

“Shit, that’s so—so— fuck!” 

Harry continues to play with the settings, teasing her with waves of strong geysers and gentle trickles. Soon enough, he’s perched behind her, her back sticky against his wet chest as she holds herself up on her knees against the marble seat, hands clamped around the metal railing that runs the circumference of the pool. The pole helps her brace his unforgiving pace, her entire body jerking forward with every ram of his hips as small hiccups of pleasure float across the fogged air of the bathroom. Harry takes the shell of her ear between his teeth, biting down with no remorse as Y/N pushes back to meet his adamant thrusts, his coral-lacquered digits sifting between her own around the polished metal. She gets a bleary glimpse of the cross tattoo inked onto his hand as she can’t help but snort softly at the irony. 

“Is something funny, love?” Harry’s deep baritone causes chills to wring down her arms. 

“Your cross tattoo,” Y/N chokes out, a soft grunt interrupting her sentence as the head of the boy’s prick nudges the pit of her abdomen, “it’s just so ironic.” 

It is ironic. Harry had gotten it for that sole purpose— to mock the fact that he was deceased. He didn’t get to have a tombstone, so this is the next best thing: a symbolic one, of sorts, sketched into his skin for the rest of his undead life. A bit morbid, but he quite fancies dark humor, given what he is. 

However, he knows Y/N finds it ironic for much different, much unholier reasons. 

“You wanna know what’s really ironic?” Harry quips, bottoming out harshly and cooing into the back of her neck when the mortal’s shoulders give a spasm in response. His tone is a mocking whisper. “That such an innocent-looking thing like you loves the idea of being my shameless little whore.” 

Y/N’s cheeks boil at his explicit comment, a delicate whimper striking her vocal chords. One of Harry’s hands leaves its post on top of hers, tangling into her wet locks and giving her hair a ruthless yank. He guides her head into the nook between his shoulder and neck, spitting his next words out against the thundering pulse in her temple.

“You’re nothing but Daddy’s little filthy fucking slut. Isn’t that right, baby?” 

Y/N nods frantically in his authoritative grasp, struggling to swallow due to the combination of his unyielding tempo and erotic statements.  

Harry twists her hair around his knuckles, drawing a broken mewl from her raw lips as his teeth skim along the top of her cheekbone. “Words. Now.”

“Yes, Daddy.” 

“Say it.”

“I’m...I’m your filthy little slut.” 

Harry scoffs in entertained disbelief at how willing she is to submit to him, pecking a kiss to the corner of her eye and tasting a salty tear across his tongue. He redirects her head forward, grinning into the side of her scalp. “You should see the way you smile when you say it.” 

Y/N can’t help it. It just feels so right with him— she feels oddly safe, knowing that what they share is something neither of them will ever give to anyone else. Their arrangement is one of a kind; they fit each other so flawlessly, nobody could ever possibly come close. And she doesn’t want anyone to try— doesn’t want anyone attempting to replace him. Harry just fills the gap perfectly, and she wouldn’t dream of letting another man do what he does to her. Not when she has Harry near, willing to mumble as many graphic promises into her ear as she wants, all while he fucks a sweltering throb into the area between her thighs.

The human girl finds herself wishing this could last an eternity. Little does she know that if it wasn’t for her mortal ignorance and Harry’s better judgement, it very well could. 

///

Later in the day, Harry vaguely recalls how the week prior he had made a passing joke to Y/N about how her sexual drive matches that of a rabbit. What happens in the evening makes him stand by that comment. 

They order in Chinese for dinner, and Y/N insists on eating out on the balcony, wanting to get a perfect view of the sun setting over the city skyline. She has never experienced the phenomenon from such a pristine view. 

Harry allows it, but only after parenting her into putting on a jacket to avoid catching a cold, sending her back into the condo in search of one as he sets out their meal atop the multicolored glass table outside. Humans are so sensitive, and the last thing he needs is his booty call nearly dying from a case of the sniffles.

She comes back out clad in his patchwork cardigan, wrapping it around her body snugly as she sits with her legs crossed on the patio chair, fitting her box of takeout into the hole created by her thighs. The fluffy knitwork had been the first coat she had found hanging in his humongous closet, and she’d thrown it on without a second thought, too caught up in the excitement of getting to see such a picturesque sight in real life. It’s warm and smells of Harry’s vanilla tobacco cologne, along with hints of other scents, like his chamomile and mandarin shampoo and spiced deodorant. She’d been more than happy to inhabit it.

Harry isn’t sure why, but seeing her sitting across from him on his balcony in a pair of his maroon plaid Calvin Klein boxers, his Keith Harrington Safe Sex t-shirt, and blanketed within his oversized rainbow cardigan, all while her hair falls across her face and tickles her jaw… It makes a fond smile buckle his cheeks, though he manages to tame it quickly. 

They chat casually as they eat, sharing silly stories and experiences as they pick at their stir-fry, taking periodic sips of the cranberry juice Harry keeps stocked in his fridge. He doesn’t know the science behind it— though he highly doubts there’s any valid scientific explanation behind the magic that runs through his supernatural veins— but he’s come to find that cranberries help curb his cravings. It’s why he always has a liter on hand. 

Y/N informs Harry on how her work week had gone, and about how one of her friends back home had gotten engaged recently. She says it all seems so surreal and that she doubts the girl will actually go through with it, which makes the monster burst into laughter, much to her confusion. Harry thinks that this is probably the first time he’s ever seen Y/N be so blatantly pessimistic; it’s strangely comical. Just hearing her opinion on the situation is enough to send anyone into a cackle fit, especially when she says it with such a straight face. “Yeah, I just don’t think she’ll do it. She says she loves him, but she always used to complain about his foot fetish, and I’m pretty sure she’d go insane if she had to put up with that for the rest of her life.” 

Harry wards off another bundle of giggles, pursing his twitching lips and bobbing his head once in understanding, using his chopsticks to pop a piece of fried duck into his mouth. “That’s a valid reason to abandon anyone at the altar, if I’ve ever seen one.” 

“I know, right? She told me he likes sucking whipped cream off her toes and, like, not to kinkshame, because I obviously have my own weird shit going on—”

“Yeah, I can attest to that.” Harry shrugs his eyebrows suggestively, picking a small chunk of broccoli off his utensil and smirking as he chews slowly. “Decently weird, actually.”

Y/N gifts him a deadpan expression, shoving a piece of veggie dumpling into her mouth and choosing to ignore his dig. “Anyways, I feel like that one is just on a whole other level. Like...what the fuck?”

Harry shares an anecdote about his own friends, as well, feeling that if he doesn’t open up at least a smidge, she'll start becoming suspicious. He recounts the time when he and Mitch had snuck into a Fleetwood Mac concert and met Stevie Nicks, though he’s careful enough not to tell her the date the event had occurred. He just lets her deduce it was one of their more recent tours, when in reality, it had been back in the eighties. The other detail Harry leaves off is the fact that he had tried to seduce Stevie, emphasis being on “tried.” It hadn’t stuck, unfortunately, and what had made the experience even more mortifying is that his idol had taken an interest in Mitch instead. Harry’s ego has yet to recover from that blow; first, because Mitch had the sheer gall to reject the celebrity on the grounds that he wasn’t looking to get involved in any public scandals, and secondly because his best friend refuses to ever let him live it down. “Hey, remember when we met Stevie Nicks and she wanted to fuck me instead of you? Good times, man.”

When the sun finally begins to dip over the horizon, their conversation dies off, replaced by the serene sounds of distant traffic and a light wind picking up as the temperature begins to drop for the night. Y/N stares at the sky in childish wonder as the bright blue starts to darken, streaking with mellow oranges, pastel purples, and buttery yellows, the colors painting across the clouds and giving the bustling city a timeless quality that can only be truly appreciated firsthand. A small, dreamy smile spreads across Y/N’s lips as the gorgeous canvas reflects off the glossy surface of her irises, her legs drawn up to her chest with her arms hugging her knees. She gazes wistfully over the place she has now grown to call home, taking in all it has to offer for the first time in two months, feeling oddly at ease despite the fact that she usually feels lonely wandering its streets. 

The mixture of drunken hues casts a hazy glow across her skin and hair, dim stars beginning to twinkle in space as the moon makes its debut. Y/N delights herself with watching the scene unfold, surveying the endless stretch of sky and soaking in its natural beauty. And as Y/N stares across Los Angeles during one of its most breath-taking moments, Harry finds himself staring at her instead. 

Once darkness has soaked across the skyscrapers and roads of California for the night, Y/N and Harry turn in, as well. They end up splayed across Harry’s leather couch, entertaining a new episode of Sugar Rush on the ninety-inch flat screen mounted on his glass wall; it’s simply in order to take up the last couple of hours left before bed. By some inexplicable miracle, the vampire had managed to actually fall asleep last night after he and his visitor had finished their regularly scheduled activities. He doubts he’ll be that lucky tonight, but he has no choice but to play the part for the sake of keeping up appearances. 

Maybe if the universe is feeling exceptionally generous, the human will fall asleep while they’re watching TV and Harry can just carry her up to his room without having to put on an act. It’s a favorable alternative to having to fake sleep until she gives into fatigue; lying awake with his eyes closed for an hour would make him feel as stupid as Niall’s golfing addiction. 

However, it appears that for the time being, Y/N has other plans to bring forward some tried and true exhaustion.

There’s nothing particularly sexual about the fashion in which their bodies are pressed together at the moment, given that it’s a pretty innocent snuggling position. Harry is slumped against the backrest of the sofa with his feet propped on his coffee table, comfy in a pair of black jogging shorts and a vintage Rolling Stones tee. Y/N is nestled into his torso beside him, her head burrowed into his chest with his arm slung nonchalantly across her shoulders and down her back, legs intertwined with his. She had done it out of instinct and Harry doesn’t really have an issue with the gesture; she’s warm and soft and the soothing action of her socked foot running up and down his calf helps him unwind from the day’s events. He likes this, he decides. She smells like him— with her usual scent of honey and lavender permeating through— and she’s decked out in his clothes, aimlessly doodling figures onto his tummy as they enjoy the baking show in comfortable silence. It’s strangely mellow. 

Y/N is the one who instigates, as usual. Humans are so horny, it’s ridiculous. But he benefits from this specific mortal’s libido, so he’s not complaining. 

It starts with her drifting upwards from where she’d been tracing over his butterfly tattoo, her warm fingers stroking over the prominent structure of his clavicle, her eyes flickering up to gauge his reaction. Harry doesn’t move an inch, face maintaining a curtain of calm indifference. He figures she’s just extra touchy, as she normally is. Then the pads of her digits skim across the side of his throat and an impulsive flare of panic pricks the back of his skull, but it quickly dissolves, as it tends to do now around her. She’s the only person in the last two centuries who has managed to touch him there without inciting a rampage. 

Y/N coasts across the nape of his neck, twirling a baby curl around her forefinger distractedly, giving it a small tug in the manner she knows he likes. Harry’s body tightens for a split second and she bites into her lower lip to muffle a mischievous grin. She stretches up, dusting a lingering peck to the curve right behind his ear, running her nose across the shell tenderly. The vampire shifts slightly in his seat, the feathery sensation beginning to weigh at the pit of his stomach. She’s teasing him, and it’s working. 

The mortal flushes her puckered mouth fully to the side of his jugular, rubbing the ridges of her skin over one of the veins chiseling into existence, right over the area where a heartbeat used to lie. Harry’s hand balls into a fist against the dip of her spine, itching to grip onto something to keep his cool. Preferably, her throat. 

When Y/N finally speaks, the hot breath of her words makes his cock twitch against his thigh. “Wanna kiss a bit?” 

Harry cranes his head to look at her, eyebrows jumping up in amusement. “You wanna make-out? What are we, fourteen?”

The girl gives him an impassive pout and glances indicatively towards the armrest of the couch, where they had sat the evening prior while admiring his art wall. “You didn’t have a problem with it last night.” 

Harry presses his lips together into a playful simper. She makes a valid point. “Well, I was horny last night. Wasn’t in my right mind.” 

Y/N rolls her eyes at his juvenile answer.

“And you’re not now?” She prods softly, her gaze slinking down to his spread thighs, almost as if to check if he’s hard. Harry snorts as her action and she bats her lashes up at him with fake innocence, muscling down the sly smirk threatening to emerge across her face. 

“Not really, but maybe I could be…” The creature glimpses at her colored mouth for a heartbeat, reaching a hand up and pushing his air-dried ringlets back from his forehead, lips twitching coyly. “Persuaded.”

Y/N leans forward, buttoning their mouths for a fleeting moment. She pulls back a tad, ghosting the crescent of her top lip over his to try and compel him. “Please?” 

“Mm,” Harry licks at the corner of his mouth, eyes half-lidded tauntingly, “I don’t think that was enough. Show some team spirit, will you?”

The girl gifts him another kiss, this one longer and more intense, a palm making its way to cup his jaw. “Please, H?” 

He’s begun to pant lightly, hand flattening across the small of her back as if to guide her somewhere. He blinks down at her smugly, gnawing into his cheek. “You’re not quite there. Maybe a little more.” 

It turns out one more kiss is enough to convince his metaphorical meter. Y/N ends up perched in his lap, both of his large hands groping at her ass as she clutches the back of his neck, their lips sewn together in a filthy kiss full of gentle whines and impatient tongues. It’s going pretty great, and Harry thinks that Y/N is probably one of the most fun people he’s ever had the pleasure of kissing. Her mouth is as sweet as the sugary scent she always dotes, she ebbs and flows to his movements seamlessly, and the enthusiasm she carries makes every nerve in his body fizzle. The noises she makes are incredibly satisfying, as well. All her needy mewls and delicate whimpers string right down to his groin. 

After a few minutes of dry humping and jesting bites placed on overzealous lips, Harry boosts himself up from his relaxed position, feet knocking off the coffee table as an arm snakes around her hips. He sits forward, extending his free hand and waving it around blindly, too occupied to willingly break their embrace. He refuses to pull away, especially when she’s gluing such dirty moans to the roof of his mouth. His palm swings across the air stubbornly until it finally slaps down against the marble surface he’d been searching for, his grip tightening around its rim for confirmation. He proceeds to scoot the counter forward, intent on laying Y/N out on top so he can get on his knees against his furry carpet, get his boxers down her velvety legs, and get his head bobbing between her quivering thighs. 

Harry’s plan is about to pan out ideally until a high-pitched shriek cuts through the tense ambiance of the room. 

Y/N cracks their kiss, gasping and heaving as her head whizzes from side to side, looking for the origin of the annoying trill that had interrupted their playtime. “What—What is that?”

The vampire glances over his back towards where the ruckus is stemming, the insistent chime grating his heightened ears. He spots the culprit immediately, releasing an irritated groan as a result: his phone. 

From his spot on the edge of the couch, Mitch’s contact picture blazes across the screen. Harry loves that photo of his best friend— the way his emotionless expression and skinny middle finger are directed towards the camera makes it a wonderful shot— but he really wishes he didn’t have to see it right now. He has other more pressing matters. Literal pressing matters, if the tent in his mesh shorts is any indication. 

“Just ignore it.” Harry murmurs, turning back to slam their lips together once again. Y/N obliges without a second thought, happily re-engaging her previous activity of smudging her cupid’s bow across her friend’s as he stretches her out across the table 

Ignoring it works the first time. And the second. But by the third call, Harry has no choice but to break away with an exasperated grunt, his brittle patience forcing him to handle the blaring ringtone. 

He slides his thumb across the screen roughly, bringing it to his ear as he slumps back into the couch cushions, holding up a finger towards Y/N apologetically and mouthing a quick, “It’ll be just a second.”

His guest nods in understanding, letting her head fall back against the cold marble and distracting herself by counting all of the lightbulbs situated at the peaks of the chandeliers above. 

Harry turns his focus to the person on the other end of the phone line, voice snipped with aggravated anger. “What?!”

“Whoa, okay… That’s no way to talk to the elderly. Take it down a notch, Grumpy. Didn’t Snow White teach you any manners?”

The monster takes a deep breath to keep his rage in check, gritting out his words through bared teeth. “I’m fucking busy right now. What do you want?”

“Oh, well, I’m so sorry to be a bother, My Lord. I just wanted to check up on you and make sure you have all your stuff packed for tomorrow. Y’know, like the good friend I am.”

Harry blinks blankly, all indignation flooding out of his system, replaced by utter confusion. “You wanted to check if I’m...? For what? Why would I need to pack?”

There’s a pause on Mitch’s end, as if the man is waiting for Harry to come to the conclusion himself, static filling the speaker. When it’s obvious the younger vampire is clueless, his best friend elaborates slowly. “For the trip. The Vegas trip. The one we take every year around the same time. The one that we all agreed we’d roadtrip in your car tomorrow.”

Harry’s eyes widen in realization, his entire face paling. Fuck.

“The trip.” He mumbles, the fingers of his free hand coming up to rub at his temples worriedly as his mistake dawns on him. “God, I completely forgot about it.” 

“You can’t be serious.” Mitch deadpans, a long sigh following his comment. “Harry, you’re the one that booked the hotel this time. How could you possibly forget?”

“I…” Harry glances over at Y/N as guilt weighs into his demeanor. The girl meets his gaze, smiling sweetly and waving, completely unaware of the horrific ordeal he’s gotten himself into by inviting her over. “I got caught up with something.” 

A humorless snort crackles through the stereo of his phone, Mitch’s voice tinged with irked disbelief. “Yeah, that’s what you’ve been saying for the last four weeks now every time you bail on us. I just figured you’d get your head out of your ass for this one, but I suppose I spoke too soon.”

Harry drags his palm down his face, gripping his chin in thought. “I’m sorry. Genuinely. I didn’t mean to let it slip, I’ve just been so occupied during the last couple of weekends that—”

“That you forgot about our yearly trip. How nice. Just perfect.”

“Mitch, I know I fucked up, alright? But what if—”

The immortal’s solution gets cut short when out of his peripheral vision, he sees Y/N climb off the coffee table and onto the carpet below. Harry’s words lodge in his throat as he watches the girl crawl on all fours across the ground towards him, a cheeky smile ticking the corners of her lips as her irises glimmer schemingly. Shit.

“‘What if’ what?”

“What if...Uhm…” Harry finds himself struggling to keep his end of the conversation going, the reason being that Y/N has now reached the edge of the sofa where he resides. She sits back onto her heels, walking her fingers teasingly across his knees and grasping them with her palms, parting them open widely. “I…”

“For fuck’s sake, H, what are you trying to say?” Mitch snaps; even through the distance, he can feel its bite. 

Y/N nuzzles herself between Harry’s opened legs, a hand riding up one of his thick thigh as she sponges wet kisses to his kneecap, grinning into his skin when her fingers duck under the material of his shorts. His cadence comes out strained with the effort of keeping up an unfazed front. “What if I— what if we switch the reservations?” 

“How do you mean?”

The human’s fingers travel up the length of his inner thigh, sneaking below his cotton briefs and giving the tip of his semi-hard cock a gentle caress. Harry writhes in his seat, watching with bated breath as Y/N draws her forearm back out from beneath his clothes, her middle finger covered in a bead of precum— a result of all the grinding they’d done while kissing. She locks eyes with him and pushes the digit past her swollen lips, sucking off the small droplet while her lashes flutter in pleasure. She moans softly, his familiar saltiness always so welcomed. Her next whisper is sultry and needy. “You taste so fucking good.” 

Harry swallows down a groan and his voice suffers the consequences, coming out shaky and high. “Like...Like what if we switch out the n-names. I could call the hotel and put the rooms under your info instead.”

Mitch is quiet for a second, mulling over his friend’s offer. The instance is long enough for Harry to reach forward and snatch Y/N’s wrist, giving it a dominant squeeze as a scolding grimace dips the ends of his lips and furrows his brows. He mouths his words slowly with an ominous hue, making sure she interprets the message. “That’s enough.”

Y/N twists herself free of his hold, eyes gleaming in challenge. She talks softly as to not be heard through the phone, but she might as well be screaming thanks to Harry’s supernatural hearing abilities. “I don’t think so.” 

“Are you really not going, then?”

The gentle tone of Mitch’s question snaps Harry back into reality. He feels bad for flaking on his crew, but he doesn’t really have a choice at this point. Y/N is already here per his request, and kicking her out would be extremely dickish, even by his standards. “I’m booked the rest of the weekend, mate. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Y/N proceeds to grab onto the elastic band of Harry’s shorts, pulling the front down to expose the clothed bulge that lies beneath. A soiled patch has formed over the material of his underwear, and he can see her irises twinkle in satisfaction, which causes the faint burning in his veins to intensify. The girl palms him through the fabric, preening at the low, tight grunt that escapes Harry’s flexing throat. A shiver pin-balls down his spine and he tries to grab at her forearm to wrench it away from between his legs, but Y/N is determined to work him into a mess, simply groping him more intently and giggling lightly when his hips thrash in response. 

“Alright, I guess that settles it. I’ll just tell the group we’re taking Niall’s car instead, and that Adam and I will take turns driving. Just get the lodging handled, will you?”

“‘Course, I got it, don’t worry.” Harry chokes out, reaching a hand towards Y/N’s hair in a desperate attempt to get a hold of her, but she ducks to evade him. She tugs down his final layer of protection, her mouth immediately finding its way to his large cock and giving it one long lap from base to tip, staring up at him mockingly from beneath heavy lashes. She grasps it in both of her palms, gifting it a few quick pumps and spitting over the head sloppily, rubbing the slit across her bottom lip as she quirks her brows at him in a dare. 

The vampire fails to ward off the fracture in his composure this time. “Christ, you’re such a fucking sl—” 

He stops himself before he finishes the graphic statement, remembering that everything he says is being directly broadcast to someone else on the other end of his phone. Someone who’s oblivious to the filth currently taking place on Harry’s side of the call. “I’m on it, yeah? I’ll talk to you later.” 

“Wait.”

Harry is at the verge of tearing his hair out, his tone teetering at the cusp of sanity. “Yeah?”

“Would you mind telling me why you’re not going? I feel like everyone at least deserves an explanation, especially since you’re dipping on the plans literally the day before.”

The young man quickly clears his throat, forcing himself to keep control as he watches the mortal stick her entire tongue out to run his cock up and down its expanse. “I’ll—I’ll explain when you come back.” 

The textured surface sends zaps of lightning surging through every crevice of Harry’s body, but he somehow enables restraint, as weak as it may be. He silently warns Y/N once again about her actions, carding his fingers into her hair and digging the pads into her scalp. “Stop.”

“Also, why are you breathing so hard? What are you even up to right now?”

The human ignores his command, blowing over the leaking hole of his prick and giving it a playful kiss.

“I’m— fuck— I’m...I’m on the treadmill.”

Mitch goes quiet for a heartbeat. “You don’t have a treadmill.” 

Y/N tosses her hair over her shoulder, leaning down to rest her cheek along Harry’s inner thigh, giving him the perfect angle to view what she’s about to do. She presses her head forward, slipping his entire cock down her throat and gagging when it hits a sensitive spot in the back, her nails raking down his twitching tummy. She keeps him there for an elongated moment, allowing her walls to tighten around his length just how he likes it, toying with his swollen balls and moaning quietly around his prick. He can feel the vibrations burrow into the marrow of his bones.

“I told you to stop.” He doesn’t even bother mouthing his words this time, mood dark and cautious. He can hear Mitch exclaim in confusion through his speaker, but it’s the last thing on his mind right now. 

Y/N’s watery eyes dance with a devious gleam as she grins around his girth, removing him just enough so she can breath properly, rubbing his bubbling tip along the inside of her silky cheek. Her phrase is muffled, but it’s clear enough to completely shatter him. “Make me, Daddy.”

Harry’s features harden. He’s done playing games. 

He directs his attention to the microphone, voice calm and collected to the point where it’s frightening, all the tension and instability crumbling to ash. His brows crease dangerously, accent thicker than she’s ever heard it. “I have to go.”

“Harry—”

“I’ll text you after I fix the booking.” 

The device beeps and the call ends, the phone falling face-down onto the couch.

The vampire roughly jerks Y/N back by her hair, sitting forward until their noses brush, his cold touch sending a prickling across her cheeks and ears. He addresses her with the same type of undisturbed patience he’d shown his friend, aura teeming with quiet power.

“Get up. Now.” 

Y/N ends up with her back pressed into the couch cushions, Harry suspended above her with his knees on either sides of her hips, his cock ramming down her throat harshly as he guides her head with his knuckles twisted into her roots. He’s thrusting forward to meet her mouth, the emerald around his pupils electric with a type of carnal dominance that makes heat pour into her belly. She’s gazing up at him with water streaming freely out of her eyes and spit dripping down her chin, her hands fisting at the leather of the sofa as he fucks her face unrelentingly. 

“You think that little stunt was cute? You think teasing me like that was fun?” He growls as he peers down at her, ramming past her raw lips with no remorse, swimming in the damp choking sounds that bounce back from the furniture in the room. “Open wider. Wider.”

She obeys. 

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To have me down your throat while you gag around it until you can barely breath? To choke on it while you take that heavy load and swallow every drop?”

Y/N bobs her head feverishly, unable to form any coherent sentences due to his violent pace. 

The grip Harry has on the crown of her head tightens, his other hand cupping the back of her skull to push her deeper down his shaft, her nose smearing over his happy trail as his heavy balls bump against her slobbery chin. “Take that fucking cock, then. Take every inch like the filthy fucking brat you are.”

Y/N’s blurry eyes lull shut, the edges of her stinging mouth curving upwards as he hits every single one of her desires with a skill only he possesses. She doesn’t know why— or if it’s even healthy, at this point— but she’s never felt more pleasure than when she’s at Harry’s disposal. She just loves seeing him come undone for her. 

“God, you like that, don’t you? Like being my little plaything?” The grin dimpling Harry’s cheeks is so utterly erotic and sinful, Y/N feels like she’s damning her soul just by glimpsing at it. He delicately thumbs tears off her cheekbones, contradicting his other much less tame motions. “Baby just wants to feel Daddy cum down her throat, doesn’t she?”

Stars begin spotting the girl’s vision, her mind vignetting as a fulfilling ache settles into her jugular. She nods her head drunkenly, coughing dryly as her lungs rattle with shallow inhales. 

Harry gives an exceptionally hard stroke, holding her in place and feeling her constrict around him, her nails digging into the aged leather of his sofa. He takes a pause, broad chest heaving as his head falls back to hang between his shoulder blades, the golden light of his chandeliers reflecting off the red shade inking his irises. His climax begins to tip into his blood. “Say it. Be a good girl and say, ‘please cum for me, Daddy.’”

Y/N’s voice floats out raspy and trembling as she ogles up at the monster wishfully, her ability to speak absolutely frayed from the exertion she’s been put through. Her sentence is barely comprehensible given her full mouth, but watching her try is what gets Harry off. “P-Please cum for me, Daddy.”

Thick ribbons of warmth suddenly erupt down her throat, coaxing a series of garbled moans to pour from Harry’s chest. His whole body tightens as an orgasm floods his system, the muscles of his back drawing taut, his defined biceps jolting, and his lean abdomen clenching in ecstasy. His fern tattoos ripple over his tanned skin as he gives a few more deep strokes for good measure, milking himself to completion and drinking up the tiny noises of sensitivity Y/N makes. He finishes dishing the punishment she’d earned, delivering burst after burst of cum just as he’d promised, feeling her flex around his slick cock as she eagerly swallows every spurt. 

“Every last bit, baby. All of it. Christ, that’s my fucking girl. ”

The boy cranes his neck forward again, taking in her disheveled appearance and humming in needy appreciation. Her hair is a disaster from all of his tugging, her eyes are puffy and red, and her lips are flushed and plump. There’s trails of dried tears tracing her cheeks and across her jaw, the collar of her borrowed shirt is soggy with spit, and he can just barely make out the damp patch she’s stained into his boxers along the insides of her thighs. She’s fiddling with her fingers across her lap, continuously shifting around in her seat and clamping her legs together, and Harry comes to the realization that she’s trying to ride the seam of his briefs in order to get a spoonful of relief. 

In his sexually demented opinion, she’s looks like a proper angel.

Harry gradually withdraws himself from her mouth, watching with empty content as she sputters into a coughing fit and gulps down air as if she hasn’t had it for weeks. She wipes at the lower half of her face messily with the back of her hand, staring up at him all moony and soft, feeling her cheeks boil at his conceited simper. The vampire carefully tucks his drenched prick back into his clothes, crouching down to her level and lilting his head to the side, tucking a strand of tangled hair behind her heated ear. The pads of his digits streak down the front of her neck and perch at the hollow between her collarbones, her pulse thundering beneath her sweaty flesh. He taps at the center of her throat for significance, tone fond and almost caring. “Is it sore?”

Y/N struggles to get saliva down, rattling her head in agreement since her vocal chords are refusing to work. 

Harry folds the hem of his tee over his fingers, reaching forward to help clean up anything leftover across her chin and jaw. Y/N eyes him with a form of detached admiration, enamored with the way he tends to her so gently now that the session has come to a close. 

“You like it, though, right?” 

The young woman doesn’t even try to mask the fact that she indeed does, nodding her head once again. 

“That’s good to hear, pet.” Harry drops his shirt back over his belly, giving her a chaste peck to the nose. Despite the ever-present coldness of his touch, the action sparks a warm glow that surges from the tips of her ears to the heels of her feet. “Want to make sure I wasn’t being too rough.” 

He stands up onto his knees, dismounting the sofa and combing a few rouge curls out of his eyes, nudging at her socked foot jestingly with his. Y/N kicks him in return as she busies herself with combing out the knots from her mussed locks, attempting to distract herself from the gnawing running along the inside of her stomach. She needs to get it sedated, but she’s too timid to ask the vampire outright, which she knows is ironic given what they’d just done. 

Harry sits down along the marble counter of the coffee table with his forearms propped along his knees, toying with his lionhead daylight ring (it’s the only one he wears at home, out of necessity) as he watches her tend to the mess he’d created. He smiles to himself in satisfied amusement— she always looks so pretty freshly face-fucked. 

The monster then notices how the human is still rubbing her thighs together, reminding him that she had been left unattended. He decides that he should do what any gentleman would and provide assistance to the issue; it’s only fair, according to the unspoken laws of their little mutual arrangement. He hooks his fingers along the rim of the table beneath him, dragging it forward until his knees meet the edge of the couch, knocking hers open slightly. He leans back onto his palms as she gives him a curious glance, the olive tone around his pupils glittering with hunger while his fingers tap knowingly along the surface below. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

Harry’s eyebrows kink upward. “Can’t a man look in his own home?”

“Of course he can, but just not at me. Staring’s rude. Especially when I’m covered in spit and bodily fluids.”

The boy gives an exaggerated pout, pairing it with a set of puppy dog eyes and a honeyed drawl. “But you look so cute covered in my bodily fluids.”

Y/N stares at him flatly. “Wow. I’m so flattered. I’ll file that compliment right under the one where you said I look adorable with jizz all over my eyelashes.” 

“Well, you do! And that was a great compliment, if you think about it. It’s unique and creative— very avant-garde of me.”

“You need brain cells in order to be avant-garde.”

“Just shut up and get on your hands and knees.” 

///

Harry drinks from Y/N that night. 

He knows Mitch would scold him for it, considering the quota for draft beverages from mortal taps is strictly once a week, per his orders. But the creature just can’t help himself. She smells so sweet, and her neck looks so tempting when her head is turned to the side in sleep; even in the dark, he can see her veins pumping beneath the taut skin. He justifies it by telling himself that any vampire would give into weakness if they were in his place, and it’s not like he’s some uncultured, unhinged newborn who lacks basic control. He’s spent decades refining his impulses and taming his animalistic instincts to the point where he can walk through a butcher shop and not even bat an eye. He’s more than capable of double-dipping without threatening her life. 

However, Harry will admit that he does make some embarrassing sounds while he’s fang-deep in her carotid artery. He can’t be expected to withhold them, especially not with how good she tastes. Y/N’s blood reminds him of so many things that he can’t ever quite place its flavor. Sometimes it reminds him of green grapes and champagne, and others it dawns on him in the form of peaches and cream. There’s instances where she doesn’t even fall into the usual spectrum of taste, but rather reminds him of sensations instead of tangible objects. Sometimes she tastes the way the first breath of spring feels— light and soothing, with hints of fresh florals and dewy mornings. Other times, she tastes like strawberries on a summer evening— warm, tangy, and nostalgic. At the risk of sounding like a brain-dead junky, drinking from Y/N is a magical experience that he wishes could last forever; Harry has never found it more difficult to pull back from someone’s throat than when he has to recede from hers. 

After the immortal has had his fill, he pricks his finger along one of his fangs and smears a drop of his blood onto Y/N’s tongue, watching the two gaping holes on her neck heal instantaneously and leave behind a faint bruise that will likely be gone by morning. He spends the rest of the night twirling stands of her hair around his fingers and counting her heartbeats, vaguely wondering what it feels like to have one. It’s been so long since he’s carried a pulse, he’s forgotten what it’s like to have it thumping in his chest. All he has left is a phantom organ and not a day goes by where he doesn’t miss its steady rhythm. 

The second the first beam of sunlight filters in through the crack in Harry’s window shades, he’s up on his feet pacing around the kitchen, going through his daily morning routine of preparing breakfast with a lively soundtrack to keep him company. That is, until his actual companion awakens; then he happily replaces his playlist with her groggy voice and tired eyes. 

Harry has chosen to prepare parfaits as their first meal of the day, scooping vanilla yogurt into two marbled bowls and setting out an abundant array of toppings, smiling to himself at the way Y/N’s eyes light up the room. She fills her platter to the brim with blueberries, chunks of banana, diced peaches, and crushed walnuts, while Harry loads his with tons of raspberries, slices of mango, scoops of granola, and plenty of honey. He runs into some trouble halfway through squeezing out the last ingredient, proceeding to shake it vigorously to try and get rid of the clump blocking the spout. The bottle refuses to cooperate and Harry turns it towards his face to get a better look at the problem, winking one eye shut to focus better on the cap. He gives it another testing squeeze and much to his luck, the jammed portion squirts loose and he ends up with syrup dripping down his face. 

Y/N doesn’t even attempt to stifle her amusement, nearly choking on a spoonful of yogurt as laughter takes over her entire body. The vampire stands rigidly beside her, glaring at the teddy bear-shaped container with so much hatred, she thinks it might melt. When the human finally manages to tame her giggles, she reaches up and uses her index finger to collect honey right off Harry’s cheek, sticking the digit into her mouth and sucking it off with a loud pop. 

Her friend gives her a deadpan scowl, to which she simply shrugs her brows playfully while gifting him a bright grin. “Now you know what it feels to have a sticky liquid shot into your eye. Doesn’t feel too good, does it?”

“Fuck off.” 

“You look pretty, though. Does that make it better?”

“I will literally pour my yogurt onto your hair.”

“Karma’s a bitch, Winnie the Pooh.”

Harry ends up having to shower in order to successfully get rid of the gooey substance, though it’s hardly a hassle given that Y/N gladly joins him. It doesn’t turn too sexual, surprisingly enough. 

The duo stand under the shower panel covered in suds, steam floating around their naked bodies as water pelts down on top of them, matting hair to their necks and jaws. Harry doesn’t know why, but he likes the fact that they’re now comfortable enough to be nude around each other outside of their usual dynamic. It’s fulfilling, for some odd reason. 

The girl helps the creature scrub off the honey with some facial cleanser, rubbing at his flushed cheeks with her thumbs and fighting off an endeared giggle when he scrunches his nose in annoyance. His voice comes out as a childish whine. “That hurts.”

“Stop being such a baby.” She huffs, going in along his cheekbones and rolling her eyes when he grumbles. “Lean down.” 

Harry abides, ducking down so she can get a better angle, casually coasting his hands onto her hips to keep her from losing her footing to the slippery floor. Y/N leans forward onto the tips of her toes, squinting at him through the foggy air as she continues to wash off the syrup, wanting to make sure she isn’t missing a single spot. Harry watches her quietly with his sopping curls sticking to his forehead and along the nape of his neck, lips twitching fondly at how hellbent she is on getting the mess off. Her brows are creased in concentration and her tongue is peeking out of her mouth; he has to restrain the impulse to surge forward and kiss her. 

Once Y/N is satisfied with her work, she falls back onto her heels, washing any remnants away under the stream and pushing her drenched strands out of her face. “All done. Try not to do it again.” 

“I make no promises.” Harry tuts as he joins her beneath the water, bare chest a mere inch from hers as he quirks his brows coyly. “It got you naked, so I’ll probably do it again.”

“I won’t help next time.” 

“Then I’ll just rub my face against yours and get it all over you. Won’t have much of a choice, then.” 

“You’re a literal child.”

Y/N grabs the bottle of chamomile shampoo from the shelf carved into the polished stone wall of the shower, uncapping it and pouring a glob into the palm of her hand. She sets the container back down and beckons Harry forward with the forefinger of her free hand. The vampire drifts towards her once again and wraps his arms across the dip of her back, lightly swaying her from side to side as she begins working the shampoo into his roots, the pads of her fingers massaging his scalp in slow circles. The groan that betrays him is pitiful. 

Y/N pretends not to hear it, continuing to work a lather into his curls as the boy trails his fingers up and down the center of her spine, the feathery sensation causing her to shiver despite the hot temperature of the water. Harry leans down to nestle his face into the crook of his friend’s neck, laying his head along her shoulder and cradling her to his body as she combs her fingers through his locks. He can’t remember the last time he took a shower with someone just for the sake of it, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in each other’s presence. It’s nice. 

Harry begins sponging his lips across the curve of Y/N’s throat, feeling her tense momentarily before relaxing back into his grasp, the pads of her digits scratching at his scalp. 

“God, that feels so good.” Harry mumbles, tone so garbled in bliss, it’s barely understandable. 

The mortal slowly coaxes him back under the direct line of the shower, thoroughly rinsing the bubbles out of his hair and making sure to carefully wash any leftover shampoo out of his lashes. She then ties her arms around his broad shoulders, gently running her nails up and down the expanse of his muscular back, feeling the tendons unknot under her guidance. Y/N cranes her head to the side and flushes her lips to Harry’s temple, the pattering of the water camouflaging the fact that the area lacks a pulse. She sighs softly in innocent pleasure, the warm air sending a delightful bristling down the young man’s neck and drawing another drunken whimper from his lungs. This all feels therapeutic, almost. Neither had realized how much they missed domesticity until now. 

The human suddenly snorts humorously, talking against Harry’s waxy skin. “I’m surprised you haven’t tried to make a move yet.” 

Harry rattles his head sleepily, the ridges of his mouth tickling her jugular as he does so. His voice is distant and tender, but his words send a pang of electricity to her core. “I’ll fuck you afterwards. Just wanna enjoy this right now.” 

Y/N lets her eyes lull shut, allowing the sheets of hot water to numb her mind the same way it had his, a certain type of mellowness soaking into her bones. Her tone comes out as soothed and detached as her lover’s, all her attention funneled into how incredible his hard body feels pressed to hers in such an intimate fashion, his strong arms clinging to her like a lifeline. “I’m not complaining.”

Even in his distracted state, Harry still somehow manages to wriggle in a smug quip. “Of course you’re not. I give you nothing to complain about.”

“Dickhead.”

Y/N gives his ringlets a spiteful tug, which he responds to with an airy chuckle and a cheeky smack across her ass. The girl jumps slightly with a small gasp and a handful of select curses, which only causes him to cackle even further. “You love that shit, don’t you?”

“Go back to keeping your mouth shut.” 

“Mm. S’what I thought.” 

Harry keeps his sensual promise, as he always does. 

As soon as they exit the shower, he immediately wanders into the bedroom, the only towel in his possession being the one he’s using to shake out his damp curls. Y/N dries off her body patiently as she stands in front of the clouded mirror, rubbing the linen over her softened skin. She handles her hair second, patting and scrunching the water out as she thinks on what Harry could possibly be doing that is taking him so long. She doubts he’s getting dressed, if his earlier intentions are any indication, and he seemed like he had a plan in motion when he’d walked out, so there must be a method to his prolonged absence. 

When the monster pads back into the bathroom, he is just as bare as when he’d left, the towel he’d used on his locks crumpled in his large hands. He chucks it into the linen hamper beside the jacuzzi, sauntering up behind Y/N and she has to force herself not to use the mirror to ogle below his waist. She folds her towel neatly onto the counter, reaching forward and wiping the last bit of condensation off the glass so she can get a proper view of Harry’s face. Maybe it’ll help her deduce what he’s plotting. 

The boy presses up against her backside, pushing her forward until her hips are wedged between his torso and the edge of the bathroom counter, moving all her stringy hair onto one shoulder with the back of his hand. Harry locks eyes with her through the mirror, speckling a few sloppy kisses along the back of her neck and grinning into her flesh when a shiver coils down her spine. He looks so fucking good with his damp ringlets glued along his sharp jaw, his jade eyes glossy with lascivious intentions, and his cheeks and chest still colored from the hot water, tattoos looking as alluring as ever. He nuzzles the tip of his nose across the shell of her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and tugging teasingly, the warm air of his low, dominant tone causing her flinch in anticipation. 

“Arms behind your back.” 

Y/N obeys without a hitch, bringing her hands together atop the alcove at the bottom of her spine. She feels the unmistakable sensation of cold metal looping around her wrists, tightening with soft clicks and pinching at her skin. The cuffs sift into the designated setting and Harry gives them a quick yank to check for security, tying the excess chain link around his knuckles and pulling down harshly. Y/N’s body contorts to his influence, her arms straightening out as her back arches, chest swelling forward while her hips remain perched to the tabletop, held in place by his own. She can feel the head of his cock dab against the back of her thighs, his irises darkening as he surveys her bust with a type of barely-contained desire that sends heat flooding into her abdomen. 

Harry ducks his head further down to glue more kisses along the slope of her shoulder, nipping periodically and leaving behind a neat row of love bites that he’ll admire in detail later. The words he murmurs against her skin deliver a sweltering simmer in their wake. “Do you want it rough?” 

Y/N swallows thickly, nodding her head several times and whispering a bashful, “Yes.” 

“‘Yes’ what?”

The human licks at her lips tentatively, squeaking a tad when gives the metal hoops an expectant tug, urging a reply. “Yes, sir.” 

Harry’s lashes flutter shut for a second, the corners of his lips twitching in arrogant satisfaction. “You’ve got the filthiest tongue, but you know how to make it say the sweetest things, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you.”  

“No one else?”

“No one else.”

The vampire’s eyes open slowly, head tilting to the side to assess her with sly amusement. “You wanna know how I can tell that’s the truth?” 

Y/N’s joints are starting to ache due to the position he’s fixed her in, but she doesn’t mind the burn. It feeds into the appeal. “H-How?”

Harry leans forward, brushing his wet lips up her jaw, the tip of his cock spreading her open just a smidge. “Because every time I fuck you, you’re always so bloody tight. Means I’m the only one stretching out that snug little cunt.”

A broken whine escapes Y/N’s sore throat— courtesy of what had occurred the night prior— and she squirms in the brunette’s grip, trying to shimmy her way further down his length. She’s anxious to feel him fill her. “Deeper.” 

“Pardon?”

“Go deeper. Want it all.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow in impressed curiosity. “You want it all in one go? Don’t want me to prep you first?” 

She shakes her head stubbornly, pushing back against him and succeeding in sinking an inch or so. Harry’s entire face hardens as she clenches around the head of his prick, attempting to ride down further to sedate her desperate need. He twists his fist tighter around the chain, his other hand coming up to grip her throat, forearm pressed between her breasts as he gets a decent hold to prepare for what’s to come.  

“If it gets to be too much,” Harry dabs a gentle kiss onto her cheek; it’s to communicate the importance of the message amidst the tense atmosphere, “you know to tell me, right?” 

“Mmhm.”

“Alright. Ready?”

“Always.”

Y/N nearly passes out. Even though she’s grown accustomed to Harry’s size and girth, it somehow never fails to shock her into a state of unexpected rapture. He just fits so well inside her— hits every nook and crevice like he was meant to touch every single one. That, combined with his unrelinquishing thrusts and sinful dirty talk...It’s enough to render anyone helpless. It’s certainly enough to have her shaking and screaming against his chest, and it’s definitely more than enough to drive her towards an orgasm that she knows will blow out her legs for at least the rest of the day. 

Harry fucks into her just how she’d requested— rough and vehement. He presses her bare back to his chest by using the hold he has around her throat, her head falling backwards onto his shoulder as he pounds into her belly from behind. His other hand is braided into the chain between the cuffs, controlling how her body seizes up and gives way. She’s standing on the tips of her toes, legs spread open as much as her weak knees will support, scraggly breaths stuttering from her nose and mouth as shattered noises of ecstasy decorate the space the fading steam has left behind. Her hips are ramming forward against the rim of the counter, the marble knocking against her pubic bone to the point where she knows bruises will develop later on. She doesn’t mind it; she loves seeing the memories Harry brands onto her, whether that be in the form of hickies across her thighs, fingerprints over her waist, or his rings fanned out across the swell of her ass. She’ll take anything he’s willing to give. 

The vampire is dismantling just as quickly as she is, obvious in the fractured growls and soft grunts he’s puffing against the side of her face. His pink-polished nails dig into her jugular, fingers twitching as her heartbeat hammers against his palm, sending vibration down his whole nervous system. His cock is slicking into her easily and it’s obvious the anticipation of what he had said during their bath had gotten to her; he can feel how wet she is with every stroke. It’s dripping down her quivering thighs and smearing all over his tiger head tattoo, damp slaps resonating from where her backside hits against his tinted pelvis. 

Harry stares down hazily at where he’s spreading her open, taking his bottom lip between his teeth as tiny mewls itch along the back of his raw throat, her own sounds playing across his ears with each buck of his thighs. They float through the heavy air like a lullaby and he can confidently say he’d listen to her moans forever, if time allowed. 

“I think it’s funny,” Harry starts with a comedic edge to his strained voice, mimicking the introduction Y/N had used the day before when they’d been in the jacuzzi, “that you’re always so willing to let me use you however I want. That you literally beg me to take you this hard. It’s almost pitiful, really, that you never had anyone fuck you right before I came along.”

The girl squirms in his arms, her hands flat against his abdomen, nails carving into his flesh. Her sentences come out cracked and almost pained. “I-I wish I’d met you sooner.” 

“Yeah, I bet you do.” Harry grits against the shell of her ear, smirking when she worries her lower lip beneath her top teeth, trying to keep a tab on what he knows is probably an embarrassingly loud keen. “I bet you wish you’d had me back home, huh? Spent all your time fucking around with those vanilla small-town boys, never had a real man treat you the way you wanted. Bet you didn’t even like those pricks, did you, darling?”

Y/N shakes her head vigorously in response. “They were so boring. You’re so much better.” 

She’s working his praise kink like a charm.

“Poor thing.” Harry scoffs sympathetically, running his grasp upwards until his thumb and forefinger rope around her jaw. He maneuvers her head into place, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror, hissing his words lowly. “Eyes up. See how pretty you look taking every last bit of that cock? And the way your tummy’s bulging? That’s how you know the sex is good— that’s how it’s supposed to look.”

Y/N gazes upon the image her friend is referring, her exhales hiccuping in her chest at the way an obvious bump rises in her belly every time he thrusts inside. Not only that, but Harry just looks incredible, as well, with his heavily inked arm flushed between her breasts, the art flexing to life as he yanks her down against his lap by her neck. She can see the sweat beading his hairline, his freshly-washed ringlets jumping to his movements as he groans into her scalp. 

Y/N’s lips part in a silent moan and the immortal takes this chance to shove his first two fingers into her mouth, weighing them against her tongue and instructing her with a clear, deep accent. “Suck.”

She does so obediently, her cheeks hollowing as she gasps around the digits, swiveling to match his tempo. Between her glistening body, the needy expression painted across her appearance as she conforms to his every demand, and the way her walls are clinging to him like a vice as she eagerly licks and suckles at him…

Harry loses it. 

“Fucking hell.” The monster unclamps the hand he has around her jugular and Y/N drops back down onto her heels, ankles quaking now that she has to carry her own weight. His palm finds refuge along the back of her skull instead, proceeding to shove her head down towards the counter, pulling at the cuffs to finagle her into a folded position. “Bend over.”

Y/N does as told, a small, “mm!” plucking at her vocal chords as Harry pushes her cheek down against the cold marble situated between his two sinks. He pins her head to the surface and she casts her attention upwards to try and get a peek of him through the glass. His eyes look unnaturally dark, though she can’t quite place the shade given her limited view. 

The vampire makes sure the chain link is secured around his knuckles, proceeding to use the toy to bounce Y/N against his cock. He yanks her towards his torso until she thunks wetly against his base, using his hips to push her forward harshly and pulling out until his tip is barely grazing her entrance. He repeats this action over and over, weak whimpers spilling shamelessly from his plump ruby lips as he keeps her face fastened down, maintaining some form of consistent stability. Every fiber of his being sparks with bliss as he watches her jerk against the counter, back caving forward and causing her naked chest to bulge against the stone panel. One of these days, she’s going to drive him mental. He swears it. 

“There’s a good girl, minx.” Harry’s head tips backwards, bobbing back and forth as his sticky chest heaves with the exertion of keeping him tethered to reality. “Take it just like that, yeah? God, you should see the way you’re so snug around me. Love that cock, don’t you? Say it. Tell me you love it.”

Y/N’s fingers curl into loose fists against the dip of her spine, nails digging into her palms. “I love your cock, Harry. I love it so much. Don’t stop, please don’t fucking— oh!” He prods over her g-spot and she shudders below him. “Shit, keep going! Right there, right there, right there— oh my God!”

“Right here? Is that what’s gonna make my dirty little whore cum?” Harry grinds his teeth, ignoring the rouge curls falling into his furrowed brows, jabbing the spongy area with continuous plunges. “More? Look at how you’re shaking, baby. And you’re just so fucking wet. Absolutely soaked and... and fuck, that’s my sweet girl.” 

The boy keeps delivering every plea she chokes out, his climax beginning to froth at the trench of his stomach and along the underside of his balls. A familiar glow starts to pour into his dormant veins. “I’m almost there, dove. Gonna fill you up until it runs down your thighs.”

“Y-You’re so good, I can’t fucking— I’m gonna—”

“Beg for it. Beg for Daddy, princess.” 

Y/N does so with no remorse, confessing to him how much she wants his load, telling him that she needs to feel him spill inside her all warm and thick and heavy. A dark, open-mouthed smirk adorns Harry’s features as he fucks a throbbing ache between her thighs, feeling his mind completely slip. He may be damned with eternal life, but in this instant, the immortal feels like he touches heaven. 

Then, that moment of pure euphoria is stripped away by the sound of his front door clicking open. 

Harry’s eyes snap awake, all his motions coming to an abrupt halt. He shushes a protesting Y/N quietly, tuning his heightened hearing to make sure he hadn’t imagined the sound. 

But no, it’s very much real. It’s followed by the noise of the lock clanking back into its hole, and then three pairs of footsteps begin echoing down the hallway that leads to his living room. He recognizes every single one and unhinged rage suddenly flares around his pupils, potent and bright red. If Y/N wasn’t in such a compromisable position, he wouldn’t have gotten away with that slip-up. 

“Christ, you’ve got to be fucking shitting me.”

Harry carefully withdraws himself from between the mortal’s legs, wincing a bit at the loss of suction and feeling a spoonful of guilt stem from the disappointed whine Y/N sobs. His swollen, leaking cock sways lightly as he takes a cautious step back, testing to see if he’s capable of moving without face-planting the ground. His mind is misty and he’s obviously drenched in the pungent scent of sex, but other than that, he reckons he can manage just fine. Especially with the newfound anger coursing through his nerves— a direct result of the unexpected trio of intruders chatting nonchalantly on the floor below. 

Harry stumbles towards the exit of the bathroom, knees wobbly and head spinning, an unsatisfied gnawing toiling in his groin. He needs to get that taken care of as soon as possible, but he can’t until he gets rid of the three morons milling around his foyer. He snatches his cherry blossom silk robe from the hook on the wall, wrapping it around himself tightly and making sure to cover all his assets to prevent any mishaps. 

He glances up at a pouting Y/N as he ties off the ribbon around his waist, walking back and helping her onto her unstable feet, cooing apologetically. “Just give me a minute, sweetheart. I heard some visitors come in downstairs ‘cause, apparently, they don’t understand the concept of privacy. This is the last time I’m trusting anyone with an extra key.”  

The girl leans back against one of the sinks, blinking up at him emptily as he thumbs over her chin in comfort. Her voice is hardly audible, raw with exhaustion. “How...How did you know they were here? I didn’t hear them come in...” 

Harry pauses for a moment, clearing his throat awkwardly and pecking her on the nose to insert a distraction. He throws some humor into the mix as well, wanting to steer the conversation to safe grounds, opting for using a bit of compulsion to get the job done. His pupils dilate as his sentences swim around her head in a soothing voice, heavy with persuasion. “I heard the door slam shut. I guess you were a little too busy screaming my name to notice.” 

Y/N’s pupils expand to match his, her face going slack as the supernatural magic sews into her thoughts and molds her perspective to his story. Her lashes flutter in mild confusion, brows cinching as her brain recalibrates itself. The creases in her forehead dissolve as all of her doubt melts away, the corners of her plump lips quirking at his snarky remark. “I guess so.” 

“Can’t blame you, though.” Harry taps at her bottom lip cheekily, shrugging his brows. “I was giving it to you pretty good.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” Y/N rolls her foggy eyes, but she can’t hide the way her heartbeat spikes— not from him. Then, her face suddenly wracks with embarrassment, eyes shattering with humiliated realization. “Oh my God, that means they probably heard everything…”

Oh, they definitely heard everything, Harry thinks. They’ve got nothing better to do other than pry. 

He nurses her downcast face with his cold palm, one shoulder rising and falling casually to show it’s no big deal. “Don’t worry about it, hm? I’m gonna go kick them out, anyways, so you won’t have to deal with it.”

The pet name and his kind gesture eases her woes a bit, but not much. “Still. I’m never showing my face in public ever again.”

Now it’s the vampire’s turn to roll his eyes at her theatrics. “Just stay here, yeah? It’ll only take a second, and then…” Her friend gives her naked body a suggestive once-over, licking at the corner of his mouth. “Then we can finish what we started.” 

Y/N kicks at his ankle, jokingly chastising him for his wandering gaze as she fiddles with her fingers within the handcuffs. “Just go.”  

The moment Harry’s bare feet step off the last rung of his staircase, he begins spewing venom at the three imbeciles standing around at the mouth of his entrance corridor. 

“Are you fucking dense?” He stomps up towards the group of young men with balled fists and bristling irises, all his spite trained on Mitch. “I told you I was busy! That suggests that you should’ve stayed away for the weekend! It meant, ‘leave me alone,’ not ‘come to my flat unannounced.’”

“Yeah, we know you’re busy.” Niall boasts with a loud scoff, shaking his head as an afterthought. “I think the whole building knows, at this point.”

The Irish bloke grabs Xander, who catches onto what the man is doing and happily takes a part in the action. He bends over while Niall grasps onto his shoulders and begins to mimic thrusting, arching his back forward and shaking his ass. He sucks one of his fingers into his mouth, moaning profusely to add authenticity to their vulgar reenactment. “Oh, Harry! Right there, don’t stop!”

Niall drops his voice a few octaves for symbolism, putting on a shitty British accent as he bucks against Xander’s backside. “Yeah, baby, you like that? Like it right there? Tell me how much you love that cock.” 

Harry’s jaw clenches as he tries to ignore them, refusing to give rise to their taunting. The two boys break into a puddle of giggles at his expense, nudging each other triumphantly and eventually dying down. Harry isn’t normally the type of person to daydream about violence— why would anyone partake in something so barbaric when dismantling an enemy psychologically is so much better?— but he finds himself fantasizing about tearing Niall and Xander’s hands off and using them as ping-pong paddles. 

Mitch shifts his body towards his best friend, arms crossed loosely with an expression of sheer amusement painted across his bearded face, seeming undisturbed by Harry’s rampage and deadly grimace. “It’s nice to see you, too, H.” 

The younger vampire takes a measured inhale, swallowing down the urge to rip the older man’s mustache clean off. He directs his next sentence at all of them, glaring intently as his voice comes out flat and harsh. “Get out.”

Niall raises his palms in peaceful surrender, proceeding to use an index finger to signal hastily between his impromptu porno co-star and himself. “Don’t look at us, this was Mitch's idea. We just came along.” 

“None of you should have come at all.” Harry spits, tightening his lean arms over his chest, biceps rippling under the thin silk of his elegant robe. “What do you want?” 

A soft giggle suddenly bursts from Xander and he momentarily slaps his hand over his mouth to muddle it, but his eyes continue to dance with mirth. “Sorry, I just can’t take you seriously in that.” He juts his chin towards Harry’s pajamas. “I think my grandmother had one just like it.” 

“Yeah, I stole this from her place right after I pissed on her grave.” The brunette snaps with an exaggerated smile, feeling a flare of evil satisfaction at the way Xander’s grin immediately plops. Niall snorts loudly and tries to cover it up, but it fails and he is left having to brace the brunt of the other boy’s contempt. 

Harry turns back to face Mitch while the other two immortals bicker, now aware that he is the mastermind behind this entire coup. “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you have left for Vegas already?”

“Yeah, we should have.” He answers pointedly with a soft, dejected sigh. Harry has to keep himself from casting his gaze away in guilt. 

The annual trip had been a tradition he and Mitch had started in the nineties, just them two. As their group had expanded, so had the attendant list, and now it was something special their whole clique did together to put some extra excitement— something stable to look forward to— into the endless years they had ahead. No one had missed out on the trip in the last thirty years, especially not willingly, and no one ever thought Harry— the co-founder of the event— would be the one to break that streak. He can tell Mitch is upset. 

“I’m sorry.” Harry mumbles, squeezing at the inside of his elbows and putting as much genuine emotion into his demeanor as possible. “It just slipped my mind and I made another commitment that I can’t bail on. But it won’t happen again, I promise. Betsy swear.” 

Mitch’s downturned lips jolt slightly at the mention of his old bayonet. He had kept the weapon after the American Revolution had ended, as a tribute to the old life he was leaving behind after he transitioned, naming it fondly after his mother. With all of that history taken into appeal, it’s no wonder the item means a lot to him. That is exactly why the two best friends had developed a dynamic around it. 

They would tie an oath to the object in order to ensure it would be kept, and if the promise was broken, the other would get to stab the traitor with it. The game had been something Mitch and Harry had conjured up decades ago while under the influence of some very strong psychedelics, but it had stuck, for some reason. It’s simply a playful inside joke, and though it’s a tad gruesome, it’s hardly an issue considering they both self-heal quickly. Any damage inflicted is equivalent to that of a rubber band snapping against their skin, so in the end, no harm, no foul. At its core, it’s just a vampire’s version of a pinky swear, hence the term, “Betsy swear.” Harry had thought about getting it patented, at one point. 

The jade-eyed boy feels a weight lift off his shoulders as Mitch indulges one of his signature quiet chuckles. “Alright, fine. Betsy swear, then. The reason we’re here is ‘cause I wanted to check up on you before we left, and ‘cause I wanted to make sure you switched the reservation. You never got back to me about it.” 

“Oh, my bad. I got it done, though. Everything should check out.” Harry reassures, waving away his visitor’s doubt. He’d tended to the job last night after Y/N fell asleep and he meant to send a confirmation text, but forgot when the mortal had begun to stir randomly. He’d had to put away his phone and pretend to be unconscious for a few minutes until her agitation melted away, resulting in the deed going undone, courtesy of the mild panic that had dulled his memory. “Why didn’t you just text me about it?” 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, pursing his lips to fight off an entertained grin. “Oh, I did. Multiple times, actually. But I reckon you were too busy with the treadmill to notice.” 

The older creature’s reference works as intended, an irritating flush crawling up Harry’s neck and pouring into his ears, garnering a fit of cackles on his companion’s behalf.

“Fuck off.” Harry grumbles as he shoves Mitch’s shoulder, but the insult is hard to take seriously when he’s wrestling a smirk of his own. 

“Is it the girl from the club?” The lanky man inquires curiously, tilting his head to the side with an impressed air. “It’s been, what, four weeks now? That’s a record, I think. You’ve never kept one around that long.” 

“What can I say, the sex is good.” Harry shrugs easily, tucking a couple of rebellious curls away from his eyes, which gleam crimson red as a supporting factor to his next comment. “And the blood is even better.”

Mitch rolls his irises playfully. “Alright, Casanova, pipe down.” He glances over his friend’s rumpled appearance, taking in the slightly damp skin, wild hair, and the plethora of faded hickies peeking through the boy’s robe, littering his chest and collarbones. “She’s got you on a tight leash, I see.” 

“It’s only fair, considering she spends most of that time in my handcuffs. Quid pro quo and all that.” Harry quips back, bursting into laughter when Mitch gags dramatically. 

“You know you could’ve just brought her along, right?” Mitch suggests, tucking his hands into his pockets. “We each have our own rooms, remember? No one would get in the way of your little late night jogs. Though I can’t say the same for the other hotel guests. She’s not necessarily subtle.” 

Harry presses his tongue along the inside of his cheek coyly. “It’s not my fault I’m good in bed. It’s a curse, really. Could never get away with dressing room sex.”

He contemplates Mitch's offer for a second. He thinks it could be a fun time, but then he recalls that the trip to Vegas is a week-long party, which Y/N can’t indulge because she works a regular nine-to-five. Plus, a human in a car full of vampires sounds like the introduction to an ominous joke. Something is bound to slip, especially because no one in the crew is used to having humans around outside of meal hours. He doesn’t want the responsibility of constantly having to wipe her brain. 

Aside from that, most of the vampires that mill around Vegas aren’t as cultured as Harry’s friends. They lack restraint, a conscience, and fear of consequences, given that the city’s crazy reputation provides the perfect cover for all those dangerous behaviors. That makes them deadly predators to someone as trusting and unsuspecting as Y/N, and having to continuously protect her would be too much of a hassle. It’s supposed to be a vacation; the last thing he needs is for it to turn into an episode of Shark Week. It’s best to stay put.

Harry shakes his head after a minute, clearing his throat. “But I think I’m good. Bringing along a human isn’t worth all the trouble she might cause. Thank you, though.” 

Mitch bobs his head in understanding, well aware of the problems Harry is alluding to. “You have a point.” He pauses for a second in thought, shaking his head at the idea of having to deal with the insanity that surrounds their Vegas siblings. “I guess I’ll just see you next week, then, yeah? Better get going.”

The younger vampire mirrors his nod, opening his arms for a hug, which Mitch gladly takes. He’s not one for affection, that much is clear, but he makes certain exceptions here and there, and of course his friends file under that category. And every now and then, Y/N does too. 

“See you next week.” He pulls away from the embrace with a hard pat to Mitch’s shoulder, smiling softly. “Send tons of pictures, okay? And videos of Niall getting shitfaced. I need new blackmail content.” 

“Will do.” Mitch squeezes his best friend’s shoulders tightly, beaming at him in return. He then cranes towards his two fellow guests, whistling to gain their attention from the passionate conversation they seem to be having about Harry’s robe. “Time to head out, Bonnie and Clyde.”

“Who’s who?” Niall questions childishly, raising an eyebrow. “Because I think I should be Clyde. Xander has Bonnie vibes.” 

“No I don’t!” 

“Yes, you do.” The Irish boy reasons, cocking his head knowingly. “You seem like the type who would cheat on a murderer with another criminal from the same jail. You’ve got a knack for drama, like most women.” 

Xander crosses his arms stubbornly. “No, I don’t.”

“You do, actually.” Harry butts in, eyes twinkling slyly as the group starts to wander towards the exit. He decides to get revenge for the teasing from earlier. “You moan just like one, too.”

Xander blushes bright red, diving into the shadow of the corridor to avoid any more ridicule. “I’m leaving.” 

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!” 

The other vampires laugh as they follow behind Harry’s ex-fling, waving their final goodbyes. As soon as the front door echoes shut, the immortal turns on his heel and heads back towards the glass stairs, beginning to undo the silk ribbon knotted around his hips. 

He’s got his own partner in crime to attend to. 

///

That night, Y/N and Harry end up bidding each other farewell in the corridor of his condo. 

That seems to be a common theme in their relationship, he’s come to find. It’s usually the entrance to her own apartment instead of his, but the motif is there, nonetheless: They always end up meeting in a hallway, every single time. 

“Thanks for having me over.” Y/N murmurs in her signature gentle dialect, smiling delicately as she skids the toe of her sneaker against the ground of the carpet outside his door, trying to keep the butterflies in her tummy tame. It was an incredible two days— maybe the best weekend she’s ever had, if she’s being honest. “I had a lot of fun.” 

Harry leans his bare shoulder against his threshold, clad in nothing but a pair of royal blue boxers and black ankle socks, freely showing off the collection of love bites and scratches Y/N had so kindly finished gifting him a few hours ago. She’d gone wild the second he’d unlocked the metal cuffs and he’s more than happy with the results.

The stains speckle his broad chest and the expanse of his taut neck, dark and obvious beneath the complex’s buttery lighting. Bruises trace down his stomach and across his ribs, a neat row of four hickies centered vertically between his two fern inkings. They disappear suggestively under the elastic band of his underwear and she can feel flashes of heat layer across her cheeks, her mind recalling all the filthy sounds he’d made when she had created them.

The human peels away from the artwork that is Harry’s marked torso, glancing around nervously at the fact that some stranger might see the fruit of their actions. The vampire’s lips twitch at her concern; it baffles him how she can be such a devil in between the sheets, but such a shy, reserved angel in every other aspect. It’s cute. 

Harry reaches forward and takes her warm fingers into his larger hand, thumbing over her knuckles appreciatively as his irises glitter smugly amidst his lashes, a smirk stringing his pillowy mouth. “We always have a lot of fun.” 

Y/N squeezes his palm playfully, gnawing into her cheek and humming in agreement. “That, we do.”

A moment of comfortable silence suspends the air between them, the only sound being the faint footsteps of people on the levels above and below, alongside the light skidding of the elevator as it delivers patrons to their destinations. Harry is the first to speak up again. 

“What was your favorite part?” 

Y/N blinks up at him blankly, slightly startled at the random question, but moreso at being put on the spot. 

“Oh, uh…” She laughs shakily, struggling to recall everything that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. There had been so much bare skin and desperate tongues involved, she can hardly pick through her memories without her ears prickling. “I think...I think the shower was my favorite. It was nice and relaxing. Helped me unwind.” 

Harry nods in recognition, turning through the pages in his mind and skimming through the instance she’s referring. “It was pretty nice, yeah. You look good in a soap beard.” 

Y/N scoffs at his joking compliment. “Thanks. I’ll grow it out more often. Just for you.” 

The young man reaches up and grips over his chest in fake passion, face contorted into a wistful expression. “That’s all I ask.” 

The pair break into childish giggles and the sensation of Harry rubbing across the top of her hand is starting to make her head fuzzy. “What about yours? What was your favorite?”

Harry mulls over his own topic for a few seconds, lips puckering in thought as his eyes narrow pensively. The comically adorable picture makes Y/N’s heart skip. 

“I think…” Harry lists his gaze downwards back onto his patiently-awaiting friend, lips spreading into his patented dazzling smile. “I think it was probably the Hamilton reenactment.” 

Y/N brows jump, mood slightly unconvinced. “Really?” 

The vampire nods confidently, his own eyebrows inching upwards, voice amused. “Why is that so hard to believe?”   

Y/N shrugs offhandedly, glimpsing down at where the ridges of his thumb are delivering soothing shots of bliss into her veins. “You’re just so...y’know...you… so I guess I just expected you’d have a preference for the more…” She chooses her next words carefully, not wanting to be so brazen with the risk of someone overhearing, “...intimate parts of the weekend.”

“Wow, okay. Just call me a whore to my face, then. That’s fine.” 

Y/N throws her free hand upwards in a fist, slugging Harry on the shoulder with appalled shock overtaking her features. His boyish chuckles echo off the walls of the building as she whips her head around to make sure no one had witnessed his dirty bluntness. “You know what I mean!” 

“Yeah.” He purposefully raises his voice, nearly shouting the following sentence just to get on her nerves. “You’re slut-shaming me!” 

Y/N surges forward, trying to clamp her hand over his mouth and save herself the embarrassment. “Harry, shut up!”

He easily fights her off, his supernatural strength beating hers tenfold. She ends up wrapped in his embrace, flushed against his hard chest as he sticks his tongue out at her mockingly. He drops his tone back down to normal, his two front teeth digging into his lower lip to keep more laughter from bubbling over. “That’s not nice. You should stop conforming to society’s outdated ‘sex is taboo’ narrative.”

“I wasn’t—” Y/N starts insistently, but then she realizes she’s become almost as loud as him so she forces her voice to taper into an alarmed hiss instead. “I wasn’t slut-shaming you! I was simply expressing—”

“You just see me as a toy, don’t you?” The creature cuts her off, lips dipping downwards into a glorified frown. He proceeds to bat his lashes and sniffle, packing as many theatrics as possible into his mopey act. “I have feelings, y’know? My big dick and cunnilingus skills aren’t my only redeeming qualities! You should be ashamed of yourself for objectifying me like that.”

Y/N presses her lips together to ward off an immature grin, rattling her head to get herself under control. She gives him a stern look, warning him to cut it out. “Stop being a child.” 

“Stop using me for sex and making derogatory assumptions about my promiscuity.”  

“Oh, hop of it! You use me right back. It’s mutual.”

“Which is why the slut-shaming is such a paradox.” 

“For fuck’s sake, I wasn’t fucking— You know what? You can’t even pin me on the objectification part because you do it to me all the time!” 

“Oh, is that so?” Harry prods with a humorous tilt of his head, squeezing at her love handles and swimming in the way she wriggles around. “Elaborate.” 

“When you slapped my ass in the shower. Or when you put your hand under my shirt to play with my chest while we watch TV.” Y/N debates, poking at the thorax of his butterfly tattoo. “Very objectifying, if you ask me.”

“Mm, not quite, darling.” The vampire shakes his head and draws her closer, ducking down to flirt the tip of his nose along the slope of hers. “There’s a difference.”

“Oh, yeah?” She digs her nails into his pectorals, discreetly savoring the strong muscles. “What is it?”

Harry glimpses down at where she’s carving indents into his flesh, enjoying the minute pain more than he should. He drifts his mouth closer towards her ear, inhaling the scent of his shampoo wafting from her silky strands of hair. “The difference is that you’re usually begging me to do all those things.”

Y/N’s teeth grind in begrudging defeat, her spine giving a surrendered shiver at his crude point. “Whatever.” 

Harry releases her body, haughty victory written all over his posture. “I rest my case.” 

Y/N’s pride blazes, a threat falling from her tongue sharply, but it holds no true intentions. “Maybe I should just stop asking you to, then.”

“You won’t.” The boy sighs airily, tapping his bare foot against the ground without a care in the world. “You like me too much.” 

“Even if I like you, I’d have enough dignity to stop seeing you if I wanted.” Y/N huffs, making a face at him to emphasize her stance. “It’s this little thing called ‘willpower.’”

“Yeah, well, we both know you and your willpower are gonna end up texting my number Friday night, asking me to come over for some more interior design advice.” Harry snarkily dismisses, presenting a scenario where he’s holding an invisible phone in his hands, pretending to tap out a message. His voice comes out high-pitched, mimicking her own. “Hey, one of the rungs on my headboard came loose. Can you come help me fix it?”

Y/N stares at him with eyes half-lidded in pettiness. “I don’t sound like that.”

“You’re right. You’re a tad more nasally.” 

“Asshole.” 

“I’m just calling it like I see it, love.”

Y/N socks him on the shoulder again as retribution, though it barely has an impact. 

After a couple heartbeats full of vengeful silence, Y/N chimes up with a jesting tone, though the manner in which she’s picking at her nails tells Harry she’s slightly anxious. “Hypothetically speaking, if I were to send out a text inviting you to come over Friday...would you?”

A lopsided simper pops the immortal’s dimples awake. He shifts on his feet, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. “Hypothetically speaking, I think I could very well make it.” 

Y/N chews on her lower lip as the apples of her cheeks jolt. “Ok, well...Let’s say— once again, hypothetically— that I should be home by eight that day. Would that work for you?” 

Harry cocks his head from side to side as if churning the offer around his mind. “I think that, hypothetically, that fits right into my schedule.”

The human’s belly flops in giddy excitement. “Great. It’s booked, then. Hypothetically speaking, of course.” 

“Of course.” Harry agrees, the reply accompanied by a teasing furrow of his sculpted brows and a curt nod. 

Y/N clasps her hands in front of her thighs with finality, giving him a bright smile. “Alright, then. I’ll see you next week.”

“Next week.” Harry confirms with a cheeky wink, running his tongue along his top teeth to keep from bursting into giggles. “Hypothetically.” 

“Hypothetically.” Y/N states with a slight bow of her head, tucking one hand into the back pocket of her dark jeans as she takes a step back from the front door with a small wave. She turns on her heel to face the elevator at the other end of the hall, her foot lifting to take the first step towards the exit. 

“Wait.” 

The mortal looks back towards her friend, eyebrows poised in question. 

Harry scratches at the nape of his neck, smiling softly. “I could really go for a goodbye kiss. Not-so-hypothetically.” 

Y/N blinks at him in wonder. He’s never asked for one before. 

The awkward aura that quickly fills the space between them becomes suffocating. He considers the option of telling her he was just joking to spare himself the humiliation, but he doesn’t get the chance. Y/N lurches forward, teetering onto the tips of her toes and buttoning her lips to his. The spontaneous action makes him swallow his words. 

He fumbles to cup her jaw, kissing her back with just as much fervor and feeling the coldness of his skin fizzle away under her inherent warmth. The gesture isn’t sexual or desperate, but simply sweet and fulfilling. He enjoys it, though it’s not surprising given that he enjoys her lips touching him in any and every way imaginable. He’s not exactly sure why he’d made this particular request— it’s very out of character for him, in every sense of the phrase— but he deduces it’s likely because he wants one more thing to cling onto until he gets to feel her mouth again. It’s not uncommon to want a little something extra to get through the tougher nights, so it’s truly not that big of an occurrence. It’s only reasonable.  

Y/N breaks their exchange, eyes glassy and so beautifully clear as she pecks his chin one last time in a polite farewell. “Text me if you need me...And especially if you need me.”

Harry gulps thickly at the suggestive statement, nodding numbly as her body heat slips away. “Will do. Thanks. And thanks for the kiss. Needed it to tide me over until Friday.” 

“My pleasure. See you later, Holmes.” 

Harry waits patiently until Y/N’s figure disappears behind the gilded doors of the fancy elevator, watching the closed slates of metal glint coldly under the blurry lighting of the condominium’s corridor. He walks back into his apartment, shutting the door gently and slouching into the plush cushions of his leather sofa with a detached sigh. He gazes up at his extravagant chandeliers, once again left in the empty solitude he’d grown so fond of in his extensive lifetime. There’s not a single sound or motion invading his seclusion, not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in his rug, and everything is so still and quiet, it’s almost deafening. But despite every aspect being as it should, he can’t shake the sensation that something is off. Something is wrong. Something’s missing.

And for the first time in years, he finds himself feeling more lonely than alone. 

///

It only takes Harry about an hour of uneventful isolation to realize he’s made a grave mistake. 

He should have gone on the trip. 

Despite the fact that the vampire lives alone, he very rarely spends any time without seeing his friends. Since they all reside in the same building, it’s fairly easy for him to find some entertainment whenever boredom strikes. He’ll either go up a floor to Mitch’s place to watch a movie or mess around with his collection of vintage guitars, or he’ll go a level below to visit Adam and talk about any new art exhibits opening up around the area. He could visit Niall three floors above to play some FIFA on his gaming console and share porn recommendations, or even take the elevator to the twelfth floor to bother Xander and talk some shit while they do each other’s nails. And if Harry’s feeling extra needy for attention, he could always just invite them all over to his place so the group could go out for some Thai food at the restaurant down the street, or go see a movie at the cinema, or take a ride to their favorite local bar. 

No matter the circumstances, his friends are always readily available for him when he needs them, so he very solemnly spends his days alone. That is, until now. 

The entire crew had left for the Vegas trip and— as a result of his own irresponsibility and immature hormones— had left him all by himself for the next seven days. He would never admit it aloud to spare himself the ridicule of being overly sappy, but he misses the group. He misses Mitch’s soft voice and quiet wittiness, and he misses Adam’s cheeky banter and random fun facts, and he misses Niall’s inappropriate jokes and boisterous laughter, and he even misses Xander’s annoying digs and childish pettiness. He didn’t know how much he took it all for granted until it was gone.

For the rest of the week, Harry is practically miserable. The guys don’t text him much, which can be expected since the whole point of the holiday is to enjoy every second of it; there would be no point in traveling four hours just to sit in their hotel and message him. He talks to Y/N a bit, but she is also occupied most of the time with work, given that she had to take on a few extra shifts on behalf of her co-workers. The earliest she goes in is six A.M., the latest she comes out is nine P.M., and by then, Harry reckons she’s probably falling asleep in the entrance corridor of her home. He understands her exhaustion and therefore doesn’t expect her to humor him; it wouldn’t be fair. 

With everyone in his life busy and with his flat feeling colder and emptier than ever, it’s a miracle he doesn’t go mad within its walls. He goes out a handful of times to do some grocery shopping, for a run around a nearby park, and to take a walk along his favorite mall, but that’s it, really. He doesn’t go out to eat simply because he thinks it would be embarrassing having to sit alone at a restaurant; it’s pitiful and sad and he’s not going to subject himself to that. The most stimulating social interaction he has that week is a tie between a bit of flirting with a Target cashier, some suggestive gazing exchanged with a Starbucks barista, and a couple of cheeky caresses from a Gucci store employee taken while measuring his waist for a custom order. None of it satisfies him the way it normally does, though, and he can’t place why. 

By the time Friday evening rolls around, Harry is a hair short from letting his regular case of stir-crazy slip into a full-on psychotic break. That’s why he ends up at Y/N’s complex earlier than the agreed-upon hour, stepping out of his Cadillac with twenty minutes left to spare and with a certain desperation eating away at the back of his skull.

The creature casually jogs up the worn steps to her floor, the only sound being the heels of his maroon velvet boots clicking against the cement ground. He whistles softly to the vague tune of a new pop song that had been playing on the radio— Wet Ass something?— as he tucks his phone into his pocket and brushes a few traces of lint off his freshly-ironed button-up. 

His outfit for tonight is nothing too spectacular, but it isn’t too lazy, either. It’s a long-sleeve black silk shirt with glass buttons and a pair of large swallows embroidered along either sides of his chest, the threads dyed royal and pastel blue, cherry red, and creamy yellow. The top is cuffed up his elbows and unbuttoned down to his butterfly tattoo, showing off his naturally tanned skin and matching swallow inkings, the cross on his delicate chain centered between his pecs and twinkling under the flickering lights. He’d coupled the loose blouse with some black skinny jeans, a dark leather belt, a small golden hoop earring, and his trusty collection of rings and necklaces. In his opinion, it’s a proper look for a planned-out booty call. Formal, but easy to rip off. Especially in a blind hurry. 

Harry figures that he’ll check to see if Y/N is home, just to cover the bases. If she isn’t, he’ll tred back down the stairs and wait for her in his car. If she is, then that’s all the better; there’s no damage in starting a bit earlier than scheduled. It makes for a better recoup period between rounds. 

The immortal turns the corner into the familiar hallway where Y/N’s flat is located, one of his hands already forming into a loose fist with the intention of knocking on her door. He makes it about five paces before he’s slapped with an image that causes him to stop cold in his tracks, his whistling coming to an abrupt halt. 

Harry blinks repeatedly and lowers the frame of his pink Gucci sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, wanting to make sure the scene before him isn’t a figment of his imagination. Much to his displeasure, it isn’t. 

About three meters ahead, situated right in front of her door with her back facing towards him, is Y/N. That isn’t the odd aspect of the picture, though. What’s odd is that her usual grimy work attire is missing, which he had expected to see given that he knows she always goes to the cafe on Fridays. Instead, she is clad in the pastel blue floral sundress she had worn for him all those weeks back, when they had slept together for the second time. And instead of wearing her scuffed up Vans, she is wearing a pair of pretty tan sandals. And instead of having her hair up in a frizzy ponytail, it’s down and fanned around her shoulders in a glossy sheen of tousled curls. And she’s wearing perfume— the same one she had worn the night they met. He can smell it from here and it makes his brows furrow in confusion. She never wears perfume to work; she says it’s forbidden since it can make customers nauseous. 

But aside from all of those unorthodox details, there is one specific factor above all that throws Harry for the biggest loop he’s encountered in the last five weeks of knowing her. 

Y/N isn’t alone. She’s accompanied by another man. 

Harry gives the stranger a calculating once-over, taking in every aspect of the boy’s appearance. He has to keep himself from sputtering into laughter. This has to be some type of fucking joke. 

The bloke is fit, he’ll give him that, at least. He’s handsome and somewhat muscular, but in a manner that is painfully cliche and utterly boring. He has sandy blonde hair that falls across his forehead in a shaggy sideways bang, eyes the color of a Malibu beach, and generally soft features with the exception of decent cheekbones. He’s wearing a dull orange polo, khaki pants, Levi sneakers, and an annoyingly giant watch on his wrist that gives the impression he’s trying to show off. Harry nearly vomits in his mouth. 

Who the fuck would wear a polo willingly? And how brain dead does he have to be to think khakis are still in style? His fashion sense is obviously stunted. It appears his brain is stuck in his middle school phase, when the Justin Bieber haircut and douchey brands were all the rave amongst snotty pre-teens. Also, his watch is an embarrassment. Harry doesn’t know what the guy is attempting— and failing— to show off, considering the accessory is chunky and ugly and not even Versace or Rolex. It’s a disgrace. 

As if the forced posh demeanor isn’t enough, the imbecile actually has the guts to have a fake tan. The vampire isn’t surprised, unfortunately, given that eighty percent of all Los Angeles residents think it’s acceptable to dip-dye themselves into a carrot. He faintly wonders if the man’s balls are colored, as well, or if his ass and sack are as pale as his personality probably is. That would be quite the comedic sight either way. Creamsicles for the win, he supposes. 

Harry may not be alarmed by the blonde boy’s get-up, but he is disgusted. Thoroughly disgusted. Horrifically disgusted. What is Y/N doing with this moron? 

According to what he’s gathered from her personality and the pillow talks they often share, she hates the California stereotype almost as much as he does, if not more. She hates the fake tans and bleached hair and lack of conscience. She hates the outdated teenage brands, cringey jewelry, and fraternity member aesthetic. She especially hates the fact that some of these people don’t understand the basic principles of boundaries. And the thing is, this dude-bro of a man definitely ticks all of those boxes— especially with how close he’s standing next to her, looming above her frame with one arm extended against the surface of her door, trying to look nonchalant and cool as he drawls on about whatever topic they’re discussing. 

He’s practically the poster child for everything the girl despises, from the straightened hair to the alter boy church pants to the stupid forest tattoo on his forearm. So what in the flying fuck is she doing entertaining him? What is she doing standing outside her apartment with this trashy, bacon strip-looking, youth leader knock-off, 2012 Bieber impersonator of a human? 

It has to be a joke. It just has to. There’s no other valid explanation, except maybe a plea of insanity. 

Harry doesn’t realize he’s scowling until the stranger makes eye contact with him. The boy’s face breaks into an expression of unsettled discomfort at the way the vampire is peering at him over his sunglasses, allowing his end of the conversation to falter to dust. Y/N’s brows cinch at the occurrence, her attention peeling away to follow where her date’s had wandered. 

The second her gaze locks with Harry’s intense own, she feels her heart drop to her stomach. Fuck.

Let it be known Y/N didn’t want this. She didn’t want to go on a date with Jacob. In fact, she didn’t know who Jacob was until halfway through this week and she honestly wishes it had stayed that way. She wishes she hadn’t picked up Melissa’s shift with Isabel, she wishes she hadn’t offered to wait that extra table in the back out of the kindness in her heart, and she wishes she hadn’t caught the attention of the customer inhabiting it. 

As it turns out, the young man was Isabel’s cousin. He had come to pick her up since the girl’s car had been stuck at the shop for the last few days, and he had arrived a bit earlier than intended, deciding to sit at the back table to wait out the final ten minutes of his relative’s shift. Y/N had simply assumed that he was a regular customer, so she had gone to give him the usual trained introduction in order to follow the golden rule of customer service: Don’t keep a guest waiting. 

Jacob had explained the situation to Y/N, to which she responded with a light laugh and an instinctive apology. She had told him she’d go fetch Isabel for him and bid the boy goodbye. In her rational opinion, she had thought that would be it— a simple crossing of two paths that would likely never cross again— but evidently, the visitor had a very different idea. 

The human’s shift had continued as planned and everything had been going great until Isabel ducked into the kitchen right before leaving, dancing her way across the room and poking her coworker playfully in the tummy.  Apparently, from what Isabel had giddily told her, Jacob had taken an interest in Y/N. It was a bit ridiculous, if you asked her, considering they’d only talked for a total of about thirty seconds before parting routes. But Y/N hadn’t voiced that opinion; she didn’t want to come off as rude. 

Jacob had asked his cousin to set them up on a date and that is why Isabel had gone into the back before leaving. Y/N’s immediate impulse had been to decline. She wasn’t interested in seeing anyone at the moment. Other than Harry, of course. He handled all her needs just fine and they got on so well, she’d be crazy to replace him with some random guy she barely knew. She had gone to express this to Isabel in a gentler manner with an apologetic tone, but the words had ended up lodging in her throat. The girl had stared at Y/N with so much excitement, she’d immediately felt a wave of guilt erupt into her chest. 

She found it difficult to refuse, given that turning down the offer might come off as bitchy and insensitive. Here Isabel was, trying to innocently play match-maker on behalf of someone she cared about, buzzing with glee and smiling at her so big, her cheeks probably hurt. The last thing Y/N wanted was to upset her by basically telling her that Jacob wasn’t up to par with her standards. Rejecting him could be something her acquaintance took personally and Y/N didn’t want to have to deal with drama in the workplace, especially not with someone whose shifts often mirror her own. 

Y/N had reluctantly agreed to the invitation, her only request being that she had to be home by seven thirty. That would give her enough time to prepare for Harry’s visit. 

Her compliance had landed her where she is now, standing in front of her apartment door with a boy she has no interest in. 

It had been a terrible date, though Jacob took no notice of that. He spent the entire dinner talking about himself, going on and on about his college years, and about how he works at a popular surf shop and could probably get her discounted lessons, and about how he doesn’t think he could survive without his Jeep. How he plays guitar and wants to be a famous actor, how he doesn’t understand why people dislike fake tanning, and how his dad owns a country club in South Carolina. How he loves sports, how he thinks museums are dumb, and how he likes girls who are willing to cook for him after they hookup. How he loves going clubbing and that he misses his ex. 

Y/N had nearly groaned out loud at the last two.

It was cruel and unusual torture, in all honestly, and Y/N is just glad it’s over. She’d fulfilled her role— she’d even been nice enough to dress up, to at least finge interest— and could now go free, never having to hear another word about surfboard wax or college football ever again. If only he’d fucking leave.

Jacob had insisted on walking her to the door, which would be sweet if she hadn’t developed a burning hatred for him in the last hour. It came off as annoying and pushy instead, but she allowed it on the grounds of maintaining a polite front. 

She shouldn’t have allowed it. As soon as they’d gotten to her door, he’d started talking all over again and Y/N had no choice but to stand there and listen. She couldn’t go anywhere, given that this is her place and she’s expecting someone. She figured she’d give him until seven fifty and then make up an excuse about having to go to the bathroom in order to get him to piss off. That plan had crumbled when Harry had shown up twenty minutes early. 

The look of inflamed shock that poses Harry’s handsome features makes her stomach curdle. 

She hadn’t meant for him to see this. She’d only gone on the date to spare herself some petty trouble with a coworker. Nothing was bound to come of it, other than a free meal and a guilt-free conscience. It didn’t mean anything and she had no intention of letting it get in between what she and Harry have going. But from an outside perspective, she knows it looks much different. 

The agreement they have isn’t exclusive by any means, but over the last five weeks, the pair have grown pretty comfortable with one another and had given connotations that they weren’t kindling other possible relationships. There’s a type of silent agreement between them that if they were to seek out other people, they would share that information with each other on the grounds of courtesy, friendship, and respect. But Y/N hadn’t said a word to spare him the baseless stress and now he’d run into her smack in the middle of what appears to be a very compromising situation; things aren’t looking good at all. It looks like she’s losing interest in Harry and couldn’t be bothered to tell him. It looks like she’s out for a replacement. It looks like she doesn’t care about their connection at all. 

This is bad. This is really bad.

Y/N’s voice comes out as a shrill shriek of surprise, her body turning abruptly to fully face his rigid own. “Harry! Uh— hi!” 

Harry blinks at her emptily for a moment and she can practically see the gears turning in his head. She can’t read his mind or his expression, but she reckons he’s probably trying to decide if he should follow through on their rendezvous or if he should just leave and never talk to her again. The idea of him choosing the latter makes her mouth go sour. 

The vampire’s emerald irises flit back and forth between his friend and the unknown man behind her, trying to interpret the tone and texture of the circumstance. She’s obviously on a date, if her appearance is any indication, and it’s obviously coming to a close right now, exactly when he’s scheduled to arrive. 

That’s the determining factor that helps him decide his next move. 

Y/N had invited Harry over last Sunday, meaning that she had made their commitment first. This date had to have come into play later in the week, and she had purposefully planned it around their agreed hour in order to give him her undivided attention when the time came. If she had gone out with this guy and then rushed back home to get to him, that must mean she doesn’t plan on indulging another meeting with the stranger. She hadn’t cancelled his visit, either, so that also suggests she isn’t truly interested in this bloke. That makes sense...right?

But that still begs the question: Why had she gone out with him in the first place?

He knows he isn’t owed an explanation, but he also knows that Y/N isn’t the type of person who would just blindside him like this. She isn’t soulless— she’s sweet and caring and generous, so she would never drop him without any warning or consideration for his feelings. She’d never abandon him without telling him why. She’d never do anything that might run a chance of hurting him. 

The immortal is more than aware he doesn’t have the right to be upset about it, either. Their arrangement is loose and open on both ends and he likes it that way. He likes that their relationship isn’t weighed down by commitment and monogamy; it gives him a sense of freedom and independence he’s known to thrive off of. It lets him be himself without playing her emotions, and without causing a ruckus in the plans she has for her new life. And he gets the same in return— he gets to have his needs attended without sacrificing his core beliefs. Their friends with benefits trope rides along the wings of an official bond, only giving them what they want and nothing they don’t, which is how it was meant to be. How it should be.

So why does seeing her with someone else make him feel sick to his stomach?

Harry shakes off the ball of contempt writhing in his chest, clearing the tightness from his throat and molding his expression into a facade of calm indifference. Jealousy is for idiots. 

The vampire fully wraps his perched fingers around the rim of his sunglasses, removing them from the arch of his nose and tucking the shades along the collar of his shirt. He forces his feet to do their job, his lanky legs lurching forward and falling into a casual stride as he walks towards the two humans awaiting a response. 

Harry comes to a stop beside the mortals, clasping his bejeweled hands behind his back and plastering a dazzling grin across his cheeks. He regards his friend with a slight bow of his head, voice airy and carefree as ever. “Hey, Y/N.”

She almost faints in relief. Thank God he’s not mad. 

Y/N returns his smile, shoulders visibly relaxing. “It’s nice to see you.”

“S’nice to see you, too. Always such a…” He pauses, licking at the corner of his lips suggestively, giving her a knowing once-over that only she can interpret, “pleasure.”

The girl ignores the heat that immediately floods her cheeks. Of course he’s doing this in front of Jacob. Of course he’s peacocking. “Likewise.” 

Harry trains his attention onto the young man before him, pursing his lips into a polite smile. As polite as he can muster, anyways. “And who’s this?” 

Y/N blinks herself back into the present, quickly glancing away from Harry’s sharp jaw, though it doesn’t go unnoticed. He feels his ego swell a smidge.  

“This is Jacob.” The human comments easily, signaling to him with an upturned palm. “He’s Isabel’s cousin. You remember Isabel, right? You met her at the club.” 

“I don’t think I do, actually.” Harry murmurs, glimpsing up towards the ceiling to suggest he’s wracking his thoughts. He has a very vague recollection of the two girls he’d momentarily encountered the day he’d first met Y/N, but it’s hazy and unimportant. 

He looks back down at her with sparkling irises, rosy lips twitching with amusement at his next words, knowing they’re going to have a favorable impact. “I guess I was just too distracted by you to pay much attention to anyone else.”  

He can hear more blood rush into her face and the ecstasy it brings him is immeasurable. He cranes his sight back onto Jacob, who has the slightest crease in his brows at Harry’s compliment. Good. That’s exactly what he wanted. 

The monster unclamps his hands and juts one out stiffly towards the mortal. “M’Harry. Good to meet you, mate.” 

Jacob returns the gesture, grasping Harry’s hand firmly in a way the vampire knows is to try and establish dominance. It tickles him when humans try to be tough, especially because Harry could tear his arm right out of its socket as easily as he could lift a sheet of paper. The creature tightens his grip to match the man’s, purposefully putting a tad more strength in to make a silent point. He has to withhold the urge to crunch the boy’s fingers to dust. 

They both release from the exchange and a wave of dark satisfaction trickles into Harry’s bones when he sees Jacob curl and stretch his digits in mild pain. 

Y/N watches the whole scene with a breath trapped in her lungs. This feels surreal.

The blonde clears his throat softly, mouth jilting into an empty smile and it’s obvious he’s only doing it just to keep things civil. “Good to meet you, too. I take it you’re British?” 

“Pure-bred.” Harry remarks proudly, shrugging his shoulders offhandedly as if it’s no big deal. His gaze slinks towards Y/N for a second, tongue pushing along the inside of his cheek smugly. “It works wonders with the ladies.”

A flicker of spite stains the blue in Jacob’s eyes and the vampire feels like his soul is ascending. This is fun. 

“I can only imagine.” His opponent responds, voice somewhat strained as he directs his next question to the two friends. “So how do you know each other?” 

Harry opens his mouth to make an arrogant comment along the lines of, “A club. A few drinks. Some amazing sex. Y’know, the usual.” but Y/N knows him well enough that she anticipates it, speaking over him loudly before he can even get a syllable out.

“We met at a club and hit it off really well. Been friends ever since.” 

The immortal has to keep himself from adding something snarky to the end of her summary. He only does it because he can see a sharp warning flash across Y/N’s eyes. It’s wordless, but stern nonetheless: Don’t.

Harry swallows down his dig and feels it burn a hole in his stomach. Why is she protecting his feelings?

In all honesty, Y/N is only doing it out of kindness and nothing else. As annoying as Jacob may be, he doesn’t deserve to be embarrassed simply because Harry wants to feed his pride. It may be funny, but it’s pretty immature.

“Right.” Harry sighs happily, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. “Friends. Good friends. Close friends. Intimate friends.” 

Y/N presses her lips into a straight line to keep herself in check. He’s trying to work her over and, unfortunately, he’s succeeding.  

“That’s nice.” Jacob nods casually, the innuendo luckily going right over his head. 

“Yeah, it is.” Harry states, eyes glinting mischievously as he quickly studies the man once again. He can’t help himself, he truly can’t. Not when this terribly-styled buffoon makes it so fucking easy. “I like your tan, by the way.” 

The human looks down at his arms for significance, eyes brightening. “Thank you! I got it done at that new place in—”

“Yeah, it’s pretty neat. Looks almost real.” 

Jacob blinks blankly at the backhanded compliment. “Oh—?” 

“I mean, it’s got a few streaks here and there and your left arm looks a little more orange, but I think—”

“Anyways!” Y/N swiftly cuts in, interrupting her friend’s judgmental spiel and directing her attention towards her date. “Harry and I were actually planning on going to see a movie, which is why I had to be home by seven-thirty— we do it every Friday. And the movie starts at eight and traffic’s a bitch, so that’s why I was in such a hurry to get home.” 

Jacob nods slowly, giving her a sweet, understanding smile that makes Harry’s supernatural blood boil. “I see. Well, I—”

The vampire interrupts him once again, condescension flaring in his chest and dancing across the specks of amber surrounding his pupils. “Yeah, Y/N and I go to the theater every Friday. Recently, we’ve been going to the movies every single day of the weekend. And most times, we see several movies a night.” 

Y/N’s jaw clenches at Harry’s barely-veiled insinuation. She tries to talk over him, but he beats her to the punch. 

“Y’know what I’m talking about, right, Y/N?” He nudges her side playfully with his elbow, ignoring the way her eyes tell him to cut it out. “Remember that time we saw three movies in one night? Or the one that had the jacuzzi in it?”

The girl glimpses over at Jacob, who looks utterly confused and uncomfortable. “Harry—”

“Or what about that crime film, yeah? The one with the handcuffs.” He pinches at her love handle teasingly, reveling in how her entire torso tenses under his touch. “The one where they grabbed the criminal and slammed them up against the mirror? You have to remember that one. It’s hard to forget.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enough talk about—” 

“Oh, c’mon, dove.” Harry slings an arm around her shoulders nonchalantly, squeezing her into his body and feeling Jacob’s glare pierce the side of his face. He stares intently into Y/N’s irises, dimples winking awake at the needy desperation gradually inking its way into their reflection. His tone comes out soft but heavy with authoritative suggestion— the kind he always uses in bed. “Tell me you remember.” 

Y/N gulps quietly, mumbling her words begrudgingly. “Yeah, I...I remember.” 

A coy hum runs along the back of the vampire’s throat as he licks across his top teeth slyly. “I think that was your favorite one, wasn’t it? You seemed to have really enjoyed it. Like, properly enjoyed it. Loved every single second, if I recall correctly.” 

The human forces herself to cast her intent elsewhere, ears simmering and breathing stuttering ever so slightly. Her sight lands back onto a very frazzled Jacob, who is looking at the pair as if they’d sprouted horns, shifting unsurely across his feet. The expression of innocent befuddlement on his face makes guilt twist into her heart.   

The mortal roughly shrugs off Harry’s arm, stepping forward and placing a palm on Jacob’s wrist, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you so much for the date. It was...nice.” 

Harry’s fists clench at his sides, though the action goes unnoticed. 

The human boy nods giddily at Y/N, glancing down to where she’s touching him so tenderly. “‘Course! I had a great time, too.” 

“Make sure to tell Isabel that. Maybe it’ll get her to do some sweeping on my behalf.” The girl jokes, giggling softly right along with the stranger. 

Harry can feel his nails threatening to break into his skin. 

“We really have to get going, though, so I guess I’ll see you around?” Y/N prods, gifting her date one last beautiful smile to ease the awkwardness that had settled into the atmosphere, courtesy of Harry’s antics. 

“Sure!” Jacob bobs his head in agreement, pulling out his phone and swaying it symbolically. “You have my number, just text me whenever.” 

“Sounds good.”

Once the young man’s footsteps have faded down the complex’s staircase, Y/N swivels around on her heel to face Harry, arms falling across her chest in an irritated fashion. Her face pinches with annoyance as he leans casually against her door, his own arms folding over his strong chest with his fingers tapping along the inside of his elbows, attitude depicting not a single care in the world. 

He crosses his ankles easily, brows quirking at the way she’s blatantly glaring at him. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that people whose names start with a letter ‘J’ are bound to ruin your life?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry!” Y/N snaps, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling as her glossed lips dip into an aggravated grimace. “Are you serious right now?”

He tilts his head curiously, stifling a simper. “What’s wrong, love?”

“What’s wrong?” She retorts with a humorless laugh, astonished at his ability to act so purposefully dense. “You’re a fucking dick, that’s what’s wrong.”

The vampire sputters into a round of boyish cackling, his entire body shaking against the surface below him as his eyes crinkle shut in mirth. Y/N would be further infuriated if it wasn’t so damn cute. 

Harry’s laughter slowly dies down and once he has himself composed, his shoulders rise and fall once dismissively. “I was just fucking around. I didn’t think much of it.” 

“You didn’t think—?” Y/N chokes out in indignation, stomping over to him and poking him straight in the chest, right over his butterfly tattoo. Her perfume makes his mind swim in the best way imaginable. “You didn’t think for a second, in that big head of yours, that talking about our sex life in front of my date was overstepping?” 

Hearing Y/N officially refer to Jacob as her date makes Harry’s mood drop somberly. He tries to push it down and keep up a comical edge, but it’s harder than he’d care to admit. His accent comes out small and almost fragile, much to her surprise. “Well, I didn’t know you were on a date. Maybe if you had told me, I wouldn’t have come.” 

His words sting for some unknown reason. 

The mortal draws closer to him until he’s hovering above her, arms dropping down to her sides to fiddle with the hem of her dress as she tilts her chin upwards to get a better look at his stoney face. All anger melts right out of her voice, replaced by her usual delicate cadence. “Well, I...I didn’t think you’d care, really.” 

“I don’t.” He replies a little too quickly, a small pang of regret pricking his chest when her face immediately falls. “I mean...I mean it as in, like...I’m not keeping tabs on you or anything. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to limit you.” 

Y/N looks back up at him from under her lashes, tone unreadable. “I didn’t think you were. Limiting me, that is. You don’t...limit me.”

Harry nods his head sharply in relieved confirmation, coughing a bit. His throat feels drier than usual and he knows it’s not for a blood-driven reason. “Okay, good. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

“I do.”

“Alright.” 

A charged silence befalls the ambiance between them and the vampire comes to the conclusion that getting his neck snapped was less painful than having this conversation. At least that was quick, whereas this is grueling and horribly uncomfortable, ridden with anxiety and too many elongated pauses. They are walking on extremely thin eggshells around one another, which is something they’ve never had to do before. They have always been on the same wavelength about their relationship and not once has such a nerve-inducing instance come to pass. Now a wrench has been thrown into their metaphorical mechanism and the nuts and bolts are dismantling by the handfuls, leaving them barren and closed-off more than ever. He can feel this situation straining their friendship and he hates it more than he hates those stupid tapestries she fancies.

“If you knew you were gonna be busy,” Harry starts carefully, gluing his attention to a random stain on the cement ground as he scuffs the heel of his boot against her dirty welcome mat, “why didn’t you just text me and cancel?” 

Y/N takes a shaky inhale, focusing on tracing the faded cursive letters on her rug. “I...I still wanted you to come.”

Harry’s foot halts its motions, gaze jumping to her for a thoughtful second, brows knotting with mild confusion at her confession. If she still wants him in her bed, why was she indulging someone else? “You wanted me to come?...Why?”

“Because Fridays are our days.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch. Our days. Their days. Theirs.

The brunette clears his throat to try and saw away at the tension, shifting against the door as the subject delves into heavier territory. He’s never been one to stutter— he’s much too confident in himself to ever have that issue— but it seems to have become a new development whenever Y/N is around. “If...If you want— uhm...If you want to see other people, you obviously don’t need my permission or anything. But I’d like a little heads-up, just so I know where we stand.” 

Y/N releases a curt sigh of exasperation and somehow, Harry can tell it’s not aimed towards him. It’s aimed towards herself. 

She fidgets with the tips of her fingers, talking to the floor but directing her message towards her friend. “It’s not what you think, H.” 

Harry pins his intent back onto her face, intrigue fully peaked. “What do you mean?” 

Y/N takes another trembling breath, releasing it through her nose as a tired exhale. She can feel him looming over her, waiting for an appropriate response with his lips set into a detached line, his ever-present aroma of vanilla and tobacco muddling her thoughts. “I...I mean the date. It wasn’t truly a real date, per se.”

The vampire’s eyes bore into her relentlessly as he clings onto every syllable she speaks. He’s clutching to a form of hope that he deems absolutely humiliating. “How so?”

Y/N picks at the chipping lavender polish on her nails and he finds it adorable how the color of the lacquer matches one of the main notes in her scent. 

She speaks up softly and honestly, and he thinks he detects a shred of guilt to her explanation. “Isabel was the one who set it up. Her cousin came into the cafe and when he saw me, he asked her to get me to go on a date with him. I have no actual interest in Jacob, but I said yes just to be nice. I didn’t wanna upset Isabel by making her think her cousin wasn’t good enough for me or something. That’s the only reason I went.” 

Harry slowly twists his lionhead daylight ring around his middle finger, simultaneously thumbing over the opal on his pinky. The stone is cold to the touch, but not nearly as cold as his skin. 

He reiterates her story slowly, wanting to make sure he interpreted correctly. “So...you only went on the date because you felt bad? You don't actually like him?”

Y/N’s hands plop down against her thighs as she tilts her head back up to look at him, her tone and eyes completely deadpan. “Well, when you say it like that, it makes me sound kind of mean.” 

Harry snorts softly, mouth buckling into his signature crooked smirk. “It’s pretty cruel, to be honest— giving that poor bloke hope like that. Very malicious of you.” 

Y/N kicks at his ankle jokingly, her lips toying with a grin. “Shut up.” 

“You should be careful. Something tells me his ego bruises easily.” 

“Oh, is that so? What makes you say that?” 

The vampire sucks at his teeth, tapping his chin in faux thought as he shrugs his brows tauntingly. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably the overly-tight shirt and fraternity ring. Seems to me like he’s trying to make up for something he lacks. Probably in the intimacy department.”

Y/N chews along her cheek to keep from bursting into giggles. “You are cruel.” 

“I prefer the term ‘brutally honest.’ Sounds classier.” 

“Right. Because you’re all about class.” 

“Heyyyy!” Harry whines in exaggerated insult, face contorting with dramatic offense. “I’m a classy guy! I have the English accent and fancy chandeliers to prove it!” 

“Right. Super classy.” 

“I’m a proper gentleman.” The monster huffs with begrudging finality, irises glitzing deviously. “That is, until you beg me to behave otherwise.” 

“Fuck off.” 

He looks down at her over the crests of his sharp cheekbones as she gazes up at him with a humorously flat expression, feeling all the pent-up stress from the previous events dissolve away into nothing. Harry reaches forward, taking a single curled strand of her hair and moving it behind her shoulder to get a better look at her face. The gesture makes Y/N’s heartbeat hiccup. Especially when that same forefinger ends up poised below her chin, his thumb distractedly caressing across her jaw. 

The creature’s next sentence comes out low and almost vulnerable. “So it meant nothing, then? Are you sure? Because I don’t want to get in the way of your dating life if you—”

“It meant nothing.” Y/N confirms, bobbing her head once insistently. She cradles her cheek into his icy palm, keeping their eyes locked as she gives it a gentle kiss, her insides fluttering when Harry’s breathing hitches. “I’m not gonna be seeing him again anytime soon. Or ever, probably. And that’s why I didn’t mention it to you— because I knew it wouldn’t change anything between us. You’re the only person I’m interested in right now.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

The young man swallows thickly, leaning down to smudge his nose across the girl’s and the action erupts a certain flood of warmth so powerful, it could very well kickstart the dead organ below his ribs. His voice is tumbling down his numb tongue before he can think to stop it. “I’ve been thinking about you all week.” 

Y/N’s fingers stretch upwards to wrap around his wrist securely, almost as if to tether him and eliminate the chance of his touch slipping away. Her whisper is trembly and raw. “You have?” 

Harry knows he’s allowing this to wade into dangerously grey waters, but he can’t find it in himself to care, at the moment. “Yeah. Couldn’t get you out of my head. Couldn’t stop thinking about how good you felt last time.” 

The mortal teeters onto the tips of her toes, flirting her mouth over her friend’s, a prickling sensation stemming from where their cupid’s bows brush. She glimpses at him amidst her lashes, glassy eyes reflecting his need right back at him. “Tell me more. Please?”

The breath of Harry’s words is hot against her mouth, his eyes lulling closed as he recalls all of the memories from the last few days. “I just couldn’t shake it. You were just so tight and warm and the way you were pushing back against my thrusts...the way you were shaking and whimpering...the way you flipped around and slammed your mouth to mine because you wanted me to moan onto your tongue….It was so fucking filthy, I just— I couldn’t—”

His control begins to shatter and the immortal can feel desperation leak through the cracks webbing across his composure. Y/N isn’t helping any, considering she’s started suckling lightly at his bottom lip, her free hand coming up to toy with the curls at the nape of his neck. 

“Keep going.” 

Harry gulps heavily before continuing. “I touched myself while fantasying about you. Lost count of how many times, honestly. But I came so hard every single one. It was pretty easy to lose myself like that, just sitting there thinking about everything we do. Thinking about how pretty you look with my cock in your mouth, taking it down your throat like such a good fucking girl. How nice your arse feels in my hands, especially when you ask me to spank it. How snug you are when you sink over me, stretching around it like it’s made just for you. How the little noises you make sound so fucking perfect— like a song, really. And...and how good you taste between your thighs. S’like honey. Just so fucking sweet.” 

There’s a pause as Harry’s words sink into the air, his dirty confessions pulling passion taut into existence between the two lovers. They’re all over each other in less than a heartbeat. 

Y/N begins to fumble with the small purse she has strung across her body, frantically fishing for her keys as Harry delights himself with sponging his lips across the slope of her jaw, grinning into her skin at the little curses escaping her throat. He absolutely adores how whipped she gets for him. 

The human manages to retrieve her key, jamming it into the lock blindly as her eyes blur with tears of sheer need, stemming from the tiny shots of bliss Harry is instilling through the sloppy pecks he’s trailing down her jugular. She hastily turns the knob, bumping her full weight into the door and nearly fainting in relief when it swings open. She turns sharply to face him, roping her arms around his strong shoulders and pulling him into her, shuddering at how incredible it feels to have his strong torso flushed to hers so intimately. Harry allows himself to be yanked forward into her apartment, giggling softly when she crashes their mouths together messily, harshly tugging him past the threshold. 

The vampire’s lean arms wrap around her waist as the young woman maneuvers their connected bodies into the narrow hallway of her flat, one of her hands waving around wildly until it succeeds in shoving the door shut. Y/N slams Harry up against the closest wall, feverishly fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt and nearly ripping them out of their designated holes. Her hands quiver as she races down the seams, her eyes tinging darker when Harry leans his head back against the panel and smirks down at her smugly. 

He gnaws on his bottom lip, his half-lidded gaze mocking her hysteria as his voice comes out deep and melodic as always, slathered with self-assured arrogance. “You’re so cute when you’re this eager to fuck me.” 

Y/N pants against his twitching lips, tearing his top down his broad figure and shamelessly groping at his swollen biceps. “Just shut up and kiss me.”  

Harry abides, lulling his tongue along her upper lip and thrumming deeply when her digits trickle down his abdomen. He coos into her mouth as she begins fiddling with his belt buckle. “What, no interior design emergency this time? You’re losing your touch, darling.” 

The girl pulls the leather strap off his pants in a frenzy, scoffing at his stupid quip and breaking their kiss to speckle her mouth down his bare chest, feeling it stutter below her influence. “I got some new chairs for my dining table. Wanna take a look?” 

The boy’s fingers card into her roots as she descends down his stomach with wet pecks, his eyes rolling closed with a strained grunt. She bites along his fern inkings and his hips buck forward in response, his grip on her hair tightening when she palms over the outline of his clothed cock. “You know I’m always a sucker for some good dining chairs.”

As it turns out, Y/N had actually gotten some new chairs, much to Harry’s surprise. 

They’re nice, in his opinion. They seem sturdy enough, with metal backrests and legs that are covered in tarnished gold paint that gives a pleasing rustic look. But in the end, Harry doesn’t really much care for the details of the furniture. All he cares about is if they’ll manage to withstand Y/N’s weight as he shoves her onto her knees atop the chair and bends her over the back. Or if they’ll stay put as he pounds into her from behind with a fist in her hair and his letter rings marking across her backside. That’s all that truly matters. 

Despite having done this countless of times before, this particular instance feels different. Both of them can tell, but Y/N feels it more prevalently. Specifically, in the bottom of her stomach and in the pain sweltering across her ass.

Harry’s just…rougher. He’s still himself, so he makes sure she’s okay with everything he does before doing it, but when he gets the green light, he doesn’t let it go to waste. His grip on her roots is harsh, with his nails digging into her scalp as he jerks her head back to bring her in for a kiss, her spine arching into a semi-circle. The position is difficult given the amount of flexibility required, but Y/N powers through. She quite likes it, actually— it gives him a deeper range of depth, somehow. She can feel him touching the trench of her tummy and she refuses to do anything that might make that stop.

The kiss is upside down, but the vampire doesn’t let that deter him. It’s still dirty and heedless, with lots of biting and overzealous tongues, broken whines and fractured pleas. Y/N freely moans into his mouth, gasping and mewling to his every thrust with a certain type of helplessness that flogs the flames blistering Harry’s dormant veins. He loves that he makes her feel helpless, especially because she makes him feel the exact same way. 

His stride is fast and deep and unapologetic— vengeful, almost, and they both know why. Even though Y/N had told the creature that the date had been nothing but a selfless chore, he can’t seem to let it go as easily as she had. He finds himself wanting to prove to her that he’s better than that insipid stranger. That he can give her everything she wants without a single issue. That he can deliver everything she needs with expert skill and relentless force, just as she prefers. That he can make her entire body tremble in overstimulation and make every fiber of her being tingle with sheer pleasure, just by gifting her a few adamant snaps of his hips and by muttering a couple filthy promises onto her unfeeling tongue. 

“Bet he wouldn’t be able to make you feel like this, huh, pet?” Harry growls against her swollen lips, plunging his thick length into her and nudging at that sweet spot that makes her toes curl. “Bet he wouldn’t know how to handle you— how to handle that tight cunt and that sharp tongue. Could never take care of you the way I do, isn’t that right, baby?” 

Y/N rattles her head in her friend’s grasp, releasing fragmented noises of bliss as he hikes her dress further up her ass and gives it another brutal spank. She can feel his rings imprinting across her sweaty skin and she strives off it more than she should. 

Her voice comes out garbled and weak. “N-No one can make me feel as good as you.” 

“Damn straight.” Harry grits out, breaking their prolonged kiss to rest his chin against her damp forehead, looking down at her from over his sharp, tinted cheekbones. “Nobody can fuck you into a begging mess like I can. Whose pretty cunt is this, angel? Who’s the only one who gets to call you their little slut?” 

The electricity crackling around his pupils is borderlining on unhinged, but she adores it. The fact that she can drive him to the brink like that feeds the affinity she has to win his praise. “It’s yours, Harry. Just yours— it’s always just you. You’re the only one. Nobody e-else— fuck, oh my God!”

“You got all dolled up for him, though. Why’s that’s, hm?” Harry’s hold releases from her hair and fumbles down to her throat, the pads of his fingers leaving bruises across her jugular as he grunts lowly with every hellbent ram. “If you didn’t care, why’d you get all pretty, then? Why’d you wear perfume? And why’d you wear that dress— my dress?”

Y/N’s lashes flutter as he refers to her outfit, which is the same one she’d had on the day they had officially established their loose arrangement. Hearing him call it his— hearing him claim it as his own with so much dominant confidence— makes the pit of her belly froth. It is his. Sure, she’d worn it for the sake of looking presentable, but it was only to satisfy the basic rules of what a date entails. In truth, under the excuse of inherent kindness, she’d worn it because she knew Harry would see it afterwards. Because she knew he liked it. Because she wanted to please him. 

The girl communicates that to him now in the form of a feathery mumble, staring up at his angered eyes with a moony, innocent aura. “I wore it f-for you.”  

The intense jealousy present in Harry’s clenched jaw and furrowed brows dissipates, replaced by soft awe at her wispy affirmation. He pants as he absorbs the real meaning behind her entire appearance, feeling sparks ignite in his heaving chest. “You...You did it for me?” 

Y/N struggles to swallow in his rough grip, nodding a bit as her fingers tighten around the edge of the chair. “I know you like it and, well…I like making you happy.” 

Harry’s lips part in astonished wonder, though he’s not so sure why her admission had caught him off guard. She’s told him plenty of times that she likes giving him what he wants, but this just feels slightly more personal than anything else she’s ever uttered during an orgasmic stupor. It’s tipping along one of the lines they had sworn not to cross. 

The vampire hadn’t even realized his strokes had tapered to a halt, and apparently neither had she. They’re both too busy looking into each other’s eyes with expressions that neither can decipher. The tense pause only lasts maybe three seconds at most, but it feels like they manage to fit an eternity of uncertain silence within that short time frame. 

Harry cuts through the moment by clearing his throat, intent on changing the subject into something much lighter that will allow them to return to their previous activity. However, the words that rasp out of his raw lips are ones he hadn’t consciously consented to. They come from a sincere nature he’d suppressed for so long, he didn’t think it was possible for it to ever resurface again. “I like making you happy, too.”

Y/N blinks up at him with her usual doe-like air, the corners of her lips twitching fondly at his requited compliment. “I guess we just like making each other happy, then, don’t we?” 

The monster has never been more thankful for her witty personality. It gives him the opportunity to stuff his emotions back into the box they belong, allowing him to regain his typical composure and return her banter without a hitch. He bursts into a round of wheezy giggles, tapping at the hollow of her throat playfully. “I guess so. We’ll add that to the list of things we do to each other, right under ‘excite.’”

The rest of the session goes as usual, thankfully. Some more degrading names are exchanged, positions are switched, hickies are stained on fleshy thighs and damp shoulders, and Harry’s array of rings paint an art piece across Y/N’s backside that he thinks is worthy of the Louvre. His initials are signed on it and everything. 

The pair end up splayed across her trusty old couch, catching their breaths from the heavy exertion they’d just put each other through. Y/N is still in her dress, though it’s rumpled, damp, and the thin straps are hanging off her shoulders limply. Harry is bare, as he always is after sex, per his raunchy preference. However, Y/N had made him cover himself with a blanket in order to keep at least a shred of decency between them. Plus, she’d said she didn’t want his “limp dick brushing against my dress while we cuddle.” 

And that’s what they’re doing now— snuggling on her couch with the human pressed up against the vampire’s side, his arm slung around her shoulders casually as she doodles random shapes across the colored skin of his tummy. She has one leg hooked across his covered hips, which he’s more than happy to allow because he thoroughly enjoys rubbing his palm up and down the back of her thigh; it’s soothing and warm. Y/N entertains herself with nuzzling her head against the crook of his neck, sighing contentedly as he props his chin atop her temple and pets at her frizzy hair with gentle strokes. It’s a nice moment, full of slowly steadying breaths and the hum of the air vent at the other end of the room. 

Harry is the first to break the tranquil atmosphere. 

“I give the chairs a ten out of ten. IKEA really outsold.” 

Y/N slaps her hand down against his naked chest, sputtering into a wave of loud laughter that is unbelievably contagious. “I’m happy you like them ‘cause, uh...they were on clearance. Can’t return them.” 

“You lucked out then, didn’t you? Kudos to your ability to pick out decent furniture.” Harry twirls a strand of her tangled locks around his index finger, giving it a playful tug as a grin dimples his flushed cheeks. “Except for when it comes to wall decor.”

“It’s not my fault you're a stuck-up asshole.” 

“And it’s not my fault you have a knack for cringey drapery depicting ClipArt images.” 

“I’m going to strangle you with one of my tapestries, I really am.”

“Be my guest. At least I won’t have to look at them ever again.” The immortal squeezes her thigh jestingly, his smile widening when she squirms and giggles. “I can’t tell you how many times we’ve been fucking and I accidentally glanced at it and almost went soft.” 

“But you didn’t.” She reasons, flicking at one of his nipples in revenge and feeling proud when he hisses softly. 

“But I could have.”

“But you didn’t.” 

“But I could have.” Harry insists stubbornly, reaching up to push a few wet curls out of his tired eyes. “Have you ever had someone go soft inside you? It’s pretty gross. Highly discourage it.”

“Just close your eyes, then.” Y/N states with finality, pinching at his belly button and cackling in satisfaction when he writhes. “You’re real shitty at solving problems, y’know that? You could never be Sherlock.” 

Harry goes quiet for a second and his friend almost looks up to check if he’s alright; he’s too petty to ever back out of anything. But sure enough, his voice comes out a second later, flat and unyielding. “Take down the glorified curtains or I’m never eating you out again.”

“I’ll take down my glorified curtains the day you take down that Stevie Nicks poster on your wall.” 

“I refuse to take down Stevie!”

“And I refuse to take down Amanda!”

“You named it?!”

The lovers chat and bicker childishly for a while longer, talking about anything and everything that will keep them entertained. Harry explains to Y/N how his friends had gone on a trip this week (though he makes sure to omit the fact that he had willingly bailed in order to spend time with her) and he’d been alone most of the time. She responds to his story with an incredulous yelp, telling him that he should’ve come over if he wanted some company. She says she would have been more than happy to hang out with him, but he knows she’d been so busy the entire week with work, she probably would have fallen asleep within ten minutes of him arriving. It’s the thought that counts, though, so he thanks her for the belated support, either way. 

Y/N talks about a weird customer that had come in and ordered a sandwich with nothing but cucumbers and cheddar cheese on French bread, which she had later recreated to taste-test herself out of curiosity. She can confirm it was abhorrent and the way her nose crinkles with disgust makes Harry snort in endearment. She also tells him about how horribly the date with Jacob had gone, simply because she can tell he’s itching to ask. She recounts everything the young man boasted about, from the annoying college stories to his stupid opinion about clubs. She informs him that she’d never had a more terrible experience in her life and that she wishes she could get that hour of her life back. 

Harry can’t help the way his face lights up at how utterly repulsed she sounds. He knew it. He fucking knew she would never insert herself into a romantic situation with such a comedic punchline of a human being. Hearing her confirm his suspicions is almost as pleasurable as what she can do with her mouth. Almost. 

The vampire finds himself lost in his thoughts, thinking about how much better the whole event would have gone if it had been him instead. How he would have picked her up from her flat by actually getting out of the car and knocking on her door, rather than just sending her a text to come down. How he would have helped her into his car like a proper gentleman, and how he would’ve aided her back out when the time came. How he would enter the restaurant with his palm resting at the dip of her back, guiding the girl towards their seats and pulling out a chair for her. How they’d make conversation as easily as they always do, and how he’d have her laughing between mouthfuls of food, and how he’d expertly flirt her into a fidgety puddle. How he’d reach over the table to get a bit of sauce off the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, and how she’d thank him with that shy smile he’d grown to admire. How he’d wave off her suggestion to split the bill, paying it all himself and smirking as she scolds him for it because she likes being hard-headed and independent. How much fun she would actually have, and how she would probably be willing to go out on a second date.  

Harry’s comment topples out of his mouth before he can rethink it. 

“I bet I could take you out on a better date.” 

Y/N’s head snaps upwards to meet his gaze, eyebrows jumping in utter shock. She hadn’t been expecting that from him at all. Ever. 

She talks between airy spurts of glee. “That was random.” 

Harry doesn’t return the gesture. In fact, his lips don’t even jolt in the slightest. He simply just stares down at her with seriousness decorating his features, long lashes blinking blankly. He doesn’t know what overcame him to make such a bizarre, uncalled for claim, but he can’t take it back now. And he’s not so sure he wants to, honestly. He knows there’s truth to his belief— he could definitely do a better job of wooing her than that Jesse McCartney wannabe. It’s not like it’s hard.

Aside from that, seeing Y/N out with another man had reminded Harry that their little alliance isn’t anything solid— it’s not bulletproof, and he really shouldn’t be taking it for granted. He’d been so cocky and self-assured about himself and what he has to offer, he’d forgotten that there is always the possibility that Y/N might grow tired of him. It may be a microscopic possibility, but it exists, nonetheless. If he wants to keep her interested, he has to up his game a bit, or she might decide that he isn’t worth keeping around. If he wishes to maintain this favorable arrangement where he gets his intimate tendencies tailored and his supernatural necessities sufficed, he needs to give her a more fulfilling reason to stay. 

Good sex is a very convincing factor, sure, but there might come a time in her life when she wants more than just a no-strings-attached affair. There may come a time when she’ll mature out of this stage and seek something sturdier and safe and anchored. There may come a time when she wants a real relationship, and if he doesn’t keep her occupied, that could be sooner rather than later. And it could be with someone else. He doesn’t want this convenience taken away from him— doesn’t want to lose the thing they have going, which keeps him out of annoying clubs, out of random people’s beds, and gives him the best blood he’s tasted in the last twenty decades. It’s too comfortable and satisfying to let go. He has to keep her hooked somehow, and if taking her on a date can assure that this flawless dream remains intact, then he’ll gladly do it. 

Harry licks his lips slowly, measuring out his next words with immense precision. “I’m being serious. I can definitely do better.” 

A million emotions funnel into Y/N’s eyes at once and he can only pick out a select few: confusion, astonishment, fear, denial, and slight unease. There is the chance that the monster may be interpreting all of the human’s feelings incorrectly because, truth be told, he isn’t the best at gauging or handling sentiments. However, there is one he knows he’s not misjudging— it’s the most evident one of all: Excitement. 

“Think about it for a second, yeah?” Harry starts, shifting in his seat to get a better look at her, raising his eyebrows decisively. “I’ve already gotten in your pants. That means I have no ulterior motive, right?”

Y/N’s own brows kink a smidge. “I...I guess.”

Her friend continues his speech. “Because of that, it means I won’t rush the date, I won’t expect anything from you, and we already get on pretty well, as it is. It’d be a proper good time— a genuine good time.”

The girl’s eyes flicker around different points of his face, trying to make sure he’s not pulling some type of cruel prank. Her tone comes out hesitant and slow. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

Harry squeezes the back of her thigh reassuringly. “It’s all in mathematics, love; everything adds up. It’s truly an ideal situation, if you ask me. Practically utopian.” 

Y/N takes a deep breath, letting it out shakily. This is all so sudden and unexpected, she feels like Harry might burst into laughter any minute and reveal it’s all just a big joke. It’s just not them. It’s out of bound— it scribbles outside the box drawn around their whole dynamic. They were never meant to date, they were just meant to sleep together; they were meant to provide each other with the satisfaction that comes from a real relationship, without all the trials and tribulations. Harry asking her on a date blurs those sacred boundaries in a way she’s not sure she’s ready to face. It could mess everything up. It could not only ruin the fun little arrangement they have going, but it could potentially destroy their entire friendship. Harry is the only person she’s truly connected with since she moved to Los Angeles and risking that bond on an impulsive decision...That’s something she doesn’t think she can afford to do. She can’t survive her new life on her own. This is just too dangerous. Way too dangerous. 

But then again...it’s not like she hasn’t thought about it before. She will admit, there have been instances where she’s pictured her and Harry becoming more than just warm bodies to each other. The two days she spent over at his house the weekend prior had solidified those fantasies and made them more frequent. They just click so well, she knows for a fact they’d make a great team. It’d be like dating a best friend, in a way. They fit one another in a manner she didn’t think was possible, and despite the fact they’ve only been acquainted for just over a month and a half, it feels like they’ve been friends for years. She feels like these types of connections are rare to create and she finds herself wishing it could develop into more. 

But could it really be worth the potential grievance?

Y/N tunes back into reality, gazing up at Harry with reluctant eyes. She’s surprised to find his are full of confident clarity, as if he’s already sold on the idea and had begun planning their outing. He’s simply awaiting her response at this point, thumbing over her knee gently while tucking her hair behind her ear, lips poised into that lopsided simper that makes her heart skip and her nerves glitch. How could she possibly find it in herself to say no to him? 

The mortal clears her throat lightly, gnawing into her cheek as she speaks her next words with airy humor. “So is that your official way of asking me out? ‘Cause if so, that’s not enough. You’re gonna have to do better, love.”

Harry hesitates for a split second, but it’s so fast, his friend doesn’t even take notice. He prays he doesn’t grow to regret this decision. 

The boy nods, pursing his mouth into a small smile. 

“I’m sorry, I don't think I heard you? Must be the AC.” 

Harry rolls his eyes grandly at the stolen joke, which is identical to one he had made two weeks ago when he’d come over for their usual adult pastime and had brought a special toy in tow. 

His mood comes out theatrical, accent heavily exaggerated. “Dear fair maiden, would you be so kind as to do me the impeccable honor of allowing me to bask in your presence by attending a luncheon with me, preferably sometime in the near future? Thank you so much for your consideration. Sincerely signed...” The creature takes a pause, proceeding to sing his next words to the tune of a song they are both familiar with, given their interest in the Hamilton play. “Your Obedient Servant, H dot Styles.” 

Y/N explodes into a series of giggles, shaking her head as she reaches up to peck at his grinning lips. 

“It would be my pleasure.” 

[gullivertravelstowonderland]

Since Doomguy probably got all or most of his clothes shredded in the Divinity Machine Incident, imagine him going to a nice Sentinel tailor or seamstress to get fitted for some new clothes and armor. :)

Ficlet under the cut!

The Doom Marine awoke slowly, vaguely aware of the fact that he was laying on the floor, shrapnel of some kind pressing into his bare stomach. A distant voice was frantically calling to him, a strange weight settled on his arm and harshly pushing at his temple.

He slowly blinked the sleep from his eyes, absently shifting to drag a hand over his face with a groan. Whatever was on his arm flinched away, falling from its perch with an audible 'oof.'

"Watch it, you damnable oaf!" The Doom Marine froze, confused; he knew that voice. That was… God, right, the Divinity Machine!

He shot up, the back of his head connecting with something as he let out a pained growl, one hand slamming into the ground as he searched for the source of the voice. His eyes narrowed as they fell on the creature curled on the ground, staring up at him with both anger and fear in its eyes. His own eyes widened for a split second as he processed what had happened.

"You… What the hell did you do to me?!" The human barked, wrapping his free hand around his sore throat after he'd spoken. His voice rumbled low and gravelly, grating against his vocal chords for reasons he didn't quite understand, head spinning as the Makyr cowered under him, covering his ears and fixing a glare on the soldier.

"This wasn't supposed to happen! You weren't meant to become a monster!" Samur fumbled back off of the floor, running a hand along the curve of his mask with a frustrated sigh. "It must have something to do with your biology reacting poorly to the machine— either way, we're both going to die if we waste any more time! We need to work together if we want to get out of this, understand?"

The Doom Marine growled, trying to position himself so he didn't feel so… exposed as the Makyr tried to explain his plan.

—

When the Elite Sentinel Guard found the human, he was pressed against the wall with his knees to his chest, settled into the indented ring that surrounded the remains of the Divinity Machine. Samur had ordered them to bring a large sheet of fabric, crafting some story about a betrayer of some sort giving him access to the machine, and using it to make him a weapon more powerful than anything the Argenta had ever seen, in order to defeat the demons that invaded their land. The Doom Marine's job was mostly to stay quiet about who brought him there and comply with their demands until Samur was done with him.

To say the soldiers were shocked to find him in such a state would be an understatement. They were terrified, although you wouldn't know it at first glance: they had their weapons raised and stances defensive as they approached the giant. Two of them stepped forward, holding the fabric out to him, ready to spring into action the second things went wrong.

He hummed to himself, carefully raising a hand so they could see before he slowly reached towards them, gently taking the cloth from them with a small nod in thanks.

The two Sentinels quickly retreated back into the safety of their group as he unfolded the plain fabric, mentally planning how he was going to cover himself with it as he waited for the group to empty the room so he could clothe himself. When they made no move to leave, the Doom Marine turned his attention to them, fixing them with a peculiar stare.

"Can I… be alone?" He mumbled, deciding to ignore the pain it caused. An embarrassed blush crept over his cheeks as the soldiers cautiously complied, looking down at the cloth with a sigh before slowly standing in the small space once he was completely out of view. He had to be careful not to hit his head on any of the floating pillars as he stood, experimentally wrapping the fabric around his waist.

Fuck, this wasn't really gonna work, was it? He couldn't walk out of here wearing nothing but a scrap of cloth wrapped around him like a towel. He tore the fabric off with an indignant huff, his eyes scanning the room for anything he could use to sew it into something more fitting.

He grabbed some wires and a thin metal pole from the remains of the Divinity Machine, using his teeth to shape one end of the pipe into a loop before threading the wire through it. He laid the fabric out, using a piece of sharp metal to tear through it where he needed to and doing his best to turn the heap of cloth into a decently wearable pair of shorts. They weren't bad, considering the limited materials and circumstances he had to work with, just a bit loose around the waist; a problem easily fixed by tearing some tubing from the machine and tying it around his waist like a belt.

Once he was finally dressed, he slowly inched his way towards the door, peeking out at the soldiers gathered outside waiting for him. They sat amongst themselves in an anxious huddle, exchanging whispered words in their native tongue. A few jumped to attention once they noticed the giant looming in the doorway, offering an awkward wave as they brandished their weapons.

"Come on, we don't have all day. The shop closes in an hour." One of the higher-ranking Sentinels grumbled as he approached the Doom Marine, he and a few others ushering him out of the room, edging towards him with their weapons raised.

"Shop?" He questioned, stumbling as he tripped over his own weight. The Sentinels corralling him flinched, darting out of the way as he struggled to regain his footing, an apologetic cringe crossing his face.

His entire balance was off, despite his body seeming to be completely proportional— if a tad bit more muscular. Maybe it was just a side effect of the machine, or something had changed besides his height; whatever it was, the Doom Slayer wasn't really willing to dwell on it.

Civilians and soldiers alike stopped to gawk at the giant as he passed by, sheepishly curling in on himself at the unwanted attention. Why did this have to happen to him? Why did they have to drag him into town and make a huge spectacle out of him when all he wanted to do after the incident was curl up and disappear?

He was snapped out of his self-deprecating thoughts by a concerned shout, belatedly realizing that he had almost knocked someone over when the group suddenly stopped.

"S— sorry." He mumbled, turning his attention to the building they had stopped beside as a few of them made their way inside, most likely to speak with the owners. "Is this… a tailor shop?"

"Of course. You didn't think you'd be wearing that into battle, did you?"

His head snapped to the source of the voice, his eyes falling on the higher-ranking soldier from earlier. His brows furrowed inquisitively as he carefully lowered himself to the ground, afraid he misheard the small soldier. They all stepped back as he crouched, the group readying their weapons again.

"Battle?"

"Of… of course. You've proved your worth in the arena, and you would clearly have an advantage on the battlefield: not to mention you'd need to find some way to repay our people for the resources it would take to keep you alive… it's just the most logical solution." He muttered, fidgeting nervously with his armor under the Doom Marine's imposing gaze.

It didn't take long for the shop's doors to open again, the owner emerging with a quiet squeak of shock, turning to the soldier beside them and whispering something in the alien language. The giant settled himself on the ground with a sigh, the chill of night creeping ever closer, seeping into his exposed skin with a shiver. The superior soldier noticed, and quickly spoke up.

"Is there any way we could do this inside? I'd rather not make my troops suffer the cold any longer than they must— including the giant. I'd hate to imagine the amount of medicine it would take to cure a cold at that size…"

The giant stifled a laugh, following as the tailor led them around the building to what seemed to be a delivery entrance. The Doom Marine made his way towards the garage-like door, careful to step over the others this time as he forced it open and slipped into the blessedly warm space, ignoring the cries of shock and alarm at the action as he settled himself amongst the fabrics. The others followed suit, standing guard as the tailor closed the door and made their way towards the giant, gingerly extending a hand to touch his knee, and clambering on top of it when the giant made no move to stop them.

He sucked in a shocked breath, the sensation of another living, breathing person walking along his legs sending goosebumps crawling over his skin. He felt his face flush as he held his breath, watching the small tailor as they tested their footing on the odd surface. Once they'd seemingly found their balance, the tailor curiously padded over his lap, seemingly fascinated by the giant as they prodded at his limbs and torso, eliciting an odd noise to come from the back of his throat in response.

The tailor chuckled lightly as they held one end of the measuring tape out for the marine to hold, carefully making their way down the giant's leg until they ran out of tape with a huff. They decided instead to settle themself on the giant's knee and scribble the measurement into their notepad.

The Slayer shifted slightly, unsure of how to act in this odd scenario. The Sentinel soldiers would raise their weapons at the slightest movement, eyeing the larger man wearily; that he was used to. He was always the outsider, or the gruesome warrior, or the enemy— he was used to being stared at in mistrust or disdain— but this? This strange, casual fascination? Not normal.

The procedure continued semi-normally, the soldiers eyeing him warily as the tailor did their job, occasionally glancing up at the giant to mutter a request in that odd language, miming whatever it was they wanted. They didn't seem to speak English, but they certainly understood it, as they could respond to the human's questions rather easily. They seemed to truly enjoy working with the unusual client, despite the obvious difficulties. The Slayer, however, couldn't quite say the same.

It proved to be increasingly difficult to sit still during the strange procedure, as the comparatively small tailor clambered awkwardly over his much larger frame. The sensation felt… oddly familiar to the marine, though he couldn't quite place why. Of course, that wasn't much of a surprise. He had spent far too many years traversing the unforgiving planes of Hell and Argent D'Nur to retain much knowledge of his life before; he couldn't even remember his own name anymore.

At some point, while the tailor was measuring the length of his arm, a slight misstep and the ensuing twitch of the giant's muscles nearly sent the Argenta tumbling to the ground, the swift movement of the Slayer's reflexes startling the guards into defensive positions, ready to attack at the first sign of danger. The marine wasn't even fully sure what had happened by the time his brain registered the fact that an actual, living person was literally in his hand, sending his heart into his throat as he scrambled for the words to explain himself, trying to force his breathing to return to normal.

The tailor suddenly seemed so fragile, making the Slayer almost afraid to move, lest they fall to pieces. He could feel the Argenta's heart hammering in the small, almost doll-like chest. Each panicked breath wracked their whole body as their brain struggled to comprehend where they were and how they got there. They looked around briefly before locking eyes with their savior, the shocked and slightly panicked expression visibly relaxing as they caught their breath. For a moment it was as if time had stopped, as no one in the room moved or made a sound, just… froze.

Then, the tailor laughed, sending small tremors through the giant's hand with the motion.

It wasn't clear if it was from relief, shock, or just the pure absurdity of the situation, but the sound quickly broke the tension in the room as the others joined in, each for their own, unknowable reasons. The Slayer chuckled in relief, mostly, but also the utter strangeness of the whole day, culminating in the restrained, nearly hysterical laughing fit he had now, shaking his entire body as tears crept from his eyes.

His attention turned to the tailor when he felt the Argenta shift in his hand, softly clearing their throat before speaking, eyes locked with the Slayer's, a hand gently squeezing his thumb.

"Thank you, amiixus." The small person smiled, placing a fist over their heart in what the Slayer understood to be the planet's general sign of friendship, and he carefully shifted his free hand to mimic the gesture with a nod.

Friend. He liked the idea of finding a friend in all of this madness.

—

//In the end the tailor gives the Doom Slayer a small selection of outfits, as well as his custom-fitted Praetor suit— with a bit of help from the Maykers and a team of assistants, of course! Anyways, I really liked this idea and got a bit carried away lol. Hope you like it!

[glorious-blackout]

Self-Indulgent Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino/Simulation Theory Crossover Part Five

@rock-n-roll-fantasy Still haven’t settled on a more fitting title than ‘Mark Needs A Hug’ (though my brain keeps coming up with The Shining/Hotel California references) but he does get several of those in this chapter if that helps? 😉 Part Six should be up soon as well! 🥰 

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four

**********************************

Mark wakes to find his face half-smushed against his pillow, limbs heavy and sluggish from sleep as his mind clings to the last remnants of a pleasant dream.

An aura of peace lingers like a warm flame as he recalls the circumstances of his fantasy. He’d been sitting on the floor of a modest living room, clad in pyjamas that were too small for his rapidly growing limbs; too entranced by the shiny electric guitar in his hands to make note of his surroundings. It was the exact model he’d been begging for on a daily basis since spotting it in the window of a music store, and had no doubt been living in his parents’ closet for months as they coyly teased him in the run-up to Christmas. Music was playing from a battered old CD player residing on a stacked bookshelf, and he strummed along despite not having the faintest clue how to play a single chord.  

His lack of experience couldn’t have mattered less. Nothing could have broken his contentment in that moment. Not even his mum asking him to “turn the music down, love” so he could pay heed to his other presents had disturbed him from his trance, and Mark had awoken with a pervading sense of peace as the unmistakable melody of The Strokes’ ‘Last Nite’ wormed its way into his brain.

It was one of those dreams that feels more like a long-lost memory than a fiction. One of those subconscious reminders of a simpler past that manages to elicit a smile even when the world at large is falling to pieces. Mark knows this cannot be the case here. He has too many memories of partying his way through the seventies to reconcile those experiences with the notion of being a teenager at the height of The Strokes’ popularity. And yet, the sweet taste of childhood nostalgia is one he appreciates all the same, enough that the thought of waking sends a sharp ache through his heart.

Seeing no obvious reason as to why he shouldn’t slip back into restful slumber, he lets his eyes flutter shut and sighs as he feels his limbs go pliant once more. He can almost taste the sweet embrace of sleep, only for it to be yanked from him once again with a brutal shove. A low whine escapes his throat as a persistent intruder nudges his shoulder, and he swipes a vicious arm in their direction in a wordless protest. His efforts are ultimately feeble, not to mention futile. The nudging continues, now accompanied by the constant repetition of his name, and when his tormenter gives no indication of surrender, Mark is forced to abandon his state of bliss and re-enter the realm of the living.  

He squints, bleary-eyed, at the formless blob hovering over him as he lifts his head from the pillow, flattened hair clinging to one cheek as his brain swims in the wake of his rude awakening. It occurs to him that doesn’t remember how he got here. Judging by his position he must have collapsed face-first at some point in the night - still fully-clothed if the wrinkled cotton of his shirt is any indication - but all memories leading up to that point are absent. He only vaguely recalls receiving a call from Murphy in the evening and senses that it must have dragged on far longer than usual, but he would not be able to describe how the call ended even with a gun to his head. Not that it particularly matters. He’s only grateful for the fact that Murphy must have taken pity on him at some point and let him surrender to his all-consuming weariness.

His vision finally clears following several exaggerated blinks, rendering him somewhat relieved when the humanoid blob morphs into the fretful form of Nick. The man is dressed remarkably casually for someone who likes performing in three-piece suits, and his shoulder-length hair hangs lazily around his face. It takes Mark far too long to realise that Nick’s informal apparel is no doubt related to the fact that he has inadvertently given him several days off from his day-job.

“Hey,” Mark croaks, cringing at how utterly wrecked he sounds as he settles his aching back against the wooden headboard.

“Hey yourself,” Nick replies with a breathy chuckle which does little to mask the concern etched on his face. His outstretched hand is still resting on Mark’s shoulder, as though he suspects he’ll drift off into the abyss again if he dares let go. “I were startin’ to think you were out for the count.”

Mark frowns at that, casting his eye to the bedside table in an instinctive search for his phone, only to find that it isn’t there. He spots it lying neglected on the desk by his computer, too far away to bother checking the time. The room is illuminated by a soft yellow glow as the hanging lights do their best impression of the afternoon sun, and beyond the circular window he can see that the spotlights have bathed the hotel in blinding gold.  

“How long’ve I been asleep?” he asks, rubbing the lingering exhaustion from his eyes and groaning as every movement sends a dull ache shooting through his muscles. No doubt the question will be impossible to answer, given that even he doesn’t know when he slipped into unconsciousness, but Nick may be able to give an indication of how badly he’s overslept at least.

“Couldn’t tell you,” Nick admits with a shrug, before lifting himself from his crouched position and coming to rest on the edge of the bed, his hand finally leaving Mark’s shoulder. “Jamie came by to check on you about eight hours ago, then Matt popped round at lunch. Doesn’t look like you’ve moved much in the meantime.”

Mark frowns. It isn’t like him to sleep so heavily. Usually a single nudge is enough to have him wide awake and alert. He shivers as he envisions two of his best friends waltzing into his suite without him having any recollection of their presence or even of his sleep being disturbed. He trusts Jamie and Matt implicitly of course, but the notion that he has been so dead to the world makes him feel too vulnerable for comfort. Anyone could have swanned in, and by the sounds of it he wouldn’t have so much as shifted in his sleep.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, trying not to sound suspicious and doing a terrible job of it. He tears his eyes away from Nick’s face in shame and decides that tugging on the duvet will be a better use of his time. The fact that he’d awoken with it wrapped snugly around him strikes him as odd. He doubts he’d had the mental faculties to pull it around himself last night. A bittersweet smile tugs at his lips as he pictures Jamie giving up on his efforts to wake him and proceeding to tuck him in instead; the mental image filling him with a strange sense of longing.

When he braves a glance at Nick’s face, he feels fierce heat return to his cheeks as he takes in the man’s confused - almost hurt – frown, and he inwardly scolds himself for planting that expression there.

“You gave us all keys on our first day, remember?” Nick reminds him, extending a hand into the pocket of his jeans and revealing the offending object, complete with shiny silver keyring in the shape of a bass guitar.

“Oh, right,” Mark says lamely, eyes glued to the set of keys as though seeing them for the first time.  

Of course he remembers giving the lads keys to his room. He has copies of all of theirs too, set aside for emergencies. He remembers the painstaking effort it had taken to pick out individualised keyrings, and the delight that lit up his friends’ faces when they received them all those years ago. It just strikes him as odd that the keys have barely seen any use in all that time. They don’t tend to hang out in each other’s suites anymore now that the lads have families of their own, and barring one miserable fortnight where Mark had been holed up with the flu, he’s rarely been in such a state that he’s needed someone to keep a constant vigil over him. If his friends have been driven to this level of fretting, he must truly look horrendous.

When Mark doesn’t say anything else, Nick shoves the set of keys back in his pocket before lifting himself to his feet. Anxiety tugs at Mark’s heart as he half-expects his friend to leave him alone, but it quickly turns to relief when Nick makes his way over to the coffee-machine instead. Good coffee seems like an excellent idea given that for all the sleep he’s had, he still feels utterly bone-weary. At a guess he must have been out for upwards of sixteen hours, yet every muscle fibre in his body is telling him that he won’t be fully sated until he’s been comatose for a week. At least.  

He groans as he sits up straighter, shoving the duvet away from him in the process, and he’s forced to bring a hand to his forehead as a persistent throb settles behind his eyes.  

“Bad hangover?” Nick asks from his perch by the kitchen counter, the coffee-machine giving off a low rumble as it brings the water to boil. Mark can’t help but laugh at the assumption; it’s certainly a fair guess.

“Surprisingly no,” he admits, lowering his hand and pointedly ignoring the way one of Nick’s eyebrows quirks upwards in subtle disbelief. “Haven’t had a drink in four days, believe it or not.”

“Coulda fooled me!” Nick scoffs, and despite the lightness in his tone, Mark can’t help but flinch. His discomfort must not be very subtle, for Nick’s smile drops instantly and he directs his gaze to the floor as though silently ashamed. “Sorry. It’s just... We’ve been worried about you. Me and the lads. It’s not like you to cancel shows without running it by us first, and whenever one of us tries to check if you’re okay, there’s no answer.”

Nick’s tone isn’t accusatory in the slightest, but Mark still wonders if the guilt unleashed by his words will swallow him whole. It’s true. He hasn’t said a word to his friends since he abandoned them after their last show, and even before that he’d been aloof and stuck inside his own head. He’d cancelled all of their upcoming performances without even notifying his bandmates first; no doubt they’d turned up to rehearsals only to be chased away in bewildered confusion by the orchestra’s conductor. And while Mark has barely checked his phone over the past few days, he has noticed several missed calls and unread texts which hadn’t struck him as particularly urgent at the time.  

The others have no idea what’s got him so wound up. They don’t know about Matthew, or the armed guards who came after him, or the cupboard with the flashing red lights in the impossible corridor. For all his thoughts of calling Jamie in the hope that he’ll somehow rationalise those events with logical ease, Mark has neglected that opportunity at every turn.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, unable to bring his gaze to meet Nick’s for fear the shame will kill him. His voice sounds impossibly small and he feels completely unsure of himself in a way that he never has before. Even the self-consciousness that characterised his youth cannot compete with the crushing uncertainty which consumes him now. “Truth be told, I haven’t really been feeling like meself these past few days. Probably needed some sleep if I’m being honest.”

“Well, you certainly got some of that,” Nick jokes with a fond smile, and a surprised laugh breaks free from Mark’s chest as he shrugs in wordless agreement.  

The coffee-machine finally halts its racket and Nick sets about preparing them both a simple Americano, having correctly assessed that anything more complicated would likely not be tolerated in Mark’s current state. Mark swings his legs over the side of the bed and briefly closes his eyes as a new wave of pain racks his skull, but he greets Nick with a smile when he settles beside him, gratefully accepting the proffered steaming mug in both hands.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, cradling their mugs and blowing off steam before taking careful sips. Mark’s eyes close in satisfaction at the first taste of coffee – prepared just the way he likes it – and while he doubts it’ll achieve the impossible task of revitalising him, he feels a little more human with every sip.

When his mug is half-empty, Nick takes it upon himself to break the silence with a gentle, “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mark admits with a sigh, unable to tell whether he’s being entirely truthful. Telling the whole story is out of the question. He has little desire to leave Nick questioning his sanity, and he doubts he’d be able to explain everything that happened that night in sufficient detail even if he prepared a script beforehand.  

Nick isn’t going to let him get away with saying nothing though, judging by the bemused expression on his face.  

“Fine. I met someone the other night and he just... freaked me out a little,” Mark attempts eventually. That part is true at the very least. “Haven’t been able to get him out of me head since.”

It’s a lame explanation and he knows it. Even if that wasn’t already obvious, the way Nick’s brow furrows in confusion hammers the point home with all the subtlety of a brick smashing through a car windscreen.

“Did you and he...” Nick starts, before thinking better of it as his face becomes alight with flame.

“What?” Mark asks, only for the insinuation to become clear as day with the spreading blush across Nick’s cheeks. “Oh no, definitely not. It weren’t like that.”

No doubt his current state of mind would be less confusing if he and Matthew had simply stumbled into a drunken mistake, but the man’s looming influence isn’t driven by any romantic inclinations. It strikes Mark as odd how easily Nick had accepted the possibility, though he can’t say he minds. He’d almost prefer the prospect of his aloofness being driven entirely by shallow ‘guy problems’. At least there are plenty of words in the English language to describe dilemmas of the heart. In contrast, the explanation “A stranger presented a rather compelling argument for our existence being nothing more than an elaborate, pointless lie before disappearing into a cupboard which no longer exists” is a little less run-of-the-mill, and that’s before you throw in the notion of a boss who may or may not be the mastermind behind the whole sorry affair.  

Huh. Somehow in the midst of his exhaustion, he’d forgotten about Murphy and the smug satisfaction plastered all over his face towards the end of their call.

“Well, whatever happened, he’s clearly left you in a bit of a state,” Nick remarks, oblivious to the turmoil raging within Mark’s head. His voice cuts through the noise and serves as an anchor, returning him to the present, and he can’t quite hide his relief as his mind quietens. “Do you want one of us to have a word with him? Give him a warning shot, perhaps? Matt’s taken up boxing, I’m sure he’d be all for it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mark retorts with a burst of shocked laughter, before descending into a fit of hysterical giggles as Nick indulges in a victorious grin. It doesn’t take long for Nick’s laughter to accompany his own. The prospect of his bandmates collectively ganging up on an unsuspecting Matthew is so ridiculous that the absurdity of it lightens his heart. Though he’s not sure how to explain that if they’re going to beat anyone up, he’d much rather they go after Murphy instead.

“You wouldn’t get the chance anyway. He’s already gone,” Mark clarifies once their laughter has settled. He neglects to mention the unusual circumstances surrounding Matt’s disappearance, settling instead for polishing off his cooling mug of coffee. “And honestly, it weren’t like that. He was a nice guy, all things considered. Just a bit strange. He had a way of getting inside your head and I don’t think he realised he was doing it. Besides, all of this is my fault. I shouldn’t ‘ave let him get to me like that.”

“Right,” Nick says sceptically, no doubt still hoping for something or someone to blame for Mark’s recent state. Mark can sympathise. He imagines he too would be frustrated if he were forced to bear witness to one of his bandmate’s private struggles only to be offered no obvious means of fixing the problem.  

“Seriously Nick, I’m okay,” he insists, turning his body to face his friend head-on and suddenly feeling more sober than he has in days. “Or I will be soon enough. I just... I needed some space. Have done for a long time if I’m being honest. I reckon the other night were just the breaking point.”

He aims for flippancy, but watching Nick’s face fall is enough to inform him that he’s missed the target by a country mile. Concern darkens his friend’s kind eyes and sends guilt coiling in the pit of Mark’s stomach. He’d give everything to wash away Nicks worry; to convince him that he isn’t worth the anxiety his friends are wasting on him. He feels responsible enough for dragging them to this blasted rock in the first place, away from their homes and families and ambitions. Lumping further pain upon their shoulders is simply unforgivable.

“You could have just told us that, you know,” Nick says after a while, not unkindly, and Mark feels his heart ache. He does know. No doubt all three of his bandmates would have leapt at the chance to hijack Murphy on the phone and bully him into offering Mark some time off, but he’d never wanted it to come to that. The running of the hotel and the responsibilities associated with it are his to bear alone. The band is a separate entity entirely - something pure and liberating amongst the daily deluge – and dragging his friends into his messes has never been his intention. Not that his efforts have come to much in the end.  

“I’d miss a million shows if it meant you were okay,” Nick adds when Mark doesn’t say anything, twisting the knife deeper without intending to. “I’m pretty sure the others would do the same.”

Moisture gathers at the corner of Mark’s eyes but he furiously blinks it away. His face is sticky enough with dried tear-tracks, though he can’t remember where they came from for the life of him. Heaving a sigh, he tears his gaze from Nick’s face and rests his head on the man’s shoulder, closing his eyes in quiet contentment. Nick’s frame stiffens for only a moment, before he wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.  

This is okay, Mark thinks to himself. Despite the madness of the week, it finally feels as though the lost, fragmented pieces of his identity are coalescing into a coherent whole once again.

“I love you all,” he says without a hint of reservation. “You do know that, right?”

“I dunno,” Nick retorts with a gentle shrug, careful not to shift Mark’s head from its perch. Mark doesn’t need to look at him to sense the gentle, teasing smile on his friend’s face. “You’re usually shitfaced when you say it so I’ve always been doubtful.”

Nick gets a light punch to the side as punishment for his jest, and he laughs before pressing a soft kiss to Mark’s temple.

“We love you too, you daft pillock,” he says, sincerity dripping from his tone like syrup. He hugs Mark closer as though frightened that he’ll slip away if he loosens his hold, and the hand perched on his shoulder starts tracing a path down to his elbow before creeping back up. The action is so soothing that the effects of the coffee instantly vanish, and Mark thinks he could easily drift off again. He wonders if doing so will take him back to that peaceful dream, with the guitar in his hands and a loving family within reach.

They stay like that for a little while; Mark on the cusp of a peaceful doze and Nick doing very little to dissuade him from slipping away. There’s still an unmistakable sense of unease clogging the air – a sense of foreboding that has burrowed its way into every corner of the hotel since Matthew’s disappearance - but Nick’s presence keeps it at bay like a shield warding off demons. No doubt that protection will vanish in the same instant Nick elects to leave, and Mark will be left to fend for himself against unseen monsters lurking in the dark, but for now he can’t remember the last time he was so content.  

He almost finds himself lost in the dream again – can feel the sensation of rough guitar strings dancing beneath his fingertips – but he’s pulled away at the last second by the buzzing of a phone. It isn’t his, though even if it was he wouldn’t be inclined to check it. Nick pulls his own device from his pocket and replies to the message as subtly as he can, but the damage has already been done. Mark opens his eyes and makes note of the softer light outside as the spotlights dim to a soft orange glow in an attempt to simulate an evening sunset. Deciding that he’s wasted enough of the day as it is, he finally lifts his head and stretches his weary limbs with a groan.

“You know what you should do?” Nick says, pocketing his phone and taking advantage of his newfound freedom to rise to his feet, giving the impression of towering over Mark even more so than usual.  

When Mark’s only response is a half-hearted shrug, he goes on: “You should get yourself out of those clothes and go hop in the shower while I make you a very late breakfast. No, I don’t want to hear any complaints, Turner; you reek and something tells me you haven’t eaten a proper meal in days, so I’m not giving you a choice. You’re going to eat what I make you, then you’re going to get dressed up nice, and then we’re gonna meet the lads at the bar so we can all get properly wankered. Sound like a plan?”

Well, that solves the mystery of the buzzing phone. No doubt one of the others has noticed Nick’s extended absence and is attempting to rescue him, all while trying to put a stop to Mark’s reclusive act in the process. It’s ingenious really, and he can’t fault their line of thinking. Part of him can’t help but be wary of returning to the bar given his last visit is what reduced his mind to a frazzled mess in the first place, but knowing the others will be with him lifts his trepidation somewhat. And now that he dwells on it, Nick’s other suggestions don’t sound half bad either. He can’t remember the last time he ate, and a low growl emanating from his stomach implies that his body isn’t best pleased about his neglectfulness. He can’t even recall when he last changed his clothes with any certainty, let alone took a shower. Perhaps some food and a wash will make him feel alive again, or at the very least make a start to the process of resurrecting him from his zombified state.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a genius?” Mark asks, grinning without restraint as Nick releases a bashful laugh topped off with a modest shrug of his shoulders.

“It’s a burden I must bear,” he concedes, his expression settling into one of fondness before his parental instincts take over. “Seriously though. Shower. Now. The more time you waste, the less time we have to get shitfaced.”

Mark doesn’t need to be told twice.  

************************************

The calm before the colossal, world-ending storm lasts all of two hours. Two hours in which Mark manages to wash the sweat and tears from his face under a piping hot shower, before adorning the most casual t-shirt and jeans combo he can find at the bottom of his drawers. Two hours in which Nick thrusts a hastily prepared cheese and ham sarnie into his hands – mocked up from what little food he has in the fridge – and insists that he eats every bite with crossed arms and lips pressed into a stern line. Two hours in which they eventually make their way to the ballroom to meet Jamie and Matt at the bar, where Mark is greeted with a crushing hug from Jamie and an enthusiastic “Welcome back to the land of the living!” from Matt. The latter tops off his greeting with a firm embrace of his own, before ordering the first round of beers with renewed vigour.  

For those blissful two hours, Mark feels as though life is finally returning to normal. The burden of responsibility is temporarily lifted from his shoulders, and he lets himself laugh at his friends’ lame jokes as he downs the first pint and swiftly follows it with another. They must resemble a bunch of teenage holidaymakers who have accidentally stumbled into a high-end establishment – their casual attire clashing with the sharp suits and stylish frocks of the waltzing guests – but Mark couldn’t care less.  

At one point Jamie turns to him with an unvoiced question resting in gentle blue eyes. Palpable concern radiates from him like heat and for a moment the scrutiny is unbearable, but when Mark responds with a genuine smile, Jamie’s worry melts away in a heartbeat as he follows it up with one of his own. A light buzz takes hold after the third pint and Mark’s aware that he’s done little more than smile like a fool all evening, but he cannot bring himself to care. Those two hours are the happiest he can remember experiencing in a long time. A tiny microcosm of perfection that he wishes he could live within forever.

And then the world shudders.

It begins subtly enough. Little more than a low rumble permeating through the air, barely resonating over Nick and Jamie’s spat as they intensely debate over which of them looks better with long hair. Mark is the only one who takes notice as the rumbling begins to rise in volume; brows furrowing as narrowed eyes scan the ballroom in search of the culprit. Nobody else appears to be alarmed. The guests are mostly in the process of getting royally drunk over a dinner of roast beef or venison, and the waiters continue about their business without a trace of panic.  

Only, the sound doesn’t abate with time. With great effort, Mark tries to drown out the surrounding ruckus and closes his eyes to focus solely on the new disturbance. The groan sounds like it’s coming from far away – like a distant car-crash or fireworks display – but the harder he listens, the more it feels like the rumble is creeping towards him from beneath the earth.

“Can you hear that?” he says to no-one in particular, having to raise his voice to be heard over the cacophony of violins and chatter and clinking glasses. Three pairs of eyes turn in his direction – the petty argument momentarily forgotten – but as they listen intently, Mark sees only a growing sense of cluelessness clouding over their features.

“Hear what?” Jamie asks eventually, which strikes Mark as odd, for that persistent groaning has now become so loud that he can practically feel it hammering against his skull.

He draws his gaze to the half-empty pint resting on a coaster before him and watches with detached curiosity as ripples spread across its golden surface. It isn’t just his glass either; the same effect is visible across the entire countertop. It’s little surprise when the faint clattering of glasses joins the growing commotion. Mark looks up towards the bar and sees unopened bottles trembling against each other on the shelves, vibrating in time with the ground which has started to shift uncontrollably. A bottle of scotch topples to the floor with a mighty crash but no-one pays it any heed, and it is soon followed by several priceless bottles of champagne, drenching the floor with booze and fragmented glass.

The low rumble graduates to a deafening roar as the room begins to shudder relentlessly, and Mark lets out a sharp cry before shielding his ears and pulling his head towards his chest. Logic screams at him to get out - to take his friends and run to safety - but whether by fear or something deeper than that, he finds himself immobilised on his chair. It strikes him as odd that nobody else appears to be panicking. The air is alive with the clatter of shattering glass, the rattle of the looming chandelier, the roar of the moon’s underbelly as she protests against those who have desecrated her surface... but not a single scream. No frantic activity or barked orders from level-headed security guards. Not even the chatter which overwhelmed the hall only moments before remains. The room is filled with hundreds of people and yet, as the world trembles around them, they are all as silent as the grave.

Mark included.  

It occurs to him that he hasn’t taken a breath since the ground began to shake and his chest burns in protest, but even the simple act of gulping in air feels like a complex task. He clenches his eyes shut as his heart begins to roar in his ears, but doing so offers little relief. If anything, the sudden blackness makes the situation worse. Imagination runs wild; he pictures cracks snaking up the walls and the floor giving way to the rocky depths below. Envisions ivy crawling through those very same cracks and burying the entire building until it resembles an abandoned ruin on Earth. Envisions the curved ceiling giving way and burying him alive beneath several layers of marble and plaster.

He still can’t tell what’s causing the floor to shake with such ferocity. Can the moon experience earthquakes? The thought is so ridiculous that he finds himself giggling hysterically, but what is the alternative? Unless his perception of time has been drastically altered, the quake has gone on far too long to be secondary to an explosion, and the space station is too far away for any launches to be felt as anything more than a minor shudder.

Hours seem to pass. His skull whines in protest as he presses his hands even tighter against his ears, and a single tear spills from the corner of one eye from the effort it takes to keep them clenched shut. His jaw aches as the shudders grind his teeth together and he can feel acid rise in his throat, his gut protesting against a cruel wave of fear. Everyone else remains eerily silent, even his friends who surely wouldn’t have left without him. He knows he could always open his eyes to check on them, but a burst of terror as he comprehends what he’ll find stops him in his tracks. Instead, he simply remains sitting there, curled up like a frightened child, as his surroundings continue to shatter around him.

And then, without warning, the world becomes a brilliant white behind his eyelids and everything stops. The cacophony reaches its abrupt coda as all sound is sucked through a vacuum. Only his shuddering breaths remain, followed by a desperate sob. The whiteness refuses to abate, and for a moment it occurs to him that he may well be dead. That he might be nothing more than a shattered bag of bones, crushed among the ruins of the very hotel he built from scratch. There’d be a certain poetry in that, he thinks, though the persistent cramping of his muscles and the burning in his chest implies that he hasn’t ascended to ghostly status just yet.

It’s impossible to tell if hours or mere seconds pass. The world is so still, so silent, that time loses all meaning and Mark can feel his mind begin to empty, as though the featureless light is consuming him whole. When small details finally do make a reappearance, they do so slowly. He becomes aware of his elbows digging into the hard oak surface of the bar counter. A glass clinks somewhere off in the distance. He becomes painfully aware of the cool sweat on his brow, and his inability to take in a deep breath without his chest hitching with choked hiccoughs.

The silence is finally broken by a single unprovoked chuckle, followed by a muted wave of laughter echoing across the walls. With the flick of an unseen switch, the usual chatter flares up once more and the violins resume their task of reciting an old Tchaikovsky piece, seemingly unaffected by what has just transpired. With a considerable degree of trepidation, Mark tears his hands away from his head and opens his eyes to face a complete wall of booze with no missing bottles in sight. No glass fragments or wet stains litter the floor. No cracks creep up the walls; no ivy sprouts from the ground. The ceiling above remains stubbornly unmarked, and the chandelier glitters as immaculately as it had on the day it was installed. Casting a glance over the assorted faces around him reveals only unaffected smiles, with no trace of fear or even the slightest acknowledgement of the quake that rocked the ballroom only moments before.  

Even drawing his attention to his friends brings little clarity. Rather than looking as shellshocked as Mark himself, Nick and Jamie have settled for resuming their debate – this time arguing over who looks best in a ponytail – while Matt grumbles something about not being able to grow his hair without sprouting an afro.

The world has elected to carry on as normal, and yet Mark can’t shake the feeling that everything has irrevocably changed. That the very foundations of the ground he walks on are set to crumble at any moment, taking him down in the process.

It’s impossible to keep his breathing under control, and a weak sob rips from his throat as air escapes in frantic gasps. The sound draws Jamie’s attention back to him, and his eyes widen with fear as he extends a hand to rest on Mark’s shoulder with a careful, “Hey, what’s going on?”

The contact doesn’t help in the slightest. Mark tries to answer but his throat seals shut, turning his words into a low whine, and he settles for shaking his head instead. He needs to get out of here. There isn’t enough oxygen in the ballroom and he can feel the weight of the gathering crowd suffocating him, and before he can think twice, he stumbles to his feet and pushes away from the bar. 

That turns out to be a terrible decision. The sudden change in posture has his stomach dropping, and his vision narrows to a fine tunnel before blurring altogether. No doubt the only reason he doesn’t collapse to the floor is because of the hands which appear out of nowhere, holding him upright as his ears drown out a puzzled, “Easy!” followed by a shaky, “Let’s sit you back down mate”. His friends may as well be faceless for all the attention his broken mind grants them.  

It feels like his frayed nerves are dangling by a thread; the cool blades of a scissor resting barely a hairs-breadth away, threatening to sever his sanity with an unfeeling snap.

And then the dam breaks.

The buried chest keeping his memories concealed behind a rusted padlock bursts open. Assorted moments in time spill forth from the wreckage, drowning him beneath their weight like the horrors trapped within Pandora’s Box. Only instead of horrors, his mind is suddenly overcome by melancholic nostalgia and untouchable bittersweet memories.

He remembers sitting by the piano as an eight-year-old boy, trying in earnest to play the tunes his dad loved to listen to on his record-player. He remembers sitting in class, drawing his eyes away from the window in silent awe as the profound beauty of John Cooper Clarke’s writing set up camp in his heart. He remembers listening to The Strokes’ debut album with Jamie and Matt before begging his mum for a guitar, followed by the sheer contentment that consumed him as he strummed his new love by the light of a Christmas tree. He remembers countless shows - from shy appearances in small clubs to major headlining slots at massive festivals - and the thrill of terror and excitement that thrummed through his veins before each one. He remembers all of his loves and all of his heartbreak; remembers how the latter had always been overcome by a pervading sense of joy, as he dwelled on how lucky he was to do what he loved with his best friends by his side.

And he remembers the hotel. Remembers excitedly developing the concept and expanding the world and the characters within it. Remembers crafting the model by hand, carving his creation out of cardboard and wiling away the hours as it slowly came together. Remembers the rush of pride when the model was finally complete. Only he had never intended the hotel to be a real place, and he certainly had no inclination to run it.  

Tranquility Base Hotel and Casino was always intended to be the setting of an album and nothing more. The fact that he’s currently confined within its walls is nothing short of impossible.

He doesn’t acknowledge that his vision has faded to black until colour slowly creeps back from the fringes. A persistent burn lingers in his chest and it occurs to him that he should probably breathe, but doing so only encourages another sob as hot tears spill down his cheeks. He lets himself be manhandled onto a chair without protest, his limbs reduced to jelly, and even when his eyes offer a glimpse of his worried friends gathered around him, all he can focus on is a section of wall directly ahead. A voice breaks through the roar of blood pounding in his head – a panicked “C’mon Mark, you’re scaring me now!” - but he cannot identify its owner, nor can he bring himself to look at his friends closely enough to see whose lips are moving.

A further memory spills forth from the unlocked chest, prompted by the frantic hands holding him in place. The setting appears to be Bonfire Night, judging by the ecstatic burst of colours lighting up the darkening sky and the acrid smoke wafting from the fire in the local park. They’re gathered in one of the lad’s gardens with a stolen pack of fireworks; far too young to be playing with them on their own, but too swept up in the rebelliousness of it all to care about the inherent risk. Jamie and Matt are chasing him around the garden with sparklers in their hands, mindful of the unlit fireworks planted on the grassy lawn, but his younger self decides to push his luck and edges just a little too close. He doesn’t realise his mistake until he trips and falls, taking his sparkler down with him and inadvertently lighting a fuse.  

He clearly recalls the rush of panic and the realisation that he is far too close. All he can do is stare in wide-eyed terror as heat dances along the fuse, threatening to release the firework at any moment and send white-hot sparks of flame in his direction. Before he can brace himself for the exquisite pain however, two pairs of hands grasp his arms and yank him roughly to his feet, dragging him as far back as he can possibly go until he slams against a solid wall. Mere milliseconds later, a burst of sparks erupt from the ground and a high whistle shoots into the air, followed by a stunning explosion of scattered reds and golds.  

They remain frozen for what feels like an eternity, until the panicked silence is broken by a high-pitched “Fuck!” on Matt’s part and the release of hysterical laughter on Jamie’s. All he can remember doing himself is staring up at the sky – eyes fixed on the lingering embers of the firework that nearly melted his face off – and noting at the back of his mind that neither Matt nor Jamie have released their crushing hold on him. No doubt they were experiencing the same aftershocks of terror that were gripping his tiny frame.

Eventually Jamie had let go, and he remembers his ten-year-old friend stepping forwards, donned in a navy-blue tracksuit, before turning to the others with a crooked smile and a shaky declaration of, “That were a close one, weren’t it Al?”  

A similar form of fearful desperation clings to Jamie now, as he crouches by his side. There’s no relief in his friend’s features this time, only panic and an unmistakable sense of frustration borne of cluelessness. It occurs to him that his inhalations are still coming thick and fast and his head is swimming as he sways in his chair and yet, paradoxically, his mind feels infinitely clearer than it has in years.

“Mark?” Jamie asks cautiously, bringing a warm hand to his cheek in an attempt to anchor him. “Wanna tell us what’s goin’ on?”

The utterance of that name sends a flinch shooting through his body, and before he can even think, a hand shoots out and grabs Jamie by the wrist. The man stills, blue eyes widening as they draw level with a determined gaze, and though he can sense Matt and Nick edging closer, he doesn’t dare break eye contact as he utters his next words.

“Alex,” he hisses, chest heaving with the effort required to voice that old, familiar name. “My name is Alex.”

[whenimaunicorn]

Dare: 10: I dare you to spank the person sitting next to you. Can you do this dare for Spartacus fandom? Naevia... spank Crixus. (He did something dangerous or risky)

I’m combining this with your Kiss prompt - Seductive kiss: Crixus/Naevia

(image via @manusbennett)

It was like her every daydream had come to life; Crixus inher doorway in little more than his subligaria,bronzed skin glowing in the afternoon light that slanted through the entranceto the slave quarters. “How are you here?” Naevia asked dreamily, stirring inher cot, adjusting the fall of fabric that barely covered her breasts.

Crixus smiles like an indulgent god. “You are not the onlyone that has found a way to bend the rules while the masters are away.”

While Naevia usually accompanied the Domina wherever shewent, this time the woman had left her behind because of how much Naevia’sfrequent coughing had been annoying her. Now, several days after their mastershad left for their trip to Rome, Naevia was no longer feeling ill. She hadstill feigned it this morning, however, selfishly avoiding going out to helpthe remaining slaves with some other menial household task. They did notrequire her; she was usually at the Domina’s side. And so no one was going tobe coming here to look for her.

But Crixus… “Are you not required at afternoon training?”She was ecstatic to be in his presence, but anxiety spiked and she coaxed himto step deeper into the room, out of anyone’s line of sight.

Crixus waved his hand. “With the Dominus gone from the villa,it was easy to call in a few favors, and pay off a guard.” He came to his kneesbefore Naevia’s bed. “They think I only want the freedom to walk the grounds ofthe villa. What is the harm in allowing me to go to the places that the otherslaves do?” His fingers slid across her ankle, reverent. “I heard from the girlthat brings our wine, that you still lay sick in your bed today. I needed tosee you.”

Naevia smiled, shy and reassuring. “Calm your mind. I feelfine. I too wished to avoid duties today.” She sat up a little higher, leaningtoward him. “It is strange to have no bars between us, and not have bodiesalready pressed together.”

His powerful form was coiled tight on the ground beneath her.“Without need to rush, I wished to come to you with respectful restraint.” Sheshivered as his thumb started brushing up the inside of her leg. “I wanted tocome to you like I come to the Domina. Ready for your any command. You deserveit much more than her. I want to worship you, Naevia, in a way she can onlydream to get from me.”

She drew herself up in the bed, squaring her posture asCrixus’ idea sparked an excitement that set her blood to coursing. “My anycommand?” she echoed.

Crixus bowed his head, as far as he could while still beingable to gaze upon her face. “I am yours.”

She smiled, and played with the fabric looped through thecollar at her neck as she looked down at the Champion of Capua now kneeling ather feet. She was not sure what to do with this newfound power. She extendedone arm down to him. “You may… kiss my hand.”

Crixus’ smile was playful as he enveloped her small handwith both his large ones. “Here?” he asked, brushing his lips across herknuckles.

“Yes,” she breathed, savoring a touch lighter than one hehad ever given her before.

He rotated her wrist and let his mouth hover over her palm.“Here?”

“Yes.” His lips were warmer, firmer, and he tickled her withthe slightest suction.

His pupils were swimming black with anticipation as he movedup to the tender inside of her wrist. “Here?” His hot breath danced across herskin.

Naevia’s next ‘yes’ sounded more like a moan, the depths ofher body starting to call for him under these slow, seductive kisses.

A fleeting shadow interrupted the light pouring into thebuilding. Just a bird passing across the sun, but still it made Naevia jump.

Crixus looked up at her, from where his lips had reached thesoft inside of her elbow. The question was in his eyes.

“I am nervous that we will be discovered,” she confessed.“How do you dare to take such a risk, and come here?”

Crixus’s face beamed pure confidence up at her, so strongthat she felt strong too. “You are the Domina in here. If you are displeasedwith my actions, then punish me as you see fit.”

A giggle burst from her lips, as much from nerves as fromdelight at the idea. “Punish you? With what, a spanking?”

“If that is what you feel is necessary.”

Naevia raised one eyebrow. “Hands and knees, here on thebed.”

Crixus complied with a smile, arching his gorgeously tonedbody just beside her. Naevia ran her palm up the back of one burnished thigh, andhe shivered like a happy pup.

When she struck, he bit his lip. “You can do better thanthat, I think.”

Naevia gave him a look and cracked him harder. His body rockedat the impact, and his face went a little slack. She realized this wassomething he found arousing, and struck him a few more times in rapid succession.

She watched him as he took his ‘punishment.’ She could seehis instinct to fight back against someone striking him, in the little jerks ofhis muscles, the momentary flash of a scowl across his face. Here was the mostfeared gladiator in the Ludus, itching to show his power. Holding himself backjust to please her.

She trusted him, but Naevia found that she loved the littleedge of fear she felt as she watched his powerful hands squeeze the bedframe tothe point of creaking. She wanted the violence that he brought to her bed.

“Take me,” she whispered to him, and after that, in the rushof limbs seeking to pin her to the bed, making her clothing give way, in theheat of his mouth and the urgent worship of his hips, she commanded no longer.

[kandyrezi]

my body is your canvas;

fandom: the gray garden

characters/pairings: ivlis/yosafire

summary: “yosafire asks about the scars scattered across ivlis’ back and chest.” | word count: 2.1k

warnings: none

///

settling from a warm bath after that day’s horrid events had unfolded left ivlis with some sense of fixed decency, the water dribbling down some over the tub as he steps onto the ivory tiled floor; it’s the least he can do to cleanse the memory from his mind anyway. after having dried off well-enough and momentarily tossing the towel over the rack, the flame devil sorts through the pile of clothes folded neatly on top of the drawer resting against the wall. the pants are on first as the slightly damp hair falls on his shoulders and bare back.

after that damn pitch black devil had introduced it, holding some kind of bug-eyed tentacle creature in hands and thrown that thing on him to ‘have fun’ with after being left to deal with it on his own. its wiggling and slimy grip immediately stuck to ivlis like a parasite, leaving most of his body covered in weird, sticky substance that the creature produced. squirming through the open ends of his clothes to ravage every limb and crevice; it had been a nightmare getting that thing unstuck from around him.

a pair of fresh clothes was immediately in order after his bath, with a shudder, scrubbing skin nearly raw to no longer feel the ghosting of that thing’s wet grasp on him.

- : - : - : -

walking aimlessly around the flame castle with some leftover bread she’d stolen from the kitchen, yosafire’s heels clicking with each step she takes. she briefly wonders of the devil’s whereabouts, the latter never usually gone longer than a few hours when away from his world, but it’s been nearly an entire day at this point. the small demon stops in her tracks when she hears the sploshing of water, then rustling in one of the rooms next to her through the closed entrance. turning her gaze towards the source of it, she opens the door slightly ajar with her non-occupied hand; familiar red-scaled ones instead sorting through a pile of freshly-ironed clothes coming into view.

oh, speak (think) of the devil!

(yosafire smiles and almost holds back a laugh in her head.)

she can clearly see his hunched shoulders, occasional water droplets from the long hair dripping down his body and leaving a trail. while normally she’d be embarrassed to see someone half-nude in a rather compromising position, it’s another sight which forces her to come to a halt. she vaguely recalls seeing scars across his body, but most of the time they’re in shapes of small cuts. she might have seen the ones across his stomach (and on his back?) at some point, but either blocked it out from memory or just never cared enough to ask about them.

stuffing rest of the bread in her mouth and swallowing with a slight hiccup, before she can loudly slam the door closed after having satisfied her morbid curiosity, he’s already turned and seen her standing a few feet away, eyes meeting whilst in the middle of unfolding his black sweater.

“o-oh!” yosafire hiccups again, covering her mouth.

the corners of ivlis’ mouth twitch upwards ever so slightly at the sight of her looking like she’d been caught like some unruly child.

“oh, indeed, little one. what are you doing here?” he asks with a mildly peeved tone.

yosafire brings her hands down, tugging at the fabric and brushing off any crumbs lingering on her red sweater, in case there even were any.

“nothing! nothing at all, i was just, er, well...” she begins, but all that forms is just some spluttering.

he waits expectantly while she tries to think of something that doesn’t equate to her just being nosy despite it being exactly that, almost going with the having gotten lost in this humongous castle excuse, but her eyes momentarily get stuck on his form, mind thinking one thing while her mouth says another.

“um, where’d you get those scars from, mr. devil?”

the smirk on his lips is gone quickly as it came, then replaced with something akin to a sneer immediately after.

“well, aren’t you the prying type?”

before she can muster some kind of equally snarky response right back at him, ivlis speaks again.

“...believe it or not, gods and devils were never meant to naturally live in harmony with one another, there’s always some form of hostility that leaves lasting damage to one another. it isn’t so different from your god and devil either, is it?”

yosafire blinks, trying to follow, then furrows her brows at his implications.

“no! i mean… they… they really do love and are more close than anyone i’ve seen. if you actually saw and knew them, you would agree. so, clearly not all of them are exactly the same way, no matter whatever clash you and your god might have with eachother.”

ivlis almost scoffs at her naive worldview, unable to understand her ability to weed out the bad qualities of someone in hopes of maybe finding a spring of virtues hidden away in their rotting soul. he pulls the black sweater over his head, no longer giving her the change to inspect him and think up other nuanced inquires, not in such a way she normally would be forced to anyway.

he turns back to her.

“it wasn’t always like that way though, was it? a peaceful land built on corpses that you all so gleefully dance and run around on... it’s almost laughable, really.”

yosafire shakes her head on an instant, “whatever happened... that was in the past. i don’t care about that, what matters is the fact they agreed to put all of that behind them and start from a new page. it’s better than a never-ending destruction for the sake of nothing.”

ivlis steps a little closer to the doorway where she’s standing, looking up at him.

“ignoring the past in favor of idolizing the false facade they’ve created to surround yourself with… truly, isn’t ignorance bliss?”

“what are you talking about?”

he’s right in front of her now and it doesn’t escape his notice how she tries to stand tall against him, feet firmly planted against the ground, yet her stance crumbles and the slight hesitation when she takes a step back when he looms over her like flame threatening to burn down an entire field of flowers with only a single speck being all it takes says more than enough.

“you’ll understand some day… that is, if you would only choose to understand.”

ivlis eyes the maroon-colored hat placed conveniently over her other horn. he snatches the hat between fingers and lifts it from her head. a noise of surprise and she momentarily turns her head upwards, trying to snatch it back after realizing what just occurred, but he’s a little faster, hiding it behind his back.

“do say… how did you get your horn cut?”

the small demon furrows her brows again and growls, clearly not pleased in the slightest.

“give that back, mr. devil!” she demands, not taking eyes off of his arm.

his own question directed back at her about lasting injury is met with spite and he’s caught by mild surprise. he doesn’t resist either when she pushes against him to grab the hat and place it over the broken horn over her head, running off before another fight can take place. ivlis can’t bring himself to do anything but stand in place for another minute, mind beginning to ponder.

that defiance of hers is one of the things that makes her so interesting to him.

he’s the ruler of the flame underworld, able to strike fear and respect into all those who reside here under command. even if he did allow a little backtalk to some extend of his subordinates, not wanting to follow in the same footsteps of his god and expecting blind obedience without questioning anything; at the end of the day, they still recognized and obeyed him as their rightful lord.

not her though.

a rose among all the sunflowers across the field, red hue glowing against endless tinting of sunset; a frail teacup served specifically only for him to look at amid all else that belonged in a pile of valuables, sculpted to fit his desire.

yet a teacup that didn’t break upon having been thrown against the floor like it should have, a rose that didn’t let itself be bothered by its lonesome existence, surrounded by equals so different apart from it.

(still, he refuses to be swayed by her earlier words.)

- : - : - : -

the topic of past conflict and trauma has been forgotten and left to dust, at least, that’s what it appeared like to him at first.

a week later, having already removed his clothes and almost changed into his nightwear, but the mirror in front of him giving view of his naked chest makes him halt and observe his reflection, unable to ignore it. he almost grimaces in disgust, trying to nonchalantly walk past but his legs refuse to comply, stare locked on himself and it’s the shame within himself which he’s forced to repeat and live through in his head over and over.

“do your scars still hurt?”

ivlis turns to glance at yosafire momentarily from the other side of the bedroom, wondering if the grief on his expression was that blatantly obvious.

“why are you so curious about them? i already told you where i got them from.” the devil replies.

“only vaguely,” yosafire scoffs, inching further backwards into the pillows being used as backrest, “sorry for asking at all then.”

with the top half of his nightwear still in hand, he slowly goes to sit at the edge of the bed, elbows resting against knees and looking at the floor. the words don’t seem to come naturally, rather he pries them from the back of his throat, but his own wonder gets the best of him before he can force them back down.

“do you want to... find out for yourself?”

sitting up straight to see her more clearly staring back at him with a blank expression. when yosafire doesn’t answer, confused by his question, he tries again.

“i mean, do you... want to touch them?”

“uhmm...” yosafire fidgets, teeth sinking into bottom lip, clearly hesitant at the idea.

when he garners no visible reaction – with a quiet sigh – ivlis puts him arms inside the nightwear, on the verge of pulling it over his head, then he feels a shift on the bed and weigh on the mattress inching closer on her knees, until she’s sitting behind him, just barely visible from corner of amber eye.

he anticipates when he feels her fingers slowly trace across his body like constellations, ivlis bites his lip and clutches the sheets beneath, trying to keep steady and not emit a visible reaction. not slimy, not invasive, not with the intent to harm in any way that would make him want to recoil in disgust; rather a gentle feather-like touch that runs along the jagged lines where pale skin is scarred. it doesn’t hurt when not giving them any mind, pretending they don’t exist; it comes with a cost of ignoring one’s own pain, yet it’s become almost a second-nature for him.

when she accidentally presses her index finger too hard against skin, it feels like slight probing of his god’s light projectile on the verge of sinking into soft flesh like it’s nothing. he doesn’t like most touching him anywhere where clothes cover tainted skin for a reason.

a flinch and a grit of his teeth, yosafire looks at him momentarily, then draws her hand back.

for a moment, he doesn’t let her retreat and grabs her small hand in his (and imagines for a split second the gesture being nothing less than a small sign of affection, unable to recall the last time he shared this kind of intimacy with anyone, if at all ever).

he abstains and pushes her closed fist away instead, along with the credulous delusions floating in head. it’s quiet for a few minutes afterwards, the devil resembling a doll without life with the way he sits unmoving and silent.

“um… i don’t actually feel anything in my horn at all...” yosafire says, trying to break the ice, “i fell on my head while i was flying and it broke... that’s how it happened.”

(‘just a freak accident, huh.’ ivlis thinks to himself.)

he refuses to meet her gaze and she seems unusually quiet too, without a single sarcastic remark directed at him or generally poking her nose into where it shouldn’t be.

taking away and claiming something as his own prize from the gray world no longer feels like feeble victory on his end he comes to realize, rather a past reflection of whom he used to be.

she makes him think of the past and he hates it.

[shadows-echoes]

Of Blood and Biocomponents - Pt. 3

(This beautiful gif isn’t mine! Gif source here!!)

Pairing: Ruthless!Connor x reader

Summary: A soulmate AU where injuries from one person appear on the body of the other.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence and injuries, swearing, the usual.

Word Count: 4.4k

Masterlist // Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 4 // Part 5 // Part 6 // Part 7 // Part 8 (epilogue)

Working the late shift at your job wasn’t something you minded much. Obviously, it wasn’t your favorite shift but, then again, your job wasn’t exactly your dream job either. It was work; it paid the bills. In this precise moment, however, you find yourself cursing the late-night hours you were assigned and the dark, almost empty streets you were thusly left to walk down.

“Listen,” you calmly address, “all I’ve got on me is a used textbook and a broken phone.”

The lie leaves your lips easily- or as easily as it could considering the circumstances. In truth, you also have twenty bucks and a few bus tickets on you. And while the textbook is used, it still costs half a month’s worth of rent for some godforsaken reason. 

But the man standing a measly few feet away pointing a gun at you doesn’t need to know that little detail.

His face is shadowed by the distinct lack of light filtering into the grungy alley and obscured by a low hood. Even so, you’re careful to keep your eyes on him and not on the dark, semi-reflective gun he held. He looks about your age if not a bit older, from what you can tell, and his clothes don’t exactly fit the definition of clean. He looks… Well, he looks rough to put it one way, and the gun he clutches doesn’t look to be fairing much better.

“Shut up,” he barks, “just hand over your bag!”

The nerves standing on edge throughout every inch of your body and your racing, jumping mind don’t help you in the slightest, you know. So, grinding your teeth, you force down the fear. You bury the alarm- channel it into something useful, something more productive than anxiety, a flying heartrate, and shaking limbs: anger. An anger that brewed just below the surface, roused by inequity.

Did you really want to risk the possibility of being shot over some cash and a scribbled-in textbook? Yes. Yes, you absolutely do. Is it worth it- worth more than your life? No. Well, maybe in today’s economy but that wasn’t the point. You should’ve been halfway home by now, safe, and blocking out the memories of the shift you just finished.

With careful movements, you slowly slide the old backpack from your shoulders as you eye the man before you, biding your time, thinking.

You hear it just as you’re extending the bag towards him.

Sirens.

Police sirens, to be exact. And they sounded awfully close by.

It was almost comical, the way the two of you freeze, eyes darting towards the opening of the alley before darting back to each other. Watching. Waiting.

For one long breath you don’t dare to breathe, that’s all there is: sirens. Sirens, you observing him, and him observing you.

Police.

Witnesses.

Help.

Opportunity.

Internally, you smirk.

His fingers shake as he readjusts his hold, grip tightening around the handle of the gun. He jerks his head sharply in warning, no doubt guessing the thoughts running through your mind. “Don’t-”

The rest of the threat is silenced.

Holding tightly to your bag, you swing it with as much force as you can muster at his hand- at the gun. The weapon clatters to the ground and skids across the rough concrete, but just as it does your mind registers the burning sensation ripping across your chest and the gunshot ringing in your ears.

You ignore it.

The piercing sound, the searing feeling, the undoubtedly bloody consequences- you ignore all of it. You don’t freak out or lose your mind- you might not have time for that. So you swallow down the simmering anger you’d channeled, the half-foreign surge of rage urging you to deck the guy and drag him out of this alleyway and right up to the police, and instead do the smart thing. 

You use what’s left of his surprise to your advantage, and you run.

-

Your reception at the hospital went about as well as you could’ve imagined. Nurses smiled at the return of your familiar face before quickly scowling once they caught sight of blood that soaked your shirt.

The wound was not that bad, at least in regard to the others you’d received on previous occasions. It was more of a deep graze above your ribs than a bullet wound. You were even able to make your statement to the police while you were getting stitched up; it wasn’t a big deal.

At least… to you.

Within five minutes of finally, finally, making it back to your apartment at some god-awful hour in the early morning, there was a knock on the door. You had half a mind to ignore it in favor of collapsing into bed and sleeping, and half a mind to answer only so you could tell whoever it was to get lost.

You were not sure what you were expecting when you did end up opening the door, you were hardly awake enough to imagine much at all by this point, but it certainly wasn’t Connor.

Connor stands on your doorstep.

He looks identical to when you first met him two weeks ago. The staple Cyberlife jacket, the white dress shirt and charcoal tie, the dark jeans, even the stray piece of hair that fell to the side of his forehead, it was all the same. Eerily so. But… not quite as eerie as him knowing where you lived and... dropping by.

His expression is void of pleasantries. It was blank, analyzing, but his eyes… As you gape up at him, your breath lodged in your throat, you find yourself suddenly acutely pleased that looks alone could not kill.

There had been absolute radio-silence between you and Connor over the last two weeks, not a single word had passed your teeth or was transferred through your skin. It was what you expected considering what he is. What you hadn’t quite dared to expect, however, was fewer soul-wounds. Or rather, less brutal ones.

Whether you had actually gotten through to him -doubtful- or he simply desired to avoid you -far more likely-, didn’t particularly matter to you. In the end, the result was the same: two full weeks without any relatively vital injuries. It had been… nice. A relief you didn’t want to question.

Your first and only encounter proved what you had already gathered through your research when originally trying to track him down: that Connor had no limits when it came to his missions. That he has a body count and is not programmed to feel remorse. Or guilt. Or regret. That he detests, if such an emotion were possible for him, anything relating to sentimentality.

Despite this, and much to your dismay, he still intrigued you as much as he appalled you. But knowing what you did of him, any thought, any fleeting inclination to reach out, to understand, was nevertheless burned. The mere idea of it was shoved down into the dark recesses of your mind, barricaded, and dutifully ignored. It was better that way. Soulmates you may be, but acquaintances you were not. You were content so long as you were no longer forced to frequent the hospital.

“Did you know that if the trajectory of the bullet that hit you had been eleven degrees to the left it would have vitally damaged one of my main biocomponents?” he asks, the edge to his voice sharper than any knife.

The greeting -or lack thereof- immediately erases your surprise, replacing it with an incredulousness that reaches your bones.

What, so he was allowed to get shot and burned and broken and bruised until it was probably cheaper to be uploaded into a new body than be repaired, until you were littered with wounds and buried in debt, but you get grazed by one bullet and suddenly you’re the problem?

Perhaps you should’ve seen something like this coming, you idly realize, considering how well he handled you falling down a goddamn flight of stairs. Perhaps you should learn to associate that warm, instantaneous surge of frustration with him alone, considering the feeling overwhelmed you whenever he opened that mouth of his.

“No, actually,” you retort, “I was a bit too busy getting shot.” Obviously, you’d known implicitly that he was okay since you weren’t dead, but the thought of how the bullet may have affected Connor hadn’t exactly crossed your mind. A graze had never stopped him in the past. “Why are you here?”  

“As I’ve already said, your injuries are highly inconveniencing and they have now disrupted my missions on multiple occasions,” he answers flatly. “That needs to change.”

The finality of his last few words sends a shiver of unease up your spine and your eyes narrow. However daunting the words may be, however, they failed to explain his presence. Sentimentality wasn’t an option and he wasn’t here to permanently end you for being a hindrance otherwise he would have done so already. If it was a hypocritical reproach he was seeking, it could be done far more easily, more quickly, through your skin.

“You will learn how to fight in order to prevent such instances in the future.”

It’s a simple statement that leaves no room for debate and it is said with a deadly serious expression, but that does little to wither the amusement suddenly working through your system.

Something between a scoff and a laugh pulls itself from your throat in disbelief. “You’re going to teach me how to fight?”

“At this rate, it will take even longer than I anticipated but yes,” he informs. Not waiting for an answer, for an affirmation, for anything or anyone, Connor pushes past you and marches directly inside your apartment.

You whirl around, already shouting, “what are you- I haven’t even agreed yet!”

Out in the world, in neutral territory, you had no problem confronting him. But here? In your own apartment? He looked so entirely out of place in the domestic environment, in anything, you guessed, that wasn’t a battlefield. It felt like an invasion, like a crossover between the sanctity of your home and- and whatever he is. What little you really know about him all boils down to the fact that he is a deadly weapon by design. Common sense is the sole thing keeping you from attempting to force him out, you valued your life after all, but that does little to settle your rightful hostility.

“If you were opposed to the idea-” he begins, examining your apartment with a single, sweeping glance before turning towards you curtly, “-you would have tried to stop me from entering. You also do not have a choice in the matter. You will learn.”

For the second time in the last minute and a half, you are left agape. Only this time it isn’t from surprise, but from indignance and the slightest bit of trepidation which you would never admit to in a million years. But mostly from irritation because... Because he wasn’t entirely wrong.

While you still didn’t particularly want him here, the idea itself wasn’t bad. You were willing to do quite a bit to avoid needing as much medical assistance as you have since Connor was first created. So if learning appeased him, kept you from becoming gun fodder, then you weren’t exactly unwilling. You’d learned the basics of self-defense when you were younger and you still knew a couple of tricks, but tonight was evidence enough that a refresher wasn’t the absolute worst idea in the world.

Knocking Connor on his ass was also the very first thing you wanted to do upon learning of his existence so there was that too.

But it didn’t make any sense.

“Why?” you ask, meeting his predatory gaze with a calculating stare of your own. “Why would you teach me? If I’m that much of a problem for you why not just kill either one of us? You’d get a new body, right? It’s not like-”

“Your death,” he interrupts crisply, something awfully close to irritation gracing his sharp features, “would hinder my mission.”

The words make you freeze- freeze more rapidly and deeply than when you had a gun shoved in your face. More than when you stared down at your first gaping, bloody mess of a soul-wound in a stupor. More than when the idea of not having a soulmate had first seized you.

Because this was Connor, and somehow you were related to his mission.

A sickening silence ensues as your head spins trying to make sense of it, to connect the dots you couldn’t see, ones you didn’t even know existed until now.

“What’s your mission?” you ask, suddenly wary, suddenly unsure of your own footing.

Connor doesn’t deign to give you an answer.

-

“This is hardly fair, you can’t even feel pain.”

“How unfortunate. Now, attempt to punch me.”

“I really don’t want a black eye. They’re kind of a bitch to deal with in case you didn’t know.”

“You won’t get one.”

Connor only stands an arm’s length in front of you and yet you have to tilt your head up to hold his eyes- the eyes that are currently staring condescendingly down at you. He raises his dark eyebrows tauntingly at your hesitancy, and the request for further elaboration dies on your lips.

It would definitely be worth it, you decide, receiving any self-imposed soul-wounds so long as you got to punch that stupid, perfect face of his, to create some kind of change in his expression and across his skin.

Shifting your stance to align with the one he’d instructed you to stand in, the one he drilled into your brain, you form a fist with your hand and aim for the spot between his eye and nose.  

Your knuckles never connect.

Before your fist comes remotely close to making contact, Connor’s already blocked the move, taken a step towards you, and slammed the palm of his hand against your non-leading shoulder.

The hard flooring does nothing to soften your landing and only serves to knock the air from your lungs. Pain radiates through your shoulder, the one you landed on, and a wheezing cough escapes you before you’re able to regain enough breath to properly groan.

“It’s bold, unlikely, and entirely premature of you to assume your hits will land,” he intones.

Connor towers above where you lie, and, glaring up at him, the inside of your cheek stings from the force your teeth exert in an effort to prevent yourself from saying anything you would regret.

In this precise moment you decide to stop caring altogether about what wounds, soul or otherwise, you might receive through training with him. The cold expression which seemed to be a staple of his, a fixed permanent of all that is Connor, was possibly the most irritating thing you’d ever encountered in your entire life, and you decide that you would wipe it off his face if it was the last thing you do.

-

Connor catches your leg, abruptly stopping the roundhouse kick by wrapping an arm around your calf and securing it against his side, locking you in place.

“You are still leading with your leg. There needs to-”

“Be a straight line from shoulder to knee, I know,” you drone, rolling your eyes at him.

You wished you were performing the steps “incorrectly” only to pester him, to ire him for your own amusement, but that constant feeling in your chest, that need to one-up him, remained as strong as ever. Though, his opinion of human ability was already so incredibly low that you doubted there was much you could do to lower it further -not that the thought hadn’t crossed your mind a couple dozen times-. 

He’d gone over the procedure again and again by this point, and you could recite the clipped lecture word for word, perform the steps exactly as dictated, entirely certain you were doing so correctly. But, unsurprisingly, it never seemed to quite meet his standards.

You attempt to pull back your leg so you could try the move again, or maybe stand on two feet while he lectures you, but Connor holds on, his fingers digging into your skin.

“If you know then why aren’t you doing it?”

Wrestling back a scoff, you use your shin to push off against his side before yanking your leg out of his grip. It was, you learned, the best way to get out of the hold he had on you… Except Connor lets go just as you push off.

The unexpected lack of resistance sends you flying, but his hand wraps around your brachium just before you hit the ground.

But he doesn’t pull you up.

He keeps you there, hanging awkwardly above the floor as his gaze digs into your own as if to hollow you from the inside out.

“Keep a straight line. From your shoulder. To your knee.”

-

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“I’m not here to answer your questions, however vague.”

“So..?” you prod, throwing another few punches at Connor in quick succession. His words had been a dismissal, sure, but they were also all the confirmation you needed. Lines were easy to read between after all, and the things he doesn’t say are becoming more apparent the more time you spend with him.

You followed up with the police to see if they had had any luck catching the guy who shot you, who tried to mug you, but they had lost him entirely. The police said he must’ve gone underground “or something” because there wasn’t any trace of him after that night. 

Connor wasn’t the police, but if anyone knew or could find information about some random mugger it would be him.

He blocks your strikes with ease while answering blankly, “he’s no longer a concern.”

You pause mid-motion, brows scrunching up in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Taking advantage of the opportunity you inadvertently provided, Connor seizes your still wrists and leans down, towards you, so that his words are impossible to miss. “Through you, he damaged me. He is no longer a concern.”

Something dark flashes across his eyes, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on edge, something that makes your hackles rise and a voice appear in the quiet recesses of your mind ordering you to run. It is only visible for half a second before it vanishes from his dark brown eyes, but it was long enough for you to realize that you had been wrong before. Looks most certainly could kill.

The words -because it had to be the words, and not his sudden unexpected proximity or the intensity he seemed to emit in waves- sends a sliver of ice down your spine and a critical awareness of your surroundings, of yourself, of every inch of him, racing through your brain.

You do not flinch under Connor’s scrutiny, instead remembering the man who shot you and the lengths he was willing to go to, the stitches you were forced to receive.

“Good.”

-

Grabbing your outstretched arm, Connor pulls and spins in one swift motion until he has you in a headlock. Not wasting a single precious moment of time, you shift to the side, behind him, and place your foot behind his. Then you simply grab onto the hard plains that are his torso and tug. Gravity does the rest.

Connor’s arm leaves your throat to brace for the impact and you twist to the side the second you’re free. You keep twisting as you fall, and rolling once you hit the ground, until all your limbs are successfully untangled from his and you come to a stop a few feet away.

It was a perfect recreation of the maneuver and a smug, satisfied smirk lines your face as you shift onto your knees. But the self-indulgent reverie is incredibly short-lived. A second later, before you’re able to congratulate yourself, throw a jibe at Connor, or even stand up, he’s on you again.

He knocks you off balance, onto your back, and follows your descent until he’s hovering above you with a leg on either side. Too surprised to do much of anything, you end up doing nothing at all in the split second it takes for him to catch your arms and pin them to the ground beside your head.

His expression is a blank mask which borders on sharp -and it’s suddenly all too close- but Connor remains silent, his arched brow saying what his mouth currently isn’t. A wordless reminder of the rules he instilled in your mind.  

Never allow yourself to be distracted.

Do not presume your opponents to be incapacitated.

Never let your guard down.

Do not stop fighting until your opponents are wholly incapacitated or dead.

You know the words. You know what he wants you to remember, but the actual thoughts which race through your brain just slightly too fast to be caught and cast out are of a completely different sort. They’re of that awareness which seemed to pop up, out of nowhere, at the most inopportune times. Of the thin layer of perspiration that covers you. Of Connor looming above, practically straddling you. Of the low electrical current running through your body and the places where your skin seemed to burn under his touch. Of the vicious whirlwind of a storm that is always -or did it just appear?- raging in his eyes.

You’re pinned down by a brutal, relentless machine, rejecting every single thought and feeling coursing through you, and all you allow yourself to do- all you can do, is laugh.

“You couldn’t even let me have that, could you?”

-

“What?”

“You are sleep-deprived.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. I told you I had to pull an all-nighter.”

“You are too inefficient while in this state. Go.”

-

“Do your employers know about these little side-trips of yours?”

From the other side of the room, Connor shoots you a narrow-eyed look. “You know I do not have employers. I have owners and I have missions.”

As terrible as they were, it wasn’t his words that struck you the most. It was the way Connor said them- like it was an indisputable fact, something not worth thinking twice about, something that should’ve been obvious. It threw you, created a feeling of dread in your stomach and resentment behind your ribs. Maybe it was because you hadn’t thought about the question in such terms before this point, but his answer, and the truth in it, appalled you with a striking intensity you weren’t prepared for.

“Dude, that’s fucked up,” you state, planting the water bottle in your hand none-too-gently back on the table.

To your surprise, Connor, for once, doesn’t comment. His gaze is calculating but whether he’s analyzing your words or their meaning you don’t particularly care to decipher. He wasn’t affronted by his own statement and its truth and that vexes you half as much as the injustice did.

You scoff. “Look, if you’re alive enough to have a soulmate, you’re alive enough be considered a person.”

The dry comment half spoken under your breath passes your lips without thought, without consent, and you know, immediately, that it was the wrong thing to say. That it was probably the worst thing you could say.

The moment the words are vocalized, Connor’s entire frame stiffens and locks into place. The predatory glint was all at once back in his eyes, the one that hunted, the one that saw everything- that saw too much. The change is not drastic considering Connor was methodical in his every action but… But it is.

You hadn’t realized his shoulders were not as uncomfortably and unnervingly straight as physically possible until they suddenly were. You hadn’t realized that the tension in the air was no longer one of irritation or distaste until it was once again picking at your skin, that the atmosphere was begrudgingly passable as pleasant until it was once again hostile.

Just as there existed the unspoken deal that both of you would restrict the number of vital injuries obtained, so that Connor could complete his missions uninterrupted and you stood a chance at not randomly bleeding out at school, a second deal also existed. Except it wasn’t quite a deal but rather a law. A law that stipulated the s-word was never to be uttered, the topic of soulmates never to be mentioned, and the fact that you two were soulmates entirely, thoroughly, and wholly dismissed and disregarded without exception.

“We might be… connected-” he snarls, practically spitting the word “-in some meaningless way but if you are clinging on to some foolish human illusion then I suggest you dispose of it immediately.”

Once, the dark look he was giving you, the one he wore so well, and the cutting sharpness of his voice, both tells and promises of a lack of mercy, would have stilled you. Once, his detachment that was so entirely and unavoidably inhuman, a reminder of the machine that he is, would have given you pause, made your muscles falter and your resolve waver.

But Connor had since bled before your eyes. You had since made him bleed, bruise for but a fraction of a second before his cooled, synthetic skin repaired itself. You had experienced his every injury for yourself. Connor was ruthless, preeminent, that much was a given. He was calculating and methodical and shrewd and without one single line of pity written into his code. He didn’t have a heart, literally and figuratively. He was the perfect machine. But that’s all he was. After all, those all-powerful beings couldn’t bleed.

And you’re angry now. So instantaneously and extraordinarily angry that you refuse to look at the feeling too closely, preferring the simmering blood in your veins over- over whatever else lurked there. Over what you don’t want to admit, let alone acknowledge the existence of. 

No, anger was far better; rage was safer.

“Believe me,” you snarl right back, baring your teeth at the living weapon that he is. “I disposed of that before I even met you.”

It was true.

The words are true.

You know they are, there was no other option. They have to be true.

But they leave a bitter taste on your tongue regardless.

-

A/N: I took some liberties with this one and I’m a mix of ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) and ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ because Idk how it turned out but it was surprisingly fun to write so… hope you liked it! 

Let me know what you think!

This was also supposed to be a quick little montage squished between two other scenes but it turned into its own part. At the inception of this story, I promised myself it wouldn’t become as long as The Logic of Emotion because ain't nobody got time for that but… the way things are going I might end up breaking that deal *insert ugly sobbing here*

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