#so yeah the idea of a ritual like this sets my teeth on edge but also I 100% agree with the rabbinical reasoning

[storyranger]

I just went down the rabbit hole about Judaism again and I remembered one time a friend shared a post that basically went

me: I want to convert rabbi: why tho :/

and I just interpreted that as "oh yeah they actively don't want converts so obviously you gotta convince them you're serious"

but today I found out that actually it's tradition to reject someone's request to convert three times as a test of sincerity, and I'm glad I know that now, because my socially anxious ass, upon asking a religious leader "hi can I join your community" and being told "no" would say "okay I am so sorry to bother you" and run away and jump in a hole and never be seen again like what do you mean you're expected to just keep asking until they say yes? People do that? And no one screams at them for it? They are rewarded for persistence?

anyway I'm not saying I will ever convert but it still feels like I have averted a crisis on behalf of future me today

[soraavalon]

Moriarty: Before we head to follow Violet, Moriarty is going to say, "Very good, Your Grace." DM: Go ahead and make some stealth checks with advantage. Moriarty (OOC): That's called 'character developement' motherfuckers. Nathaniel (OOC): Really? 'Cause you sounded so sarcastic. Marigold (OOC): Are you dying? Moriarty: No no that was an attempt to be genuine. DM: That was begrudging. It was begrudging but it was sincere. Hunt (OOC): Yeah. Marigold: *rolls* 20 Moriarty: Yeah. *rolls* 17. DM: Jesus, okay cool. Yeah so you guys head around the back of the temple kind of following where she had walked, sort of trying to step where she had stepped to decrease the crunch of any snow. And you see her knelt behind the temple, there is this part of the wall that's been sunken in, not that she's doing anything surreptitiously, but there's a cut out in the wall and she has the plate she was carrying on one arm and she's reaching into the cut out with the other arm. She's pulling out, it looks like just copper coins, a couple handfuls of copper coins, there's a lock of hair, there's just some really basic stuff. An apple that's half-frozen, there's a little bit of copper coins and she just fills the plate with these and gets back up and starts coming back towards you. Tark (OOC): I'm assuming those are ritual components? DM: You don't know. Hunt (OOC): You're not there. DM: But she is heading back now in the direction of where you're standing watching her. Moriarty (OOC): Okay, whoops. Tark (OOC): Backtrack backtrack backtrack Moriarty: Okay, so in the pathway would there be anywhere I could side-step and the footprints would be immediately not noticeable from her as she passes by, like a bush or something I could step behind? DM: Not exactly, but she is sort of was kneeling in this mini courtyard kind of place between the back of the chapel and the parish Marigold (OOC): [in chat] *shows picture of an orange and white bunny* this is primrose. she has two lop ears and pointy teeth and very lil antlers DM: *low* oh my god Hunt (OOC): Oh my god. DM: That's right, you did have a jackalope, I forgot. Moriarty (OOC): I don't remember that at all, but good for you. Marigold (OOC): No it's fine, I didn't mention it to you, I mentioned it to Swan. DM: I totally forgot, I'm so sorry. Marigold (OOC): It's okay. It didn't come up so I haven't mentioned it. DM: Yeah. So you guys can step out onto the actual stonework and be out of the way. Moriarty: Yeah, cool, whatever, doesn't leave any trace. DM: 'cause it's sort of like you know where snow meets a different material and it trailed off powder on the edge, it's sort of like that and you can step with those rolls over the powder and watch as she hurries back around to the front of the building again. Marigold: So did she drop these things off? DM: She put them in the plate that she was carrying outside. She seemed to clear something out of a wall, out of something that was set into a wall and put them in the collection plate and is bringing them to the temple. Or at least around to the front of the building. So you could follow her back or you could see what she was doing or whatever you'd like to do. Moriarty: I will follow her back first. DM: Okay. Marigold? Marigold: I am going to go look at what she was doing. DM: Okay. Moriarty (OOC): And we have no idea what the other is doing. Marigold (OOC): No. DM: Nope! Marigold: Marigold is just assuming you're following. DM: You guys kind of bump into each other a little bit. But Moriarty, you're able to follow her back and see Violet go back inside the chapel.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

The Midnight Coconuts

Summary: Bucky and his girl take a trip to the grocery store. Several things are involved, including coconuts, a 25cent gum-ball machine, Avengers branded Jell-O, chocolate milk straight from the jug, and tampons.  Characters: Bucky x Reader Words: 3k Warnings: Some swearing. Insane levels of fluff. Dangerously adorable Bucky. One (1) random reference to Not Another Teen Movie. 

A/N: Listen, I will never be over silly domestic Bucky! I originally started this story before TFATWS came out and when I imagined Sam had a niece, so just go with it. Part of me wrote this, because I needed to convince myself that I love grocery shopping (one can only eat takeaway and Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken for so long) and the other part wrote this because I firmly believe domestic routines can be the most romantic adventures out there.

When the doors to the grocery store whoosh open with a gust of stale manufactured air, Bucky skids to an abrupt and dramatic stop.  

“WAIT!”

Behind him, you stumble in panic, fumbling with an armful of reusable grocery bags. Instantly you’re imagining spilled blood and stab wounds and clean ups on aisle three and god dammit, how can there be a problem? This is a grocery store at midnight on a Wednesday. Shouldn’t the forces of evil be sleeping? Why is it so impossible to get a day off work? Don’t they know you need rest? And peanut butter? And that you’re dangerously low on toilet paper?

The forces of evil are the worst.

Raising weary fists, you huff.

“What? Where is it?”

Bucky sidesteps toward a row of small red and green machines beside the entrance, falling to his knees and smushing his nose eagerly against the glass. Reaching a hand behind him, there are several impatient grabby motions, before he glances back.

“Babe, can you give me a quarter? I need a gum-ball.”

Planting a sneaker clad foot on his ass, you shove. Hard.  

“Bucky, we talked about this. Remember how you agreed to lower the drama and keep things in perspective? I thought we were under attack.”

“If I don’t get a green gum-ball,” he declares dramatically, “there will be an attack.”

Throwing the cloth bags at his face, you stomp off to retrieve a shopping cart, plunking your purse in the front and hunching over the handlebars.  

“I thought you said you were a millionaire now. Buy your own gum-ball.”

Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Like I carry loose change,” he scoffs. “C’mon, just one quarter. Please?”

This time, he gives you the Look. That patented Bucky Barnes stare, with the wide eyes and full pouty lips and faux innocent expression, and if this man wasn’t the love of your life you’d quite happily stab him in the heart.

Instead, you open your purse and fish out a quarter, flinging it at his frustratingly pretty face. It bounces off his forehead and he scoops it up with a grin.

“So just to clarify. You came to the grocery store covered in knives, but you forgot to bring money?”

Giving you an indulgent smile, he jams the quarter into the slot. With a twist and shake, a gum-ball rattles free, and Bucky crows with delight when he sees the green candy. He pops it in his mouth. 

“I didn’t forget. I made a conscious decision to remove the temptation. If I bring cash, I’ll spend it. You know I ain’t great with that whole self control thing.”

“How encouraging to hear, from the man with knives pouring out his ass.”  

Jumping to his feet, he throws an arm around your shoulders. 

“Ass knives sound painful.”

“Depends on how sharp they are,” you mumble, pulling a carefully folded sheet of paper from your jacket.

“Excuse you? My knives are always perfectly sharpened, thank you very much. What kind of expert assassin runs around with dull knives? Damn baby, it’s like you don’t even know me.”

Ignoring him, you flatten out the paper and smooth the edges, sighing happily at the block letters and structured diagrams drawn in deep blue ink. 

Here it is, your masterpiece. A monument to productivity. The gold standard by which all optimization models should be benchmarked. This isn’t just any list, this is The List.

Everything is grouped, first by aisle, then by product location within the aisle, and then from top to bottom shelf order, to maximize efficiency. This is the dream list. The kind that inspires jealousy. The kind people hold up at TED talks when they talk about time management techniques. Marie Kondo wishes she had this list. 

Bucky snorts when he sees the carefully printed boxes.  

“God, you’re such a square,” he says adoringly. He plants a sugary wet kiss on your temple and you grind an elbow into his ribs.

“We discussed this, Bucky. Don’t mock my lists.” 

“Sorry babe, I ain’t mocking. Your lists are beautiful, they always get me all hot and bothered,” he agrees, dipping lower to lick behind your ear. “And I really love that list you keep with all those dirty, filthy, sex things you wanna do to me.”

“I don’t have a list like that.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky sighs, “and I don’t know how many more hints I can drop here.”

Reaching under his shirt, you rub his belly consolingly. “Okay then. This weekend I’ll sit down and make you a special list. One so disgusting and dirty and depraved, it would make Wade Wilson cry.”

Bucky laughs and squeezes you tighter. 

“About damn time honey. I’m equally parts terrified and horny. So where’re we headed first?”

“Produce,” you answer promptly, plowing forward, Bucky still chuckling beside you.

The whole scenario was ironic, actually. There was no need to grocery shop - automatic ordering mechanisms  across the Avengers tower rendered the task meaningless - but sometimes it was a welcome relief to partake in such an ordinary thing. Unable to sleep after one particularly terrible mission, you found yourself wandering the aisles of your 24-hour supermarket, dressed in pineapple adorned pajama pants and one of Bucky’s rattier sweatshirts, searching for ice cream. The unexpected symmetry of products arranged along the shelves, the rainbow hued produce, the hint of baking bread wafting from the ovens, all those everyday trappings of normality, they washed over like a soothing balm. Soon enough, the boiling bad thoughts simmered to nothing more than a cache of blurry memories.

When you got home, sleep came fast, deep and dreamless.

One month later, the idea struck again.

After 36 hours of Bucky tossing and turning, dark shadows bruising beneath weary blue eyes, you took his hand and led him down the dark street for a midnight adventure. He was skeptical, disbelieving that something so simple could chase away the insomnia. But he dutifully followed you, strolling aimlessly through the aisles, throwing odds and ends into the cart. 

The tension gradually eased, he began to relax, and suddenly? 

He was hooked.

An hour later, after arguing the health benefits of frosted Cheerios over oatmeal, poking each hunk of cheese in the display, and loading the cart with every single flavor of spaghetti sauce on the shelf, the heavy weight of remembering began to ease. When he collapsed into bed, he slept for eight hours straight.

I don’t know what that was, he swore the next morning, munching through his third bowl of frosted Cheerios, but it was magic.

And with that, a midnight ritual was born. Sometimes you make the trek alone, sometimes Bucky does the same, but whenever life permits you go together. This small slice of domesticity brings a warm comfort to this strange life.   

There is no doubt, this is your favorite area of the entire store.

Barrels filled with tart oranges and smooth red apples. Tables piled high with bananas, some just shy of yellow, others sunshine perfect, and a few with speckles of black (which are the best). Shelves lining the walls, overflowing with bundles of herbs and lettuce, all coated in a fine layer of mist. 

Bliss. 

Heading straight for the apples, you plunge into the Gala pile, rummaging until you come up with ten perfect ones. Peaches follow, fingers rubbing along the delicate pinky-orange fuzz. Squeeze, smell, squeeze, smell. Five are chosen for a pie (Sam pleaded shamelessly until you agreed to make him one), and in the cart they go. Heading toward the wall of herbs, you’re reaching for the basil when a metallic bang makes you jump. Spinning around, you find Bucky lobbing coconuts into the cart.

“We need these.”

“We really don’t, Buck. I hate coconut, it tastes like suntan lotion.”

“They’re not for eating,” he grabs an apple, wipes it on his shirt, and takes a juicy bite. “They’re for security.”

Sticky juice drips from his lip, catching in his beard. When you reach over to swipe it away, he nips your finger with a grin.

“Explain please.”

“See it’s like this. We’re just here shopping, doin’ our thang -”

“Don’t say thang.”

“- when someone attacks. What happens? BAM. One of these furry beauties breaks their face. Problem solved.”

Giving him a slow perusal, you raise an eyebrow.

“Were the 47 knives you’re carrying not enough to deflect this attack?”

Finishing off the apple in three sloppy bites, he carefully tucks the price sticker in his pocket so he can scan it before leaving and sets the mangled core beside your purse.

“Babe, these are my back-up plan. A good soldier always has a back-up plan.”

While you grab a bottle of extra-pulpy orange juice, Bucky picks two jugs of chocolate milk, snaps one open and takes a swing. Ever the thrifty shopper, he pulls a familiar bag from his back pocket, fishes out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and dangles it before you.

“Found a coupon for this,” he says gleefully. “Buy one, get one free. It’s called a BOGO. A BOGO. Hilarious, right? Fuck me, I love the future.”

Still laughing, he takes another long drink of chocolate milk and smacks his lips.

It was a lazy Sunday morning when you discovered this particular habit. Walking into the living room, you found Bucky buried in a sea of Sunday newspaper, tongue between his teeth and scissors in hand while he clipped coupons. He wasn’t picky, if it was remotely interesting, it went into the YES pile. It was one of those random things that brought him inordinate levels of joy, so of course you encouraged it. On his last birthday, you gifted him with a green zippered bag decorated with angry looking owls and official looking letters stitched across the front:

Bucky’s Coupon Bag  Thriftn’ Machine Since 1917

He laughed for five straight minutes and then stuffed it full. The bag accompanies you on every trip and the sight of Bucky excitedly rifling through his wad of coupons still makes your heart swell.  

Setting aside his BOGO, Bucky continues down the aisle, leaving you to pause in front of the yogurt. While you contemplate the merits of blackberry vs strawberry, Bucky slides over holding three cans of Reddi-Whip. 

“Are you actually planning to eat that? I thought you said whipped air is for, and I quote, ‘spineless, tasteless trash heathens’?”

Bucky shakes the can of spray whipped cream and wiggles his eyebrows, leveling you with a sultry stare. 

“Hell no I’m not eating it. This is for the bedroom. Last week I watched this god-awful movie where some blond guy - who looked exactly like Steve, by the way - made himself a whipped cream bikini for his girl. Decided I’m gonna do that for you. You’re welcome.”

“That sounds gross and unsanitary.” 

“If by gross and unsanitary you mean spicy and sexy, then yes. Yes it does.”

Whistling what sounds like the theme music from a bad porn, he adds two tubs of honey swirled Greek yogurt, pats your butt, and strolls ahead, throwing a roughish wink over his shoulder. Imagining the melted whipped cream soaking into your bedsheets, you mentally add more laundry detergent to the list.

“Hang on, turn here.”

Tugging the cart behind him, Bucky stalks toward the feminine hygiene display. It takes him a minute to scan the products before squatting down to the bottom shelf. Grabbing two jumbo boxes of tampons, oddly enough the brand you prefer, he pops back to his feet.  

“Dare I ask why you need these?”

A faint pink flush crawls up his neck.  

“Well, you know, two reasons. They’re really great for stopping bloody noses, you know? Just poke ‘em up there and they soak it all up.”

 He mimes the execution and adds a thumbs up.

“And the second reason?”

Squinting at his boots, he shuffles his feet a bit. The pink flush deepens. 

“Um, you know - I know you’re out, since I stuck the last one up Steve’s nose last week, and yeah. Anyway. It’s about that time. Of the month. For you.”

Clearing his throat, he reaches for his chocolate milk, but you grab his wrist.  

“You know when my period’s going to start?”

He shrugs self-consciously and fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt.  

“Well yeah. You think it’s just a coincidence when all your favorite candy shows up every month?” Looking up, he shoots you a crooked smile and leans over the cart to kiss your forehead. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, you haul him in for a real kiss instead and his startled laughter tickles your lips. When you break away, those bright blue eyes are shining. 

“Thank you, Bucky,” you murmur.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

This is the aisle where the cart officially explodes.

Lasagna noodles.

Egg noodles.

Spaghetti noodles.

Penne.

Linguine. 

Fettuccine.

Literally one of every noodle is selected, because Bucky Barnes is a self-proclaimed noodle slut. 

As you organize the boxes and search for orzo, you see him furtively add an extra bag of elbow macaroni. A quiet cough hides your laughter.

The last time Sam’s four-year-old niece came to the tower, she and Bucky spent hours making glittery elbow macaroni necklaces, which they ceremoniously gifted to everyone. When Sam casually mentioned her enthusiastically telling everyone at pre-school about her friend Bucky and how much fun she had visiting him, Bucky ran to a craft store and bulk bought supplies of glue, string, paint, and glitter, just in case she comes over again.

Months later and the entire team are still finding puddles of glitter all over the tower, but the delight on Bucky’s face anytime someone mentions that arts and crafts afternoon? 

It’s worth the mess.     

Gathering up brown sugar, instant oats, and chocolate chips, you turn to drop them in the cart when Bucky makes a strangled noise. Glancing over, you find him bouncing on his toes, vibrating with excitement.

“Babe. Babe. Are you making monster cookies?”

Adding a can of raisins, you search for the good vanilla. The kind that actually tastes like vanilla, not a cheap car wash air freshener. 

“I promised I would,” you remind him. Bucky plasters himself against your back, wrapping you in an enthusiastic hug and nuzzling his face against your neck.

“I love those fucking cookies,” he declares. “They’re my favorite thing ever. Next to you I mean.”

Finding the vanilla, you spin in his arms and return the squeeze.  

“I know you do. But you have to share them this time, okay? You can’t just eat them all yourself like the last two times. Agree?”

“Agree…to disagree. They’re wasted on other people, no one else loves as much. It’s for the best when I eat them all, it’s proof how much I love you. I’m doing it for you. I’m supporting you. Because I love you.”

“You’re completely full of shit,” you reply.

“I swear I’m not! Just listen!”

The excuses grow longer and wilder as Bucky outlines his rationale against sharing, walking backward and dragging the cart with him as he pleads his case. He’s diving into the science of super soldier metabolism levels and caloric requirements and the fact that his sister never shared anything with him, when he bumps into a tall display. 

He pulls up short, eyes narrowing. Plunking his fists on his hips, he growls a disgruntled sigh and glares at the rows of packaging. 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

Lined up in neat rows, you see boxes of Jell-O organized by color and flavor. On the cover of each are an assortment of familiar images.  

“Are these Avengers themed Jell-O?” you ask, picking up a box with Sam’s image and the words Wild Berry Wilson. The rows extend further, filled with Lime Green Hulk and Blue Raspberry Rogers and Black Cherry Widow and Strawberry Lemon Stark. Exasperated, Bucky grabs the Sparkling Orange Spider flavor. 

“Is this for real? The kid gets one and I didn’t? Someone in PR is getting fired.”

“Well there’re only so many flavors, Buck,” you point out practically, but Bucky’s not in the mood for logic. Instead, he swipes an entire shelf of Jell-O flavors into the cart.  

“I swear to god, I have to do everything around here. Fine then. I’ll make my own flavor, Blackberry Kiwi Soldier or Winter Watermelon Rainbow, or something.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Anyway, I’ll work on the name. But I’m bringing it to dinner tomorrow night and everyone is gonna eat it.”

He dumps in a bag of mini-marshmallows and grabs sprinkles for topping, before marching down the aisle. Cringing at the volume of sugar in the cart, you make another mental note to schedule a dentist appointment.

“Go do your manly duty and find the meat. We need two 5lb rump roasts.”

“I like your rump roast,” he instantly responds and reaches over to smack your butt again. Anticipating the move, you catch his arm and twist it behind his back. He barks out a breathless laugh and you slap his ass in return.

“Your innuendos are tragic.”

Releasing him with a gentle shove, Bucky snatches up his three coconuts and ambles away, laughing while he juggles them. When he returns, he has the requested rump roasts, several packages of bacon, and a bundle of cocktail shrimp.

“If my innuendos get better, then can I touch your butt?”

“Maybe. But they better be real good.”

An added benefit to shopping at midnight? Not a soul in line.

Loading everything onto the conveyer belt, you automatically organize for bagging. Boxes together, produce together, meat together. Bucky adds a pack of batteries, a tin of mints, and some trashy magazines.

The last three items in the cart are his coconuts. They rattle around until you toss them at him, motioning back to the produce department. 

“We made it out alive. Go put them back.”

Still chomping his tasteless green gum-ball, he shakes his head and plops them down. 

“Nah, I have another idea for them. Got all those craft supplies at home, I’m gonna make you something.”

“Should I even ask?”

Bucky blows a huge, wet bubble and looks you up and down.

“Have you every worn one of those coconut bras? Like on TV, with the ladies in grass skirts? I’m gonna make you one. I already have string and glue. And glitter.”

“I think you may be overestimating your crafting abilities.” Digging out your credit card, you wait for the final tally. 

“Well, if it’s terrible then you’ll just be naked. Either way, I win.”

Shaking out your grocery sacks, he packs everything with Tetris-like efficiency and slides all of them up the vibranium arm.   

“How about I make you a deal. I’ll wear a coconut bra, if you’ll make yourself something to wear as well.”

Bucky blows another sugary bubble, pondering the idea.

“Like a coconut man thong?”

“Exactly like a coconut man thong.”

“Deal. Add it to that special dirty list you’re making me honey. We got loads to do.” 

Outside, the night air smells sweet and cool, the barest hint of a spring rain and fresh grass lingering on the breeze. Already, your eyes are feeling heavy, tonight’s quiet adventure ushering in that sought after peace. 

In your right hand, the three coconuts swing gently in their plastic sack. Humming under his breath, Bucky yawns, reaching for your other hand. His warm, calloused palm squeezes tight, his thumb stroking lightly over your skin.

He turns to you with a sleepy, lopsided smile.

Midnight and coconuts.  

It always does the trick.

***

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: X

I will not ask you where you came from,

I will not ask and neither should you.

Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,

We should just kiss like real people do.

Like Real People Do, Hozier

A/N: okay i know i say this every time but genuinely THIS IS MY FAVOURITE PART SO FAR!!!!! and my lil section of this story has come to an end!!! act one is done!!! and the beginning of act two aka part 11 will be coming on andrea’s blog!!!!! thank u guys so so much for all the love and support you’ve given us!!!! we truly cannot believe you guys have been so receptive and we love you all so so much 🦋 as always any and all feedback is deeply appreciated not just by andrea and I but by all content creators!!! seriously we do all of this for free while going to school and working full time and those little messages make our days so much better!!! so do reblogs!!! you should reblog the content you like!!!! leave a lil message in the tags!!! shoot us a message!! anything is truly madly deeply™️ appreciated 💌 thank you all once again for your support!!!! pls enjoy 🦋

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

word count: 37.9k

content/warnings: harry ignoring “bros before hoes” part 45684957, “FUCK FLORIDA!!! ALL MY HOMIES HATE FLORIDA!!!” - xander, fight scene (rap), jefferson x hamilton (friends to lovers), road head ahead?? uhhh yeah, i sure hope so!!!, MUSI 1113: history of classical music, prof. harry styles, sherlock and watson solve the biggest mystery yet, *edward cullen voice* and so the mosquito fell in love with the butterfly

“Are you going to stare at your phone all day, like a bloody tool, or are you actually going to join the conversation?”

Despite the baited question, Harry keeps his gaze on his device as he flicks through his notifications, opening one app after the other in quick repetition before closing the screen. “That depends.  Are you actually going to say something interesting?”

From the other side of his couch, Niall flicks up his middle finger with ease, his expression sour and unimpressed. “We are saying something interesting, you prick.  I want to get out of town next weekend, but no one—” The Irishman shoots a pointed look to Xander, who’s leaning across the kitchen island with an unbothered expression. “—can agree on where to go.”

“It’s not that I can’t agree, Niall. It’s that your ideas are stupid.” Xander shoots back in an exasperated tone, raising his Bloody Mary (with extra blood, hardly any Mary) to his scowling lips. “No one wants to go to fucking Florida.  It’s Florida.  Why the fuck would we go to Florida?”

“Because I’ve been alive for two hundred years—”

Adam clicks his tongue from the lounge seat by the window. “I’m not sure if ‘alive’ is the best description.”

“—and I’ve never been to Disney World!  I died from a fucking famine.  Am I not entitled— nay, am I not owed—” Niall straightens his posture on the couch as he addresses the whole of the room, a determined look set in his icy blue eyes that contrasts the dulled gaze of those watching him. “A warm churro, cold Dole Whip, and a set of over-priced Mickey ears?  Huh?”

“That still doesn’t answer the question of why we’d have to go to Florida to get that!” Xander exclaims, rounding the corner of the kitchen counter with his drink in hand.  He raises the glass to his lips, pausing halfway to point towards the wall of windows that’s currently letting in the midday Sunday sun. “We could drive a half hour to Disneyland, and get you the exact same thing!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Niall sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth, as if he needs to calm himself down before doing something he regrets. “Xander,” He begins in a controlled voice, tight and tense and on the verge of snapping. “I suffered through starvation, fought in a world war, went through the Great Depression, and then fought in another fucking world war!  After all that, why would I settle for Disneyland, when we could easily make it to Disney World and back in three days?”

“You know…” Mitch says slowly, flopping down on the sofa between Niall and Harry, who’s already turned his attention back to his obsessive ritual of checking his notifications. “You can’t keep playing the ‘fought in a war’ card.  Harry fought in World War One, too, and I fought in the Revolutionary War.  And died in the Revolutionary War.  You do realize the majority of our group are veterans, right?”

Niall sighs in exasperation, clutching his beer in his fist to keep it from spilling as the older vampire beside him shifts on the couch. “I don’t play the ‘fought in a war’ card, Mitchell, I play the ‘fought in two wars’ card. And I think that card earns me the right to choose what we do next weekend.”

“And I think you folded those cards the moment you suggested Florida.” Wrinkling his nose, Xander finally enters the living room, and Harry risks a glance up from his phone to eye the dark-tinted liquid that laps at the edge of Xander’s glass with every step. “Why don’t we just go to Disneyland?  Or, better yet, why don’t we take a few extra days and go somewhere exciting?  I hear Greece is lovely this time of year; I wouldn’t mind trying some Mediterrean food for a week.”

“Florida is just as lovely—”

“That’s a lie, Florida is never lovely.”

“And Adam wants to go to Disney World, too!” Niall finishes triumphantly, taking a large swig of his half-empty beer before wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “So it’s two-to-one!”

“Two-to-two, actually.” Mitch interjects, pursing his lips at the childish grimace that overtakes Niall’s previously cheery expression. “I’m not too fond of alligators, and last time I heard from Sarah, she was in Italy.  It’d be nice to have a week with her in Greece.”

Niall rolls his eyes at the sudden tie, turning his gaze past his disappointing friend to his other almost-as-disappointing friend, tone growing firmer. “Alright, then, Harry, it’s up to you.  You’re our tie-breaking vote.”

Harry, however, had spent the better part of the last two minutes scrolling through the photos he and Y/N had taken on their date the day before, and doesn’t even glance up from his screen upon registering the utterance of his name. “Hm?  The vote on what?”

The frustrated Irishman lobs his bottle of beer at Harry’s head, his pitch powerful enough that it nearly collides with its target a millisecond later.  And would have collided, if Harry’s hand hadn’t shot up on a supernatural reflex to capture it perfectly within his grasp.

Keeping his eyes locked on his phone, Harry sighs at his friend’s antics. “Watch it, Ni, I don’t want to scrub beer stains out of my couch—”

“I wouldn’t have to resort to throwing bottles at your thick head if you could get it out of your girlfriend’s arse long enough to participate in our discussion!” The blue-eyed vampire shoots daggers at him, and the lightness of his irises shifts to a dark crimson as Harry’s gaze barely flickers to him. “Oh for fuck’s sake—” Bracing himself against Mitch’s lap, Niall launches over the couch and snatches Harry’s phone from his hands, scrambling back to his seat and stuffing it down his jeans pocket before Harry can react. “You’ll get this back after we finish talking, alright?  Now, where do you want to go next weekend?  Disney World or Greece?”

Although the urge to tackle Niall and fight for his phone twinges in Harry’s mind, he forces himself to stay seated, settling for just shooting a glare across the couch.  He’s certain that Mitch wouldn’t be appreciative of him and Niall biting at each other on top of him, just as certain he is of the fact that attacking Niall won’t exactly make him look mentally stable.  

Instead, Harry merely sucks in a deep breath, setting the beer bottle on the coffee table and dragging his jeweled hand through his hair before answering evenly. “First of all, she’s not my girlfriend.  And second of all… neither.  Y/N and I have plans next weekend.”

A collective groan runs through the room the moment the phrase falls from his lips, and Harry swallows down a smirk at the reaction he receives from his friends.  Only Mitch’s face remains free of irritation, and instead sits in a neutral expression that, from his years of friendship, Harry can tell is tinged with concern.

“You have plans with her every weekend.” Xander complains, taking a sip of his Bloody Mary as he sits down next to Adam on the lounge seat, pulling Harry’s attention from the eldest immortal. “How can you sit there and say she’s not your girlfriend when you’ve been ditching us for the last, like, three and a half months to spend time with her?”

That, in all honesty, is a fair question.  Harry knows that he’s been spending more and more time with Y/N in the last few weeks at the expense of his friends, and on some level, he does feel bad about it.  Except that when he actually thinks about it, he doesn’t feel that bad in the slightest. He has no reason to, given that he spends almost every weekday with his friends, so what’s the harm in saving his weekends for someone else?  

In fact, he rather enjoys bracketing off those days just to spend them with her, alone with no one else to bother them, where they can just bask in each other’s company. So no, he really doesn’t feel bad at all.

He has the sudden realization that, on top of having the sweetest, most addicting blood he’s ever had the good fortune of tasting in the last two hundred years, Y/N is just generally fun to be around. Due to this, Harry has unintentionally continued to grow closer and closer to the human girl with every second they spend together.  She’s witty, adventurous, and always down to try something new— both in public and in the bedroom.  And in the bedroom— a smile unknowingly creeps onto Harry’s face as he recalls the dinner he’d taken her to last month, and what they’d done after. 

He also recalls the morning that had followed, in which they had eaten breakfast on his couch together in nothing but their underwear, their bodies tangled against the sofa cushions as Y/N had fed him bites of French toast while he showed her the extensive collection of Polaroid pictures he’d taken the previous night before.  He vividly remembers the way she had squirmed at the images of her with her legs spread open for him, of her bare chest heaving and her back arching, and of the wetness dripping down her thighs and staining the sheets. And he especially remembers the way she’d hid her face away in his neck at the snapshot of his hand wrapped around her throat, as well as the picture of her suckling eagerly at his thumb while his array of rings had glinted under the flash of the camera. 

It had been so cute watching her eyes brim over with shyness, especially because she had been more than happy to shed her inherent timidness the night prior. He’d teased her about it, of course. How could he not? He’d laid there as she rested between his legs, pointing out every welt and bruise prominent on the photos, and then skimming his icy fingers over her actual body to find them. It had been a very intimate moment, given that they were reflecting on more than just the physical aspects of what they’d shared. It feels like their entire dynamic had shifted slightly, all due to the fact that the roughness and aftercare that had occurred between them were actions that required immense amounts of trust and communication. Harry felt closer to her in a way he hadn’t before, and if the softness behind Y/N’s eyes was any indication, she felt the exact same way. 

Their connection felt different now— purer, in a way, now that they’d seen one another in such an exposed fashion, but it still managed to stay within the boundaries Harry was intent on upholding. She’d given him a type of relief he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much, considering he hadn’t indulged in anything of that caliber in years due to certain doubts about his self-control. But somehow, he had managed to keep his supernatural strength and impulses at bay the whole way through, and he’d kept her safe and satisfied, as he promised he would. In return, she’d made him feel more in tune with himself than he had in a while. 

With all of those thoughts filtering through the vampire’s mind during their morning cuddle session, he had ducked down and kissed at the tip of her warm nose, sighing blissfully when she had returned the gesture onto the curve of his chin. Then, he’d begun pinching playfully at her sides, not being able to resist the urge to make her smile. He had burst into laughter when she herself had erupted into spontaneous giggles, thrashing against him while squeaking curses between gasps of his name, pleading with him to cut it out or she’d wind up falling off the sofa. It had been a wholesome pastime, up until he’d ended up sucking maple syrup off her fingers with that signature devious twinkle in his half-lidded eyes, and then she herself had ended up licking that same syrup off his abdomen. That had led to him tonguing it off the swell of her breasts, and then she had wound up lapping at something much more interesting than his stomach.

It’s only natural, though, considering that in the bedroom, Y/N is a refreshingly unstoppable force.  She matches his every push, pull, and thrust with ease, as if she knows his body by heart.  Maybe she does, Harry muses, considering that he undisputedly knows hers from every angle, like the stanzas of his favorite poem. And between all those things, is it really his fault he wants to spend as much time with her as he can?  Keeping her happy and content had worked well to sweeten her blood for him thus far, so why should he change his game plan now, when he’s so clearly in the lead?

Last weekend, for example, he and Y/N had driven the scenic route out to Malibu, where they spent the entire day lounging on beach towels and frolicking in the waves.  He’d enjoyed seeing her with saltwater hair, her soft skin encrusted with sand and warmed by the sun, almost as much as he’d enjoyed fiddling with the strings of her bikini and coating her body in sunscreen, because “protection from UV rays is a top priority, love.  Trust me.”  They’d packed a picnic lunch for themselves that consisted of homemade sandwiches, chips and salsa, and fruit skewers, which Y/N had hand-fed to Harry after she’d convinced him to let her bury him in the sand.  It had been irritating to shower the grit out from some unsavoury places, but worth it to see the smile on her face and hear her infectious giggles as she molded a sizable pair of sandcastle breasts onto his chest.  And doubly worth it after he took her home and fed on her sea-tinged blood.

Yesterday, as well, had been an example of how well Harry is doing with this arrangement the two of them have.  He’d picked her up in the early afternoon and taken her to the Museum of Contemporary Art, where they’d spent the rest of the day wandering the exhibits and debating the artistic merits of each piece.  Of course, their discussions were less educated and more humour based, as Harry tended to list every painting as reminding him of sex, while Y/N said that every sculpture she saw was a comment on capitalism, but it had made them laugh nonetheless.  And while the security guards standing by didn’t seem to think their overheard conversations were amusing— nor how they posed with the paintings, trying to mimic the various expressions depicted in the artwork— Harry could tell that Y/N was entertained. It was obvious in how sugary her blood had been after she’d fallen asleep hours later. And if Harry were a better artist, he would’ve created his own sculpture dedicated to the honey and lavender liquid that he’d become so tied to over these last few months, but it appears his position as a collector is what he was suited for— both for literal artwork and the metaphorical pieces he’d paint on Y/N’s body with his lips. 

It’s with all these events in mind that he turns to Xander casually as the man’s question echoes in his head once more. “How can you say she’s not your girlfriend?”

A clear and concise explanation slips from Harry’s tongue without a second thought. “I can say she’s not my girlfriend because it’s true.” Harry slicks a hand through his tousled curls again out of habit, so used to busying his fingers with fiddling on his phone that he has to find some sort of substitute. “Keeping her satisfied keeps her— and her blood— around.  And, yes, she’s a sweet girl, and a nice break from you lot—” He nods towards Niall specifically with a jerking motion and a raised brow. “But there…” He just barely hesitates before spitting the words out. “There aren’t any actual feelings there.”

“Oh really?” Niall challenges, his own brow kinking as he shifts on the couch, turning his body completely to face Harry at the expense of Mitch’s personal space. “So all those times I’ve heard the two of you shagging— all those times you’ve called her ‘a dream’ or ‘perfect’— there were no feelings in that?”

Xander wolf whistles at the comment as Adam barks out a laugh, and even Mitch allows himself a reserved smirk at the mention of Harry’s bedroom talk.  Harry, on the other hand, straightens his shoulders as a flush works up his spine and onto his cheeks, and instead commands his tone to be as cutting as possible when he forms his reply.

“I don’t think Y/N would be very appreciative to know you’re eavesdropping on us fucking like some type of perverted creep, so you might want to invest in a better pair of plugs before I rip your ears off and solve the problem myself.” Harry threatens lowly, eyes flashing bright red for just a moment before reverting back to their natural emerald hue. “And you can take what I say mid-fuck as a ready-made script, mate, since you have no clue how to sweet-talk a bird into making her cum.”

Niall’s hands reach up to cup his ears protectively due to the other monster’s violent warning, his brows furrowing into a pointed scowl. “Eat shit. It’s not like I have a choice but to listen, given that you two nearly bring the building down while—”

“You know,” Xander chimes in from the lounge seat, his voice taking on an accusatory tone as his eyes narrow at Harry. “I thought a constant supply of blood would mellow you out, but if anything, you’ve grown a bit more irritable.  Does this arrangement have an expiration date?”

“Xander…” Mitch begins, caution written into his quiet voice as his eyes flit from Harry to Xander and back again. “That’s not—”

Harry sharpens his voice into a blade as he slashes over Mitch, jaw growing taut as he spits out his retort. “I know a relationship lasting more than one night is a bit of a foreign concept to you, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but I really don’t think that’s any of your fucking business.”

“So you fuck the same person for a couple of months, and suddenly you’re a relationship expert?” Xander inquires with a humorless huff, his tone just as bitter as his eyes as he glares at Harry from across the room. “As if you haven’t had commitment issues since the nineteenth century?” Raising his drink to his lips, Xander takes a slow and calculated swig as Adam shifts in discomfort next to him, his eyes meeting Mitch’s with a nervous glance. “At least I can call shit what it is, while you just delude yourself for weeks on end, pretending that anything good can come out of your attachment to an insignificant human—”

“If I were you,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his fingers curling over the edge of his couch to hold himself in place. “I’d choose your next words very carefully, Xanny.”

“Or what?  Are you gonna dig into your Fifty Shades chest and spank me?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  What, are you just upset you never got the full treatment?”

A hot flush crawls up Xander’s neck as his jaw clenches. “I never said I wanted it.”

“The jealousy written all over your face suggests otherwise.” 

“Alright!” Adam’s voice barks, swiftly slicing through the tension in the air, his eyes glowing crimson as he commands everyone’s attention from the two quarrelling vampires back onto himself. “That’s enough.  You’re both being ridiculous. Harry, you can’t be upset with us for trying to understand what you’re doing, mate.  We’re just curious, that’s all.  But Xander—” The youngest vampire’s snickering is cut off when his name is called sternly. “That doesn’t give you the right to ridicule him for it.  Harry knows what he’s doing— he’s a full-grown adult— and he wouldn’t do anything that would put himself, or any of us, into any sort of jeopardy.” With a long sigh, Adam’s gaze slides over the two creatures with a look of parental finality. “Are we good?”

Despite the annoyance still woven around each of Harry’s limbs, he forces himself to nod as he settles back into his couch, inhaling a deep breath through his nose.  Beside him, Mitch nudges the back of his hand against Harry’s arm, as if in encouragement, and the motion reminds him just exactly who it is that he’s talking to.  These are his friends— of course they have concerns about him.  Although they might voice those concerns in unusual ways (like sticking their noses into his intimate life), the meaning behind their words comes from a place of affection.

“Alright.” Adam says again, relief flooding across his face as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. “Now, we still need to decide what we’re doing next weekend.  Personally, I think a three day trip to Disney World would be a lot easier than Greece; I say we save that for next month, so we have more time to plan it and actually make the trip worthwhile.”

Xander, still a little irritated from his confrontation with Harry, huffs in response. “That’s all well and good, Adam, except you forgot that I refuse to step foot in that humid swamp-fest. Makes my face break out and my curls frizz up.”

“Jesus Christ, Xander.” Niall groans from the opposite end of the couch, pinching the bridge of his nose like before, nudging his large squared glasses up as he does so. “Can you just get that stick out of your arse long enough to—”

Whatever Niall is about to suggest Xander do seems to disappear from his mind as the Irishman suddenly cuts off his speech, his ears perking up as Harry’s phone begins to chime from his back pocket.  Although the sound is muffled from both the cushion and Niall’s trousers, the distinguishable opening motive of “Alexander Hamilton” playing can be heard by everyone, and it only takes one loop of Y/N’s signature ringtone for Harry to launch himself over the couch with his arms outstretched.

“Hey!” Mitch exclaims loudly, pressing himself into the cushions as Harry’s body writhes against his lap in his effort to extract the phone from Niall’s pants. “Jesus, watch your fucking feet!  You’re like Gumby!”

Harry, however, is only paying attention to Niall, who is fending off his attempts at snatching the device with one hand while holding the phone over the edge of the couch with the other. “Give it!” He snarls, eyes shading red as he watches an immature simper grow onto Niall’s face, his thumb poising over the answer button. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“Shh!” Niall hisses at him, but his voice is lit with delight as he clicks on the green phone icon and raises the device to his ear, lowering his voice into a relaxed drawl. “Hi there, you’ve reached the Styles residence! Para español, por favor oprima el número uno. This is Niall speaking, what can I help you with today?”

“Oh—” Even through the tiny speaker, Harry’s highly tuned ears have no trouble picking out the gentle cadence of Y/N’s voice. “Hi, Niall!  It’s Y/N.”

“Y/N!” The younger immortal grins at Harry as he dodges his attempt at swiping for the device, setting his palm between Harry’s eyes and shoving him back roughly as he clambers up off the couch. He dashes across the living room to hide behind the lounge seat, sticking out his tongue and wagging it at his very peeved friend. “Lovely to hear your voice, darlin’!  How are you doing on this lovely Sunday afternoon?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Harry hears her response as he pounces off the sofa, barreling across the room to chase after Niall. The shorter man is stealthy, and manages to duck and weave past Harry without a single issue, escaping under his left arm. He scrambles towards the glass stairs, holding back giggles as his opponent circles around the furniture to go after him, unhinged aggravation written all over his handsome features. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m just delightful.” Niall laughs airily, taking a sharp turn away from the staircase to confuse Harry’s impulses, snatching a throw pillow off the nearest couch and aiming it at the brunette’s head.  Like the beer bottle, Harry catches it easily, throwing it back at Niall’s stomach with a harder hand. Niall avoids it by a hair. “What can I do for you?”

“Uh, I just wanted to talk to Harry— I had a question for him.  But if he’s busy…”

“Yeah, he’s a little indisposed at the moment, I’m afraid.” Niall races into the kitchen, bracing himself against the marble island with that shit-eating grin still on his face, shuffling erratically from side to side to sike out the other creature across from him. “But I’d be happy to take a message from such a gorgeous girl as yourself.”

“Oh, um, that’s very kind of you—”

Harry rounds the corner of the marble island with a growl, snatching his phone from one hand and smacking Niall upside the head with the other. “Bloody prick.” He hisses over the other vampire’s snickers, eyes colder than his touch as he delivers another blow to Niall’s shoulder. “Fucking annoying, is what you are—”

“Niall?  Are you there?”

After heaving an exasperated sigh and sending one more glare to his friend, Harry raises his phone to his ear, doing his best to lighten the irritation in his voice. “Sorry, love. Niall just wants to be a bit of a bother today, it seems.” He sucks in a deep breath through his teeth as he turns away from the Irishman, wrapping his free arm around his middle as he leans his lower back against the island, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. He picks at a loose thread on his copper tartan trousers, voice coming out honeyed and delicate, as it always tends to get when he regards her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He can hear the smile that spreads across Y/N’s face upon hearing from him, and the tone sends a flood of warmth through Harry’s chest. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, sweetheart, never.  I’m always free to talk to you.” Harry sends a cautious glimpse towards the living room, knowing that the four vampires sitting in his living room (Niall had slinked his way back to the couch now that his ridiculous charade had come to a close) are hanging onto his every word. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m good, just… I had a question, but if you’re busy—”

“No, not busy at all!  I’ve just been lounging around with the boys all morning. S’nothing serious.” Harry replies a bit too excitedly, straightening the hem of his fitted red and black striped t-shirt, which had gotten mussed during his tussle with Niall. “What d’you need?

Over the phone, he can hear Y/N clear her throat delicately, and a picture of her sitting on her couch in her living room plays across the front of his eyes, her thumb wedged between her lips as she chews on her nail, as she always does when she gets nervous. “Uh, well, I was also just relaxing this morning, and I was playing on my phone, and I kinda came upon this cute little bookstore called Verbatim Books. They have a bunch of really cool used books— and records, too, which I think you’d like— and they have this really neat, like, labyrinth layout—” Harry’s lips twitch as Y/N continues to ramble, “—and I’ve been looking for a replacement copy of Wuthering Heights because I dropped mine in the bathtub, remember?  And I wanted to get a new copy of Romeo and Juliet, as well—”

“Alright, slow down, pet.  Can barely understand you when you’re going a mile a minute.” Harry chuckles boyishly, absentmindedly carding a jeweled hand through the soft curls along the nape of his neck.  Just the sound of Y/N’s innocent dialect ringing in his ear manages to somehow soothe his entire body. “You want to go to this bookstore, is that it?  Because we can.” He flicks his eyes back over to his friends, who are already rolling their own in response. “Just give me an hour or two to finish up with the guys, and I’ll come pick you up—”

“Well, the thing is…” He pictures Y/N chewing on her thumb some more, timid uncertainty pouring into her usually clear irises. “Verbatim Books is in San Diego.”

“San Diego.” Harry repeats back to her, his free hand settling against the cold marble of the island behind him as he quirks an eyebrow in mild shock. “As in the San Diego that’s a two hour drive away?  That San Diego?”

Y/N’s anxious laugh tinkles through the receiver. “Yeah, that San Diego.  But if you have plans with your friends, I completely understand.  We can go a different day.”

Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth wearingly, Harry glances at the digital clock blinking above his stovetop, reflecting back the time 12:53 P.M. “When do they close?”

“Five, I think?”

The vampire calculates the route to San Diego in his head, his sculpted brows creasing as the time frame appears in his mind. “If we left now, we’d probably get there between three and three-thirty.  Would an hour and a half be enough time for you to explore and find what you need?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you are unbelievable,” Xander mutters from across the condo, but Harry pays him no attention other than raising a blue-lacquered middle finger to flip him off. 

“I mean, yeah, I think so, but—”

“Alright, darling, then just give me a few minutes to grab my things and kick everyone out.” Harry says firmly, pushing himself away from the counter to begin searching for his car keys. 

“No, Harry, it’s not so important that we have to go today, and I don’t want you to kick your friends out.  In fact…” Y/N’s voice becomes thoughtful as a new idea pops into her head, and she hesitates for a moment before suggesting it on the grounds of not wanting to come off as pushy. But in the end, her curiosity bests her. “Why don’t we save Verbatim for another day, and I could just come over and hang out with you and your friends?  I bought all the ingredients for this really yummy guacamole recipe I saw on Tasty the other day— we could do, like, an impromptu movie night or something.  I’ve been craving one of your margaritas all week.”

“Yeah, Harry!” Niall chimes in as Harry re-enters the living room, obviously ignoring his friend’s earlier threat against eavesdropping. “I could go for some guac and a marg— not blended, though. Tastes like shit that way.”

Harry stares at him in disgust as he snatches his keys from the coffee table. “You’re a fucking twat.” 

“What?”

“Oh— not you, babe!” Harry hurries to reassure her as Niall cackles in taunting satisfaction. “Sorry, I was talking to Niall.  No, it’s… it’s alright.  You want to go to this bookstore, and the boys were on their way out anyways—”

“Were you on your way out?” Adam asks Xander sarcastically, and Xander raises his half-full Bloody Mary as a negative response, making a mockingly sour face in return. “Okay, I thought so.  Neither was I.”

“—so it’s all fine.  I’ll leave in a few minutes, yeah?  Probably be at your place within fifteen?” Harry checks the time on his Rolex as he estimates his arrival. “Does that sound good?”

“I— sure.  Yeah, that works.” Y/N says slowly, her voice a little softer than it was a moment before. “I’ll see you when you get here, then.”

“Alright, doll.  See you soon.” Harry hangs up his phone with a tap of his finger, sliding the device into his back pocket as he turns to face his friends. “So that was Y/N—”

“Oh, really? I had no clue!” Xander deadpans, rising from the lounge seat and setting his condensation-covered glass on the coffee table, deliberately avoiding the coaster Harry always insists should be used. “See you later, Harry.”

Adam matches the motion, a smirk jolting across his scruffy cheeks as he stands from his seat and claps Harry over the shoulder as he passes by. “Have a nice drive, man.  We’ll do a movie night with Y/N another time.”

The promise plants a seed of unease inside Harry’s stomach, but he doesn’t allow it to show on his face, choosing to smile easily at Adam’s innocent comment instead. “Yeah.  Another time.”

“Yeah, have a nice drive, H.” Niall mutters as he passes him, his face set in a petty surrendered frown. “A nice, long drive.  Preferably off a very short cliff.”

“I would, Ni, but you’d miss me too much.” Harry grins at him jokingly, bumping the vampire’s shoulder with his own until his irritated expression softens into a slightly less irritated smile. 

It’s Mitch, however, who makes Harry pause the most as he goes to leave. He halts in the doorway of Harry’s flat with a somber look in his eyes, appraising his younger friend with a curious gaze, which settles into trepidation as he sighs reluctantly. “You okay, H?” He prods gently, the question heavy as it falls from his mouth.

While Adam’s words were lighthearted and Mitch’s are anything but, they still leave the same feeling of uncertainty curling through Harry’s belly.  And, like Adam’s words, Harry plasters the same reassuring smile across his features, doing his best to dampen his best friend’s concern. “‘M peachy keen, Mitchell.  Don’t need to worry about me.”

“Are you sure?”

Harry only hesitates for a split second before urging himself to respond. “AB positive.” 

///

If Y/N doesn’t say something to him, Harry is going to go absolutely insane.

It’s not that they haven’t had silence fall between them before, because they have.  They’ve had comfortable silences as they lay in bed at night, Y/N wrapped within Harry’s inked arms as her breaths align with his.  They’ve had quiet lapses in conversation during their usual breakfasts as they watch reruns of Y/N’s favorite crime show, or as they’ve wandered up and down the Santa Monica pier, or walked to and from casual dinners on warmer nights. Despite the lack of words flowing between them, Harry would always know what Y/N was thinking as he slipped his light denim jacket over her bare shoulders, capturing her hand within his own once more as he pulled her to the inside of the sidewalk so he could walk closer to the traffic.  Silence is nothing new to them, and has even been the host of some of Harry’s favourite moments between the two, given that being able to hold a comfortable pause with someone is such a beautifully rare occurrence. Silence has typically been his friend.

But the silences that linger in their past have never felt quite like this.

From the moment Harry pulled out of Y/N’s apartment building parking lot and into the busy traffic of L.A., the mortal girl had grown quiet, and seemingly immune to Harry’s inquiries about how her day had been since he’d dropped her off at her apartment the night before.  Although she first answered him with short snippets— no more than a few words long— by the time he’d peeled them out of the hustle and bustle of the city and onto the highway towards San Diego, even those answers had come to a faltering halt.  Instead, Y/N had propped her chin up on her hand, rested her elbow on the ledge of the car door, and turned her pensive gaze at the scenery whizzing by the window, which she watched with a contemplative crease between her brows.

And the infuriating thing is that he’d asked if something was bothering Y/N the moment she’d begun to clam up, and his question had only received a small jerk of her head and a barely audible, “No, H.  I’m fine.” No gentle caress of Harry’s hand against her leg or soft squeeze of her palm had granted Harry any more clarity on the subject.  

She’s allowed to have secrets, of course. Everyone does.  Harry himself certainly has his own fair share locked away in his chest, free from prying eyes and curious minds.  But the thing is, she hasn’t held any from him.  Any question Harry’s asked, she’s always provided an open and honest answer, even if there’s been a beat of hesitation before the words fall from her pretty lips.  But her answer today, of being fine, is so clearly the opposite of that, and her insistence on hiding it means that she doesn’t want Harry to know that she’s upset.  Which means— Harry’s hands tighten around the steering wheel as he rounds the curve of the road— that Harry’s part of the reason she’s upset.  He’s not sure how, or why, or what he’s done, but he’s done something.  Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t be refusing to give him even a fraction of the warmth she’s usually so willing to gift him. 

Another sigh heaves from Harry’s chest as he lets one hand fall from the leather wheel onto his thigh, tracing the pattern of his plaid trousers absently.  He wants to ask again, just to see if her stubbornness has dwindled by the slightest degree.  And it easily could dwindle with just a breath of suggestion from Harry, but he refuses to do that, no matter how badly he may want to.  If Y/N is really mad at him for something, how can he convince her that she should forgive him if he’s using supernatural powers to make her admit what’s wrong.  Even more, how can he convince himself that he’s justified in earning her forgiveness?

Harry casts another concerned glance at Y/N before shifting in his seat to extract his phone from his trouser pocket.  With a quick swipe of his thumb, he unlocks it with ease, his eyes flicking from the road to the phone and back again as he opens Spotify. 

“You’re not supposed to text and drive, y’know.”

The sweet cadence of Y/N’s voice, despite its quiet tone, uplifts the corner of Harry’s lips and mills a gentle chuckle in his chest. “I’m not texting.  And I’m an excellent driver, sweetheart.” He glimpses at her from the corner of his eye before returning to his search through his playlists. “Got good reflexes.”

The human girl gives a hum of acknowledgement rather than another retort to his comment, and Harry’s newborn grin quickly melts into a frown as Y/N’s attention returns to the window.  Harry finds comfort in another sigh as he selects an album from his library, clicking the shuffle icon in the corner and tucking his phone back in his pocket. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Music begins to roll out from the speakers that Harry installed in his car the year before, producing a hip-hop beat and the voice of Christopher Jackson as George Washington. “You could’ve been anywhere in the world tonight, but you’re here with us in New York City.  Are you ready for a cabinet meeting?”

Harry taps his fingers to the beat against the steering wheel as he steals a sly peek at Y/N.  Although she hasn’t turned to him again, he can see her eyebrows pricking up with curiosity as to what Harry’s doing. That’s all the encouragement Harry needs.

“The issue on the table: Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank.  Secretary Jefferson, you have the floor, sir.”

The vampire bites back a triumphant smirk as he turns his gaze back towards the road, feigning a lack of interest in Y/N’s response as he begins to rap along to the Hamilton score. “‘Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness’.  We fought for these ideals; we shouldn’t settle for less.  These are wise words, enterprising men quote ‘em,” He cocks his head to the side, allowing his grin to fully light up his face as he captures Y/N’s attention within his. “Don’t act surprised, you guys, ‘cause I wrote ‘em. OWWW!”

Although Y/N’s expression stays neutral, he can see a twitch in her cheek at his loud exclamation, and Harry begins to exaggerate his actions even more as he gestures towards her with twinkling emerald eyes. “But Hamilton forgets!  His plan would have the government assume state’s debts.  Now, place your bets as to who that benefits.” Harry taps his chin symbolically, feigning thought, and then points towards Y/N with dramatized realization. “The very seat of government where Hamilton sits.”

Keeping her own eyes locked on the road ahead of them, Y/N gives a quick yet defiant shake of her head, the corner of her lip raised just a fraction more than it was a moment before. “Not true!”

“Ooh, if the shoe fits, wear it.” Harry’s simper continues to grow with the warming attitude Y/N’s beginning to display, and he shakes his head in return and raises his free hand in a questioning manner as he continues to rap along. “If New York’s in debt, why should Virginia bear it?  Uh, our debts are paid, I’m afraid.” He lifts his fingers into his curls, running them through his roots and pretending to fluff the ends poshly for a haughty effect. “Don’t tax the South ‘cause we got it made in the shade.” Tapping a jeweled finger against the dashboard, Harry emphasizes the beats of his next line. “In Virginia, we plant seeds in the ground.  We create; you just wanna move our money around.  This financial plan is an outrageous demand, and it’s too many pages for any man to understand!” He pretends to flip the endless pages of an imaginary novel, and then snaps his wrist dismissively with a cocky smirk, deftly guiding the car around the curve of the road with his other hand. 

“Stand with me in the land of the free, and pray to God we never see Hamilton’s candidacy.  Look, when Britain taxed our tea, we got frisky—” Harry rolls his chest to the rhythm of the song, his dimples deepening in his cheeks as he reaches over towards Y/N and pinches at her side playfully, warmth erupting across his veins when she squeals in surprise. “Imagine what gon’ happen when you try to tax our whiskeyyyy.”

“Thank you, Secretary Jefferson.” Washington says through the speaker as Y/N smacks his hand away and purses her lips, appraising Harry with a raised brow. “Secretary Hamilton, your response.”

For a moment, Harry waits with bated breath, thinking that Y/N won’t rise to his challenge.  She’s too angry with him, for some reason he can’t fathom, and when she opens her mouth, he assumes she’s just going to tell him off for—

“Thomas, that was a real nice declaration.  Welcome to the present, we’re running a real nation.  Would you like to join us?  Or stay mellow doin’ whatever the hell it is you do in Monticello?” Y/N rolls with the music just as Harry had, his rainbow cardigan slipping from her shoulder as she gestures towards him with ridicule. “If we assume the debts the union gets a new line of credit, a financial diuretic.” She lists off each subject on her fingers, making a sour face at Harry. “How do you not get it?  If we’re aggressive and competitive, the union gets a boost—” She slaps her hand down against her thigh passionately, as if his side of the imaginary argument appalls her. “You’d rather give it a sedative?”

Harry barks out a laugh as Y/N’s expression grows more incredulous, mocking him in character as if they were really on a Broadway stage, and not his ‘67 Cadillac driving down a highway in California. 

“A civics lesson from a slaver.” She snorts, reaching across the seat and tapping her knuckles against Harry’s head with a light touch. “Hey neighbour, your debts are paid ‘cause you don’t pay for labour.” She mimics his voice, right down to the slight British tinge that had made it into his Virginian twang, throwing up her hands and shaking them in an overexaggerated motion as she quotes him. “‘We plant seeds in the South.  We create’— Yeah, keep ranting.  We know who’s really doing the planting.” 

One of Harry’s hands shoots up towards his mouth and forms a fist, which he presses against his lips in fake astonishment at her dig, joining the background vocalists in howling. “Ooooh!”

The mortal gestures towards him with renewed fervor in her eyes that barely hides the amusement lingering in her irises. “And that’s another thing, Mr. Age of Enlightenment.  Don’t lecture me about the war; you didn’t fight in it!”

Harry bites back the jesting retort of “No, but Mitch did.” that nearly rolls from his tongue.

The minimal restraint goes unnoticed by Y/N, who continues her scathing attack on Harry’s alter ego as she points over her shoulder with her thumb. “You think I’m frightened of you, man?  We almost died in the trench,” She pinches together her index finger and thumb and brings them to her mouth, and the ease at which the mimicry of a joint comes to her makes Harry wonder if she’s ever actually smoked one. “While you were off getting high with the French!  Thomas Jefferson, always hesitant with the President.  Reticent— there isn’t a plan he doesn’t jettison.  Madison, you’re mad as a hatter, son, take your medicine.  Damn, you’re in worse shape than the national debt is in!” Gesturing theatrically, Y/N lowers her voice, keeping her intensity as she points to Harry. “Sitting there useless as two shits.  Hey, turn around,” she makes a small twirling motion in the air with her forefinger, and then juts two digits upwards as if to stuff them somewhere, “bend over, I’ll show you where my shoe fits!”

Harry bursts into laughter with reckless abandon, wrapping his free hand around his stomach as he bends over the steering wheel.  Reaching towards the stereo dials, he turns down the volume, letting the rest of the track fade to background noise before turning his gaze back to Y/N. 

Just like him, the mortal girl is bent over with fits of  belly laughter, and the sound echoes around the Cadillac in the sweetest way.  Harry would take that over the Grammy-winning soundtrack any day. 

“That was good, love.  You’re a proper Broadway starlette, aren’t you?” Harry says between giggles, rubbing at his dimpled cheeks before settling his hands back on the steering wheel. “Didn’t realize you’d been holding out on me so much.”

“I wouldn’t call that holding out.” The mortal girl counters, fixing the slouching shoulder of Harry’s cardigan as she rests back into the passenger seat with a satisfied air. “You’ve heard me sing all the parts to ‘Non-Stop’ at once.”

“Well, yes, but…” Poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue, Harry shoots a cheeky grin at Y/N as he drums his fingers against the leather wheel. “This time you were actually good.”

An indignant scoff falls from Y/N’s mouth as she reaches across the car and smacks his arm.  Harry can sense that she puts a lot of her force behind it, but the action feels as forceful as a fly landing on his shoulder, and he fakes a jostling of his body as he pouts. “You can’t hit the driver!”

“Then don’t insult my Broadway-worthy performances!” She remarks, crossing her rainbow-clad arms over her chest with a defiant air. “I think I’m quite talented— ready to take over the role of Hamilton himself, even.”

The creature rubs over his arm in an attempt to feign soreness, but the simper that’s still dimpled across his face gives him away. “I’m not sure if I’d go that far, peach.  I think I’d give you a chorus role, at best.” He snickers as Y/N’s mouth drops down into a disgruntled frown. “If anyone would be playing Alexander Hamilton, it would be me.”

“Uh, I don’t fucking think so.” She shakes her head adamantly, her brows drawing together in petty disbelief. “They wouldn’t cast a fucking Red Coat in an American Revolution play.”

Harry wedges his plump lip between his teeth at the tauntingly insulting nickname as his mind flickers to Mitch once more.  He’d be amused, Harry thinks, at how this girl seems to so easily mimic the attitude of those who have known Harry for decades. 

“I can do a flawless American accent, love.” Harry’s emphasis on the consonants in his response only highlights his native tone of voice. “But that’s not why I’d be picked to be Hamilton over you. It’s because I just fit the role of the main character better.”

Y/N sputters in her seat for a moment, jaw dropping open at the assured statement. “Are you kidding?” She demands, pressing her palms flat on her thighs as she narrows her eyes. “Like, are you actually fucking kidding?”

“Not one bit.” With his voice dropped to a serious tone, Harry keeps his eyes locked on the road as he replies.

“That is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard.  I can’t believe you really—” Y/N sucks in a deep breath through her nose, as if she needs to calm and center herself in order to form a coherent answer, and her playful eyes slowly drift shut. “I grew up in a small town, dated the same guy for five years, was left behind while he went to university, where he then cheated on me, and then I moved from the town I’d never left before all the way across the country to Los Angeles, California.” Opening her eyes once more, Y/N turns her determined gaze back to Harry, collapsing her hands in front of her for emphasis. “I literally followed the ‘smalltown girl moves to big city’ trope.  There are dozens of LifeTime movies that follow the exact same plot.  If that doesn’t say ‘main character,’ I don’t know what does.”

“Mm, I’ll tell you what does.” Harry counters, wagging a ringed finger at the human girl while keeping the rest wrapped securely around the steering wheel. “‘Following the life of a handsome, rich British bachelor with a mysterious past, a great fashion sense, and who happens to be very well endowed.’”

“Oh, please. That says ‘one of two love interests from a Hallmark Christmas movie,’ at best.”

The vampire gasps with faux offense, clutching a hand to his dormant chest as he flickers his eyes to the scoffing girl. “A love interest?  You think that’s all I’m entitled to?” He asks, brow furrowed as he clicks his tongue. “Did you miss the part where I said I had a mysterious past and a huge dick?  Girls would foam at the mouth for me.”

“No, believe me, I know all about those two things.” Y/N snorts, brushing back a loose strand from her eyes before she rolls them. “Unfortunately for you, those are all key characteristics of a protagonist’s love interest.”

A smug smirk overtakes Harry’s face as he flicks on his turn signal, glancing over his shoulder before passing a car that has been going a bit too slow for his liking. “Huh.  Well, I suppose as long as you know that I have those key characteristics— particularly that last one— then I guess I’ll settle. S’the most important of them all, I think.”

He expects his joke to receive a rolling laugh from the human girl, or a noise of acknowledgement at the very least, but all that echoes from her is an empty hum from the back of her throat.  When Harry glimpses her way again, he finds that she’s resumed her previous expression of quiet contemplation, brow creased in thought as she chews on her bottom lip. Concern begins to weigh heavy in Harry’s chest once more.

“Speaking of mysteries, though…” She fiddles with her fingers, twisting one of her rings around a digit the same way Harry does when he’s anxious, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might take pleasure in the fact that she’s picked up one of his mannerisms. “There is something I’ve been wondering.  About you, I mean.”

From her closed off body language and sudden shift in mood, Harry knows that this has something to do with the guarded and upset expression she’d had when he’d first picked her up.  And, from her lead in, he knows that his assumptions were right: her unsettled demeanor has something to do with him.  Although the possibilities leave a feeling of unease in the pit of his belly, Harry’s curiosity and his need to satiate her wariness wins out, and he forces himself to nod and ask, “What is it, dove?”

Y/N opens her mouth, but no question falls out.  From the corner of his eye, Harry watches as she closes her mouth again, as if she’s decided against asking whatever it is that she wants to. Harry is just about to encourage her to make her inquiry when a surge of confidence suddenly overtakes her body, and she’s spitting it out in a quick and confused voice.

“Why haven’t you introduced me to your friends?”

Out of all the causes for her guarded demeanor, the topic of his friends had been the farthest from his mind.  The question catches Harry so off guard that he, for what feels like the first time, doesn’t have a quick response already formed on the tip of his tongue.  Instead, his own mouth falls open in surprise, and he casts a quick look at the girl from the edge of his emerald eyes before turning back to the road in front of him.

He knows the answer to her question, of course; it’s the same answer that he’s given to his friends every time they’ve asked him to invite Y/N to a bar trivia night, or a weekend barbecue, or a club outing.  And, truthfully, it’s a question that’s been floating more at the forefront of his mind for the last few weeks as he and Y/N have continued to spend time together, gradually becoming a constant in each other’s lives. However, he didn’t expect it to be at the forefront of her own, as well.  

And the answer, really, is quite simple: if Y/N were to spend time with Harry’s gang of friends, there would be a larger possibility of her realizing that there’s something off about all of them.  Like how they all have a specific jeweled accessory that they’re never without, or how none of them seem to ever grow weary, or how they all have the same cold skin and slight shadows around their eyes.  Surely her keen eyes would catch how, despite the copious amount of shots and number of pints they throw back, none of them seem to become inebriated as easily as normal people would, and they can walk out of a club with their heads held high, free of stumbling or exhaustion.  It’s with careful planning and—truthfully— sheer luck that Harry’s managed to present himself with a halfway-human appearance, and he has no doubt that it would be ten times harder to keep up that charade when the chances of her discovering what he is quintuple.

“Uh…” His brow furrows while searching for a valid response to give to the mortal beside him— one that would avoiding hurting her feelings, while still sounding believable. “I-I dunno, really.  I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

The quiet “oh,” that slips from Y/N’s downturned lips alerts Harry that, no matter what response she was expecting, that wasn’t the right one.  She tightens her cardigan-clad arms around her middle as she nods tightly, keeping her gaze fixed pointedly on the passenger window.

Harry rubs his bottom lip with his ringed index finger— another nervous tic of his— as he tries to remedy the tension that’s been brewing between them since she first stepped into the car. “I mean… this whole thing—” He gestures between the two of them, and although the urge to take her hand makes his fingers twitch, he returns his grasp to the steering wheel instead of allowing himself to try and extract her palm from the fabric it’s hidden beneath. “— has been between just the two of us, so I didn’t really think… it mattered.” He finishes lamely, knowing that his justification is just making things worse. “Does it need—?  I mean, did you want—?”

“Well, it’s just…” Y/N lifts and lowers her shoulder in one quick motion, the cardigan once again sliding down to reveal the strap of her tank top underneath and a path of smooth skin that Harry yearns to touch. “It’s kind of like a— I don’t know, a marker?  Like if something is going… well…” She spares him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the passing scenery. “You tell your friends.  I’ve, um, I’ve told mine about you— like, my friends back home, over the phone— and if they weren’t so far away, I know they’d want to meet you, so I guess I—”

“You’ve told your friends about me?” Harry cuts over her, the shock laden in his voice raising it from its usual low drawl. “What did you tell them?  What did they say?”

An anxious flush begins to creep up Y/N’s neck and onto her cheeks, and Harry suspects that it’s not from the warm wool of the cardigan. “I did, yeah.  A couple weeks ago.  They called and asked how I was doing, if I had made any interesting friends yet.  And, well— I’ve pretty much only got you right now, so I kind of had to say something.” She lets out a weak laugh, more air than anything substantial. “I just said that we, um, we were seeing each other, kind of.  Like, mostly we’re friends, and we hang out, and—”

“We do more than hang out.” A grimace tugs at Harry’s own lips at her simplified explanation of their complicated relationship, and he risks an elongated look at the girl beside him, trying desperately to read her expression with no success. 

“I know that, but— like, we’re not dating, right?  It’s not… that was the best explanation I could give.  I don’t think there’s a proper label for what we are— not that we need one.” Although Y/N’s laugh holds more substance this time, Harry can still detect an undercurrent of tension in the sound. “Either way, they said they wished they could meet you, so I was just wondering— your friends know about me, obviously.  We’ve met a few times quickly, but we’ve never, like, had a proper introduction, you know?  I met Xander and Niall in the hallway, and Mitch briefly when we were having a movie night at your place… you talk about Adam a lot, too, and I’ve never even seen him in person.” Turning her head towards Harry with slow hesitation, Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth, her expression so frighteningly open that it makes Harry’s stomach turn. “Do they not… do they not want to meet me?”

Despite the quiet and cautious cadence of Y/N’s voice, and the way it twists around Harry’s unbeating heart like a vice, the question draws a soft laugh from the vampire.  Shaking his head adamantly, Harry rakes a hand through his curls before it goes to tap against the steering wheel decisively. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it.  They’re actually quite eager to meet you. As of late, I haven’t been able get through five minutes without Niall asking about you.  He pries like a gossipy nan and s’been getting on my nerves, honestly.”

Relief spreads through Harry as the admission brings a gentle upturn to the corners of Y/N’s soft lips, but it’s short-lived as another thought pops into her mind, and her cautious tone returns at the realization that—

“So you don’t want to introduce me to them, then.” She states quietly, a clear degree of hurt present in both her tone and her eyes as she twists her body beneath her seatbelt to face him head on.  As certain as she is in her assumption, the cautious shadow that sweeps over Harry’s face serves as confirmation of her statement, and it creates a hollow pit in her belly that grows with each passing moment.

Y/N is aware that their relationship— or whatever it is, because they still haven’t put a title on it, and that’s a whole other complication that she can’t dive into right now— is about as far from normal dating as they can get.  She’d fucked Harry before she knew his last name, he’d told her to take him deeper before he’d even told her where he was from, and he’d asked her on a date two months after they’d met, mostly out of territorial jealousy; everything that they’ve done has been out of the traditional order.  But still, she thinks, picking at her nails as the strain between them becomes palpable in the worst way, there are certain things that you do when you’re interested in someone.  Certain milestones that indicate that a relationship is viable and can be sustained for an extended period of time.  Meeting someone’s friends usually comes around the two month mark, and by Y/N’s calculations, that means they’re nearly two months overdue.

Which is fine, Y/N tells herself, dropping her gaze from Harry’s stormy sea glass eyes as she chastises the self-pity coursing through her veins.  Everything about their relationship has been done out of order; why should meeting Harry’s friends be any different?

Except it is.  As much as she hates it, it just is, because it’s not even that she hasn’t met them.  It’s that Harry, with his guilt-ridden eyes and darkened demeanor, clearly doesn’t want her to.

“Y/N,” His gentle utterance of her name draws her from her thoughts more than his hand crawling across the leather seat does.  It’s not until his cool fingers weave through hers that her fidgeting stops, and she even notices that he’s moved. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I just—”

“It’s fine, Harry.” She insists softly, despite the tightness in her statement making it obvious that it’s very much not fine.  She pastes a thin smile onto her lips as she shakes her head, trying to appease him as best she can. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Harry squirms in the driver’s seat, tightening his hand around the steering wheel as he heaves a sigh through his nose.  Y/N might be saying that, but the look in her eyes tells a different story.  Does she really think that she can look at Harry with such a wide, wounded expression, and he won’t bend over backwards to make things right?  The thought, although scathing, rings true in Harry’s mind as he worries his cheek between his teeth.  Does she not know the lengths he’s willing to go to just to make her feel better?  For fuck’s sake, he’s making a four hour round trip just to take her to a bookstore in San fucking Diego.  Somehow, without Harry noticing it, this human has managed to influence him in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine anyone ever would again.  Is he supposed to believe that she’s unaware of that?

Shaking his head tersely at her previous reply, Harry squeezes her fingers in his own, clearing the newly formed lump from his throat. “Yes, I do.” He says firmly, looking at the girl from the corner of his eye. “I can tell where your mind is going, love, and I promise you, it’s not as bad as you think.”

“Oh, yeah?” Despite the hurt still splashed across her irises, there’s an echo of a challenge in her tone. “So you just hide all of your… hook-ups from your friends, then?”

“You know I don’t have hook-ups, Y/N.  There’s no one else, there’s just— there’s you.  I only have you.” Harry makes his words as plain as can be, without any joke or teasing to downplay the sincerity of what he’s saying— or attempting to say, because his throat feels so tight that he can barely choke out a single syllable. “And that’s why I haven’t introduced you yet.  I… I like what we have.  This—” He raises their clasped hands, bringing the back of her knuckles to his lips so he can plant a chaste kiss over her soft skin. “I like it.  We’ve spent these last few months in a bubble, just you and me, and it’s been…” A smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips, nervous and shy, but tinged with hope. “S’been amazing.  And I’m just… not ready to give that up yet. I…I don’t know how to word it, really.  I’m not good with, um—” With emotions, he thinks to himself. He’s not good with expressing any of this, but he forces himself to try. “It just feels like what we have is something I want to keep private, because it’s special. It’s kind of like when you were a kid and you got a new toy, yeah? And you didn’t want anyone to touch it because you liked it so much, you wanted to keep it all to yourself. It was something so personal, you didn’t want to share it…” 

Harry trails off to look over at Y/N anxiously, and then comes to a sudden realization of the unintentional mistake he’d made by using such a materialistic analogy. His voice comes out rushed and apologetic. “And I’m not saying you’re an object or anything! I just wanted to explain it better and that’s the first thing that popped into my head. Did that...make sense? It probably sounded a bit dense. Or very dense. I’m sorry.” Harry knows he’s babbling aimlessly now, and with a surrendered sigh, he lowers their hands to the seat, still keeping Y/N’s fingers locked tightly with his. “I don’t want to share you, petal.  That’s what it comes down to, really— just me being selfish.  I like having your attention all to myself.”

Y/N listens attentively to Harry’s explanation as a new wave of blood boils to her cheeks, warming every inch of her body.  As much as she still has her doubts— about his reasoning, about their whole arrangement— she wants to believe him.  She wants to believe him more than anything in the world.  

So do it, she tells herself, grazing her lip between her teeth as her gaze remains glued on Harry’s (ridiculously attractive) side profile.  Believe him.  He’s never given you reason not to.

“Okay.” She finds herself saying, and she decides that it’s her turn to raise Harry’s knuckles to her lips for a kiss.  His skin is cool against her mouth, as always, and she lingers against him before lowering their intertwined hands to her lap. “I get it.  I like what we have, too; I don’t want it to change.  Plus,” She can’t resist tacking on a dig, glancing at Harry with a sly look. “From the brief interactions we’ve had, I think Niall and I are pretty compatible, so I don’t blame you for wanting to keep us apart.”

Although Harry barks out a laugh, he barely manages to hide the flash of crimson that streaks through his eyes at the suggestion. “Please,” He shakes his head as he strokes his thumb over the back of Y/N’s knuckles in a possessive manner. “I’m not worried about Niall.  If I was going to be concerned about you leaving me for any of my friends, it would be Adam.” Y/N shoots him a curious look, and his dimples pop out of his cheeks as he elaborates. “Good sense of humour, attractive, and arguably the most sane out of all of us, present company included.  But he can’t perform in bed like I can, so I think that’s a solid deterring factor.  And I doubt he’d drop everything to drive you to a bookstore you found out about through— where did you say you heard about this place again?”

“Uh,” Y/N drops her gaze from Harry, turning her head straight back to the road as she shifts in her seat. “I, um, I saw it on TikTok.”

The vampire snorts obnoxiously, pulling his hand from Y/N’s to rake his fingers through his rouge curls. “Jesus Christ, of course you did.”

Y/N matches his scoffing with ease, crossing her arms over her chest with a defensive air. “Don’t give me that tone!  This is exactly why I didn’t tell you! You know, you can actually find a lot of valuable information on there—”

“Yeah, because filming yourself doing the Renegade is a really great use of your time.”

“I didn’t say— wait—” The mortal girl quirks an eyebrow as she regards him with disbelieving eyes. “How do you know about the Renegade?”

“There’s a reason we blocked the app from Niall’s phone.”

///

Much to Harry’s relief, the drive back to Los Angeles begins a lot smoother than the drive to San Diego had.  

The bookshop had been extremely similar to the antique store they’d been to a while back— it had the same rustic, messy aesthetic that gives a cozy, homey vibe, and it had sprouted a seed of nostalgia in Harry’s chest. They’d wandered around for a bit with their fingers intertwined, rarely breaking away from each other for too long for the sake of maintaining their buddy system. The pair had filtered through the extensive array of titles and knickknacks, walking under archways built out of novels and winding through tall shelves full of vintage collectibles. Y/N had entertained herself with grazing over the spines of all the different books they’d passed, her eyes glazed with a form of childlike wonder he’d grown so fond of seeing. And while Y/N had been losing herself in all the old treasures the shop had to offer, Harry had found himself losing his thoughts to her dreamy smile instead. 

Satisfied with her purchases of Wuthering Heights and Romeo and Juliet, as well as a used copy of Jane Eyre (“Look, Harry, it has little notes in it from the previous owner!  Isn’t that neat?”), Y/N had settled into the passenger seat with ease, a light smile on her face as she buckled her seatbelt.  Harry’s own mood is considerably brighter than it had been on the previous drive, but his shift in energy had only partially been caused by his purchase of a new Simon and Garfunkel album.  Truthfully, Harry thinks, as he watches Y/N thumb through her new second-hand annotated book (the irony of her affinity for literature written from Harry’s original time period is not lost to him), his attitude is merely a mirror of the girl next to him.  It’s much more difficult to be in a good mood when she’s in a sour one, but on the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to be grumpy when she’s showing such a sunny disposition.

Her inquiries from their drive to the bookstore are worrying him, of course.  He knows that he’ll have to introduce her to his friends eventually, especially if he wants to keep this agreement between the two of them up.  He also knows that it’ll be ten times harder to do so with Niall running his mouth, Xander making sly digs, and Mitch and Adam watching him with parental-like concern.  Perhaps it would be easier to just call this all off right now, before things continue to progress.  It would certainly be better for Y/N, he’s sure of it.  Y/N, who gets excited over annotations in her books.  Y/N, who sings along off-key to the radio even when she doesn’t know all the words.  Y/N, who innocently presses tender kisses to his throat in a manner that draws an obsolete warmth from every limb of his undead body, and who smiles at his stupid inappropriate jokes and returns them with her own, and who fits into his arms like she was made for the sole purpose of filling them perfectly.

Y/N, who is reaching between the two of them, intertwining their fingers together with a practiced motion, and—

“Thank you for taking me to the bookstore.” The human girl murmurs, her lips grazing the back of Harry’s knuckles as she speaks. “I really do appreciate it, although I’m sorry I pulled you away from your friends.”

Harry’s woes melt away as she pecks across his icy skin, and a grin begins to jolt his lips as he brings her hand to his own mouth. “Don’t be sorry.” He smears a kiss to the back before dropping their tangled palms to the seat between them, his thumb caressing over her velvety flesh. “You’re much better company than the four of them.  And much prettier.”

“You’re such a flirt.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the comment, but leans further towards Harry in her seat. “And a liar.  We both know that Mitch is prettier.”

“Mitch?” Harry’s emerald eyes widen in appalled surprise, the corner of his lips twitching once more in amusement. “Out of all of my friends, you think Mitch is the prettiest?  What about Xander?  He’s quite the vain one, don’t you think?”

Y/N shrugs one shoulder in a light manner. “I like Mitch’s hair.  The long style works for him.”

“Ah, it’s the hair.  That makes sense; it’s always the hair.” Nodding sagely, Harry allows his lips to pull into a full grin. “So you like it long, hm?  Suppose I should keep growing mine out, then?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Sherlock.” Y/N shoots him a smirk that’s much more mischievous than his own. “I said the long hair worked for him, not you.  Who’s the vain one now?”

Despite the jesting tone of her voice, jealousy twinges in the back of Harry’s mind as his eyes darken from emerald to forest green.  He forces his lips to stay upturned as he offers a response that’s only half a joke. “Ouch, Watson.  S’not very nice, especially considering how I’ve driven you to San Diego and back today.  I think I deserve a bit of praise, don’t you?  Instead of you mocking me—”

“I’m not mocking!” Y/N’s protest is muffled around the entertainment in her voice, the rainbow cardigan once again slipping from her shoulder as she shakes with suppressed laughter. “Making one little comment isn’t mocking!  It would be mocking you if I acted like you do when you get in front of a mirror— you make this one specific face, like you’re trying to pull a Blue Steel, and—”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Harry huffs as he yanks his hand away from Y/N’s, swiping it through his loose ringlet before clamping it back around the steering wheel. “Ungrateful little wench, aren’t you?  I have half a mind to pull over right now and—”

“A wench?  I’m a wench?” Y/N’s laughter grows louder, filling the entire Cadillac with the unabashed sound that, despite his act, warms the pit of Harry’s stomach. “Alright then, Merlin. What, are you going to put me to work in a labour house?  Is that what a wench does these days?”

“First of all,” Harry quips, giving her a flat glimpse, “I’d be Arthur, not Merlin. Main character complex, remember?”

Y/N rolls her eyes grandly, proceeding to lower her head in a dramatic bow. “My apologies, sire. How could I forget?” 

“And second of all,” the vampire states slightly louder, talking over her sarcasm, “no, because apparently, all wenches do nowadays is just make fun of the men who volunteer to spend four hours in a car with them without so much as a ‘thank you.’”

The mortal girl’s upturned mouth drops open in amused disbelief. “What—?  I said thank you!  Literally three minutes ago!” 

“Did you?  I don’t recall.” Harry sighs airily as he smoothly guides the car around a bend in the road. “All I remember is you saying you think Mitch is sexier than I am.”

Snorting loudly, Y/N crosses her arms over her middle as she gives a small shake of her head. “Alright, I think that’s a bit of a stretch.  I just said he has nice hair.  And, while we’re on the topic—”

“Watch it.”

“— his mustache is cool, too.  It suits him.”

“You know, I could grow a mustache if I wanted to.” Harry can’t help the pout that plumps his lips, nor can he help the whine that creeps into his voice when Y/N giggles at the sight. “It’s true!  I could!  I just choose not to.  And, really, you should be thanking me for it, because it saves you from getting a carpet burn between your thighs.”

“So I should be thanking you for driving me today, for not growing facial hair…” Y/N ticks off the items on her fingers with a ridiculing gleam dancing through her eyes. “Anything else we need to add to the list?”

Harry tuts as he thinks, pursing his lips in consideration before letting out a sharp exhale as a sly smile carves his dimples into place. “That cardigan you’re wearing.  You could thank me for letting you borrow it— although ‘stealing’ might be a more accurate term.”

A miffed expression rises to Y/N’s face just as a flush does. “I didn’t steal it!  I’ve just been borrowing it, like you said.”

“Mmm.  Alright.” Harry hums in the back of his throat as he glances at the girl beside him, kinking a brow expectantly. “And when can I expect it back?”

“Fairly soon, actually.  It—” Y/N’s cheeks boil with more heat as she drops her attention to her lap, clearing her throat gently before continuing. “It, um, it doesn’t really smell like you anymore, so…”

Silence falls between the two as Y/N’s voice drifts off, leaving behind only the sound of Fleetwood Mac gently drifting through Harry’s speakers to cut through the thickening tension that fills the vehicle.  It’s only the faint sound of Y/N’s own shallow breaths that reminds Harry that he needs to fake his own, and he sucks in a deep gasp of air, his throat burning as her thick honey and lavender scent settles on the back of his tongue.

“Well,” He begins cautiously, gauging her reaction from the corner of his eye while keeping most of his gaze glued to the road. “You can always steal it again after I get it back, yeah?  It’ll be good as new.”

Harry nearly heaves an audible sigh of relief when he sees the edge of Y/N’s mouth twitch. “Not steal.  Borrow.” She corrects, her voice as tentative as his.

The heavy atmosphere in the car begins to dissipate as Harry rolls his eyes with fondness. “Agree to disagree, dove.”

Y/N lets out a sound of dissent as she rubs her palms down her legs, drumming her fingertips against her knees with finality. “Thank you for letting me borrow it, H.  And thank you for not growing a mustache.” She giggles out, throwing a coy smile his way before her expression grows more gentle. “And thank you for driving me today, although I’ve already said it.  I’ll have to think of a way to repay you.”

“Oh, I could think of a few.” Harry says with a suggestive smirk, thrumming his ringed fingers against the steering wheel. “How do you feel about spending the night?  We could order dinner from that Thai place you like, take a nice bath, and I could spend a few hours between your thighs while you make those sweet little noises I like so much.  Sounds relaxing, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Y/N agrees, keeping her voice as light as she possibly can at the mention of Harry’s skilled tongue working her over. “But that doesn’t seem like much of a thank you on my behalf.  Shouldn’t I be the one giving you something?”

Harry casts a look at the mortal girl with a raised brow. “Shouldn’t I get to choose my own reward?”

The fact that he sees the action of eating her out as a reward makes Y/N’s tummy froth. She really doesn’t know how she got so lucky, truly. “You should, but I can think of something better.”

The creature licks his lips once at the promise of something more enjoyable than her taste on his tongue. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a blowie in the bath.”

“Actually…” Y/N tugs her bottom lip between her teeth as she casts Harry a sideways look through her lashes, twisting her body beneath her seatbelt to angle towards him. “I was thinking of something more immediate.”

The question of what she means by that dies before it can make its way out of Harry’s mouth, stopped in its tracks the moment Y/N’s fingers travel across the leather seat between them.  She rests her palm on his thigh for a moment before beginning to massage the muscle beneath his trousers, her delicate fingertips just brushing over his inseam as her hand works its way higher.

A choked groan is all Harry can manage when her touch travels over his suddenly-growing bulge, and it takes all of his focus not to veer the car off the road. “Y/N,” He says, his accent low and thick with warning. “‘M driving, sweetheart.”

“I know.” Her voice thrums darker than normal as her palm presses flat against him, moving in a slow circle over the plaid fabric with insistence. “I didn’t ask you to stop, did I?  You can keep driving.”

The laugh that rolls from Harry’s lips is breathless and strained. “Yeah, except I can’t when you’re— fuck—” Y/N squeezes along his hardening shaft, and Harry tightens his hands around the steering wheel with nearly enough force to bend it. “‘M gonna crash this bloody car if you keep doing that.”

“No, you won’t.” The mortal girl smiles sweetly at him as her nimble fingers pop the button of his tartan slacks, grasping his zipper and tugging it down so slowly that it’s almost painful. “You can multitask, can’t you?”

“Not like— God—” Clenching his jaw, Harry casts a pained glance at Y/N, only allowing himself a moment of looking before forcing his attention back to the road.  What he sees in that moment, however, is a mischievous glint in her eyes that’s hidden beneath set determination, and the combination would send a shiver down his spine even without her soft hand creeping beneath his trousers. “This doesn’t feel like a reward, pet.  Feels like torture.”

Y/N shrugs lightly, continuing to rock against Harry over his boxers as her free hand reaches for her seat belt and clicks the release button. “Maybe it is.  Maybe I want to see if you can stay just as focused as I did when you made me cum on that ladder. Remember?  Right in the middle of that antique mall?”

Harry watches as her seat belt retracts, a flash of worry striking through his body. Before he can voice his concern for her safety, her hand is dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers. “Y/N,” He strains to get her name past his lips, his abdomen tightening as she grips him snuggly, and her palm feels like agony and salvation all at once. “If you make me cum in my pants with an hour left in our drive, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Or maybe…” Shifting across the seat, Y/N leans into Harry’s ear, her breath hot against his cool skin as she pumps him slowly and ignores the comment he’d moaned. “Maybe I just feel the way you did that day.  Maybe I want to tease you a bit.” She uses the precum that’s begun to steadily leak from his tip as lubricant, twisting her hand around his length to elicit a hiss from Harry’s clenched jaw. She takes the shell of his ear between her teeth, nibbling at it just to feel him writhe in response. “What was it you said to me, H?  When you slid your fingers inside me in that little music room?”

Harry offers no response other than the short puff of air that leaves his nostrils as he clenches the wheel harder beneath his palms.  He keeps his eyes locked on the road, knowing that if he looks down and sees Y/N working him beneath his slacks, he won’t be able to restrain himself from yanking the car to the side of the road and throwing her into the backseat.  And however wonderful that sounds— because it does sound incredibly wonderful, especially when Y/N swipes her thumb teasingly over his bubbling tip— he can’t let himself give into her.

Y/N, however, doesn’t seem to accept defeat so easily, and begins to drift her lips down Harry’s jaw and neck.  While the area had previously been a sensitive spot for Harry in the worst way, he’s repeatedly come to find that the sensitivity he feels when Y/N caresses him there to be an entirely new and pleasant sensation. 

“You said you wanted to have fun, remember?” She licks over the curve of his throat, her own breathing growing heavy when she feels Harry’s Adam’s apple bob beneath her tongue. “Now it’s my turn, don’t you think?”

“Thought—” Harry swallows thickly again, his hips unconsciously thrusting up slightly into Y/N’s hot palm. “Thought this was about thanking me, wasn’t it?  Not getting even.”

Y/N pulls away from his skin with a coquettish look in her wide eyes, her brows raised and lips parted into a small pout. “Are you saying that my mouth isn’t enough of a thank you?”

“Your—?  Oh, fucking hell—” Harry nearly swerves the car into the other lane of traffic when Y/N frees his length from his trousers, the cool temperature of the air-conditioned car sending a shudder down his spine.  The sensation only increases when Y/N dips her head down and extends her tongue to tease his cherry tip with the textured surface. “Y/N.”

“That’s what I thought.” The human girl says smugly, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips even when she wraps her mouth fully around his head and sucks gently, just enough to draw a breathless whimper from the man above her. 

With one hand still grasped tight around the steering wheel, Harry threads his other into Y/N’s hair, roughly tangling his fingers between her silky locks.  He doesn’t guide her head as he usually does, but the idea of being able to move her if he wants allows him to feel a semblance of control. 

Y/N clenches her thighs together as she bobs her head down further, heat pooling inside her belly as she feels Harry tug on her hair with the lightest pressure.  She trails the tip of her tongue down Harry’s expanse, following the prominent vein that pulses underneath her touch. “Do you still want me to stop, baby?” She asks softly, looking up at him through her lashes as she pumps him in a slow motion, batting her lashes sultrily. 

“No.” Harry whines the word as he presses his head back into the seat rest, his neck flexing as he forces his gaze to stay pinned on the road. “No, love, just— fuck, just keep going.” He grits his teeth when he feels her nose smudge along one of his fern tattoos, his next phrase coming out as a barely contained growl. “You’re down there already, so you might as well.”

Tucking her loose hair behind her ears, Y/N takes Harry back into her mouth, pushing herself further and further down his cock at a pace that’s nearly agonizing.  Harry twists his hand within her roots to create a makeshift ponytail, holding the locks out of her face so that she can focus better on the task at hand.  He feels the mortal girl smile around his length, her tender fingertips drawing a little heart along his exposed pelvis as a cheeky thank you. 

As the highway straightens out, Harry risks lifting his hand from the steering wheel for a quick moment, and his deft fingers quickly find the volume button of the stereo to lower it to a quiet lull.  He wants to hear every sound of Y/N’s throat opening up for him, and the muted noises she releases at the taste of him in her mouth.  

Of course, all of that is nearly overpowered by his own sounds of pleasure, and he struggles to keep himself quiet as he grips the wheel with renewed force. “Fuck, doll, look at you...I just…Christ.” The last word comes out as an elongated groan, his eyelids fluttering as her tongue massages down his extent in slow and even strokes. “Just like that, darling. God, you’re so good. Such a pretty mouth with such a filthy fucking tongue, hm?”

Harry throws a haphazard glance over his shoulder as another vehicle passes them, and a flash of territorial protection runs through him at the possibility of someone looking into the car and seeing Y/N touching him like this.  The sight of her acting like such a bold little minx is for his eyes only, and that thought combined with her slow, blissful motions pushes him to inch his foot towards the gas.  Harry wants to put a bit of distance between them and the other traffic on the highway, which will insert some much needed privacy into the situation. 

His acceleration, however, is interrupted by a particularly rough bump in the road, and his body jerks in his seat as they drive over it.  He hears the sound of Y/N gagging before he registers the searing sensation of his cock hitting the back of her throat, and he risks a peek downwards to see Y/N’s watery eyes blinking up at him in disorientation.

“Baby—” He tugs her head up from his lap, concern mingling with the pleasure in his voice as he evaluates her well-being.  Her expression is hazy from her ministrations, and she blinks tears from her irises, keeping one hand wrapped firmly around his length as the other wipes away the wetness at the corner of her eye. “‘M sorry.” Harry gulps thickly as he smooths his thumb over Y/N’s scalp, trying to soothe any discomfort he may have caused. “Are you alright?”

Y/N nods in a jerking motion as her mood darkens lustfully, and she swipes her thumb over the glistening tip of his cock before answering. “I’m fine, H.  Just caught off guard.  Don’t worry.” The rasp in her voice is evidence of her actions, and Harry hates how the sound goes straight to his throbbing length in her hand.  Undeterred by the harsh thrust that had choked her a few moments earlier, Y/N leans down once more to smear more sloppy kisses to the head of his prick, rubbing the slit against her bottom lip to elicit a cracked gasp from Harry’s lungs. “Just wanna make you feel good.”

“You—You are.  God, you fucking are.” The praise falls easily from Harry’s raspberry lips as her mouth returns to its previous distraction, fully suckling on the leaking head as her hand continues to work him in a practiced manner. “Feels like a dream, sweetheart, t-the way you take me down your throat like that.”

The mortal girl keens at the validation, and uses it as fuel to push herself further down his shaft again.  She makes sure that she’s mindful of how deep she’s taking him, keeping her hand wrapped firmly around the base as a buffer in case they hit any more rough patches of road.  With that worry eased, she allows herself to focus on massaging his pulsing prick with her tongue, alternating movements with strong sucks to his sensitive tip. She twists her wrist at a rising pace, matching it to the tempo she’s established with her mouth, working him over messily and swimming in the strangled noises that pour out above her.

Y/N sniffles lightly, talking over Harry’s thick cock to the best of her ability, her voice garbled and raw. “You’re so fucking big, Harry. And so pretty, too.” She moves her hand lower down his expanse, carefully cupping his heavy balls and fondling them between her fingers, preening at the fractured grunt that filters from her lover’s taut throat. “And so full.”

“Please, baby…” The immortal’s quiet plea sends electricity coursing through every cell in her body, his grip on her hair tightening to the point where blots of color speckle her foggy vision. “Don’t stop. Just please don’t fucking stop.” 

“I want it.” She whispers around him, the warm breath of her words puffing down his prickling skin and sending goosebumps across his clammy thighs. “I want you to fill my mouth, Daddy. Want every last drop.”

The creature sucks in a rattling breath through the cracks of his teeth, waves of pleasure erupting along his cheeks and down the knobs of his spine, all because of how erotic her delicate voice sounds as it expresses such explicit confessions. “You’re fucking ruining me, dove.” 

The girl tugs at Harry’s balls gently, rolling them around her palm again as she gives a particularly harsh suck. He can’t stop the loud whine that tumbles down his tongue in response, his hips bucking upwards a tad in unrestrained need. “I want you to give it to me, H. Please? Want you so bad.” 

Harry throws his head further back against the headrest of his seat, his jaw dropping open in a silent moan as his heavy eyelids lull over his rolling irises, tears blearing his vision until he can barely make out the road in front of him. “Gonna—Gonna give it to you, pet. Gonna give you every last bit, all for my sweet girl.” 

Y/N hones her blurred sight above her onto Harry’s face, more warmth flooding the area between her thighs. He looks gorgeous as ever, with his prominent features slack in ecstasy, his clavicle cutting into the sweaty skin visible along the collar of his fitted tee, and with his unusually dark eyes framed by his long lashes. His chest is heaving wildly as he tries to keep his composure, his cross necklace glimmering in the sun with every rapid rise of his defined muscles. His sharp jaw is wound taut, the tendon along the structure ticking as he gazes at her drunkenly from above his sculpted cheekbones. His chestnut curls as matted along his temple and over the nape of his neck due to the heat of the moment, his thick brows are knitted together in pleasurable gripe, and his teeth-swollen lips are parted in aroused wonder at how skillfully she’s taking every last inch of him without any hesitation whatsoever. 

Y/N watches him intensely, drinking up every twitch of his expression and every soft groan he tries to stifle, her tongue lapping at him with more excitement than before. Harry locks eyes with her through his foggy haze, the corners of his flushed lips jolting upwards into a cocky open-mouthed smirk when he sees just how fucked he’s got her, despite the fact that he’s barely lifted a finger through the entire process. He slowly tongues over his chapped lips, glimpsing back up towards the highway for a split second to make sure he’s avoiding any other oncoming cars. He then returns his attention to the human, giving her head a playful tug and feeling the tip of his cock nudge along the roof of his mouth, resulting in a low hiss streaming past his condescending simper. “Why don’t you take a picture, princess? It’ll last you longer.” 

Y/N gives a quick squeeze to his balls, sly satisfaction weaving its way into her chest when she feels him jerk in response, a whined curse of, “Fuck me.” slipping through his defenses. “Maybe you should watch your tone while I’m down here.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at her challengingly, his palm grasping the back of her head with more intent and forcing her down, her nose smearing over his tummy as he hits the back of her throat deeper than before. He holds her there for a second, reveling in the way she constricts around him as soft gagging sounds bounce off the walls of his Cadillac. 

After a few seconds, he pulls her back up his cock to a more reasonable length, humming smugly as she shudders and coughs dryly, her eyes twinkling submissively. His voice comes out strained, but its dark and accented tenor holds its usual unyielding authority, as well as arrogant chiding. “And maybe you should learn not to talk back to me. Guess I’ll have to pull the paddle back out sooner than expected, huh?” 

A shiver coils down Y/N’s spine at the reference to that night. It happened a few weeks ago, but the memory is fresh in her mind as if it’s only been hours. It’s nearly impossible to forget, given everything Harry had put her through, and she often finds herself thinking back on it whenever she needs some relief and doesn’t have his company as help. 

The human murmurs her next sentence shyly, her watery eyes regarding him with a certain type of wistfulness that makes his balls ache. “Maybe you should.”

Harry lets out an airy chuckle at her eagerness, which slowly molds into a gravelly moan when she returns to dipping her head with faster, sloppier strokes. A few strands of hair have escaped the ponytail in his palm, and he takes great care in tucking them back behind her ears with his index finger, which then trails across her cheek affectionately. “Maybe I will. But right now, you just worry about finishing me off. Then, we’ll see if I’m feeling up to it some other time— if I feel like you deserve it.” 

Y/N nods her head obediently. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“‘Course, darling. Anything for my proper little slut. Especially when she’s taking me down her throat like such a good fucking girl.” 

Y/N’s only reply is a broken mewl, and she allows herself to become immersed back into the action of giving Harry the orgasm she so desperately wants to deliver.   

She can taste precum as it dribbles onto her tongue, a precursor to Harry’s impending climax, and the flavour makes her center throb.  She has half a mind to remove him from her mouth and beg him to pull over so that she can properly ride him, but she doesn’t doubt that doing so would add hours onto their travel time.  There’ll be time for all that once they’re back at his place, she reminds herself, pulling off of him just enough to lick her lips before lowering herself again.  Right now, there’s just one thing she wants above all else, and if the sounds Harry is making are any indication, she’s fairly close to getting it.

“So fucking close, angel.” Harry pants, his abdomen contracting over and over again as he struggles to keep the car moving at a steady and consistent pace. “Gonna make me cum, aren’t you?  Want Daddy to pump that pretty mouth full?”

Y/N hums around Harry as he yanks on her hair again, more for the sensation than to actually guide her.  Still, she pulls up from his prick with a pop, looking up at him with doe-like eyes as she replies. “Mhmm.” She hums again, giving him a particularly hard pump and delighting in the groan that rolls from his tongue. “Wanna taste you.”

“You— fuck, darling, that’s fucking it.” Harry’s words echo from his throat in a ragged gasp as he twists his jeweled fingers around her locks once more, straining his head back against the seat to keep himself from looking down again as she retakes him down her throat. “I’m gonna fucking— Oh my God, baby, please—”

Y/N digs the nails of her free hand into Harry’s pelvis, scraping over his plant tattoos as she feels his toned tummy tighten beneath her touch.  It only takes one more squeeze of her hand around his balls and one last determined suckle to draw his orgasm from him, and she lifts herself until just the head of his cock is in her mouth as he spills onto her tongue.  Her own eyes flutter shut as she whines at the salty taste, swallowing it down without a second thought.  She keeps her lips locked around him, wanting to capture every aftershock that spurts into her mouth, feeling ropes of cum splatter across her taste buds as Harry squirms against his seat, whining in encouragement.

She continues to milk him for everything he’s worth, repeatedly prodding the twitching vein protruding along his prick and scraping his sputtering head against the inside of her cheek, wanting to urge every last drop out of him. She only pulls away when the young man whimpers from above, shakily tugging on her hair to alert her that he’s crossing into more sensitive territory.

“Fucking shit…” He murmurs weakly, his breathing erratic as he eases off the gas pedal to reduce the car to a slower pace, rather than keeping the accelerated speed he’d fallen into as he came.  He combs his fingers through Y/N’s mussed locks as a faint, exhausted chuckle rolls from his lips, his thumb ducking down to collect a bit of the mess that had seeped out of the corner of her mouth. He pushes the digit past her swollen, colored lips, his breath catching as he watches her clean it off without a single hitch. “God, minx, I’m gonna need a little warning the next time you decide to do that. Thought I was gonna crash the car a few times.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Y/N reassures him quietly, looking up at him with a fond smile before turning her attention to his softening prick.  She licks up one stray bead of cum from his tip, delighting in the strangled sound the action draws from Harry. She then proceeds to carefully tuck him back inside his trousers, buttoning and zipping them up with ease.  She even takes care to tuck his red and black striped shirt back inside the waistband, but only after she presses a gentle kiss to his still-tensed abdomen, nuzzling her nose across his happy trail and feeling butterflies flutter in her belly when he lets out an appreciative mewl.

Harry inhales deeply as he watches her sit up from the corner of his eye, his hand slipping from her hair to his own to fix the disheveled curls. “No, I suppose not.  I have precious cargo.  Speaking of—” He reaches over Y/N’s body, and with one hand still on the wheel, fumbles to fasten her seatbelt back across her chest and lap. “Y’gotta keep this on if you ever do that again, alright?  S’not safe to have it off for so long.”

A fond smile tugs at Y/N’s lips as Harry sews his fingers over her thigh, squeezing lightly over her jeans before massaging the muscle.  She’s noticed that he’s grown more and more touchy and protective each time they’re intimate with each other, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s fingertips stutter over Y/N’s leg for just a moment, and the twitch of his sensitive cock beneath his slacks nearly causes Harry to swerve the car again. “Fuck, don’t say that right now.” He mumbles brokenly, his voice much more raw than he’d like it to be. “Don’t think my poor dick can handle it.”

Laughter bursts from Y/N’s chests, and the contagious sound draws a giggle from Harry’s own body as she settles her fingers over his, twisting them together in an instinctive motion. “Too sensitive?” She teases, lulling her head back against her seat rest while keeping her eyes focused on him, sweetening her voice down into a babying drawl. “You poor thing.”

A bright pink blush sears itself onto Harry’s cheeks as he clears his throat, tightening his hand around the wheel again to ground himself. “Yeah.  I only really like overstimulation when I’m the one administering it, not the one receiving it.  And you—” He squeezes her thigh as punctuation. “—are much too stimulating, especially when you’re looking at me like that.”

Another honeyed giggle falls from Y/N’s strawberry lips, and the corners of her eyes crinkle as her smile continues to grow. “I like seeing you like this.” She says decisively, her eyes twinkling with amusement as she reaches over and affectionately twirls one of his loose ringlets around her finger. “All flustered.  It’s cute.”

“Are you seriously calling me cute after deep-throating me while I drive?” Harry asks incredulously, a snort echoing from his throat as he shifts around in his seat.  He’s already uncomfortable in his trousers again, both from the wetness she’d left on him and the way her words are making him stiffen again. 

“Mm.” Y/N thrums in agreement as her free hand reaches for the stereo, dialing up the volume again so the sounds of The Kinks can be heard without strain. “I think you’re cute— very cute, actually.  Even moreso when you get all blushy. Am I not allowed to say that?”

Another layer of warmth soaks itself across Harry’s small ears and stinging nose, and he tries to play off his childish reaction with a casual scoff. He can’t deny the way the compliment makes him feel, though. It’s different from the praise she usually gives him, which tends to be sexual and in the heat of the moment. But this is much more intimate in such a sweet and tender manner, and he hasn’t received that type of innocent attention from someone in much too long. He likes it, he decides. Especially when it comes from Y/N.

She makes him weak, and though he’d normally seethe at the idea of anyone ever making him weak again, he comes to find that the softness she coaxes from him is something so different from the mainstream definition of that dangerous word. She makes him weak, yes, but not in a destructive sense. This girl— this simple mortal girl with bones made of glass and skin of fine velvet— makes him weak in the knees, and in the pit of his stomach, and in the cement walls he’d built around his phantom heart. She makes him vulnerable in new places that have been entirely foreign to him for the last twenty decades, if the glowing warmth surging through him is any indication. And for the first time in a while, he’s beginning to think that maybe— just maybe— that’s not such a terrible thing.

The vampire comes to the sudden epiphany that being weak for someone is unorthodox to him because it’s a human trait. Allowing yourself to form a deeper connection with someone— with a person completely the opposite of what you are— requires compassion and understanding. It requires willingness and empathy, as well as trust and pure intentions. It requires humanity. And that’s what Y/N is doing, Harry realizes. She’s taking that last wilted shred of humanity he possesses and is urging him to use it. Even though it’s not intentional on her behalf, and even though she has no idea of just how small that fragment of humanity is, it’s somehow miraculously working; just her being the caring soul she’s always been seems to be enough to awaken that part of him. 

Despite the fact that the immortal would normally laugh at such a stupidly cringey and cliche concept, there’s no denying that at this point in their little LifeTime movie crossover, it’s true. That’s why it feels so utterly weird— she’s bringing out a side of himself he hasn’t shown in literal centuries. She makes him feel the one sensation he didn’t think was possible for him to ever experience again: She makes him feel alive. 

Oh.

…Oh. 

Harry snaps himself out of his inner turmoil, sucking in a shaky breath and exhaling slowly, releasing all his consuming thoughts. Relying on his supernatural impulses to focus on any oncoming hazards, the creature allows himself the indulgence of shifting his hunter eyes onto Y/N for a lingering glance.  The sun is just beginning to set outside the car window, ducking over the cityscape and washing the distant buildings in mellow shades of soothing pinks, cozy oranges, and buttery yellows. The colors cast a golden light through the glass of his car, and it settles onto Y/N’s soft features like stardust, highlighting her flyaway hairs, the gentle slope of her plush lips, and the dreamy tinge in her captivating eyes.  

If Harry didn’t know any better, about both what she is and about not believing in such ridiculous tales, he’d think she was an angel.  Not that an angel would ever be seen with the likes of him.

“Y’can say that, petal.” He murmurs after a lengthy pause, reluctantly returning his attention to the long stretch of road in front of him, his palm still secured over Y/N’s denim-covered thigh.  If he focuses enough, he can feel her pulse through the fabric, and the steady thumping sends a strange prickling through his hand and into the rest of his body. “You can say whatever you’d like, and I’d listen.”

“Oh, is that so?” She pokes at him with a cheeky grin, using her nail to absentmindedly trace the blood red daylight crystals embedded into the eyes of his lionhead ring. “So you’re actually offering to listen for once, instead of making your cocky little comments?”

The edges of the vampire’s lips jolt with endearment. “Just this once, yeah.” 

Except it’s not just this once, Harry thinks to himself, adding on the words he will most likely never have the courage to speak aloud. I’d listen to anything and everything you have to say. No matter how small and insignificant it may be, or however random and useless you might think it is. I’d listen. For you, always.

Harry doesn’t express his private thoughts, but he pretends that he has, and he pretends that the smile Y/N is gifting him at the moment is her heartfelt response to his silent confessions. 

He adores it more than he should, and how could he not? It’s so blinding, he thinks it could very well burn him.

///

It’s not that Harry is nervous for tonight, because he’s not.  

Spending his Friday nights with Y/N has become as regular as clockwork, and Harry knows that it’s overdue in their routine for him to cook a dinner for her, given that she’d had the courtesy of doing it for him. He’s already picked up her favourite red wine to accompany the gnocchi recipe he’d sweet-talked Vincenzo into sharing with him (Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto— the one she’d enjoyed on their date at Bella Vita), as well as snagged all the ingredients for the lavender lemonade cocktail he planned to make her when she first arrived.  He’d even gone so far as to freeze a few petals from edible flowers into his cubed trays earlier in the day, just to up the ante on his already stunning presentation.  

He’s already set out shining dinner plates along his kitchen island, tidied and dusted his entire condo, and made each of his friends promise to leave him alone for the night.  He’s prepared everything that’s been within his power into sheer perfection; nothing could possibly go wrong.  So he’s not nervous, because everything is fine and because he never gets nervous. Being nervous is for morons, and he’s far from being one, so he just isn’t. It’s that simple. There’s absolutely no reason to be nervous. 

Except that he can’t manage to get his mahogany belt to lie properly against his waist (he’d searched in vain for his black Gucci belt with the logo buckle, but hadn’t been able to find it), the woven leather tail twisting repeatedly whenever Harry tries to tuck it beneath the rest of the belt.  And while the rational part of his mind knows that this doesn’t matter, and that he can just guide the tail into a loop along his olive trousers, the irrational part of his mind— which, unfortunately, just happens to be in control at this very moment— knows that tucking it in won’t look nearly as chic as folding it just right to lay the excess along the length of his thigh.

He’s already crafted the rest of his outfit so carefully, spending almost an hour deciding on the red and black patterned vest to pair with the trousers, and an additional forty-five minutes choosing which short-sleeved button up to layer beneath it.  He’d ended up picking a yellow top with indigo swatches along the collar, proceeding to tuck the shirt sleeves up along the sleeves of the knitted vest to give the fit a stylish flare. Harry thinks he looks good (although, to be fair, he always does), but he knows that if he turns his attention back to it for too long, he’d end up tearing it off and starting all over again.  However, judging by the clock that’s ticking from his bedside table, Harry knows that isn’t an option.  It’s 5:42 PM, and Y/N had said she’d be here by 6:00, and if Harry isn’t ready by the time her delicate knuckles rap against his front door, then she might just decide to turn on her heel and leave, and Harry won’t ever get the chance to ask her—

The creature stops short in his tracks, his fingers freezing over the leather of his belt that he’d just managed to settle into place.  He’s not asking her that, he reminds himself, loosening his limbs just enough to nervously twist his mother’s ring around his pinky.  He’s already decided that— and undecided it, and decided it again— after his road trip epiphany the previous weekend.  It doesn’t matter just how weak, or warm, or alive, or just plain human Y/N makes him feel.  He knows what this is, and has known since the beginning, and there’s just no way that he can bring himself to ask Y/N to be his—

Harry can’t even force himself to think of the word. 

He makes long strides towards his dresser, picking up the string of pearls lying on top of the varnished wood and fastening them around his icy neck.  What meaning could that word even hold for him, anyways?  He’s a vampire, and though Y/N makes him feel the complete opposite, there’s no way he could ever feel so human as to give into the notion of having a girlfriend.  A girlfriend leads to a fiancée, which leads to a wife, which leads to the expectation of a family, and Harry knows that none of those things are compatible with the immortal afterlife he lives now.  If Mitch, who is— by any accounts— ten times the man Harry could ever be, hasn’t even managed to lock Sarah— another vampire— into a solid relationship after three years, how could Harry delude himself into thinking that he could do that with a human?

And even if he, with all his commitment, abandonment, and trust issues aside, could have a relationship with a mortal— not any mortal, he reminds himself, but the only mortal that’s ever managed to capture a sliver of his genuine attention— that doesn’t mean he actually wants one.  Why would Harry ever want to be tied to one place, or one person?  Why would he ever want to have to phone someone before going somewhere, or have to check in on them when they’re doing the same?  Why would he want to deal with having to manage someone’s emotions, problems, and life?  He’s traveled the circumference of the world and back again, and seen more changes to society than any human could ever comprehend. He loves being reckless, and untethered, and not responsible for anyone other than himself. He enjoys being impulsive and not having to worry about his actions falling back on anyone else’s shoulders other than his own. It’s who he is— it’s who he’s been for a while now— and it’s who he had imagined he’d continue to be for another two centuries. 

It’s like that one country song that tormented his radio in the early 2000s— the one about life being like an endless road and about how people should enjoy it while it lasts. He believes the exact words are, “Life is a highway, I want to ride it all night long” or something of the sort. Horrendous song, but it held a pretty decent message. 

So with all of this taken into precise consideration, why would he, in his right mind, ever chain himself to one geographical location, and one single fleeting soul?

The answer floats to the forefront of Harry’s mind as he casts a glance towards his half-opened dresser drawer, where a pair of Y/N’s pastel blue sweatpants are folded neatly on top of his own pairs.  She’d left them there a few weeks ago, and while Harry had washed and dried them for her with the intention of giving them back, he’d decided it would be a better idea to keep them here in case Y/N ever ended up staying the night without planning to.  Just so she’d have something comfortable of her own to put on before falling asleep in Harry’s bed, on the side that he now keeps made up just for her.  

Why would Harry ever tie himself to one person?  Because that person is Y/N, and she’s not just a person.  She is— in every way except officially— Harry’s girl.

Harry can’t even bring himself to deny that fact as he fixes the collar of his shirt and strides out of his bedroom, dimming down the lights before making his way to the glass staircase.  Every issue he’d brought up, every fact that he’s tried to use to convince himself that he doesn’t want a relationship, can’t even be considered an issue when it comes to Y/N.  He already does all of those things— checking in on her to make sure she’s alright, letting her vent about her stress, listening to her problems with an attentive ear, holding her hand whenever they’re together, kissing her forehead while she lays against his chest, switching her to the inside of the sidewalk to ensure her safety, moving strands of hair out of her face so they don’t become a bother— and he does it all gladly.  He’s come to adore the soothing comfort he receives when he walks Y/N to her door after a date, or double checks the locks after she’s inevitably invited him inside.  He delights in calling her during her lunch breaks to inquire about how her day is going, and to remind her that “iced coffee isn’t a substitute for water, peach.  You’ll feel a lot better on your shift if you drink a glass, alright?”  And even when her voice is strained and laden with anxiety as she curls into his side after a particularly rough day, it still sounds like the most beautiful melody he’s ever heard, and the weight and warmth of her body against his own acts like a relaxant to Harry’s cold limbs.  

He rolls his shoulders now as he skips the last two stairs and lands squarely on his leather Gucci boots (they’re one of his favorites, and though they’re a simple black, they have a rainbow impression along the lip that he thinks is quite chic). He releases a long breath as he absentmindedly studies over his art wall, his eyes landing on the painting of a deconstructed sunflower. The abstract piece reminds him of the night Y/N had come over to his condo for the first time, and he begins to feel that annoying yet familiar knot between his shoulder blades that always seems to form when he’s away from her.  It’s something he hadn’t even noticed until a few days ago; how his body grows rigid and stiff whenever they’re separated, like he can’t allow himself to exhale until she’s beside him again.  He supposes it’s a strange vampire tendency— something carnal and territorial inside of him that thinks it’s his job to protect Y/N, the decadent and intoxicating center of his strange obsession, and when she’s not around, unease threads into his muscles until he can be sure his primary source of blood is alright. 

Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s something deeper inside him— some other reason to keep her out of any harm and an arm’s length away. However, he refuses to indulge that unsettling mystery right now. It’s too fucking complicated to dwell on.

Ambling into the kitchen, Harry begins to dig through his lower cupboards for the apron he hadn’t bothered to slip on when he was cooking earlier.  Pushing aside the white cover with the words “World’s Best (pancake) Tosser” stamped onto the front (it had been a gift from Niall, delivered with a sly grin and a cheeky comment about how the apron was too accurate to pass up), Harry selects the butcher’s apron printed with the phrase “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’!” He slips the loop over his head and ties the straps behind his toned back with a quick motion, the edges of his lips quirking at the pompous joke. He knows Y/N will make a comment about it. 

He hadn’t bothered with the apron before when he’d been preparing the gnocchi simply because his loungewear isn’t necessarily that important, but now that he’s changed into something much nicer than the t-shirt and sweatpants he’d previously worn— and after he’d struggled with deciding on the outfit for so long— the last thing he wants to do is splash sauce onto himself as he navigates his kitchen.

Harry’s mind continues to race with nearly incomprehensible thoughts as he gathers the last of the ingredients needed to finish the meal, his nimble fingers easily peeling the skin from a clove of garlic before he begins to mince it with practiced skill.  Maybe that’s the cause of all his confusing feelings, he muses as he tosses a knob of butter into his preheated pan, scooping the garlic onto his knife and adding that to the mix as well.  Maybe that instinctual feeling to protect is the root of all his fantasies of a relationship.  He can’t possibly want— can’t actually believe that he’d...

Except he does.  

Sighing grimly as he snags a wooden spoon from a kitchen drawer, Harry nudges the cabinet shut with his hip before beginning to stir the sizzling concoction in his pan.  Somehow, against all odds— against all reason— he’s become attached to Y/N.  So attached that he’d spent an hour begging Vincenzo for this specific recipe when he could’ve so easily googled a different one and recreated it to near perfection.  So attached that he’d driven to three different liquor stores to find her favourite brand of red wine, which he’d set to chill in his fridge hours ago, because even though a cabernet sauvignon is supposed to be chilled for forty-five minutes at most, Y/N likes it icy cold.  So attached that he’d taken care to freeze individual flower petals into ice cubes, just so he could make her a cocktail flavoured with honey and lavender, the exact same way she is.  So attached that, for the first time in twenty decades, the concept of a relationship doesn’t draw a disgusted gag from his throat and doesn’t send a ghostly spike of pain to his neck.

“Doesn’t matter.” He mutters the words out loud to himself, as if speaking them audibly will reinforce their meaning.  Opening the fridge with a rough tug, Harry nabs the quart of cream he’d purchased earlier that day, bending the mouth of it open and pouring it smoothly into the saucepan and giving it a stir.  It doesn’t matter if he wants a relationship, because there’s no way that Y/N does.

A bitter laugh tears its way through his chest as he reaches for the bowl of gorgonzola cheese he’d shredded earlier, scattering the ingredient into the saucepan and slowly mixing it in.  He’s arrived at the same point he has all week when he’s had this argument with himself. The same fact that’s stopped him in his tracks each time he’s dared to think that— if he should ask— Y/N would say yes to him becoming a more permanent fixture in her life.  She’d say yes, he thinks.  Or he hopes, at least.  She’d say yes, until she wakes up in the middle of the night to Harry caged over her with crimson irises, terrifying shadows below his waterline, black veins webbing out from his eyes, and a blood-soaked mouth bared to reveal his dagger-like fangs. Then, she’d be gone.

Not gone, he amends in his head, the thought somber and acrid in his mind as he reduces the sauce to a simmer.  He’d have to go after her, of course, but not in the way a man usually goes after a woman.  Despite how they’d joked about it casually, Harry most definitely doesn’t belong in a LifeTime movie.  No, he’s from a much darker genre— less leading man, more malicious creature that lurks in the night— and the only thing he could do when he chases Y/N down would be to wipe all traces of himself from her mind entirely.  That’s the ending they’d be destined for if he let himself buy into his romantic delusions.  It’s better not to put a label on anything.  No labels keep a degree of separation between their two lives— at least, that’s what Harry tells himself.  And as much as it pains him, a degree of separation might be exactly what they need.

And yet, when Y/N knocks on his door two minutes later, just as he’s sprinkling various ground herbs into the sauce and setting it onto the back of the stovetop to wait until they’re ready to eat, Harry can’t help the giddy grin that immediately decorates his dimples. He hurries to untie his apron and tosses it onto the back of one of the chairs lined against his kitchen island, dragging a ringed hand through his purposefully tousled curls as he nearly super-speeds to the front door of his condo. He trips on his way there, spewing curses as he barely saves himself from face-planting the ground like an imbecile. He straightens himself out with a petty huff, slowing down slightly and being more mindful of every step he takes. His smile has already returned before he even yanks the door open.

Y/N— his Y/N, he allows himself to think affectionately— is dressed from head to toe in his own clothes.  Well, almost head to toe, he corrects, casting a sly glance at the way her black jeans hug the curve of her hips too perfectly to be his own pair.  But he recognizes the black and white speckled short-sleeve button up that’s french-tucked into the high-waisted denim, and shrewdly notes the addition of a Gucci belt looped around her waist— the very one he’d been searching for earlier.  She’s even styled the shirt the same way he does, with half the top buttons undone.  However— Harry licks his lips unconsciously as his eyes hover over her exposed chest— she’s paired the top with a delicate looking black lace bralette that catches his hungry gaze the moment he spots it.  Even the black ankle boots she’s wearing are reminiscent of his own fashion choices.

“Y’know,” Y/N’s amused voice cuts through his stupor, drawing his attention back from the obvious canvas of her body and up to her glittering eyes. “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to check out my tits before even saying hello.”

Harry’s mouth crooks sheepishly in response as he reaches out to her, looping his muscled arms around her waist and pulling her inside the condo and against his body with ease. “Hello.” He murmurs obediently, thumbing at her waist over the silky fabric as a teasing yet fond cadence sews its way into his voice. “So this is where my clothes keep disappearing to, hm?  I searched for that belt for an hour today.”

“Shouldn’t have left it at my apartment, then.” Y/N counters easily, curling her hands against Harry’s chest.  He can already feel her heat beginning to web through his entire being, warming him in a manner nothing has in the last two hundred years. “And you said tonight’s dress code was casual formal— which makes zero fucking sense, by the way— so I figured the best way to conform to that would be would be by wearing your own clothes.” A drop of hesitance begins to colour Y/N’s tone as she casts her gaze towards his own, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she tries to read between his teasing words for any hint of actual annoyance. “Is that… okay?”

“Perfectly okay, angel.” Harry soothes the worry lines that have formed between her eyes by stamping a kiss onto her forehead, allowing himself to linger for a moment to inhale her familiar scent of sugar and flowers.  It seems more powerful today than it usually is, almost bowling him over right there in the foyer, and he takes a step back to regain control of himself under the pretense of closing the door. “Honestly, I’m a little miffed that you look better in my clothes than I do.”

“‘Miffed’?” The mortal girl laughs as she reaches down to retrieve something from the ground, and it’s only then that Harry realizes that she’d had an overnight bag in her hand before he’d tugged her into his grasp and caused her to drop it.  “Who says ‘miffed’?  Are you a sixty-seven year old woman named Betty?” 

Although he allows a chuckle at her incredulous question, Harry’s attention has focused in on the bag inches away from her outstretched hand.  Cursing himself for being too wrapped up in her appearance to notice the item she’d been toting, Harry quickly fetches it from the ground before she can, carrying it further into his apartment before setting it down on one of the island chairs, as if the small distance could make up for the initial lack of manners he’d displayed. 

“No, I’m not.  I’m just British.” He should bring the bag up to his bedroom, he thinks, just so Y/N doesn’t have to wonder where her clothes are when she’s fraught with exhaustion later. But that would mean having to leave her side, and the grip her fragrance has on his senses right now won’t allow him to do so. 

“Oh, yeah! I almost forgot.” Y/N lilts with an exaggerated air, another giggle rising from her petal-like lips as she leans against the marble countertop on her elbow, propping her chin up in one hand and resting the other on top of the stone.  She regards him with all the affection that he doesn’t deserve, and yet always seems to crave, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to not grasp her chin in his hand and sift their lips together just to taste her laughter. “Along with ‘pip pip’ and ‘cheerio,’ right?”

“Yes, those phrases are definitely at the top of my vocab list.  You’ve heard me say them a million times.” Harry rolls his eyes playfully, shaking himself from his distracted thoughts as he steps back behind the counter to effectively put a little bit of much needed space between him and the mortal girl.  His restless hands are already outstretched to his bar shelves before he even asks, “D’you want a drink, darling?”

Y/N watches with innocent curiosity as Harry sets two lowball glasses down on the counter before reaching into his cupboard for a jar of honey, which he spoons onto an awaiting plate.  He rims the glasses in the syrup before dipping them into sugar, sparking confusion in Y/N as she tries to decipher what cocktail Harry is making her.  Her befuddlement only grows as he extracts a bottle of clear liquid that she assumes is vodka and a purple concoction that she can’t identify. “What are you making?”

“Lavender lemonade.” Harry answers swiftly, reaching into a drawer for the small double-ended measuring cup tool that Y/N still can’t remember the name of, as well as his crystal cocktail shaker.  Y/N observes with wide eyes as he fills the shaker with ice and vodka before picking up the mysterious liquid. “This is lavender syrup.  Not homemade, unfortunately, but I do buy it from a little organic grocer I know at the farmer’s market.  Adds a nice floral note to the drink, and mixes well with the lemonade.” He caps the container and shakes it expertly (the way his muscled arms ripple with effort doesn’t go unnoticed by her, as it never does) before setting it down on the counter and making his way to the fridge freezer. “S’where I get my honey, too.” He chances a look over his shoulder just in time to see Y/N dip her finger into the honey pooled on the plate and pop the digit into her mouth, and Harry has to force himself to tear his eyes away as she sucks lightly on her fingertip, her cheeks just barely hollowing. “Do you like it?”

“Mhmm,” Y/N hums around the digit as she keeps her eyes shamelessly glued to Harry’s ass while he bends down to open the cooled drawer, retrieving a tray of cubed ice and coming back over to add one large block into each lowball glass. “Are there flowers in there?” She asks in wonder after retracting her finger from her mouth with a pop, leaning over the table more to observe the decorative ice that has filled the cups.

“Mm.” Harry matches her hum with a more pleasured undertone, both from her noticing the small detail, and from the unobstructed view of her cleavage that her new position allows him.  He picks up the shaker and strains the light purple lavender and vodka mixture into the glasses, topping off each cocktail with a can of sparkling lemonade that he’d also retrieved from the fridge. “S’pretty, isn’t it?” He asks, stirring the drinks with a spoon before holding up one of the glasses to the light and handing it to Y/N. “My own creation.  You’re the first person to try it.”

Their fingers graze as Y/N accepts the glass from him, sparking electricity up her entire arm, and she can’t help the irreverent moan that thrums in the back of her throat as she brings the glass to her lips, tasting the honey and sugar first before the lavender coats her tongue. “This is so good, H.” She praises, licking a lingering dab of honey from her mouth between her words.  Twisting the glass in her hands as she regards the lilac drink, Y/N eyes him over the rim of the crystal, pupils blown wide. “I didn’t think honey and lavender could ever taste so good.”

“You know, I used to think that, too.” Harry’s mumbles knowingly as his own eyes drift a shade darker. He watches the human girl’s neck strain with her swallow, as if she knows he’s trying to keep his gaze away from there and she’s beckoning him back. “But it’s my favourite flavour combination now.  Can’t ever seem to get enough.”

The comment goes right over the mortal girl’s head, just as Harry knew it would.  His expectations of the cocktail in his hand are also met from his very first sip; although the concoction is delicious, it pales in comparison to the fragrance wafting across the island from Y/N.  He may as well be drinking water, honestly. But he knows he’ll end up repeating the recipe a few more times at the very least, just because Y/N tells him that it’s her favourite drink he’s ever made.

“You say that every time I make you a new drink, dove.” Harry can’t help but quip coyly at the repeated compliment, setting his crystal tumbler against the counter with a quiet thud. “Am I supposed to keep believing it?”

“Obviously. Especially when each drink keeps getting better and better.” Y/N licks a drip of honey from the rim, her tongue delicately capturing the sugar crystals before her lips settle back onto the edge to take another sip. “You would be an amazing bartender, but we’ve already talked about that before.”

“We have, yeah.” Harry smiles softly as he recalls the conversation they’d had weeks ago, where she had said his drinks were better than anything she’d had at a club, and he had responded by saying he doesn’t have the patience to be a bartender. That conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago, and considering how much closer they had become since, it quite literally could be. “But refresh my memory, will you? Why is it that I’d make such an amazing bartender?”

Y/N gives Harry a jokingly flat glance as a response to his smug tone, but decides to humor him, nonetheless. “Well, you obviously have the mixology skills, and I don’t doubt that the whole thing you have going—” She nods her head to him over the island with a teasing smirk. “—would get you endless tips.”

“My whole thing?” Harry repeats the phrase with an air of faux confusion. “What do you mean, my whole thing?”

He knows what she means, of course.  But he won’t deny himself an opportunity to hear Y/N feed his ego with sweet-spoken praise.

Y/N doesn’t buy his innocent act for a minute, but still indulges him, yet again.  She likes to see Harry preen under her compliments just as much as he likes to receive them. “You know…” She casts her eyes over his figure slowly, picking out every detail she can comment on as she wedges her bottom lip between her teeth. “Your whole look— the tattoos, the muscles, the dimples, the sparkling green eyes, the shiny curls… all of that would have any drunk customer draped over the bar for you.  And even if you couldn’t get by on looks alone, you’re absolutely charming.  To the point of ridiculousness, honestly, but,” Y/N eyes him suspiciously, and while her words are mostly in jest, she can’t deny that she’s seriously thought them at some point in time. “I’m not entirely convinced it’s genuine.  Although being able to fake that kind of attitude would serve you well in a crowded bar.”

Whatever Harry was expecting to hear among the praise, an accusation of dishonest behaviour wasn’t it.  His brow furrows deeply as his lips turn down into a displeased grimace, and he drums his ringed fingers over the marble countertop as he cocks his head to the side. “What d’you mean?” The question is earnest now, no longer a coquettish teasing remark, and the warmth the mortal girl had provided him with begins to subside as a flash of icy doubt digs shards through his chest. “Not genuine?  Does it seem like I’m faking it or something?”

Y/N teases her lips with her tongue, unable to stop the nervous tic as she hears the displeasure that clearly strains Harry’s tone.  Setting her own glass down on the counter, Y/N lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I just mean, like… I don’t know.  I don’t really think that now, but in the beginning…”

“What?” Harry prompts her with more intensity than he’d meant to, but he’s spent so much of this past week analyzing their every interaction while wrestling with his own thoughts that he’s already on edge; he needs to hear what Y/N had thought of him when they’d first met.  His own recollection of the memories has made him flinch multiple times, particularly the times when he’d thought that Y/N was as boringly ordinary as humans come. He can only imagine what her take on the situation is. “Did I— was I rude, or—?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” She hurriedly assures him, shaking her head hard enough that her loose locks bounce around her shoulders. “You weren’t rude at all— the opposite, actually.  I don’t know, it just seemed… like it was too good to be true, y’know?” Her voice grows impossibly softer as she traces her finger over the rim of her glass, her eyes dropping from Harry’s like it hurts her to hold them. “Like, there was no way that someone could be so attractive, so funny, so good in bed—” Harry can hear blood creep up the nape of her neck against her will, beginning to pour into her cheeks. “—and so charming.  Something had to be an act.”

Despite the urge Harry has to justify his actions, he knows there’s nothing he can say that could prove Y/N’s original perception of him wrong.  And, in all honesty, he has no right to.  As much as he’d like to argue the fact, and as much as he did genuinely come to enjoy being around her, Harry can’t deny that from the first moment he’d approached Y/N in that club, he’d dialed up his charm as he always did without a second thought.  He’d flattered her, flirted with her, done everything he could to convince her that she should take him home so he could indulge in the two things he’s always manipulated people for: sex and blood.  And when that worked, he did it again, and again, and again, until they’d fallen into the pattern they have now.  He’d never lied, of course, and he prides himself on that— every compliment he’d paid her had been rightly deserved.  But even that justification doesn’t stop the shame that’s twisting its way through his limbs and making his head heavy.  

She had thought something had to be an act, and she had been right.  Harry himself was an act, in every aspect of the term— stretching the truth about his past, opening himself up just enough to make her open herself in return, setting her up so that she’d become dependent on their relationship. And all so he could sink his teeth into her neck without a second thought.  

He can’t exactly pinpoint when all that had changed— singing “Non-Stop” in his kitchen?  The jealousy he’d felt when he spotted her on a date with that insipid idiot, Jacob?  Seeing her in that yellow sundress when he picked her up for their first date?— but the fact that it had changed doesn’t erase how it had started. It doesn’t erase the cruelty he’d hidden beneath his calculating words, intricately-placed caresses, and dirty promises.

“Harry.” He’d been so caught in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Y/N had moved until she’s standing right in front of him, one of her velvet hands twisting into his own as the other tucks a loose curl back from his creased forehead. “I don’t think that now.  You know that, right?” Even after securing the ringlet, she keeps her palm pressed against his cheek, and Harry can’t help but lean into the burning heat her touch provides. “I just— I’d never met anyone like you.  There was no one like you where I grew up.  I didn’t think someone could be so…” Y/N worries her lip between her teeth again, and Harry wishes he had enough in him to smooth the bite mark with a touch as soft as her own. “I didn’t know you yet.  But I do now.”

The vampire inhales a shaking breath as if he needs it to live, lifting his own free hand to wrap over the palm Y/N rests against his cheek.  Weaving his fingers through hers, he drags her hand lower until her skin is secured over his lips, and he smudges a gentle kiss against her handprint.  There’s something so tender in her words— no one could ever accuse Y/N of being disingenuous.  But he needed to hear this, he thinks as he presses his mouth repeatedly to her palm, the throbbing of her pulse in her wrist catching against his cheek.  He needed to hear how she thinks she knows him.  It’ll serve as a reminder that he can’t allow himself to succumb to the weak thoughts he’d battled earlier in the day.  As much as Y/N assumes she knows him, there’s things that she’ll never understand— things he would never allow her to understand, because she doesn’t deserve such a terrifying burden— and how could he keep up that pretense while allowing her to call him her boyfriend?

“I know you do, sweetheart.” Harry mutters the words into her fragile skin, inhaling her intoxicating aroma deeply until his throat burns in agony.  It’s a small price to pay for what he’s put her through. “It’s alright.  I don’t blame you for doubting it.” The smirk he forces onto his face is nowhere near believable, but he manages to keep the strain out of his voice enough to sell it. “I’m pretty hard to believe, y’know?  Especially when you grew up with people like Cucumber Dick.”

Successfully diffusing the moment, Harry’s comment tugs an irritated groan from Y/N’s chest, and she takes a step back from him as her hand falls from his face, despite her other fingers still remaining tied with his own. “You can’t just keep calling him Cucumber Dick, alright?  He has a name!”

“Yeah, Bradley.” Harry says in distaste, his nose wrinkling as he shakes his head slowly. “S’honestly worse than Cucumber Dick.  I’m doing him a favour— a bit of charity work.”

Y/N hums in the back of her throat thoughtfully as she steps back around the kitchen island, Harry’s arm extending over the countertop as she tugs his hand along with hers. “Then don’t do me any favours like that, alright?  Can only imagine what you call me when I’m not here.”

A few names pop into Harry’s mind— dream, darling, angel, and countless others that he’s murmured to himself in the privacy of his condo— but they’re tainted by the memory of his friends confessing how they’ve talked about her when he hasn’t been around to hear it.  How they’ve compared her to different foods, used that to reference her, as if that’s all she is to him.  As if she isn’t the only person who has managed to make him feel something in over two lifetimes.

In the rational part of Harry’s mind— which, once again, is sadly not the part of his mind that’s ever in control— he knows that he can’t blame his friends for thinking that.  It’s his own fault for being so insistent on that fact over the last few months.  How many times had they questioned his motives behind his daily phone calls to her, or how often he found himself dropping everything just to spend some time with her?  How many times had he rolled his eyes at their assumptions that he wanted more from the mortal girl than he’d ever admitted?  How many times had he asserted that there was nothing more that she could offer him than her body and her blood?  They’d only listened to what he was saying, despite knowing that Harry’s reassurances were false.  Did any of them suspect that things had changed for him now?  Or did they still think that Harry’s only motivations behind his relationship with Y/N are primal?

Harry pushes the badgering thoughts from his head as best he can as he reaches for his apron that’s still lying over the back of the chair.  He can’t dwell on those thoughts now.  If the turmoil twisting inside of him hasn’t subsided by the end of the night, he’ll call Mitch once Y/N is fast asleep under the extra blanket he keeps on his bed just for her.  Although he doesn’t relish the thought of admitting he was wrong to the likes of Xander or Niall— he knows their teasing and taunting would never end— he can talk to Mitch about it without the worry of judgement.

“Why don’t you put a record on, petal?” Harry asks absentmindedly, nodding his head towards the record player set up in the corner of his living room as he slips his apron back over his head. “I just have to boil the gnocchi, and then—”

“Wait, wait wait,” Y/N cuts over him with an increasingly gleeful expression, rounding the edge of the island again to tug on the strap of Harry’s apron. “Mr. Good Lookin’ is cookin’?” She repeats, unable to bite back the giggles that are rising through her throat. “Please tell me you didn’t buy that for yourself.”

His troubling mindset disappears the moment laughter falls from her lips and echoes around the kitchen. “‘Course I did.  And why wouldn’t I?” Harry simpers as his deft fingers easily secure the ties behind his back in a neat bow. “I’m Mr. Good Lookin’, and I’m cookin’.  S’only the truth.”

“Your vanity is astounding.  Truly.” Y/N trails her finger from the strap of the apron to the pearls around Harry’s neck, stroking the silky stones with the lightest touch. “Like, borderline narcissistic.”

Snaking his arms around her waist, Harry easily pulls the mortal into his body, securing her against his chest just as he had done when she’d first arrived.  It’s comfortable for him to have her pressed against him like this.  The steady rising and falling of her chest and hummingbird beat of her heart against his own unmoving organ keeps him centered, like his own personal lifeline. 

“Is it so wrong to be confident in my appearance?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his dimples pop from his cheeks, and he slides his hands from Y/N’s back to her ass, cupping and squeezing firmly in appreciation.  His smirk only grows as Y/N’s cheeks begin to boil from the suggestive contact. “How can you contradict me when it gets such a reaction from you?”

“I think that has less to do with your looks and more to do with where your hands are.” She quips dryly, and yet her nails dig into Harry’s exposed collar bones with the slightest of pressure, a surefire sign of just how much his touch affects her.

Harry leans forward as the girl’s breathing grows more erratic, and he nuzzles his nose along hers while keeping the smallest of spaces between their lips. “Either way, I’m getting what I want, aren’t I?”

To his immense pleasure, Y/N’s words are breathy and strained when she replies, a side effect of the shallow inhales her body draws against his. “Which is?” 

“You.  More specifically, you melting under my touch like you just can’t get enough of it.” Harry drags his lips across Y/N’s for no more than a second before continuing his path up her jaw, only stopping when he can feel the flushed shell of her ear beneath his mouth. “You should indulge your vanity a little more often, sweetheart.  S’quite fun, honestly.”

Y/N shivers beneath Harry’s touch, her eyelids fluttering as his cool breath rolls over her ear and down her neck.  Turning her head to the side, she locks her half-lidded gaze with his own before slotting their lips together to indulge in the lingering taste of honey and lavender that sits on his tongue. 

Despite his instinct to draw her closer while curving her body into his own, Harry separates their lips with a gentle nudge of his forehead against her own, his breathing growing just as erratic as Y/N’s.  Control, he reminds himself as heat prickles along his icy skin from the tender pads of Y/N’s hands.  This isn’t like their first meetings, when he could invite her over under a pretense and take her against the counter before they’d even finished their drinks.  This is different now.  She’s different now.

“Why don’t you go put a record on?” He says again, his voice noticeably deeper than it was when he first made the request. “And I’ll finish getting dinner ready. Sound alright?”

Y/N manages to nod without removing her forehead from his, but that seems to be the only movement she makes; her palms remain pressed firmly against Harry’s tattooed biceps, even after he reluctantly releases his hold on her body.  She can’t help it— it feels too good to be so close to the young man to allow herself to willingly walk away.  Something in his presence is so calming, so steady to her, even when he’s whispering obscenities in her ear.

But outweighing the need to be next to him is her desire to make him happy, and if he wants her to pick out a record… “Alright.” She nods once more as her hands slip from his skin, trailing down his forearms and grazing his wrists before falling to her sides. “Any record?”

Harry drags a ringed hand through his curls, his lithe fingers tugging on the locks before falling to his side in a loose fist. “Any record.” He confirms as he reaches for a kitchen drawer, tugging it open to extract a long metal spoon. “Anything you want to listen to.”

He watches as a serious expression paints itself over the human girl’s face, as if the task he’s given her is of the utmost importance.  She turns on her heel and marches out of the kitchen as if on a mission, and as Harry turns towards the now-boiling pot of water on his stove, he knows that his own face reflects a look of fondness.  It’s too easy to let his guard down with her, he thinks as he ladles his homemade gnocchi into the rolling water.  When she looks at him, there’s such an openness in her expression that he can’t help but allow himself to be seen.

But being seen doesn’t always feel so sweet, which Harry remembers the moment he hears Y/N’s melodic voice ring from the living room. 

“When did you get a piano?”

Harry’s hand freezes mid-scoop, the few gnocchi that had been dangling on the edge of his spoon falling into the boiling water.  A bit of the liquid splashes out and lands on his arm, but quickly fizzes to room temperature once it meets his freezing skin. 

“Uh—” He clears his throat as he tries to refocus on his task, but his actions are much more frantic than careful as he finishes filling the pot with gnocchi. “I’ve had it for a while, remember?  I mentioned it to you before.  At the antique mall.”

When his explanation receives no response, he gives his own frustrated sigh, and sets down the polished spoon to retrace Y/N’s steps out into the living room.  As he expected her to be the moment he heard her question, he finds her with a reverent hand tracing the edge of the matte black Steinway grand piano that’s occupied a space in nearly every home he’s had since he purchased it in the 1920s.  Seeing her nimble fingers drift over the hand-crafted edge brings back a hazy human memory to Harry’s mind— a flash of sharply manicured fingers and a strangely pale hand, adorned with an opal ring as they danced over the pianoforte in an opulent sitting room. The sound of tinkling laughter that rang like a bell, pitched almost high enough to make his ears ache, and a soft, hypnotizing voice slathered in the most delicate accent he’d ever heard. 

Harry has to blink a few times to bring himself back to the present.

“What was that, darling?” He hopes his voice isn’t nearly as strained as it feels when he refocuses his eyes on Y/N’s waiting gaze. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said that you told me it was in storage.” She glides over the intricately carved music stand, the digit dancing across every twist and curve of the decorative panel. “Why did you bring it out?”

“Uh, I dunno, really.” An uncomfortable itch settles onto Harry’s skin, his stomach turning as Y/N takes a seat on the creaking piano bench set in front of the instrument. “I just, uh, figured it should be displayed somewhere, instead of gathering dust in a storage unit.  It’s a vintage Steinway, y’know?  Those need to be taken care of.”

In truth, the vintage instrument had rung Harry quite a high bill over the last few decades, not only in the price it cost to keep it in permanent storage, but in the services he’d had done to it once a year to keep it in its nearly pristine condition.  Despite keeping it out of sight to keep it out of his mind, he couldn’t seem to allow himself to let the instrument fall into disrepair, just in case he ever decided to display it again.  Or sell it, as he’d been leaning towards doing over the last few years— a genuine Steinway piano in condition as good as his had quite the high price tag.  But he’d never been able to force himself to part with it, as it looked too similar to the one he had originally learned to play on.  Even though those memories were tainted with the usual pain that came with thinking about his human life, it was still his life, and he ached to hold onto some part of it.  It’s why he had his mother’s ring, and his sister’s earring, and his father’s cross and pocket watch.  It’s why had a small wooden box hidden away under his bed with memorabilia from his first life.  As much as it hurt to remember— and it did, in ways he can’t possibly begin to describe— remembering seems better than the alternative.

“Well, if you want to show it off…” Y/N’s fingers are trailing down the fallboard now, inching their way towards the ivory keys with a daydream-like purpose. “You shouldn’t hide it away in the corner of the room.  It would look gorgeous in front of the windows, don’t you think?  A proper centerpiece.”

It would make a beautiful centerpiece, and he originally intended it to be so after the delivery company had dropped it off at his condo a few days before.  After bribing Adam and Niall with the offer to buy out their bar tabs for an entire month, the three of them had spent the afternoon rearranging the furniture in his living room to display the Steinway in the center of the room.  He’d thought that, knowing how excited Y/N had been to hear him play the piano in the antique store, she’d like to hear him play in his own home, on an instrument he knows like the back of his hand.  He’d even begun kicking around the idea of teaching her a few songs, but those musings had quickly turned sour as the instrument brought back more memories of his foggy human life.  In the end, he’d decided to restore his living room back to its original state with the addition of the Steinway thrust into the corner, where the ghosts of his past could plunk the keys quietly without drawing too much of his attention.  He’d done his best to ignore the instrument over the last couple of days, and in his hurricane of thoughts that had centered around Y/N, he’d nearly forgotten about its existence completely.

He can’t be mad that Y/N is asking about it; after all, he’d brought it out of storage with her specifically in mind.  But seeing the newfound object of his affections with her fingers poised over the keys brings back a rush of emotions he’d been repressing for the better part of two hundred years.

“It—” Harry clears his throat once more, trying to rid himself of the lump that is rising up like bile. “It took up too much space in the center of the room.  Wasn’t very cohesive.”

“That’s too bad.” The mortal girl’s words fall from her mouth in a murmur as her gaze remains locked on the keys, almost as if she’s in a trance.  Her finger begins to press down on the ivory with a slow and meticulous motion. “It seems like such a shame to—”

“Let’s— Let’s not get into that now, sweetheart.” Harry says hurriedly, his fingers catching her own before she can trigger the instrument to make a sound. “Dinner’s almost ready, and you—” He forces a grin onto his lips. “—still haven’t picked a record out.” Threading her fingers through his own, Harry gently tugs the human girl up from her seat on the piano bench. “Would you rather I do it instead?”

As he expected, Y/N wrinkles her nose with distaste as she rises to meet his emerald eyes. “No.” She scoffs as a quiet snort rises from her throat. “I don’t need to listen to some weird experimental 60s music while trying to eat dinner.”

While Harry would normally bite back at her dig, he just responds to her with a thin laugh and a smile without dimples. “Exactly.  So why don’t you pick something out,” He jerks his head over his shoulder to where his record player and vinyls sit neatly on a shelf lining the wall, ignoring the ghastly spike of pain that twinges his neck as he does so. “And I’ll plate dinner, yeah?”

“Alright.” She agrees, and Harry nearly breathes a sigh of relief before she finishes her phrase. “But you’ll play for me later tonight, won’t you?”

The phantom pain grows until it extends down Harry’s entire spine, filling every nerve in his body with a sense of anxiety and trepidation.  The last thing Harry wants to do is move his fingers over those weighted keys, and with the burning sensation now shooting through his fingers, making his hand twitch around Y/N’s, he’s not even sure he can.

But he is sure of one thing, and that’s the fact that he can’t ever seem to say no to Y/N.

“Yeah, dove.  Of course.” Keeping his voice even, Harry pulls her away from the extravagant instrument as inconspicuously as he can. “Later tonight.”

///

There are so many things that Harry has done over the last two centuries that have both angered and confused him.  

He’s held grudges against himself over the way he’s acted, the people he’s surrounded himself with, the people he’s allowed himself to trust, and the blatant disregard for human decency he’s allowed himself to succumb to.  In the last twenty decades, Harry has amassed enough vendettas for fifty lifetimes, let alone the one endless life he’s been given.  And yet, even with all of those missteps in mind, the fact that Harry ever looked at Y/N and deigned her an ordinary human might be one of the biggest mistakes he’s ever made. 

It’s so clear to him now— sitting across from her at his kitchen island, the few scented candles flickering between them doing almost nothing to cover her sugar and flower scent, her eyes reflecting back the burning flames and something else that Harry can’t quite put a finger on— that he’s not sure how he ever missed it.  How had he once leaned against the counter in her own kitchen, looked into those very same eyes, and managed to convince himself that it was only her blood that drew him to her?  How had he listened to her sweet and sensual voice murmur delicate phrases about her day and her emotions, and not realize that he was inching closer and closer in order to hang on every word, as if she had the supernatural ability to compel him as he did her?  How had he seen her in the smokiness of the club, with her fragile skin practically luminescent under the pulsing strobe lights, and thought that she was so utterly unmemorable and unnoticeable that he could easily take her home for one night without anyone wondering about her whereabouts?  How had he convinced himself that it would only be one night? 

There are so many things that Harry will always be angry about, will never forgive himself for, and his initial perception of Y/N is one of them. 

If he has any redeeming qualities, he thinks as he watches the mortal girl spear a bite of gnocchi onto her fork over the rim of his wine glass, it’s that he can, at the very least, admit when he’s wrong.  He can admit to himself that this girl— this self-assertive, stubborn, vivacious, kind-hearted mortal girl— is the most interesting and most intriguing human he’s ever met.  And as terrifying as that is, it’s also a little thrilling; it’s been so long since Harry has felt a pull to someone like this.  The sensation, while unfamiliar and something he’s severely out of practice with, is just as electrifying as he remembers, and now that he’s had a taste of it, he can’t stop chasing that high. 

It’s that undeniable pull which drive Harry to murmur an unauthentic apology about not having a dining table (he’d chosen a larger living room over a dining area when he moved in, and his friends just settled for eating at Niall’s when they wanted to sit down somewhere) because he’s secretly pleased that he has an excuse to sit next to Y/N.  It’s that pull that makes him hang on her every word about her day like she’s relaying the plot of a Greek tragedy, his facial expressions perfectly mimicking hers as she describes the customers she dealt with.  It’s that pull that sends his fingers forward of their own accord to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the soft melody of Hozier’s “Like Real People Do” floats between them like a comforting lullaby.  It’s that pull that, when she inquires about the entrée he’d prepared for them, causes him to proudly admit that he’d recreated the recipe from Bella Vita after wrestling it from Vincenzo.  It’s that pull that urges him to scoop up one of his own gnocchi and bring it to Y/N’s lips to feed her the first bite of the meal, his hand cupped delicately under the utensil to catch any sauce that might drip onto her shirt (which is really his shirt, and that fact alone delivers so much more pleasure than he ever would’ve thought possible).  

It’s that pull, that adrenaline rush, that indescribable sensation, but underneath it all, it’s her.  It’s always been her, since the moment they’d first met.  From the moment he first laid eyes on her.  How is it, Harry wonders, that his first sighting, enhanced by his supernatural senses, had managed to make him so blind?  How is it that he’d had this girl in front of him all along, and he’d managed to delude himself into thinking that he’d be able to stop himself from becoming vulnerable for her?  And maybe, he wonders slowly as he clears Y/N’s empty dinner plate from the marble island to the sink, he’s still deluding himself, because for some strange reason, being vulnerable for the mortal girl doesn’t seem to be as terrifying as he thought it would be.

The vampire suddenly recalls a specific day all those weeks back, when Y/N had stayed over and they’d taken their first bath together in his jacuzzi. He thinks about how he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable for just a fraction of a second, when he had admitted to her that she often caught him off guard. She had returned the sentiment, and he remembers the words he'd uttered to her amidst the warm steam and quiet splashing of the water. He had said that he found her influence on him— the influence they had on each other— to be scary, but exhilarating. And now, after spending so much time together and allowing himself to grow closer to her than he ever could’ve imagined, he’s come to find that his attraction to Y/N is no longer incredibly scary. Yes, there’s still a sliver of fear in him at the notion of opening himself up to her, but it’s only natural— there isn’t one person in existence who isn’t scared to strip themselves emotionally bare for someone else. However, his genuine excitement soothes his hesitations, and it startles him in a pleasant manner he can’t quite decipher.

Setting the dirty dishes into the sink to be dealt with later, Harry risks a glance at Y/N over his shoulder.  He watches as she wipes the corner of her mouth on a napkin before raising her stemmed glass to her lips, delicately draining the last of the crimson liquid before placing it back down with a clink.  When he catches her sparkling eyes, Y/N shoots him a smile that, even with only one corner of her lips lifted, manages to dazzle him from across the kitchen.  Harry can hear the fresh flush of blood that overtakes her cheeks, as if the wine itself is settling beneath her fragile skin.

Yes, vulnerability should petrify him.  Vulnerability means danger.  It means giving someone the ability to break you, and Harry knows this from firsthand experience.  Harry might be the only monster in the room, but in this moment, Y/N is the ominous threat. She’s the vague silhouette that hides in the shadows, the mysterious mass circling just beneath the waves, waiting for the right moment to strike.

But now that he’s dipped a toe in, Harry can’t stop himself from diving headfirst into those dangerous depths.

“D’you want another drink, love?” He asks, turning back around and leaning his hip against the marble counter as he cocks his head to the side in a questioning manner. “Some more wine before dessert?  Or another cocktail?”

Y/N glances at her multiple empty glasses in front of her, but shakes her head slowly. “No, I’ve had enough to drink.  But I’d love a cup of tea, H.  If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.  A cup of tea, coming right up.” Harry reaches for the sleek kettle that he keeps set on the backburner of his range, flicking on his tap with his other hand before settling the hollow object under the stream of water. “You know, I think this is the first time I’m actually making tea for you.  S’a real treat, isn’t it?” He flashes a toothy grin at the girl before placing the now-full kettle back onto the burner and twisting the knob to high. “A proper cup of tea made by a proper Brit.  Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully as she circles her finger around the rim of the empty wine glass, her motions just starting to get heavy with the liquor. “It’s just some dried leaves and water, Harry.  Don’t get too full of yourself.” 

“I think you’re the one who’s usually full of me, aren’t you, pet?” Although his back is turned towards the stove, Harry can hear the effect his words have on the human girl by the small, nearly imperceptible gasp that leaves her lips. “‘M not sure you’re allowed to make that observation.”

Despite the choked feeling that’s welled up in her throat at his comment, Y/N quickly clears it out with a small cough, capturing Harry’s sea glass eyes with her own to stare him down stubbornly. “I’ll make any observations I want.” She says firmly, crossing her arms over her exposed chest in a mockingly angered pose.

A fond laugh rolls from Harry’s stained lips as he opens his cupboards and extracts two tea cups that are painted with vines of wisteria flowers.  He’d found them a few years back at the very same antique mall he’d brought Y/N to, included in a china tea set that he hadn’t been able to resist buying.  The hand painted violet flowers had caught his eye from the moment he’d glanced at the china cabinet they’d been locked inside, and he’d barely been able to tear himself away from the glass case to retrieve the key from an employee.  

He’d always had a soft spot for wisteria; there had been a wisteria tree outside of his childhood home, and he and Gemma used to collect the bunches of blooms and bring them inside for their mother.  That had been a long time ago, of course.  When they were children.  Harry can’t quite remember at what age they’d stopped digging through the garden for flowers— it might have been when Gemma turned eleven, which would’ve made him…. Seven?  Harry frowns at the uncertain memory as his grip tightens around the delicate china cups.  Yes, he reminds himself, he would’ve been seven.  His sister had been four years older than him, and it was around age eleven when she’d declared herself a lady, and said that it wasn’t ladylke to dig through a garden and walk around with dirt under one’s fingernails, and Honestly, Harry, you must wipe your feet before stepping into the house, or else you’ll track mud everywhere—

With trembling hands, Harry sets the wisteria tea cups down on the marble counter, flexing his fingers to get rid of their shakiness before reaching for the respective saucers.  It seems that Y/N’s ability to make him feel more human isn’t just resurfacing the manners and emotions he’d long suppressed, but the memories, too.  How long had it been since he’d heard his sister’s voice ring in his head as clearly as that?  How long had it been since he’d thought of the tiny foyer of his childhood home, which he’d tracked mud into countless times as his mother and, eventually, his sister clicked their tongues at him?  Is the tree still there, he wonders as his thoughts continue to spiral.  Or had it been cut down in the two hundred years since he’d last seen it, long after his family had all… 

Harry places the saucers carefully down against the marble before bracing himself against the edge for just a moment.  Barely thirty seconds have passed since Y/N’s retort, and although his enhanced mind had begun to spiral, it’s not too late for him to give a half-sane response.  

“I know you will, sweetheart.” He finally murmurs, hiding his face as he pulls open his fridge to extract the carton of oat milk he’d purchased last week.  Y/N, he’d come to learn over the last few months, prefers milk over cream in her tea, just like she prefers sugar over artificial sweeteners. 

Harry can feel the burn of her eyes into his back as he extracts a teaspoon from his kitchen drawer and the kettle begins to whistle.  Focusing and relishing in being the object of her attention, Harry removes the kettle from the heat, flicking the stove off before reaching for the canister that stores his tea bags.  In an effort to fully distract himself from the troubling thoughts of his past, he begins to hum the tune to the Hozier song that had been playing earlier, before the record had spun to stop just before they’d finished their entrees.  With the near murmur of the melody reverberating through his throat, he spends a moment debating on whether or not he should use the matching wisteria-adorned teapot that sits on the highest shelf of his cupboard, but quickly decides against it— it’s too formal for the occasion.  But tossing two separate tea bags into the two teacups, he finds as soon as he does it, doesn’t feel right either; after all, he’d told Y/N that he’d be making her a proper cup of tea.  That fact settles the manner in his (moreso than usual) changing mind, and within a few moments, he has the two teabags deposited into the teapot before pouring in the boiling water to steep the satchels of dried leaves.

Halfway through his preparation, his ears had perked up with the distinct sound of Y/N rising from her chair, which had been followed by the muted pattering of her feet against his hardwood floor.  Not bothering to ask where she’d been going, Harry had instead decided to wait for his suspicions to be confirmed.  Sure enough, just as he’s stirring the sugar and oat milk into Y/N’s cup of tea, he hears the quiet press of one of the keys of his piano.  C4, if his aural skills are still as tuned as they used to be.

Setting the two cups of tea onto their respective plates (Y/N’s with milk and sugar, and Harry’s plain), the vampire easily balances both cups of tea in his hands and makes it to the living room without spilling a single drop.

Just like before, Y/N seems entranced by the piano, plunking out different notes and letting them ring into the open air.  Harry can’t help but wince slightly as he approaches— as talented as Y/N seems to be at some things, music theory does not appear to be included.

“Christ, love, a tritone?” He protests, his voice hinging on a whine as he approaches the piano bench. “What, your fingers couldn’t make it a perfect fifth, hm?”

The answer to his teasing question comes in the form of Y/N’s entire body jumping as her fingers stutter over the keys, an audible gasp falling from her mouth while her hand clutches to her chest and her head turns to stare at Harry over her shoulder. “Jesus, you scared me!” She says breathlessly, her palm massaging over her the area where Harry can hear the rapid pulsing of her heart. “Have you always creeped around like that?”

A playful grin tugs at the immortal’s lips as he extends an arm out, handing the china saucer and cup to the human girl. “Only when I’m carrying boiling tea.  Scooch over, will you?” Nudging his way onto the newly unoccupied space of the bench, Harry nods his head towards the keys she had been previously playing. “Was that an original composition?”

“Beethoven, actually.  I’m surprised you didn’t recognize it.” Y/N blows gently over her tea with pursed lips before taking a small sip.  Harry knows that his sister would have condemned the action, along with the following slurp, by calling it unladylike, but the inelegant manner leaves a fond feeling buzzing through his body once more. 

Raising his own teacup to his lips, Harry chuckles quietly over the rim of the cup. “I wouldn’t have pegged it for the classical era, actually.  Sounded more atonal to me.” He takes a small sip of tea, the liquid scorching down his throat in the best way. “You said you took lessons when you were younger, didn’t you?  Do you remember anything?”

“Twinkle twinkle little star, maybe.” Y/N takes another small gulp before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I was, like, eight.  Nursery rhymes were as far as I got.” Her gaze drops to the caramel coloured tea with a curious gaze; Harry had remembered exactly how she takes it, despite him only having seen her make a cup of tea once a few weeks ago. “But you, on the other hand… Mr. Good Lookin’...” Her lips jolt into a teasing grin as her eyes flicker to the side to capture his own. “You’re quite the musician, from what I remember.  And you promised to play me something.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Harry’s smile grows imperceivably tighter as he takes another drag of the boiling drink, his throat growing thicker with every swallow. “And you still want me to?”

Brow furrowing at his reluctance, Y/N cocks her head to the side in bewilderment. “Of course I do, H.  I loved listening to you play for me at the antique mall.”

Harry thinks back to that day, when he’d stuttered his way through a Chopin piece before his stumbling fingers had given up entirely. “I’m just a little out of practice, love.  It’ll be a bit messy.”

“I didn’t ask for perfection; I asked for you to play.” Her warm fingers find Harry’s upper arm, massaging the tattooed muscles just underneath the tucked sleeve of his shirt as she regards him with wide, curious eyes. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but if you’re nervous because you might mess up… Well, you heard me play.” Her light laugh rings through the cavity of the piano, reverberating off the highest strings in a way that only Harry’s immortal ears can pick up. “I won’t be able to tell the difference.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Despite his reservations, a half-hearted smile finds its way to Harry’s lips over the rim of his tea cup, which he sets down on the living room side table after taking one last sip.  

Flexing his ringed fingers, he repositions himself on the piano bench, moving more towards the center of the seat as Y/N moves down to the edge to give him full access to the piano.  For a brief moment, his hands hover over the ivory and ebony keys as he evaluates the repertoire he knows he can muddle his way through without too much trouble.  He’s already played a few Chopin pieces for the human girl, so that composer is out.  Liszt doesn’t seem to fit the mood, either, as his pieces are much too ornamented for their quiet living room ambience.  Debussy is out before Harry can even consider him; the last thing he wants to do is invoke any more memories of sitting at a piano with the much too familiar composer.  And Beethoven and Mozart seem too contrived for this setting, as well.

With a frown on his wine-stained lips, Harry spares one glance at Y/N, whose own eyes are glued to his floating fingers.  She reaches out with a tentative touch of her own, gliding them across Harry’s tensed knuckles with a pressure so soft that, if not for the heat of her skin, Harry might not feel it at all.  The cautiousness of the motion is not lost on him— it’s almost as if Y/N is worried that she’ll spook him out of playing, like any sudden movements could break him.  It reminds the creature of the awareness he has whenever he touches her; how he always carefully evaluates the amount of pressure he uses whenever he glides his fingers over her vulnerable skin. 

As if she were a butterfly, he thinks, not for the first time.  His butterfly.

Harry doesn’t remember making the conscious decision to start playing.  He doesn’t even recognize the piece that’s tentatively ringing from the piano until the repetition of the first motive, when Y/N emits a satisfied breath and her warm hand falls back to Harry’s thigh, rubbing gently over his olive trousers with that same delicate touch, almost as if he were a butterfly.

The creature’s fingers continue to glide over the ivory keys, his phrases growing smoother and more confident with every passing moment.  He pays careful attention to the dynamics of the piece, trying his best to recall the sheet music that he hadn’t looked at in decades, but it only takes about thirty seconds for him to realize that it’s easier to just let himself feel the music.  With Y/N’s hand continuing to dance over his thigh in time with the tune, Harry lets himself play around with the score, peppering in crescendos and decrescendos as he sees fit.  He draws out some of the minor phrases, hoping to wrench on his obsolete heartstrings the way he had when he first learned the piece in the early 20th century, and hovers his fingers over the bass notes as he uses the pedal to make them ring out into the living room.  

Halfway through the composition, Harry realizes that he’s breathing with the phrases, timing each inhale and exhale of his lungs with the musical lines.  It only takes him another two measures to realize that Y/N is doing the same, her body leaning into Harry’s as Harry leans into the instrument.  And that, he finds as his jeweled fingers slide over the keys, tugs on his heartstrings more than any melody ever could.

As he approaches the end of the piece, he softens his touch, his fingertips almost ghosting over the keys as he gently presses the final notes.  Harry keeps his foot hovered over the pedal, allowing the quiet cadence to fade to silence in its own time, and as it does, he can feel his body coming back into itself— which is strange, considering he hadn’t noticed the trance-like space he’d slipped into.

Y/N, however, must have noticed, because her voice is hushed and hesitant when she speaks again, waiting until the final notes have completely faded to silence, as if she’s afraid that she’s interrupting something. 

“That was so beautiful, H.” She praises, her hand still rubbing over his clothed thigh.  The motion would normally drive Harry mad, but for some reason, all it does to him in this moment is bring a strange lump to his throat. “What’s it called?”

In his unfamiliar haze, it takes Harry a moment to find his own voice. “Uh, Papillons.” He says through his thick accent, clearing his throat subtly as he lowers his hands to his lap.  He hadn’t even realized they were still lingering over the last notes. “It means—”

“Butterflies.” The mortal girl nods in recognition, a thoughtful look over her face as she taps a finger against his trousers, her tone slightly jesting as she murmurs her next sentence. “I know enough sixth grade French to understand that.  Is it a French piece, then?”

“No.” Harry jerks his head in the negative, only remembering to soften the agitated motion after it’s happened.  He raises his keen eyes to meet Y/N’s, a reminder of where he is.  And a reminder of who he’s with. “It’s the fifth movement in a suite by Robert Schumann— the “Polonaise,” in B-flat major.  S’one of my favourites.”

“I can see why.” Y/N murmurs, a fond smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “It was wonderful, really.  ‘Out of practice,’ my ass.”

Even with the residual anxiety still coursing through his veins, Harry manages to force out a chuckle at her teasing. “Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are.  But Schumann has always been a favourite composer of mine—” Harry takes Y/N’s teacup from her, noting how her eyes had flickered to the ground, as if she was looking for a place to set it, and she sends him a thankful grin as he sets the cup next to his own on the end table. “—along with his wife.  They were both incredibly talented musicians.”

“His wife?” Intrigue threads through Y/N’s voice as she props up an elbow on the piano, resting her chin on her loose fist as she turns her body towards Harry. “She was a musician, too?”

Harry hums affirmatively as he cracks his knuckles, flexing his fingers in his lap to loosen them from the buzzing sensation that’s still prickling his skin. “She was, yeah.  They had a pretty passionate love story, y’know.  That’s why his music is so beautiful— he wrote it all for her.”

Y/N doesn’t miss the reminiscent tone that seeps into Harry’s voice, and she threads her fingers through his own as her eyes widen with a gentle plea. “Will you tell me about them?  Schumann and his wife?”

“I—” Hesitating at her request, Harry squeezes her hand tightly, half in affection, half in warning. “It doesn’t have much of a happy ending, darling.  A bit of a tragedy, that one.”

“I want to know.” The human girl nods her head stubbornly as her eyes flash with determination. “Just because it has a sad ending doesn’t mean it’s not worth knowing.” 

Harry pauses for a moment, allowing her words to fully sink into his mind and spark the beacon of hope that’s sat coldy in his head for so long. “I suppose that’s true.” 

He mulls over where to begin, thinking back to all the newspaper articles he’d read about a child prodigy in Germany in the 1820s, who was the daughter of—

“So the story really begins with Friederich Wieck.” Harry’s voice falls into a smooth cadence as he begins, thumbing over Y/N’s warm knuckles absentmindedly as he recalls the information. “He was a music teacher, most known for piano, but what he really wanted to be known for was raising a child prodigy.  He had a few children, but the one who filled that description was Clara, his second oldest.”

As Harry begins to spin the tale, Y/N can’t help but focus on his expression.  Although his eyes are set on their linked hands, she can tell that his gaze is far away, as if he’s seeing the scene play before his eyes as he tells it.  It’s fascinating, she thinks, seeing him focus so intently on something as niche as an old love story between musicians, but more than that, it’s new to her.  This is a new side of him that she hasn’t seen before— not cocky, or charming, or playful.  This side of him is intent, as if he wants to make sure that every word he speaks is the truth.  His expression is almost as interesting as the story itself.

“Clara’s parents, Friederich and Mariane, didn’t really get along very well, and Clara had a lot of trouble when she was young; she didn’t really speak until she was four.  But music always came easily to her, which made sense, considering her parents.” Harry’s free hand drifts back to the ivory keys, just resting over the lacquered surface. “Her mother was a musician, too— an accomplished singer.  But after her parents split when she was five, when Mariane had an affair with a family friend, Clara was left with her father.  And her father wanted to focus on her music career.  He gave her hour-long lessons every day, and made her practice for two hours on top of that.  She made her performance debut when she was just nine years old, in 1828, at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig.”

“Okay, wait.  Pause.” Y/N worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she waits for Harry’s faraway eyes to refocus on her confused expression. “What does playing in Leipzig at age nine have to do with a love story?”

An amused laugh slips from Harry’s lips at Y/N’s impatience. “I’m getting there, sweetheart.  A little bit of patience would be beneficial to you, I think.  And a little bit of trust in me, yeah?”

Although she huffs a little bit, Y/N relents, squeezing Harry’s hand in acknowledgement at the phrase he always seems to end up repeating: Trust me. She vaguely wonders why it’s so important to him. “Alright, fine.  Continue.”

“Thank you.” Harry swipes a hand through his tousled curls before settling it back down on the keys, running his fingertips over the smooth surface absentmindedly in the same rhythm he’s swiping over Y/N’s knuckles. “Okay, so… She played in Leipzig a few times that year, and once was at a private music party at someone’s house, where she met Robert Schumann.” At the mention of the name, Harry shoots Y/N an ‘I told you so’ look, which she meets with a roll of her eyes. “He was a gifted pianist, and was so inspired by Clara’s playing that he got permission from his mother to quit his law studies in order to study piano under Clara’s father, Friederich.  So in 1830, Robert moved into the Weick household as one of Friederich’s students, and—”

“Sorry, I— pause again.” Brow furrowed, Y/N’s eyes narrow in suspicion as she mulls over Harry’s words. “So— if Clara was, like, nine—”

“Eleven, actually.  It’s 1830 now, remember?”

“Alright, eleven.  If Clara was eleven… You said Robert quit law school to study music.” Y/N’s narrowed eyes widen as she regards Harry, as if asking him to contradict her suspicions. “How old was Robert?”

“Around twenty, I think.” Harry says casually, lifting his shoulder in a light shrug. “He was born in 1810, so— yeah.  He would’ve been twenty.”

“Twenty?” Y/N yanks her hand from Harry’s as she fully twists her body to face him, as if just hearing the horror in her voice isn’t enough. “He was twenty?  I thought this was a love story?”

“It is!  It’s just—”

“No, it’s not!  It’s gross!” Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Y/N shakes her head harshly, her loose hair spilling over her flushing cheeks. “A twenty year old shouldn’t—”

“He didn’t!  Nothing happened until they were older, love.” Harry captures Y/N’s hand within his own again, smoothing over her knuckles as he hurries to reassure her. “And it was the nineteenth century… a nine year age gap in a relationship wasn’t exactly uncommon.” For a brief moment, Harry wonders what Y/N would think if she knew just how much older he really was than her.  Would she react with the same horrified expression she had now?  Yank her hand from his again as she had just done?

“Yeah, well…” Y/N’s appearance is still bristled as she shoots Harry a condemning look. “There’s a difference between a nine year age gap and a child—”

“Nothing’s happened yet, sweetheart.” Harry bites back the involuntary laugh that bubbles through his chest at the indignant tone of her voice. “Now can I continue?  Or do you want to yell some more?”

Although her response is grumbled, the mortal girl mutters, “Fine.  Continue.” as Harry lifts her knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. 

“Thank you.” He lowers her hand back down to his thigh, smoothing it over his trousers before continuing where he’d left off. “So Robert studies under Clara’s father and stays with them for a year.  And although Clara and Robert were just friends, Friederich could tell that they were becoming close, which he didn’t like.  And before you say anything,” Harry watches as Y/N’s lips twitch into a frown. “It wasn’t because of Robert’s age.  Friederich didn’t want Clara to fall in love with anyone; he just wanted her to focus on her music.  He still wanted his child prodigy, you know?  So he began to take her on tours through Europe.  But by the time Clara was sixteen, it was clear that she and Robert had feelings for each other.  They wrote countless letters to each other, signed them ‘your special friend’... And when Clara turned eighteen, Robert asked Friederich for his permission to marry his daughter.  And Friederich said no, because that would ruin his plans for Clara’s music career.”

Despite her hesitation at the relationship, Y/N still mutters a quiet “Harsh.” at the story.

Harry’s hands return to the keys, but this time, they do more than hover.  He begins to press a few notes slowly, letting one ring out completely before moving to the other, and it takes Y/N a few moments to realize that he’s playing an actual melody, albeit a deconstructed one. 

“Because Clara wasn’t twenty-one yet, they needed her father’s permission to marry, so Robert took the case to court.  And it was…” His fingers stutter over the keys for a moment as his face twists up, remembering how the story had decorated the society pages of newspapers back then. “Messy.  Really messy.  But in the end, Robert won the case, and he and Clara were married.  And they wrote all this beautiful music together…” Harry’s left hand joins his right over the piano, moving with more intention now as he adds a quiet harmony to his slow melody line. “They weren’t good with words, but they were good with music.  That’s how they communicated with each other.  You can hear the love in everything they wrote, the devotion they had for each other.  Listen,” He says in a hushed voice, the melody of the music becoming unbearably sweet. “D’you hear it?”

“I do.” Y/N nods softly, her fingers massaging Harry’s thigh muscle as he continues to play.  It’s not a lie, either; there’s a sincerity in what Harry’s playing that twists within her chest.  

Or maybe, she thinks, her eyes trained in the profile of the man beside her, it’s just Harry. 

“Didn’t you…” Y/N hesitates both in her words and her motions over Harry’s leg as a new thought tugs at her mind. “Didn’t you say the story had a sad ending?  That all seems good, isn’t it?  Clara and Robert got married, wrote music together…”

Harry’s fingers begin to slow down, returning to the reduced melody he’d been playing previously, as if weighed down by the knowledge he’s about to share. “Uh, yeah.  Robert had a lot of problems— mental health issues.  Later in their marriage, he became manic, had episodes where he saw angels and demons… and he was worried he’d hurt Clara.” Harry says quietly, risking a glance at the girl beside him, who’s watching him with such wide and trusting eyes that he almost can’t bear it.  Harry knows what it’s like to fear hurting the ones you care for. “He tried to kill himself, and when he was unsuccessful, he asked to be taken to an insane asylum.  And he never went home again.  He died there, just a few days after Clara was finally allowed to visit.  S’like…” Harry’s fingers pause over the piano once more. “S’like he was waiting for her.  Before going.”

Detecting the emotion in his voice, Y/N raises her hand from his thigh, smoothing back a few loose curls before gently setting her palm over the curve of his neck. “That is a bit of a tragic story, I’ll admit.  To have fought so hard for each other for so long… And then to lose all of it like that…”

“Yeah.” Harry clears the lump from his throat as subtly as he can.  He’s certainly no stranger to loss, to feeling helpless at being unable to save someone you love… He knows that pain all too well. 

As if she can sense the darkness in his mood, Y/N rubs a comforting hand across his shoulder and down his arm, drifting over his inked skin with a warm touch.  Her comment, however, is more lighthearted than her caring caress. 

“I still think the age gap is a little weird.  How do you go from writing letters about being ‘special friends’ to falling in love?”

Harry rises to her baited joke, doing his best to shake himself from his introspective thoughts as his fingers begin to drift over the keys once more.  He focuses on just his right hand now, playing out an absentminded yet tender tune as he speaks. “So if I started to call you my special friend, you wouldn’t like it?”

“God, no— that sounds awful.” Y/N scoffs, her own hand drifting to the ivory keys. “We’re sleeping together, not making mud pies in a kindergarten class.”

Harry’s laugh is more genuine as he begins to slow down his playing, plucking only single notes that Y/N echoes in the lower register of the piano. “Alright, fine.  Not special friends, then.”

“There’s just so many cooler historical ways to say we’re having sex, y’know?  None of that ‘special friend’ bullshit.” Y/N continues to match Harry’s notes as best she can, wincing every so often as she plays a dissonant key. “Like… ‘lover.’  That’s a good one.  Nice and simple.  Or—” Her eyes light up with mirth as the thought pops into her head. “Courtesan to the queen.  Not as simple, but it certainly rolls off the tongue.”

Harry quirks a brow at the suggestion. “And you’ll be the queen in question, I presume?”

“Of course.  Do you have a better idea?”

“‘Paramour’ is a neat little name, don’t you think?” Harry asks, his fingers pressing down a simple perfect fourth on the piano to punctuate his question. “Sounds pretty elegant.  Understated.”

“If you want understated…” Y/N matches the top note of Harry’s interval, already knowing she wouldn’t be able to match the actual notes without hurting both of their ears. “We could do what historians do when talking about ancient queer couples.  Say we’re just good friends.”

The creature hums in acknowledgment at the back of his throat. “We could, yeah.  Or we could be mistresses.   Is there a word for a male mistress?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as his lips pull into a quizzical frown. “A master?”

“Jesus Christ, never refer to yourself as a master again.” Y/N groans loudly, her fingers slipping from the keys as she feigns a shudder. “That just sounds creepy.  Even creepier than a special friend. How about…” She tries her best to stifle a wry grin as a more vulgar alternative pops into her head. “The Whore of Babylon?” 

“Fuck’s sake, what did I say about slut-shaming me?”

“I just thought it’d fit! It has a nice ring to it! But if it really irks you that much— Oh, wait—” She quirks her head to the side, a new wave of amusement lighting up her eyes as she thinks of her next step in their game. “What about ‘special advisor’?  You know, like we’re in a historical drama, and I have a kingdom to defend from oncoming war, and you’re my most trusted advisor, and when my husband is away with the army, you and I sneak off into my chambers…”

Although he giggles boyishly at the suggestion, Harry can’t ignore the twinge of jealousy that shoots up his spine at the mention of Y/N’s— albeit imaginary— husband.  He doesn’t like being referred to as her side relationship, even in an imaginary world of queens and wars.  Even then, he wants to be Y/N’s first choice. 

Because she’s his, he realizes, his fingers continuing to pluck out single ivory notes as a way to deal with the impending ball of tension that’s growing inside his abdomen.  Even in a game, in an imaginary world, in any way imaginable— Y/N is his first choice. 

He just— he wants her, in every sense of the word. And he knows all the reasons he shouldn’t— he knows how reckless it is to allow a human to get so close to him, how he’ll never truly be able to be honest with her, how he’ll always be using her for her blood, how he can’t give her the human relationship she deserves.  But he can’t stop from thinking about Robert and Clara, who fought for each other from the very beginning, who persevered through every challenge thrown their way, and who still only got sixteen years together before circumstance tore them apart. 

Harry is here. He is— for all intents and purposes— theoretically alive.  And the girl he wants more than anyone else is right next to him.  There’s no doubt in his mind that it’ll be difficult, but does he not owe it to those who ran out of time to try?  At the very least? Does he not owe it to himself to fight for the happiness he’s spent so long evading, all out of fear? 

He can manage that.  He can manage his cravings around Y/N enough to take only what he needs, and never anything more.  He can manage his double life and keep her from falling victim to the darkest corners of his mind. He can manage his strength enough to treat her as delicately as he’d treat a butterfly.  He can manage the most monstrous parts of himself.  He can do that for Y/N. 

But only if she wants him to. 

It’s that hesitation that brings a tremor to his hands as they pause over the keys, poised over the lacquered surface that he can barely tear his gaze from. “A special advisor sounds fun, yeah.  Or you could…” Harry clears his throat roughly, sweat pooling across his brow as he fiddles with the opal ring on his pinky.  He twists it back and forth around the digits, only managing to spare one look from the corner of his eye at Y/N’s quizzical face before dropping his stare back down to the piano. 

“Or you could, um… you could just… call me your…” Say it, the voice in his head practically yells. It’s just one word. It’s not that hard. “Boyfriend. You could just call me your boyfriend.”

A heavy pause fills the air in the large room, and Harry feels like he’s being suffocated. His voice grows fainter when he detects the sudden hitch in Y/N’s breath, but nothing else. He finds himself wanting to fill the empty space between them with something, or else he might pass out from the nerves. “If you… If you want, that is.  It would just keep it simple. Plain and simple.”

Plain and simple, Y/N thinks as her hands curl together in her lap, slotting between her thighs as if the pressure of her clamped legs can keep her from feeling how they shake.  It would keep it plain and simple.

But when has their relationship ever been simple?

It should’ve been simple, and the mortal girl knows this.  Two consenting adults, calling each other every once in a while for a bit of release— that’s simple.  That kind of relationship doesn’t have any pressure.  There’s no need to try and impress one another, or to meet any expectations.  That kind of relationship is no muss, no fuss, and no strings attached.  That was how they had started, and it had been simple.  It had been easy.  It had been uncomplicated. 

And it also hadn’t been that way for a long time.

Y/N’s known for a while now that the line between two friends having sex and being in a committed relationship has become increasingly blurred; that was all but confirmed when Harry nearly pitched a hissy fit when he saw her coming home from her date with Jacob.  But even with all of the dates, the gifts, the phone calls during her lunch breaks, the homemade dinners and drinks and desserts, even with all of that— Y/N never thought that they’d actually arrive at this moment.  This moment, in Harry’s apartment, their bodies pressed together on the small piano bench, his fingers fidgeting nervously as hers are pressed between her thighs, with the word boyfriend dangling over their heads like a sword.

She can’t pretend she hasn’t thought about it, because she has.  And she can’t pretend that her thinking about it doesn’t usually lead to her daydreaming about it, because it does.  It’s why she spends the majority of her downtime wrapped in Harry’s rainbow cardigan, and why she’d picked out his button down shirt to wear tonight.  It’s why she’s talked about him to her friends, why she’s begun to speak about him casually to her coworkers, instead of hiding in the storage closet when he calls her on her break.  Because even though they aren’t together— even though they’re friends in the least and seeing each other at the most— it had been nice to pretend that either of them were capable of being more.

Y/N is no stranger to heartbreak, and she’s spent long enough studying her own commitment issues to be able to recognize them in someone else.  Harry had pretty much told her in the beginning that relationships weren’t his thing, that he didn’t want to be defined by a label that could so easily be broken.  And Y/N, who hadn’t opened herself up since Bradley, had been inclined to agree.  Relationships are messy, and labels only bring expectations that would eventually not be met.  Seeing each other is easy.  Seeing each other is breezy.  Seeing each other leaves room for interpretation, for allowances, for excuses to be made if one of them suddenly changes their mind.  Seeing each other is plain and simple. 

Boyfriend.

The truth of the matter is that Y/N shouldn’t be so terrified of such a simple word.  In all forms and fashion, Harry practically already is her boyfriend— he literally calls her his girl during sex, for fuck’s sake. They do everything that a normal couple does, and have been doing it for a while now.  She’s fairly certain that calling Harry her boyfriend instead of the guy she’s seeing wouldn’t actually change their relationship that much.  But if she’s honest with herself, Y/N knows that it isn’t their present day situation that’s sending a cold sweat down her back.  Boyfriends, from her limited experience, lead to fiancés, which lead to husbands, which lead to children and a white picket fence in an unassuming suburb.  That was the exact life she’d come to L.A. to escape— how could she willingly fall back into it?

And then she hears Harry exhale shakily, his thumb fumbling with the opal ring on his pinky, and she knows exactly how she could willingly fall back into it.

This is Harry.  Harry, who tells her the stupidest jokes that can somehow still make her laugh.  Harry, who gives her all of his attention every moment that they’re together.  Harry, who listens to every story about rude customers without complaining once, hanging onto her every word as if what she says matters more than life itself.  Harry, who makes her believe that it does.  Harry, with entrancing emerald eyes, shining chestnut curls, intricately inked skin, and the most comforting arms she’s ever been held in.  This is Harry.  Not Bradley.  Bradley wanted the wife, the white picket fence, the house filled with children.  Harry— as far as she can tell— just wants her.  And she just wants him.

Plain and simple.

Y/N extracts one of her hands from between her legs, snaking it over Harry’s, where she captures one of his fiddling hands in her grasp.  Intertwining their fingers, Y/N fixes her gaze onto his opal ring as she hesitantly swipes her thumb over his cool knuckles.

“Yeah,” She whispers the word, as if speaking any louder could break whatever it is that’s brewing between them. “Yeah, that could work.  I’d really like that.”

The human girl watches from the corner of her eye as Harry’s lips, which he’d been gnawing on nervously while waiting for her response, slowly curl into a hesitant grin, as if he’s nervous to show how anxiously he’d been waiting for her to answer.  He keeps his sea glass eyes glued to their tangled hands, his own fingers contracting to test their grasp. 

Harry knows that it’s selfish of him to be so happy that the girl he cares for is entering into a relationship with a monster.  But seeing as how he’s the monster in question, he can’t make himself feel guilty for it.  All he feels is the elation that’s slowly spreading through his entire body, and the determination that’s chasing it.  He can do this.  He’s strong enough.  He can be strong enough for her. 

“Can I…” His voice is just as quiet as hers, nearly cracking at the end when he finally lifts his gaze to her heated cheeks, wide eyes, and stained lips. “Can I kiss you?”

A tender laugh falls from those stained lips as Y/N combs his curls back over his ear, dragging her thumb over the sharp lines of his jaw. “You do that all the time, so the answer is obviously yes, isn’t it?” She thumbs down the muscles in his neck, until her palm settles over the collar of his shirt to fist the fabric between her grip. “You don’t even need to ask anymore.”

“It never hurts to ask.  And this time…” Harry worries his bottom lip back between his teeth before he soothes the bite mark with his tongue. “It’s different.  We’re different.”

“Not too different.” Y/N leans forward until their noses nudge against each other, their mouths kept apart only by an inch.  She cards her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, twisting the locks around her digits in a way that’s so much softer than Harry thought possible. “Still us, yeah?”

The taste of honey and lavender is so thick on the back of Harry’s tongue that he’s almost choking on it, but he’s never felt less thirsty in his life.  He has this under control.  He can tame this.  He can.

“Yeah.” He inhales deeply through his mouth, as if he were relishing the bouquet without tasting the wine, and slots their lips together with ease. 

Although they’ve shared countless kisses over their months together, this might win the record for the gentlest that they’ve ever shared.  There’s no rush, no animalistic need to pull Y/N closer and tighter against his body.  There’s only her burning warmth, her silky skin, and her sugar and flower flavour washing out the black tea that had been lingering on his taste buds.  Harry has never felt closer to being human again than he has in this moment.  Right now, they’re not a predator and his prey; they’re simply two people who, against all odds, have managed to find each other.  And Harry is owed this happiness.  He knows he is. 

The rest of the night passes in a blissful haze of comfortable domesticity.  They eat dessert on Harry’s couch, feeding each other bites of raspberry sorbet in between giggles and banter.  It’s something they’ve done countless times before, but there’s something different about it now; maybe it’s the fact that Harry knows that Y/N isn’t going to push him away now.  She wants him.  She wants him.  She’s leaning into his touch every time he brushes his knuckles over her cheek, laughing at his poorly-timed jokes, gazing at him through her lashes in a way that stirs desire in the very pit of his belly.  They’re comfortable together, and for the first time, Harry is realizing just how wonderful that is.

It’s the only thing on his mind as they stand side by side in front of his double vanity in his en suite, his gaze tilted to the side to watch as Y/N removes her makeup with some wipes she’d packed in her overnight bag (Harry makes a mental note on the brand so that he can pick them up the next time he finds himself near the drug store).  He’s never had such casual comfort and ease with someone like this before; the last time he’d found himself in a relationship, it had been in a time where maids were required to help lace and unlace corsets and valets prepared him for bed.  There was never a chance to watch as someone he cares for ties their hair back in a loose ponytail before rubbing cleanser into their skin.  He never got to observe the quiet, intimate moments of someone’s bedtime routine.  In the early days of their relationship, Y/N had never had a chance to properly take her makeup off before Harry was tugging her into bed, her lipstick smeared across his face as much as hers.  This is his first time really witnessing that transition, and he likes it more than he thought he would.

There are, however, a few things that he knows Y/N likes before bed, and he gives her a moment of privacy to change into her pyjamas while he makes the quick trip to his kitchen to fill a tall glass with cold water.  He doesn’t need to grab an extra blanket this time— he’d already made sure to toss the knit afghan onto his bed before Y/N arrived, and he finds it draped over her body when he returns to his bedroom.

“You look cozy.” He comments with a fond smile, handing the mortal girl the glass of water as he pulls back the other half of the blankets.  He climbs underneath the covers, propping his elbow up on his pillow as he lies on his side to watch as she takes a sip of the drink. “Y’alright, love?  Need anything else?”

Y/N shakes her head as she sets the glass down on the bedside table and settles back into her pillows, stifling a yawn into the back of her hand.  She always gets sleepy after she has a few drinks, something she’d explained to Harry— much to his amusement— a few weeks prior, after a movie night at her house when he’d made his famous margaritas.  They’d been having a Harry Potter marathon, and they’d barely begun the second before her eyes had started to flutter closed. 

“I’m good, I think.” She tugs the blankets up to her chin, tilting her head to the side to find Harry already staring at her with a soft expression. “Actually…” Extending a hand to him, she lifts her covers off her body enough to indicate what she wants. “C’mere.”

A boyish giggle falls from the vampire’s strawberry lips, and he flicks off the lamp before crawling towards Y/N in the enveloping darkness.  He folds himself right into her side, opening his own arms for her to slide into, but is surprised when her hand finds his shoulder and tugs him closer to her.

Harry takes the hint and hesitantly settles himself onto her own body, allowing the mortal girl to rest his head along her collarbones, his ear finding a home just above her beating pulse.  One of her hands knots itself in his hair, delicately detangling his messy curls as the other finds a home on his naked shoulder blade, rubbing over his defined muscles with the hottest touch Harry has ever felt. 

It’s a vulnerable position, one that Harry hasn’t been in for decades.  And yet, instead of feeling the usual mix of fear and trepidation, all Harry can feel is comfort.  The combined sensation of Y/N playing with his hair and massaging his shoulder is more pleasurable than he ever could’ve assumed.  A month ago, that would have confused him.  But now… he exhales softly as Y/N’s nails lightly scratch along his scalp.  He can be vulnerable with her.  He trusts her.  And, to his extreme luck, she seems to trust him.

A few minutes pass with nothing said between the pair, the silence around them punctuated with only the sound of their breathing and Y/N’s lone heartbeat.  If Harry didn’t know better, he’d think that Y/N had fallen asleep, but his sharp senses know that’s not true; her pulse is still a few beats faster than it normally is, and her breathing hasn’t completely evened out yet.

Sure enough, Harry’s suspicions are confirmed when Y/N whispers into the darkness a moment later, as if she could hear him mentally assessing her body language. “Harry?” Her voice is gentle, halfway between a whisper and a murmur, as if she’s afraid to be any louder. “Are you awake?”

Harry bites back the smirk that threatens to overtake his lips. “Mhmm.” He hums, nuzzling his head further into Y/N’s caring touch. “Still awake.”

She matches his hum of acknowledgement, the pads of her fingers pressing deeper into the knots of his back. “I was wondering…” Her voice thickens with hesitation. “Would you, um, would you sing for me?”

Without completely lifting himself from her chest, Harry raises his eyes to meet her own, her fingers pausing their motions through his locks as he does so. “Sing?” He asks, taken off guard by the out-of-the-blue request. “Y’want me to sing?”

Although there’s a shadow of shyness across her face, Y/N nods slowly. “I heard you humming earlier today, while you were cooking, and it sounded nice, so I was just thinking about it…” She clears her throat nervously, and Harry can hear the wave of blood that rises to her cheeks. “But you don’t have to.  I know it’s late—”

“No, petal.” Harry hurries to ease her, a frown settling onto his face as he hears her breathing grow shallower with anxiety. “S’fine.  No need to get shy.” Harry is amazed at how smoothly the reassurance falls from his lips. “Yeah, I’ll sing for you.  Any requests?”

Despite him telling her not to be shy, Y/N just shrugs her shoulders in response to his question, her eyes locked on the ceiling above them as if she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze.  Harry plants a kiss along her clavicle before settling back into her plush chest, mentally running through the catalogue of songs he’d been humming earlier.  He should pick something soft, he thinks.  Something like a lullaby.

Y/N resumes her gentle combing through Harry’s locks, mostly to distract herself from his thoughtful silence.  She shouldn’t have asked him to sing something— he’d made it clear earlier that playing the piano for people was something that made him nervous.  They’d sung together playfully multiple times, and Y/N could tell that Harry has a pretty voice, but half-singing, half-rapping along to the Hamilton soundtrack is so different than singing to her in the darkness of his bedroom.  She shouldn’t have asked.  In fact, she should tell him to just forget it, and—

“I had a thought, dear, however scary, about that night, the bugs and the dirt.” Harry’s low vibrato echoes around the previously silent room, his voice no louder than a murmur.  Y/N can feel the vibrations of his vocal chords against her chest, a quiet hum that soothes her like nothing else ever has. “Why were you digging?  What did you bury, before those hands pulled me from the Earth?”

Harry clears his throat quietly between the stanzas, his own eyes drifting close.  He’s never been one for stage fright— he’s always been eager to show off his vocal skills, and there’d been a time when all he wanted was to sing on stage in a smoky speakeasy.  But this— singing in the quiet of his bedroom for an audience of one— is more intimate than he’s used to, and he knows if he catches Y/N’s observant gaze right now, he’ll lose his nerve.

“I will not ask you where you came from; I will not ask and neither should you.” Harry tunes his ear to the steady pulse of Y/N’s heart, using the rhythm as a makeshift metronome to keep his time.  To keep himself steady. “Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips; we should just kiss like real people do.”

Harry feels a spike of warmth against the top of his head, and it takes him a moment longer than normal to realize that it’s Y/N’s lips pressing against his hair.  As he continues to sing, she times her caresses of his ringlets with the beat of his words, which he keeps timed with the beat of her heart.  They’re in a cycle, he realizes as he quietly sings the second verse into her skin. She’s lined up with him as he lines up with her.  They’re locked together, steadying the other while relying on them to keep them steady in return.  For the first time in two hundred years, Harry feels truly in sync with someone.

“Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips,” Y/N’s mouth smudges against his temple once more as he nudges his nose along the base of her throat, allowing himself to press his own lips against the satin skin of her chest, just over her heart. He feels like he could stay in this moment forever, which means something given that he truly does have forever. He’d spend every second of the rest of eternity frozen in this instant, if the world allowed it. He’s content, and relaxed, and cradled in his duvet with the one other soul who has somehow managed to thaw the coldness from his stony heart. For the first time in too long, he feels like an actual person again. He isn’t bogged down by his carnal instincts, or by the fear of losing his composure, or by the fact that he doesn’t have a thumping rhythm behind his ribs. 

He doesn’t need all of that because he has Y/N, and she makes him feel more real than all of those aspects ever could. 

“We could just kiss like real people do.”

[queenmuzz]

Heat of the Moment

A Dante x Reader Valentine’s Day Special!

Your mom had always told everyone, in a disapproving tone, that you were too impulsive for your own good.  You darted into the road to get a runaway ball.  You bought that awesome looking jacket, without checking to see if it was on sale.  And now, because you were craving pizza, and didn’t want to shell out the four bucks extra for delivery, you were in a mighty fine pickle.

You decided that taking the deserted looking street at near midnight, just to shave a few minutes off your walk to Angelo’s Pizzeria was a perfectly splendid idea.  So splendid, you didn’t notice the shadowy figures following you, until you were grabbed from behind, and a cloth covered with some sort of chemical was placed over your screaming mouth.

So now, here you stood, or rather...laid, on cold grey stone, that seemed to leech all warmth away from your flesh.  It was still dark, but illuminated by torches, you seemed to be surrounded by columns of stone, like you were in some knock off kid sized version of Stonehenge.  You immediately attempted to get up, only to find to your irritation, your wrists and ankles were bound by industrial grade chains.   

“The offering has awoken!” called out a woman’s voice, and from the darkness, like the damn Ringwraiths from Lord of the Rings, nine cloaked figures came out of the darkness.  You tried to make out their faces, but both their pitch black cloaks, and blood red masks hid everything about them.

“Brothers and Sisters, we are gathered here tonight to call forth from the very bones of the earth, a power far greater than any human can imagine.  The stars have aligned, the incense has been lit.  All now,” she motioned to the cultist beside her, who handed her a leatherbound book, “Is to speak the incantations, and complete the rituals.”

And then, with the help of her assistant, the group began to chant.  You had no idea of what was being spoken, but it sounded Latin. 

“Really... Latin?  Guys, there are a tonne of other languages you could use!  What happened to originality?!” you grumbled, but while you could feel their glares, none stopped their inane chants

Upon each pillar,  a letter lit up, one at a time.  You couldn’t recognize the script, but it looked like a five year old’s attempt to write Hebrew. For some reason, that irked you. This makes no sense.  Latin is an Indo-European language, and Hebrew is a totally different family! These idiots are mixing everything up!.

But the incantation seemed to do the trick, and the flames grew, and changed to a sickly green colour.  And now, all these cultists raised their arms in exultation 

“Lord of the Underworld, we present you this offering, a Virgin Offering, for you to consume!” The lead cultist chanted.

“Wait!” you blurted out, in a desperate attempt to avert your fate, “I’m not a virgin!  I’ve had sex before, dozens...no, hundreds of times!”

Her assistant leaned over you, their mask barely concealing his skepticism.

“Name one person you have laid with,” he tested.

“Well…” Your mind was blank, and so you went with the first thing that shot through your brain.

“Your mom, for starters.”

You could have slapped yourself for such a dumb comeback, had your wrists not being tied up, but you needn’t have worried about not getting slapped.  The cultist’s lips twisted into a snarl, and you felt white hot pain radiating from your cheek, and the taste of blood filling your mouth.  Even though it hurt like hell, one part of you was mentally high fiving at that comeback.  His hand raised up one more time, to give another strike, but the leader quickly grabbed his wrist.

“Calm yourself, brother… the offering must remain undamaged. Besides,” and you could swear you  heard a smirk in her voice, “It’s not their body that must be virginal, it’s the blood.”

Well shit, you thought, as you placed your burning cheek against the cool stone to relieve the pain.  

The ritual continued.  “We humble servants provide both the firstfruits of this offering to open the way.”  The woman took out a jet black dagger, and approached you with steady steps.  Would she cut out your heart, Temple of Doom style?  Rip out your entrails?  Slit your throat?  All you could hope was that it would be quick and painless.  

What you hadn’t expected was for her to grab one of your restrained hands and with surprisingly gentleness placed the edge of the obsidian blades against your palm.

As she dragged the razor sharp edge, a line of crimson bloomed, like a trail of bubbles.  It almost didn’t hurt, but you couldn’t help but get upset.  All this pomp and ceremony, and they were just giving you a cut that would irritate you for weeks...if you lived that long. Whatever happens, you said as the cultist began using your blood to paint the two largest stone pillars, in a perverse parody of the Passover ritual, I hope whatever these bastards are summoning crushes them.

“COME FORTH!” The whole group chanted in unison, “Taste the blood… DEVOUR THE FLESH!”

And without warning, the blood...YOUR blood, burst into flame, racing up the pillars as if gasoline had been pumping through your veins.  At the top, the flames connected and  formed a gateway...a hellgate.  And within it, an orb, an inferno expanded...and a roar that sounded nothing like any earthbound animal emanated.

And then, an explosion of heat and sulfur knocked down the stones, and the cultists, sending the leader flying back several feet.  Only you, chained to the granite altar, remained in place.

You squinted as the searing light dissipated.  Among the now dying flames stood, or hovered… a demonic sight.  You could swear you saw the air distort from the heat that seemed to generate from within his chest.  Four leathery wings splayed out, the inner skin swirling designs constantly shifting, almost hypnotising.  And the horns!  A good foot long that curved  and twisted, glowing like charred wood both above and around his face. A face that reminded what was in front of you.  A demon.  Teeth as long and sharp as paring knives, eyes glowing like the pits of hell.  As if Satan himself had come up from the depths.  And for all you knew… he probably had.

You heard the sound of crumpled paper.  “Oh man,” the demon rumbled, his voice distorted by the sound of the exhaust coming from between his teeth, “I was just getting to the good part…”

“Oh Great and Powerful Lord…”  the devil stared at the surrounding area, at the the cultists that had recovered began following their leader’s motions and bowed prostrate on the ground, and you still chained.  It was hard to make out his expression, but it seemed like...surprise?

 “We are your most humble servants,” the leader continued,  “All we ask...is a scrap of your power...a trifle for one such as you, as payment for summoning you..My Lord?”

The demon didn’t even spare a second glance as he strode past her, past the other shrouded forms, and made a beeline towards you.  This was it, you thought, time to come up with a witty parting remark. But of course, your impulsive nature wouldn’t cooperate right now.  At least the demon seemed to be the ‘fire and fury’ style, he would probably consume you quickly.

He towered over you, and even now, the stone, which had been ice cold the entire time, began to heat up beneath you...sweat, both from terror, and the inferno looming above you,  beaded on your forehead.  

“My Lord?” the assistant asked, “Is the offering suitable for your arrival?  They have a wicked tongue, but they are perfect for summoning.

“I think you got it all wrong buddy,” the demon turned his eyes on the unholy congregation, and strangely, a chill appeared in the air, “You guys didn’t summon me….” A razor claw extended out and pointed at you, “THEY did… and if they summoned me…” the cultists slowly became aware of what he was implying, the quicker ones started making a run for it, “YOU guys must be the offering!  Who’s volunteering first?”

The answer was nine sets of panicking feet trying to sprint out of the stone circle.  The demon glanced back at you, “You might want to cover your eyes for this, it’s gonna get a little messy,” and with the speed of a racing forest fire, he charged, blades of superheated air swirling around him.  

The scream of the lead cultist was enough for you to clench your eyes shut, and then followed by a multiple of cries of terror and death, as the coppery scent of blood, not your own this time, scented the air.

A few minutes later, there was nothing but silence, except the sound of boots on gravel.  You couldn’t help it, you took a peek.

Instead of the cultists, or the demon, there was just a guy, shaggy white haired, with a worn t-shirt that clung juuuuust right against his broad chest, and a smile on his face.  You looked around, trying to find either a surviving cultist, or the demon, but all you could see in the darkness were void black shapes, lying on the grounds, their robes moving slightly in the breeze.

“That can’t be comfortable, let’s get you out of there,” the man said, and without a hint of effort, he gently grasped your hands, and with the other, he gave a quick yank.  Immediately the sound of snapping metal, and to your amazement, your arms were free.  And if you had thought he had done a sleight of hand with those chains, the way he effortlessly ripped the chains around your ankles off immediately clued you in that this man was more than he seemed.

You rubbed your wrists as you slowly sat up, staring at him. “Who are...you?”

“Ah, yeah...forgot to introduce myself in the whole hubbub.  Cultists always ruining get togethers.”  He stuck out his hand, “Name’s Dante.”  And as you shook his hand, with your uninjured one, you noticed that for a brief moment,  his eyes momentarily glowed red, like embers.  Embers that had once been blazing coals.

He must have seen the flash of panic in your eyes, because he backed away, his hands raised in surrender. 

“Don’t worry!  I ain’t going to hurt you… yeah, I’m the demon those jackasses called for” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, “but I’m not the ‘MUST RULE THE WORLD’ type, I usually am the one people call to get rid of what was being summoned, not actually BEING the ‘sommonee.’  Wait, is that the correct term?”  He paused for a moment to think it over, before he seemed to come back to the present. “Anyways, I was just relaxing in my office, reading a magazine, and then POOF, I’m in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people with horrible sense of fashion.  Speaking of my magazine...where did I put it?”

You saw the magazine, its pages fluttering in the wind, and picked it up.  A copy of ‘Half Cocked’, and on its cover, a buxom young brunette was getting a bit too friendly with a revolver,  alongside a well toned man wearing little more than a bandolier.

“Oh thanks!… that” he quickly snatched it out of your hands,  “I read it mainly for the articles…” he explained lamely, before hurriedly shoving it in his back pocket, as he looked you up and down. “Besides...I got a feeling I won’t need it much anymore…”  And in the flaming remnants of ritual, you swore you saw him turn a shade of pink...although that could just be the fire.

“Welp,”  He stretched, “You ready to blow this popsicle stand?  All that work made me famished.”

You had no idea where the hell you were, but you were still ravenously hungry.  Which reminded you how you got into this mess in the first place.

“I could go for some pizza or-”

You felt a blaze of warmth, and suddenly you felt your legs swept under you, and you looked up at Dante, now back to his demonic form carrying you bridal style.  But no longer did it strike fear in you, just a sense of awe...and admiration

“You truly know how to get to this demon’s heart,” he practically purred, and with a slight grunt, he leapt up and started flying towards the nearest collection of lights on the horizon.  “Pizza it is, then!”

Despite the remnant of chill from spending God knows how long on that stone, and the brisk breeze of the upper atmosphere blowing past you, you didn’t feel a little bit cold. It was like being held by a flying furnace.

“You know Dante….” you spoke, barely audible above the wind.

“Hm?”

“You’re pretty hot.”  Instantly, you realized what you had said, and would have preferred him to just drop you to your death at this very moment.

You heard him chuckle.

“Yeah, this form runs a bit warm….”

And even though he didn’t say it, you were almost certain he knew exactly what you meant.

[nightshade-minho]

Alive Again

Warnings: necromancer!hyunjin, death, fingering, themes of satanism, necromancy, witchcraft etc.

Wc: 1.9k

There he was, again.

You let out a long, annoyed sigh as you watched from the shadows. Leaves crunching under your feet, you stepped out from behind the bush, having had enough.

"Hey!"

The man crouching before the gravestone glanced up, raising an eyebrow as his eyes landed on you. He looked you up and down, a small smirk growing on his features.

"Uh...can I help you?" He asked, straightening up and taking a step towards you. You immediately took one back, swallowing as you registered just how tall he is- he was basically towering over you.

Your words caught in your throat for a second as you tried to remember exactly why you'd been mad at him. His gaze, directed at you, was thick with intrigue and another emotion you can't decipher. It's throwing you off.

Your mouth opened and closed as the man rolled his eyes, turning around and heading back to the grave at your lack of response.

"Wait-"

He looked over his shoulder, his eyes cold this time. "What? Spit it out, little girl. I haven't got all night. In fact, you just interrupted my ritual."

Ritual? Suddenly, the candles and chalk circles on the tombstone made sense. You swallowed, mind swimming with a million thoughts. So, your suspicions were correct.

"I..." You clenched your fists. "I see you here everyday. This- this is my spot." You mumbled, realizing just how stupid you sounded as the words left your mouth.

The look he gave you only served to reinforce that.

"Your...spot?" He chuckled, crossing his arms and walking back towards you. "Do you own this graveyard, princess?" He asked, his tone filled with mock curiosity.

"I- no. But- there's never been anyone else in here with me-"

Hyunjin put his finger on his chin. "Why do you like this place so much, anyway? Someone your age should be out there, partying with your friends and what not." He said, sounding like he was talking to himself more than you.

"I like this place. It's quiet here. I've spent every night here for more than ten years." You explained, swallowing.

"Hm. Bad home life?"

"Understatement." You said softly, shaking your head. "It's been more than a year since I left home for good. Now I live here."

Hyunjin hummed, his tone filled with what seemed like genuine sympathy. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that...but unfortunately, I can't just pack up and leave. I have work to do. " He gestured to the pentagram. "I expect I'll be here a while."

"But..." You don't want this. You don't want him encroaching your space, leaving his arcane items and trinkets everywhere. You hated unfamiliarity, the way it made you feel cold and fearful. You'd spent all these years alone, after all...gotten used to the solitude.

"No...you c-can't." You muttered, steeling yourself to deliver your reply. It was extremely difficult denying this beautiful man. There was a part of you that was inexplicably pulled to him. Something about him excited you, sending tingles all over your body and melting away your inhibitions one by one.

"I can't? This place is big enough for the two of us, love. Why don't you want this?"

You grit your teeth. All these questions were irritating you. "I don't have a reason to let you stay."

Hyunjin bit his lip at that, nodding slowly. He pursed his lips, staying silent for a minute before his eyes slowly lit up with an idea.

"Tell you what...why don't I give you one?"

"Give me what?"

"A reason to let me stay."

You didn't miss the way his eyes sparkled with mischief as he uttered the words. Feeling your cheeks flush, you internally reminded yourself to stay strong. 

No, you weren't going to budge, no matter what he offered you. Although...you had a small idea of what he was insinuating, and you'd be lying if you said the thought wasn’t enticing. 

"Elaborate." You said cautiously, eyes widening a little when he backed you up against the statue behind you, catching you off guard.

"Why do that when I could just show you?" He asked, voice low and deep. His eyes bore into you, searching yours with an urgency.

"S-show me? I-"

He cut you off, leaning closer until your lips were brushing. His proximity made the words fizzle and die on your tongue, your cheeks burning as you looked up at him with wide eyes.

"So flustered. I haven't even done anything of significance yet." He chuckled, a finger coming up to trace your jawline.

"I don't-"

He rolled his eyes, closing the minimal distance between the two of you to press his plump lips to yours.

It felt like stars were exploding in your belly. You'd never been kissed before, and it seemed a little unfair to you that he would be your first. This devilishly handsome intruder, barrelling into your life without prior notice.

You kissed him back, though. Any shred of rationality left in your form was quickly disappearing as he nipped at your lips, letting out a soft moan into the kiss. He snaked his hands under your thighs, spreading them apart to fit himself in between. "Fuck..." His lips wandered down to your neck, kissing the spot gently before sucking on the smooth skin.

Pulling away after a few minutes to catch his breath, he grinned down at you. Your lips were red and kiss-bitten, your neck covered with marks. He prided himself in the masterpiece he'd created.

Inhaling, he leaned in again, lips ghosting your jaw. "Do you want this? Tell me you want this, Y/n."

"I...I do..." You said softly under your breath, avoiding his eyes as the embarrassment flooded your being.

"Louder." He hissed, pressing himself against you to let you feel the bulge growing in his pants.

"I want you!" You cried out, holding onto his shoulders as he lifted you up slightly. "Please, it's been years since I've been touched- I n-need it."

You closed your eyes, having caught a glimpse of his triumphant smirk and not wanting to see it for any longer than you had to. He had started to squeeze your thighs, warming you up as he placed a line of wet kisses down your neck.

"Good girl. Don't worry, I'll make you feel good. Promise." He assured, setting you on top of the base of the statue. The statue was that of an angel, and you would have found the situation funny if Hyunjin wasn't sliding his fingers up and down your covered clit, causing your brain to blank.

"So wet. You weren't lying when you said you haven't been touched in years, hm?"

You stayed silent, biting your lip in order to prevent a moan from bubbling out. He chuckled, pressing another kiss to your lips. "Thought so."

He grabbed the waistband of your panties with one hand, dragging it down and discarding them on the floor. Bringing his long fingers up to your lips, he pressed them in. "Suck." He ordered, staring at you intensely. His stare was so deep, You realized the undecipherable emotion had been lust all along, and your heart pounded.

You obeyed him immediately, sucking on his digits eagerly as your pussy throbbed, needing attention. You bucked your hips slightly, a needy expression directed at the man in front of you.

"An impatient one, are you?" He winked, pulling his fingers out of your mouth, travelling downwards to stroke your entrance.

"Lucky for you, I'm feeling pretty impatient tonight, too." He breathed, leaning forward to suck on your jaw as he pushed the digits past your walls, hissing at how tight you were.

"Fuck, I can't wait to feel you around my cock-" You exhaled shakily at his words, whining as he crooked his fingers up, finding your sweet spot with no difficulty. The sensations flooding throughout your body as he thrusted them into your cunt were incredible, ones you had never experienced before. It felt like your drab, dreary world confined to the cemetery was exploding with a burst of color as his fingers brought you to the edge.

"So pretty for me, baby. Am I making you feel good?"

What kind of question was that? Your moans were loud despite your best efforts to hold them back, your legs shivering and your lips quivering. The answer to that should be fairly obvious, you thought.

"Y-yeah. Love it- ah!" You cried out when his pace increased, his fingers almost a blur from how fast he was slamming them into you. He was able to fill you up so well even like this, and you found yourself drooling at the thought of what was to come.

"Fuck, you look so beautiful like this." He hummed, his thumb pressing onto your clit and rubbing gently. His other hand came up to your breast, flicking your nipple over the fabric and causing you to let out a gasp.

You were nearing the edge, hurtling towards it. Hyunjin didn't let up, adding a third finger and moving the trio at a speed that was almost inhumane.

"Fuck, you're close, aren't you? I can feel you clenching."

You nodded, tears pricking at your eyes as he slowed down his thrusts, making his fingers go as deep into your heat as he possibly could before pounding into you once more.

"You're a sight to behold." He mumbled, pressing his lips to yours gently, sucking on them. It was the last push you needed to fall over the edge, combined with his movements down south.

You'd never felt any sensation more otherworldly than the one taking over you at the moment. Your orgasm seized you mercilessly, sending electricity shooting over you and leaving you quaking in its wake.

His lips were still on yours as he groaned at the feeling of you squirting all over him. Pulling away, he observed the amount of juices that had spilled out of you and let out a wry chuckle.

"Fuck, I really want to make you do that again. On my cock, this time."

You spoke through pants, chest heaving. "Yes- yes please. Want." You mumbled incoherently, your brain turning into mush as you slumped in his hold.

He kissed your forehead, smiling. "And you will. Let's continue this at home, shall we?"

"Home?" You asked in confusion, peeling your eyes open. The graveyard was your home. What was he talking about?

"My home." He repeated, rubbing circles on your skin. "You'll be living with me from now on, baby."

You averted your eyes from him, disappointment filling you as he said the words. Tempting, but it would never happen. Your fate lay in this graveyard, your destiny an eternity of floating just beyond the veil.

"I..." You closed your eyes, a sob caught in your throat. "I can't...leave. I'm not-"

"I know."

You looked up, puzzled as his expression softened. He pulled you close to his body, picking you up. "You don't have to worry, love."

"You knew?" Your eyes widened in shock. You looked back over what had just happened, small clues that he was aware revealing themselves. You remembered suddenly that he'd known your name, even though you hadn't told it to him outright...he'd touched you, even felt you. The tiniest flicker of hope lit up your heart as he stared at you fondly.

"Yes." He kissed your forehead as he started moving to the gate. "You're no longer stuck here, darling." He said firmly.

You could barely contain all the emotions tangled in your heart as you tried to make sense of it all. Looking over his shoulder as he carried you, you ran your eyes over your tombstone and the candles he'd placed in front of it. The pentagram on top was still shining, illuminating the grave and setting it apart from the others.

"You're alive again, Y/n. And this time, you're mine."

Happy Halloween!

[cheesyficwriter]

“Oh no…he’s/she’s/they’re cute.” Please? 💓

Hi @theroomofreq 😊 thanks for the lovely request. Hope you enjoy this coffee shop meet-cute for Romione 💜

Our Usual

Hermione considered coffee to be the nectar of the Gods. The daily bitter fuel was an essential part of her mornings, a pre-ritual before a full day of classes at uni. 

Her favorite local coffee shop was just round the corner from her flat and she spent almost every morning cosying up in a secluded booth in the corner of the shop, sipping leisurely on her signature brew. However, this day was a tad bit different. She had finally managed to convince her best friend and roommate, Lavender, to grab coffee with her. Lavender was not a morning person, therefore, she was rather disgruntled when Hermione dragged her out of bed early on a Friday morning. 

The bell on the door chimed when they stepped inside. "Well, this place is just darling," Lavender remarked straight away. 

The appearance of the shop was aesthetically pleasing. The light was dim, set for ambience, with soft, smooth jazz music playing in the background. The aroma invaded their nostrils as soon as they walked into the cafe, the distinct smell of fresh pastries mixed with ground coffee beans. Hermione inhaled deeply; it was one of her favorite smells in the world. The room was relatively quiet, apart from the sounds of the milk steamer on the espresso machine. 

As they walked further into the room, Hermione could make out the rows of cakes and biscuits, all encased in a glass cabinet below the counter. Coffee beans, packed into little black baggies, lined the shelves behind the coffee bar. 

Several other university students were scattered about various tables; many were completing written assignments, some reading the newspaper, and others were seated with friendly companions. 

Hermione sighed happily. She noticed there was a short queue to place an order. "Lav, why don't you go find us a table and I'll get our drinks." 

"Perfect. I'll take a mocha."

Dave, Hermione's favorite barista, waved at her once she made it to the front counter. "Hi there, Hermione. Your usual today?" 

"You know what Dave, I think I'm actually going to try something different."

"Sorted, what can I get you?" 

"Two mochas please."

"Coming right up."

She paid quickly and retreated back to the table where Lavender was seated. Hermione was confused by the baffled expression on her friend's face as she walked over. 

"What?" 

"Hermione Granger…" Lavender murmured in a low tone, "there is a man at the bar counter that can't keep his eyes off of you." Dave? He was the person she last saw at the counter. Surely, it can't be him. He was friendly, but she had talked with him enough to know there were absolutely zero sparks between them. 

Hermione scoffed. "Don't be absurd."

"I am not joking, Hermione, and sweet Merlin, he is quite handsome. Can't say I'm not a little bit jealous."

"How do you know he's not looking at you?" Hermione retorted pointedly. 

Lavender rolled her eyes as if it was the most ridiculous question in the world. "It's simple - the whole time you were putting in our orders, he was looking at you. And he had the biggest grin on his face. His eyes practically followed you back to our table. You should take a look." 

"No, definitely not."

"Look, Hermione!"

"No, cause then it will be obvious!"

Lavender gave her puppy dog eyes and Hermione relented. With a heavy sigh, she peeked surreptitiously over her shoulder. 

There he was. A man with bright auburn hair, swept to the side, and the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. And he was absolutely looking at her. He offered her a curvy grin and then quickly averted his eyes, as if he was embarrassed to be caught staring. 

Hermione whipped her head back around and bit her lip. "Oh no...he's cute." 

Lavender smirked. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is! I can't afford any distractions right now."

"That's the worst bloody excuse I've ever heard" - Dave called Hermione's name to signal the drinks were ready - "Now go up there and get our coffee orders." Her friend certainly was stubborn. 

"Can't you please pick them up?" Hermione begged.

Lavender shook her head determinedly. "No way, sweetie. This is all you. Now go." 

Hermione's feet wobbled all the way back to the coffee counter. The mysterious man was now had his back to her, seemingly engrossed in the reading material in front of him. She smiled hesitantly at Dave as she grasped the edge of the counter. She was so close to this man in the same way she was just a few moments before, yet her heart certainly wasn't pounding then like it was now. She politely murmured a thank you as she retrieved the mugs. Her voice must have sounded shaky and her hands gripped the handles of her mugs nervously. She could feel the man's eyes on her.

When Hermione peered down into her mug, she noticed an unfamiliar heart design etched into the foam. "That's curious…"

"I'm impressed. That's Dave's best artwork, yet." 

Hermione turned her head before she could even remember that she was trying to avoid eye contact with the man who spoke. She was electrified by the intensity of his gaze and the way his piecing blue eyes lit up when she finally glanced his way. Oh, there are definitely sparks with this one. 

"Here's your warmed scone, Ron." Ron. 

"Brilliant, thank you Dave," Ron smiled graciously as he took the plate with the soft pastry. 

"He knows your name," Hermione observed.

Ron froze, as if he was baffled that she was speaking directly to him, but attempted to play it cool and shrugged, "Yeah, I'm here probably five days a week...in the mornings."

What? "There's no way...I'm in here five days a week."

"Yeah…" Ron blushed and looked down at his paper, "I know." 

He knows. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. "You've seen me before?" 

He scratched the back of his neck nervously. "I see you most mornings, honestly. Although, I have a feeling today is the first day that you've seen me," he chuckled. 

Hermione felt incredibly guilty. How is it that this handsome specimen had been this close to her several times in the past and she hadn't even bothered to glance his way? She was certain she would have noticed him if she had. "I'm sorry, it's just that usually when I come in here, I'm alone, and zeroed in on my revisions. But today is a little different." She pointed to the two coffee mugs. 

His face fell slightly. "Oh, are you here with someone else today?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile. Does he look disappointed? "Yes, my roommate. She's not a big coffee person, so I haven't brought her here before." She could see the tension in his shoulders release. 

"Ah, I see." Ron smiled at her softly for a moment and then held out his hand. "I'm Ron - Ron Weasley."

Ron Weasley. She took his warm hand and jumped slightly at the prickling sensation that spread up and down her arm. She thought Ron had to have felt it too, given the way his body twitched. "Your hand…" He murmured softly, his eyes fixed on their still-joined hands, "it's quite chilly." 

Hermione pulled her hand back quickly, watching the disappointment stretch across his face, "Oh, sorry." She placed both hands around her porcelain mug and sighed happily, the warmth enveloping her icy fingers. 

"So, Hermione...I like your name," He commented genuinely. 

She wrinkled her nose slightly, surprised albeit pleased, as she took a sip of her coffee, "You do? I suppose it is rather unique."

Ron shrugged. "You're the first Hermione I know." He then pointed to her mug, "Straying away from your usual, eh?" 

Hermione lifted a curious eyebrow. "How do you know what my usual is?" 

Ron appeared slightly embarrassed again, his face turning red, as he looked at her sheepishly, "Well...uh...I usually get the same thing." 

It was then that Hermione recognised the double espresso next to his pastry plate...her usual drink. She often savored the earthy taste, indulging in the lingering bitterness of the liquid. 

"You...uh...you have excellent taste." 

"So did you...until you sweetened it up a bit too much," he scrunched up his face adorably at her mocha, but then his expression shifted into a cheeky grin. 

"Oi! I'm trying to branch out here." 

Ron held up his hands defensively, sending her a lop-sided grin that made butterflies flutter about her stomach. "Don't get me wrong, I love sweets! Just not in my coffee."

"I'll drink to that," Hermione laughed and took a sip from her mug. 

"Erm...you've got a little bit…" He pointed to a spot on his own upper lip and Hermione's eyes widened just before she hastily wiped the foam from her mouth with the back of her sleeve. 

Ron gazed up at the ceiling, as if he was debating an idea, and then called out to Dave, "Hey, you have any double cream back there?"

Dave smiled knowingly and deposited a dollop of cream into Ron's espresso cup. Ron picked up the cup and brought it to his lips, intentionally smearing the cream all around his upper lip and nose. 

Hermione giggled and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. Oh my, she wasn't quite sure she had ever felt this relaxed around a man who wasn't her father before. 

"Smooth," she teased, "You've officially ruined our favorite drink."

"Oh, bugger." He didn't look the least bit upset about it. They eyes danced happily together once more, both unwilling to break the contact. 

The doorbell chimed, causing Hermione to pivot her attention towards the exit. In all that time, Hermione hadn't realised that Lavender had snuck behind her to request her coffee in a to-go cup, and was now waving at her from the front door. Lavender gave her a quick wink before exiting. 

Hermione sipped leisurely on her coffee at the counter with Ron for several minutes, both enjoying the simplicity of each other's company. 

"Hermione," Ron gazed hopefully into her eyes, having obviously worked up the courage over time, "I hope this isn't a long shot, but would you wanna have coffee together sometime?"

Hermione beamed from ear to ear, her eyes twinkling as she cleverly responded, "I thought we already were?" 

[lanuvolanera]

Sept 19th - Cofession

Chapter 1

My first ever fanfic, lads, be nice and enjoy.

---------

Coming out of Casper High mid afternoon, Danny and Tucker made their way down the school steps. Students trickled out the front doors in small groups and split their own ways as the duo began their trek to Fenton works.

"Man, I'm glad Sam didn't come today." Danny said, grasping his backpack strap slung over his shoulder.

"I know, right? She would've been miserable." Tucker replied, pocketing his PDA with a light frown on his face.

The day went well. Steady, in fact. They seemed to have kept off of Dash's radar and stayed on Mr Lancer's good side with the English assignment. Not to mention that it was pizza day at the cafeteria, the only good thing that the cooks knew how to make. Yeah, today wasn't so bad, it just felt empty without Sam by their side.

"She should be feeling better by tomorrow, right?"

"Honestly, I think she'll take the rest of the week off. If it wasn't for that ghost..."

"Oh god, don't remind me, I still feel awful." Danny said with a look of mild horror, still traumatised from the night before.

A pause in their conversation prompted more memories from last night.

Phantom, two feet above the ground, felt paralysed as he looked on and watched as Tucker ducked undercover from the ectoblasts firing in all directions from what looked like a regular bedsheet type ghost, only this one was different, this one screeched and wailed and gnawed it's black teeth, blood dripping from its mouth, staining its torso.

"We'll give her a call tonight, see how she's doing." Tucker said, dragging Danny out of his thoughts.

"Or we could head over, see how she's doing in person?"

"Or we could leave her be and let her rest."

Danny didn't like that idea, he was worried and felt guilty and ashamed that he couldn't prevent her injury. As minor as it was, she couldn't find the strength to come to school the next day, when he'd hoped to apologise again and ask how she's doing again and to offer her anything she needs again. He made his mind up right then.

"I'll fly over tonight then, when everyone's gone to bed."

"Sure, don't forget to bring her homework and tell her you love her."

"What?" Danny gasped in shock, a deep red blush covering his cheeks.

"Nothing." Tucker looked away with a sheepish grin and quickly changed the topic.

"We still need to do some research about last night's ghost, I've downloaded some pdf's which I'll send to you and Sam to see if there are other ways to dispell it if the thermos didn't work."

They turn the corner and can see the large Fenton works sign in the distance, two blocks away.

"Race you." Danny smirked, and sprinted off before Tucker had a chance to realise what was happening.

With a loud "hey!" from Tucker in the background, Danny slowed as he neared the steps to his front door and tried the handle, locked. Hmm, his parents are out, Jazz would still be at school studying in the library, looks like he and Tucker have the house to themselves. Danny pulls out his keys and unlocks the door just as Tucker catches up out of breath.

"That's cheating, you had a head start." He pants.

"Come on, the computer in the lab is free, go down and fire it up while I get some coffee brewing."

"Sounds like a plan."

-------------‐-------------------------------------------------

Later that night, Danny flew Tucker back to his house.

They soared through the night sky, clear and full of stars, street lamps illuminating the buildings below them, his best friends arm slung over phantoms shoulders.

"Look, all I'm saying is if we go back tomorrow, what if we make things worse, pissed it off even more. If its trapped there like we think, what harm will it do if we leave it alone?"

"It's different though, what if when we found it there, we let it loose?"

"If we did then don't you think we would've seen it again by now?"

"I don't want to chance it, we need to find a way to deal with it permanently."

"Don't tell me you're going back there by yourself."

"No, I'm going to Sam's, like I said."

"You'd better."

-------------------------------------------------------------

Once he'd said his goodbyes to Tucker, and reassured him he wasn't going to do something wreckless, Danny took off into the air once more and set course for Sam's House.

With a backpack full with his thermos, his laptop, his phone, both his and Sam's maths homework, a couple of pens, pencils, markers and 2 cans of Sam's favorite soda, Danny sped across the rooftops when a blue puff of cold air burst it's way past his lips.

"Of course, I thought it was too quiet tonight."

Taking a quick glance of his surroundings, there was nothing to be seen in the empty streets. A brief pause, his breath held in his lungs, then glass crashing from a shop window a few blocks down caught Danny's attention.

Cackling laughter and bursts of light flashed from the window, Danny wasted no time reaching the building, turning himself intangible and flew through the ceiling.

"Oh, come on! What the hell are you doing here? In a pet store of all places?"

....

----------------------------------------------------------------

Danny finally arrived at his destination. Peaking through the window to find Sam laying on her bed, light from her laptop illuminating her face, in her black pyjamas and a cast on her leg.

He knocked on the glass, and smiled as Sam startled.

Waving him in, he floated through the glass and landed with a soft thump on the plush carpet, and settled on the edge of her bed.

"Hey, how're you feeling?" Danny said with concern in his voice.

"Fine. Hey, you need to sign my cast." Sam says with a playful smirk. Danny half expected her to be more upset about being injured, or at least, as upset as he is.

After the escape from the warehouse the night before, with Sam cradled in his arms and Tucker following not too far behind, all Danny could think was this was all his fault. Sam got injured because of him, because he was too late, too late to swoop in and protect her from the falling scaffolding from the ghost fight, that cost her her ability to run to safety. He's the hero, isn't he? And he couldn't save her from something as simple as falling debris? What kind of hero-

"Danny-"

Sam could see the distraught look on Danny's face and he caught himself looking down at her cast. It could've been a lot worse, but still.

Danny looks up at her, he needs to confess.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I'm sorry you got hurt, I should've been more careful-"

"Hey, don't worry about it, these things happen, right? It could've been a lot worse."

"I know, I keep telling myself that, but still-"

"But still, we need to figure out a way to get rid of that ghost, I've been doing some research on this specific type of ghost and I've read through the files Tucker sent me, and I think I have a good idea on what we're working with."

Sam brings the laptop closer and turns it around for Danny to see pages upon the screen filled with information from different historic and religious sites.

"Does it say anything about why the thermos didn't work?" He asked playfully. Of course, the Fenton thermos only being a recent invention, there wouldn't be any information that hasn't been put online by the Fentons themselves indicating its presence in the ghost hunting community across the globe. Sure, there have been other containment methods but for this particular ghost, the best method would be to remove it from this plane entirely instead of just bottling it up.

Other pages on the screen suggest cleansing treatments of the haunted area using a mixture of herbs, minerals and rituals, witchcraft. If that could work, maybe the Fentons have other means of ghost study to pursue, if they believed in that sort of thing, of course.

"Hoestly, this stuff is giving me a headache, I need a break."

"Good thing I have just what you need." Danny says, reaching for his backpack.

He pulls out his own laptop, the 2 cans of soda and their homework, which Sam gives a mild look of disgust.

"Great."

"You don't look at all enthused." Danny says with a cheeky smile, and pops open his can, passing the other one over to Sam who takes it gratefully.

A small awkward pause later and Sam has to snap Danny back to reality again.

"Look, I know you think this is your fault, so here's my obligatory I'm-not-a-damsel-in-distress talk, we're a team, we'll sort this out, and we can forget about it."

"It's not just that, I don't know, it's just that- I don't think I'll be able to forget about it. There's something about this ghost, it's terrifying." Danny says, setting his can aside.

"I know, ugly too." Sam smiles as Danny looks up, he remembers what Tucker said to him earlier.

Tell her you love her.

"I don't think I'd be able to live with myself if something happened to you, I couldn't imagine my life without you."

At this, Sam sits up and puts her can on her bedside table. They're face to face with each other now.

"I couldn't imagine my life without you either, and you're right, that ghost is terrifying, even more of a reason to fight it."

Tell her.

"This ghost fight seems to be putting things into perspective."

You love her.

"I know what you mean."

They don't know when they got closer, or when they started leaning in.

Danny lightly brushes his fingers across her cheek, tilting her head just so, and presses his lips to hers.

It's a little awkward at first, spending a few seconds in that position. Then someone, or maybe both, adjust their lips, and oh.

Oh wow.

The sensation is amazing, sparks running down their spines and they readjust again, and again.

Their arms begin to wrap around each other and oh god, they're actually making out, kissing. They don't even realise they've fallen onto their sides on the bed, eyes squeezed shut applying and reapplying firm presses of their lips together.

They stay that way for a few moments, or is it lifetimes, when a tune came from the bedside table.

They pull apart, dazed red faces inches from each other, before Sam sits up and grabs her phone.

"It's Tucker."

She answers.

"Hey, Sam, I know you're busy recovering and all and I know it's late but I think I have a lead."

"That's great, what've you got?"

"I've found a review online about a book at the town hall library, if we can get it checked out tomorrow we might be able to find a way to exorcise this ghost."

Sam and Danny look at each other with hope.

"What's the title?"

"Ghost hunting for dummies."

"Be serious."

"I'll make you laugh one day, I swear."

"Tucker."

"It's called 'witchcraft untold', there are only 2 copies in town, the other is at the 'Skulk and Lurke'. The review made it sound like a work of fiction, and maybe it is, who knows? But I think it's worth checking out."

Sam makes a mental note of the title. There are a few books she's planning on checking out, some including cultural and religious beliefs on the undead, magic and pagan rituals, and scientific findings surrounding ghosts. If this book Tucker mentioned is as promising as it sounds, things could be looking up.

"I've been meaning to go to the 'Skulk and Lurke' tomorrow anyway, so I'll keep an eye out for it."

"Thats great, we'll talk more later, get some rest."

" I will do, see you later, Tuck."

"See you, and say hi to Danny for me!"

Click.

They glance at each other, and Danny moves to stand up.

"I should get going, um..."

"Yeah, you're gonna need some rest too if we're gonna face this ghost tomorrow night."

"We?"

"Yeah?"

"No."

"What?"

Danny couldn't believe he had to say this.

"Sam, you're injured, there's no way I'm letting you come along..."

"You're not 'letting' me do anything, I'm going. We still need to figure out a plan before then anyway, when I get a chance to check out that book."

The air surrounding them starts to tense.

"How am I supposed to fight this ghost and protect you at the same time? Or have you already forgotten about last night?"

"Excuse me? Have you forgotten what I said only ten minutes ago? I'm not letting you go off and play hero all by yourself!"

"That is not-"

"Save it. I can take care of myself."

"Fine, I'll call you in the morning."

"Fine."

And with that, Danny turns towards the window and lifts off, phases through, and rises into the night sky.

[croscupsroom]

True Happiness (T, pre Sam/Castiel, 1.5 k.) True happiness lies in the mundane (and it’s bedtime for Sam and Castiel). Set some time after 14.08. Read on AO3.

AN: if it looks familiar, i have posted this before but accidentally deleted that account. thought i'd reupload it since i put it on AO3.

AN: short mention of cas having skipped meals, towards the end.

In the evenings now, Castiel likes to go down to Sam’s room, and hangs out in it doing quiet activities or watching TV until Sam comes to bed. They’ve had this routine for a while, only skipping nights when the brothers are out of town. This time, it’s not exactly the evening — more like the middle of the night, not that long before it crisps into early morning.

Sam doesn’t have the healthiest of sleep schedules. He sleeps too little, at imprecise hours. That doesn’t bother Castiel. He doesn’t sleep at all, so Sam’s lack of habits doesn’t inconvenience him. What preoccupies him is Sam’s health. He listened to a podcast episode, once, that detailed how exactly lack of sleep could impact human bodies. Hearing that made him think of Sam, sluggish; of the cogs in his brain rickety from too few hours of rest. It made him worry about future outcomes.

“Alright, Dean,” Sam says from outside his bedroom door. This signals the end of a conversation Castiel wasn’t privy to. Like most of theirs, really.

Cas sits on the bed, legs extended in front of him. His shoes are on the floor, by the bottom of the bed. He’s wearing pajamas. Something tells him that the flannel feels pleasant, where it falls on the outside of his shell.

The last time they went to Goodwill together to shop for Jack, Sam pointed out the set on the rack. Maybe you’ll like this better than sitting in your clothes all night long , Sam said like the subject might bristle Cas.

Castiel is an angel. Clothes are all the same to him. What the remark told him, though, was that it must bother Sam for him not to change himself at bedtime. Why else would he suggest it at all, or so cautiously? Castiel wondered if it was that the trench coat’s noise bothered him, whenever some of the polyester canvas rubbed on itself in soft scratches that made him cringe. Maybe it was that Castiel disrespected some social convention without realizing it, and Sam was hinting at some way to fix it.

Looking at the flannel on the hanger, Castiel wondered if it was that Sam might want him to get undressed at night, and act as though they were going to bed together.

Of course , Castiel said then. I’d like that better.

You sure? Sam retreated, like he was worried that he had pushed Cas too far, and forced his answer.

I am, yes. I’m sure this sleepwear will be more comfortable. That was a lie, but one that he hoped would reassure his friend.

Sam, swelling up in relief, put the pajamas in the cart and waited for Castiel to follow him to the next rack.

Since then, Castiel changed into the pajamas in the evening before Sam turned in for the night. They developed their own little rituals, like maybe Sam was hoping to by suggesting the pajamas in the first place.

“What’re you watching?” Sam asks. The TV’s on, the volume barely above a whisper. He kicks off his shoes, his feet now bare on the concrete.

“I’ve been rewatching Arrested Development.”

“Oh, yeah? Again?”

They first watched it together years ago, when Castiel started spending his evenings in Sam’s room. He rewatches it sometimes on his own. Even after all these times, it still eludes him.

“The humor puzzles me.”

“Yeah. I can see it being hard to take in.” The remark could come off as condescending, but it doesn’t. Sam is trying to understand where Cas is coming from.

As Sam begins brushing his teeth at the sink, Castiel pauses the show. Sam has his back to Cas, and his eyes are focused on the porcelain below. He doesn’t own a pajama set — he always just puts on sweatpants and an old t-shirt for bed.

Sometimes, it seems like Sam is more weathered every time he comes into Castiel’s consciousness. He’s very different from the young man Castiel met not so long ago — a dull translucent rock, from what was once a sharp-edged fragment of a glass bottle.

Castiel hasn’t spent much time thinking about the effects of underground living on human morale. He imagines it can’t be too good, living in a bunker without windows like Sam and Dean do. Troglobites are hardly the most vibrant lifeforms. Human societies, if they can help it, do not choose this environment for themselves. If he tried, Castiel could surely find a podcast episode available about the subject — something about miners maybe, and their getting hopelessly stuck in a shaft somewhere. But that wouldn’t help. That’s nothing like Sam’s situation at all.

“Do you want to finish the, uh, documentary series?” he asks. They started that one a few nights ago. These past two, Sam shook his head no when Cas asked him, saying he was too tired. He’s about to do the same, but seems to think better of it.

“Yeah, sure.” They have three episodes left. They can get through at least one tonight.

Usually, Castiel lays on top of the bed, postured impeccably, while Sam slouches underneath the covers. This time, Sam holds up the sheets for longer than usual after he gets in, as an invitation. So. Castiel tucks his legs alongside Sam. The bed is a double — not exactly meant for two men’s size — so their physical closeness is pure happenstance. Sam’s head resting on his upper arm, as it is right now, is the most they ever touch.

“Play it,” Sam says. He gestures vaguely to the remote in Castiel’s hand.

The series exposes an unsolved string of murder, the botched investigation, and the cover-up around it. It’s quite harrowing. Castiel is always amazed at how Sam will relax by listening to the most gruesome stories. Often, he’ll fall asleep to episode collections of Forensic Files. Castiel will turn it off for him, once he’s out.

At the end of the episode, Sam is already almost asleep, his lids heavy .

“Sam, you should go to sleep,” Castiel tells him, prying him off his side.

Sam nods, yawns again. Castiel turns off the TV, then hands Sam the remote so he can put it on his side of the bed.

As he turns to lay back down, Sam stops for a moment, resting on his elbow, turned towards his friend. “Hey, Cas,” he murmurs. His eyes are quiet and waiting, in the dim light. “You know, uh. I really like it when you spend the night with me, you know that?”

Castiel doesn’t know that. Sam’s never said that, not in so many words. It’s just something they’ve been doing. It’s nice to have this time just for themselves, to do things that aren’t related to killing anyone.

“I like spending my nights here, too,” Castiel replies. He means it. “Do you want the light on or off?”

“On is fine, thanks. Night, Cas.”

“Alright.”

He usually says that, as a courtesy, if Castiel doesn’t keep watching TV after he’s gone to sleep. Cas can see just as well in the dark, after all  — he’s not constrained by the visible light spectrum.

Castiel picks up the book by his bedside. Sam lent it to him, after he said he was looking for a novel to read. It’s a quiet activity that passes the time at night, so he can stay beside Sam without bothering his sleep. Sam’s copy is the English version of the novel, translated from Kikuyu by the author himself. If he wanted to, Castiel could easily read the original. Human languages are all more or less one and the same, or so he’s observed for himself. He thinks about the myriad of dead languages Sam can decipher, and the countless living ones he’ll never understand. Maybe it’s about picking his battles. Kikuyu would come in handy less often than Latin or Aramaic in his line of work.

In any case. Castiel hasn’t considered seeking out the original in any serious way. He likes the idea of reading from Sam’s copy, dog-earing the pages along the same creases, seeing which passages he underlined.

Castiel leans back against the headboard. His foot rests somewhere along Sam’s shin.

This is a nice moment. He likes living it.

Almost unnoticeably, the world around Castiel dims.

A blip brings him back. He collects his presence. He checks on Sam sleeping beside him, and the weight of the room. It all feels odd — like he’s just an inch aside from himself.

Just now, Castiel felt as though he was falling backwards, although his body remained upright, solid. Like he was caught over the eyes by shadowy hands and yanked backwards, speeding through sludge, caving into the outline of himself. It reminded him of when he was human, and hadn’t eaten enough.

He’s not human, however. His body can’t get weak from skipping meals. He has no use for food.

To his right, Sam is already asleep. His pretty head is turned towards Castiel, his hair spread on the pillow. Castiel will have to be more careful. Every time, the dimness lasts longer, becomes darker.

Castiel stares at the pages in his hands. “Good night, Sam,” he says.

[felassan]

Thoughts on Dark Fortress #2

(This post is under a cut due to spoilers.)

So late with this one! some stuff irl was keeping me really busy and hyper-distracting me lately, but it’s finally over now so I’m back on my bioware bullshit. :D

Overall there were a lot of beautiful or awe-inspiring scenes in this issue, and a lot of great, meaningful / poignant character interactions and moments between characters. It’s pretty impressive actually how much was able to be packed in. I posted some of my favorite panels here. also omg! the action sequences! the big reveal! the ending!! woww

cool scene-setting, panned out shot of Neromenian and behind it, the Dark Fortress, to immediately pull you back into the world and ‘where we left off’. the combination of ruined dead trees, red lights, lightning and fire/smoke is very atmospheric and hints at what’s ahead

“From this... city, if we can call it that” is a sick burn and reminds you that the Qunari are technologically more advanced than most of the rest of Thedas, from their cannons to their aqueducts

more individually distinct Qunari soldiers, sth I again appreciate

! last issue there were big ‘You haven’t seen the last of Tractus!’ vibes, naturally, but I didn’t expect him to escape by stabbing and killing the Qunari using a chair-leg..!!

the last panel on the first page of Karasten is really good. the way it’s colored, the way it’s lit, the light and shadow, the fiery backdrop, cinders floating, the details of his expression.. 👌 it also makes me think to the possible future, to DA4 when mainland Thedas may be continuing to face the entirety of the Antaam

in Vaea’s acrobatics scene on the bridge, I know rationally that she’ll be fine but couldn’t help but worry for her. again I like how they don’t shy away from showcasing Vaea’s specific abilities. also the attention to detail - you’d think some rocks are just some rocks, but it highlights the risk she’s undertaking that if she falls it’s into rough seas which could dash her against the jagged rocks :’S. Vaea, gooooo!

Fenris’ “Enterprising girl” line has big “Clever girl” meme energy :D

my heart can’t take Fran and Autumn leaning over the edge after Vaea in worry ;; or Aaron looking back in concern over his shoulder ;; or Fran’s tender reassurance ;; or Autumn’s Worried expression ;; the care and bonds which have grown between this group of characters ;;

notice Aaron starts drinking when Vaea’s away from them and they’re beginning to grow worried about her safety. the poor man’s nerves and stress levels

Fran touching the vegetation while she’s considering if she could use her magic to open the entrance from the outside is a nice touch

did Marius leap in front of Fenris and Fran there when the entrance opened?? damn, he’s quick. and the three of them look all scary and formidable here ready for combat. notice how the curve of the door and the spikes that go into the ground, and the composition of this panel, make it look like they’re standing in front of an opened dragon’s maw? ‘teeth’, a rumbling ‘roar’.. some nice foreshadowing here.

the reunion panels are so cute. Autumn’s lil tum as she jumps and Fran and Fenris’ lil smiles of relief and at Autumn’s reaction to seeing Vaea, then a rare happy beam from Aaron.. feel.. the love ;__;

red lighting in the tunnel sets a dangerous, dramatic build-up mood

👀 more info on Fenris’ past, on the specifics of the process which gave him his markings. in the panel where he says that it took a long time, his shadow on the wall behind him reminds me of the shadow of his past that has dogged him for so long :(

Fenris and Marius height difference

discussion of the process shows the power difference between blue and red lyrium. blue lyrium took a long time, red lyrium is almost instant

Autumn is such an intrepid little explorer and alert scout, tail and ears up, head forward. good girl!

“I just... worry about you, my girl”  ‧º·(˚ ˃̣̣̥⌓˂̣̣̥ )‧º·˚  I’ll be so sad if these are death flags for Aaron and he doesn’t make it out of here. also note Fran in this panel, who recently had to kill her own father and is still dealing with that, watching the strongly paternal moment between Aaron and Vaea :(

love Vaea’s faith in Aaron and her sense of humor. also I don’t know why, maybe it’s because Vaea met Sebastian, but her “Maker, no!”, although in a completely different and light-hearted context, reminds me of Sebastian’s “Maker nooo!” at the end of DA2 hh

the reference again to Hawke, who Fenris saw haunted by what they tried to do - save their mother - and couldn’t :’(. also with the shadow in this panel, here’s another person struggling with the shadow of his past qq. this is later emphasized again in Aaron when he continues to talk about his past and in the panel is a chain and manacle. smart visual metaphors, a must in the comic medium with limited space

mushroom skull 💀🍄

“It isn’t about what I’ve done. It isn’t about my failures. Or my choices. It’s about their impact” - he’s misty-eyed here as he thinks back to Ostagar.. does this line btw seem almost meta to anyone else btw? :D it feels like a meta reference to the experience of DA players and PCs, who are always having to deal with the impacts of their choices

I wanna point out that I was right on reading issue #1, when I said “I’m positive that in panel 2 here, it’s the exact moment when he sees Cailan die” ;;

So Aaron is also a veteran of the Battle of Denerim

reference to the Hero of Ferelden - “Those were someone else’s battles”. I’m being captain obvious here but I can’t help but [heart pitter-patter] at any and all references to the HoF

I like the.. parallel? is that the word? Aaron’s stories were him trying to inspire people to make a change, or him trying to convince himself of that. and now here’s Vaea, inspiring Aaron with her words in these panels. the little guys can make a difference! in the world of Thedas, you don’t need to be a big bombastic hero or a Player Character to have an impact 

lmao Fenris right on cue. the moments of humor/light-heartedness are nice because they break up the tension and are sprinkled throughout without derailing build-up or taking away from dramatic story impact. yknow?

yeah Aaron!! leave it behind. leave it to rot with mr mushroom skull (and hey the mushroom skull was there for a reason). again tho if this is a death flag i 

Fenris straight down to business with the tactics

its cute how close Autumn has been sticking to Fran

Tessa checking in on Fran again, as she did in issue 1

Could Vaea’s “Well, shit” be an homage to Varric? :D they have met

I also wanna point out that I was right on reading issue #1, when I said “My guess is that the thing Tractus shows Marquette and Nenealeus is probably a chained up dragon or similar”

the poor dragon :’( big dragon the Qunari had in Trespasser vibes

the sword has a really cool design, kind of reminds me of something a samurai might be depicted wielding

👀 lore-drop! so ancient elven arcane warriors used lyrium-infused swords. this seems to confirm the sarcophagus is an ancient elven artifact, no? makes sense, wasn’t it said that the sarcophagus’ design was based on the architecture/outfit-design type elements of a specific faction, and that this was done intentionally? it looks kinda ancient elfy in make, right? also about the lyrium-infused swords of the arcane warriors, well well well.. remember that the Evanuris and the ancient elves mined the bodies of Titans for lyrium, for power and to use as a resource. here’s an example of that use

as I read through this portion I became increasingly concerned for my boy Shirallas.. we really are in it now aren’t we 😭

the Qunari are launching STRAIGHT-UP ROCKETS ohhhh

pretty ‘lightshow’ over the wall in the “Let’s hope the fortress is as secure as Danarius boasted” panel hh

protective older brother Fenris, impish younger sister Vaea. love that dynamic, we love to see it. sheepish and exasperated Fenris is so cute

the Bone Pit dragon fight with Hawke and co reference!

I wonder how long the dragon has been captive here, and how Danarius/Tractus was able to capture it

lore-wise what are the implications here? when Fenris’ ritual was being undertaken, the sword and the sarcophagus were bombarded with magic, fire spells. in this one they aim to have the dragon bombard it with fire-breathing. is it just fire that makes it work/powers it, or is there magic in dragonfire, in dragons? it reminds me of “Your heart beats with the old blood, as well. Where do you think it comes from? It sings of a time when dragons ruled the skies. A time before the Veil, before the mysteries were forgotten. Can you hear it?”

purple color for the dragon’s growling sounds/typeset is a great idea

lets.. goooo!!!!

Marquette is such a nerd. later on when he activates the sarcophagus he has mad scientist vibes

the dramatic reunion face-offs begin!! as the prophecy foretold!!!!1

true to form, Marius DOES have nothing to say ahahaha, even at this, his personal climax. maybe Marius dies in the next issue, but Tessa lives and gets to go back to Charter

these Venatori look almost Star Wars

Shirallas my boyy.. nooo... don’t do it 😭

ah ah ah! try casting magic with no ARMS

Francesca a beacon of blue light and goodness

the splash combat page is masterful. everyone playing a part, so much going on, everything happening at once. a thing that sticks out to me about it is Aaron’s outstretched hand and alarm as he watches Fran fall 

Autumn with her lil hackles raised

“The Venatori have returned” dun dun dunn

goodbye Shirallas 😭😭😭

the composition of the second to last page with triangle/diamond-shaped panels and the framing of dragon wings is awesome

the Dread Wolf rises, “the Tevinter Imperium will rise again”.. on-point on-point cohesion

there he is, the red wraith

Super Saiyan Shirallas

what a note to end an issue on

wow wow wow!!

and separate to the above, some speculation based on the cover of Issue 3: the piece of metal looks like a broken collar coming off Shirallas, like the one there was on the cover of Issue 2 coming off the dragon. also he’s all bulky now with draconic talons/claws (reminds me of in-world legends of Reavers who dug too deep of their own power after drinking dragon blood and whose bodies consequently began to manifest subtle reptilian traits actually). I’ll be interested to see what results of this allusion between Shirallas and the dragon!!

[valkyrieofsmut]

What would happen if mc was caught masterbating , bonus points if they got caught saying the Skeletons name .

I will have you know, that the night before I got this ask, I had come up with an idea for the story involving getting caught, in the morning I added it to my list of scene ideas to use- and then I checked my box, saw this, and burst out laughing!

.

Alright, to set it up, MC is in her room, doing her thing, our skeleton comes to see her, can't find her on the bottom floor, goes upstairs, hears soft little sounds and gets curious. As he gets in closer, he can kinda guess what's happening, but he's not going to assume MC is doing that... As he gets to the door, though, the smell of her is seeping out, and he can't mistake those noises for anything but the soft, needy little sighs and moans of impending orgasm. And then he hears his name leave her lips in a soft, pleasured gasp.

.

Classic- His inner pervy gremlin comes out; he presses against the door, listening through the whole session, his stiff cock is pressed against the door, his phalanges lightly stroking along it, until the end, when he immediately shortcuts to his room and jerks off like he's been waiting all day to do it. The "caught" part comes later, when he makes a comment about how pretty his name sounds coming from her mouth in intimate moments, and then reveals that he heard everything.

Creampuff- Oh- um... How Embarrassing... He leaves and doesn't really ever mention it. The sounds were nice- but he's not interested in doing that stuff... And luckily, there are others to take care of those needs!

Red- His hand was already down his shorts by the time he heard his name. He's breathing heavily, skull pressed to the door listening to those sweet sounds- and then he heard his name. He froze. N-... No way that was his name... But then he hears it again. "sweetheart," he knocked on the door, "don't stop, just wanna let ya know i'm comin' in- and then i'm comin' in, heh heh..." He doesn't bother with the door beyond that, though, shortcutting in and groaning as he looks over the scene on the bed. "fuckin' gorgeous..." And then he's throwing off clothes as he moves to the bed.

Edge- He can't believe he's actually hearing this! It's so- delectable... And then he hears his name. Oh. Oh... He opens the door and waltzes in, giving his naughty bad boy look. "WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO HELP YOU? YOU ARE ALREADY MOANING MY NAME, AFTER ALL."

Blue- He's frozen for a moment, but he knows what those noises are! And there doesn't seem to be anyone else in there... He opens the door and comes in, just a bit, to see, tongue swiping over his teeth as he watches each movement, takes in every sound. The moan of his name comes, and he grins, stepping to where he can be seen, asking, "YES, (Y/N)?" His mischievous and promising expression getting more pronounced as he steps closer, his eyelights focused on the view for a moment before he looks up the meet the surprised and nervous eyes directed at him. "Need Some Help, Dove? I'd Be Glad To- Lend A Hand..." And his hand is already reaching out.

Stretch- His hand is on the doorknob... He heard his name... Surely it wouldn't be... horrible... they wouldn’t... hate it... if he went in- he wants to- but he really doesn't want to be yelled at... He's torn both directions... and lands on, "hey, honey... i'm feelin' kinda hungry, and i can hear ya got somethin' in there for me to eat... mind if i come in?"

Black- Oh, his poor under serviced pet... Did she think she couldn't come to him for help? That the closest thing possible would be thinking about him while alone? He opens and shuts the door after stepping in, pausing to take in the view before starting forward. "IT SEEMS I NEED TO PUNISH YOU, PET... TAKING THIS FROM ME... IT'S OBVIOUSLY MINE, SINCE YOU'RE MOANING MY NAME." He approaches like he's stalking prey. "NOW OPEN UP PET, AND GIVE ME MY DUES- IF YOU TAKE YOUR PUNISHMENT PARTICULARLY WELL, I MAY REWARD YOU AS WELL." His plan is dastardly- and full of orgasms... His pet won't be under serviced after this.

Mutt- He's hard just from the noises and smell, then he hears his name... He's growling lustily and inside the room in pretty much the same moment, stalking toward the bed. "darlin' ya seem ta be playin' with my toy..." He has thrown off his top coverings so the only thing on above his waist is his collar, standing there in his heavy boots, pants undone, his belt hanging open. "ya gonna start beggin' for mercy, or ya gonna accept your punishment?"

Axe- Oh fuck- that smell- he remembers what that smell is, and what those noises are- and then his name?! He’s- it- he needs to- The door’s open, he’s at the foot of the bed, growling and slowly moving toward it. “ya called?” He crawls up the bed, over her and between her thighs, and starts in on the most ancient of rituals-  the mating ritual.

Crooks/ Bun- He- he appreciates that MC likes him- he likes her! But... um... this isn’t... look, if he was the only one around, and she had these needs, he supposed, since he loves her, he could... but there are others around that are more than happy to take over those relationship responsibilities. And he’s happy to let them. It... is kinda flattering that she’s thinking about him, though, he supposes...

Dusty- He freezes, listening to the sounds, taking in the smell- it’s- he hasn’t been around it for a long time, but- Then he hears his name, and his body has taken over the reactions. Oh, yeah, the signals that it’s time for this- he hisses at Papyrus to go away, opening the door and going in like he was invited, after all- “ya called for me?”

Ask Masterlist?

[tealquacks]

They Share a Kitchen: Chapter 2, Cross-i-ants

Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317644/chapters/59916505#workskin

@alexalexisalexej

Remus watched Logan rush up the stairs, then looked at the recipe he’d summoned. Really, it was simple, but certainly time consuming! And what the fuck was laminated dough? Remus tilted his head, squinting. Oh, that took a lot of butter. Remus sat at the kitchen table, smiling at the recipe. He read it over and over again.

“Logan, you sly motherfucker,” he said to himself. A thirteen hour recipe, and that would fuck with everyone’s little rituals. That sort of chaos is something he could get behind. For a moment he considered barging into Logan’s room to grab the schedule, just so he could see who’d show up when.  

But for now, there was plenty of lamb and risotto to eat, warm and smelling delicious. Jan always came for breakfast about an hour after he was done, and he never cared about eating dinner for breakfast.

He heard the rustling of light footsteps. There he was now! Earlier than usual, but who cared? Remus smiled, grabbed two plates from the cupboards, and put a heaping of risotto and half of the lamb rack on each plate. Janus walked into the kitchen, yawned, and immediately walked over to the coffee maker. 

“Not even a good morning?” Remus asked, setting the plates down at the table. Janus rolled his eyes. It was fun to see Janus so disheveled, hat and cloak gone, replaced with an oversized shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He still wore the gloves, though. Come to think of it, Remus could remember every single time Janus had shown him his hands— there were five. One for each finger on each hand.

“Why don’t you take your gloves off?” Remus asked. Janus flicked him on the cheek before sitting down with a large cup of coffee. 

“Jesus, Remus, let me at least wake up.”

“But you are awake..?”

Janus snorted.

“Let me have a cup of coffee, Reem. The food looks delicious, though. This is lamb, correct?”

Remus nodded, summoning silverware for Janus and him, even though he knew Janus would only use the spoon.

“Tear a bit of the meat off and eat it before having the rest, I marinated it! I think it’ll be extra tasty. And it’s garlic! I know how much you love garlic.”

Janus rolled his eyes, but he did cut off a sliver of meat, delicately picking it up with his fork and setting it on his tongue. Remus clutched the edge of the table as he watched Janus chew, then swallow.

“It’s delicious,” Janus said with a smile, “the meat is cooked perfectly and the seasoning is exquisite.”

Remus slammed his hands on the table, then energetically flapped them about, smiling brighter than a million stars. He giggled and stomped his feet a little, taking a minute to calm down.

“You can have the rest now,” he said, still grinning. Janus nodded. As dignified as he could, he picked up the half rack of lamb in his gloved fingers. Remus watched silently as Janus’ jaw opened, then opened some more, unhinging wide enough for the half rack to slip into his mouth. Then, Janus swallowed, polished bones and all. Remus clapped, and Janus daintily patted his lips with a napkin.

“Pardon me,” Janus said. 

“You are certainly pardoned!” Remus chirped. He picked up his knife and fork, and cut into the lamb. The herbs smelled fantastic, and the knife slid through the meat so easily.

“Did you know that the Cleveland Torso Murderer dismembered his victims so badly only three of his thirteen victims were identified?” Remus rambled, mouth full, “Often the head would be missing! Or their dicks! His first victim was found chopped apart by a lake! With no head!”

Janus made a face, a spoonful of risotto right in front of his mouth. 

“The meat made you think of that, right?” 

“Cutting it,” Remus answered, “it was a doozy to make, and I’m sure as hell going to enjoy it. Oh! You won’t believe who I ran into last night!”

Janus looked at him nervously.

“Orange..?” He asked. Remus shook his head. Orange never visited the kitchen. He liked to stay out of sight. Occasionally he would pop in, but only if Remus made something with bok choy. Weird guy.

“Nope. Logan!” Remus crowed, “we had a lovely conversation and he recommended a recipe to me.”

Janus raised an eyebrow, reaching over the table with a gloved hand. Remus conjured the recipe and passed it to Janus. Janus squinted at the paper, then guffawed.

“Thirteen hours! You certainly can’t be serious. He certainly can’t be serious.”

“Oh, he is!” Remus exclaimed, “the reason he gave me the recipe and the reason he came to the kitchen in the first place was because turns out we all have little schedules. Like how we always go early so we don’t bump into Vergilius and Patton and Logan and my brother—“

“Let me stop you there.” Janus leaned back in his chair. He elegantly took a bite of risotto, then continued speaking. “We don’t eat early to avoid the others. We eat early because I like to wake up early. The self-proclaimed ‘light sides’ eat later than us because they loathe our company. Specifically: Virgil and Roman. And Patton simply doesn’t like to talk to you.”

Remus chortled. 

“Yeah, I know all that. So, tomorrow— this evening..? I don’t know, but I’m gonna make the cross-i-ants.”

Janus raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“Cross-i-ants.”

“You know how to pronounce it,” Janus drawled. Remus smirked, slurping some lamb right off the bone. Then, he cracked it between his teeth and sucked out the marrow inside. Janus seemed unimpressed.

“Yeah, I do, but you know how I love being annoying!”

“Oh, I know you better than anyone, of course I know just what you love.”

Remus snapped his fingers. The lights dimmed, and a candle appeared on the table, bathing them in dim, romantic light.

“You do now?” He purred.

Janus pulled off his glove. He licked his thumb and pointer finger, and pinched the wick of the candle. It extinguished with a hiss.

“You love pissing everyone off.”

Remus leaned back into his seat.

“Yup. I’m gonna make the cross-i-aints, they’ll be ready at like, four o’clock pm tomorrow. I don’t remember, Logan did the math.”

Janus squinted at him as he delicately pulled his glove back on.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea..?” Janus said, “we don’t want to cause any conflict that could lead to Thomas’ mental health deteriorating more than it already has.”

Remus waved his hand nonchalantly, the lights flickering back to life.

“Fucking bullshit, it’ll be fine. I’m done with my plate, by the way, If you want the rest of my risotto.”

With that, he stood from the table and flopped onto his back, promptly sinking out and back to his half of the imagination.

—

Three am. Remus danced into the kitchen, wearing nothing but an incandescent yet slightly deranged smile on his face. His hair was all messy from tossing and turning in his sleep, dreaming of croissants and the messiness his presence in the kitchen would cause. With an energetic clap, he summoned the recipe. The dough would be easy enough to make— flour, butter, some yeast, milk, et cetera. He opened the fridge, and took out the milk. But even after getting the ingredients he needed, he left the fridge open. That’s how Logan saw him last night, by the light of the fridge.

So he kept the fridge open as he mixed the ingredients for the dough, bathed in the cold light. By the time he had to add the milk into the dough (slowly, the recipe said,) the kitchen had grown a little chilly. For a moment and only a moment Remus regretted not wearing any clothing. To warm himself up, he spun around, dancing a little before getting back to mixing all the milk into the dough. That was finished quickly. Then, he took the dough out of the bowl, and dunked his hands into the flour before kneading.

“What the fuck are you doing,” a voice snapped. Remus looked up, spotting Janus standing before him, hair messy and eyes squinting. He still wore the gloves. Did he wear them to bed?

“I’m making cross-i-ants, can’t you tell? And do you wear your gloves to bed or something?”

Janus crossed his hands behind his back.

“...No, I don’t. To be honest, I thought you were joking when you said you were planning on making croissants,” Janus said. Remus rolled his eyes, and kept on kneading.

“Look,” Remus responded, “I’m as curious as Logan is about this schedule thing, and I want to see what happens when it’s fucked with! It’ll be fun. And we get nice pastries!”

Janus raked his eyes up and down Remus’ body. He watched them move, somewhat uncaring.

“Is being nude part of this experiment?”

“No, I just felt like feeling free. Join me, be free.”

“Remus—“

Remus winked, then tilted his head curiously.

“Fuckin, snakes have two dicks. I’ve never seen your dick. Dicks?”

“You don’t need to see my genitalia.”

“Oh come on, Jannie,” Remus whined, “please? For me?”

Remus finished kneading the dough and strode over to Janus, waggling his eyebrows and shoulders suggestively. Janus scoffed, but the scoff sounded a little more like a laugh than a real angry scoff. 

“Only if you promise me two things—“

“One for each dick?”

“You’re pushing it,” Janus deadpanned. Then he walked over to the counter and leaned against it. 

“One,” Janus continued, “you cook me rabbit. You know how much I love rabbit. Secondly, put on some goddamn clothing. Please. You’ll catch a cold.”

“I’m not a human person, Jannie, I’ll be fine.”

“Do you want to see my genitalia or not.”

Remus snorted, then said “Just say dick, motherfucker. And yes I want to see your cock and balls and also your other dick.”

“Why are we friends.”

“Because you have nobody else! And I don’t either!”

“What about Logan?”

“Now that’s off topic,” Remus said. “But— Back to the topic at hand— I know just what to wear!”

Remus snapped his fingers, and he was suddenly donning a pastel pink apron that said “kiss the cook” in glittery black cursive. Remus conjured a green marker with a snap of his fingers, and started scribbling. When he pulled away from the apron, the word ‘kiss’ had been scratched out, and ‘FUCK’ had been written in its place. Janus sighed, since technically, Remus was wearing clothes. 

Janus yanked down his boxers, showing Remus what he wanted to see.

“Fuck me running, you do have two dicks! That’s impressive. How do you wear pants?”

“Like anyone else,” Janus drawled, looking away. Remus, however, intensely stared.

“Wait a damn minute,” he said after a minute, “is your dick— your dicks— bigger than mine?”

Remus pulled up his apron, and held his dick in his hand. He couldn’t really tell since Janus stood a few paces away from him, and because there were two. The human part of Janus’ face was bright red.

“We have the same body, I doubt—“

“What the fuck is going on?!?” Someone shouted. Remus whirled around, dick still out, and stared into the sleepy, raccoon-like eyes of Virgil.

“Whip out your dick, bitch, I’m making croissants!”

Virgil opened his mouth, then shut it. He turned on his heel, and walked away without another word, followed by Remus’ hysterical laughter.

—

Janus stayed a few hours, chatting idly with Remus as he mixed butter and put a bunch of things in the fridge to wait for a really long time. The recipe said four hours, but Remus decided to wait five, just to make sure the dough would be super good. 

After he took the dough out of the fridge, Patton, Virgil, and Logan strolled into the kitchen. Upon seeing the two of them, Patton gasped, Virgil groaned, and Logan nonchalantly walked over to the coffee maker. 

“Remus!” Patton squeaked. 

“Guilty as charged,” Remus said. He put the dough back into the fridge. He didn’t want to fuck up the recipe because of them.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Virgil growled, “besides… oh god, that wasn’t a nightmare, was it?”

“More like a sweet, sweet dream. But to answer your question! I’m making cross-i-ants!”

Virgil opened his mouth to say something that would probably be really rude, but Patton interrupted him.

“Sorry, what?”

“He’s making croissants,” Janus said, glaring at Logan, “from scratch.”

Logan sipped his coffee. Patton didn’t seem to notice Janus’ glare, instead looking quizzically at Remus.

“I didn’t know you knew how to cook,” he said, swallowing nervously. Remus chuckled.

“Oh, I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”

Virgil glared silently at him, but with enough heat to fry an egg real quick. Egg. Oh—

“Do you want a demonstration? I can make some breakfast for you all! Jannie and I haven’t eaten yet, so I can make some nice food just to prove my point! Crêpes, strawberries, maybe a bit of jam… Virgil, you can be my sous chef! What would go well with the crepes?”

“Something with protein,” Virgil answered, “like bacon. And some fruit. But I’m not helping you make it.” 

“Come on! Vergilius, Virgin, Virgie— it would be just like old times!”

Virgil hissed at him, then stormed off into the living room. Remus heard him flop down onto the couch, then turn the tv on. Logan looked at Remus, clearly curious. 

“Old times?” Logan questioned. Remus waved his hand.

“Well who do you think taught Virgil how to cook? Janus? He can’t cook to save his goddamn life!”

“I’m right here, you know,” Janus said.

“Am I wrong? You burn or overcook everything.”

Instead of answering, Janus grumbled and poured himself a cup of coffee. Remus opened the fridge, pulling out eggs and bacon. Crepes would be too hard to make while having conversation, and croissants were french enough. With a flick of the wrist he summoned a frying pan, and put it on the stove. Patton hadn't moved since the start of their conversation.

“Do you want to help?” Remus asked. Patton looked nervous to say the least, but awkwardly stepped into the kitchen. Remus shrugged, and cracked a few eggs into a bowl, quickly scrambling them. He put a bit of butter into the saucepan.

“You can start on the bacon,” Remus said. He passed the bacon and a frying pan to Patton. They stood awkwardly close to one another.

“How are the croissants treating you, Remus?” Logan asked. Remus smiled, watching the butter melt, then sizzle. He tilted the pan around, then poured in the egg. 

“Oh it’s going swimmingly! Like a fish, or a shark! Do you know lobsters have teeth in their stomachs? Imagine if humans had teeth in their stomachs and you chewed things after swallowing them! And your stomach growling was just the teeth at work?”

Patton cringed, slowly laying the strips of bacon into the pan. Remus smiled as Patton looked at Logan with his big brown eyes screaming ‘help me, oh god.’ The pan had started to heat up, and the bacon crackled while the eggs cooked. Remus mixed them slowly.

“How did the process of laminating the dough work?” Logan asked. 

“I just have to wrap butter with the dough. Pretty fuckin’ simple. I haven’t done it yet, but it’ll be easy. Even Jannie could do it!”

“What are you guys talking about?” Patton asked.

“I requested that Remus make croissants after, oh, bumping into him last night. The night before last?”

“Twenty four hours ago,” Janus answered, “and since you didn’t stick around— the lamb was delicious.”

Patton looked at the pan, then at Remus.

“Remus, kiddo, I uh, don’t mean to be rude—“

“You couldn’t offend me if you tried, puffball.”

“Uh. Right. What I wanted to ask is, um. How do you know how to cook?”

Remus cackled, smiling bright as he mixed the eggs. They were starting to cook a little bit, but he kept stirring slowly.

“How do Logan and Jannie know all about philosophy? How can they teach Thomas things while also existing as a part of them?”

Patton opened his mouth, then closed it. He shifted a little away from Remus.

“Well… I don’t know? Maybe it could be like, uh. Logan said you were a bunch of thoughts he was guilty about, like the bad imagination, so maybe since he used to feel guilty about not cooking, you got all those cooking skills! That could be how! Or— or from the Hello Fresh ad that Thomas did in your video!”

Logan walked over to the coffee machine, pouring himself another cup. 

“Do you want any cream or sugar, Logan?” Remus asked. Logan shook his head with a tight lipped smile.

“Remus’ existence is as a part of Thomas’ imagination,” Logan said, “I don’t see how cooking would be a part of that. And, him asking Virgil to cook with him like ‘old times’ implies that Remus knew how to cook before the video was published. In my very humble opinion, if anyone would know how to cook well, I think it would be Virgil and Janus, since they act as Thomas’ self preservation. So Remus knowing how to cook is a surprise.”

“Janus cannot fucking cook, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a million times!” Remus said, “once he put wine in a bowl and said it was soup. And once he made a Bloody Mary and said that was a soup, too!”

Logan made a face as he sipped his coffee. Janus shrugged, leaning back in his chair.

“What’s the difference? I mean, a Bloody Mary has tomatoes.”

Remus giggled, and that was the final nail in the conversation’s coffin. They cooked in silence until the food was done. Patton made himself and Virgil a plate of food and scurried off into the living room, and Janus returned to his room since he’s already eaten. That left him and Logan in the kitchen together. Logan started to make himself a plate of eggs and bacon.

“I’m surprised that Virgil didn’t rip my throat out with his teeth upon seeing me. And I’m surprised Patton didn’t scurry away like a little bunny rabbit! I promised that I would make Jannie rabbit. Do you know Janus has two cocks?”

Logan blinked slowly. 

“No, that I did not. I’m also surprised that that encounter went as smoothly as it did, especially since, as you said, Virgil and Patton both dislike you.”

“Couldn’t’ve said it better myself, teach. I’m surprised Jan and Virgil didn’t get into a hissy fit. Ya know where they both hiss at one another? It used to happen all the time. Honestly it’s fun to watch as long as you have a bag of chips. Can I offer you something to drink?”

“Water, if you could.”

“Not orange juice? Or even another cup of coffee?”

Logan straightened his tie, looking awkward as ever.

“I’ve had enough coffee to wake me up for the day, any more would be excessive.”

“Why not indulge?”

“It’s not healthy.”

“Who said anything about being healthy? We are literally pigments of Thomas’ figmation—“

“—What?”

“Shut up. But we’re ligaments of Thomas’ dictation! We don’t have to worry about his health and wellness. That’s up to him to manage. We don’t have to care.”

Logan gnawed on his lower lip.

“I must be a good example for Thomas and the others,” he reasoned.

With a snap of the fingers, Remus summoned a glass of ice water with a lemon wedge on the rim and set it in front of Logan. He watched intensely as Logan picked the glass up, the ice quietly clicking against the glass. Logan sipped, eyes slipping shut. Remus rested his chin on his hand, staring at Logan with a dopey smile. The lemon smelled nice. 

He wanted to grab Logan and… something. The already blurry thoughts became already blurrier. Before him, Logan had his eyes shut. He was helpless. Truly. Like a wildebeest at the watering hole, ready to get snapped up in the jaws of a crocodile. Or held really close. Or torn apart. Or something. Remus picked up a piece of bacon with his bare hands, and ate it. He licked the grease off his fingers. 

“So, how do you think me being here will fuck up the chart?” Remus asked after a painfully long silence. He’d almost finished his plate. Logan straightened in his seat.

“Well. I doubt that Patton and Virgil will spend as much time as they do in the kitchen. Same with Roman. But we haven’t seen much of him.”

Remus snorted. God, his brother was such a fucking drama queen. 

“Roman gets his feelings hurt once and he gives you all the silent treatment and sulks about. My whole existence is an insult, he can fucking suck it up!” Remus crowed.

Logan raised his brows and blinked, lip twitching. 

“Sorry, what did you just say?” He heard Virgil growl. Remus looked away from Logan to see Virgil at the sink, washing his plate.

“I said, and I quote; ‘Roman gets his feelings hurt once and he gives you all the silent treatment and sulks about. My whole existence is an insult, he can fucking suck it up!’ And I’m not wrong.”

“Yes you are,” Virgil growled, “Roman has every right to feel the way he does since he doesn’t deserve to take any of yours or Janus’ shit.”

Remus rolled his eyes.

“God, don’t you realize that we’re literally the same person? I’m just the bits of Thomas that you’re scared of. Lower your hackles, pussycat. I’m just trying to make cross-i-aints.”

“It’s pronounced croissants!” Virgil snapped. Patton stood in the doorway of the kitchen. 

“Who’s to say?” Remus drawled.

“I’m to say!”

Remus giggled. 

“Oh come on, Virgil, I thought you hated Roman? Not as much  as I do, of course, nobody hates him as much as me—“

“That’s changed,” Virgil growled, “A lot has changed.”

“You know what hasn’t changed?” Remus asked, standing up. “I’m still Creativity. Imagination. Passion. Just like Roman. He has everything, and still acts like that isn’t enough for him because he’s a selfish motherfucker.” Remus paused. “Selfish. Shellfish. Speaking of shellfish— Did you know clams can’t see or hear? Like Helen Keller! But am I wrong? Am I? About Roman being selfish, I mean. I know I’m not wrong about the Helen Keller thing.”

Virgil glared at him. 

“Yes, you are. Roman was the one to choose to go to the wedding. See, Remus? You’re always wrong. You are evil and perverse, nothing but a fucking nuisance. So shut up before I make you shut up.” Virgil shifted, standing up straight. “I’m not scared of you anymore.”

Remus tilted his head, smiling. 

“What’re you gonna do, you two-eyed no-horn walking purple penis eater? Punch me? I’m a peppermint of Thomas’ amalgamation or whatever it’s called, a punch won’t do anything.”

Patton stepped into the space between Remus and Virgil, hands raised and an awkward smile plastered on his face.

“Look, I think we should take a few deep breaths, calm down… this has gone far enough. Okay?”

Remus looked in his eyes. Yup, he was scared. Remus grabbed one of Patton’s hands and licked it. Patton recoiled with a squeak, wiping his hand on his pants. 

“Why are you even here?” Virgil asked.

“You already asked that, dick-nips.”

“Come on, kiddo,” Patton whined at Virgil, “he just made us breakfast. We can talk about this. Sit down and have a nice conversation. It’ll be okay—“

A hand touched Remus’ shoulder. Remus flinched hard, turning to see Logan, staring at Virgil cooly.

“Need I remind you both that Remus is a part of Thomas? We all are. And we have to share the kitchen. We need to learn to exist together. Deep breaths, Virgil. He’s not here to hurt any of us. He can’t hurt any of us.”

Virgil took a deep, slow breath, staring at the floor.

“Clams, like Helen Keller, are technically immune to flash-bangs,” Remus proclaimed.

The kitchen went silent for a moment. Virgil rolled his eyes and threw open the fridge. He grabbed a jug of orange juice, and drank straight from the jug, much to Patton and Logan’s dismay. Remus smirked, and sat down at the kitchen table. Logan joined them, then Patton, who stared at Virgil. 

“What?” Virgil said. Patton gestured to an empty seat at the table. 

“He made us breakfast, and he… Logan’s right. He is a part of Thomas. Sit down, kiddo. Please? For me?”

Virgil huffed. He looked at the fridge, then at Patton, then at Remus, again.

“Fine.”

Virgil put more eggs and bacon on his plate, then sat at the table. Remus cracked his neck.

“Stress eating, Virge? I haven’t seen you do that since—“

“Since Thomas was ten, before that choir concert.”

“You made him eat until he got sick.” Remus recalled. Virgil sighed, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“Yeah, I remember. Poor kid. He didn’t go to school the next day since I convinced him he was horribly sick...” Virgil shook his head, then looked up at Remus. “Wait. That was before the split. You weren’t you back then, were you?”

Remus snorted, smiling at Virgil. Oh, he remembered being whole. All that power and control over the world around him, like a raging fire. He drummed his fingers on the table.

“It’s like, erm, a Jackalope,” he explained, “With the antlers and the whole bunny thing? Or, uh, you know what scratch that. It’s like putting a dog and a bunny in a wood chipper!”

Patton squeaked in horror, eyes wide.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Virgil asked sharply. His hands tightened on the edge of the table.

“Well,” Remus responded, “the meat of the dog and the bunny get all mixed up, and you could make, like, a sausage of it. But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a mix of two meats. Two meats, one sausage. So yes, I was me back then, just… not separated.”

“That makes sense,” Patton said, “Like how Garnet is made of Sapphire and Ruby.”

“Incorrect,” Logan said, “a garnet is a gem made of—“

“I was talking about Steven Universe, Logan.”

“...oh.”

Virgil slowly let go of the table. 

“That makes sense. That you would remember, I mean.”

The table went silent again. Virgil ate a bit of his bacon.

“Remus,” Patton said. “When did you start cooking?”

Remus watched Virgil pick at his food for a minute. He could taste the awkwardness in the air. A perfect palate cleanser.

“Who, me?” He started. “Well after Roman and I broke apart and I got punted into Thomas’ subconscious, I started smashing shit. Left and right. I destroyed all of the imagination I had authority over, I broke every single plate and cup in the kitchen—“

“So that’s what happened! You broke it! And here I thought it was an earthquake!” Patton exclaimed. Remus glanced at him, and he sunk back into his seat.

“Anyways,” Remus continued, “I tried, once the anger faded, to give Thomas ideas. To have my creations be made, have an impact, out there in the real world. Every single fucking idea scared him. No matter how hard I pushed and pushed and… then the anger I had returned full-force. Jannie was the one to suggest I cook. I learned to make something new after destroying. Since cooking is truly destructive. It’s taking something that’s already okay and beating it into submission, heating until the flesh crackles and the fat melts into grease, it’s smashing berries and breaking bones, pulling skin and fur from meat. It… yeah. And that’s when I started cooking!”

Remus smiled brightly, but his smile was met by the other three… not smiling. Virgil looked down at his plate, focused on his bacon. Patton’s eyes were teary and big, but even then he leaned back in his seat, as if bracing to run. And Logan just stared at him, mouth opening and closing.

“What is it, teach? Octopus got your tongue?”

“It’s nothing,” Logan said, “just parched.”

He sipped his water. The table remained silent, none of them brave enough to break the silence Remus had made. Honestly, Remus couldn’t figure out what the big deal was. So what he’d destroyed everything in his path for a solid three years after being yanked apart from Roman? His anger had been nothing but righteous, and it hadn’t exactly faded. But he’d found his way to cope— by destroying things, and making mosaics out of the pieces left over. God, he sounded fucking pretentious.

Footsteps, slow and steady, came from down the hall. Remus perked up, excited to get Janus in on this conversation. He practically froze in his seat when he saw who really stood there. 

In the doorway of the kitchen stood Roman, in his boxers and a white robe. Remus stared right at him. Roman’s tired eyes went big when he saw him. Remus imagined he was quite the sight, what with the pink apron and all. Roman’s eyes flitted from person to person, growing wider and wider. Virgil and Patton stood. 

“Kiddo, it’s okay,” Patton soothed, “come here, please.”

Roman backed away, then ran out of the kitchen. Patton chased after him, but Virgil lingered at the table for a second.

“Fuck you and your fucking bacon,” he snarled. 

“You have a bit of grease on your face,” Remus said. Virgil flushed and wiped at his cheek before turning and leaving, chasing after Patton and Roman. Logan casually checked his watch.

“That’s strange,” he said, “it’s nine twenty-three. Roman usually comes into the kitchen at ten thirty. He was an hour and seven minutes early.”

Remus shrugged. He didn’t really fucking care.

“He doesn’t usually run away from me,” Remus said. Logan shrugged.

“He probably thought we had replaced him with you. But who am I to say? I don’t understand him on a good day.” Logan said.

Remus blinked. Logan sipped his water.

“You… really seem nonchalant.”

“It’s not my problem unless Thomas decides it is.”

Remus snapped his fingers as Logan sipped from his drink, watching him sputter as the water turned to white wine. 

“What—“

“You’re acting like a stone cold bitch,” Remus said, “and I know full damn well you care. Hell, I’d say you cared too much about everything. You care about Roman. Now go fucking act like it before I pull your tongue out through your teeth.”

Logan sipped the wine slowly.

“I don’t care. I don’t have feelings—“

“You literally cried in front of me last night. That bullshit won’t work on me. Now go.”

Logan opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it. He stood and left the kitchen.

Remus snapped his fingers. The wine in Logan’s glass turned back into water. He sighed and flung the refrigerator open, taking the dough out as well as the butter. He laid the rectangle of butter in the middle of the dough, then folded, folded again, following the steps of the recipe. Hopefully, the dough hadn’t been chilled too long. He folded it once, twice, then put it in the fridge again.

Thirty minutes to rest, then he had to fold again. He hoped he didn’t fuck it up.

—

Thirty minutes passed. Laminating the dough was a quick process. The next thing he knew, he was tucking it back into the fridge. Now it was ten o’ clock. An hour until Janus would come get a cup of tea and lunch. Janus always liked to make lunch himself, or at least try. Most of the time Remus made it for him and Janus paid him in a cup of tea. But an hour was such a long time to be alone! Remus did a handstand. His apron fell in his face. 

None of the others had come back to the kitchen after they ran after Roman. And he hadn’t talked to someone since they left. So to put it simply, Remus was horribly, horribly bored. For a moment he considered searing some rabbit to draw Janus out of his room. But Janus probably wouldn’t be able to tell it was rabbit by smell alone. Remus stood back up, staring at the stove. He’d been so bored that he’d cleaned, and all the leftover bacon and bacon grease were in the fridge. He’d eaten all the eggs.

Remus sighed. He’d paced the kitchen back and forth, too nervous about the dough to sink out and too bored to think of something to do other than pace. If only he had someone to talk to…

Suddenly, an idea hit him like a brick to the face. Remus flapped his hands about, then rushed to the fridge. He yanked it open and rifled through the fridge, pulling out some bok choy. He pulled out some leftover chicken stock and ginger. He grated the ginger into the stock, then started chopping up the bok choy. He didn’t really know if it would work— the dish or what he had planned — but he could hope. He set the bok choy in a frying pan with a dash of sesame oil, chopping up a bit of chicken and garlic to go with it.

The meat had started to cook when he heard someone deeply inhale behind him. Remus turned around, already knowing who would be there.

“Orange,” he crooned at the shadowy figure crouched on the table, “it’s always a pleasure to see you!”

Orange tilted his head. It was hard to look at him, since he liked to keep his appearance a mystery. At least Remus could assume they would probably look alike, since they were all regiments of Thomas’ fixation or whatever. Remus tilted his head the other way.

“You were the one that called me here,” Orange said.

“Called you here?”

“You know I love bok choy.”

Remus smiled at him, turning back to his pan.

“I’m making what I hope is going to be a nice, like, chicken soup? With some bok choy. I might add dumplings. I don’t know.”

Orange inhaled slowly. He exhaled right by Remus’ ear. Remus giggled at the sudden sensation.

“It needs more time to cook,” Remus chided. Orange hummed.

“Why do you still keep doing this? Cooking. Every day. You do not need to eat, nor do you need to drink.”

Remus cackled.

“You needn’t eat or drink either dumb fuck!” 

“Bok choy is an indulgence,” Orange replied. He appeared floating above the stove, his shifting face right in front of Remus’. 

“So is cooking. I just so happen to indulge a lot.”

“Why eat three meals like a real person? You don’t need it.”

Remus rolled his eyes.

“Plants don’t need to flower.”

Orange stared at him quizzically.

“Yes they do.”

“Fruit doesn’t need to be sweet.”

“It just so happens to taste sweet.”

“It’s a little prank of fate, my Tangerine Dream,” Remus said, thwacking Orange with his spatula, “fruit is sweet, plants have flowers, and I like to cook. It might not make sense, or it may. Humans enjoy the sweetness of fruit and the smell of flowers, and I do this solely because it’s what I love, which is a valid reason to do it.”

Orange suddenly was behind him, breathing down his neck.

“You do it to run from the emotions you hold. I can sense it inside of you. The hatred. The anger. The grief. Overpowering and strong.”

“Like ginger. Shit, I think I added too much.”

Remus dipped his hand into the boiling broth, and took a little sip. Oh, that tasted heavenly! He licked each finger clean of the golden soup, except for the middle finger. That he offered to Orange, turning around and sticking it up at him.

“Is it too strong?”

Orange picked a bit of bok choy out of the pan, and put it in his mouth. 

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Of course you don’t.”

Remus turned back to cooking. Orange definitely wasn’t the best conversational partner he could think of, that would probably be Janus or Logan, but he hated being alone and Orange’s presence was good enough. They were the only dark sides left, they might as well get along.

“So why cook?” Orange asked, “Not just for yourself, but for the others, too?”

“You remember what the Grimacing Grimace said?” Remus coughed, then spoke in his best Virgil impression. “‘Not every thought has to have some profound meaning’ or whatever he said. So I just did it.”

“...Grimacing Grimace?” Orange asked.

“Yeah, like the weird McDonald’s mascot thing.”

“No, I mean. Who were you referring to. I wasn’t there for that conversation.”

“I was quoting Virgil.”

“Virgil the philosopher, or Purple?”

“Purple.”

Orange nodded.

“But what is your motivation?” Orange asked.

Remus looked at him.

“Uh, bitch, I don’t have motivation on a good day. Nor does my brother. Maybe depression runs in the family—“

“I’m not talking about that!” Orange spat, “I’m asking you why you so suddenly decided to go play house with the others the moment Yellow got a seat at the table. What, are you scared that he’ll leave you too? Like Purple? Like Red?”

Remus added the bok choy and the chicken into the soup. He mixed it vigorously, eyes locked on the golden broth. It needed salt. That he’d add last. What it could really use was a grain or starch or something, something grounded. Wontons? No, he missed his opportunity to add that to the dish. Rice. Rice would go well with this. 

“I don’t know,” Remus said calmly, “am I scared?”

“Scared of what?”

Remus practically jumped out of his skin at the sound of Janus’ voice. Looking over, he could see Janus in the kitchen doorway, staring at him curiously.

“Scared of nothing!” Remus exclaimed. “Salutations my sweet-and-sour serpentine slanderer, what brings you to the kitchen?”

“Tea, of course, what else?” Janus asked. Smirking, he ruffled Remus’ hair as he walked past him. Remus turned his focus back on the soup as Janus grabbed his favorite mug from the cupboard, and filled it with water. Remus snapped his fingers, and the water spontaneously boiled, letting off a plume of steam before settling down.

“Lunch and conversation with your favorite person, that’s what else. Is that the right way to phrase that?”

“Oh Remus, when did I say you were my favorite person?”

“I just know I am,” Remus said with a smirk.

“I absolutely loathe you, and you make my life a living hell.”

Remus smiled.

“Oh, Jannie, I’m positively blushing!

Janus rolled his eyes, but his smile was bright. Remus stirred the soup a little more, then took some instant rice out of the cupboard. He poured some into a pot, added water, and summoned a plume of green flame. The water instantly boiled, and the rice cooked in a flash. It certainly gave Remus a face full of steam.

“What’s for lunch, Gordon Remus?”

“Asian-inspired chicken soup with rice.”

“Asian-inspired? How much of Asia? Asia is a very large place, Remus.”

“I don’t know what else to call it!” Remus exclaimed. He poured each of them a bowl of soup. “I fuckin, cooked the chicken and put it in the broth. There’s sesame oil and like, other shit.”

He set the soup on the table, one bowl for himself and one for Janus. Remus grabbed two plates from the cupboard, and gave them each a bit of the rice. Then, he sat, and dug in, eating with his hands. Janus, meanwhile, summoned a pair of chopsticks.

“So,” Janus said, elegantly sipping his soup.

“So?” Remus said, mouth stuffed with rice.

“How are the cross-i-ants?” Janus asked. Remus swallowed the rice, then squinted at Janus.

“They’re called croissants you stupid little bitch.”

Janus delicately plucked a piece of chicken from his soup, then threw it at Remus, who leaned back and effortlessly caught it in his mouth. The chair tipped backwards, and Remus slammed into the floor with a thud. 

“Are you okay?” Janus asked. 

Remus gave him a thumbs up from the floor, then righted the chair and sat.

“I’m very okay! And so are the Croissants! They’re chilling right now. I need to reread the recipe. But I think they’re gonna come out super well!”

“I’m happy you’re enjoying this so much,” Janus said. He sipped his soup, and then his tea.

Remus chugged a bit of his soup, choking on a piece of bok choy.

“Yeah, it’s nice. Messing with the light sides, making lots of food— it’s a good time. Can’t say I’ll do it every day, but it’s a nice change of pace!”

Janus nodded. He picked at his rice. Over the years, Remus had learned a good deal about snake-human hybrids, or whatever Janus was. Janus would have a big meal every day, usually breakfast, then nibble at everything else Remus made him. 

“Speaking of a change of pace,” Remus said, “why don’t you ever eat your food raw? Like a real snake?”

“It’s undignified. I doubt you’d care.”

“Nope! Not at all. Did you see Roman? I’m pretty sure he left the kitchen crying after breakfast!”

Remus giggled. Surprisingly, Janus didn’t seem very amused. Instead, he furrowed his brows.

“What?”

“Yeah,” Remus said, “he came into the kitchen at like 9:30 and saw me then fucked right off! As he should! Logan said it wasn’t in his schedule for him to be there that early— oh and I told Logan about my little idea and he said that if you took Patton’s place it would probably emotionally scar Thomas or whatever but I still think you’d do a much better job than that washed up slap-happy pappy.”

Janus blinked.

“Okay. One thing at a time. Uh. I’m not taking Patton’s place. While he is misguided, he’s trying his best. Everyone has their flaws.”

“He’s an earthworm,” Remus reasoned, “Squishy and crushable but also necessary.”

“Exactly!” Janus exclaimed. He rewarded Remus with a soft smile before continuing. “But all that aside, I think that Roman’s absence and his shock upon seeing you is my fault.”

“Because of the whole evil twin thing? Yeah, I know—“

“He probably thought you were taking his place.”

Remus barked out a laugh. 

“What?”

Janus nodded.

“His place. In their ‘famILY’ or whatever they call it.”

Remus picked up a fistful of rice, shoving it in his face before chugging down his broth.

“I don’t want a place in their fucking whatever. He can take their love and he can have it. They’re scared of me, they hate me. Even Virgil does.”

“Logan doesn’t.”

Remus grinned.

“No, he doesn’t. But I don’t want Roman’s place. Even if I could take it, I wouldn’t. How about you? If you could permanently take Patton’s place, get all the love and attention that he gets, or at least, like, get that in general, would you? What would you do for that love? People have done much worse for much less— I mean Judas sold out Jesus for thirty pieces of silver, so what would you do for everything you’ve ever wanted?”

Remus had leaned across the table. His bowl of rice had spilled on the table. Janus stared blankly at him.

“All I want is for Thomas to have a good life.”

“We all want that. What would you do for that?”

“Unspeakable things,” Janus said, smiling softly. Remus beamed back at him, sitting down in his chair. It was a little weird since he wore only the apron.

Footsteps from down the hall, and Patton stepped into the kitchen. He froze at the sight of Remus, but managed to give a little wave to Janus.

“Do you want me to get you some tea, Patton?” Janus asked, standing from his seat. Patton mutely nodded.

“I have you pegged as a Jasmine man,” Remus said, doing his best Uncle Iroh impression. Then he giggled. “Haha, pegged.” 

If Patton looked uncomfortable before, he looked very uncomfortable now. He smiled softly, and Remus returned it with a sharp toothed grin. Janus, meanwhile, filled another cup with water and held it out to Remus. Remus snapped his fingers, and a burst of fire erupted from the teacup, followed by steam.

“There, nice and hot!” Remus exclaimed. Janus put a teabag in the cup, then picked up his own tea, walking over to Patton.

“Patton and I will be talking in the common room, Remus,” Janus said. Remus nodded.

“Actually, I’d uh, like to talk to Remus for a little bit,” Patton sheepishly said, “alone, if that’s ok.”

Janus raised an eyebrow. Remus shrugged. 

“Go ahead padre,” Remus practically purred, “lay it on me.”

Janus snorted, then left the kitchen, leaving Patton and Remus alone together. Patton nervously tugged at the sleeve of the hoodie wrapped around his shoulders.

“Uh, I want to talk about breakfast—“

“I knew I should’ve cooked the bacon for less time!” Remus shouted, “Virgil loves his bacon burnt to a fucking crisp, so I have to unlearn that after cooking for him for god knows how long.”

“It’s not about the food, the food was wonderful! It’s, um. About you and me?”

Remus blinked.

“Come again? You and me?”

“I mean— an apology. I’m sorry for how breakfast went, with Virgil picking a fight. I guess I’m still a little scared of you, but I shouldn’t be, since you’re a part of Thomas too. And Virgil was totally out of line. I’m sorry.”

Remus chuckled. He snapped his fingers, and all the plates on the table floated into the sink. Then, he stood, smiling at Patton.

“I don’t need to be apologized to. And Virgil has every right to be angry at me. I honestly wish he had thrown the first punch, that would’ve given me an excuse to beat him over the head with a frying pan until his skull was concave.”

Patton stared in horror at Remus.

“Kiddo,” he said softly.

“What I’m trying to say,” Remus continued, “is that I’m a stone cold slut. I don’t want to be a part of your family. I’m not your kiddo. I don’t need to be apologized to. We’re like coworkers, and nothing more. Go back to being scared of me. It’s much, much more fun!”

“No,” Patton said, “I’m not going back to being scared of you. I’m just trying to be nice! And— and you’re being a big bully. Why can’t we get along?”

“Because you despise me.”

Patton took a step forward, slowly reaching his hand out. Remus raised an eyebrow.

“What the fuck—“

“A handshake,” Patton timidly explained, “since you say we’re coworkers.”

Remus smiled, and firmly grasped Patton’s hand.

“For a silly little puffball, you surely have a pair of cojones. Well, you wouldn’t be a father if you didn’t.”

“Huh?”

A laugh burst out of Remus’ mouth, and he squeezed Patton’s hand, shaking it rapidly. Patton squeezed back, then leaned closer to him, grabbing his shoulder tightly.

“Listen,” Patton whispered intensely, “I’m trying to be nice, I really, really am, but remember this: If you ever threaten one of my— if you ever threaten my kiddos again, or hurt them, I’ll— I’ll end your miserable existence.”

Remus wheezed in surprised hilarity, yanking away from Patton’s hand on his shoulder. God, a death threat? He’d never gotten one from Patton before!

“Janus is a horrible influence on you!”

Patton flushed, letting go of Remus’ hand.

“He said I should be more uh, decisive? Decisive and direct. I think that’s what he said. And I don’t want the people I love to be hurt.”

“They’re not people..? Logan said it himself, object impermanence kinda stops me from doing anything permanent. But it is fun to scare you until the papa bear pops out. Black bears can run up to like, twenty five miles per hour. Isn’t that neat! There is no escape from a black bear.”

“I hate this conversation,” Patton quietly squeaked. Remus rolled his eyes.

“Ditto. Let’s make like coworkers, and only talk when it’s necessary, and not waste energy by actively hating one another.”

Patton nodded. He stepped backwards into the hall, and gave Remus an awkward wave before running off into the common room with Janus. Remus sat down at the table, shaking his head.

An apology. Patton had offered him an apology. The last thing he wanted from Patton was an apology. Honestly, he could only think of three people he wanted an apology from. Virgil, Roman, and Thomas. Virgil and Roman abandoned him. And Thomas locked him away.

Remus sighed. The dough was done. All folded nicely. Now came the four hours of waiting.

—

Unsurprisingly, neither Virgil nor Roman came to the kitchen for lunch. Janus stopped in at four for dinner, and so did Patton. They took some leftovers, then ate in the common room while talking about whatever. The hours passed slowly as he sat alone in the kitchen. Remus took the dough out of the fridge. He rolled it into a rectangle, then cut it into a bunch of tiny squares, then triangles, then to smaller triangles. After that, he delicately rolled them into croissant form, then let them rest for an hour. All that was left was the baking, after so much fucking time folding the dough.

The clock said it was about 5:00 pm. Making breakfast had set him an hour back, but Logan had promised he’d come eat the croissants with him. Maybe he was just waiting to smell them bake? Remus flapped his wrist, conjuring a flat metal tray. One by one, he placed the fragile little croissants on the tray. He got milk and eggs from the fridge, and mixed them together. Afterwards, he threw the mixture away because he forgot to crack the eggs before mixing them with the milk. He sighed.

“Are you about to bake them?” A steady voice said. Remus turned away from the bowl of egg wash, smiling when he saw who it was.

“Why, yes, I am! Now, you promised me you’d have one last night. Or the night before. Whatever it is.”

Logan nodded, and sat at the table, watching Remus slather the croissants in egg wash. Suddenly, Remus became very aware of the fact he was totally nude besides the apron. Huh. That usually didn’t happen. What was he, ashamed? Never.

“My observations thus far are very interesting,” Logan said, snapping Remus out of his spiraling thoughts, “Virgil and Roman both did not go into the kitchen after breakfast, choosing to go without food. They don’t need to eat, so it’s not very worrying to me.”

“Is it now?”

Logan shook his head, then sighed.

“Well, I’m worried about how their… mental health will affect Thomas.”

Remus sighed as he put the tray in the oven, then set the timer to twenty minutes. He sat down at the table, across from Logan, watching his eyes glance over him. 

“What if we were meat?” He asked. Logan raised his eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon?”

Remus bit back a comment about begging, and thumped his foot on the floor.

“I mean, like, what would you do if you were a human? And you had all the world laid out in front of you, not just the inside of Thomas’ puny, breakable little skull. What life would you make for yourself?”

Logan sighed.

“I can’t say for certain. The only life I want is a lifetime of learning. I guess I’d go to school for chemical engineering, then get a masters in the subject, or in chemistry, then become a professor of chemistry. Maybe even biochemistry.”

Remus leaned back in his chair.

“Sounds pretty fucking solid to me.”

“It isn’t,” Logan insisted, “you know how messy humans are.”

“Like when they’re smashed with a mallet and meat goes everywhere?”

“À la Gallagher?”

“Exactly!”

“I meant emotional messiness, but you’re not wrong,” Logan said. Remus beamed at him, setting his elbows on the table.

“I know I’m not. But go on?”

Logan cleared his voice.

“Say I am a human, and I have my life planned out by the year. Chemical engineering major, graduate school, becoming a professor. This does not account for human things, like the possibility of a depressive episode or a death in my hypothetical family.”

“Depression is a bitch.”

“No, it’s a mental illness. I can say that if it were a bitch, depression would be a chihuahua. A nuisance that makes no sense to me.”

“Depression doesn’t make sense to you?”

“Chihuahua’s don’t either, hence the comparison.”

Remus laughed, eyes wide.

“Really! Oh do go on.”

“Some chihuahuas have a soft spot in their skull called a molera. 80-90 percent of chihuahuas have this spot as pups. Most of the time it closes up. Many people used to think chihuahuas could cure asthma. In the late 1800’s and early 1900’s  Mexican grooms would often give their wives bouquets with chihuahuas in them.”

Remus giggled again, leaning forward to rest his chin in his hands.

“What’s so confusing about that?”

Logan stared down at his hands, mumbling something Remus couldn’t hear.

“What was that?” Remus asked.

“I said,” Logan repeated, louder, “that I don’t understand how their eyes can be so big. And how so much anger can be stored in something so tiny. Did you know the American Kennel Club used to suggest breeders breed chihuahuas to be as small as possible?”

“Really makes you think of where we draw the line between dog and rat.”

“It’s a species thing. But I admit, I’m curious now. What would you do if you were human?”

Remus snorted. “What wouldn’t I do is a better question? I’ve basically been locked in a tower like Rapunzle for the past twenty odd years.”

Logan’s sincere eyes made him go quiet. Remus honestly couldn’t tell if Logan even cared, but those eyes made him want to scream and flip the table and jump out of the window. Fuck.

“I, uh. I would go to college for writing,” Remus said, “and filmmaking. And I’d get tattoos all over. And maybe some piercings. Things that I couldn’t undo, that nobody could undo. Then I’d write a ton of stories and make movies and scare an entire fucking generation but also make them cry and feel like they’ve never felt before. I don’t know what I would do after that. I’d probably  tragically fall from grace, and everyone gets to watch me decay from a distance as my books and movies get weirder and weirder, then at the age of fifty six and a half, I’d disappear and never be seen or heard of again.”

Remus sighed dreamily. The whole situation sounded nice. Logan, however, looked more than a little startled.

“You really have given this thought, haven't you?”

Remus nodded, leaning back in his seat.

“I’ve not just been yelling at Thomas to jump out of a moving car for the past twenty something years, I’ve been doing a lot of shit that he finds scary. But you can understand where I’m coming from, right? Sometimes the best media deals with more mature themes.”

Logan looked away, sitting painfully straight in his chair.

“Thomas doesn’t seem to think so,” Logan said.

“Oh that is bullshit! Avatar the Last Airbender has genocide and like. Propaganda and shit. Steven Universe covers PTSD and war and dictatorships— honestly, he’s not scared of mature themes. He’s ashamed of the ideas, and scared he won’t pull them off well! That’s why he won’t deal with more important subjects in his videos!”

“You don’t know that,” Logan said calmly.

“Then why would he stifle me!” He shouted, standing up so suddenly it knocked his chair over, “Lock me away like a fucking monster! Why would he leave me alone!”

Remus’ eyes met Logan’s.

“Remus, are you alright?” Logan quietly asked. Remus smiled, waving his hands about.

“Hell yeah I am, dick-dork. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“...you don’t seem to be feeling well.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that!” Remus proclaimed.

“There isn’t,” Logan said, “but you helped me, so I feel like I should assist you. Do you want to, um, talk about it?”

Remus’ laugh turned into a sob. He left his chair on the ground, instead sitting next to Logan.

“You’d make a horrible Patton,” he joked, sniffling.

“Do you want to—“

“No,” Remus growled. 

“I’m sorry.”

Remus slammed both of his fists on the table, over and over until the pain finally registered to him, stinging and brutal. Then he stopped, as suddenly as he started.

“Why don’t you people understand that I don’t want an apology from you!” He bellowed, loud enough that it hurt his throat. “You did nothing wrong to me! Nothing! There’s nothing I should be mad at you for so I don’t deserve an apology!”

A warm hand settled on his shoulder. Logan’s. 

“Yes, you do. It’s not about deserving. Thomas sees everything as black and white, a worldview that led to your neglect. He’s going to unlearn that, learn that the world exists in shades of grey. Until the day he learns enough to forgive you, why not indulge in a bit of forgiveness?”

“I don’t need it,” Remus snapped. Logan squeezed his shoulder. It felt grounding. 

“And I didn’t need a lemon slice with my water this morning.”

Remus sat up straight, so sudden he made Logan lurch back.

“Ah fuck. You just. Fuck! You played me like the cheap kazoo I am!”

Logan raised his eyebrows, lips momentarily twitching into a smile.

“Funny. I thought that same thing about you last night.”

“We need to stop saying ‘last night’, like, seriously,” Remus joked, “it makes it sound like we’re fucking.”

“Your apron makes it seem that that is not something you would be adverse to,” Logan deadpanned.

Remus looked down at the apron. Ah, there it was. Fuck the cook. 

“God.”

“Religion.”

“Huh?”

Logan tilted his head. 

“I thought we were playing a word association game.”

“Well I mean, we have like, twelve minutes until the croissants are all done and baked! We can play a word association game until then.”

Logan nodded, shifting in his seat. Their knees bumped.

“May I begin?”

“Go ahead!” Remus said.

“Star,” Logan began.

“Sun,” Remus responded.

“Earth.”

“Rock.”

“Granite.”

“Countertop.”

“Kitchen.”

“Knife..?”

“Carving.”

“Dismemberment!”

“Dissection.”

Back and forth they went, going from dissection to cooking to flowers, only stopping when the oven dinged. Remus jumped at the sudden sound, which scared Logan, who lurched backwards until their knees no longer touched. Remus looked over at the oven, then at his knees.

“I think the croissants are done! Look at that! Wow, time flies when you’re having fun, holy shit.”

Logan blinked a couple of times, then nodded.

“Yes, it was an enjoyable time. Why did ‘pulmonary’ make you think of ‘plastic’?”

Remus shrugged.

“I didn’t know what pulmonary meant, but you connected it from lung, and I don’t know, it made me think of sarin, then saran, then plastic.”

Logan nodded, brows furrowing.

“You responded rather quickly to that word, I didn’t think you put that much thought into it.”

“My mind goes a mile a minute— lemme get the croissants. And you’re not going anywhere! You promised you’d have one.”

“That I did.”

Remus lept over to the oven, throwing the door open and grabbing the tray with his bare hands, setting the tray on the counter. God, they smelled delicious, baked and golden brown, slowly letting off steam. Logan looked at them with a straight face. For a smart guy, he really acted stupid.

“Fucking hypocrite,” Remus said, “it’s okay to show emotion.”

“I don’t—“

“Literally nobody else is here but me.”

Logan opened his mouth, then closed it again. At a loss for words. Remus sighed, and picked up two croissants off the tray. They felt so warm and delicate in his hands, like a little baby bird…

“Have you ever imagined squeezing a bird in your hands so hard it’s crushed?”

Logan blinked.

“I can’t say I have, but I don’t think it’s worth the mess. Birds belong in the sky.”

“And where do we belong?” Remus said, sitting down at the table. He gave Logan a croissant. “I mean. You have the light sides, I have the dark sides, and we both have the kitchen.”

“Interpersonal relations are not my strong suit,” Logan said, and he left it at that. He gently picked up the croissant, tearing a small piece off before putting it in his mouth. Remus watched as his eyes slowly slipped shut, Logan’s jaw closed as he savored the light, buttery layers of the croissant. Remus flapped his hands about, giggling to himself before taking his croissant and ripping it in half with his teeth. Oh, that’s heavenly!

“Oh,” Remus said, mouth full, “that’s heavenly! I can see why you chose this recipe, goddamn.”

“I chose it to study the habits of the others.”

“It’s not normal.” Remus stated. He looked at Logan, who had opened his eyes, brows furrowed. 

“I live with the others, I might as well—“

“Not the schedule, it makes you happy, so it’s meaningful. What isn’t normal is the fact that you have to act all prim and proper all the time for them to respect you. You should be able to let loose, indulge.”

“But what if they won’t listen?” Logan asked, voice shaking.

Remus snapped his fingers. Two glasses of ice cold water appeared before them, each with a lemon slice on the rim. 

“Make them.”

“I don’t think I could—“

“You are literally the brains of the operation! Not only that, but you beat me fair and square when I showed up, and I’m absolutely certain you could do it again. I’m pretty sure you could do it right now. You’re a force to be reckoned with. All of Thomas’ intellect in a sad little indigo dressed man. You’re a person, or at least a part of a person. Not a robot. Not a shell. Okay?”

Logan silently nodded. He ate the rest of the croissant, not even chewing, just setting it in his mouth and letting it dissolve. Logan swallowed, then smiled softly, so small Remus almost missed it. It felt like his heart had joined the croissant in his throat. Remus swallowed hard. Then, he smiled back, all teeth, and stuffed the rest of the croissant in his mouth. They ate in silence for a while, simply enjoying the croissants. Logan slowly sipped his water after each bite.

“What should I make next?” Remus asked. Logan looked down at the tray of croissants. Remus grabbed one off the tray, and passed it to Logan.

“Thank you. Why not something with seafood? Maybe paella?”

Remus’ eyes went big. 

“Oh, I absolutely fucking love clams and mussels! That’s in paella, right? Yeah? God, Logan, this is why we need to talk more, you fucking genius!”

“Thank you very much. I hate to ask, but would you mind if I took some croissants back to Virgil, Patton and Roman..?”

Remus leaned back in his chair.

“Leaving so soon?”

Logan paused. He stood slowly.

“I don’t have—“

“Go ahead and take them. Just leave one for Jannie.”

“I’ll only need three.”

“Take an extra for yourself, you’re the reason I made them after all.”

Logan froze like a deer in the headlights, hand hovering over the tray. Carefully, he picked up three croissants, then looked Remus in the eye. Remus nodded towards the tray. Logan grabbed a fourth. 

“Remus?”

“I’m right here,” Remus said, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head.

“I just wanted to thank you. For the croissants, and for the conversation.”

And he smiled, just a little bit of teeth showing.

Remus felt that strange feeling, the one without direction or space, just energy. Thoughts fluttered through his head, and he wanted to rip, tear, kiss mend, bake, create, destroy—

“I enjoyed every minute of it,” Remus said, throat dry. 

With that, Logan waved goodbye, then promptly left. Now Remus sat alone at the table. When would Jannie come for his croissant? Maybe he wouldn’t. Remus drummed his fingers on the table. He could stand from the table, and chase after Logan like a loyal mutt. Or he could go find Janus. Or he could take out the bok choy and split the croissants with a fellow dark side.

Instead, he sat at the table, drumming his fingers, trapped in his head.

He stared at Logan’s glass of water until the ice cubes melted. 

—

Thirty minutes later, Janus showed up. He sat down at the table, and wordlessly took a croissant. Remus drummed his fingers on the table.

“Are you okay?” Janus asked. He nibbled the croissant.

Remus snorted, waving his arms around.

“I honestly have no fucking clue!”

Janus smiled and laughed, biting into the croissant. Remus did so, too, and tried to force down the strange, directionless feeling now associated with Logan’s face.

Janus and him shared the rest of the croissants, leaving only crumbs and the tray.

[icollectyoursins]

Kitsune!Kakyoin nsfw

Anon asked for “ I can only think of Kitsune Kakyoin-... Oooh, spicy for Kakyoin.”

Yesss. Little bit of trickery, little bit of cute fluffy tails? We love that. Writing this game me so much serotonin. It also took a lot of words and time, so I hope you enjoy.

I learned a lot about kitsunes while writing this, but the things that come into play are tails and human forms/magic/”paranormal abilities.” From what I’ve read, they only have 9 tails if they’re over 1,000. They gain 1 tail after 100 years which is around the same time that they get their ✨magic✨. Though there are some sources that say they get their abilities after 50, I’m going with the typical 100. That being said, Kakyoin has 2 tails, making him 200ish. The more you know!

Also, I am aware his name is Noriaki, but I’m used to the sub anime where last names come first, so that’s how I wrote it. Also, everyone called him Kakyoin and that’s what I’m used to.

Your family had always warned you about the trickster who lived in the woods by your town. Your friends, however, thought it would be funny to try and mess with said trickster spirit which, after a mess of rituals and a little bit of drinking on your friend’s side, you got lost. Suddenly, you find yourself face to face with a rather handsome trickster, who is willing to help, for a price.

Have a character, but no idea? Prompt list here!

Looking for more? Master post here!

WARNINGS: “dream” sex, light stalking, grandma’s talking about things that live in the woods that can probably kill you, deals with things you probably shouldn’t make deals with, sexy deals, claws, making out, marking/hickies, nipple play, cunnilingus, fingering, marking with teeth, knotting, breeding, creampie.

Word Count: 3121

     The soft ground littered with leaves and branches crunches beneath your feet. The air was starting to cool as the night approached. Damn it. Where the hell were your friends? You had come out here for a little fun, maybe some spooky stories, maybe a round of truth or dare, but things got a little out of hand and suddenly, you were being dared to walk through the woods in the middle of the night to try to find the so-called trickster spirit, the Kitsune.

     None of your friends believed in it, but you did. A few years ago, you saw him standing at the edge of the forest, deep violet eyes staring into your soul as you walked by him. His red hair curled around his face, framing it. He was wearing a long green coat with matching pants, two long tails swishing behind him. The contrast of his red fur on the green of the forest was beautiful. You wanted to go to him then, touch his face and hold him. Thank god your friends stopped you, nudging out of your fantasy. But then came the dreams.

     Dreams of him crawling into your bed oh, so sweetly, curling himself around you and kissing every mark on your body. Dreams of him rolling you over, trailing his lips across your shoulder, down your sternum, down your stomach until he met with your sweet honey pot, already wet and waiting for him. He'd fill you until you thought you were going to burst. Over and over again, he’d mark you skin lightly, claws digging into your flesh. He was always gentle with you, careful, but there was something in his eyes that read dangerous. He would always reassure you, regardless of that stare.

     Such sweet dreams he gave you and yet you were afraid. You had overheard your grandmother talking about what the trickster would do if he caught you. You would be his slave. Just a little puppet for him to capture more people with. You would never feel his touch again. The body would ache and burn, screaming in pain until he gave you even the smallest of caresses, then he would leave again. The pain would be worse than before until finally, when he never came back, you would die of natural causes or kill yourself. He seduces his victims, gives them a taste of what they want, then leaves them in the woods, searching for him until they died. You would never go into the woods again.

     Until now. Here you were, completing some kind of stupid prophecy, hoping you wouldn't see him again. You would just turn around, find your friends again and that would be the end of it. Though, you couldn't deny the little tingle; that tiny sliver of hope that he would show up. That he would smile and take you into his arms, vowing to never leave you. Ugh, you needed to get laid. This was just your horniness talking. Right?

     You rested against a tree, catching your breath. You had been walking for longer than you anticipated. What did they even dare you with, anyway? A walk in the woods seemed kind of lame.

     */CRACK/*

     A loud snap over your shoulder made you turn around quickly. Your eyes scanned the tree line for anything dangerous. There was nothing, but that didn’t start your heart from pounding. If anything, it made it worse. Maybe a walk in the woods wasn’t lame after all. You checked your phone. It was almost dead and your friends made no effort to make sure you were okay.

     Unbeknownst to you, there was something there. Well, someone. A certain trickster who had been waiting for this day since he saw you. His name was Kakyoin Noriaki, not that you would know that, but he would tell you eventually. He knew about every “dream” you had about him, knew every inch of your body, every freckle. But, late night visits weren’t enough for him anymore. He wanted you to be his. Actually his, not just a feast for when he felt lonely.

     Everything was ready for you. He had gotten your favourite teas, coffees, drinks. The decor was suited to your tastes and colours. All he was missing was you. There were many days leading up to this where he would sit in his bed, imagining your weight next to him and your warmth. It all made him feel so lonely, yet so... satisfied. How could you say no to this?

     Of course, the final decision would be up to you but he wasn’t going to make it easy. Charm would do most of the work gaining your trust, but some magic wouldn’t hurt, right? 

     You strode around the forest, completely unaware of what he has set up. After all, it was his idea to dare you to go for a walk through your fear. Mimicking your friend’s voice was easy and everyone else was inebriated enough to agree. All he had to do was wait for you to get a little closer to his den and he’d reveal himself to you.

     You continued to walk aimlessly, hoping you would be able to find your way back by sheer luck. The light was starting to fade and it was getting colder. You swore, if your friends didn’t find you before you froze to death it would be the last time they ever-

     A small log cabin that you are fairly sure had never been there before broke you from your thoughts. A plume of smoke billowed from the chimney. Please, let who ever lived here be nice enough to let you in. You approached the door, tentatively knocking on it. There was shuffling on the other side, then it was opened. The person was tall, slender with red hair framing their face...

     You couldn’t believe your eyes. It was him! Really him! So many emotions flooded your senses. Should you run or go in? Would baring the cold be safer than a night with your sweet trickster? Does he know about the dreams? No, he couldn’t!

     “Is everything alright?” His voice rang through your ears pleasantly. 

     “Yeah, yeah uh... I’m fine,” you stuttered, taking in a breath to calm yourself.

     “Would you like to come in? It’s freezing out there.” His smooth voice had you weak. You nodded your head, carefully walking in. The smell of the house made you dizzy in the best way possible. A sweet, rich fragrance filled your nose, your favourite scent, actually. You didn’t notice, but he was watching your reactions, making sure you liked everything he had done for you. He found himself staring at you too long, entranced by your beauty. “Would you like a blanket or something to warm you up? A drink, perhaps?”

     You turned around, holding your arms to keep you warm. “Yes, please, thank you.” He smiled at you, walking to what you assume was the bedroom, returning with a large, fuzzy blanket which he then wrapped around you. Then, he went to work preparing you some hot chocolate.

     “My name is Kakyoin Noriaki, thought most call me Kakyoin,” he says next to your shoulder, handing you the mug. You’re lead to a very comfortable couch that you just melted into. You weren’t even aware of Kakyoin wrapping the blanket around you more as he sat next to you or the way he leaned in a little too close to you. 

     “I’m (Y/N),” you said, taking a small sip of the hot chocolate. You looked around the room. It wasn’t very big. Kitchen in one corner, living room in another, bathroom, bedroom. The basics. All of the decor matched with what your idea of your dream house was. Cozy. Maybe you should ask where he got everything from.

     “Why are you here?” He asked. “I don’t usually get visitors, pardon my suspicion. Did something happen? Are you lost?”

     “Yeah, uh,” you thought for a minute, trying to word this in a way that wouldn’t be offensive. “My friends thought it would be funny to dare me to walk into the woods.”

     His face scrunched up in false confusion, not that you noticed. “Why would they do that?”

     “I’m uh... afraid of them.”

     Kakyoin was quiet for a minute. That’s not what he wanted to hear, though he sort of understood why. He didn’t want you to be afraid, he wanted you to be safe. With him. No one else. Just him. “Why?”

     “It’s a... long story.” He hummed in response, not wanting to push you further despite knowing why you were so afraid. After a few minutes of warming up, he spoke up again, as gently as he could be.

     “May I... touch you?” You shot him a shocked look. What did he mean touch you? “Your hair looks so soft.”

     “Oh, um, sure. I guess?” Just your hair, that was fine, right? He hasn’t given you a reason to not trust him and you couldn’t deny that those dreams you had made you want him in the most carnal way possible. His fingers delicately brushed through your hair in a way that was almost soothing to you. You sighed, relaxing into his touch. His heart skipped a beat. You were so close.

     “(Y/N)... I know where your friends are.” You turned to look at him, surprised. “I can lead you to them, but... I have a request.” Kakyoin took the mug from your hands and then grabbed your hands softly, looking you in the eyes. “Stay with me. For one night. Stay here for one night and then you can leave.”

     You go to protest, but are stopped. “I know how much you dream about me, (Y/N) and I will admit that I often dream about you in the same way. Don’t try to deny it. Look at me, please.” You did, staring into his soft blue/violet eyes, finding yourself drawn into them, enraptured by their beauty. The next words he says are slow and soothing. “I do not wish to hurt you or hold you against your will. I only want one night. You may leave when you wish.” If you wish, he thought.

     Your body moves on it’s own, leaning into him, faces getting closer and closer until finally, you were able to touch his lips. Or, you would have, if he hadn’t lifted a clawed finger to your mouth, holding you there. You had half a mind to question if you had noticed claws before, but didn’t really care. As much as he wanted to kiss you, he needed your words; your permission. He slid his hand to your cheek, cupping it sweetly.

     “I want to hear you say yes, (Y/N),” he whispers, low and soft. He hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped his magic keeping his form relatively human. Red ears peek out from his hair and his tails unfurled from under his green top. It was hard for him to hold back a low growl as you leaned into his touch, cheeks growing hot. So, so close.

     “Yes,” you said dreamily. “Yeah, I’ll stay with you, Kakyoin.” He let out a needy sigh. Finally, yes. Instantly, he pulled you into an aggressive kiss, teeth biting at your lower lip, then smothering you. You slowly lied down as he crawled over you. You noticed his ears then, reaching a hand up to touch them. They flicked at the feeling, but soon he was leaning into your hand, breathing heavily; needy.

     His eyes locked with yours, then he dove in for a kiss, easily slipping his tongue into your mouth, exploring the new area. You moaned, lightly sucking on the smooth appendage. Sharp claws dug into the cushions to keep from harming you. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer until his body was pressed against yours. Still caught up in the kiss, he ground his hips into you relishing in the way you moan around his tongue. 

     Kakyoin breaks the kiss, moving towards your neck and marking you with deep purple marks down your neck. You arch up into him, crying out. The feel of his lips on your pulse drives your lust into over drive, matching his thrusts with your clothed sex. He growls, sharp canines grazing where your shoulder meets your neck.

     “I need you,” his voice is strained, clearly holding back. 

     You kiss his cheek then whisper: “Then, take me, Kakyoin.”

     That was his tipping point. In an instant, his claws were ripping your clothes starting with the top and under garment. He discards the torn cloth, replacing it with his hands, moulding over your mounts, squeezing and pinching your nipples. You could feel him getting harder, as if he wasn’t already hard enough. You were shocked that there was more to it, but it was not entirely unwelcome. You’re drawn out of your fantasizing when his tongue flicked your nipple, then his warm mouth wrapping around it. 

     “Ah!~” You clawed your hands through his hair which he seemed to like because his sucking became more enthusiastic. You tit was thoroughly bruised when he was finished, pulling off with a loud pop before moving onto the next one. Meanwhile, one of his hands was moving towards your lower half, nimbly tearing a line down, then tossing that away, breaking away from your breast for a moment then returning again.

     Kakyoin’s fingers dipped into your already soaked labia, feeling their way up and down your sweet entrance. You rocked your hips into them, encouraging him to do more. He pulled his lips away from your nipple again, making eye contact with you while making his way down to your folds. His eyes rolled back into his head as his tongue flicked out to taste your slick. He had waited so long for this, having only his memories of pleasing you to keep him sated, but now he finally had you. And he was going to milk you for every drop you had.

     Lips wrapped around your clit as his finger teased your entrance, just barely entering you. He alternated between sucking your clit and leaving long, hard licks along your whole slit. Eyes flicked to yours again as he delved his tongue into you, relishing the way you keened, hips jerking up, wanting him to go deeper. Had he been in a different mood, he would have denied you that, but all he wanted was to devour you. 

     Over and over again, he dove his tongue into you adding his fingers which gently dipped into you. You could feel your orgasm growing closer, movements becoming less and less controlled. Kakyoin watched with adoration as your face grew more red contorting with pleasure. Your voice was gradually getting higher in pitch until you finally let out a high cry with your release hips lifting off the couch as you gushed onto his face and cushions. 

     He came up with, surprisingly, an even hungrier stare than before. Something feral flickered in him as he threw off his clothes, jumping back onto your body, attacking your neck more with his teeth. You couldn’t help arching into him again as he dug his canines into your shoulder, marking you. His member pulsed between your legs. You reached a hand down to stroke making him gasp and groan. He couldn’t wait anymore.

     Without moving his head, the tip of his cock caught your entrance. He waited until you had taken a breath to prepare yourself, then crashed his pelvis into yours, filling you in one thrust. The feeling left your breathless, mouth hanging slack with ecstasy. 

     “I missed this,” he thought aloud, not even noticing he’d said anything. You did though and you were confused.

     “What?” You said groggily. 

     “Nothing, don’t worry about it.” With that he started to get into a rhythm which made you forget everything, just completely head over heels with lust. You voice started climbing again, getting higher with each time his tip his the furthest part of your cunt. Kakyoin’s lips continued to attack your neck, being sure to leave dark marks that would last for weeks. He grunted with each hard thrust. 

     You couldn’t do anything other than hold on while he brought you closer to your second release. There was something growing at the base of his cock, pushing against your entrance. He growled in your ear: “~nnn gonna knot you. Aaahmmm~ need to breed you.”

     Knot? Uh, what? You screamed as he pressed the bulb into your pussy slowly. The protrusion made your orgasm wash over you quicker than anticipated making you gush over his cock again. He leaned back, watching your face, checking in to make sure you were okay. When it became too much for you, he pulled back, letting you breathe, then trying again. He got further in this time, then pulled back. 

     The process repeated until you were sufficiently stretched open for him. With one final sweet kiss on your forehead, he pushed his entire knot inside you. Even with all the prep, nothing prepared you for the full feeling he left. He gave a few small, desperate thrusts and then came, loose, spilling his seed inside you leaving you feeling hot, warm and utterly used. 

     The world around you was fuzzy as he kissed your face, slowly bringing you back to consciousness. His knot was still inside you, feeling larger than before. Kakyoin wrapped his arms around you, then pulled you up with him so you were sitting on his lap. He rubbed your back, soothing you. Every minute movement either one of you made pushed his bulge around making you whimper. 

     “Do you want to leave, (Y/N)?” He asked, knowing full well that his mark, pooling with his magic, would confuse your mind into staying with him more than having you feel better than ever before. Like he said, if you really didn’t want to stay, the magic couldn’t stop you from leaving, but it would act as more of a nudge towards his desired outcome.

     “Uunhh~ No, I’ll stayyyaaahh!~” His hips gently gyrated into you a few more times causing you to brokenly scream. 

     “Good, I’m glad.” He kissed your temple, silently pleased with himself. Kakyoin felt you slowly falling to sleep on his chest. You could take all the time to rest now, he had all the time in the world to make sure you were full of his pups if this session hadn’t worked. He chuckled quietly to himself. The dreams of you swelling with his offspring would finally be real. His cock twitched again. Hopefully you would be ready for more rounds after you woke up from this one. He was nowhere near done tonight.

[revengeisourlullaby]

Hi I just read “everything happens for a reason” (loved it btw) I was wondering if you could make a sequel to it? Y/N is still try to get over her break up with Thor and Loki reassures her that she is more than enough for him. It would be more vanilla though. (Sorry that this is so long🥺)

it’s not long at all, don’t worry! i was actually contemplating about making a sequel to it. so i already have smth in the works! i’ll have it done probably by the end of the week :))

edit: I’m so sorry for this being so late!! I know I said a week and then my life went up in chaos. Forgive me for my untimely posting. Regardless, here is the sequel to the Loki fic, Everything Happens For a Reason. Hope you enjoy! 

Warnings: None. Just fluffy Loki

Loki x female!reader

Word count: 2.3K

You awoke to the pitter-patter of the New York rain falling against the window yet again. You thought the worst of it happened yesterday while you were running away from your problems. Speaking of problems, the last thing you wanted was to go back home. Even though it wouldn’t be until later this evening, you felt that your apartment was forever tainted with the betrayal you witnessed. Going back in there would be like playing a broken record. Forever stuck in the limbo of what was.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes you rolled over to feel for Loki, but instead, you were met with room temperature sheets, another body vacant from the bed. Your stomach sank. Had Loki lied? It wouldn’t be beside him but with you, he was so transparent. It felt like cigarettes were being put out all over your skin, your nerves were fired up in all the wrong ways. You sat up in the bed and pulled the sheets up to your chest along with your knees. You felt your body become lethargic.

Am I worth anything to anybody? Am I really that disposable?

Hot, stinging tears began to fall from your eyes. Self-doubt and deprecating thoughts filling your brain. Perpetual questions of wondering your worth not only in romantic fashion but just in life came to be the spearhead of your worries. Everything felt intrusive and counterfeit. Maybe he saw you as easy and knew you would give up easily to him in your state of vulnerability. You just wanted somebody to be appreciative of you.

Maybe he and his brother weren’t cut from that different of a cloth. Sliding out of the bed you went to put on your clothes from the night before in hopes of getting out of the hotel without too much trouble. But when you bent over to pick your jeans up from the floor they were damp and cold and it made you feel even worse. Your hoodie was in a similar condition and to top it off, you couldn’t find your underwear to save your life. You groaned out loud and felt trapped in this opulent room and everywhere you looked was a painful reminder of everything bitter and vile.

You climbed back in bed and decided to just wait for your clothes to finish drying up. Unsure of when that would be because the rain outside was creating a thin layer of humidity in the room. Sighing you curled into the fetal position and held onto an extra pillow hoping that it would provide you with some semblance of comfort. Your tears started up again and there was a pain beginning to build in your stomach. You wanted to scream. You wanted to release yourself of all the negative energy that was boiling within you. Clutching the extra pillow to your face you let out a wail that you had been holding in for far too long. All the pent-up energy from yesterday of trying to hold your own against the perfidy Thor presented you with and now you were struggling with the concept of Loki using you and your vulnerability for a cheap fuck. You were curled up in a hotel room, naked and crying about everything. You felt pathetic. You just wanted to sleep forever. 

With the last sniffle leaving your body you took a deep breath and shuddered into your body. Your breathing labored and shallow, you tried to calm yourself down in hopes of falling back asleep. But those hopes were dilapidated when you heard the hotel room door click open. You thought about faking sleep but the idea of faking anything took up too much space to even think about carrying out. So you opted to just lie still and wait for anything to be said to you. Maybe it was just one of the housekeeping people and they would leave upon seeing someone still in the room.

“Y/N, you up yet?”

Housekeeping would’ve been too easy wouldn’t it?

Sighing you meekly responded to Loki, tears and sorrow welling up in your eyes and throat once more.

“Yeah, been up for a little while.”

He caught on to it immediately. Your position in the bed, the lack of tone in your voice. He knew he should’ve waited but he thought a surprise of something would lift your spirits even more. Time was simply not on his side and you arose long before he anticipated. Making his best judgment at the situation he was debating which road of sentiment he should walk down. He didn’t want to make things worse for you.

Loki set down a bag, the crinkling catching your attention and you looked over your shoulder to see where he was. 

He went to get food? He hadn’t skipped at all?

“Surprise.”

Instantly you were filled with regret, upset with yourself for jumping to conclusions about the situation at hand. You couldn’t help it though, your ability to have trust within someone else was smeared, and regardless of Loki’s reassuring words the night prior, the pain had yet to subside. Upon seeing your face, Loki saw the residual puffiness in your face and how the tip of your nose was heated and slightly swollen from your crying before he walked in. 

“I’m sorry, Loki.”

Was all you could muster, wordwise. You sat yourself up in the bed and wiped the residue of tears from your face trying to make yourself appear as normal as possible. Wrapping the sheet tightly around you, you finally faced him. Loki stepping lightly to the edge of the bed. 

“Did you think I left...for good?”

You rolled your heads towards him, cynicism clear on your face. A bit of sarcasm was thrown into the mix but it was all a guise to somewhat shield him from the pain and embarrassment you were feeling. Looking at the wall in front of you, a dry response left your lips.

“Yes. What else was I supposed to think? My mind was running through all the possible reasons as to why you left. And the one that kept nagging was the idea that my vulnerability yesterday was used to an advantage other than my own.”

Sadness no longer colored your emotions but rather numbness. You weren’t sure what to feel. You wanted to trust Loki and you believed that you could but time was definitely needed. With another sigh, you continued.

“And then you walk in here with bags of stuff and I look like a fool for being so dramatic in nature.”

“Well that’s nothing new for us now is it?”

Loki’s quip back at you had your eyes narrowing into thin slits but again was quickly washed away because something about him made the circumstances seem not so perilous. You bowed your head, feeling that you had said enough. In place, Loki’s voice filled the silence.

“My intention was for you to still be asleep by the time I returned. You seemed so peaceful. The last thing I wanted was to wake you from that state of rest. I figured I’d be back in time to properly surprise you with some gifts.”

You smiled a bit, feeling the angst start to fade away, but quickly to feel it fade into guilt. But you weren’t allowed to stew in it for too long, for Loki standing up from the bed caught your attention distracting you from your thoughts.

“Before it gets cold, I got us some breakfast. And..”

His sentence trailing off into a strain as he bent over to the side of the desk in the front of a room to pull out yet another bag.

“I picked you up some clothes to wear for today. Figured wearing the ones from this past evening was morally and aesthetically dull and trudging back to your apartment would be in poor judgment. It’s not much but enough for the day and for our date this evening.”

Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline completely forgetting about what you agreed to with Loki during your session of pillow talk while you were drifting in and out of sleep. 

He really meant that? Wow, okay.”

“Oh come now, you hadn’t forgotten already had you?”

Loki was mocking you now. Fully aware that by your initial reaction you had forgotten. 

“Look, in my defense, I was drifting off to sleep.”

“Mhmm, sure Y/N.”

Setting the bag in between the two of you on the bed, Loki looked at you, eyes urging you to dig in the bag.

“You happen to have another shirt I can throw on before I start eating? My hoodie is still damp and-”

Loki reached into the bag full of clothes and pulled out an oversized graphic tee cutting your sentence off and holding it out in front of your face.

“Thank you.”

You were genuinely surprised and grateful. It was such a simple act but the fact that Loki went out of his way to get you clothes and food following a night of such intensity made you feel warm and finally appreciated. Something you hadn’t felt with previous relationships, especially with your last. Taking the shirt from him, you looked for the tag and pulled it out with your teeth.

“Animal.”

Loki side-eyed you, his comment made obviously in somewhat of jest. You chuckled and wormed your way into the shirt. Once pulling it over your head you finally dug into the paper bag that was still surprisingly warm despite the time that had gone by. The smell of a breakfast sandwich filling your nose and your stomach growled in response, eager to be fed. Loki made a sarcastic remark but you couldn’t be bothered with responding the second you placed the sandwich to your lips. 

The satisfaction of the food also gnawing away the ritual morning agitation you were always burdened with. Nothing but soft smacks and soft moans of enjoying your food filled the space. A sign that obviously, the food was worthwhile. Loki had looked at you eyebrow raised and chuckled to himself watching you be completely lost in the sandwich.

“If I would’ve known you’d be tearing the sandwich up like that I would’ve purchased three.”

Your eyes rolled and simultaneously you were thinking about how he got all this stuff in the first place. Mouth still full with food, your speech a little muffled.

“Speaking of purchase, how’d you buy all this anyway.”

“Mischief always finds its way, darling.”

“I think the word is pronounced thievery, Loki.”

“Same difference.”

It’s almost as if all the trauma that you suffered through yesterday had never happened. Being with Loki and the playful banter that was his character made everything feel at ease. You felt happy, actually and most importantly you didn’t feel guilty for it. Was the timing a little brisk? Perhaps, but in the end, what really mattered was your happiness and right now it felt that you had found it. 

Finishing up with your sandwich you balled up the wrapping and threw it back into the bag. Standing up from the bed you excused yourself to go to the bathroom. Turning on the light you saw a plethora of toiletry products that you hadn’t brought. A toothbrush, toothpaste, body wash, lotion, a few makeup products that you knew were picked up in pure confusion, and some leave in for your hair. Your eyes widened and you let out a belly laugh.

“Jesus Loki, did you raid the fuckin Walgreens on the corner.”

“Hey if you don’t want it, with the flick of my wrist it will vanish. Choose your next words wisely.”

You knew he was playing and you decided one last epigram would satisfy your bratty nature. Peeking your head out from the bathroom, you bowed in a dramatic courtesy.

“Thank you my king for so valiantly stealing all the toiletries from our nearest corner store. My gratitude is eternal. Like that?”

“You’re impossible.”

Walking back to Loki, you stood between his legs and raked your fingers through his slicked-back hair. A softness took over your features, appearing small and doe-like to Loki as he looked up at you.

“Thank you, Loki, really. I know we bust each other’s balls but I really appreciate you. I can already foresee how tightly I’m going to be wrapped around your finger. You already have me falling for you at a speed that is impractical to calculate.”

“My Y/N.”

Hearing the adoration layered in his tone made your heart warm and the possession of your name falling from his mouth made your body shiver. Realizing how quickly you could get used to this.

“Now you’ll finally see what it’s like to be on the receiving end. Ever since we stumbled upon each other I was enamored with you. I couldn’t bear to see you with another and that another being none other than my brother was like a fiery blade that I had no power of removing. When I fell for you I knew I was irrevocably destined to be yours. Regardless of the circumstance. And now, if you are willing to take my hand in this journey I would like to make you mine.”

You pressed your lips together in a firm smile before showing your teeth, feeling overwhelmed with reverence for the man in front of you.

“I’d be more than happy to accompany you. Even more so for this evening.”

Loki lightly smiled and then leaned up to press a gentle kiss to your lips. The air light and emanating the tender yet sardonic romance that was beginning to brew between your long-lost lover.

[nemobookaholic]

FrostIron Part 2

Sorry for the delay @belligerentmistletoe there you go. Let me know what you think about the final.

As before, a short reminder, I don’t own any rights to the characters, they belong to Marvel (if it wasn’t obvious, but I have to say it anyway).

I’m willing to go on in writing this ship, if I get enough input. Cause those two idiots are that much alike, no chance they’ll have a harmonic relationship, hehehe. Yeah sorry I’m an evil writer. Anyway, I love them and putting them in unknown situations is fun. Please let me know if you have an idea for me to play with 🖤

It had been two weeks since the incident with Loki. Tony had managed to avoid him completely until today. A Team meeting was set by Steve and he wanted all of the Avengers to join.

The mechanic waited until the last minute to go upstairs. He had distracted himself with building a new suit. But his traitorous thoughts had returned to the god, as soon as he let focus slip for just a second.

What would he give for a drink!

Not even the fact that Pepper sat their relationship on pause, did bother him as much as those lips he almost had kissed without permission.

Maybe he should worry more about not being in a proper relationship right now?

“Boss, Mr. Rogers is asking for you,” Friday told him for the second time.

There weren't any excuses left, so finally he made his way upstairs to face the Team, to face Loki.

When Tony entered the room, he immediately cursed himself inwardly. The only place available to sit was to Loki's left.

What did he even think? He should have known that nobody wanted to sit next to him but Thor. And that the chances for Loki to get a place with only one person sitting next to him would be extraordinarily small.

Tony clenched his fists and took a seat next to the mischievous god, ignoring him completely. He stared at Steve instead, to signal him to start the meeting.

So Captain America started a boring lecture on the new members and to give them a chance. He talked about how the Avengers had to take over responsibility for damaged buildings and destruction they had done in the past.

Tony barely listened to him, he just watched his mouth moving, not willing to admit the feelings evolving inside of him.

With every second he got jumpier, his leg started trembling with his hands clutched to the armrest.

“Relax,” a soft voice said from his right. Tony finally had to look at Loki, who showed no sign of discomfort at all.

The tension eased off and Tony started to relax, his hands slid into his lap. Slowly he opened his fists and closed them again under the table. Repeating it like a ritual that would protect him from evil.

Suddenly he felt a hesitant touch to his arm. The mechanic froze. Loki, not stopped at this point must have felt encouraged, cause he shoved his hand into Tony’s and entangled their fingers.

“Tony, are you alright?” Steve asked him, as the shock was visible to his face.

“Sure, what should be wrong,” he replied.

“It’s just, you are unusually silent today,” several heads around the table nodded.

“Just tired. Haven’t been sleeping in days,” the mechanic said in defence. Loki squeezed his hand, as if he would exactly know what kept Tony up at night.

“Well okay, anyway, can I get your attention some longer?” Steve started to be a pain in the ass.

He lectured on, eying Tony now and then.

What if some of the others would notice they were holding hands?

Cold sweat ran down Tony’s back, the god next to him still entirely relaxed. It just wasn’t fair. He could feel Loki's attention on him like a rock on his shoulders. Even if none of the others seemed to care, heck they didn’t even look at him. Tony was the only centre of attention with his strange behaviour.

Loki giggled under his breath what gave Tony the feeling, the god was enjoying all this.

Tony cursed inwardly, referring to Loki with the worst curses he was able to imagine.

He didn’t know how, but Loki would have to pay for this.

***

The meeting turned out to be splendid fun. A bright smile was plastered onto the gods face, which irritated his team mates, made the mechanic grumble some more and his brother skeptical.

The sun couldn’t shine any brighter today.

“Brother I don’t hope you are up for something evil?” Thor took him aside.

“If I’d assure you that it won’t cause any harm, would I be allowed in some mischief?”

“Loki, your plans tend to attract chaos, so you'd better be careful. No matter what it is your restless mind set itself up to,” Thor warned him

“I promise,” Loki held his hands up in defence.

“You better keep your promise this time,” Thor said in a low voice, before he left.

Loki headed down the corridor, trying to catch up to the others. He had no intention to get lost in the building a second time. At the edge of the corner Tony’s voice forced him to slow down.

“It’s nothing,” he could hear the mechanic say.

“I thought we were beyond this point,” a second voice, that belonged to Colonel Rhodes, said. “Is it because Pepper put you on hold again? You can tell me.”

Stark sighed heavily, “Look…things are difficult at the moment. All I want right now is to numb my thoughts and build a new suit. Is that too much to ask for?”

“If that’s what you need, go for it. But remember to rest, that’s all I’m going to ask for. You're my friend Tony, I don’t enjoy seeing you like this.”

Loki overheard the conversation with some interest. He almost felt sorry for pushing Antony this hard. The god was still lingering behind the corner, when Tony turned it and bumped right into him.

“You!” the mechanic grumbled.

Loki showed an uncomfortable smile.

Tony seized him by the collar and shoved him against the wall. “What was that inside there?!” he spat out the words.

“I don’t know what you mean—haven’t you been the one who was going to ki…” Loki lost his breath, as Tony slammed him against the wall once more.

They heard steps heading towards them.

“Not out here,” Tony pressed through his teeth, indicating Loki to follow him, as he let go of his clothes.

They stepped into an elevator nearby. The god breathed out loudly. He had no good memory of his last conversation inside a lift.

There was no way doing get help again.

“I might need to apologise,” Loki muttered.

Tony just stared at the numbers passing by.

“Anthony?” he asked in a gentle voice.

The mechanic turned around to face him, with a fire to his eyes Loki almost misinterpreted. There was anger to it, but also fear, pain and desire?

He stepped closer towards Stark, lowering his head. Now it was his turn to shove him against the wall, his arms building a cage around the mechanic's body, leaving him no chance to escape. As if he could have gone anywhere at all.

Tony’s breath had accelerated, his system overheated causing a moment of madness between them.

As their lips collided, there was nothing but pure lust to it. A bestial hunger that consumed the whole air within the tiny cabin.

Tony freed himself first, only to commise Friday to stop the elevator. The mechanic's knees gave in, slowly he slid down to the ground. Loki followed, kneeling between Tony’s widely spread legs. Not willing to let go of him so soon.

“Anthony,” he said, his voice a sexy whisper.

Tony pulled him in again, grabbing for his shirt like he would drown.

They kissed, their tongues dancing to the melody of their fast paced hearts.

“Stop it! We can’t do this,” Tony pushed him away again.

“I’m confused. You seemed to enjoy it in the first place,” Loki leaned back at the other side of the lift.

“I’m not gay,” Tony said.

Loki laughed at the top of his lungs. “That’s your problem? You puny creatures and your vain ego’s.”

“It’s just…I can’t,” Tony tried again.

“And why is that? Your lives are already this short, so why don’t you allow yourself the pleasure of adultery?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Tony hesitated.

“Oh really? Would it be easier for you if I looked different?” Loki shifted his appearance into a well known female one, he was sure Tony would accept to copulate with.

“Jesus! No.” the mechanic protested at once.

“I thought she was your girlfriend? What’s the matter with that?”

“Yes, no. It’s complicated. It doesn’t help at all, if you’d look like her.”

“Fine,” Loki raised his hands in frustration. He wasn’t used to meeting with a rebuff. “I’ll tell you what’s complicated, humanity and their awkward look onto sexuality! As gender would make any difference to it!”

Tony was staring at the floor.

“I’m grievously disappointed in you Anthony. I thought you would be different.” Loki got up again. “Lady Friday, would you be so kind as to relieve us, please?”

The elevator was put into motion again and Loki pressed the button for Ground floor.

The god left as soon as the doors opened, leaving Stark to his thoughts.

***

Somehow Tony made his way back upstairs to his room. He found himself distressed and numb. Had he really had such strong desires towards Loki? How had he been able to ignore them for so long?

Still he was horny and just the thought of the god’s lips sent his blood downstairs.

Maybe that was the point why he couldn’t make out with Pepper any longer?

He pushed that thought far away, yet it came back at him like a boomerang. Had he been blind all those years? But even if he had been, why did it have to be Loki?

What was it that attracted him to a murderous god?

Tony was desperate.

For the first time in his life he had no idea on how to fix it.

“Show me what he’s doing,” he told Friday, as he sat down, fiddling on a part of the armour to keep his hands busy.

“I’m sorry to say Sir, but we’ve lost the signal,” she replied.

Tony had placed a tiny spy software to Loki’s apartment as he’d left last time. Just to check if the god would behave. But there was a possibility he might have used it for private purposes the last few weeks.

How could he have lost the signal? His technical gadgets never failed.

Loki must have found it.

Question was, for how long had he known about it?

That guy definitely was a trickster. Tony tore his hair out over thinking of Loki. The screwdriver in his hand slipped off and damaged a sensible part of the armour.

“Fuck!” Tony shouted, throwing the piece into a corner.

“May I assist you Sir?” Friday offered her help.

“No, I just need to sleep. I have been up for too long,” the mechanic answered. He took the secret corridor to his bedroom.

But as he laid down, his thoughts were dancing around today's events. Tony knew there was no way he could have a good night's rest, if he hadn’t at least talked it off.

Deep down in the darkest part of his brain, he knew Loki had been right. How could he, the great Tony Stark, shy away from the fulfilment to his desires?

If he was honest with himself, something he usually avoided, he wanted the god more than anything else.

“Friday, cancel everything for tonight, I’ll be having a night out.”

“Yes Sir.”

***

Loki was channel hopping, when a sudden knock on his door made him jump. He half expected, half hoped for Stark to show up, after he had destroyed the little spy. He turned off the TV and answered the door.

There he was, the man that had let him down only hours before.

Loki leaned in the doorframe, his arms crossed staring at Tony in silence.

“I guess I deserve this,” Tony was scratching his head, “may I be allowed to come in?”

Loki stepped aside, asking him in with a gesture of his hand. Stark entered the flat still unsure on how to begin.

“Look I’ve been an idiot, okay?” he started, “I-i have no idea on how to do this. Talking about my feelings isn’t something I’d do on a regular basis. And to be fair, that, whatever it is between us, isn’t something that happens to people every day.” The mechanic’s cheeks turned red, as he looked everywhere but at the god.

A smile flashed over Loki’s face, “so you’ve changed your mind?” he simply asked.

“I wouldn’t see it like that. Let’s say I’m here to find out, if it might possibly work between the two of us.” Tony wanted it to sound casual, but his voice gave his nervousness away.

“That’s enough for now,” Loki said, reaching out for Tony. The god grabbed the other man by the hand, guiding him into the bedroom.

The place was dominated by a tester bed that had dark green velvet curtains to its sides. The only comfort Loki allowed himself. The double sheets were of emerald green silk, accurately spread across the bed.

The god led Tony to one side of it, implying him to sit down. Loki recognised how Tony was biting his lips, so he let himself sink into the pillows, hugging the mechanic from behind. He breathed in the smell he had missed.

In a sudden second of recognition, he figured out what fruity scent it was he wondered about last time. It was blueberries.

Loki kissed Tony’s neck, tempting him with his hot tongue. Meanwhile Tony tried to unbutton his shirt with shaky fingers.

“Let me help you,” Loki offered, pressing his chest against Tony’s back, peeking over his shoulder. He opened the shirt and freed the mechanic from the fabric.

The god let his fingers wander up and down Anthony’s chest, finally resting at his nipples, waiting for permission to go on.

A moan of pleasure escaped Tony’s throat, which was approbation enough for Loki. He twisted and rubbed them between thumb and index finger.

“How does that feel?” he whispered into Tony’s ear.

“Odd,” the mechanic pressed the words through his teeth.

“Ah, so you’d never allowed yourself to take pleasure out of it? Let me show you the possibilities,” Loki smirked. The god leaned backwards, so Tony slid down into his lap.

The mechanic buried his face in his hands, while Loki let his tongue dance over the most sensitive steads on the other man's body.

“Anthony, show me your face,” Loki pulled Tony’s arms upward and fixed them over his head, holding them together with just one hand.

Tony had been this agitated, he hadn’t noticed the god was all over him by now. His long fingers hooked into the waistband, already opened it, pulling the trousers down.

“Wait,” the mechanic said, “don’t you get undressed?”

“Everything at it’s time. Always inpatient,” he chuckled. Loki leaned in, to kiss Tony. While he was distracted, the spell faded, showing the Asgardian god in all his glory.

The moment he let go of Tony, the mechanic gasped, “does that mean you were nude all the time?”

“Who knows?” Loki was clearly flirting with him.

Yet Tony knitted his brows together, aware of what had to happen next. The thought must have been written on his face as Loki answered it: “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything that will hurt you, or make you uncomfortable. Just let me know if we’ve reached your limit.”

“I don’t think I can…well you know…” he stuttered.

Loki nodded, “of course, I didn’t expect you to, the first time you laid down with another male.” He let go of his hands and sat up. “Would you like to take the active part then?”

“Show me,” the mechanic's eyes were overcast with lust.

***

They made love to each other all night long. Tony always had imagined himself a skilled lover. Turned out he was wrong. Loki had centuries of experience and he did things to him, Tony never had dreamed off, or thought them being possible at all.

By dawn he fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion. He curled up next to Loki, who didn’t seem to be tired at all.

Tony woke from the smell of coffee, arising next to him.

The god was leaning in the pillows, with his long legs crossed, reading a book absently sipping from his mug.

“My apologies, I didn’t intend to wake you,” Loki said the moment he realised the other man was looking at him. “I can go to the living room, you must be tired.”

“No, that’s okay,” Tony rubbed his eyes.

“Would you like a cup of coffee then?”

“Yes, please.”

The god got up, to get one for Tony. The mechanic stretched his body, it was only by now that he felt how physically demanding it had been, trying to keep up with Loki.

The moment he sat up leaning into the pillows, like Loki did moments before, the god came back handing him a steaming mug.

Tony was fascinated, on how the black dressing gown underlined the gods' tall, wiry figure. Memories of sweaty, hot nakedness flashed his mind. If he only had the energy to get up, he would have the god begging for mercy this time.

Sipping his coffee, he hid his face until Loki sat back to his former spot.

“So, what do you think about our arrangement? Is it something you would like to continue?” Loki asked.

“I’ve never experienced something similar…” Tony answered, his mind drifting off again. To Loki kneeling over him, doing things with his tongue while his fingers had reached regions of Tony’s body, he never had thought of touching himself. Yet it had caused immense pleasure.

“That mean?” Loki was eying him uneasy.

“I’ll have to join Pride month next time,” the mechanic whispered. He still wasn’t sure if it would work out well between them. Heck both of them were stubborn and proud and not used to letting people come close in any way.

“Maybe we should keep it a secret, until we both feel pleasant about whatever will evolve out of this night?” Loki suggested.

“Agreed,” Tony nodded. “So what next? Shall we have dates? Or do we visit each other for random quickies?”

“Relax Anthony. We could start on exchanging numbers?”

“You have a phone?” Stark looked at the god with big eyes.

“Of course I have. I’m not Thor, I know how to adapt myself. A friend showed me how to use it,” Loki tilted his head.

“Friend?” Tony couldn’t believe it.

“Yes, Anthony. Believe it or not, I have a friend. Her name is Verity.”

“Sorry, I guess I was just surprised at how fast you’ve made yourself at home.”

“I had to. There’s nothing else left to call a home.” Loki was staring at his feet.

Tony was patting his back, shifting uneasy. It was time for him to leave. Usually he would steal away in the middle of the night, maybe leaving a note that said ‘thank you’. He was far away from his comfort zone and needed time to process all this.

“Uhhm, so—I need to go back, a lot of work is waiting for me,” he lied.

Loki scribbled down his phone number for Tony. “See you at the next mission, I suppose?” Loki was raising an eyebrow.

“Probably. I mean it’s New York. Ancient gods try to destroy it all the time.”

“Hey! It was just one time.”

The two men looked at each other, bursting out with laughter.

As Tony stepped out the door, he felt this was the first time he really wanted it to work. Like he had found a kindred soul, and so thought Loki lying in his bed.

-Fin-

[nightshade-minho]

-The One-

Warnings: very very mild knifeplay, unprotected sex, oral (m. receiving), fingering, creampie, light navel play, tiny mention of blood, rituals, themes of witchcraft + demons, jealousy, sir kink, master kink, threesome, aftercare.

Felix × fem!Reader × Minho

Wc: 3k

Note: I stayed up all night writing this and was half-asleep so I apologize for any mistakes or incoherencies. Regardless, I’m quite proud of this fic hehe, and I’d love some feedback on it~

You could barely breathe. The feeling of his cock stretching you out as you sat on his lap, combined with the heady feeling of the knife's tip pressed against your skin was driving you insane with arousal.

"Such a pretty one you are...we don't usually get customers like you."

You scrunched your eyes shut, not wanting to make eye contact with him. His smirk, his golden eyes that gleamed with confidence...it would all make you even more nervous than you already were.

"Sir...p-please don't hurt me."

"Tsk. I won't, princess. Not yet." He shifted you on his lap, causing his tip to rub up against your sweet spot. You let out a soft moan as he did so, your eyes slowly opening and drifting down to the shiny steel pressed against your torso.

"Will it...will it hurt?"

He gently dragged the knife upwards, eyes fixed on you. He wasn't applying any pressure, and the blade itself wasn't very sharp...but it still sent tingles through you.

"Not really. If you're a good girl for us, it won't. The ritual is a very short one, and doesn't have many side effects."

"Okay...wait, us?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. My boss. He'll be here soon, don't worry. He's a busy man. I take care of the shop when he's not here."

"Oh...so you're like, his assistant?"

"Mmhm. You could say that. He doesn't pay me, though." He mutters, expression faltering for a second. The smirk slowly returned though, as he dragged the steel gently up between your breasts, pausing.

"Why...w-why do you work here, then?"

"He's family. My older brother,to be exact."

"O-oh..."

"Yup. In fact, enjoy my leniency while you can. I can assure you, my brother is a lot more..."

He sighed, poking the tip into your skin lightly, but not enough to draw blood.

"Sadistic."

You gulped as Felix suddenly started thrusting up into you, his hips gaining a newfound vigor. You groaned, throwing your head back as he hit your sweet spot again.

You never thought you'd end up like this...A few weeks ago, you were living your life like any other college student.

When winter break came along, you'd been more than excited to get back to your hometown...the place you'd grew up in. One of the first things you did was visit the woods, searching for the tree house you'd made when you were about 10 years old.

Of course, you hadn't expected to see a cottage where your tree house had formerly been. On hindsight, it probably wasn't a good idea to knock.

You hadn't expected to see a cute boy open the door, either.

Felix, he said his name was.

The cottage wasn't a house after all...it was more of an eccentric little shop, the shelves lined with curious looking bottles and dusty books.

You'd definitely thought the man was cuckoo, especially when he started talking about witchcraft and rituals. He was undeniably hot, though...

One thing led to another and here you were a few days later, having sex with someone you barely knew. That someone also happened to talk an awful lot about demons and witchcraft. God, you were stupid to trust him.

"This ritual...what does it require, again? And there's absolutely no side effects?"

"Nope. All you want is revenge, correct? We can make that happen."

"Having sex with you is part of it, right?"

Felix laughed, taking his knife away and resting it on the table next to him. "Oh, you truly do hurt me. Here I was thinking you were having sex with me cause you wanted to." He adjusted himself in his chair, lifting you off his cock and turning you around.

He slowly eased you back down onto his length, groaning softly under his breath at your tightness.

"Look here. Intercourse with a virgin is stage one of the ritual, and semen also happens to be one of the ingredients." He said, pulling your back against his chest and lifting a finger, causing a dusty old book in the corner of the room to hover over.

You squinted at the page, the words registering itself in your brain.

"Wait...how did you know I'm a virgin?"

"It's glaringly obvious, doll."

You gritted your teeth, biting your lip as Felix let the book drop to the floor, his hands on your waist as he slowly started fucking up into you.

"Remember, you asked for this. You're the one who came here first. You gave me full consent to do this."

"I d-did."

"Mmhmm. Don't forget to tell Minho that. If he's not a corpse somewhere, that is...he usually isn't this late."

A shiver ran through you as Felix suddenly got up with you still on his cock, his fingers digging into your skin as he took you over to the window. He slid apart the heavy purple curtains with one hand.

"Ah...there he is."

You twisted your neck slightly. Eyes misty with arousal, you could barely make out the shadowy figure approaching. Felix's fingers on your chin forced you to face him again, his smile slightly unsettling.

"He's here. I'll remind you again. This was your choice."

"M-my choice..." You gulped as the door opened, the bells tinkling.

There was silence for a few minutes. Felix's form was blocking the figure in the shop. You made a sound of frustration as you craned your neck, trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious man, despite the fear enveloping your heart.

"Hm. What do we have here? Felix, I've told you before. Don't bring your playthings into the shop."

Felix turned around, taking you to the counter and setting you on the edge of it, still inside you. The new angle finally let you make eye contact with the man.

Oh, fuck. Almost immediately, you wished you hadn't looked at him. Yes, Felix was scary and slightly unnerving...but this man's aura was a whole new shade of intimidating.

You tried your best to break eye contact, but you couldn't. His stare was mesmerizing, and you almost drooled.

A sharp thrust from Felix snapped you out of your haze.

"She isn't a plaything. She's been coming here for the past week...keeping me company. It gets lonely here when you leave on your little trips, you know."

Minho frowned as he set down the mysterious looking packages he'd been holding, leaning on the heavy oak table. His eyes fell on the open book. He lazily regarded the pages, sighing.

Despite his indifferent expression, when he spoke, his tone was menacing.

"Have you been showing this girl the texts? Felix, you know we're not supposed to fraternize with the mortals. I've let you copulate with some of them, but I've told you time and time again...magic and elements of the otherwordly realm are far too complex for their puny brains to comprehend."

Felix sighed, turning slightly to face his brother but not slowing down. He kept thrusting into you, a hand grasping your breast and fingers gliding over your nipple as he spoke.

"That's just it! This human here is different from the others. For one, once she got over her initial shock and surprise, she even started reading the rituals herself and helping me out around the shop! In fact, that's what we're doing right now, enacting the Interfectorem Inimicus Ritual. She has a silly little rival she wants to get rid of."

Minho sighed, his eyes coming up to meet yours again. You looked away meekly, making a small smirk appear on his features.

Cute.

He rarely found mortals attractive...but this one right here might have to be an exception. Besides, if what Felix said was true, she was special. Maybe she wasn't even a mortal after all...

Minho needed to know if that was true. And there was only one way to find out.

He stalked over calmly, tapping Felix's shoulder.

"Give her to me."

"What?!" Felix's look of confusion mirrored yours.

"You heard me." His gaze drifted slowly to you, a finger sneaking out to trace your jawline. You unknowingly leaned into his touch, shivering at the feeling of his cold fingers.

"Hmm now, kitten...why exactly were you snooping about in the sacred texts?" His gaze was stern as he locked your eyes with his.

"I wasn't s-snooping-"

"Did Lixie here give you permission?"

"I, well...no..." You hated the way his intense stare was making you blurt out the truth, cheeks flushed. "I was just curious, that's all. So I read one of the b-books when he wasn't looking."

"Curious." Minho let go of your chin, chuckling. "Haven't you heard? Curiosity killed the cat." His eyes turned darker. "Although when it comes to this kitty, it might just be something else that leads to her demise..."

You swallowed, a fresh wave of arousal shooting through you as Minho smiled, saccharine sweet.

He glared at Felix, making him let go of you reluctantly.

"I'm going to fuck you now, kitten. Would you like that?"

You looked up at him. There was just something about him...his intensity, his demeanor...combined with his sharp beauty...he had you whiny and needy, keening in just seconds.

"Yes, Master, want you...want you so bad!" You mewled, just as Felix pulled out of you.

"Good girl."

In seconds, he gathered you in his arms, taking you over to the burgundy sofa in the corner of the room. "Now, let's do this ritual the right way, shall we? Felix, light some candles."

"Listen, brother, I really don't think this is a good idea and-"

"Do as I say."

Felix sighed, nodding as he went to gather some candles from the shelf. As he lit each one, his heart shuddered.

The two of them knew something you didn't.

Felix and Minho shared a demonic father, but had different mothers. Felix's mother happened to be human, while Minho's definitely wasn't. It was why Felix was able to have intercourse with humans without rendering them completely insane.

Minho, on the other hand...didn't possess even an ounce of humanity. He was draconian, otherworldly...

Felix glanced back, sadness taking over his features as he watched you, entranced as you stared at him.

He was worried you wouldn't last the night.

Minho leaned down, inhaling. He loved the way the human interacted to his touches, however featherlight they may be. He ran the tip of his fingers over your chin, down between your breasts. His fingers continued their descent until they reached your navel, his lust growing as he dipped his finger in, prompting a soft whimper from you. He fingered your navel gently for a few seconds, before he went even lower...finally reaching your clit.

If you were indeed human, you wouldn't be able to handle him or his cock. If you weren't, though?

The implications of it drove Minho giddy with excitement. He'd never had the pleasure of playing with someone as responsive and adorable as you were. Maybe you could even be his queen when he ascends his father's throne...

He shook his head, snapping himself out of his thoughts. First, he had to make sure of your origins. Then, he'd let himself daydream.

His fingers slowly pushed into your already dripping pussy, an appreciative groan leaving his lips as your soaking walls hugged his digits tightly.

Felix finished with the candles, his own erection growing impossibly harder as the lewd noises your pussy was making filled the room.

He turned, making his way to the sofa and glaring at his brother. He already harbored quite a bit of resentment for the older man, and this only served to deepen his hatred. Why did he have to steal away everything that was his?

Minho pulled his fingers out with a pop, sucking on his digits as he looked over at Felix. Your eyes opened halfway, registering Minho's naked form with some surprise. When did he remove his clothes? Then again, you knew the two men in the room didn't obey the same worldly rules you did.

Minho's eyes drifted down to Felix's erection, tutting under his breath.

"You know what...you can use her mouth, if you like."

Felix grumbled. It was better than nothing, but then again...He didn't want his brother to fuck you at all. Till now, you'd proven to be different from the usual human...most mortals couldn't even see their shop. However, he still felt that slight unease that came with not wanting to see you hurt. He'd only known you for a week but...deep inside, he didn't want to lose you.

Felix led his cock to your lips, eyes searching your lidded ones for discomfort. When he found none, he slid his length past your throat slowly, making you moan.

Minho's thick tip was rubbing at your folds. You could only feel the sensation of his head dragging up and down your slit...but it was more than enough for you to realize that he was bigger than everyone you'd ever had sex with.

When he finally pushed into you, you saw stars in your eyes. The pleasure was overwhelming...so sudden and potent that you screamed, Felix's eyes widening in concern as he pulled out.

"Are you okay?

"Y-yeah! For fuck's sake, it feels so gooooooood-" You choked out, clenching tightly around Minho's huge cock, his thrusts unlike anything you'd ever experienced before. It was almost satanic, the way he plunged into you repeatedly, stretching you out to your absolute limit.

Minho gritted his teeth as he gripped your waist tightly, his head thrown back in pleasure. "Fuck...ironic, but your pussy is heavenly, kitten..."

He moved you up and down his shaft, the feeling of your soft pussy opening up more and more with each stroke driving him crazed with lust. He'd never felt anything like this before.

"Felix, she's so fucking- shit....she's so fucking perfect-"

Felix frowned, sitting back as he watched. He couldn't help the envy from gripping his heart as he watched your pleasure-stricken face, your eyes rolling back in your head as Minho slid his girth deeper, hitting your sweet spot. He didn't want to stay any longer, but he couldn't help it. He really didn't want to leave you alone with his brother.

Minho drove into you faster as he felt his orgasm approaching, spurred on by the way you clenched tightly around him, clearly near your end as well.

"Kitten? 'M going to cum...going to fill your little pussy up..."

You whined, arching your back. "Can I cum, Master?"

He shook his head, growling as he rubbed your clit. "You'll cum when I tell you to."

Minho turned to the side as he kept abusing your pussy, his eyes landing on Felix...chuckling at his hand wrapped around his cock.

"Couldn't help yourself, could you?"

Felix let out a moan as he continued jerking himself off, standing up. He didn't care anymore...you looked so perfect like this, completely naked and at their mercy, mouth wide open and ready for him to use.

He came closer and shoved his cock down your throat roughly, not giving you time to adjust as he started fucking into you, his high close. You choked, caught off guard, but quickly got over it. Determined to be a good girl for them, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked on Felix's cock desperately, even as you tried to stave off your orgasm.

His length twitched in your mouth, and before you knew it, you felt warm cum spurting down your throat. Felix groaned, pulling out slowly.

"Felix, now. Get my blade and the book."

"Wait, what?"

"She's the one. I can tell. Quick. We need to get her blood at the exact time she hits her high, or I won't be able to complete my ritual."

"Wait- no! This is Y/n's ritual, the one for her rival. It's lower magic. The one you want to do...Come on, brother! You have to think before making a decision like this, you can't just make her your bride...we have to get Y/n's permission, too-"

Minho growled, his eyes flashing red as he glared at Felix. "I'm not performing a wedding ritual or anything, brother. I'm simply preserving her essence-"

Felix shook his head. His heart was thudding- he'd figured it out too, just like his brother had. You weren't mortal. You were special...and that meant Minho wanted to find out what exactly you were.

He felt sick as he thought of you getting married to his brother. No. You belonged here on Earth, with your family and your friends-

With him.

Before he could react, Minho's hand had materialized the exact knife he wanted.

Encrusted with rubies and made of demonic steel, the blade was far sharper than the one Felix had been teasing you with before.

Minho let go of your waist to grab your hand, bringing it up to his face. His hips continued their assault, making you whine and whimper.

Half the things they said were making no sense, and you were scared and yet...aroused, at the same time. You didn't know what was going on, but you wanted to listen to the man above you. You wanted to do everything he said, wanted to be his little pet...wanted to be his. Your brain felt like it was slowly getting rid of all rationality, the feeling of his cock making you whine louder.

"Kitten...I'm going to make a tiny little cut, right here on your finger. Is that okay?"

You nodded desperately, and Minho smiled at you in approval.

"Cum."

You finally let go, the pleasure washing over you in a tidal wave as you shook, convulsing with electricity as Minho drove the blade into the tip of your finger just enough to let out a few drops of blood.

Felix reluctantly conjured up an empty potion vial, capturing the drop with ease.

Minho lifted your finger to his mouth, sucking on the digit and running his tongue over the wound repeatedly. The metallic taste of your blood was the final push he needed to cum, thrusting deeper as he spilled himself into you.

When he let go of your finger, all the pain had disappeared. You noticed your finger was healed...the skin just as clean and soft as it was before.

You whined as he pulled out, conjuring another vial to gather some of your mixed fluids that was leaking out from between your thighs. He yawned as he handed it to Felix, who corked it with a frown on his face, setting it next to the vial with your blood in it. He knew what Minho wanted to do...he wanted to perform a ritual with the vials, wanted to make sure you were the one for him. It wasn't a wedding ritual by any means...but it was a pre-requisite, and the thought saddened Felix. Maybe his feelings for you were deeper than he'd thought.

Slowly, Minho gathered you into his arms, patting your hair gently and kissing your forehead.

"You were a good kitten, Y/n. How are you feeling?"

"I'm f-feeling okay..."

Minho made a face of delight at Felix. "She can still talk and formulate sentences!" He mouthed, prompting a half-hearted smile from his brother.

"D'you want to cuddle?"

You pouted. "Mmhmm! But..I want Lix to come cuddle too."

Felix looked up at that, his eyes widening.

You still wanted him?

Minho met his eyes, giving him a small smile. "Sure, baby. Lix can come cuddle as well."

You grinned, looking over at Felix and making grabby hands. Giggling, the boy quickly dropped onto the couch, wrapping his arms around your torso and humming in content.

"You know..I don't mind sharing her." Minho whispered, his fingers still stroking your hair. "Really?" Felix asked, looking down at you.

"If she wants to be shared, that is."

"I don't mind!" You chirped. "Life is boring here, anyway. Where did you guys say you lived again?"

The two men shared a look.

Minho sighed as he stroked your hair. "I can't wait to introduce you to our dad."

"Your dad?"

"Yep! Don't worry, he's nice. And I think he'd like you."

You frowned slowly as you remembered something Felix had told you. Snippets of their conversation flashed through your brain as your stomach filled with something akin to dread and anticipation.

"Who did you say your dad was, again?"

"Oh, what? Ah, that doesn't really matter. He's just the king of the Underworld."