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sunflowervolvimp3 · 4 years ago

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you’re someone i just want around: VI

“I think I’m catching feelings

And I don’t know if this is empathy I feel

Just hold on

Remember when you said this was the last time?”

Sex, Eden

A/N: okay this chapter has probably been my favourite to write so far because we are finally. finally!!!!!! getting to a lil smidgen of softness!!!!! and the softness will only continue like originally I had a different lyric in mind for this chapter (a hozier lyric to stay on brand) and decided that it was too soft so I stocked it away to use in the future when things get even sweeter and harry gets even dumber 😌 we really hope you guys enjoy this chapter!!! and please remember that feedback is truly, madly, deeply™ appreciated!!!! not just by us but by all content creators!!!!! and if you enjoy it, please reblog it!!!! spreading content keeps creators motivated!!!!! and so do messages about what you liked!!!! it lets us know what sort of vibe to add in later!!!! okay now that that’s out of the way!!!! let’s dive in 😼

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

word count: 29.1k

content/warnings: a good healthy dose of denial and justification to deny feelings, the defamation of gherkin pickles, pet names (literally), a strong independent woman who don’t need no man, a (not quite) man who definitely needs a strong independent woman, brunch served with a side of emotional trauma, breaking promises, nsfw social distancing, and Harry once again ignoring the phrase “bros before hoes”

///

Harry knows he’s good at a lot of things.

He’s good at picking up on fashion trends and turning them into timeless styles, molding each piece to fit his own persona with ease. He’s good at identifying the locational origins of wines within five seconds of the sweet liquid crossing over his tongue. He’s good at mixing his own drinks as well, always managing to craft the perfect concoction that suits each drinker’s needs. He’s good at creating gallery walls in his apartment, at charming anyone into giving him what he wants with a slip of his mouth, and at pissing off his friends until they’re threatening to stake him just to get a little peace and quiet. Harry is good at chess, at reciting poetry from memory, and at painting his non-dominant hand’s fingernails without smudging any nail polish onto his icy skin. Harry is fucking excellent at coaxing orgasms out from his lovers. He knows that he’s good at a lot of things.

The issue, he realizes the day after he asks Y/N out on a real date, is that planning a real date is not one of those things.

This, Harry rationalizes to himself, is not his fault. After all, the last time he’d been on a real date was during the Victorian era, and Harry is fairly certain that taking a chaperoned stroll around his beloved’s estate garden isn’t in fashion anymore. And when the way all of those dates ended is taken into account, Harry doesn’t think his past experiences should be the marker for a good date, anyways.

It’s this frustrating lack of knowledge that leads Harry to do what he always does when he doesn’t know the answer to something: he Googles it.

With the top of the line Macbook Harry had purchased a few months back with the money from a CEO of some candle company perched on his lap, Harry relaxes back onto his leather couch, kicking his brown boots up onto the matching footrest as he does so. Once the search engine is open and the cursor is blinking in front of his face, however, the vampire pauses, his manicured fingernails perched over the keys. What question could he possibly Google for his situation?

Harry twists his lion head ring around his cool finger as he thinks, his tongue tucked between his lips in concentration while potential queries run through his head. Ideas for a first date with a girl you’ve been fucking for a month. Things to do in L.A. with a mortal when you’re a two hundred year old vampire. Places to take someone after drinking their blood. A snort echoes from Harry’s throat as the last idea pops into his head. Somehow, Harry isn’t confident in what results those questions will show him.

Tapping his black lacquered nails against the keys, Harry purses his lips as he loses himself in thought. How had he even gotten himself into this position? The reason he hasn’t planned a date in centuries is because he doesn’t date, and for good reason. What use does a soulless vampire have for dating? Mortals use romantic outings to open their hearts to one another, and Harry, in contrast, can’t open what he doesn’t have.

Despite his wondering, however, he knows exactly how he got himself into this situation: he let himself get jealous of a fake-tanned, shaggy-haired idiot named Jacob, a name that Harry despises on principle alone. It had been a perfectly fine name until that awful Meyer woman decided to make it one of the banes of Harry’s existence. And while Harry doesn’t have a particularly forgiving nature, he had just finally begun to get over the association, but thanks to that hallway confrontation at the end of Y/N’s date with the obtusely orange fool, Harry is now reminded that he will forever hate the name with a burning passion. And shaggy hair. And fake tans. And while the irony of him, a vampire—with a middle name of Edward, for Christ’s sake—hating an insignificant mortal named Jacob, simply because he dared to make a pass at the object of Harry’s fascination, is not lost on him, all of that was pushed aside the moment Harry smelled the perfume his fascination wore for the mortal boy.

Y/N never wears perfume for him. And though she had assured him that her dressing up had been for him, he can’t shake the fact that Jacob had gotten to experience it first.

It’s not that Y/N needs to wear perfume for him. In fact, if Harry’s being honest with himself, he likes that she doesn’t spritz artificial scents all over her body before letting him into her home and between her legs. She has one of the sweetest natural scents Harry’s ever had the pleasure of inhaling, all lavender and honey and utterly intoxicating. Of course, as all mortals are, Y/N is unaware of the mouth watering fragrance that drips from her skin, while Harry is all too aware of it at all times, but her obliviousness to her natural scent doesn’t change the fact that Harry would bathe in it if he could. If it were possible, Harry would pump an entire room full of her personal cloud of lavender and honey, lay back on the floor, turn down the lights, spark a joint, and let himself get lost in the very thought of her. That would be Harry’s personal definition of Nirvana.

But Y/N isn’t aware of her natural, skin sweetening aroma like Harry is, which means two things. Firstly, that Y/N doesn’t feel the need to smear anything unnatural on her body to attract Harry; she knows she doesn’t need to go through all that trouble. And that was fine with Harry, until he realized the second thing, which is that there potentially could be someone that Y/N would go to all that trouble for if he doesn’t keep her entertained and occupied. She had told him her date with Jacob hadn’t been on her terms, and that she’d done it just to be courteous towards a co-worker, but that doesn’t sedate the truth: There will always be a maddening possibility that occasions could come into play in which Y/N will spray a choking cloud of gardenia and freesia over herself, all in the hopes of appealing a suitor. The issue is that in those hypothetical cases, the suitor Y/N would be trying to impress wouldn’t be Harry.

Actually, that’s only the first issue. The second issue is that it could be another fraternity moron with an equally stupid name.

After the vampire had come upon Y/N ending her date in front of her door, just minutes before their own rendezvous was scheduled, Harry had felt an initial burst of blind rage, and everything after is a blur. He vaguely remembers trying to make Jacob uncomfortable and delighting in how he succeeded, until he saw the anger on Y/N’s sweet face. He remembers a brief discussion about limits and honesty, and about how she was only interested in him, and that he shouldn’t waste his time stressing about her supposedly dormant dating life. And, most importantly, he remembers asking Y/N to accompany him on a real date, one that would blow her date with the VeggieTales carrot out of the water.

Now, of course, he’s beginning to regret his impulsive decision, purely for the fact that he now has to figure out how to woo a mortal girl just enough to keep her away from creeps with horribly coiffed hair.

And yet, despite this regret…there’s something new curling inside his belly as he types the phrase date ideas for L.A. into the search bar, the blinking cursor reflecting in his eyes before he presses the enter key and millions of results pop up. Ah, the joys of the internet, he thinks as he scours the results with inhuman speed. It’ll take Harry a few different clicks to find the perfect activity for himself and Y/N, and his hyperfocus on the topic will stop him from over analyzing that new feeling twisting inside him.

It’s a win-win situation, if he can say so himself.

Harry’s halfway through the first disappointing article (somehow, he doesn’t think taking Y/N on a hike is very romantic) when the door to his condo opens and reveals Mitch in the frame, dressed in his usual casual attire, this time of blue jeans and a plaid shirt. Harry has spent the last century trying to refine the older vampire’s taste in clothing, even going so far as to once donate the entirety of Mitch’s closet to a homeless shelter, but all his efforts have been in vain, as his friend still insists on wearing the standard (and boring) style for every decade they’ve lived through together.

“Hey,” Mitch greets from the end of the corridor with a nonchalant nod, shutting the door behind himself before sauntering further into the living room. “Thought we were meeting at the bar at eight?”

It takes Harry a moment to remember the agreement Mitch refers to, his brow creasing as his eyes flicker to the corner of his computer screen. By the time he registers the numbers 8:41 shining back at him, the memory of agreeing to get drinks with Mitch after his evening gig has resurfaced. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I lost track of time.”

“I thought so.” Mitch moves the decorative pillow next to Harry on the couch, taking a seat in his usual spot. His voice is slightly sarcastic as he gives Harry a knowing look. “That’s been happening a lot lately. Lapses in your memory and such.”

“It's old age, I suppose.” Harry’s lips quirk up in amusement, although he knows that Mitch’s comment is pointed towards a subject they’re both acquainted with, courtesy of Harry’s absence on their annual Vegas trip about a week prior. “It’s finally getting to me.”

The long-haired immortal makes a vague sound of humorous acknowledgement, but offers no other response as he turns his gaze to the younger vampire.

Harry watches as his friend’s expert eyes appraise his appearance, examining how the older vampire takes note of the messy state of Harry’s hair that indicates he’s been tugging on it in frustration, the redness of his lips, the way he’s curled over his open laptop. Although he makes no further comment on Harry’s newfound tendencies, his brows furrow in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“I, uh—” The amusement is replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of nervousness that sweeps through Harry’s entire body. “I’m doing research.”

When he’s given no other explanation, Mitch prompts his younger friend. “On?”

“I...asked that girl from the club out on a date— Y/N. Like, I invited her on a proper one.” Harry elaborates, twisting his lionhead ring around his finger as he speaks. “But I don’t really know, like, what to do with her. I’m a little out of touch with what a typical twenty-something woman wants to do on a real date.”

And this is another thing Harry is usually good at— being confident and sure of himself. Normally, he speaks with ease and a nonchalant cadence to his words, lacking any worry about how he’ll be perceived. Harry knows what he wants, and knows how to articulate it. Right now, however, he feels the complete opposite. There’s a tension aching its way through his muscles and settling into the pit of his stomach, curling around those organs that haven’t been truly needed in years, and the utterly bemused expression weaving its way onto Mitch’s face doesn’t help.

The quiet vampire cocks his head to the side upon receiving this news, propping one foot up onto Harry’s coffee table and addressing him with a mocking air. “Why are you taking her on an actual date? From what you’ve told me— which isn’t much, and that strains our best friend reputation, if I’m being honest— I thought you two had an...understanding?”

“We did. We do.” Harry stumbles over his words as he half shuts the laptop, setting it down on the coffee table and giving Mitch’s foot a quick playful shove off the lacquered surface as he repositions himself. “But she went on a date with someone else, so I have to—”

“Are you jealous?” His friend cuts over him with an incredulous tone, and the disbelief sends a flare of something akin to shame through Harry’s body. “Because she had a date?”

“I’m not jealous.” With a firm voice, Harry manages to scoff at the very notion. “I may be a monster, but my eyes are red, not green. It’s just—”

“Well, technically, they are.”

The immortal ignores the shit-eating correction. “—occurred to me that our arrangement will end if Y/N starts seeing some mortal bloke. So, if she wants a relationship, then I can fabricate one for her.”

Although the excuse slips off his tongue easily enough, Harry refuses to meet Mitch’s eyes as he picks up his laptop and opens it again, clicking his way onto another article in the search results. The older vampire’s stare feels as if it’s scorching his icy skin, and Harry can’t exactly say he enjoys the sensation, but it’s better than the alternative of admitting to Mitch��and to himself—that he may harbour the smallest trace of feelings for the human girl.

However, Mitch seems to buy the rushed explanation. “Fabricate a relationship?” He repeats, scratching the base of his chin slowly. “Doesn’t that seem a little...cruel?”

“It’s not. It’s only for a bit, and once I’m done with her, I’ll probably just…” The words lodge in his throat for some unknown reason, but he forces them out. “I’ll probably just wipe myself from her mind, and she…” Harry’s sharp teeth tug on his plump bottom lip. “She won’t remember me. It’ll be fine.”

Yes, Harry repeats to himself as he scrolls through all the results Google has to offer. It’ll be fine. It has to be fine, really, because what’s the alternative? Harry’s kind aren’t exactly built for a long term commitment to anyone that’s less than immortal. The kindest thing for him to do would be to let Y/N go now, without having to use compulsion at all. It would be so simple, he thinks. One small text, a few words along the lines of “it’s not working out, and we probably shouldn’t see each other again, I’m sorry. H.” would probably suffice. And surely she’d be a little upset, but she’s mortal, and a mortal’s feelings never stay the same for long. It would take her a few weeks, or maybe a month at most to get over the creature she’d begun a casual sexual relationship with. Within a year, Harry and their short-lived friendship would be nothing but a small blip in her memory, and she’d be moved on to someone else.

Harry can see her future so clearly that he almost believes it’s shining through his laptop screen like an old film. Y/N, going back out for the first time after Harry breaks things off. Y/N, bumping into a handsome stranger with a bright smile and dull eyes. Y/N, slumped over her kitchen table and fighting a hangover as the stranger hands her a cup of coffee. Y/N and the stranger going for dinner. Walking hand in hand. Kissing goodnight at the door.

Harry’s mind spins through scenarios faster and faster, racing through every possible future for Y/N before he can even take another breath. Although some scenarios have different paths, different breakups, different faces, they always end at the very same place: Y/N in a white dress, walking down a flower strewn aisle, and taking the warm hand of someone who is not Harry.

If Harry needed to breathe, the wind would’ve been knocked out of him the moment he pictured those warm hands with blood pulsing beneath the skin lifting Y/N’s veil, cupping her flushed cheek, and sealing their lips to hers. It’s a perfectly normal image. A human pledging themselves to another human. It’s natural, by human standards, as they seem to value monogamy over everything else. The path Harry is seeing is the path Y/N was always meant to take. So why does it make his icy blood curdle?

Mitch, who seems to be completely unaware of the wild road map his friend’s mind has just drawn, speaks out his concerns in a quiet but careful voice. “Are you sure you’re not getting too attached?” He asks, gauging Harry’s reaction to his question as if it’s a catastrophic statement. “You’ve been spending more and more time with her, you blew off the Vegas trip for the first time…” The older vampire gives a soft shrug of his shoulders. “If it were just for sex and blood, that would be one thing, but it’s almost like you’re getting…addicted to her.”

Although the statement first brings a laugh to Harry's strawberry lips, the initial chuckle quickly fades away as the gravity of Mitch’s statement hits its recipient. Certainly, he feels an indescribable draw to Y/N, but he knows, deep down, that any addiction he has to her is more so to her blood than anything else. After all, what else could he possibly indulge? The last time Harry let himself be addicted to a person, he ended up with a broken neck and newfound bloodlust. He’s learned since then. He’s not so naïve, or so foolish, as to let his emotions wander like that again. He knows better.

“There’s no addiction—I just like her blood more than others, that’s all.” Harry assures his friend, tapping his thumb against the band of his mother’s opal ring. “I know I’ve been a bit of a flake lately, but it’s just while I have her around. I’ll get tired of her eventually; I always do.” He deliberately flashes his crimson eyes at his friend with a knowing smirk. “And then all it’ll take is a few choice words to take care of whatever lingering marks—metaphorical or otherwise— I’ve left on her, and it’ll all be done, and in the past. You know me, mate. Sometimes I like playing with my food.”

That last sentence makes his mouth go sour, almost as if his body is punishing him for uttering something so indifferently ruthless. Especially because deep down, there’s the smallest seed of doubt in his speech— the tiniest hint of uncertainty, telling him that the detachment he is playing up is not true.

Harry forces it to be true. It has to be. Both for his sake, and Y/N’s.

Mitch spends a long few minutes gazing into the blood red irises marching his stare, determined to find a crack in their façade. However, Harry’s good at hiding his feelings, given that he’s had decades of practice on how to keep a thick curtain draped over his innermost thoughts. He won’t let anyone see his weaknesses anymore, no matter how microscopic they might be.

When the older monster’s search turns up empty, he repents with a long sigh, waving his hands free of the whole affair. “Whatever, Harry. You seem to know what you’re doing. Just be careful, alright?”

“I do know what I’m doing, thank you.” Harry elects to ignore the last statement Mitch tacked on, and instead flips his laptop around to show his friend his findings with a triumphant—albeit, forced—grin. “I’m doing brunch. Google says girls Y/N’s age like brunch, and that the Persimmon Pantry in downtown L.A. has authentic crepes that are to die for.”

“Too bad you’re already dead.” The older vampire deadpans, pushing the laptop closed and raising himself from the couch into a standing position, tucking his hands into his jean pockets. “If you’re going to be dating a mortal, do we get to meet her? Because I think Niall may need a bit of a heads up after the accidental run in that happened last time—”

“Do you usually meet my meals?” Harry counters easily as he sets his laptop aside, standing to escort Mitch to the door. “Don’t be sentimental, Mitch. I’m certainly not.”

When Mitch’s eyes meet his own once again, there’s a degree of clarity running through them that nearly stops Harry in his tracks. “Aren’t you?” Mitch asks, voice neutral by careful control.

Harry sucks in a quick breath out of habit, pasting a bright expression over his face in lieu of actually revealing his swirling insides. “Not since I learned my lesson.” He says easily, tapping two fingers over his dormant carotid artery with a sly smile.

The casual act does the trick, and Mitch’s eyes roll in a familiar jesting fashion as he steps towards the door. “Right. You’ve got it under control, then.”

“All under control.” The words slip off Harry’s dry tongue like honey, his sweet cadence filling the space between them. “Not to worry.”

///

Y/N thinks this may be the most out of control she’s ever felt her entire life.

A few weeks ago, she would’ve said that taking Harry home from the club was the most out of control she’s ever been. And three months ago, dropping her whole life and moving to L.A. might have been the answer to that question. And another three months from now, Y/N might get herself into the middle of a new entirely stupid act— which is completely probable, given her track record— and that’ll become the new marker for the most out of control thing she’s done. But right now, at this moment, the most out of control thing she’s done is say yes to Harry asking her out to brunch.

When compared to everything else she’s done with Harry—and let Harry do to her—brunch may seem entirely harmless, but it’s the connotation behind it that scares her. Harry is taking her on a date. A real date. A date to a brunch restaurant, at 11 A.M. on a Sunday, when it’ll be completely bright outside, and people will see them together. A date with both of them in presentable situations, rather than being coated in sweat and completely dressed. A date where Harry refrains from whispering the filthiest fucking shit Y/N has ever heard into her ear, although she wouldn’t put it past him trying to do that over a plate of avocado toast.

Harry is taking her on a date. And last time Y/N checked, she wasn’t exactly good at those.

Her ex hadn’t really been the romantic type, to say the least. Their dates typically revolved around their high school’s dance and athletic schedules. Bradley took her to homecoming and to prom, and football games on Friday nights, where all her friends would meet them at a diner after their school— more often than not— lost. He would take her on long drives where they got nowhere fast, with the two of them sitting in silence, and his music playing through the speakers. She went over to his house once a week for dinner. He’d take her to a movie every second Saturday. And while it was all fine, none of it was very romantic. ‘Robotic’ is a more appropriate term.

And even with the fear of actual romance aside, Y/N has no idea what to discuss on a first date with someone. She had already known a lot about her ex when they began going out, so there wasn’t a period of “getting to know you” that needed to happen. The few first dates she’d had after him hadn’t been stellar, or even noteworthy. If anything, they had been guides for what not to do on a first date. And the funniest thing is that, while she’s fairly sure her last first date had been the catalyst for Harry asking her out, the actual date itself had been awful. But if she’s right, and that was the factor that set Harry off, then maybe she should be grateful for all those awful dates from her past, because Harry, in contrast to all those horrible dates, is different in every conceivable way.

Harry is just different. When she speaks, he listens. When he looks at her, he really looks at her, and he sees her in a way she’s not sure she’s ever been seen before. And, honestly, he has seen her in ways she’s never been seen before, and that’s exactly what Y/N is worried about. How do you sip a mimosa with someone at the Persimmon Pantry after they’ve throat fucked you on your couch, or bent you over the kitchen counter, or handcuffed you to their bed? How do you ask someone about their favourite movie when they’ve coaxed multiple orgasms from you over the phone as Sinister played from the TV screen? How do you listen as someone tells you about their childhood dog when the last dog you were concerned about was the position they bent you into as they spread your—

Y/N clears her throat and shakes her head of the thought, reevaluating her heated complexion in the mirror that hangs on the back of her bedroom door. “Stop it.” She mutters to herself, attempting to give her reflection a stern look. “You’re not going to be able to make it through this if you’ve thrown the towel in before Harry’s even picked you up.”

And that’s another thing, Y/N thinks, as she opens her bedroom closet and begins searching through it for something acceptable to wear. Harry insisted on picking her up, even though the restaurant he chose was a fifteen minute walk from her apartment. She’d brought this up to him when he asked her to brunch over the phone (which is a whole other thing in and of itself— he only called her when he had his hand wrapped around his cock and needed her voice to finish himself off; wouldn’t a text have been sufficient?), but Harry had blown off her concern without a second thought.

“Part of taking you on a date is picking you up, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but the Persimmon Pantry is between our apartments. Wouldn’t it make more sense to meet there? Then you wouldn’t waste your time driving past it to get me.”

“I don’t consider anything involving you to be a waste of time.” Harry had answered immediately, his voice stern, but still allowing a vein of tenderness to run underneath it. “Is that your only concern, then? Me picking you up?”

No, Y/N had thought. It’s not my only concern, but how the fuck do I explain everything else?

“Yeah.” Y/N had answered tightly, her voice weak. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, it’s not a concern of mine, so don’t worry. I’ll pick you up at 10:45 Sunday morning.” And then there had been a pause, full of baited breath and nerves, before Harry’s thick accent rang through her phone again. “I can’t wait to see you.”

Those parting words had sat in her stomach since, warm and cozy and inviting, keeping a soft, constant glow filtering in her veins until the end of the week came.

Y/N glances at the blinking clock beside her bed. It’s 10:17 now, a couple days after that conversation, which means she has less than half an hour to pick something to wear, style her hair that’s currently dripping wet from her shower, and throw on enough makeup to cover up the bags under her eyes that have been developing over the last few nights. After becoming so used to sleeping with Harry next to her every weekend, Y/N is now finding that not having him in her bed, smoothing her hair and rubbing her cheek as she cuddles into his cool chest is prohibiting her from getting a good night’s sleep.

Another concern, certainly, but not one she can deal with at this moment. The best she can do is smear on some concealer and hope for the best, and with that in mind, Y/N turns her full attention to her evaluation of her closet.

“Brunch,” She murmurs to herself, slowly pushing her clothing apart to examine each article. “We’re going to brunch. What do you wear to brunch?”

Brunch, she decides after a moment of consideration, is casual, but not sloppy casual, so jeans and a t-shirt are off the table. It’s Sunday casual, like the outfits her mother would pick out for her to wear to Sunday afternoon teas with the other church women once she turned 15 and had to “start acting like a lady.” Sunday casual, Y/N thinks, but maybe not those outfits. The raised necklines and starched collars had made her neck itch the entire time, and she had picked at the hemlines of her dresses under tables until the seams began to unravel. Sunday casual, but more of her actual style. Sunday casual, but sluttier, maybe? Could one describe Sunday casual as slutty?

Y/N groans as she takes a step back from her closet, clutching her towel to her chest with a tense hand. Maybe she’s going about this the wrong way. Maybe she should try to match Harry…?

A sharp snort falls from Y/N’s mouth. Yeah, like she could ever match Harry. Harry, who is so obsessed with labels that even his handcuffs are embossed with the Gucci logo. Harry, who is so attractive that it’s almost otherworldly. Harry, who can make her tiny apartment look like a New York Fashion Week runway by simply walking down the corridor of her entrance. Matching Harry is almost impossible. She could show up in a full length gown, and Harry would still outshine her in a graphic t-shirt and flared jeans.

“Hey.” Y/N chastises herself lightly, catching her judgemental eye in her mirror once again. “Stop it. Don’t be mean to yourself, just...just pick something to wear. It shouldn’t be this hard.”

After returning to her closet search and trying on a few different combinations, Y/N finally settles on an outfit consisting of a pale yellow sundress with a sweetheart neckline and tea length skirt, but dresses it down with a denim jacket and a pair of cotton candy coloured vans. It’s bright and fun, but still casual enough that it looks like she just threw it on.

“Oh, this old thing?” Y/N raises her eyebrows in mock surprise as she moves to her bathroom to begin to tackle her hair. She keeps practicing the imaginary conversation in the mirror with herself, and while she knows she sounds insane, it oddly keeps her nerves in check. “Oh, I just pulled it out of my closet a few minutes before you got here. Haven’t worn it in years. Do you like it?” The mortal pauses as she reaches for her makeup, deciding to keep herself to a more natural look for the day. “Thank you, Harry, that’s so sweet. You look nice, as well.”

She lightly fills her brows before sweeping some neutral eyeshadow over her lids, pausing her muttering to herself to concentrate on drawing her eyeliner as neatly as she likes. Once she’s satisfied with that, she moves to mascara, adding a thin coat to her lashes and blotting off the makeup she smudges underneath her eye by mistake. When that’s finished, the young woman takes a step back from the mirror, appraising her appearance.

It’s not awful, honestly. She could do worse. In fact, if it weren’t for the ball of anxiety currently twisting its way through Y/N’s stomach, she might even praise herself for the cute and casual look she’s managed to pull off.

“You look good.” She murmurs to her reflection as she reaches for her small silver hoops, slipping them through her lobes with a quick and practiced motion. “Good job.” With her eyes locked on her reflection, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Today is going to be fine. Better than fine, actually. And it would probably go better if you stopped talking to yourself, so maybe let’s get that in check before Harry gets here—?”

As if on cue, a now familiar knock on her front door causes the mortal’s mouth to snap shut, clamping off the rest of her third person monologue. When she makes a quick pause to straighten her jacket and fetch her over-the-shoulder woven bag, Y/N impulsively decides to grab her favourite perfume bottle, giving her body a quick spritz before making her way to the door and opening it with breathless anticipation.

Harry, of course, looks fucking incredible. Although his casual outfit consists of a black short sleeved button up shirt tucked into white slacks, Harry manages to work the whole number like a model. His usual cross necklace, unique rings, and stately single cross earring adorn his body, drawing Y/N’s eyes to the glint of the metals as a pair of black sunglasses sit atop the man’s defined nose. He meets Y/N’s eyes behind them, a grin beginning to paint itself over his cherry lips as his jeweled hand pushes the sunglasses from his face and into his chestnut locks, revealing his bright jade gaze full of genuine kindness.

“Well, look at you. Proper model now, aren’t you, Miss Urban Outfitters?” Harry’s voice takes on a casual tone, but the flirty phrase sends a shiver of pleasure down Y/N’s spine. “You look so fucking good in yellow, love. Why have I never seen you in yellow before?”

The shiver of pleasure reverberates throughout Y/N’s entire body. “Maybe because I’m usually naked when I’m around you?” She retorts quickly, reaching to the little hook next to her door to grab her keys.

“Hm. That’s true.” The pleased cadence in Harry’s voice catches Y/N’s ear over the click of the door lock. “Guess you go for the Victoria’s Secret look more often, hm? Though I’m not complaining. You look just as good in lace.”

“Thanks. But not today, I guess.” Y/N says quietly as she pushes down the heat boiling her face, unable to bite her tongue before the words slip out. “We’re on a real date today.”

“Right you are, Watson.” Harry grins cheekily as he motions for the girl to walk past him, following closely with a guiding hand on the small of her back. “We’re on a real date. It’s probably a little overdue, but you know what they say...better late than never, right?”

The moment she takes a step past him, it hits Harry. Although her delectable signature scent of lavender and honey is still there, it’s faintly hidden behind the nearly overpowering scent of gardenia and freesia he smelled last time he was in her hallway, when that oafish buffoon had the audacity to try and seduce her. And despite the fact that Harry prefers Y/N’s natural fragrance to any other scent on the planet, knowing that she took the time to spritz herself with perfume before greeting him brings a dimpled smile to his face. Harry considers making a comment about it, but bites it back at the last moment. The last thing he needs is to have to explain why he pays such particular attention to Y/N’s scent.

When the pair exit the apartment building, Harry takes the lead in front of Y/N, unlocking his flashy car with a click of the remote and opening the passenger door with ease. He extends a hand, grasping the mortal girl’s hand in his own with care as he helps her into the car. The click of the car door shutting comes a moment later than expected as Harry pauses to fix the hem of Y/N’s dress, making sure it’s free of the doorway before closing the door without clamping the light fabric.

Harry doesn’t even think twice before readjusting Y/N’s skirt, with the move coming as naturally to him as breathing once did, and merely notes the stuttering of Y/N’s heartbeat with a half hidden smug smile. It’s not until he’s in the driver’s seat and stopped at a red light that he realizes what that stuttering rhythm is indicating.

Y/N is tense. Even without his supernatural abilities that allow him to hear her heart, register her strained breathing, and feel the energy radiating from her body, Harry would be able to tell that some part of her feels...uncomfortable. Nervous, even. But for what? What about Harry—aside from the obvious that the human is unaware of—could make her nervous? After the countless hours in bed together, the lazy Saturday afternoons, the kitchen singalongs, Harry would think that Y/N would be as comfortable with him as he is with her. After all she’d shown him when they have sex—

Huh. Maybe that’s it, Harry thinks, giving the mortal a quick look from the corner of his eye. The light ahead of them turns green, and Harry continues to ponder his realization as he presses on the gas. If sex has become the norm for them, then maybe a date is outside of her comfort zone. Or maybe, now that her brain isn’t fogged by the endorphins that roll through her veins whenever Harry coaxes an orgasm from her trembling body, Y/N is realizing how unnatural it feels to be around Harry.

As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, humans aren’t dumb. If they get too close to someone of Harry’s kind, some sharp-sighted mortals begin to sense that there’s something different about them. Aside from the easy targets and quick decisions, part of the reason that picking up meals in clubs works so well for Harry and his friends is that a mortal’s senses are dulled in the flashing lights and inebriated atmosphere of a club. If Y/N is beginning to sense that there’s something different about Harry, or if she’s beginning to feel uneasy about being around him, then she must be wondering why. In Harry’s experience, mortals will relate their uncomfortable feelings about the supernatural into something they have more experience with to make sense of it all, and if that’s what Y/N is doing, then she’s probably attributing her newfound discomfort towards Harry trying to take advantage of her. If he could read her mind, he might see a horrific scene playing out like an old movie: Harry buying her a meal, soaking her rational thinking in mimosas and other drinks spiked with God knows what, and then helping her back to his car, where he drives her back to his apartment, practically carrying her inebriated body through the door towards his bedroom…

The car takes a sharp right turn into the restaurant parking lot, and Harry guides it to a spot with his hands wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. The idea of Y/N thinking him capable of that, capable of hurting her like that...it takes Harry a moment to extract his clenched hands from the wheel. If that was really what Y/N was thinking, then he could fix it. All it would take to set her at ease would be a quick request, a repeated statement, and the girl’s breathing would even out, and everything could continue like he had planned.

“Y/N?” He begins, keeping his voice as smooth as silk as he sets the car into park and turns it off. “Look at me, please.”

And then she does. And Harry forgets his plan within a moment.

There’s nervousness apparent in her eyes, yes, but no fear. Although her lips are chewed red, they don’t tremble when she answers him with a quiet “yes?” Despite their close proximity, she keeps leaning closer to him, and whether she’s aware of the action or not, the constant inch of her hand closer to Harry’s softens the immortal more than he thought possible. He can’t compel her to let down her guard when she already trusts him.

“I know that this is different for us. Doing something like this.” Harry begins, keeping his eyes as sincere as possible without compelling the young woman in front of him, who is keeping her eyes on his emerald irises with steadfast attention. “But I want this to be a proper date, like...like what I should’ve probably taken you on a month ago.”

Warmth rises to Y/N’s cheeks at the confession. “So do I. I like being around you, Harry. A lot. I’m just a little...nervous, I guess.”

Harry bites back a smile at how she sounds like she’s confessing something, as if her body language hasn’t been telling him that from the moment she got into his car. “I know. So I think it would be best, just to prove that this is a real date, if we don’t have sex after we finish brunch.”

A choked sound falls from Y/N’s mouth, and Harry delights in watching her scramble for words before she manages to form a half indignant reply. “I didn’t say I was going to sleep with you!”

“You don’t have to say it, pet, because we both know you can’t keep your hands off me. Exhibit A,” Harry nods at her hand, which is mere millimeters away from his thigh. “Being how you kept trying to grab onto me through the entire drive.”

Another gasp of indignation fills the car, and the emphasized outrage sets Harry at ease. He’d rather Y/N be equal parts annoyed and—if the soft look hidden behind her eyes is any clue—endeared than have her equal parts nervous and anxious. He’d take any anger directed at his expense if it meant she was at ease.

“I wasn’t trying to grab you.” The mortal mutters under her breath, her eyes falling from his as the increase of her heart pricks Harry’s ears. “That’s just where my hand fell naturally.”

“Right.” Harry answers in a disbelieving voice, his smirk growing as Y/N rolls her eyes in response. “Well, either way…” He extends a jeweled hand and grips her chin between his thumb and forefinger, enjoying how her breath stutters as he turns her head to look at him. “What do you say? No sex after our date? Think we can behave ourselves?”

“I can.” Y/N answers, irritation laced through her voice to hide the desire settling between her words. “You, on the other hand...I doubt you’ll be able to keep it in your pants.”

A wry smile works it’s way over Harry’s lips, and the vampire wets them with his tongue as he uses his gentle grip on Y/N’s jaw to tilt her head forward. “I have wonderful self-control, darling.” He breathes the words, letting the scent of mint roll over Y/N’s face, and delights in the way it intoxicates her with every syllable. Harry ghosts his lips over the curve of her jaw, smudging his kisses down her neck until he can feel her pulse thumping unevenly beneath his lips. His mouth opens just slightly as he leaves a lingering kiss on the area, his tongue gliding carefully over her sweet-scented skin.

Despite every instinct in his body telling him to sink his teeth into the beating pulse he feels and quench the thirst that burns in the back of his throat like a roaring fire, Harry manages to pull away. “See?” He murmurs softly, his cool breath still clouding Y/N’s every inhale. “Self control.”

While Harry is a master at withholding his desires, the effect his actions have on Y/N is apparent in her reply. “Good.” The mortal swallows thickly, her pulse fluttering again as Harry releases her chin and drags his fingers down her neck. “That’s good to know. So no sex, then.”

“Right.” Harry grins triumphantly as Y/N attempts to collect herself. The smug expression on Harry’s face lets her know that he’s completely aware of the impact he has on her, and it drives her insane to no end. Although her conscience is urging her to play his game, and do her best to fluster him as he flusters her, the more rational part of her stops that thought in its tracks. This is what she wanted, wasn’t it? To open herself up again, to open herself up to Harry in a way she hasn’t before? To prove that she can let someone know her without burrowing themselves between her thighs?

The latch of her car door brings her from her thoughts, and her head jerks to the right to see Harry with one hand on the door handle as he extends the other to her to help her from the car. Y/N, still fumbling with her seatbelt, takes a moment to grasp his hand in return, too swept up in the fact that Harry remembers to open her door to ponder how he always reaches her side of the car so quickly.

However, there are some new developments that don’t slip from her attention, like how Harry keeps her hand grasped firmly in his icy grip even after she’s out of the car, pausing only to click the lock on his keyring before walking with her towards the door. Or how, despite his long legs, he never falls out of step with Y/N, making sure to keep his strides measured and even so as not to yank on her hand. Or how, even though her hand is already half extended out of habit, Harry reaches the door of the restaurant first, opening it smoothly and stepping back, gently laying his hand on the small of Y/N’s back to guide her inside the restaurant.

“Uh, thanks.” The young woman murmurs to him, a tone of perplexity running beneath her words. She’s not quite sure why all of this surprises her; hadn’t Harry already proved that, despite his harsh and suggestive exterior, there’s an undercurrent of manners instilled into him?

Maybe, she thinks as she watches Harry step forward to the restaurant host, the surprise and confusion is due to the lack of manners she received from her ex. Despite the “small town charm,” as her mother had called it, Bradley had lacked the ability to successfully perform any gallantry, and any attempts he made to do so had only annoyed Y/N. Whenever he tried to do something that may fall into that category, like insisting on driving everywhere they went, or choosing where they’d go for dinner, Y/N never felt that the actions came from a place of protection or chivalry; on the contrary, Y/N felt like each action was taken on the basis that she herself was incapable of doing the same things Bradley did. On the one occasion she’d brought it up to him, he had scoffed, and argued that he was just trying to be a nice guy, and why would she have a problem with him trying to help her, and if she was going to complain, then he wouldn’t—

An icy touch to the dip of her back jerks Y/N from her thoughts, both metaphorically and literally as her body spasms away from the touch. Upon hearing the alarmed gasp that falls from her lips, Harry turns his head to the side, a look of concern painted over his face.

“Everything alright, darling?” He asks in a quiet voice, his hand retracting from her back with uncertainty.

“Yeah, sorry, just��caught up in thought, I guess.” Y/N covers quickly, giving him an apologetic smile. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

If the way the mortal shivers is any suggestion, Harry can guess what exactly about his touch took her by surprise. “I’m sorry.” He says sincerely, his fingers hovering a few millimeters above the fabric of her dress. “The, uh, the table I reserved is just on the patio around the corner.” Although he lays his hand on Y/N once again to guide her, Harry is careful to place his palm further up her spine, where the sensitive skin of her back is covered by her jean jacket in addition to the thin yellow sundress. As much as he usually adores making her shiver, there’s something different about the action when he knows it’s because of his inhumanly cold touch, instead of his inhuman ability to pleasure her.

The pair move in a line, following the hostess in a beeline through the busy restaurant and out onto the sunlit patio, where there are fewer occupied tables. Stopping in front of a table partly shaded under an umbrella that’s away from the other diners, the hostess turns to the two of them, her eyes flickering over Harry once again.

“Is this table to your liking, Mr. Styles?” She asks, her voice sweet as sugar. The stickiness of it grates against Y/N’s skin, but Harry gives no indication of finding it irritating. In fact, he seems to give hardly any notice to the hostess at all, only half glancing at her before nodding his head.

“Yes, it is, thank you.” He steps out to the side, grasping the back of the chair facing away from the sun and pulling it out. It takes Y/N a moment and a half step already taken towards the opposite chair for her to realize that he’s pulling it out for her.

“Oh—” Face flushing with realization, Y/N steps back around Harry, settling down into the offered seat as he carefully pushes it in. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Harry replies, pausing to be sure she’s comfortable before taking his own seat across from her. The hostess, who had been watching his actions with a keen eye, gives another smile to the vampire.

“Alright, Paige will be your server today, but before I leave,” The hostess spares a short glimpse at Y/N before turning her full attention back to Harry. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

The creature is aware of the effect he has on mortals, and has been since he was first turned. While he normally plays that to his advantage (and while that was, to be frank, part of the reason he was able to take Y/N home from the club the night he met her), the attention is beginning to grind against his nerves. It’s easy enough for him to ignore a human, especially one he has no interest in whatsoever, but he can see the way Y/N notices the hostess’ preference for addressing Harry. More specifically, Harry can see the way it bothers her, and it would be amusing if his jealousy over Y/N going on a date with someone else hadn’t been the catalyst to their date today.

“No, that’s alright.” Harry finally responds to the waitress, glancing at her just enough so as not to be rude. “Thank you.”

The hostess smiles at him again before nodding to Y/N and turning on her heel, marching back towards the kitchen, and it takes just a soft snort falling from Y/N’s lips to pull Harry’s attention completely back to her.

“What?” He quirks an eyebrow up at the noise, reaching for the menu in front of him and flipping it open slowly. “Something funny?”

Y/N gives a small shake of her head as she mimics Harry’s action, casting her eyes downwards towards the now revealed menu. “No, not at all.”

“You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” The vampire reaches across the table to touch his date’s hand, flipping her arm carefully so he can lay two ringed fingers against the thin skin of her wrist, the fragile hummingbird flutter of her heart thumping beneath it. “And I’m too excellent at reading people to let it go.”

“Too stubborn, you mean?” Y/N corrects him as she raises her own brow, but much to Harry’s delight, she doesn’t pull back from his icy touch as she did earlier.

Harry shrugs lightly, an unconcerned air tinting his attitude. “If that’s what you’d like to call it. Either way, I’d like to know why you’re laughing at me.”

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek, the action of her weighing her next words clearly written all over her face. “You seriously can’t tell me you don’t notice it.”

Cocking his head to the side, Harry gently yet consistently continues to stroke two fingers over Y/N’s velvety skin, the heat of her veins burning beneath his touch. “Notice what?”

Although she opens her mouth, Y/N’s reply is cut off by the clicking of high heels approaching their secluded corner, and it’s only a moment before a waitress (whom she assumes is Paige) is standing in front of their table. Like her coworker before her, Paige gives a brief hello to Y/N before turning all of her attention to Harry, smiling brightly at him as she gives her opening spiel.

“Hi! My name is Paige, and I’ll be your server today. Can I get some drinks started for you?” She asks, her hands clasped tightly in front of her (Y/N always hates when servers don’t write down orders; she knows it looks impressive, but the attention it takes to remember exact specifications gives her secondhand anxiety) as she addresses Harry.

The order is right at the tip of Harry’s tongue. “We’ll have two mimosas, please. And two ice waters, as well.” He replies, smiling briefly at her as his fingers continue to glide over Y/N’s wrist. The girl catches the way Paige’s eyes flicker to the movement, her (just barely) professional smile shifting for a fraction of a second before fixing itself, and while Y/N knows that it’s irrational, a small part of her can’t help but be pleased.

“Sounds good. I’ll be right back with those.” She chimes giddily, her heels clicking against the ground once more as she walks away.

The moment she’s left, Harry has his full attention turned back to Y/N. “You didn’t answer my question.” He murmurs, his emerald eyes alight with curiosity. “Notice what?”

An exasperated sigh sounds from Y/N as she makes a face. “The way they stare at you.” She answers, jerking her head over her shoulder towards the restaurant door. “The hostess, the server—they were both practically undressing you with their eyes. Are you telling me you didn’t notice that?”

Harry’s curious expression drops as he begins to shift in his seat, the stroking of his fingers over her wrist pausing for just one moment. Ah, Y/N thinks. Here it is. A confession that, yes, Harry did notice it, and Harry (and his ego) loved the attention, and he—

“I noticed it, yeah.” He begins, a reluctant look painting itself onto his statuesque features as a finger on his free hand rubs over his lion head ring.

A glum feeling of satisfaction settles into Y/N’s stomach, and she pulls her hand back a few inches, completely removing it from Harry’s grasp. “I thought so—”

“But I didn’t see the point in mentioning it.” Harry continues, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m here with you. Why would a spare look from a hostess or a server be anything but inconsequential to me?”

Huh.

“I…” For once, Y/N is stunned into silence. “Well, I just thought—”

“Y/N.” Her name sounds like a melody when it falls from Harry’s mouth, and the sincerity layered in his voice makes her snap her eyes to his. “Do you truly think I would flirt with a waitress on a date I asked you on? Does that sound like me?”

“Well, honestly…” Harry’s stare bores into hers, prickling Y/N’s skin with the new and nearly uncomfortable sensation of being seen. “I don’t want to think so, but considering how we met…”

“Ah.” Harry’s lips turn down into a small grimace, but quickly right themselves as he once again grasps her hand in his two large palms. “I won’t pretend that I’m not a bit of a—”

“Whore?”

Harry’s lip twitches in amusement again at the blatant tone of the girl’s voice. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about you slut-shaming me?”

The flush that overtakes Y/N’s face indicates that she remembers. “Yes, we did. But I seem to recall you agreeing. After you teased me for it, of course.”

“Of course. We both know how much you love teasing.” Harry digs his nails ever so slightly into her wrist, not enough to hurt, but enough to pull a small gasp from her mouth as his grip begins to mimic the handcuffs that she had begged him to use on her. “But all that aside...I couldn’t give less of a fuck about what they think of me. I’m here with you. Despite most of my flaws, my mother raised me right. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

The thunderous thumping of Y/N’s heart rings through Harry’s ears, a constant reminder of why he’s here. Beneath her soft skin, beneath every telltale mark and scar, beneath her glittering eyes and silky lips, there’s the thing that keeps Harry alive. Rushing through this girl’s arteries is the sustenance that Harry needs to survive, the sweetest liquid he’s ever consumed, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it at his beck and call. If being the gentleman of Y/N’s dreams is what will keep her available for him, then that’s what he’ll do. The pounding of her heart is the beat that keeps him in time with the tune of his life. It’s nothing more and nothing less.

Still, Harry chooses his next words attentively, to bring back a joking manner to the conversation. “Someone must have done a number on you, huh? Was everything not so charming in Smalltown, USA? Did your parents split when you were a kid?”

And although Harry asks the questions with a smirk on his face, laughter in his voice, and mirth in his eyes, he doesn’t miss the way Y/N’s breath hitches in her chest, how her hand tenses beneath his, and how her eyes drop for a fraction of a second. He’s touched a nerve, one that is obviously frayed and hurting, and the regret that instantly washes over him is tinged with the confusion of how he’s capable of feeling such an emotion so intensely.

“Um—” While Y/N knew that she had to tell Harry about her disastrous dating history sooner or later, she had really hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Is a discussion about one’s scumbag ex appropriate first date talk? Can she bring it up now, or should she wait until they’ve finished their appetizers?

“Alright, so I have two mimosas and two waters for you…” Paige’s return distracts Y/N from her dilemma for just a moment as the server sets down the four glasses in front of the respective recipients. With her attention turned back to Harry, she takes a step back from the table. “Are you ready to order?”

Y/N’s eyes snap to the open menu in front of her, which had become the least of her concerns over the last few minutes. “Oh, I haven’t—”

“We’ll get two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, please.” Harry closes his menu before reaching for Y/N’s and repeating the motion, handing them back to Paige with a charming yet neutral smile. “And a side of hashbrowns, please, to share.”

Brow furrowing as the server scurries away without giving her a second glance, Y/N gapes at Harry, her voice wrought with confusion. “Why did you order for me?”

Harry raises his mimosa to his lips and takes a long sip, setting the condensation-covered glass back down on the table before replying. “You didn’t know what you wanted, and the crepes are delicious. Did you want something else?” With a lick of his red lips, he glances over his shoulder. “I can call her back if—”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Y/N wraps her hand around the alcoholic drink, swirling her finger over the cold glass. “I can order for myself. I’m a grown woman. Do you think I’m not capable or something?”

Harry cocks his head to the side, appraising how the mortal’s expression is closing off with every passing moment. This bothers her, he realizes. The idea of him not thinking she’s capable of something bothers her, enough that she’s clenching her glass, and her normally clear eyes are swirling with anger more and more with every passing moment.

“I know you’re capable, Y/N. I just thought that…” Shifting in his seat, Harry clears his throat as he gathers his words in his mind. Wasn’t he supposed to be the one asking the questions? “It’s supposed to be polite.”

“In what century?” She replies, her mouth falling agape in surprise as her eyes widen. “Men used to order for women because women weren’t allowed to, right? Because men made the decisions? Holding open a door is one thing, but choosing for me—”

“Okay, maybe choosing for you was impolite. I thought you were unsure on what to order, but I should’ve asked first. I’m sorry.” Harry half mumbles the apology as an uncomfortable feeling of shame begins to buzz in his stomach. “But the ordering thing, that— men did that as a sign of respect, so women wouldn’t have to talk to someone they didn’t know. I really didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. My mum just taught me that it was polite, so I...it’s a habit. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

He watches as Y/N chews her bottom lip, seemingly contemplating the authenticness of his apology. Everything he had said was true, of course. His mother did teach him that it was polite to order something for a date so she wouldn’t have to speak to someone she doesn’t know. Of course, it was also true that the practice had died out a century ago, and most women now preferred to speak for themselves. Harry can’t begrudge Y/N if she dislikes what he did; she’s proved time and time again that she can be rather independent. However, Harry’s surprised at the disappointment he feels about her reaction. If this is going to be a proper date, he’d like to hold it up to his standards of proper.

“Alright.” The mortal says after a moment, releasing her lip from her teeth and finally raising her mimosa to her mouth. “You’re forgiven. But I think I’ve earned the right to compensation for your assumptions.”

“Compensation could be arranged, I suppose.” Harry leans forward with a sly grin, his fingers finding the delicate skin of Y/N’s wrist once more. “I feel like I’ve been fairly firm on the no sex thing, but I could pencil you in for some compensation tomorrow evening, if that works for you.”

Y/N swirls the liquid in her glass as she bites back a smirk. “I was thinking of something a little different than an orgasm, actually.”

“What could possibly be better than an orgasm given by me?” Harry questions, his free hand fingering the cross around his neck. “Didn’t you once compare them to a gift from God?”

“I don’t recall ever saying that, actually.” The mortal girl replies in a dry voice, setting her glass down with a decisive thunk. “I don’t want an orgasm—”

“Oh, that’s a bloody lie—”

“I want information.” Tapping her fingers against the table, Y/N stares Harry down with firm eyes. “Like where did you grow up that your mother taught you it was appropriate to speak for a woman? Or why have you avoided any personal questions I’ve tried to ask over the last month?”

Harry retracts his hand from Y/N’s wrist as she voices her inquisition, settling his fingers on the rim of his mimosa to begin tracing the smooth glass. “To be fair, pet, you haven’t asked many personal questions. You’ve been too busy bouncing on my cock, haven’t you?”

“Maybe, but I won’t be today, as per our agreement.” Y/N steeps her fingers together as she leans towards him, the comical sight of her posture forcing Harry to repress a snort. “And you brought up personal questions first, Holmes. So you kind of screwed yourself, didn’t you?”

“I suppose I did. I’ve gotten so used to you doing the screwing, Watson. Guess I’m getting sloppy— although you seem to like that.” Harry can’t help but get in one last dig before conceding, taking a long gulp of his beverage before smacking his lips. “I’ll tell you what.” He says, pointing a jeweled finger at his date with his glass still wrapped tightly in his hand. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Pursing her lips, Y/N quirks up an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“Let’s play a little question game.” Harry sets down his glass as he elaborates, his signature smirk growing over his cherry lips. “We alternate questions back and forth, asking whatever we’ve wanted to know. And the other person has to answer it honestly.”

Or as honestly as possible, Harry amends in his head. For obvious reasons, he’ll have to fabricate the majority of his answers, but that’s nothing new to him. Over the years, he’s had to create multiple spiels about his childhood, taking tiny pieces of truths and weaving them together with updated lies. Spitting out a few standard stories about where he grew up and why he left London is small change compared to his burning desire to know more about Y/N’s past.

The mortal chews on the inside of her cheek again, weighing her options in her head as she holds Harry’s questioning stare. As much as she hates to discuss her life story, and as much as she’d been hoping to hide it from Harry, she knows that she has to be honest with him if she wants him to be honest with her. As awkward as it may be, she’ll have to tell the stories sometime.

“Alright.” She relents after a moment, blowing out a harsh breath and lifting her mimosa to her lips. “But I get to ask the first question. Ladies first, and all that.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Harry flashes a cheeky grin at her, his left eye dropping into a quick wink. “Start your inquisition, Watson.”

Harry’s been in this position millions of times, so he knows the types of questions that are about to tumble from Y/N’s pretty lips. She’ll start off by asking where he grew up, and where he went to school, and how many siblings he has, before moving to things like why he moved to L.A., and how he made friends, and—

“What else did your mother teach you, besides manners?” Y/N asks suddenly, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth to catch a stray drop of liquid on her bottom lip as she lowers her glass. “And what was the most important thing?”

The nature of the question catches Harry so off guard that he doesn’t remember to quell the throb in his chest where his heart used to beat at the mention of his mother, and the old half healed wound flares with pain. What had his mother taught him? Harry ponders the question as Y/N’s curious eyes ponder him. What hadn’t she taught him?

“My mother taught me…many things. Many good things. She was a wonderful woman.” Harry begins honestly, albeit carefully, speaking in a measured voice as his eyes fall to her opal ring that sits upon his pinky. “She taught me how to read as a child, before I began school. She taught me...she taught me how to cook a bit. I’m not nearly as good as she was, but I’m passable. And yes, she did teach me how to behave around women, how to be respectful. But the most important thing…”

Y/N watches as Harry’s eyes bore into the ring on his finger, as if he’s staring into a crystal ball of the past to search for an answer. Perhaps, in a way, he is.

“The most important thing,” Harry repeats again, his eyes finally snapping away from the entrapment of the ring. “Was how to let someone know you appreciate them. It’s easy, I think, to go about your day without telling someone you care for them.” Stroking his thumb over the band of the ring, Harry thinks back to the countless ways his mother had wordlessly shown Harry and his sister how much she adored them. “Little touches, or little favours, things like that— those go a long way. They help someone feel less alone. They can be the difference between a good day and a bad day. She used to, um,” A lump suddenly develops in his throat, and Harry struggles to swallow it down as he voices a memory he hasn’t spoken aloud in over a century. “She used to comb her fingers through my hair when I was a little boy, whenever I was upset. I’d come home from—“ Harry cuts himself off before he mentions his father’s blacksmith forge, where he was an apprentice. “—from school, and she would take one look at me and be able to see I was frustrated. She always sat in this big chair in front of the fireplace, and she’d pat her lap, and I’d sit in front of her knees and lay my head on her leg, and she’d card her fingers through my hair as I told her every bad thing that happened that day.” Unconsciously, Harry raises his own hand to his chestnut curls, raking his fingers through them. The motion doesn’t bring nearly as much comfort as it once did. “She always listened. She never made me feel like my problems were silly. She just listened. It made me feel better. Made me feel…” The vampire’s hand drifts from his hair to his lips, rubbing over them pensively. “Loved.”

The mortal girl’s eyes soften as she listens to the memories of the man in front of her, who begins to look younger and younger with every word that falls from his lips. Although she’s surprised by the candor of his answer, it pleases her; she thought pulling truths from Harry would be like pulling teeth. One note of his story, however, catches her attention with an ache.

“You said...you said she was a wonderful woman.” Y/N murmurs, carefully gauging Harry’s reaction to the question. “Is she...not anymore?”

“I’m sure she would be, but she passed away a…a while ago.” Harry’s eyes shift to the ring again, the dainty band with its opal stone standing out from the rest of his chunky jewelry. Y/N wonders if that’s because it once belonged to someone else. “She got sick, and couldn’t get better.”

With a careful but tender motion, Y/N slides her hand across the table and settles it on top of Harry’s, cupping his larger hand in her smaller grasp. “I’m so sorry.” The sincerity in her voice snags Harry’s attention, and the vampire looks up to find the mortal staring at him with understanding eyes. “I can’t imagine how awful that must have been for you. You must miss her very much.”

It takes Harry a moment to clear the lump from his throat enough that he can choke out a response. “I-I do, yeah. Every day.” He’s not sure if it’s his icy skin or the burn of Y/N’s touch, but he slowly pulls his hand from beneath her grasp, reaching for his glass of ice water instead. He gulps down half the liquid, setting the cup down with a decisive thunk before pasting a strained smile onto his face. “But that’s enough of my sob story, don’t you think? It’s my turn to ask a question.”

A small frown works its way over Y/N’s face as Harry pulls away, and she clasps her now empty hands together around the stem of her mimosa glass. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“The answer to my previous inquiry.” Harry’s emerald irises sweep over her figure, his tongue poking between his teeth as his simper becomes more genuine. “Someone must’ve really done a number on you if opening a door for you is a shock. What’s the story there?”

Although she knew that this would be Harry’s first question, Y/N still bides her time by knocking back the rest of her mimosa in one swift gulp, wrinkling her nose at the lingering taste that catches in the back of her throat. “His name was Bradley.” She begins, tapping a fingernail against the delicate glass. “And he—”

“So sorry to cut you off, darling, but,” Harry raises a finger to pause her speech, his rings glinting in the L.A. sun. “Bradley? You fucked someone named Bradley?”

“It was a small town! It’s not like I had many options!” Y/N argues hotly, her eyes rolling harder than they ever have before. “Now are you going to be quiet and listen politely, or are you going to keep interrupting me before I can even begin?”

Harry laughs once, shaking his head with an amused air. “Sorry. Continue.” Despite the teasing smirk still tugging at his lips, Harry raises a hand to the corner of his mouth, pretending to lock it shut with an imaginary key. He even takes care to slide the invisible key into his shirt pocket, patting it with satisfaction once the deed is done.

Y/N takes one more moment to glare at him, but Harry’s newfound silence continues, and so she does, as well. “His name was Bradley. I met him through a mutual friend in our freshman year of high school. I’d seen him around before, but we’d never talked, really. And after he asked me to Homecoming, he just kind of…stuck.” The girl shrugs in a way of explanation. “Like, he started coming around more to my house, taking me out to movies. And it was nice. The attention, I mean. There was no one else I was really interested in at school, and Bradley was cute, and he was friendly, and our families really liked each other. It made sense.”

As she speaks, a crease works its way between Harry’s perfectly sculpted brows. Most mortal romances, he’s come to find, are rather dull, but this one seems more boring than others, and he can’t stop himself from raising his jeweled hand in the air as if he were in one of the classes Y/N mentioned, waiting for the teacher to call on him for an answer.

When Y/N notices the hand, an exasperated sigh falls from her mouth, but she leans across the table and retrieves the imaginary key from Harry’s shirt pocket, her warm fingers leaving pinpricks of fire across his chest. A small smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips as those warm fingers touch the lifted spot, mimicking an unlocking motion before she sits back in her seat. “Yes?”

Harry rests a bent elbow on the table, propping his chin up on his fist as he leans forward. “I have a question.” He begins innocently, watching as Y/N narrows her eyes at his sudden polite intrigue.

“Yes?” She repeats again, wariness written into her tone as she evaluated the suspicious air of Harry’s behaviour.

“I was just wondering how big Bradley’s dick is.” Harry’s grin grows to wicked proportions as Y/N’s mouth falls open in shock. “Because, honestly, he doesn’t seem to have that much going for him, and I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out why you dated him, and the only answer I can come up with is—“

“That his dick must be huge?”

“That he’s well endowed, yes.” Harry finishes smugly, tapping a finger against his chin. “I’m curious. Are we talking about a carrot? A cucumber? A zucchini?” Lip twitching again, Harry stifles a laugh as Y/N’s face hardens with exasperation. “A stalk of celery? I suppose the length could be a selling point, but if there’s not enough girth to fill you—”

“His dick wasn’t the reason I dated him.” Y/N replies flatly, a deadpan stare meeting Harry’s mirth filled eyes. “Although, since you’re curious…it was the size of a cucumber, but not an English cucumber. More of a garden variety. Not incredibly girthy, but good for a beginner.”

“A beginner?” Intrigue sparks at the pit of Harry’s belly (along with what he thinks is jealousy, but he’ll wait to dissect that at a later date) as the vampire leans forward more. “This bloke was your first?”

“We were together for years, so—” Y/N cuts herself off with a shake of her head, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger nervously. “No, wait, that’s another question! You don’t get another question if I didn’t!”

“But you haven’t finished answering my first question—”

“I would if you’d stop interrupting!” Silencing Harry with a stern look, Y/N holds up her left hand, pinching two of her fingers together. “Do I need to pretend to lock your mouth again like I would a seven year old, or can you sit and listen like an adult for five minutes? What happened to that old fashioned chivalry from earlier?”

Harry lets out a defeated sigh, sitting back in his chair with proper posture. He takes a moment to adjust himself, straightening his back, fixing the fall of his shirt, adjusting his cross, planting his feet on the ground of the patio, and finishing off the show by rolling out his shoulders before squaring them. “Alright, I’m sorry. I’m ready to listen. Please continue.”

The young woman inhales deeply, testing Harry’s rapt attention as she takes her time sipping her ice water. When she sets the glass down and finds that Harry has stayed perfectly still, his irises glued to her, she continues.

“So Bradley and I got together our freshman year, and stayed together for the rest of high school. It was comfortable. His mom liked me, and my parents liked him. He came to church with us—” Y/N notes that Harry’s eyebrow lifts a quarter of an inch, but only for a moment before dropping back down into its neutral state. “—and he and I went out once or twice a week. He was…nice. But he didn’t do the stuff that you do, the…etiquette stuff.” She taps an index finger against the table, thinking back to all the movie and diner dates that have blurred together in her mind. “Well, he’d try, I suppose, but not in the way you do. Whenever he did something that was supposed to be chivalrous or gallant, it felt like he was doing it because he thought I was incapable. And when I brought it up, he got mad.” Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shy shrug as she smiles apologetically at Harry. “That’s why I didn’t understand you ordering for me. I know you didn’t mean it in the way he did, I can tell that, but it just kind of…reminded me of him. It left a bad taste in my mouth; he left a bad taste in my mouth, I guess.”

A beat of silence falls between them, and the intense way that Harry is looking at her is prickling the hair on the back of Y/N’s neck.

“I get that.” The brunette speaks after a moment, voice low and accent thick. “Being haunted by someone. Even after they’re gone, even after time passes…something can remind you of them, and it can be enough to bring you to your knees.”

Although Harry’s eyes are locked on hers, Y/N has the distinct feeling that he’s seeing someone else in her place. Before she can ask what he means, however, he’s blinked himself out of the self-imposed trance.

“So what was the final straw?” Harry clears his throat quietly as his mind comes back to the present. “Between you and Cucumber Dick?”

A tiny giggle escapes Y/N’s mouth despite her far from humorous answer. “Well—”

The telltale clicking of heels interrupts the unspoken thought, and within a moment, Paige is standing next to their table once again, a tray balanced on her hand with precision as she offers another one of her smiles to Harry. “Here you go—two orders of the chorizo and goat cheese crepes, and a side of hash browns.” The server sets the first plate down in front of Harry, but he quickly lifts it again and sets it down carefully in front of Y/N before accepting the second dish. He repeats the motions with the hash browns, sliding them to the middle of the table and within Y/N’s reach.

“Thank you.” Harry speaks with a kind tone, but offers no other comment to the girl, who’s allowed her eyes to slide to the dark ink that decorates Harry’s arms.

“Of course.” Paige stutters, giving no pretense of paying attention to Y/N. “Could I get you anything else?”

Harry glances at Y/N’s empty mimosa glass, raising an eyebrow in question. “Would you like another drink?” He asks her slowly, his voice unsure. Normally, he’d just order a second one for her without a thought, but now that he knows how she feels about him ordering for her, he’ll have to work on beating back that particular bit of Victorian etiquette.

“I would, yes.” Y/N replies with a smile as she touches the stem of her empty glass. “Thank you.”

A strained smile flickers over Paige’s lips. “No problem. I’ll be right back.”

Harry nods in satisfaction as he watches the server retreat. “There. We have a few more minutes. Keep talking.”

“Ah ah ah.” Y/N picks up her fork and sticks it into the hash browns, pulling away a crispy bite for herself. “I think I get to ask a question now, especially since you’ve crammed a few different inquiries into your last turn.”

“And here I was, thinking you loved when I crammed things into—”

“Harry.”

A teasing smile breaks across the vampire’s face, more genuine than Harry thought possible. “Fine.” He relents, cutting the corner off his crepes and popping the savory bite into his mouth. “What else would you like to know?”

Where to begin? Y/N considers his question pensively as she takes a bite of her own crepe, her expression raising in surprise when she finds that she enjoys Harry’s entrée choice. The smokiness and spice of the chorizo is undercut by the tangy saltiness of the cheese, all wrapped together with a few garnishes in the perfectly cooked crepe. Savoring the bite as she chews, Y/N begins to run through the list of questions in her head.

She could ask more about his family, but if the aching sadness that had radiated off of him at the mention of his mother was any hint, any answers Harry could give on that topic may be off tone for a first date. And while inquiring about what he said before, about being haunted by someone seems promising, it may also be a bit too much. As much as she dislikes talking about her personal life, she gets the feeling that Harry absolutely abhors it, and while she was surprised about him asking her on a date, she’s been even more surprised to find herself enjoying it. The last thing she needs is to fuck that all up by interrogating him about an ex.

With those two possibilities pushed aside, only one burning question is left on the tip of Y/N’s tongue, and she hurriedly swallows her mouthful of crepe before letting it fall. “Alright, I’ve got it.” Cocking her head to the side, Y/N points her fork at the man in an accusatory manner. “Did you ask me out on this date just because you were jealous I was out with Jacob? Was that the only reason? Because you saw me with him, and you didn’t like it?”

Harry wraps his ringed hand around his water glass, the metal of his jewelry clinking against the surface as he pulls a face. Even if he wanted to be honest with Y/N about this, Harry isn’t quite sure what the honest answer would be.

“I’ll admit, I was a little…bothered by it.” Reluctance is threaded through every word that Harry manages to spit out. “Moreso by your taste in men than anything else— Jacob wasn’t exactly up to par.”

“It wasn’t like I chose him myself.” Y/N retorts, pulling a grape from the bunch of side fruit on her plate and popping it into her mouth. “Was that really all that bothered you? That he wasn’t up to par?”

Tapping his fingers against the wooden table, Harry takes a moment to ponder the question. “No.” He says finally, deciding to continue his honesty streak. “No, that wasn’t all that bothered me. You’re right, I didn’t like seeing you with him, but it wasn’t because of him. Not entirely, anyways. I can’t imagine I would’ve liked seeing you with anyone.”

A light flush works its way over the mortal’s cheeks, and Harry can hear the stuttered thumping of her heart. “Why?” She asks in a half whisper, her teeth worrying her bottom lip unconsciously. “Why is that?”

Harry muses the various answers he could give as Paige brings them refills on their mimosas. It’s not like he can tell her that he wants to keep her available for snacking whenever he gets a little thirsty. Well, he could, but then he’d have to wipe her mind, and he’s not particularly inclined to do that at the moment. And, if he’s being honest with himself…he’s not entirely sure that’s the truth anymore. Is sheer convenience the reason behind his terrible reaction to Y/N seeing someone else? Or is that reaction linked to the way he felt when she opened her door to him that morning, and the sight of her all dolled up for him hit him like a truck?

Either way, none of those answers are suitable to confess in the moment, so Harry merely gives a dimpled grin. “That’s another question, darling. We’re not very good at limiting ourselves, are we?”

“I suppose not, no.” Y/N smiles sheepishly as she takes a sip of her fresh mimosa, her eyes watching Harry over the rim of the glass. “Your turn, then. What else do you want to know?”

What else would he like to know? Harry thinks, taking another bite of chorizo as he mulls over the question. Now that the floodgates have opened, now that he has the opportunity, now that he has the ability to ask, Harry wants to know everything. He wants to know what makes Y/N tick, what her pet peeves are, and if she prefers mornings or nights. He wants to know what her favourite school subject was, if she was ever in her school’s plays, or on any of the sports teams. He wants to know her favourite flavour of ice cream, what TV shows she binge watches when she wants to distract herself, and if she’s really read all those books that line the floor to ceiling shelf in her room. He wants to know her, he realizes. She’s more fascinating than he ever thought possible, and her blood is more addicting than he knew. He wants to know every aspect that molded her into the person sitting before him. And one of those aspects is—

“Why did things end between you and Bradley?” He finally asks, his voice low and cautious. “Was it mutual, or...?”

Despite the time Harry took to think of his question, Y/N knew exactly what it was going to be, and she has her answer ready to go the moment the words roll from Harry’s pillowy lips. “He was cheating on me.” She admits with a sigh, her eyes glued to her mimosa glass as she swirls the orange liquid within it. “He went away for university, and I stayed home. I guess he met someone at school.” Allowing her eyes to flick up to Harry for a moment, Y/N finds the man staring at her blankly with a harsh crease between his brows. “I kind of thought it was going to end, honestly. He began to get more and more distant...we’d talk less over Skype or the phone...but I didn’t think he’d…” She trails off for a moment, thinking back to the day she found out. “Well. He did. I found out from his roommate, and the next day, he and I were through. And almost five years of memories, time together, shared moments...all of that was just gone.”

Although it’s been years since things ended, and Y/N has moved on in tenfold, she can’t help the way her voice aches at the end of her explanation, which acts as proof of how the raw wound had healed in a way that wasn’t quite right. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many people she’s been with, no matter how little she cares for Bradley now...nothing will change the fact that he hurt her. Nothing will mend the jagged scar he created. Sure, it may fade with time, but it’ll never disappear completely. And as much as Y/N hates that Bradley still has an effect on her after all this time, she can’t change it. She’s tried.

“That…” Harry’s cool hand wrapping around her own drags her back to the present, and she lifts her eyes to find the man staring at her with the most tender expression she’s ever seen his sculpted face wear. “That’s awful, Y/N. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“It’s—it’s fine. Really.” Y/N half mumbles the words, distracted by the small circles Harry’s thumb is rubbing against the bone of her wrist.

Chestnut curls swaying, Harry adamantly shakes his head, the crease between his brows deepening with each passing moment. “Don’t. It’s not fine. You don’t have to make excuses for someone who hurt you.”

“I’m not making an excuse, I just—”

“Did he hurt you?” Harry’s jade irises fixate on her own with determination. “Yes or no?”

Once Y/N locks her eyes with Harry, she can’t look away. His gaze nears hypnotic the more she looks. “Yes. He hurt me.”

“Then he doesn’t deserve you making excuses for him.” The vampire squeezes her hand to emphasize his answer. Although he’s not compelling her to understand him, Harry looks at her with an unfamiliar sincerity that he hopes makes the depth of his words resonate within her. “You may be fine now, or you may not be, but the situation itself wasn’t fine. Don’t use your healing as an excuse for his behaviour. You shouldn’t have had to heal yourself in the first place.”

The gravity of his words rings in Y/N’s ears, and the girl gapes at him for a moment, her mouth half open in shock, before the realization of what he’s saying hits her. The way he’s staring at her…it’s nearly uncomfortable, the way he sees her. She almost can’t bear it. How does he know to say exactly what she needs to hear, even if she doesn’t know she needs to hear it? Since the first night they slept together, when he reassured her that she could relax and let loose, Harry has been honest and reassuring. And although Y/N has greatly appreciated that trait in the bedroom, when she’s been at her most vulnerable in a physical aspect…her eyes lock with Harry’s once more, finding them still as steadfast as ever. This may be the most vulnerable she’s been emotionally in a long time. And the idea of that, for once, doesn’t completely terrify her.

The questions get more and more personal from there. Although there’s a few lighthearted inquiries sprinkled in to ease the tension (“What was the name of your first pet?” “It was a cat named Mr. Snuffleupagus. I named him after the Sesame Street character. What’s your earliest childhood memory?” “My sister nearly drowning me in a lake. She thought I would float.”), the majority of questions asked are things that neither person ever thought they would admit to someone else.

Those questions range from vaguely prying (“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” “Seventeen. It was with—” “Bradley and his beginner penis, right.” “Alright, smart ass, who did you lose yours to?” “My first girlfriend.”) to diving deep into memories, stories, and opinions that neither have so much as breathed to themselves in the dark of the night, let alone someone else.

Despite the plan having been to leave after brunch, the pair find themselves engrossed in their conversation, drinking mimosa after mimosa as the late morning bleeds into early afternoon, and they continue to discover each other.

As Y/N takes a sip of her fourth beverage, Harry regards her with curious eyes, which are focused on picking apart every moment of her body to dissect and devour in his head when he’s alone that night. “So you said pretty much everyone from your hometown marries their high school sweetheart.” He asks slowly, rubbing a jeweled finger over his ice-swollen lips. “But you didn’t, obviously.”

“No, I did not.” Y/N says in agreement, a tipsy snort sounding from the back of her throat as she raises her fluted glass in a toast. “Thank fuck, honestly. Could you imagine me as a wife right now? And a mother? With children?”

Finger tapping against his lip, a cheeky grin tugs at the very corner of his mouth. “No, I couldn’t, frankly.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he answers. “But what I’d like to know is…do you believe in it? Marriage, I mean? Because you said your parents had rough patches, and you thought they mostly stayed together just to stay together, and you and Gherkin Pickle didn’t last—”

“I’m sorry, Gherkin Pickle—?”

“So what I want to know is…” With his thumb and knuckle still grazing his chin, Harry points his finger at the girl across the table. “Marriage. Do you think there’s value in it? Do you think someone can be monogamous for their entire life? Do you want to get married someday?”

The alcohol is beginning to soak into Y/N’s brain, making her bolder with every thump of her heart in her chest. She leans across the table to ghost her fingers over Harry’s knuckles, continuing to glide them over his cool skin until she reaches his statement rings. “Why?” She asks, a smirk twinkling its way onto her face. “Are you asking?”

“Not quite yet, no.” Harry can feel the alcohol beginning to buzz through his stagnant veins, and he’ll later blame his flirtatious response on the pleasant feeling. “Although you in that dress has me half considering it.”

“Only half considering it?” Y/N clicks her tongue in feigned disappointment, swirling the tip of her index finger over the opal ring that sits upon Harry’s pinkie. “That’s a bit disheartening. I’ll have to up my game, huh?”

The sight of Y/N’s lithe finger tracing his mother’s ring sends a shock through Harry’s buzzing body. He can’t quite tell if it’s the witty banter that she matches perfectly and with ease, the lighthearted smile that lifts her soft lips, the gentle pulse he can feel reverberating through her fingertip, or the cleavage that’s just barely slipping out of her dress as she leans over, but Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the mortal girl, not for one second. He doesn’t want to miss a single moment of her like this. How it’s all for him.

“You know, I’m starting to regret my earlier proposal.” He murmurs quietly, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue as he watches the mortal take a long sip of her mimosa. “How much begging would it take to convince you to follow me to the bathroom right now for a little fun?”

Despite the warmth pooling between her thighs at the offer, Y/N shakes her head. “Too much begging.” She replies, setting her glass back down on the table with a soft clink. She can already tell there’s a good chance that she’ll go back on the agreement they made, but she wants to make him sweat first. As much as it tortures her, she knows it tortures him more. And he’s certainly done his fair share of torturing. Now it’s her turn. “But speaking of proposals…”

To his credit, Harry doesn’t push the subject of bathroom quickies again. “Right.” He pauses with his glass half raised to his lips. “Marriage. Thoughts?”

Harry’s attention is rapt as his eyes drift to the mortal’s lips, which pucker slightly as her lightly inebriated mind thinks through the question. Not for the first time, he wishes he had the ability to take a look inside her head and see how her thoughts form before she voices them.

“I think…” She fixes her fork against her plate with a clink, her voice light but thoughtful as she forms her response. “I do think there’s value in marriage, but not inherently. It’s not valuable just because it exists; I think it becomes valuable based on the work you put into it. My parents, for example…” Her finger begins to circle Harry’s icy knuckle absentmindedly. “My parents didn’t put much work in, so I don’t think their marriage has that much value in comparison to what it could have if they tried. But if two people put effort in, and strive to be the best partner they can be…I think there’s tremendous value in that.”

Harry responds with a low hum in the back of his throat. “That stands to reason.” He wishes he could take her hand in his own, but the sensation of her warm fingers tracing his skin is too wonderful to pull away. “What about monogamy? Do you think it’s realistic?”

“I suppose my answer is the same.” Y/N shrugs lightly as her soft skin catches on the corner of Harry’s H ring. “It’s different for everyone, but I do think it can be realistic. What’s not realistic is the idea that it’s easy. People change over time, right? Sometimes someone can change into someone completely different. You have to expect that, and be flexible with it.”

For the first time since the beginning of their date, an uncomfortably negative feeling buzzes in the pit of Harry’s belly. Of course Y/N thinks people change—she’s mortal. But Harry, on the other hand… Harry is forever frozen at twenty-six. Harry is static. Harry is stagnant. However Y/N will change, Harry cannot match it. Ever.

That realization helps him identify the uncomfortable feeling as his eyes fall on the girl’s finger tracing his rings. It’s longing, he discovers, unable to look away from the way her fingernail scratches his immortal skin without so much as leaving a pinkening mark. Harry will never change again, while Y/N has a whole life of it ahead of her. Millions of possibilities that lead to millions of more possibilities, always shifting, never staying the same from one moment to the next.

“As for your last question…” Y/N’s familiar cadence pulls Harry from his thoughts. “I’m not sure. I wouldn’t completely rule out marriage, but it’s not an active goal of mine. It all depends on finding someone I think I could grow with and still love at the end of every day. And despite how simple that sounds,” The short laugh that leaves her mouth is wistful, but hides a tinge of bitterness. “It’s surprisingly hard to find.”

“It is, yeah.” Harry agrees, finishing the remnants of his mimosa with one fell swoop. “Incredibly hard.” His gaze sweeps to Y/N’s glass, which has about one more gulp of liquid left in it. With the hand not within her grasp, he reaches across the table, picking up the glass and lifting it to her lips. “May I, pet?”

He can hear the way her heartbeat stutters in her chest, and feel the heat radiating off her cheeks as she nods slowly. Harry places the glass between her lips, carefully tilting it back until the drink runs out of the crystal and into her awaiting mouth. A small droplet streaks from the corner of Y/N’s mouth, and Harry is sure to catch it on his finger after setting the glass down.

Y/N knows that Harry is doing his best to fluster her, and while it’s working, she knows that she can play the game just as well as he can. Keeping her eyes on his like a challenge, she grasps the hand touching the corner of her mouth, guiding his finger beyond her lips with a firm grip. The sweetness of the orange juice and champagne concoction swells across her tongue, but that’s nothing compared to the sweetness of watching Harry’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallows thickly.

Pulling his finger from her mouth with a quiet pop, Y/N sets his hand back down on the table, squeezing it once before releasing both of his hands and resting her elbows on the table. She steeples her fingers together, setting her chin on the makeshift rest as she regards Harry’s darkening eyes.

“Thanks.” She murmurs, tilting her head to the side lazily as Harry shifts in his chair. “Didn’t realize I missed a drop. That was a sharp catch, Holmes.”

Harry can’t help but flex his finger as his gaze drops to the digit, catching how a light sheen of saliva covers his skin. Heat floods between his thighs, making him regret his choice of fashionable linen pants over standard jeans. “Thank you, Watson.” He matches her banter, albeit with a slightly strained voice. “Shall we order another drink, now that we’ve both finished?”

The question hangs in the air between them like an invitation, open ended and carefully calculated. Y/N leans forward again, unlocking one of her hands to run a finger over the dark ink staining Harry’s exposed forearm. “I think we should grab the check, actually.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue as she feels Harry’s muscle tense under her touch. “I think I’ve had enough to drink. Have you?”

All the moisture in Harry’s mouth disappears, his throat burning as the mortal girl’s scent envelops him with every move. His eyes flicker to her neck, where the thumping of her heart is practically visible underneath her fragile skin. With his inhuman eyes, he can just make out the ghost of a bruise he sucked into her neck a few nights before.

Has he had enough to drink? No. He’ll never get enough. But that’s not what Y/N means by the innocuous question.

“I’ve had my fill, yeah.” Jerking his head in agreement, Harry motions towards the window, where he knows Paige has been analyzing every move between them. Her displeasure at the close interactions between Harry and Y/N is nearly palpable as she makes her way back to their table, and Harry wonders if Y/N can also sense it, as she seems to be more perceptive than the average human. When he turns his attention back to her, however, his brow creases in confusion.

“What are you doing?” He asks, watching as Y/N shifts through her woven bag and extracts her wallet.

“Grabbing my wallet?” Her expression is just as confused as his own when she replies. “To pay?”

“To—? No. Put that away.” Harry says sternly, using the same dominant tone he adopts in the bedroom (only half on purpose). “This is a date. I’m paying.”

“This isn’t the 18th century, H. We can split the bill.” Y/N begins to roll her eyes as she opens her wallet, reaching for the debit card stamped neatly with her name.

“I’m well aware it’s not the 18th century, love.” Lip twitching from the wry irony, Harry gently places his hand on her own and closes her wallet. “But it’s a date— our first one, at that— and I’d like to pay for you. It’s just manners.”

Although he can feel the grip on her wallet loosening, there’s still a degree of hesitancy apparent in Y/N’s eyes. “Harry—”

“And I don’t mean that in a chauvinistic way, and I don’t mean to imply that you’re incapable of paying.” He swipes his thumb over her knuckle once, letting his physical touch reinforce his words. “I asked you out, yeah? So I think it’s only fair that I pay.”

Harry’s eyes flicker to Y/N’s pillowy lips as she worries them between her teeth, her resolve getting weaker and weaker with every passing moment. It only takes three more beats of her heart for her to give a small nod, and Harry, satisfied that she’s agreed, reaches for his wallet to pay the bill.

Despite the temptation to short change Paige on the tip for her disregard for his date, Harry still leaves a sizable tip, saying goodbye to the server with a polite— and only polite— smile. Once she has her back turned, however, Harry flashes his most genuine grin at Y/N as he scoots his chair away from the table to stand.

Y/N’s hands grip the sides of her chair to match Harry’s motion, but she freezes once she sees the man step towards her. Within a moment, his jeweled hands are wrapped around the back of her chair, carefully pulling it out before offering her a hand to help her stand.

“Is this going to be a thing now?” Y/N asks, nodding to their clasped hands as she pulls her bag over her shoulder. “Pulling out chairs, opening doors—”

Placing his hand on the small of her back once again, Harry scoffs. “It’s always been a thing,” He argues, guiding her to the patio door and through the restaurant. “You’ve just been dating pricks, apparently.”

Despite his answer, however, even Harry can’t deny that the urge to resurrect his Victorian etiquette is as strange as it is sudden. And, truth be told, there is something deeply pleasing in the light flush of blood he can hear work its way over Y/N’s cheeks when he opens the door of the restaurant for her, opens the car door, takes her hand to help her in, and shuts the door carefully before making his way to the driver’s side.

It’s easy to spend the short drive back to her building with his hand entwined with hers, their fingers woven together as Harry’s thumb moves over her knuckles. Y/N’s skin, like usual, is so warm, almost as if she’s made from sunshine herself. At this point, Harry wouldn’t be surprised to learn that; her blood could certainly pass for being made from stardust.

It’s all too soon that Harry is pulling into a parking spot in front of Y/N’s building and turning the key in the ignition, his favourite car smoothly powering down in one fell swoop. Once the sound of the engine dies down, his eyes refocus on the girl next to him.

Y/N, in comparison, is just as focused on Harry as Harry is on her. She knows that it’s time to let go of his hand, time to climb out of the car, time to return to her apartment alone. Time to fall out of the fantasy that has been this afternoon. Despite knowing all of this, however, she stays glued to the seat, her eyes locked with Harry’s emerald irises in a soft battle.

Harry is well aware of the predicament he’s found himself in. While he was the one to establish the no sex rule in an attempt to keep Y/N comfortable, it’s becoming harder and harder to stick to it with every passing moment. If he was smart, he’d bid the girl goodbye here, allow her to walk herself into her building, thereby erasing any possibility of him charming her into allowing him inside her apartment. Then, once he was safely back home, he could draw himself a hot bath, scent it with lavender epsom salts, close his eyes to picture the way Y/N looks with laughter in her eyes, the sun spilling across her cheeks, her dress’ neckline falling dangerously low, and tug himself to a tension-relieving climax.

However, Harry has never been known for his intelligence. Not as much as he’s been known for his recklessness.

Before he can second guess his most likely terrible decisions, Harry is out of the car and opening Y/N’s door. He’s helping her out. He’s guiding her into her building, and climbing up the stairs of her fifth floor walk up with her hand locked in his. And now he’s standing in front of her apartment door, with Y/N shyly looking at him as she bites her fucking lip, completely unaware of the rampage raging inside the vampire before her.

And the most infuriating, frustrating thing about the entire situation is the way Y/N is looking at him, like she can barely hold his gaze, but can’t force herself to look away. Harry can feel the waves of need and uncertainty radiating from her, hear the thumping of her heart in her chest. The last time she looked at him like this, like she’s unsure of where they stand, was the first night they met. Harry remembers how she fumbled with her keys, nervously invited him in, and then let him use her in a way that literally drove him to his most primal state. He remembers the euphoria of sinking his teeth into her neck, tasting her ridiculously sweet blood for the first time as his orgasm rolled over him, wave after wave of intense pleasure blurring together as his eyes burned crimson, the lewd sounds of their bodies moving together, the desperate whines that echoed from her throat...

“Thank you for lunch.” Y/N’s sweet voice interrupts his walk down memory lane, and with good timing— five more seconds, and Harry would have been pushing her against her front door to rut her dress up and slip inside her. “And the drinks. I had a really nice time.”

Clearing his throat, Harry pushes the indecent thoughts from his head as best he can. He can take care of this later, he tells himself. He just has to be a gentleman for a few more minutes, and then he can go home, and be as depraved as he needs to be. “I did, as well.” The vampire squeezes her hand in preparation of letting go of it. “A really lovely time, actually. I’d like to do it again.”

The way Y/N’s eyes widen ever so slightly as her breath just barely hitches, both of which would be imperceivable to human senses, makes Harry bite back a laugh. “I would too.” A more reassured smile rolls over her face as she leads his hand to her waist, setting it just over her hip and squeezing his fingers around her love handles.

Even after everything Harry has done to her, all the ways he’s seen her, felt her, made her feel— even after all that— his hand on her hip over her dress still sends a shiver down her spine. “I don’t want you to go…” She confesses in a quiet voice, rubbing her thumb over his icy knuckles. “It feels strange, not having you come inside…”

“I know.” A sigh escapes Harry’s lips as he leans down, brushing his forehead over hers as he murmurs his response, his voice dangerously low. “But if I come inside, I know what I’ll do. And I promised that I would behave myself today.”

“I don’t mind breaking promises.” Y/N wisps, closing her eyes as Harry’s breath, tinged with orange from the mimosa and mint from the candy the restaurant gave them with the bill, rolls over her in a delicious wave.

Nudging his nose against her own, Harry shakes his head with the smallest of motions, his fingertips digging further into Y/N’s love handles. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” His lips ghost over hers, barely even brushing before he pulls away again. “One of us needs to have some self control.”

Y/N wedges her free hand between their bodies, resting it over Harry’s chest with her fingers curled along the unbuttoned edge of his shirt. “If you insist.” Her fingernails dig just the slightest bit into Harry’s sturdy chest, savouring the way she feels his body tense beneath her. “If you want to be boring, then that’s fine.”

Harry laughs quietly at the small attempt to tease his ego, and although his instinct tells him to prove her wrong, he just nods his head. “Am I too boring to receive a goodbye kiss?” He brushes a loose hair back from her forehead before cradling her warm cheek, guiding his thumb over her cheekbone in a repeated action. “Haven’t kissed you in hours. Feels wrong.”

Butterflies burst into flight in Y/N’s stomach at the innocent request coupled with the sweet explanation. They’ve done everything in the wrong order, she thinks, as she allows Harry to smudge small pecks along her chin and cheeks. The very first night they met, she allowed him to use her in any way he wanted, and he allowed her the same luxury. They’ve spent the last month exploring each other’s bodies, getting to know every nook and cranny, every preference. They’ve grown accustomed to how the other moves in their sleep, how they wake up in the morning, if they shower at sunrise or sunset. And now, after all that, they’ve finally had what has probably been the best first date in the history of first dates, and this man, who has already coaxed countless orgasms from her shivering body, who has learned all of her likes and dislikes, is asking for a goodbye kiss like a nervous teenager walking his crush home from biology class.

How could she refuse him?

The answer is simple: she can’t. In fact, she’s not sure she could refuse Harry anything he asked of her. And maybe that would be worrisome— it probably should be worrisome— if the idea of giving Harry whatever he wanted didn’t bring a wave of warmth to Y/N’s belly that travels from her center to the very tips of her fingers.

“No,” She wraps the loose fabric of his shirt around her fingers, clutching him as close as she possibly can. “You’re not too boring, H. You’re never boring.” Y/N sucks in a breath as she feels Harry’s teeth graze over her jaw, marking her ever so slightly as her lover makes his way back to her lips fervently.

He smudges a kiss at the corner of her lips, pulling a strained whimper from her as she waits for him to kiss her properly.

“Ask me.” He whispers, grazing his fingers over her cheekbone again and again. “Ask me to kiss you. I want to hear you say it, sweetheart.”

The request is so innocent compared to everything else Harry has ever asked her to do, and his voice lacks the dominant command it usually carries over her, but Y/N feels just as weak as she would if he ordered her to get on her knees. “Harry…” Her voice floats through the miniscule space between them, so quiet that it’s barely audible over their laboured breathing, but Harry still thinks it sounds like a song. “Please kiss me. Kiss me goodbye.”

A groan reverberates in the back of Harry’s throat, and the tiny molecule of composure that he has left in him slips away as he glides his lips over her own silky pair, his fingers threading into her hair on instinct. Although he does his best to restrain himself, it becomes more difficult with every passing moment, and becomes damn near impossible when he hears the way Y/N whines at the sensation of their lips brushing together with more and more force.

Despite his best efforts, Harry soon finds his hands moving of their own accord as his palm travels from Y/N’s hip towards her ass, ruffling her dress as he grips her and thrusts a leg between her own. He backs the mortal up into her door, her back hitting the wood with a delicate thud, and the groan she releases worries him for a split second before he feels her grind against his thigh situated between her legs.

Harry knows that the pretense of this just being a goodbye kiss went out the window the moment he touched her, and although she’s responding in kind, he has to live up to his word. He has to. He swore that he wouldn’t fuck her today, and as much as he wants to, as much as it seems that she wants to— and if the red hot heat burning his thigh is any hint, she very much wants to— he has to regain some self control. Despite all his shortcomings, or how his thirst for her blood outweighs any other desire he has for her, he has to remain a gentleman. Even if it means peeling himself away from the beautiful girl who is scratching at his chest, moaning into his mouth, grinding against his thigh, and speaking between ragged gasps—

“Fuck the promise.” She groans into his ear, her teeth grazing over his lobe with more pressure than Harry thought her capable. “Please, H. I know what we said, but I need you.”

Harry curses under his breath at the sensation, his eyes rolling back into his head for a split second, and he knows that if he doesn’t distance himself, he’ll succumb to her begging. “I can’t, darling. I can’t.” He chokes out the words between pants, bumping his forehead against Y/N’s as he struggles to catch a breath that he’s forgotten he doesn’t need. It’s funny, he manages to think, how he teased Y/N for not keeping her hands off him earlier, when he’s the one who can’t bear to be away from her touch now. “I want to— Christ, I want to— but I’m trying to behave.”

“Behaving is stupid.” Y/N mutters, smudging her lips across Harry’s stubbled jaw and down his neck, leaving small marks in her wake. “What happened to giving into desires?”

Good fucking question.

Harry squeezes his eyes shut tightly, a choked laugh escaping his heaving chest. “That was when we were just fucking. Now we’re…”

Y/N regards the man with hooded eyes, a flutter of hope shining through the desire that’s settled in her chest. What exactly are they? They’re not dating, she knows that for certain. But they’re not exactly just fuck buddies anymore. “We’re what?” She prompts after Harry trails off.

“We’re…” Harry struggles to form a coherent thought, too entranced by the feeling of Y/N in his arms to think straight. Sucking in a deep breath, the fragrant scent of the girl’s arousal burning his throat, Harry forces himself to take the smallest step back from her, although his hands stay locked around her hip and her cheek. “We’re saying goodbye.”

A defeated sigh falls from Y/N’s swollen lips, but she nods gently at the man before her, brushing her thumb over his exposed collar bones with great care. “Alright.” She mumbles, disappointment laced through her voice. “Goodbye.”

The glum tone brings a small smile to Harry’s cherry lips. “It’s just for a little while, love. Not forever.” Harry teases her as he swipes his thumb over her flushed cheek. “Couldn’t stay away from you that long.”

The breathless flush turns into a pleased warmth as Y/N struggles to hide the smile threatening to break across her expression. Taking the change in mood as a hint, Harry ducks his head, pressing his lips against hers with an earnest softness for just a moment before stepping back and releasing the mortal girl from his grasp.

“Goodbye.” He murmurs again, his belly aching at the thought of leaving Y/N alone for the rest of the day. It really does feel unnatural, he’s surprised to find. Has he really gotten that used to being around her?

It’s a strange process, leaving Harry at the door. After she finally says goodbye again, shuts the door, locks it tightly, and slips on the chain, Y/N finds herself touching the wood, her palm pressed flat against the surface as if she can feel Harry on the other side. It takes her a moment to walk away from it, the buzz of the mimosas and their first date streaming through her veins.

Checking her phone for the first time, Y/N is surprised to find that it’s nearly 4pm— had they really been in the restaurant for almost five hours? No wonder the server had been giving her a dirty look; they’d spent so long just talking and sipping drinks, ordering no other food, and not giving up their table. She’d probably be glaring too.

Admittedly, there is a slight rumble in Y/N’s stomach, as they ate over four hours ago, but she ignores it as she takes a seat on the couch to untie her pink vans, tossing them into the corner before slipping off her jean jacket. She tosses that over the couch too, running her hands through her mussed hair. She’s not quite sure what she’ll do with the rest of her day now that she’s alone. She could indulge some reading, or answer some messages from relatives, or maybe even—

A pounding on the door disrupts her thoughts, jerking her eyes from the book on her coffee table to her front door. With her brow furrowed in confusion, Y/N rises from the couch and walks to the door, gliding the chain free and turning the lock before swinging the door open.

Braced in the doorway with shining eyes, ruddy cheeks, and a heaving chest as if he’s run all the way back up to her apartment, is Harry. He takes a moment to compose himself, swiping his tongue over his lips as she takes in her more relaxed appearance.

“I couldn’t go.” He confesses, answering the question on the tip of Y/N’s tongue before she even has the chance to speak it. “I made it down to my car, and then—”

Y/N grabs him by the front of his shirt and yanks him into her apartment, slamming the door behind them before reaching for Harry again. His hands are already outstretched to receive her, having grown used to their intimacy routine, and she’s pleased when he automatically rests his palms on her lower back and her neck as she wedges her lips between his once again.

“I don’t want you to go.” Y/N gasps the words against his mouth, barely peeling herself back from him to utter the sentence. “I need you so fucking bad, H, please—”

With great difficulty, Harry attempts to think straight, but it gets harder when Y/N bucks her hips and— well, it gets harder. “I meant what I said, Y/N. I did, I—I made a promise, and I have to—”

“What do I have to do?” Y/N demands, tangling her fingers in Harry’s chestnut curls and forcing him to look her in the eye. “I fucking need something, Harry, and you’re the only one who can fix it.”

Christ. Harry’s had his suspicions, but now he’s convinced that this girl has some direct line to all his weaknesses, because she knows exactly how to stroke his ego like no one else has before. She presses every one of his buttons every time. She’s allowed him to handcuff her, take her in every position, manhandle her, slap her around, and she still begs him for more. Is there anything that she hasn’t done better than anyone else?

And that’s when it hits him. The perfect loophole.

Harry is so excited at the possibility of relief that he nearly whimpers, just barely managing to bite back the sound at the last second as he smooths his fingers over his lover’s wild hair. “What about when I’m not here, pet?” He goads her softly, a glint shining in the corner of his darkening eyes. “What do you do then?”

“I…” Although confusion is present in Y/N’s voice, she answers him promptly— she’s gotten used to obeying his sexual requests over the course of the month. “I call you. And you...you tell me what to do, usually.”

“Tell you what?” Harry hungrily prompts her again, tugging on her hair with the lightest of touches. Like before, he wants to hear her say it. “What do I tell you to do?”

“You tell me how to—how to touch myself.” The mortal girl stammers, shyness creeping into her tone despite having begged for Harry mere moments earlier. “And then I do.”

“You do. You behave so well for me.” Keeping his voice as smooth and sensual as possible— which isn’t hard for him, if he’s honest— Harry twirls a lock of Y/N’s hair around his finger, wrapping it around the length as his fingertip brushes over her lip. “I tell you what to do, and you do it. And you moan for me, and send me the prettiest pictures.” He presses harder against her lip, dragging her mouth open as a whimper escapes. “And I always think: what would it be like to see that in person?”

Although the effect of the mimosas has faded by now, Y/N’s head is swimming in a cloud of Harry’s cologne and her own lust, and she struggles to understand the double meaning in his words. “What—what do you mean? You’ve seen me in bed—”

The innocent confusion in her voice tantalizes Harry in the best way. “When I’m touching you. But that’s not what I want.” He murmurs, grinding his hips back into her own. “I know how to get around my promise.”

He watches as the realization dawns on Y/N’s face, her heart stuttering as warmth floods through her body. “Y-you mean—? You want to see me…?”

“I want to see you touch yourself.” Harry finishes her thought as his eyes darken, and he licks his lips at the image of Y/N laid out on her bed, legs spread wide, showing off just for him. Only for him. “Will you let me?”

And there it is. That wave of warmth and desire spreads through Y/N’s tummy, begging her to say yes to any request that falls from Harry’s mouth. The urge is so strong that she nearly begins to strip, her fingers edging to the hem of her dress, before she manages to form a clear thought of pause. “Are you sure you want to see me…?” She dances around the word for a second time. “Like, I—I don’t know if it’s very sexy, or—”

“Is that a fucking joke?” Harry laughs incredulously, his thumb swiping over the edge of Y/N’s jaw. He could leave so many pretty marks… “Of course it’ll be sexy. Christ, love, it’s fucking you.”

The statement that Harry makes is so sure, so confident, that it nearly sends Y/N reeling. The human’s eyelids flutter as he begins to pepper kisses along her cheekbones and down her jaw, his tongue swiping over her sensitive skin every few moments.

“Anything you do is sexy.” He whispers the words against her skin, his voice low and accent thick enough that it seems to fill the entire hallway. “Literally anything… How you lick your lips after taking a drink, how you get in and out of my car so delicately… It’s all so fucking erotic.” Y/N shivers when a breath of cool air hits the damp skin of her neck as Harry laughs lightly. “I’ve got a bloody hard-on nearly every moment of the day.”

Hearing the confession that tumbled from Harry’s cool lips, Y/N thinks, is the verbal equivalent of doing three shots of tequila and chasing with a vodka soda. The words wash over her as easily as Harry’s cologne does whenever she gets close to him, and her fingers tug on his brunette locks with need. “Really? Even today?”

“Are you kidding? Especially today. Look at what you’re wearing…” His icy fingers skim down her neck before tracing over the cleavage that the neckline of her yellow dress leaves exposed. “Every time you leaned over to take a bite of food, I nearly came in my trousers.”

Despite the desire curling itself around Y/N’s core, she can’t help but giggle at the mental image. “That would’ve been a sight.” She scratches her nails lightly against Harry’s scalp, the motion surprisingly tender for their topic of conversation. “Would’ve had to ask Paige for another napkin.”

“It would’ve been properly humiliating, yeah.” Harry agrees easily, unconcerned with the thought as his lips follow the path led by his fingers. “But it would’ve been worth it.”

While the pair’s position is rather incriminating— Y/N’s hands in Harry’s hair, Harry clutching her as close as possible, his lips travelling over any exposed skin he can find— there’s an air of careful consideration floating around them. As much as Harry wants to see the girl in his arms pleasure herself, he wants it to be her decision. Anything less wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying.

“Y’don’t have to do it just for me, Y/N.” The vampire takes the slightest step back to give her some room to breathe without his close proximity to cloud her judgement. “But if it’s my reaction you’re worried about…” Harry untangles one of her hands from his hair, ghosting it down his body before cautiously laying it over his white linen trousers, where his bulge is growing more prominent by the second. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

A desperate whine nearly escapes Y/N’s mouth, but she manages to bite it back at the last moment. She wants him. As nervous as she is to have him watch her touch herself, she’s more turned on than anything. When she sends Harry explicit texts and photos that are most certainly not safe for work, part of the thrill is the reaction she gets from him. A dirty photo is only as sexy as the other person’s reception of it. To see Harry’s reactions in person… it would be a lie to say she’s not into the idea.

But it would also be a lie to say that she doesn’t want something in return.

“Alright. You can watch me.” Y/N relents with a sigh, and she takes a moment to enjoy the triumphant look in Harry’s eyes before tacking on her addendum. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

Y/N squeezes her hand over his bulge, making the slightest stroking motion upwards towards his belly as a low groan rolls from Harry’s mouth. “I get to watch you touch yourself, too.”

There’s not even a moment of hesitation. “Done.” Harry seals his lips over hers firmly the moment the word exits his mouth, grinding against her hand as he backs her into the wall. Her back hits the panel with a quiet thud, but Y/N is too busy twisting her fingers around the button of Harry’s pants to notice.

“Ah ah ah.” Harry tuts as his jeweled hand grabs her wrist, pulling it away from his hardening cock while making sure not to use too much strength on her fragile joint. “You don’t get to do that, pet. You’ll only be undressing yourself tonight. It’s only fair.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve to talk about fair.” Y/N huffs her reply, but doesn’t pull her wrist from her lover’s grip. “You’re the one who made the stupid rule in the first place!”

Clicking his tongue, Harry takes another step back from the young woman while keeping his other hand floating over her hip. “And you agreed.” He reminds her as the corner of his lip tugs up. “So I think it’s best you behave, don’t you?”

Although the statement turns her legs to jelly, Y/N doesn’t let it show, and instead steels her resolve as best she can. “I’m behaving.” She mutters, crossing her free hand underneath the arm in Harry’s grip.

“That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” Harry swipes his thumb over the delicate bones of her wrist, feeling her pulse stutter beneath his touch. The vampire swallows the venom that spills into his mouth at the thumping rhythm. He’ll have time for that later.

Chest heaving, Y/N wets her dry lips as best she can despite the lack of moisture in her mouth. “So where are we…?” She trails off as she glances down the hallway of her apartment. “The living room is probably best, position wise…one of us can be on the couch, and the other on a chair.”

“That’s true…” Harry nods his head, but a frown settles over his pillowy lips. “But it’s not very comfortable for you. You usually lie down when you get off, don’t you?” Like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it’s spoken with a tone of efficiency and casual observance, simply to find the best approach for any situation.

And, like every other technically intimate question Harry has ever asked her, it sends a shock of warmth into her panties.

“I-I do, yeah.” Y/N stutters her response, clearing her throat before adding onto the short statement. “I’m usually in bed.”

Harry nods expectantly, like her reply is just a confirmation for him. “We’ll go to your bedroom, then.” He says decisively, his grip on her wrist loosening. “You can lie down, get comfortable. I’ll stand.”

Leading the mortal to her bedroom, Harry slides open the door, guiding her inside before shutting it with a firm click. When he turns back around to look at her, she’s looking at him expectantly, her fingers twisting around each other as she stares at him with wide eyes. She trusts him, he realizes, not for the first time. She really does trust him.

Although the anticipation is written clearly across her pretty features, Harry knows she needs a small prompt to begin. “How are you usually dressed when you do this alone?” He asks quietly, his own fingers working over the buttons on his shirt smoothly. “Completely bare? Fully clothed? Underwear only?” One of his dimples makes an appearance as he smiles with half his mouth. “Wearing only that sweater of mine that you’ve pretty much stolen?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, that sweater’s too warm.” Y/N replies with an eye roll, tugging off the jean jacket covering her smooth shoulders. “I, um…it depends. If it’s just quick, then usually I’m clothed, but if I’m taking my time, then I’ll just, um, I’ll be in my underwear. Sometimes just my bra.”

Harry’s fingers finish with his last button, and he leaves his open shirt draped over his tall frame. “We’ll be taking our time, angel. So just get as comfortable as you usually would.”

Y/N nods her head in a jerking manner, sucking in a deep breath through her parted lips in an attempt to calm the heave that threatens her chest. The erotic tension in the air could be cut with a knife as she tosses her jacket to the side and works her fingers over the zipper of her dress, which catches for a moment and puts up a struggle as she fights to undo it. Once she wins the battle, she tugs the yellow dress down her shoulders, letting it pool around her ankles before stepping out of it and tossing it to the side. Her bra and panties aren’t matching, with the former being a delicate baby pink lace, while the latter are lavender cotton, but she doesn’t let herself focus on that detail. Instead, her fingers hover for a moment at the waist of her panties, hooking in the elastic before she changes her mind at the last minute and decides to keep them on. For now, at least.

Harry watches the entire ritual with starved eyes. He wants Y/N to start before he does, so she can get into a natural rhythm herself, but he can’t resist palming himself over his trousers like she did a moment ago, despite his icy touch not being nearly as satisfying as hers.

Y/N, however, has different plans, regarding him with heavy lashes as she takes a step back towards her bed. “Your turn.” She murmurs, sitting on the edge of the bed and curling her fingers around her ruffled comforter.

“All in due time.” Harry assures her with a wry smile, ghosting his fingers along his inked abdomen. “Get comfortable, baby. Pretend I’m not here.”

“Like that’s possible.” The mortal girl mutters under her breath, unaware that Harry’s supernatural hearing can pick it up as if she were shouting in his ear. Nevertheless, she does as he says, scooting back on the bed until her shoulders reach her pillows. She lays back on the soft cushions, shifting around until the padding feels comfortable beneath her back. She lays there for a moment, her arms folded neatly over her bare stomach as she licks her lips expectantly. “Now?”

“Now…” Harry flicks open the button of his trousers. “Do whatever you like to do. Whatever feels good.”

It takes Y/N another moment to work up the courage to actually do something. The trick, she realizes, is closing her eyes. If she so much as catches a glimpse of Harry watching her, her entire body tenses, and she can’t even manage to move a finger over her stomach. With her eyes closed, however, she can imagine that Harry isn’t there, and she’s just in her room, with his only influence being in her mind as she touches herself. It may not make much sense, when she could just use the real image of him to fuel her thoughts, but Harry’s presence is so dominating that pretending he’s not there seems to be the only solution.

And so, when her eyes are shut tightly enough that she can’t see the man, but loose enough that she’s comfortable, Y/N begins to touch herself lightly, her fingers tracing over the dips of her stomach with the smallest amount of contact she can manage.

Her touch moves over her skin like a flutter, its only purpose to warm herself up and ease herself into being watched, and while the small brushes against her own skin would normally have no effect on her, in this moment, with Harry standing by her bed, the action feels more erotic than she ever would’ve thought possible. She slowly glides her hands up to the pink lace of her bra, tracing her finger along the edge of the cup before sliding over the lace to the hardening peaks of her nipples. She’s more sensitive than she thought, and Y/N’s breath hitches for a moment as she brushes against one nub, tweaking it once more with her finger before repeating the motion on her other breast. When a quiet but harsh exhale sounds from Harry’s direction, the human girl amuses the idea of removing her bra to give more visual stimulus, but quickly decides against it. Harry said he wanted to see what she does to herself, she thinks, keeping her eyes closed as she massages her breasts once more. He didn’t ask her to perform a strip tease for him.

And, in truth, a strip tease is the farthest thing that Harry wants in this moment. Any girl can take off her clothes and touch herself to put on a show for a voyeur. If Harry really wanted to watch that, he could easily find countless porn videos depicting the real thing. But the sight of Y/N gliding her fingers over the soft lace of her bra, tracing unseen roadmaps over the mountains and valleys of her chest and abdomen, parting her lips just slightly as she twists her nipple once more… that’s what Harry wants. Despite the countless erotic activities Harry has engaged with Y/N, this may be the most intimate, even without touching her. Maybe that’s why, he muses, only half in the thought as he slowly tugs down the zipper on his trousers, doing his best to make no noise so as not to startle the girl in front of him. She’s letting him see what she does to herself when no one is around, when she just wants to make herself feel good. It’s a selfish act, in the best way. And it’s making Harry’s cock throb like never before.

Y/N’s hands have reached the edge of her panties now, and with her legs spread wide open, Harry can see the dampened spot staining the lavender cotton a shade darker. Her scent wafts over him as she moves, slipping her hand beneath the fabric, and Harry’s own eyelids flutter as she fills every one of his senses. There’s a small part of his more instinctual mind cursing him for thinking of this— for establishing an activity where he can see her, smell her, but not touch her. However, there’s a larger part of his mind thanking him for this. For the opportunity to bask in Y/N’s own sensuality and pleasure.

The dampness that greets Y/N’s fingers as she slides into her panties isn’t a surprise, but still provides relief. For a brief moment, the girl had been worried that she’d be too nervous about the situation to let herself enjoy it, but as she teasingly circles her index finger around her clit, she knows that enjoying it won’t be a problem. Although she misses Harry’s cool touch, the feeling of his rings sliding over her clammy skin, and although it may seem untrue when Harry is in bed with her, no one knows Y/N’s body like she does. No one can instantly know what feels good and what doesn’t, what needs to be touched with more force, what needs to be gently caressed with a feather light pressure. Y/N alone is the keeper of those secrets, and although she’s begun to whisper those unspoken tokens to Harry in the dead of the night as he lays between her thighs, she alone knows the real truths.

She continues to circle her clit for a few moments, gradually applying more and more pressure as her free hand clutches her bare thigh, her fingertips digging into her squishy flesh. It doesn’t take long, however, for Y/N to need more, and she allows her fingers to run over her entrance a few times before dipping her index finger into her hot core.

While the sound that leaves her mouth is quiet and could potentially go unnoticed, it’s the loud groan from Harry that snaps the human’s eyes open, and the sight in front of her that stops her movements in their tracks. With her index finger still half inside her, and her grip on her thigh tightening, Y/N gapes at him unabashedly, because Harry looks like a fucking god.

Her eyes sweep over him methodically, committing every inch of his appearance to memory so as not to ever forget what he looks like when pleasuring himself. His chestnut curls are tinged with sweat, just beginning to plaster to his damp forehead and neck. His jade eyes are darkening by the second, while his strawberry lips are parted and dry, despite him swiping his tongue over them every minute or so. His toned chest is bare, displaying his dark ink for Y/N’s viewing, heaving with every movement of his tattooed arm. And lower… Y/N moans again as she clutches her leg tighter, nearly enough to bruise. Harry hasn’t completely removed his pants, but he’s pushed them down low enough that he’s freed his cock, which stands tall and proud and angrily red at the tip that pokes through the tight fist he has wrapped around the length. Despite the tension in his body, however, Harry flicks his wrist lazily, teasing himself as much as Y/N did earlier, and she wonders if he does it for the same reason she did. To give their lover something to look at.

With her eyes locked with Harry’s, Y/N pushed her middle finger inside herself, whimpering at how the extra digit stretches her out. She curves her fingers as they move in and out of her at a leisurely pace, focused more on reaching deeper than reaching a quick speed. While her hand busies itself inside her panties, she slides the other from her thigh back up to her breast, gripping and massaging it as her lashes flicker.

“Look at you.” Harry utters with a groan, breaking the silence between them as he thumbs over the leaking head of his cock. “Christ, you look so fucking filthy.” His eyes shift from hers for just a moment, glueing themselves to the shadows of motion he can see beneath her underwear. “Does that feel good, angel?”

A high pitched whine falls from Y/N’s mouth as she presses the pads of her fingers against the spongy spot inside her, setting off a wave of bliss inside her belly. “Yeah. Feels—feels really good, Harry.” His name leaves her lips in a breathy mewl as she tweaks her nipple over her bra, throwing her head back against her pillow.

The newly exposed skin of her neck beckons Harry. It’s completely covered with a thin veil of sweat, with the heat radiating from her throbbing pulse seemingly reaching towards him at the end of the bed. He takes a half step forward without realizing it, only catching his action when his knees bump the edge of the mattress. “Fuck—” He closes his reddening eyes to collect himself as his hand quickens its pace around his prick, only opening them again when he’s sure he’s under control. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“I think I have a bit of an idea.” She mutters in reply, stroking small circles over her clit with her thumb. “It’s not like you can hide it.”

“But you’re hiding.” The vampire replies in a strained voice, tightening his fist around his cock as he nods to the girl’s covered core. “Take those off for me, pet. Please.”

Y/N withdraws her fingers from her dripping center, her skin shining in the light of her bedroom as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of the panties. “Wait—” she says suddenly, pausing her obedient motion. “Wait, I—”

The moment his foggy mind registers the word, Harry’s palm stills over his length, and although he doesn’t let go completely, he forces his body to calm down as he appraises the human. “What?” He questions, concern laced into his thick accent. “What’s wrong?”

Sitting up on her elbows, Y/N raises her head from her pillow as she scoots closer to her bedroom wall, stopping once her heated skin grazes the tapestry. “I want you next to me.” Her eyes are pleading as the words fall from her mouth, quiet and desperate. “I promise I’ll stick to the rule— I won’t touch you. I just want you to be comfortable, too, and… and I like it when you’re close. Please?”

The idea of refusing her doesn’t even enter Harry’s mind. Within seconds, faster than a mortal ever would, Harry has stripped off his trousers, leaving himself in just his dark blue boxers that are still half rugged down. He crawls onto the bed quickly, only letting his knee brush against Y/N’s leg before situating himself six inches away from her. Even with the distance between them, he can still feel an electric energy radiating off of her as her fragrance becomes thicker and all encompassing, making his head swim in the intoxicating honey and lavender perfume.

“M’here.” Harry murmurs the assurance softly, his fingers aching to reach out and touch her. Surely that’s not against the rules? After all, caressing someone’s cheek, and only for a moment, isn’t necessarily sexual. With that rationalization in his mind, his jeweled fingers brush against the young woman’s flushed cheek, grazing upwards to push a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Y/N whispers back to him, her hands now resting on her tummy as she stares longingly at the figure next to her in bed. She wonders if the comforting touch is allowed, but decides not to question it. Questioning it may make it stop, and that’s the last thing she wants. Instead, Y/N simply places her hand over Harry’s, interlocking their fingers together and bringing his hand to her mouth to smudge a soft kiss over the back of his icy knuckles.

Harry can feel the pulsing of her heart through her lips, and it takes all of his inhuman strength to pull his hand from hers as carefully as he can. “I think you made me a deal, didn’t you?” He asks, disguising the want in his voice behind a teasing tone. “You said that if I got up here next to you, you’d…” Harry clicks his tongue as he nods at her cotton panties. “Hm?”

Despite the small laugh that escapes her, Y/N rolls her eyes. “You’ve got a one track mind, I swear.” She hooks her fingers into the edge of her panties, lifting her bum off the bed to tug them down her legs and toss to the side. “Happy?”

Harry licks his lips as he watches the girl’s hands drift back to her bare thighs, gliding over the silky skin with small strokes. “Very much so, yeah.” He replies, pushing his own hair back from his face before trailing his fingers back down his stomach. He wraps his right hand back around his leaking cock, stroking it once as he glances at Y/N again. “Keep going, dove. Don’t stop on my account.”

It’s like they’re back at the beginning,Y/N thinks, as she dips her index and middle fingers back into her wetness before she circles them around her clit. With Harry next to her, his presence so very there, Y/N has to close her eyes again to compel herself to relax. It takes a few moments of massaging her clit and focusing on keeping her breathing steady before she can open her eyes again and allow her gaze to slide back onto Harry.

The vampire, as expected, looks like an erotic renaissance painting. His hand is moving faster over his cock now, which is bubbling precum with every few strokes. His hips buck into his hand every so often, searching for more and more friction as he chases his high. Like herself, Harry has his eyes closed for much of his movements, but when he does open them, they’re pinned to her form and how she touches herself, like she’s his own personal show. And, in a way, she is. And she likes that.

It’s not long before Y/N needs more stimulation, and she thrusts her two fingers back inside herself as her other hand begins to rub over her clit. The dual sensation sends a hoarse moan falling from her lips, her tummy contracting with the wave of ecstasy that she knows is getting closer, but it’s the feeling of Harry’s lips on her temple that has her breath stuttering.

His slightly chapped lips move over her skin in slow and sensual movements, opening and closing as he speaks against her. “That’s it, darling. You’re so close, I can tell.” He sucks in a long breath while bucking his hips into his fist, a whining moan echoing from his throat and into her ear. “Fuck, you’ve got me wrecked…”

Curling her fingers inside, Y/N prods against her G-spot with fervent desire, leaning her head closer and closer to Harry’s mouth as she does so. “I’m gonna cum, Harry, I—” Her words cut off with a broken whine as her spongy walls clench around her fingers.

“Wish I could touch you.” Harry mutters the dirty confession in her ear, his lips still meeting every inch of skin they can find. “Wish I could make my pretty girl cum…” His brow furrows at the whimper that escapes Y/N at those words. “But at least I know you can—Christ—” He swipes his thumb over his tip again as his other hand moves to his balls, massaging over them with a gentle touch. “—can take care of yourself when I’m not here.”

When Harry’s lips find her neck, suckling at the sensitive spot where it meets her jaw, Y/N moans again, louder than before as she bucks her hips into her hand. “Fuck, Harry—” The way she sobs his name is music to his ears. “Can—can I cum? Please?” The question rolls off her tongue without prompt, sounding as natural as breathing to the girl. Harry’s not even sure she registers that she’s asked, but the question for permission goes straight to his throbbing cock.

“Yeah, baby. Cum for me.” He drags his teeth over her fragile skin, aching to bite down but restraining himself from giving in. Instead, he redirects his reaction to his hand, speeding up his strokes until he feels his balls tighten. “Cum for Daddy.” The way he feels her heart stutter at his words feeds his ego like nothing else, and he brings one hand up from his abdomen to rest on her throat, stretching his fingers to grip her chin and direct her face towards his. “Show Daddy how good you’re making yourself feel.” He demands, his lips ghosting over her own as they both work themselves towards the edge. His voice sounds less himself and more like a growl with every passing moment. “Cum.”

It’s the final harsh demand that pushes Y/N to thrust her fingers into herself faster, matching her motions over her clit to the new speed. It only takes a few more moments for the tight ball of pleasure inside her belly to burst, the waves of her orgasm washing over her repeatedly as her walls pulse around her fingers. “Daddy—” The name falls from her mouth and into Harry’s freely. Her only thoughts are of him as her climax consumes her; only his emerald eyes and cherry lips, only his brunette curls and inked skin, only his calloused hands and thick cock. He’s all she can think about. Has there ever been anyone else? “Please, Daddy…”

Harry watches with hungry eyes as the human’s body spasms through her release, the movements of her hands shuddering as the pleasure becomes too great to move. “That’s it, sweetheart. Good girl.” He grunts the praise through clenched teeth as his own orgasm nears, his hand twisting around his cock more and more. “Prettiest little slut in the world, y’know that?”

Y/N releases a whine of acknowledgement, her chest heaving as she comes down from her high and withdraws her fingers from her core. Resting her hands on her clenching belly, she turns her heavy lidded gaze towards Harry, watching him eagerly as he works himself. “Your turn.” She murmurs, her lips finding the edge of his sharp jaw and giving it a teasing bit. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? All over your stomach?”

“If—fuck—if that’s where you want it, baby.” Harry groans loudly as his stomach clenches, the butterfly flexing beneath his strained movements. “You want to watch me cum? Hm?”

“Mhmm.” Y/N hums the agreement against his skin, clasping her hands together to stop herself from reaching for Harry’s cock. “You’re usually inside me when you cum, so I’ve never seen it. I want to see it.”

“God, I—” Harry reaches over with his free hand and grasps Y/N’s warm palm, dragging it up to his hair and tangling her fingers in his dark locks. It’s a poor substitute for the craving he has to feel her touch over his cock, but the sensation of her tugging on his hair and scratching her nails against his scalp manages to provide the contact relief he desires. “Fuck, right there—” Harry’s abdomen contracts once more as he works himself over the edge and begins to shoot thick ropes of cum all over his tattooed tummy.

Y/N continues to work her lips over his jaw, whispering anything and everything into his ear to continue to stimulate him through his orgasm. “Looks so pretty, H.” She utters once his cock has finally stopped spurting and he releases it from his grip. “You’re so pretty…”

A breathless laugh leaves Harry’s mouth as he shifts in the bed, wiping his damp hand against his indigo boxers before pulling them back over his shaking hips and exposed cock. “You’re one to talk.” He murmurs, twisting his head to the side to press a kiss to Y/N’s sweaty forehead. “You don’t happen to have a wash cloth handy, do you?”

“I have tissues in my bedside table.” Y/N points to the object in question, and Harry reaches over and tugs open the drawer to retrieve the box of Kleenex. Pulling a few squares from the box, he makes quick work of the cleanup, doing just enough to save him from the trouble of a sticky stomach.

“I could’ve done that, you know. Cleaned you up.” Y/N watches as the vampire stands to dispose of the used tissues, and reaches for her discarded panties to tug them back over her still shaky legs. “You know I like it.”

“I know, but if you did, then I would’ve broken the no sex rule right then and there.” Harry chuckles lightly as he climbs back onto the bed, wanting to reclaim his close proximity to Y/N as soon as possible. “And we’d already come so far.”

When he opens his arms, Y/N doesn’t hesitate to nuzzle into his cool chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder with a sigh. “I suppose that’s true.”

Harry lets his jeweled fingers trace down her back, drawing random shapes on the damp skin as her breathing begins to even out. “Did you like it?” He asks curiously, a seed of worry planted within the words. “Having someone watch you?”

“I liked having you watch me.” Y/N clarifies her answer as if it were the most natural and easily explainable thing in the world. “Did you like watching?”

Harry giggles again, almost incredulous as he nods his head at the damp spot on his boxers, a symptom of the copious amounts of precum that had leaked from him. “I think the answer to that is pretty obvious, Watson. I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself has to ask.”

“Asking questions is never a bad thing, Holmes. I’m surprised someone as distinguished as yourself doesn’t know that.” The girl counters, delighting in the small laugh that shakes Harry’s shoulders. A laugh falls from her lips as well, followed quickly by a yawn that she unsuccessfully tries to stifle.

“Tired?” Harry murmurs, his fingers still keeping a steady pace against her back. “It’s only the late afternoon— not exactly late enough for bedtime, is it?”

Y/N sighs into his musky skin, relaxing completely against Harry’s body. “Not exactly, no. But I think a little post-orgasm nap may be in order.” She raises her head from the crook of Harry’s neck, looking at him with soft eyes. “Will you stay?”

If Harry’s heart could beat, the tender question would make his rhythm irregular, and the knowledge of that fact dries out the venom that had been flowing freely through Harry’s mouth. “Wow.” He tries to disguise the reaction with a laugh. “Our first date, and you’re already asking me to sleep over? What kind of man do you think I am?”

“Shut up.” The mortal nudges her forehead against his shoulder in a playful manner. “I’m serious. Will you? I sleep a lot better when you’re here.”

The confession falls from her lips as easily as a sigh, but her words lock Harry’s chest in a tight chain, restricting his every breath. And yet… the pressure is comforting, like a hug from someone you haven’t seen in years and you’ve sorely missed.

“Alright, yeah.” He whispers gently, caressing Y/N’s mussed hair without tugging on any tangles. “I’ll stay. We can order some dinner later, if you want.”

Y/N’s voice is already far away when she replies. “That sounds nice.” She whispers, her eyes fluttering closed as her full weight falls against Harry. Within a few minutes, her breathing has leveled completely in time with her steady heart beat, which thunders against Harry’s own silent chest.

The vampire sighs as he shifts on the bed, keeping Y/N locked in place against his body as he does so. How did he end up here, in her bed, staring at that fucking tapestry again? How did he end up agreeing to stay over, to grab dinner with her after she sleeps? How does he know that, if she asks again, he’ll stay over tonight as well, even if it means lying still in bed and counting her heart beats until the sun rises through her curtains?

And why does that sound so appealing?

Carefully, so as not to wake her, Harry shifts Y/N onto her own pillow, removing her from his chest with gentle movements. Once he’s arranged her in a comfortable position and made sure that she’s still asleep, he cages himself over her, brushing her hair back from her face and inhaling deeply. This is why, he thinks. This is why he’s agreed to all of these dates, to holding her as she sleeps, to spending night after night in this tiny human apartment. Her blood.

Harry nudges his nose along the length of her throat, breathing in her fragrance as if it were the bouquet of a fine wine. Her signature honey and lavender scent is as prominent as ever, only amplified by the orgasm-triggered endorphins that are still swimming through her veins. Letting his lips drag over her fragile skin, Harry smudges kisses along the base of her throat with a light touch, searching for the most tender part that he’s come to adore. When he reaches the mark just above her carotid artery, he presses a firmer kiss to the skin, admiring how the mortal’s breath floats from her lips in her sleep. Still, he pauses for a moment to make sure that the sound is just that, a symptom of sleep, and once his suspicions are confirmed, Harry sinks his teeth into Y/N’s satin skin.

As usual, the relief is instantaneous. The warm blood that flows into his mouth quells the dry, burning ache in the back of his throat like nothing else, and Harry clutches the girl closer to him as he drinks more and more. She’s just as sweet as she smells, and there’s that familiar depth of flavour to her that Harry can never quite place a finger on. Perhaps he could if he spent more time analyzing it, but it’s never too long before he loses himself in her taste, and all rational thought goes out the window completely. In the reflection of her mirror, Harry can see that his eyes are blood red and black-veined, and that he looks every bit the monster that he actually is. If Y/N were to wake up right now and see him like this—pale skin, black veins, mouth stained red with her blood—she’d probably scream in horror, and do her best to shove the supernatural creature away. She would be thoroughly repulsed, Harry is sure. And, honestly, he couldn’t blame her. He remembers the first time he saw the red of a vampire’s eyes, and the terror that had seized his entire body like an icy dip in the English Channel. It would only be a natural response.

Harry had come to terms with what he is a very long time ago, and though it took a lot of trial and error, a lot of sleepless nights doused with self-loathing and denial, and a plethora of blurry memories full of strangers’ veins bulging under soft skin and glassy eyes dulled by compulsion, he is in a place in his eternal life where his identity doesn’t phase his peace of mind anymore. He hadn’t become a monster willingly, and he certainly doesn’t enjoy having to do the unspeakable acts required for his survival— not consciously, anyways.

From an instinct-driven perspective, he does enjoy the taste of blood, but it’s only because his supernatural carnal impulses demand it. Ethically, he isn’t proud of his affinity, but it’s not like he has any say in the matter. This isn’t his fault— he was forced to become what he is— and that moral claim is what has kept him tethered to his last few shreds of humanity for the past twenty decades. He’s not doing this to Y/N out of malicious intent, he’s doing it because he has no other choice. Therefore, he assures himself that the traces of guilt tightening his chest at the moment are completely misled and invalid. He hasn’t felt guilt much before— not for years— and he refuses to let it plague him once again. This is just the way things are. This is just the way things have to be.

So why does he feel so fucking shitty right now?

Pushing the discomforting dwellings to the back of his mind, Harry continues to drink from Y/N, using his final remaining strains of functioning thought to monitor the human’s heart beat and breaths. When his thirst is satiated enough, and before either one of those human traits begins to falter, Harry releases his bite on Y/N’s neck, licking over the wound with relish to temporarily seal it. He turns to check his reflection in the mirror again, and finds that, yes, his suspicions are confirmed. Although he’s managed to keep himself halfway presentable, there’s still a trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth, and his lips are stained a dark merlot colour from the sweet substance. Harry swipes his tongue along his mouth, cleaning up any evidence of his late afternoon snack, before bringing his index finger to his mouth and pricking the tip on one of his fangs. Then, while carefully holding the girl’s jaw open with his other hand, Harry slips his finger into her mouth. It’s practically a ritual by now.

It takes only a few seconds for the bite mark on her neck to heal completely, leaving behind only a faint purple bruise in its place. If Y/N were to see it tomorrow, she’d assume it was a half-healed hickey, and wouldn’t bat an eye at it. She’d have no idea that the real cause of it was—

“Harry…” His name falls from her lips with a quiet stutter, her brow furrowing as if troubled by something the vampire can’t see. “Harry…”

“Y/N?” He whispers in reply, his limbs sealing over with ice as he freezes in place as if he were a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. “Everything alright, love?”

“Harry…” The human utters his name once more as a frown begins to tug at her pillowy lips, and it takes another moment of her shifting in the bed for Harry to realize that she’s still asleep, and the murmuring of his name is merely a symptom of her dreaming of him.

Oh. She’s dreaming of him.

There’s a spark of something in his chest—happiness? Excitement?— but it’s quickly extinguished by the realization that, if Y/N is dreaming of him, her body language is making it clear that the dream isn’t a pleasant one.

Harry releases a frustrated sigh as he sinks back down into the sheets. That’s to be expected, really. After all, he did just feed from her; if she’s having a bad dream about him, it would only be logical.

Still, the sight of her shifting in bed with a distressed look on her face pulls an equally distressed look from the immortal, and he only hesitates for a moment before carefully maneuvering the girl back onto his chest, positioning her so that he can easily rub her warm back with his cool hands.

“You’re alright.” He murmurs softly into her ear, his voice low and melodic despite no one being around to hear it. “You’re fine, sweetheart. I’m here, hm? Go back to sleep.”

It takes a few more minutes of back rubbing, whispering, and a handful of strategically placed forehead kisses, but Y/N’s face finally relaxes as she falls back into a deep, untroubled slumber against Harry’s chest. As her breathing evens out again, Harry breathes a gentle exhale of relief. That was a close call. The next time he feeds, he’ll have to make sure she’s truly unconscious, and has been so for a while. Her bad dream, whatever it was, had probably been caused by him digging into her prematurely. Next time, he’ll wait until the dead of night, when she’s deep in REM sleep. She’ll be more comfortable then.

Which reminds him— he has plans he has to cancel tonight, and the sleeping girl on his chest mixed with his phone being in his trouser pocket on the floor make a difficult combo to surpass.

Despite the testing task, Harry manages to retrieve his phone from his discarded linen pants after a few minutes of awkward stretching, some light grunting, and a few curse words, but he manages to do it without waking Y/N up (she moves a couple of times, but a few soft words and tender hushing Harry’s behalf sends her right back into her dreams). With one hand still wrapped around her back, Harry manages to type out a quick message to Niall.

Won’t be able to make it tonight— something came up with Y/N. Have fun at the bar.

Harry references her by name, knowing that Mitch had probably already blabbed to their entire friend group about the date he’d had, and about how a human girl had recently become the target of his fascination. Juicy gossip is indisputably one of the aspects that keeps eternity from growing stale, and the vampire’s crew believe that to be so more than anyone. There’s not a single doubt in his mind they’d eaten every word up, and that he’d probably get drilled on it later.

He keeps his phone clutched in his hand, waiting for a (sure to be ridiculing) reply from Niall that comes a few minutes later.

The girl from last time? Jesus, again? Weren’t you meeting her for brunch?

A small smirk tugs at the corner of Harry’s lip. I did meet her for brunch. And then I met her back at her apartment, and I’ll probably be meeting her again later after we get some dinner. Don’t wait up.

After that text, Harry drops his phone on the bedside table, expecting Niall to just leave him on read in a fit of annoyance. He’s surprised, however, to hear the quiet vibration of his phone a moment later, and picks it up to skim the message with pressing curiosity.

You’re a fucking incubus, you know that?

The smirk on Harry’s swollen lips suddenly drops.

While it’s not the first time he’s been called an incubus, it is the first time the label has ever bothered him. Why is that? It’s not like it’s untrue; he frequently seduces various people, many of them being women, in order to sleep with them and drink their blood. That’s what an incubus does. The label shouldn’t pester him. In fact, it should boost his ego.

But the title being applied to his relationship with Y/N… that gives him pause. It reminds him of a certain person— a certain disgrace, if he’s being pettily honest— who he had sworn never to think about again, out of respect for his sanity and emotional stability. It reminds him of how when he himself was mortal, he was under similar circumstances to what Y/N is under right now— he was a human blood bag to a vampire who took pleasure in his body.

This is different, Harry tells himself. I’m not going to ruin her life. She’s not going to end up like me. And we have an understanding, which I never got to have. This isn’t the same. I’m...I’m not the same.

In his steadfast opinion, the immortal isn’t an incubus when it comes to Y/N and it’s that simple, point blank. Saying he is… that sets the implication that he could be doing this with anyone, and that’s just not true. Even though he’s keeping Y/N around as a convenient fuck with delicious blood, he wouldn’t go to this much trouble for anyone else; no one else is worth it. No one else has her honey and lavender scent, or contagious laugh, or can match him so easily in banter without flinching or blinking an eye. And though he’s too attached to his own pride— to the inherent coldness and indifference he’d worked so hard to build over the last two centuries— to let her know, he’ll admit that there’s no one else like her. There’s no one who’s company he enjoys quite the same.

Harry doesn’t indulge Niall with a response, simply closing his phone and setting it back on the bedside table. His friend can think what he wants, Harry decides, returning his attention to tracing figures on Y/N’s back. Harry knows what this really is. He knows, and it’s not some evil plan to permanently damage her. It’s just a simple loose relationship between two people who float an inch above the friendzone. That’s all.

Friends, just slightly more.

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