#i want to know whose idea it was to make the statue nude

[bandgie]

Soulful | Armageddon Event

Request: Gratitude | Kim Hongjoong (ATZ) by anon song!

warnings: MDNI18+, fem!reader, choking (brief), reader is a priestess, PIV, no protection, pussy play (brief), finger sucking (m!), no idea if this counts as blasphemy?, cumming inside, crying (f!)

notes! I've said it once and ill say it again, writing for Hongjoong is so hard for me. ya'll don't understand

2.9k words

Beg. Beg on your knees if you must. Until the skin on your bones is raw and red, kneel for forgiveness.

The high priestess’s words swirl in your brain until the words twist into pleas. The marble beneath is usually comforting on your skin. It should bring you peace, and some tranquility, but you’re filled with dread. It eats at your stomach and heart until it closes around your throat. The cold floor does nothing to soothe you, nothing at all. 

And the statue of him. His sculpted face peering down at the altar, where you kneel, is suffocating.

Being a priestess means to live a life of solitude. To be unwed, untouched, and unable to experience the fleshy pleasures of life - it’s something not anybody is willing to give up. You thought you could do it. You thought you weren’t just anybody. There wasn’t a mortal man worth devoting your life to, but even you succumb to the touch of one.

And when you confessed, to your high priestess no less, she looked mortified. You were sure you’d be exiled from the temple, but she convinced you to spew your sins on the altar.

Only the Lord can determine your punishment now. Pray that Lord Hongjoong takes mercy on your soul.

He won't. You know he won’t. He was the only deity you promised your life to. You swore it. The salvation of your soul was traded for a man whose name you can’t recall.

How could you?

The question rings so loud you think it echoes in the empty sanctuary. The voice comes from your consciousness, you’re sure, and with your tears pouring it’s near impossible to know it’s the statue that spoke.

Your head is down, your puffy eyes are closed, and you’re gasping for air as you cry. The quiet steps are unheard, and it’s when you feel a presence that you finally look up.

“How could you?”

He stands in front of you now, flesh and bone rather than the hard marble you’re so used to seeing.

Instincts kick in. You throw yourself back and shrink with wide, teary eyes peering up. It’s hard to tell with blurry vision, but you know who it is. His chiseled face and the curve of his upper lip that frowns tell you everything.

Maybe him being materialized in front of your very eyes should fill you with fear, but the presence of a God only fills you with wonder and adoration.

Until you remember why he’s here in the first place. 

“I-,” you gasp for air. “I didn’t mean to.”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes growing confused. “You didn’t mean to? You wanted to. Did you not?”

You scramble on your knees, crawling to his feet. “I-I did. But I didn’t know it would make me fall from grace like this.” It’s so hard to talk. Your voice is thick with tears and just remembering how his hands trailed upon your nude body makes you shiver in disgust.

Conviction. You’re feeling conviction.

“You cannot beg for forgiveness and lie to me in the same breath. I detest that.” Hongjoong’s face twists into the first signs of disgust.

You whimper. “No- No I would never…It is you I’ve committed myself to. I had- I had a moment of weakness. I let my skin be shown, be- be touched in a way I’ve sworn never to be touched. I’m so ashamed.”

Tears drip onto his feet. The cries you’ve tried to keep at bay finally free. It sounds like you’re choking, drowning in a sea of misery and guilt that you’ve put yourself in.

When his hand comes into contact with the back of your head, you shiver. A God’s touch can make you feel at ease, and that’s exactly what Hongjoong does as he kneels on one leg.

“N-No.” You look at his eyes with your own. “You mustn't touch the ground. It’s dirty.”

But his hand slides to your cheek, ignoring your concern. His face is close to yours, but his smooth, clear skin is nothing compared to his eyes. They stare into yours: seeing, understanding, feeling.

“You truly are sorry.”

You’re unsure if you’re supposed to touch him, but you grip his wrist anyway. “I am. I will be sorry my entire life and beyond. I’ve broken our promise like it meant nothing, like my oath meant nothing. It is…it is me who is nothing.”

The fact hits you hard. Your only reason for living was to worship him and you’ve ruined it. Even if he does banish you from the temple, if you become nothing more than a disgraced priestess, you’ll spend your years begging for forgiveness.

He’s scanning your face. You know he can see your dried tears this close, the redness in your eyes, the flush in your cheeks, but you don’t care. He is the only one to see you this way, now and always. 

Hongjoong eyes slide to your neck. “You’ve been soiled.”

Tears sting your eyes again, but you can fight them back. “I have.”

His gaze goes lower and lower until you lay back for him with the cool floor on your forearms while he crawls over you. “And you still want to serve me.” It’s not a question, but a fact. You don’t have to nod, you both know the answer.

“Humans always sin. It is but a part of nature. Just as birds sing and bees buzz, humans will sin.” Hongjoong’s body is warm on top of yours. He’s pushed you back until you lay on the floor, hair sprawled and gown ridden up indecently, but you know he will love you whole just as you love him.

His fingers trail over your throat and down your neck. His touch leaves goosebumps in their wake, and you inhale a shaky breath.

“I know this and yet, I despise his body on yours. You promised yourself to me.”

This time when you shiver, it’s not the repulsion from remembering, but excitement of something more. “I…I still am. I always will be.”

Something in the air shifts. You can taste possession on your tongue, something dark in this Divine being stirring the atmosphere.

The wrath of a God. 

“Not just in spirit.” Hongjoong’s eyes are dark. “But in mind, soul, and body. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

You nod. “I do.”

“This life you live will change. Devotion is all that you will know, no more devil's temptation. You will belong to me in every way.”

With shaky hands, you grab a hold of his wrist on your neck. You bare your throat to him and look at the painted ceiling. “I already do, my God.”

He squeezes. A small gasp of air catches in your throat as his free hand trails to your hip. The pressure is comforting, almost addicting when his fingers dig into your flesh.

Your white gown feels lighter. You can’t look down to see what’s happening, but you can feel how the material moves and rips until the pieces shred into lumps of thread beside you.

Now you’re truly bare to him. The air makes your nipple harden, but you hardly feel cold. Everything is warm, down to your skin to the bones. How Hongjoong constricts your airway isn’t painful, but delightful. You like the fuzzy feeling, the way your vision blackens until all you can see is his glowing body.

But when he releases, you feel how you pant for air. His touch goes further until he settles with the plush of your stomach.

There are marks, you realize. Bruises and bites from your night of sin. You wait for the disgust. For Hongjoong to scrunch his nose and turn you away, yet, he doesn’t. His slender fingers press into the marks instead, the first sliver of pain he’s given you. You whine at the pressure and hide behind your arms.

“You have him on you still. It defiles you.” Maybe Hongjoong can feel the worry rolling off you because he quickly says, “I am not mad. You will be cleaned. Filled with holiness.”

You finally dare to peek from your arms and you're stunned to see him nude. The slip he wears is no more and it’s a broad chest with etched lines on his stomach that you gawk at.

It might be his power that opens your legs, or maybe it’s your own volition, but you tremble for the first time in fear. Your experience with sex is insignificant and it was rather…bearable than it was enjoyable. Even living with only women, you still could hear the whispers about the pleasures of sex. It didn’t tickle your fancy back then, but as you got older and realized what magic your hands could do in the late night…

Not that it matters. Sex in itself was a lie. You did not feel joyous or ‘glow’ as some ladies said they did. It was rather sad how he up and left, leaving you to replay the touches and uncomfortable feeling between your legs by yourself.

And although Hongjoong keeps you warm and promises to keep you by his side even with all your sins, you worry.

His cock settles over your stomach. A flush pink tip that rests below your belly button. Perhaps it’s indecent, but you stare. Your cunt clenches at the thought of him inside and you see his cock twitch.

He must be thinking the same thing.

Hongjoong lifts the underside of your thighs in his grasp, making sure to keep you spread so he can see your folds glisten.

“So beautiful,” he hums. One hand glides down to your pussy, thumb touching your clit gently. You sigh when he adds pressure, rubbing his digit in circles so you can writhe and moan.

You feel his thumb dip. It prods your entrance, dipping in with ease before sliding out to smear your arousal on your clit. “I know you taste as good as you look.” Hongjoong doesn’t pull his thumb away, not so soon. He swirls it on your swollen button, flicking the flesh up and down to see your cunt ooze more slick.

The warmness on your skin seeps into your stomach. You were always shy playing with yourself, but to watch your God do it so smoothly and almost entertained has that warmth bubbling into something more.

Hongjoong pulls away, tongue reaching out to his finger like he can’t wait for it to land in his mouth. His lips purse and his cheeks hollow slightly. You can see his tongue lapping on his thumb, over the tip and pad of his finger.

Your clit jolts, imagining that it’s the one being licked. You can’t look away from him as you think of his eyes looking over your breasts instead. Gods are one to work dutifully. Although you’ve never been tasted in such a way, you can imagine Hongjoong can do it properly.

His tongue wouldn’t only play with your clit, opting to suck and hold it in his mouth tenderly. It’s there that he would lavish your nub. In the warmth of his mouth, wet and hot. You would plead with him to give your pussy kisses. His lips would feel soft against your own.

A wet pop! makes you snap out of your thoughts. Hongjoong is looking at you as if he knows your thoughts are filled with fantasies, but he only smiles. “You look as though you’re standing at the gates of heaven.”

You reach for him, grabbing onto his thick thighs beside you. “And if I say I am? I feel as though it’s true.” Your eyes unfocus for a moment, anxiety washing over you again. “But…”

His grip tightens. “But?”

How silly you feel with a God between your legs, but you can’t help but ask, “Will it hurt?”

You feel like a fool when his smile turns into a laugh. You wish to hide behind your forearms again, but he intertwines his fingers with yours. “You ask as if you’ve never done this. This is exactly why you’re here with me, no?”

“Y-yes but…” gods, your face is burning, “but… never mind.”

Hongjoong’s smile morphs into a look of concern. His hand squeezes reassuringly, adjusting his hips until it perfectly lines with your entrance. One of his hands lets go, running down the skin of your stomach, down to your pelvis, over your cunt to his cock. He taps his tip on your clit and you tense.

“No. It won’t hurt. What we’re doing isn’t sex. This is not flesh.”

You’ve never been one to question a God, but with your bodies nude and close, you can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “I don’t think I-”

It doesn’t feel anything like your first time when Hongjoong slips in. There’s no gasp of surprise or sharp pain you hiss from. Instead, your mouth gapes open. Your sentence cuts off with a satisfied moan when he fills you.

“Oh.” It’s all you can manage. You knew bodies were warm, but you didn’t know they could scorch your insides like this. The pressure between your legs goes beyond the little pleasure you’ve known and you clench as if you’ve come already. “Oh, my God.”

Hongjoong sighs with contentment. His fingers find their place on your hips and blunt fingernails dig painlessly into your skin. You can feel his cock burying deeper, walls fluttering open with ease. His shaft catches your clit in the process and you shake when he drags it downwards with him.

“No,” his eyes look up to yours. “Call me by my name.”

That. You’re not sure if you can. Even if he looks at you with sincerity and utter command, speaking his true name is above you.

You want to shake your head, to say that even thinking about it isn’t something you deserve, but Hongjoong bullies into you. The tip of his cock touches a certain spot not even you have managed to reach. It makes your stomach tense, the goosebumps on your arms rise, and a squeal erupts from your swollen lips.

This God isn’t one to be defied.

He’ll make sure you have no choice but to moan his name. Every drag of his cock is swift and his thrusts are harsh. Hongjoong buries himself to the hilt, your clit on his pelvis every single time.

His length shouldn’t feel like it encompasses your body, but it does. Despite being a God, Hongjoong doesn’t seem to tower over mortals as legends claim, but he manages to make you feel small when he lies on top.

With a forearm on the ground and a hand keeping one of your thighs up so he can slide in with ease, Hongjoong does everything in his power to make you succumb to his wish.

“Say it.” He doesn’t even sound out of breath. You’re panting, moaning, and whining with all that he’s giving you, but his hips don’t so much as falter no matter how much you squeeze. “Don’t make me ask again.”

But how can you even speak when the glorious feeling builds? Hongjoong is more than deep in your body. He’s reaching for you, grabbing the soul you thought was damned, and keeping it in the palm of his hand. It’s there now. It’s safe and it feels divine.

“I’m!-” going to pee? Will you truly soil yourself in front of your God? Again?

That’s what it feels like when he pulls back. You miss the heat of his body immediately, but the earnest way he fucks into you makes the loss bearable.

“Wait! My- my…Hongjoong! Hongjoong, I’ll get you dirty.”

But maybe your God has a thing for messes because his hand moves from your thighs to your clit, rubbing in fast circles.

Something leaks from your cunt. You can feel it slide down your ass and hear how much wetter his thrusts sound. It’s warm and you find yourself liking how Hongjoong eyes finally tear from yours to look at the white cream leaking.

He groans, one of the first sounds of pleasure. You feel your heart swell.

“Didn’t I already tell you? I’ll clean you.” Hongjoong pushes your legs until they’re near your head. You feel so exposed like this, breasts bouncing and swollen pussy on display, but he drinks it up.

“Yes.” His eyes roll back. “Good.”

You snap. The feeling you were trying to hold back floods onto his cock. Whatever liquid you felt dripping only triples when you cum.

Your cunt spasms. It grabs onto Hongjoong’s cock like it wants him to stay still for a moment, to let your body indulge in this pleasure, but he doesn’t. Can’t when his release aches in his stomach before pouring inside you.

It warms your heart, something you didn’t think was possible by doing something considered sinful. The orgasm forces him to stop, opting to have your pussy swallow his shaft and cum until it has no choice but to leak on the sides.

You both moan when he pulls out. The way his cock glides out makes the release pour out with it.

Hongjoong rests his hand on your stomach. A gentle hum fills the air, but you think it’s a side effect from the ‘glow’ women have talked about.

But does a glow really feel like this? Lightweight, free, and safe?

No, not in the presence of him it is because of the glow. With his hand on your abdomen and his cum seeping from your cunt, you know it’s his holiness that does it.

With a look of infatuation in your eyes with the possession in his, you know it is finished.

[tideswept]

Oh, oh! Made up title: The Midsummer Incident

This could go either very bad or very harmless in my mind lmao and I haven't decided which instinct would win out so I took my time but--I think I finally have a definitive answer.

And it's... a short story? (wait, wait, stop throwing rotten fruit, it's wasteful! your plants want it!)

"Why do houses bleed?" Morkie—whose name on her birth certificate is Helen Camilla Lynch, but who has a particular set of ideas about whether real names are meant to be used or hidden because she's obsessed with faeries—asks.

I continue buttering the bread. "What do you mean?"

My tone is only curious. No matter their advanced vocabulary, five-year-olds are five-year-olds. Combine that with a fertile imagination, and I'm used to just about anything coming out of my child's mouth. Last week, it had been the deeply philosophical question of whether Santa pays his elves.

(I told her I wasn't sure, and that we could write to him at the end of the year to inquire about his business practices to make sure everything was on the up and up.)

Her attention is on the toast, eagle-eyed that I might screw up the butter-to-bread ratio, which would then throw off the marmalade ratio. "Mr. Barbie's house bled last night."

My head cocks to the side to glance out the kitchen window at the squat house across the street from us. Replicas of Italian statues dot his yard, including an exquisite copy of David that the real estate agent had tried to block with her car when she'd been giving us a house tour, not realizing that my daughter had seen more artistic nudes than most art critics by this point.

Mr. Barbie—Mr. Barberio, but again, due to fairy law, real names were something to be protected—had not been the most pleasant neighbor when we'd moved in late in the spring, but he'd warmed up to us after he discovered I was an artist. Digital, but I had my fondness for charcoal and paper, which had convinced him I wasn't a complete barbarian out to stomp on all things beautiful and true.

He was a spry old man, cagey about his age, with a shock of snow-white hair maintained with the precision of a mathematician's formula, slicked back as if to show off what a full head of it he had.

My husband, who's had a widow's peak since he was Morkie's age, had ruefully rubbed his thinning hair and said, "If you leave me for him, I'll know why."

"Mmn." With a flourish of my wrist to indicate a job well done, I slide the buttered toast onto Morkie's plate. "I can't say saw it happening. What did it look like?"

Morkie takes a bite of her toast and bluntly says, "Like blood."

Alright. Point to the smartass. I pull the closest sketchbook to me—I kept at least one in every room, not out of pragmatism but because I lose them and encounter them again like old friends—and start roughing out the shape of Mr. Barberio's house. "Where? And—hey, no butter fingers."

Morkie looks at her butter-slick hand as if it's betrayed her and pulls it back to hover an inch over the sketch. "Here, and here," she explains, pointing at the two upper windows that face the road.

I dutifully shade in those windows. "Like this?"

"Like crying, mommy." Morkie chomps on her toast, sounding exasperated that I'm not picking up what she's laying down. God, I'm going to miss her when she starts kindergarten in a month. Sassy little beast.

"That's a bit sad, isn't it?" I prod gently, pencil unmoving. The sketch remains as it is, the two windows dark. "Did it make you feel sad?"

Morkie nods. She's finished with the bread and is now dragging her sippy cup to her mouth. She can drink just fine out of a glass; she just likes to vary it up with a classic every once in a while.

"When did you see it?"

"When I was sleeping." Morkie sees no issue with this.

Ah. "Like in a dream?"

"Nope," she says, popping the "p" definitively.

I'm weighing whether to say anything at all because not everything needs an explanation when the sirens, muffled by the closed windows, register.

We live in a quiet neighborhood, deep in a maze of residential streets that simply end rather than looping back into the arteries of the city. So any emergency services hauling ass with all lights on aren't simply passing through; this is their destination.

We watch silently as the ambulance stops in front of Mr. Barberio's house.

📚 [send me a made-up fic title and i’ll tell you what i would write to go with it;]

🍓 [quick jump to ask inbox]

[chaotic-history]

I can't tell from these if he knew or not cause it doesn't say the date, but "vieux et petit squelette" implies he did know the end result while writing this.

Bachaumont clearly didn't like it

...and neither did Fréron 💀

also I can't find a full list of everyone who helped pay for it but so far the ones that have come up are Rousseau (🤡), Fritz (ofc), d'Alembert, Saint Lambert ??, and d'Argental, though he borrowed the money for it from Voltaire

king of sweden is fucking hilarious

I already knew they did it during his lifetime but everytime I see the date it's still a shock. Like ??? did V know what the statue was gonna be ??

also fucking ROUSSEAU helped pay for it 💀

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: IV

“I had a few, got drunk on you

And now I’m wasted

And when I sleep, I’m gonna dream of 

How you tasted.”

— Medicine, Harry Styles

A/N: if i said i’m apologizing for the way i left off ch3, yes i did ❤️ no i didn’t ❤️ it was fun ❤️ as always, feedback is greatly appreciated!! and if you enjoy the piece, please reblog it!!! it keeps content creators motivated!! without further delay, hope you enjoy what’s in store for Sherlock and Watson this chapter cause it’s uhhhh quite a bit of uhhhh ~stuff~ 😌

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

word count: 26.4k

content/warnings: a mild addiction to sexting, some pretty sparkly lingerie, a very interesting photo, a strange but satisfying gift, rough sex and degradation, pillow talk about the validity of the men in Twilight, the satisfying gift being put to even more good use, Y/N going over to Harry’s apartment for the first time, mild mentions of blood, and an impromptu Hamilton re-enactment amidst more lemon blueberry pancakes

///

For the next three days, the sexting grows more frequent. 

Harry feels somewhat humiliated by it, really. He’s an adult— a full-grown, two hundred and nine year old man— and trading nudes with a simple girl shouldn’t be getting him as worked up as it does. He should know how to handle his hormones better, and the thing is, he usually does. But no one in the last few centuries has made him feel as desperate as Y/N does; he hasn’t felt this helpless for someone since he was alive. The vampire just wasn’t prepared to handle the needy responses she so easily yields from his body and he’s horribly rusty on how to skate this thin sheet of metaphorical ice. It’s like he can feel it cracking and crunching beneath his feet, but he has absolutely no power over how to stop it. Any minute, it’s bound to take him under, and he has no choice but to allow himself to drown in it. 

The following seventy two hours are full of so many dirty promises and explicit images, his phone might as well be a porno hard drive.

After coaxing Y/N into a few orgasms through the phone and receiving just as many in return, a dangerous game is set into motion that Harry knows is probably unhealthy not only for his self-worth, but for the sensitivity of his anatomy. He can only get off so many times before his joints are begging for a break. 

He wakes up Wednesday morning with a stiff ache running along his inner thighs and ebbing across the underside of his balls, but there’s an undeniable contentment stewing behind it. He doesn’t truly mind the throb, comforted by the fact that Y/N is probably facing similar issues at the moment. He finds himself smiling coyly as he flips an omelette onto one of his marble-print platters, recalling the events from the night before. 

According to what he’d heard on the other end of the phone, present throughout the array of shaky gasps, cracked whimpers, and wet sounds of pleasure that had echoed from the speaker, Harry had made Y/N squirt. 

That was a tremendous stroke to his already huge ego. The idea that he’d been able to make her cum so hard that she’d soiled her brand new sheets had been circling around his head for the last couple of hours, fluffing his confidence. It’s a milestone achievement, to be honest. He’d done something that very few men have the skill to achieve in person, meanwhile he’d done it just by using his voice and extensive imagination. The arrogance he’s sporting right now is more than justified. His cheeks are starting to ache from how hard he’s grinning.

The vampire is so lost in his recollections that he nearly misses the chime of his phone, the unique ringtone that beeps out being as welcomed as ever. 

Harry scoops up his device while spooning a piece of his green pepper and mushroom egg dish into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as he swipes into Y/N’s text conversation. He smoothers the giddiness fluttering in his stomach; he’s not a child. 

As it turns out, he’d killed those butterflies for no solid reason because the instant her message pops up, they come right back to life. 

Morning! Thought I’d show you what I’m planning on wearing to work today. 

Harry roughly swallows down his breakfast at the attachment following the caption, a shiver coiling down his spine. “Fucking hell.”

The photo is a mirror shot, taken in her tiny bathroom. It’s a full body image where she’s clad in a matching set of bra and panties, the material sparkly bright red lace. The bottoms are high-waisted, hugging her tummy and hips in a way he deems perfect, the lace decorating her skin beautifully. The bra is see-through, so he has an unrestrained view of her chest and he doesn’t know why, but he thinks he might love the way her breasts look in lingerie more than without it. Make no mistake, he’ll willingly drool over her no matter what, but there’s just such a refined beauty in seeing her figure in such an elegant piece. She’s like a present set out for him to unwrap, preferably with his teeth. 

Then he notices the garters and the next forkful of food lodges in his throat. They hug around her legs deliciously, the bands settled midway down her thighs as the straps run up the sides and clip onto the hem of her panties. Yeah, he would definitely use his teeth. 

After gawking at the artwork for a minute, Harry finally gathers himself enough to type back a decent reaction.

I’m pretty sure that outfit doesn’t apply to the workspace dress code. 

Y/N shakes her head in amusement at his response, giggling softly as she finishes shimmying into her black skinny jeans, buttoning them over the skimpy lace. 

I’ll cover up for the sake of the customers. But it’s just such a nice set, I figured someone else should get to appreciate it with me.  

Harry sets his utensil down on top of his plate, omelet only half eaten. His appetite has molded into a very different type of hunger. He pads out of the kitchen, feeling the ten AM sunlight filter through the glass wall of his living room and warm his bare chest and back. He heads for the bathroom that branches out of the entrance corridor, coming to a stop right in front of its mirror. He begins to clean up his appearance, combing his bed head into a presentable state (he hadn’t slept, per usual, but rolling around his pillows last night while he indulged fantasies about Y/N had done his curls in something fierce), fixing his royal blue briefs along his hips and dragging the waistband down to show off the dip of his prominent pelvic bones.

Once the immortal is done, he taps back with eager strokes of his thumbs. 

I can’t believe you’ve never worn that for me. That’s a criminal offense. Literally worth capital punishment. 

Oh, really? Capital punishment? And who are you to decide my verdict?

I’m the executioner, obviously. I’m in charge of dispensing the verdict and I promise you, I’ll see to it that you get what you deserve. It’s my civic duty.

Y/N scoffs at his quip, tugging her navy polo shirt over her torso and quickly running a brush through her hair. She puts it up into a neat ponytail, sighing lightly as she stares at her tired reflection. She wishes she could ditch work for the day and entertain more conversation with Harry, but she literally can’t afford to.

Well, you’re gonna have to wait while I go perform my own type of civic duty. Making the world a better place, one grilled panini at a time. 

Harry’s lips jolt. She’s so clever and witty, he doesn’t know how she could possibly be from such a dull, monochrome town. 

I understand. Justice calls. But before you go, can I send you a picture of what I’M wearing today? Could use a few style tips. 

That’s pretty ironic coming from someone whose last name is literally ‘Styles.’

I know, I know. But even fashion icons have their insecurities sometimes. 

Fair point, nobody’s perfect. Lemme see your OOTD, then.

The outfit of the day appears to be no outfit at all, according to Harry’s picture. It’s taken on a mirror, like her own, and it depicts him standing with one hand holding his phone in front of his face while the other seems to be doing jazz hands down his body playfully. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of deep blue briefs (probably because he’d completely ruined the maroon pair he was wearing last night, if his broken moans and heavy panting had been any indication) and they hug his frame flawlessly. The fabric is bunched around his lean thighs, tiger head tattoo peeking out to accompany the rest of the collection, which includes all the inkings running the length of his left arm as well as the butterfly and swallows across his torso. His v-line is evident as ever, dipping below the elastic band teasingly. His chest is broad and his biceps are taut, despite the fact that he’s not even flexing. He looks like a Greek statue and Y/N is positive the higher powers designed Harry with that specific thought in mind.

Y/N doesn’t realize drool is gathering in her mouth until it tickles the inside of her bottom lip. She snaps her jaw closed, clearing her throat sheepishly. Over a minute has passed of her just ogling and she can feel heat layering across her cheeks. She knows Harry probably has the cockiest expression on his face at the moment, obvious in the tone of the next comment he delivers. 

Damn, it’s that bad, huh? Guess I’ll have to change. 

No, it’s perfect. Simple, but effective. Very professional. 

Why, thank you! 

My pleasure.

Here, take this as a token of my appreciation. Hopefully it can help get you through the day. 

This specific photo is taken from an above point of view, as if Y/N were looking down at Harry’s body along with him. His pectorals and stomach muscles appear more defined, tattoos darker and skin more evidently sunkissed. Lower down, there’s the obvious outline of what lies within his boxers, snuggled up against his thick thigh and tempting her to let out a soft whine. Then, resting casually against his abdomen is his free hand, sporting a thumbs-up that gives a purposefully goofy vibe to the risky image. He’s such an idiot. 

The mortal’s answer is just as silly and lighthearted as his gesture. 

Thank you, I’ll keep it locked in my heart forever. 

I wouldn’t want it any other way. 

That’s the first interaction of many that further opens the door to their virtual sex life. Things hardly stay that innocent. 

That night when Y/N gets home from work, they undergo another round of phone sex. It starts off the same: cheeky banter that leads to cheeky pictures that eventually leads to utter filth. 

And that’s how they spend the next few days— taking care of each other’s needs digitally until Friday rolls around. There’s plenty of those encounters, but there’s definitely favorites. 

A session during one of Harry’s self-care baths, when he puts her on speaker and she talks him through tugging one out while the scent of lavender salts— which he’d chosen because they smell like her— leave his heated skin feeling soft and supple. Another instance where he makes her orgasm while she has gotten bored watching a scary movie marathon on her couch, the screams of the horror film mere background noise compared to all the sweet nothings Harry huskily mumbles into her ear, his dominant voice filtering through her headphone and instructing her on how to make herself feel good.

Harry messages her at three A.M. at one point, wide awake as ever, all of his thoughts occupied by the concept of Y/N laying on her tummy between his thighs and sucking him off at a slow pace. He can practically see her small hands wrapped around his girth, stroking up to meet her pretty lips, her tongue lapping at his tip eagerly as she whines around a full mouth. She’s always just so eager. Even at the crack of dawn, she’s awake by some miracle, and happily willing to delve into that fantasy with him. Her soft, timid tone drifts across the shells of his ears, explicitly sketching out how she’d take him all the way down her throat until she gags, and how she’d kiss all over the head of his prick just to smear his precum over her lips to then lick it off, and how she’d rock against his lap fast and hard while he takes her nipples between his teeth. How she wouldn’t stop until he’s dripping down her thighs and groaning into her throat. How she’d let him fuck her as many times as it takes to tire himself out. 

Harry obviously repays her, and it comes in the form of him painting out a scenario where she’s gotten home from a long day at the café. He tells her about how he’d be there waiting for her in nothing but his underwear, sitting back on his elbows in her bed, touching himself over his briefs just at the thought of pleasuring her. About how he’d lay her out and taste every inch of her body with his tongue, and how he’d run his teeth across her inner thighs tenderly while his fingers play with her clit, and how he’d have her ride his face deep and sloppy until she’s shaking and sensitive. How he’d tie her to the bed and toss her legs over his shoulders while he pounds her into the mattress, marking bruises across her neck as she sucks on his fingers and tightens around his cock like “the snug little thing you are.”

They even take their fun out of the confines of their houses and into public settings, just to give it an adrenaline high. Those situations are foreplay; it’s how they prep each other throughout the day for when they’re both finally alone and can truly help one another to the fullest. 

It happens Thursday on two occasions. 

First, to Y/N, who is sitting in the backroom on her lunch break, though she’s barely touched her food. She’s much more interested in what Harry has to say. Much more interested in how he says he wishes he could be there with her right now. That she could sneak him in through the back door of the restaurant and they could lock themselves in that tiny supply room, making sure no one would disturb what he’s about to do to her. That he would drop to his knees and drag her jeans down her legs, pressing damp kisses in the denim’s wake, biting hickies in the areas he knows she loves to receive them. He would mount her knees over his shoulders and bury his face between her thighs, looking up at her through heavy lashes as he licks into her desperately. He would have her grab onto his curls and guide his tongue just the way she likes it, and she’d have to bite into her cheek to keep from getting caught. 

He talks about how he’d take her against the supply shelves, one hand clamped over her mouth while he pants praise into her ear, her body jolting roughly upwards against the surface as she clings to his back. How he’d hold her up with the other arm and slam her down onto his cock, cooing things like, “Gotta keep quiet for me, sweetheart. Can’t make you cum if we get caught.” and “Such a filthy girl, sneaking me in here just to fuck you. Baby just wants to walk around the rest of the day full of me, doesn’t she?” 

That fantasy leaves her in a bothered haze the rest of the work day. It’s bad enough that she almost drops her tray three different times and has to ask multiple customers to repeat their orders. 

Y/N gets back at Harry, though. That revenge is the second occasion. 

The vampire had mentioned that he would be going out with his friends that evening to a bar and she takes full advantage of that. When the picture comes through, Harry nearly spits out his Manhattan drink. 

He’s sitting in a booth surrounded by his entire group and he’d been talking shit with Niall about golf. The vampire doesn’t care for the sport, but Niall loves it, and Harry loves getting on Niall’s nerves, therefore it’s all pretty self-explanatory. Mitch and Adam join in, with Mitch obviously supporting Harry, when he randomly decides to check his notifications. Even in the shrunken little banner, Harry can immediately tell the photo is graphic. Xander asks if he’s alright, telling him he looks freakishly pale and to get his eyes under control because they're in public. Harry blinks the red from his irises, hurriedly excusing himself and clambering up from his seat, jetting across the restaurant towards the restrooms. It’s occupied, much to his luck, so he settles for simply pressing his back against the wall of the corridor, leaning his head against the bricks and taking deep breaths to calm the raging in his stomach. He gingerly opens the message and his knees nearly give out. 

The image is taken from the back, probably using a timer. Y/N is wearing one of her big tees and another pair of cheeky lace panties, but this time around, they’re pastel peach and crotchless. She’s bent over with her ass up and spine arched, knees parted for balance, her shirt bunching downwards due to the angle. Her arms are pulled behind her back and her chest is flushed to the bed, wrists crossed submissively as she gazes at the camera over her shoulder. There’s an unmistakable sparkle in her eyes and he can tell she had sent this now on purpose just to fuck with him, knowing good and well that he was out and occupied.

The shot is more than he can handle and he has to swallow down the urge to stomp out of the bar, get into his car, race to her flat, and make her rethink her decision. Preferably, in the form of harsh spanks and overstimulation. He can see everything— the intentional rip at the crotch of the panties are meant for that sole reason. The closer he looks, he comes to realize that she’s wet, which in turn means she had been touching herself. She’d set this up perfectly, knowing that he’d easily be able to deduce that fact and that it would haunt him for the rest of the night. 

The monster releases a quivering exhale, typing back slowly and carefully, sight bleary. 

You’re going to regret that. 

Pinky promise?

///

When Harry arrives at Y/N’s apartment the next night, as he has for the last three Fridays, he doesn’t saunter up to her door and bang on it angrily. He doesn’t grab her by her hair and drag her into her room, how he’d intended. He doesn’t even have a single cinch in his sculpted brows. 

Instead, he raps softly on the door with one jeweled knuckle and waits calmly. 

The human goes to answer, her stomach twisting in excitement at all the possibilities of what punishment she might face for her antics. A small, sly smile buckles the corners of her lips at the thought, her fingers trembling as they wrap around her cold doorknob. She expects to find a furrow-browed, intense-eyed, red-faced Harry behind the threshold, who would shove past her, nab her by the arm, and throw her onto her bed. She expects him to yank his belt from around his hips while a distinct darkness swallows his emerald irises, his mouth curling into a sinister grin. She expects him to roughly command she get on her hands and knees, his palm finding the back of her head to shove her face-first into the sheets while he rips her panties down her legs and drags the cool leather of his accessory over her backside tauntingly.

What she gets is something— and someone— completely the opposite. 

When her door swings open, Harry is standing standing there, sure. But instead of looming over her with flaring nostrils and cruel intent, he’s decided to lean against the door frame with his arms folded casually. His body is completely empty of tension, his ankles are crossed offhandedly, and a small, bright red paper bag full of sparkly black tissue paper is hanging off his wrist. His expression is a relaxed facade of indifference, lips set into his usual signature smirk, no explosive emotions present whatsoever. 

That startles Y/N. This has to be an act; it feels like the calm before a violent storm and it has her shifting in her socked feet. Did he...Did he forget what she did? 

There’s no way he forgot. It was too brazen a move to dismiss.

Harry steps forward into her home, comfortable enough that he no longer has to wait for an invitation. Y/N moves to the side to let him through, hesitantly closing the entrance behind him, contemplating the man as if he were a ticking bomb. She does a quick sweep of his physique, looking for some other clue as to what he could be plotting, aside from the mysterious gift bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of flared denim jeans, a white tee with a royal blue cartoon bee printed in the center along with the words Enjoy health! Eat your honey! surrounding it, his white Vans, and an oversized colorful patch-work cardigan. The outfit is surprisingly domestic compared to his usual taste, but she finds it’s easily one of her favorite fits on him. He just looks so boyish adorable. 

The human comes up with nothing suspicious, glancing back up to lock eyes with her guest. Harry beams at her innocently and she knows for sure he’s planning something, but she can’t place what. 

“I got you this.” The vampire speaks up first, holding out the paper bag towards Y/N with his index finger, bouncing it encouragingly. “Take a peek.” 

The girl accepts the gift gingerly, giving him one more hard look before breaking away to investigate what lies beneath the tissue paper. She pulls out a small cardboard box, her eyes squinting slightly as she reads its print and surveys the label. The image on the surface appears to be of five silicone finger gloves, each about the size of a thumbtack, tiny metal plates embedded into the pads. She’s voicing her curiosity before she’s even finished studying the container. 

“What...What are these?”

Harry rolls his eyes jokingly, tapping the object for emphasis. “Read the fine print, love.” 

Y/N focuses on the region he’d pointed out, reciting aloud. “‘Vibrating silicone finger gloves. For the use of personal pleasure or with partners.’”

Then it all clicks. 

“Oh my God, you got me— what?!” Y/N’s head snaps up in shock, mouth parted and brows creased. “Harry, what?”

The young man laughs airily, gently opening the seal of the box in her hands, which she is now holding as if it were a weapon of mass destruction. It’s such a weird present to give in general, moreso all out of the blue, so she can’t be blamed for her reaction.

He uncaps the packaging, rummaging through its contents and pulling out two of the tiny rubbery gloves. They’re transparent and ribbed, obviously meant to deliver as many sensations as possible, and they’re about two inches in length. He slips them onto his index and middle finger, making scissoring motions for the purpose of symbolism, but mainly just to watch Y/N fidget. “I remember how you said you don’t have sex toys because you’d never really thought about buying any, so I went and picked these up down at my favorite shop. Jessi said they’re good for beginners.”

“Jessi?” Y/N’s voice is tight. She’s not sure how to respond to this; she’s never been in this situation before. No one has ever just given her a sex toy as if a were a candy bar. “Who’s Jessi and why do they need to know about my sex life?”

“She’s the manager.” Harry says matter-of-factly. He doesn’t seem to find anything strange about this encounter. “She helped me pick out my first pocket vag, so I trust her with my soul. Here, look. You just slip them on and—” He makes finger thrusting motions in the air, wiggling his digits playfully. “Big O. Not as good as what I can give you, obviously, but close enough.”

“Harry, you do realize this is a little…odd, right?”

The boy blinks at Y/N blankly. “What? Why? Sex is literally the basis of this whole thing.” He signals back and forth between them with his gloved forefinger. “It’s really not that weird at all, if y’think about it.”

“I just...it’s like…” 

Her argument fizzles to an end the longer she stares at him. He has the most wholesome expression painted across his handsome features, his eyes glossy with excitement. He looks genuinely elated about the present and she can’t find it in herself to question him any further. As unorthodox as this may be, it’s the first true act of kindness anyone has shown Y/N since she had moved to California. It’s the first time anyone has given the girl anything without her having to request it. She comes to the realization that Harry really is the only friend she has at the moment, and she refuses to pick and prod at that, lest he retract from her on the grounds that she’s ungrateful. Yes, this is a little atypical, but so is their whole dynamic. In his own twisted way, this is how Harry shows his friendship. 

The more she ponders on it, she starts to understand that this truly is something she should accept. He went out of his way to get her this gift, which solidifies their acquaintanceship. It’s sweet.

“You know what, never mind. Thank you! I love them.” 

The giddy smile that cracks his face melts her heart. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

Harry then softly grasps her hand with his, tugging her down the entrance hallway, his intentions set on her bedroom. His voice takes on a deeper sultry twang, the corners of his mouth twitching suggestively. “Because on my way here, I was thinking, yeah? And I figured: who better to teach you how to use these than the person who picked them out.”

“Of fucking course.” Y/N huffs in amusement, shaking her head but allowing herself to be guided forward. “I should’ve known you had an ulterior motive.” 

“Heyyyyy!” Harry’s whine is offended, but the coy simper dimpling his cheeks ruins any defense he could possibly try to spin. “This isn’t an ulterior motive, it’s simply a supporting one.”

“Right.” Y/N states flatly, shuffling forward slowly as he backs down her corridor, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to orient himself. “Buying a fuck buddy a sex toy is totally selfless and mutually exclusive of the agreement.”

Harry takes a turn and crosses the threshold into her bedroom, releasing her arm and instead, he opts for wrapping his fist into the loose material of her large Transformers tee, twisting the fabric around his knuckles and giving it a sharp yank. She stumbles into his chest and almost drops the box. 

The vampire gazes down at her with half-lidded eyes, long lashes tempting and plush lips the color of roses. “I never said it was mutually exclusive. I just said it wasn’t meant to be evidently inclusive.” 

He takes the box from her grip, sliding it onto her nightstand so that any obstacles between them are eliminated. He beckons her closer with a flick of his wrist, feeling heat erupt across his chest as her palms slap down against it to steady herself. She’s always so warm, almost like a furnace. It’s a nice contrast to his ever-present coldness.

Harry’s cupped fingers nurse the slope of her jaw, tilting her chin up to level his, Cupid’s bow ghosting over her own teasingly as a grin threatens to betray him. His accent is thick, heavy with condescension. “Now do you want me to fuck you or not?”

Y/N gulps audibly, the sudden jump in her heart rate causing Harry’s cock to give a foreshadowing twitch in his designer jeans. Her eyes soften with a form of weepy desire, head nodding in his grasp. 

Harry’s top teeth catch on his lower lip as he appraises her from over the crest of his defined cheekbones. “I don’t think I heard you, pet. Must be the AC draft.”

The mortal’s eyes fall shut as she composes herself, a shaky sigh faltering past her nostrils. She tips forward onto her toes, connecting her itching mouth to his. Harry allows it, listing his head to the side to grant her more access, his free arm roping across the dip of her spine and pressing her front flushed to his. The kiss is soft and heated, full of drunken tongues and muffled whimpers. It’s tame compared to most of the others they’ve shared, but Harry likes it. It’s sloppy and intimate; only the beginning of what he knows will be a long night. 

Her words sting the ridges of his lips, hot and bated. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Harry speaks into her mouth, tone gentle but packing a punch. “Get my belt off for me, will you? I’m tying you to the bed tonight.”

He doesn’t have to ask twice, a dark chuckle vibrating across his tongue when her fingers immediately begin to fumble with his belt buckle. 

Once Harry has looped the leather tightly around Y/N’s wrists and has knotted them to one of the wooden railings of her headboard, he sits back on his heels to admire his work. Y/N is splayed out across her mattress with her arms suspended above her head, bare thighs clasped in anticipation as her t-shirt gathers around her waist. Her hands are curled into fists, nails digging into her palms as she watches Harry leisurely shrug off his cardigan, keeping eye contact with her the whole way through. His tattoos stand out against the buttery light of the single lamp on the table, tanned arms flexing sinfully. 

He shifts around, laying down onto his stomach and coasting his palms up her quivering legs, kissing over her kneecaps and along the crease of her inner thighs, bunching her shirt further up her body as he goes. As soon as he spots the first garter, he blacks out for a millisecond, vision washing red. 

“Fuck, wait— did you…?” His voice is strained and desperate as he shoves the rest of her clothes up her torso, pulling her shirt over her head and letting it rest at her elbows. He hums appreciatively when he’s met with the full cherry-colored lingerie set from a few days ago, garters and all. “God, you did.”

Y/N’s gaze falls timidly, a sheepish smile brushing over her face. “I thought you’d want to see it in person, since you seemed to like it so much.” 

“Mm...” Harry struggles to swallow, fingers hooking under the straps that clip to the hem of her underwear, pulling the fabric from her skin and letting them snap back into place. He revels in the tiny noise she lets slip, the pads of his digits now toying across the frilly bands encircling her upper legs. After a thoughtful heartbeat, Harry speaks up, wistful but vehement. “I’m going to make you soil your sheets again.” 

Y/N bucks a tad at his promise, wrists stressing against the leather belt, but Harry’s practiced enough bondage in his lifetime to know she won’t be getting out anytime soon. He parts her knees open with his palms, dragging his silicone-covered fingers down her clothed clit and tutting when she lets out a stuttery gasp. 

“Always so sensitive, aren’t you, angel?” The vampire pets at her core patiently, heat pooling at the base of his abdomen as he feels her panties damped with every stroke of his touch. “Christ, you’re already soaking through.”  

“Want more.” The girl’s plead is strangled as she actively forces herself to keep her legs wide open, knowing that if she were to allow them to snap shut, Harry would only pry them apart again. “I’ve been thinking about this all week. Please.”

“All week?” Harry drags tongue across the inside of her thigh, nipping at the flesh tauntingly, the amber specks in his eyes glittering amidst his lashes. He continues to rub through her underwear, drinking up all the little noises streaming from her throat. “Tread lightly, dove. You’re swelling my ego.”

“I just…” Her hips give another jerk when he wriggles two rubber-clad fingers into the crotch of her bottoms, spreading her open just a bit and grinning against her skin at how wet she’s become. “I just need it hard tonight, Harry. Need you to leave me sore.” 

“I always leave you sore.” The monster reasons mockingly, taking one of the garters between his teeth and tugging, releasing so it stings her like before. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.” 

Y/N trembles out an exhale, gathering herself enough to give him what he wants. “I need you to fuck me like you hate me.”

Harry grabs onto either sides of her panties, slowly peeling them down her legs and then scooting closer forward, planting an open-mouthed kiss right onto her bare clit. She mewls in return, her restraints creaking the bed. He continues pressing messy wet pecks to her cunt, feeling her tense up each time his soft lips suckle her fervently. 

“Is that why you sent that picture?” Harry wonders aloud, pausing his motions and raising one eyebrow at her. “Because you wanted me mad?”

The human nods, face wracked with guilt. It’s cute that she feels bad, especially because Harry had, in actuality, enjoyed her little stunt. Seeing her bent over like that, in a position that shows she couldn’t wait to please him— that she couldn’t wait until Friday came around so he could do to her whatever he deemed fit...It was the best form of edging he’s ever experienced. But for the sake of giving her what she wants, he’ll bite the bait. 

Harry rises up onto his knees, parting her thighs further as he fits himself between them, the pads of his gloved digits dancing across the thick of her damp clit. He bends down until his nose smudges over hers, the breath of his low words hot against her parted mouth. 

“Well, it fucking worked.”  

Harry taps his index and middle fingers against his palm in one quick flick and the tiny metal plates situated along the tips purr to life. He sinks knuckle-deep inside of Y/N, cold rings catching on her folds as he curls upwards to get at that special spot that resides along the pit of her tummy. The moan she releases it so raw and broken, it sends a zip of lightning through his veins. 

He fucks her like that for a while, with his strong chest poised against her heaving own as he marks love bites onto the cleavage spilling from her lace bra, his skilled fingers pumping into her at a harsh pace that has her legs shaking on either sides. He thumbs over her clit messily, the silicone molds sending waves of vibrations through her clenching walls as he relentlessly toys with her g-spot, her arms thrashing against his belt. Fragmented sounds of bliss freely stream from Y/N’s mouth without shame, his name intermingling amongst the whimpers as her head throws back against the headboard. Harry grips her throat in one hand, holding her to the sturdy surface as his other bobs between her thighs roughly, the bed groaning as a result of their intense actions. His wrist begins to ache from how hard he’s going, but the tears trickling out from the corners of Y/N’s eyes and the way she’s panting into his mouth are enough to keep him going.

“Look at me.” Harry squeezes her jugular tighter, garnering attention. She forces her eyelids open, inhales hiccuping when he braces his cool forehead to hers, his irises the color of a forest at midnight, pupils blown out of proportion. His teeth dig into her bottom lip just to feel it swell, a growl stirring the gravel in his chest. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes.” Y/N boggles her head feverishly, glimpsing down over her sweaty cheeks to see the way his veins are chiseling along the forearm that is flexing between her drenched thighs. “Fuck, it’s so g-good.”

“Yeah? How about we go a little higher, hm?” Harry scrapes the pads of his fingers against that spongy place inside her, pressing the vibrators down and the motion clicks the toy into a higher level of intensity. 

Y/N writhes in his grasp, back arching off the headboard as deeper, more concentrated rumbles lap throughout her body. “Harry— I— that’s— God, just please!”

Harry takes ahold of her jaw as he continues finger-fucking her without remorse, his short breaths warm against her burning lips. “That’s my girl. Taking it hard and loving every second.” 

Y/N’s eyes lull back into her head. She doesn’t know why, but hearing Harry call her his girl satisfies her in a manner so deep, she didn’t know it existed. Just hearing him recognize her as his— as something he claims for himself, almost like an extension of who he is— stirs a foreign form of fulfillment in the back of her mind. 

“I’m—” The girl chokes on her sentence, finding it difficult to concentrate with so much pleasure coursing through her system, as well as with Harry painting hickies across the side of her strained neck. “I’m gonna cum.”

The immortal’s voice is stern and authoritative. “No, you’re not.” 

“I am, I can’t hold—”

“Yes,” Harry’s grip firms, pace sharpening into unapologetic slams, “you can. And you will. If you cum before I let you, you’re not getting anything else from me for the rest of the night. Do I make myself clear?”

Y/N’s cunt tightens around his fingers, warning him that she’s about to peak. “Harry, I’m sorry—but— but I—”

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Y/N has no hope that she can keep it in, but she adores the darkness swirling in Harry’s eyes at the moment and she’ll do anything if it means getting to witness it for a while longer. “Yes.” 

“Good.” She winces when she feels his teeth skim her earlobe, his whisper dripping with arrogant amusement. “I told you I’d make you regret it.” 

And he really does keep his oath. Minutes simulate hours as Harry continues to flirt her just along the seams of relief, pulling her back every time he sees her about to tip. Whenever he feels her begin to spasm around his slick fingers, he gives her a cautionary quirk of his brows accompanied by a testing, throaty, “Don’t you fucking dare.” or a simple, silent shake of his head. By some miracle, she manages to reign herself in every time, but each ruined orgasm makes it harder and harder to stifle the next. She doesn’t know how many times it happens; she stops counting after four. 

After what feels like decades of torture, Harry finally releases his hold around her jugular, allowing her to properly gulp air for the first time in a while. He sits back against his heels, pulling his hand from between her thighs with a sarcastic sympathetic hiss. “Poor thing.” 

He watches as a trail of her juices strings from his digits to her cunt, eventually snapping in the middle as he lifts his hand to study his work. Her release drips down his knuckles and palm, gleaming in the dim lighting. A mildly sadistic glint washes over Harry’s irises and for a split second, they look almost red, but Y/N dismisses it. Her brain is too fogged to trust right now. 

The boy’s sight flickers past his hand to where Y/N lies limply, wrists bruised from the bonds, arms quivering weakly, and legs trembling in overstimulation. He’s never seen her look more beautiful than now. 

He locks his bright eyes to her exhausted own, watching them shatter to pieces when he pushes his drenched fingers past his pillowy blushed lips. His lashes flutter as her taste washes across his tongue, sweet and decadent as always, a soft groan thrumming deep in his throat. God, he can only imagine how delectable her blood must be at the moment, honeyed by the plethora of endorphins he had repeatedly coaxed into her. He can't wait to feel its warmth fill his mouth later tonight.

Harry removes his fingers with a wet pop, licking across the back of his hand with finality and giving her a daring once-over. “Do you still want my cock? Or are you too sensitive for it, darling?”

He sounds so conceited and self-assured, it causes Y/N’s pride to flare. She wants to make him eat his stupid words.  

The mortal licks her chapped lips, wetting her dry throat and clearing it softly, wiping away the sweat on her forehead with her shoulder. “I still want it.” 

An impressed expression decorates Harry’s features. “You think you can take it?”

Y/N’s jaw clenches with dedication, her thighs spreading open a tad more and she wills herself not to flinch. Her chin cocks upwards. “I know I can.” 

Harry’s brows kink challengingly, a borderline evil smirk sewing onto his face. “Let’s see, then.” 

As it turns out, Y/N can take it. However, she knows for a fact she won’t be able to walk right for at least the next week.

Harry lowers his jeans and kicks them off, reaching into his navy briefs and tugging himself out, giving his length a few pumps for good measure as he shifts forward toward her. He flips the girl onto her belly as easily as he’d turn a sheet of paper, tying one arm around her hips and lifting them up as he slides a pillow below. He situates her accordingly onto the cushion, her ass slightly elevated to give him more range of depth. He pats at her backside lightly, telling her to part her knees and she does so obediently, gripping onto the leather strap around her wrists anxiously when she feels the bed shift with his weight. Harry lowers himself over her body, the tee covering his broad chest soaking up the thin sheet of sweat on her back. He moves all of her tangled hair to the side, burying his fingers into her roots and yanking her head back cheekily. He runs his nose across her damp cheekbone and chuckles when she jumps slightly at the feathery sensation. 

“You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?” 

Y/N gnaws on her bottom lip as she struggles to swallow, throat taut from the angle he’s put her in. Her voice carries a confident bite, despite her compromisable position. “I like to think I am, yeah.” 

“Well, you know what that makes you, right?” Harry murmurs as he lines himself up with her entrance. 

“Mm-mm. What?” 

The vampire presses a lingering kiss to the tittering pulse in her temple, feeling it thunder below his skin as he forms his next comment slowly with an ominous edge. “It makes you a brat.” 

He feels her heartbeat trip. 

“And you know what I do to brats?” 

Y/N shakes her head as much as his dominant grasp will allow, body tightening in suspense. 

“I fuck them until they break.” 

Y/N learns that he’s telling the truth. The first thrust Harry delivers is swift, hard, and unbelievably deep; it causes her to let out a choked scream that no one else has ever drawn from her before, except for him. It’s like he can tap into certain aspects of her body she was unaware of; parts of her waiting for the right person to come along and reveal them. She feels that stroke rip into her tummy, but the pain of his size is something she’s become accustomed to in the last three weeks. She hardly feels it anymore; it had molded from a sharp throb to a dull ache, due to how often she’s experienced it. 

Harry doesn’t waste any time, quickly picking up a sloppy, adamant pace that has her hips bouncing against the mattress. He twists her hair around his fist, mouth pressed to the side of her head as his hot pants of exertion send a prickling through her scalp. His other forearm keeps him anchored to the bed as he pounds into her with absolutely no hesitation, the sound of skin slapping, cracked whines, and raspy grunts filling the tense atmosphere of her chilly room. 

“Is this what you were hoping would happen when you sent that slutty picture?” Harry grits out, short nails digging into the comforter beneath. “Wanted to get me all riled up just so I’d do your back in?”

Y/N mewls weakly in response, hands clinging to each other within the makeshift cuffs. 

“If you wanted me to fuck you like I hate you, you could have just asked. I’m more than happy to give you whatever you want. You don’t have to tempt me.” The vampire gives a particularly deep slam, laughing breathily when the girl’s back instinctively arches forward, paired with a watery yelp of, “Oh!”

Harry’s tongue grazes across the shell of her ear, teeth catching the skin. “But since you did, I’ll give it to you just— like—that.” His thrusts match to each word, fingers coiling harder into her locks. “You deserve it. Especially when you had the nerve to act like such a spoiled little brat right to my face.” 

Y/N’s not sure what emboldens her to speak, but her snarky remark is already halfway down her numb tongue before she can stop it. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like it.”

Harry hums tauntingly, circling his hips in long strides that urge a series of fractured whimpers to scrape out of Y/N’s sore throat. “Say it again. Go ahead, say it. I want to see you try.”

She remains silent, spine shuddering as she bites down on her tongue to avoid making any more noises that might condemn her.  

Harry roughly cranes Y/N’s neck to the side, buttoning their lips together in a filthy kiss that has her cheeks boiling. “That’s what I thought. The only thing that sharp tongue is good for is licking down my cock.” 

She gasps against his mouth shakily, tears of sheer bliss gathering along her waterline. “You’re such a fucking asshole.” 

Harry can tell her comment holds no true malice behind it; she’s too sweet on him— too whipped on what he gives her— to ever mean it. She’d only said it to provoke him into a power dynamic struggle. But the thing is, Harry’s dealt with feeling powerless before, so he had spent years teaching himself how to win. How to always win. 

“Am I, now?” His next line dismantles her entire plan. “Would an asshole let you cum?”

And just like that, her whole demeanor crumbles. “I take it back. I’m s-sorry.”

Harry releases her hair and nips at her ear mockingly, beginning to withdraw himself. “Oh, I think it’s a bit too late for that, minx.”

“No, no! Harry, please. I’m sorry. Genuinely. I promise I won’t say it again. Just…” She tugs helplessly at the belt restraints, trying to twist around to look at him directly. Her voice is wringed out. “Just please.”

The boy pushes a few stringy curls out of his eyes, pressing his tongue into his cheek coyly as he glances down, suggestively smoothing one hand over her ass. He gives it a firm squeeze, lifting his palm teasingly and feeling her tense in anticipation. “Do you want it?”

Y/N glimpses at his bejeweled hand with hunger, then back at his eyes. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten what ‘it’ was, exactly. Jog my memory, will you? What is it you want?”

Her irises harden in spite at his shit-eating comment. He’s well aware of how shy she can be when it comes to admitting she wants a spanking, and he’s playing that to his advantage. He’s swimming in the way she squirms. 

“I...I want you to spank me.”

He tsks, shaking his head as he twists his HS rings around to face inwards. “You forgot something.” 

Y/N’s fingers tighten into begrudging fists. “I want you to spank me, please.”

“There’s a good girl.” His low, accented purr sends electricity through her nerves. “You’re so cute when you beg.”

Harry’s hand comes down swiftly, digits fanned out so that all of his rings print across her backside. It’s not hard enough to hurt, but strong enough to leave a satisfying sting. He loves the way she jolts forward with a hushed curse of surprise, and he adores seeing the shape of his initials marked across her clammy skin. It’s poetic, almost.

“So pretty.” His mumble is wistful as he massages deeply over the region he had just bruised, but it holds unyielding authority. “Whose is it, doll?”

“Yours.” 

“And don’t you fucking forget it.” The creature lifts one palm to do it again, pausing once more just to rev her further. He reaches forward with the other, shoving her face-first into the mattress to get her back to straighten out. “Look forward and don’t make a single sound.”

Y/N obeys, but manages to sneak a peek at his reflection through the waxy wooden surface of her aged bedframe. He looks so good perched behind her with bare heaving shoulders, looking down at her exposed figure over the crests of his sharp cheekbones, brows furrowed into a starved expression that gives away he’s enjoying this probably more than she is. Her voice comes out small and weak. “Yes, sir.”

Harry’s entire face tightens at the word and she feels him throb against her backside. 

“Now beg me to let you cum.”

///

The next morning when Y/N’s eyes flutter open to the grey light streaking in through her curtains, the first thing she senses is a pair of eyes staring at the side of her face. 

She turns her stiff body over toward where the sensation stems and sure enough, she’s met with a pair of sea glass irises filled to the brim with humor. Harry’s laying on his side with his hands tucked below one of her pillows, tousled ringlets sticking up in wild tuffs (thanks to the activities they’d engaged yesterday), he’s completely bare since he likes sleeping nude (though he’d had the decency to cover himself with sheets from the waist down), and his voice is slower and raspier than usual (a result of being dormant for the last eight or so hours). 

“You drool in your sleep.” 

Y/N tucks her hands against Harry’s cold pectorals, snuggling deeper into his chest and pinching at one of his nipples in playful revenge. “No, I don’t.” 

“Yes,” he reaches up and shoos her hand away, proceeding to wipe at the side of her mouth, where dried spit had accumulated. He makes a theatrical gagging face, cleaning his thumb off across the collar of her t-shirt. “You do.”

Y/N sighs in exasperation, making a bold leap to a different topic to avoid talking about her embarrassing sleep habits. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you staring at people while they sleep is weird? Like, serial killer weird?” 

Harry tucks a few matted strands of hair behind the human’s ear, thumbing over her cheekbone tenderly. He hardly ever indulges in such actions, simply because they’re typically reserved for actual couples, which he and Y/N are definitely not. But last night— after he had finally finished being a prick and allowed her cum along with him, and after she had fallen into the bed with exhaustion taking her under, and after he’d had his greedy fill of her blood for the week— he’d gotten bored of playing on his phone. He’d burned through three cold case documentaries on Netflix and played enough Mario Kart to memorize the race charts; it had grown old quickly, and he eventually just locked the device and placed it on her nightstand. He spent the next hour staring at her hideous ceiling, and the one after that fantasizing about taking down her tapestry and burning it in the oven. And finally, after hours of mindless daydreams and letting his eyes chase the city lights dancing across the walls of her room, he had settled onto his side and watched her sleep. 

Harry did it simply because he had nothing else to distract him. He figured it would eventually bore him enough that maybe— just maybe, if he was lucky— he would fall asleep alongside her. But he didn’t, so he just ended up gazing at her slumbering face until dawn. He had been surprised by how oddly beautiful Y/N looked sleeping— how relaxed and tranquil, with her features soft and skin seemingly made of flawless porcelain. That intrigue had bled into the moment they share now, resulting in his touch drifting down the curve of her jaw and across the faint dimple on her chin. He follows the slope of her neck and admires the smoothness of her flesh with the ridges of his fingertips, hearing her breathing stutter ever so slightly. His heightened senses make it feel as if he’s running his digits over velvet and the only concept he can compare it to is touching forbidden artwork at an exhibit. It’s exciting, but he knows that if he keeps going, he could end up getting himself into a crock of shit. 

When the pads of his fingers land on two prominent purple bruises he’d forgotten existed, he’s broken from his soft stupor. He retracts his touch as if she were made of iron, forcing himself to ignore the pout that automatically plumps her delicate lips. 

He clears his throat awkwardly, a tight chuckle stringing his vocal chords. “Staring at someone in their sleep seemed to work just fine for Edward Cullen, though.” 

Y/N snorts sharply, rolling her eyes up towards her headboard. When she sees his belt is still hanging off of it from the night prior, she hurriedly glances back down, pretending not to have seen it. 

“It’s funny you say that because as I recall, he literally admitted to being a murderer. I believe his exact words were,” she exaggerates her voice into an angsty cry, grasping at her chest dramatically, “‘This is the skin of a killer, Bella!’”

Harry bursts into boyish giggles, falling fully onto his back and swiping his palm up his face, fingers remaining perched over his closed eyes as he laughs. He sighs airily, shaking his head as an afterthought. “What a moron.” 

“Truly. His dad was hotter.” 

“Way hotter.” Harry agrees passionately, burying his hand into his messy curls, attempting to comb out some of the tangles. “And he was a doctor. What a man.” 

“Bella really fucked that one up. She had a midlife crisis over choosing between a sad vampire who looked like he had chronic constipation, and a yappy dog with a shirt phobia. All when Carlisle was right there. Brain damage, honestly.” 

“A moment of prayer for the mentally incapacitated. Couldn't be me!”

“Couldn’t be me, either.”   

“Fuck, yeah.” Harry throws his hand up, inviting Y/N to give him a high five. “To good taste.”

She gladly delivers. “Exquisite taste.”

An instance of comfortable silence suspends between the pair of lovers, filled with the soft thrum of the air vent and the distant chirping of birds outside Y/N’s windowpane. She traces her index nail over the wings of the swallow tattoos along Harry’s collarbones, seeming to be deep in thought. She then speaks up once again.

“Emmett was pretty hot, as well.” 

“You know what? I’m happy you mentioned that ‘cause— full disclosure here— I’d ride him like a fucking bull.” 

Now it’s Y/N’s turn to explode in a fit of giggles, nose scrunching and eyes crinkling shut as she loses herself at Harry’s graphic confession. 

“Why are you laughing?!” The fact that he sounds genuinely appalled only spurs her sounds of glee. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take that chance if you got it. Like, okay, he’s an airhead, yeah? I’m aware. But fuck’s sake, look at his body. I’d happily let him beat me at arm wrestling if it means I get that celebratory dick afterwards.”

The mortal manages to calm down a handful of heartbeats later and Harry feels strangely proud of how he’d made her pulse spike. 

“You’re valid for that, don’t worry. I couldn’t have said it—” A single giggle interupts her sentence, but she reigns it in before it can spiral. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Literally. There’s no way to express it better than exactly how you stated it.” 

Harry smirks softly up at the ceiling, folding his free arm behind his head as the other wraps securely down Y/N’s back, absentmindedly rubbing in gentle soothing circles. “My mind. It’s amazing, innit?”

“It’s definitely something.” 

Another span of cozy quietness fills the atmosphere of the room, longer than the last. Harry doesn’t mind. He finds it appeasing, and he continues to delight himself with running his touch up and down Y/N’s spine. He’s not sure how much time passes, but he’s aware that it’s probably a bit. His theory is supported by how he witnesses the beam of watery light that filters over the duvet gradually fade from silver to a sunflower yellow, indicating full daybreak. 

Even then, he doesn’t say a word, too caught up in this innocent bubble of domestic bliss to pop it so suddenly. He just lays there and listens. Listens to the birds harmonizing with each other across the branches of the tree outside. To the steady breaths that fill Y/N’s lungs with cool air, faltering past her nostrils in the same manner and fogging the metal of his cross necklace. To the faint sound of footsteps trotting down the staircase outside her apartment, and to the vague spritz of the sprinkler system going off at the front of the complex. To the distant honking of car horns in traffic, and to a random conversation between two friends as they walk past the pavement just under Y/N’s balcony. He hasn’t felt this at ease in eons. 

Harry just allows himself to grow in tune with the world around him— a world he’d been convinced was against him for the longest time. A world he was convinced stole his happiness and replaced it with the shackles of a blood-driven afterlife, for no other reason than because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time and met the wrong person. But now, he feels like he’s in the right place, at the right time, spending it with the right person— or at least a half-decent person— and he doesn’t want to let it slip between his fingers so soon. He wants to bask in it, even if he knows it’ll pass. 

And eventually, it does pass, and Y/N is the one who brings it to an end. 

The girl slowly peels away from Harry’s side, his lips dipping downwards slightly at the loss of the warmth she radiates. He thinks she’s about to get up to probably go use the bathroom or to make breakfast, but instead, she just bends her upper body over the edge of her bed to retrieve something from the floor. She comes back up with the box he’d brought her the evening before (which had ended up on the ground as a result of her bed rocking violently), setting it in the small space between their laps. She then returns to her place cuddled into his torso, looking up at him with an expression that Harry can only interpret as expecting. 

The vampire glances down at the container and then back up to Y/N’s face, raising his eyebrows curiously, voice tinged with comedy. “What did I say about bringing sex toys to the dinner table?”

Y/N stares up at him flatly for a second, fighting off a smile. “I just wanted to thank you again. It’s nice of you to bring me a present, even as strange as this one.” 

Harry sucks at his teeth, waving a hand dismissively, blinking down at her with slyness sparkling around his pupils. “What are friends for, if not for buying you vibrating finger gloves and then fucking you with them until you cry?”

Despite having been acquainted with Harry’s crude humor for three weeks now, it still manages to make Y/N’s cheeks sizzle. It could also be the fact that this is the first time Harry has openly accepted Y/N as a friend. It’s the first time he’s ever mentioned her name and that word in the same sentence, meaning that she can now shake a weight off her shoulders— a weight that had insisted he was only using her for sex, that he would eventually grow bored of her, and that he would throw her away once he was done. It’s good to know that’s not the case, and that the friendship aspect of their agreement is true to its name. 

“Right.” Y/N’s smile is full of so much genuine warmth, Harry feels like she could outshine the sun. “What are friends for, if not that. Thanks, Harry.” 

He wonders what she’s thinking, and he finds himself wishing that he had the one valid trait that idiot Edward Cullen possesses: mind-reading. But he doesn’t have it, so he simply returns her gesture and skates the conversation how he best deems fit. “You don’t have to call me ‘Harry’ all the time, you know?” 

Y/N’s brows cinch in entertained confusion. “What would I call you, then? Sherlock?” 

Harry scoffs lightly at the inside joke, shrugging one shoulder casually. “I mean, you could, if you want to. It might take some getting used to, but I think I can shoulder a full-time second identity. Just for you.” 

“How chivalrous.”

“You ain’t ever met a man like me, sweetheart.” He boasts in an over-the-top American southern accent, prying another round of laughter from Y/N, similar to the one before. “But you could also just call me ‘H.’ It’s what most of my other friends use.” 

“H.” Y/N repeats, getting a taste for the new nickname. It’s simple, unlike him, but it somehow fits. She then recalls something from a show she’d watched when she was younger and she can’t help but bring it up. “So, like, just your first initial? Like in Gossip Girl?”

Harry’s face immediately drops at the comparison she makes to the cringey teenage soap opera. “You know what, I take it back. You’re not allowed to use it. Illegal. Banned. By an official court. Gavel and all.”

“I’m just making a point!”

“Yeah, a shitty one.” 

“Oh, whatever. You’re just mad I debunked your little hipster alter ego. ‘That’s a secret I’ll never tell. Xoxo, H.’”

“Restraining order.” Harry pinches at one of her love handles, an evil grin dimpling his cheeks when she squeals. “Actually, nevermind. We’re going straight to the electric chair. Immediately.” 

“You don’t get to decide my punishment, remember?” Y/N slaps at his wrists, trying to ward off his attacks but failing miserably. “You’re just the—stop!— just the executioner.” 

“That’s right. I get to strap you to the chair.” Harry finally lets up on the tickling, his lighthearted grin taking on a slightly seductive hue as he momentarily glimpses upwards towards where his belt is hanging. “Though you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Fuck off.” Y/N smothers her palm against his face, breaking eye contact as she feels her ears bristle with heat.  

“Mm, exactly.” Harry gnashes at her hand playfully, but she manages to yank it away before he gets a bite in. “You can’t even admit you like being called a whore.” 

“Hey!”

“What?” The vampire gives her a cocky look, wagging his head knowingly and then mimicking her voice in a higher pitch. “‘I’m just making a point!’”

“You’re a dick, you really are.” 

“And yet you still ride mine, so who’s the one with the real issues here? Specifically, daddy issues.”

“I’m done with this conversation.” Y/N huffs, returning her attention to the box beside her thigh, muffling the twitching across her lips. 

She takes the cardboard into her hands, tracing over the small flap used to pry the top open. Harry watches her with interest, pondering as to what could possibly be scurrying around her skull that she seems so caught up with the context of the gift. He’d gotten it because he knew they would both benefit from it. It’s as simple as that. 

“You know,” she starts, but her gaze remains glued to the box, “I feel kinda bad ‘cause, like...You got me this gift, I have nothing to give you in return.” 

Harry’s face contorts into a silly frown for a moment, tone humorous. “It’s fine, Y/N. You don’t have to give me anything back. I got it ‘cause I knew we’d enjoy using it together, and because this way, you have something to play with when I’m not around. And you can send me videos of said instances. It’s truly a win-win. A double-ended gift.” 

“I suppose.” She mumbles softly, continuing to pick at the lip of cardboard sticking out. “But I feel like it’s only fair that you get to use it, too, don’t you think?”

And then the reason she’s insistent about this dawns on Harry. The way she’s avoiding looking at him directly, how her heart rate is slowly ebbing upwards, how she is gradually scooting closer to his body, how he can feel her thighs are clasped tightly below the comforter. How the scent of honey and lavender has intensified. How she keeps glancing towards where the sheets are crumpled messily around his hips in a haphazard attempt to remain civil. 

When the monster speaks, it carries all the arrogance brought forward by his discovery. “If you wanna give me a handjob with the toy on, just say so.” 

The human’s head snaps upwards, her expression one of utter alarm at his lewd comment, but he can see right through her act. It’s obvious that was her intention all along— the desire in her eyes is poorly masked. She looks so adorable, pretending not to know what he’s referring to, her palms gripping the box slightly tighter than before. 

Harry twirls a strand of her hair around his finger nonchalantly, giving it a jesting tug. “I just find it funny how much of a horny menace you can be.”

“What—?”

“And it’s not even ten A.M. yet.”

“What do you—?” 

“Y/N,” Harry sighs tiredly, giving her an omniscient look, “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you want something. It’s written all over your body language and you’re pretty shit at hiding it in your eyes. Just admit you want to and I’ll let you.” 

The faux shock slowly melts off her face, replaced by sheepish humiliation at being so easily sussed out. She chews on her bottom lip pensively, struggling to sew together the appropriate words to communicate the very inappropriate activity she wants to engage in. Harry has to withhold from leaning down and taking a bite from her tempting mouth.  

She inhales a deep breath through her nose, puffing it out slowly and tapping her fingers across the box nervously. Her voice pipes up so softly, it’s almost inaudible. “I want to give you a handjob with the toy.”

Harry gently cards his fingers into the mussed roots along the back of her head, using that hold to guide her sight upwards until it meets his. He leans down, smearing his lips over her own, feeling static pass through the ridges of their skin. “That’s all you had to say, darling. Go ahead, then. Make me cum.” 

Y/N swallows thickly, lashes fluttering bashfully as she pastes her mouth to his in a soft kiss. It’s a simple action with just their lips and nothing else. No tongue, no teeth, no sucking, nothing sloppy or desperate— not yet, anyways. He can tell she does it as a way to ease herself into this. She wants to, that much is arousingly obvious, but for some crazy reason unbeknownst to him, she’s still shy about it. That’s what happens when you come from a conservative raising: you get intimacy issues. He of all people— with his Victorian era background— would know. 

The hand Harry has cupping the nape of her neck shifts over a smidge, ending up splayed across the side of her face. His palm rests on her cheekbone and his fingers in her locks, his wrist cradling the back of her skull as he patiently deepens the kiss. His chest begins to heave slightly, a familiar sensation already frothing at the trench of his stomach. Harry can feel Y/N’s clumsy movements as she unboxes the vibrators, digging through the packaging and trying to slip them on blindly, not wanting to break away from his embrace. The way he’s flirting his tongue along the inside of her top lip is just too consuming to leave. 

After a few seconds of grappling and a string of annoyed curse words, Harry giggles lightly into her mouth, nudging the tip of his nose across the bridge of hers. The jade tint in his irises is waltzing with amusement, all at her expense. “Sometime today, love.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, I just— I can’t— they won’t—” The mortal releases an irritated growl into their kiss, reluctantly splitting away when it becomes clear she won’t be able to get the rubber gloves on without giving the task her full attention. “God, I’m such a...Sorry.” 

Harry rolls his eyes in mirth, pecking sweetly along the angry creases present over her forehead and between her brows. He thumbs over her cheek affectionately to soothe her nerves, his other hand scratching distractedly at the back of his neck. He filters curls through his fingers as he waits, bicep jolting in the process. “It’s fine, I’m just teasing. I’m not going anywhere, babe.”

“Thanks. Just give me—” The girl pauses her actions for a second, jutting her chin back up towards him and locking the vampire into another quick kiss, solely for the purpose of keeping him interested while she figures herself out. She breaks away again, returning to her mission. “Just give me a minute.” 

Now that she can see, Y/N successfully wriggles all five of her fingers into their designated molds. She prods at them gingerly, copying Harry’s actions from the night prior, using that experience as a manual. The mini-vibrators purr to life, a buzzing sensation trickling down her fingers. She glances back up at an awaiting Harry, who gives her such an easy, good-natured smile, she instantly reaches up and glues their mouths together again. 

“You’re so eager.” The boy grins into the kiss, jumping a bit when he feels her tittering fingers duck beneath the covers around his lower torso. “It’s hot.” 

“I just want to make you feel good.” Y/N mumbles, one palm braced to his strong shoulder as the other rides down his bare abdomen. She can feel his grip on her hair tightening the closer she gets to his cock. “That’s all.” 

“Guess I’m just the luckiest— shit.” Harry’s quip is interrupted when Y/N wraps her digits around his length, giving it one slow, testing pump. His jaw drops open and he begins panting into her mouth, the corners of his lips ticking upwards into a smirk as an intense pleasure swells between his thick thighs. “Jesus fucking Christ, that feels— fuck, that’s incredible, oh my God.”

“Yeah?” The human asks timidly, gazing up at him dreamily from below her lashes as his eyes lull back into his head. “Not too much?” 

Harry loves how attentive she is— how she’s checking to make sure he’s alright before continuing. If he had a heart, it would surely be glowing right now. 

Harry gulps down the lump in his throat, voice more strained and needy than she’s ever heard it. “No, I’m good, I’m good. Keep going.” 

Y/N gradually sinks her palm back down to his base, feeling his cock twitch desperately as the vibrators work their magic. She slowly slinks back up to his tip, thumbing over it carefully, pressing the toy on her thumb pad right over his slit. The garbled moan that emits from Harry is a sound her ears will never forget. It’s a sound she wishes she could record and listen to on a loop. 

“Fucking hell, don’t— please, just— oh—” Harry stutters through a plead, voice bleeding, naked chest now heaving wildly against her own. His hips buck forward into her hand, but she maintains a steady grip, keeping the vibrator pressed to the center of his cock’s head. 

“Don’t what?” She whispers into his mouth, suckling at his Cupid’s bow and reveling in the little broken noises he pours onto her tongue. 

Harry’s breaths are shallow and pained, the grip on her hair stronger than she thought possible as the fingers of his opposite hand yank at his own feverishly. He’s barely able to choke out his next sentence. “Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.” Y/N begins to fish for a solid rhythm, her strokes setting into medium pace and gauging the receiver's reaction. “How’s that?” 

Bright colors web across Harry’s eyelids and he feels like his soul is being torn from his body. “Y-Yeah, that’s perfect, baby. It’s so good— you’re so good.” 

“I am?” Y/N swipes her thumb over his tip again, and when he whimpers brokenly against her lips, she does it again. It urges the same exact reaction, but more shattered. So she does it again. And again, and again, and again. And each time it happens, his hips jerk more violently, chasing her intoxicating touch. She can feel Harry’s precum drip down his length and leak between the cracks of her fingers. 

“You are, you’re just so fucking good to me.” Harry’s spewing words at this point, brain half conscious, half floating in bliss. Whatever dam of common sense holds his mind together crumbles, all of his thoughts rushing out in the form of jumbled phrases and cracked whines. “You get me going like nothing else, pet. You get me going so easily, it’s embarrassing. You make me cum so hard, it feels like I’m touching h-heaven. And your mouth— God, y-your mouth. It’s the best I’ve ever had. It’s so soft and warm, and your lips are so pretty and silky. I could kiss you for hours. And your tongue— you know how to use it so well. You lick me once and I’m already on edge. And every time you get down on your knees, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

Y/N sighs shakily at Harry’s string of confessions, staring up at him with wide eyes as his own stay shut loosely, long lashes perched on his rosy cheekbones, handsome features slack with euphoria. She doesn’t halt her motions, continuing to pump him excitedly. The girl passes her thumb over his tip every time she gets to the top, and gives a hard squeeze every time she thunks down against his base, twisting her wrist as she glides back and forth between the two points of reference. That combination seems to work well, evident in the steady stream of vulgarities falling from Harry’s swollen lips as he thrusts upwards to match her pace. His groans splash across her tongue, traveling down her throat and burning into her stomach. She wants him to cum probably more than he does.

Y/N glimpses down, watching her sheets tent as she works Harry over, the outline of her knuckles pressing into the turquoise fabric. It’s such an erotic scene and she knows it’ll be branded across the front of her brain for years to come. She cranes her neck back up to look at the vampire, her breath catching in her lungs. He looks so pretty with his dark pink lips parted in pleasure, his damp ringlets matting along his sweaty hairline, his structured jaw ticking, and his usually sharp traits softened by ecstasy. She’ll do anything to make that image last.  

“Tell me more.” Y/N murmurs, swimming in the praise he is so willing to dish out. 

His eyes flicker for a heartbeat and in that instance, they look oddly darker than normal. Almost crimson, but she knows it’s due to the shadow of his lashes. The words that spill from his mouth next make her forget all about that occurrence, his voice melodic and dark, sticky against her wet lips. 

“Your hands are one of my favorite things about you, I think. They’re smaller than mine and I love how your fingers don’t touch when you wrap them around my cock. I love how they leave my back raw with scratches, and I love how they look tied to the bedpost. I love it when they press flat against my chest when you ride me, and how you lean back on them when I’m on my knees with my head between your thighs. I love how they yank at my hair when you’re about to cum, and how they grip my upper arms when we make-out. I love how your nails dig into my thighs when you're going down on me, and how they look fisting at the sheets when I’m taking you from behind. And I love how they feel tugging me off, like you’re doing now. I just love how perfect they are— how perfect you are.” 

Y/N is left speechless, Harry’s monologue ringing in her heated ears as he gazes at her intensely amidst heavy, barely-cracked eyelashes. His broad chest gasps for air and he takes it upon himself— despite his wrecked appearance— to smush their mouths deeper together, pooling moans across the roof of her own.  

“I’m—” His breathing throttles, voice coming out softer than she’s heard it in the last three weeks. “I’m gonna cum.”

Y/N nods her head numbly, strokes becoming lazy and fast, eager for him to finish. “I want you to. I want you to cum for me so bad. Please?” 

Harry’s hips writhe in a tell-tale sign that he’s about to tip. His whimper tastes sweet on her tongue, the meaning behind it pure syrup to her ego. “You’re the only one who makes me feel this good.”

The mortal whines gently in return, eyes falling shut as she feels him grow heavier in her palm. “You’re the only one I want to make feel this good.” 

The knot of white hot pleasure in his belly begins to unravel, his entire spine shuddering as a result, all strain beginning to wash out of his system in spurts if blissful electricity. He can feel his orgasm racing up his prick, pulling his composure along with it. He gives one last jerk against Y/N’s cupped fingers, feeling her press her vibrating thumb over his slit one more time for good measure. When the first milky ribbon spurts out, that’s when he feels it. 

Harry’s eyelids fly open in alarm as black veins protrude along the whites of his eyes, all his muscles contracting at once, defense mode activated. Y/N’s lips are on his neck. 

His first instinct is to do what he always does and guide her away from that sensitive, highly forbidden area. His fist tightens in her hair and he’s about to yank her back up to his mouth when suddenly, the icy tension present in his veins disappears. It’s replaced by a soothing warmth, which travels through every crevice in his body and kindles his climax, his impulsive hatred for being touched in that specific region funneling away completely. He can’t remember a time where this has happened before. 

Harry’s grip loosens hesitantly as he treads into this unexplored territory, allowing her to continue suckling along his throat. The sensation would usually garner a reaction similar to that of a molten metal brand being placed on his skin, but now— for some startling reason— he doesn’t feel any contempt. He just feels relaxed and cradled in the best way imaginable. The impact is pleasant this time around, and he finds himself wanting more of it. So, he lets her give him more. He lets this strange girl kiss and gasp and lick against his jugular while she finishes getting him off, his own desperate sounds of need bouncing around the brick walls of her bedroom. He lets her coax wave after wave of cum out of him, feeling it splatter against her bedspread and coat over her hand. He whines and grunts into the hair along the crown of her head, tears blearing his eyes as her scent of sugar and flowers clouds his mind. And when his release finally sputters to an end, he lets out an elongated groan so deep, it makes his chest ache.

“Fuck. You’re...You’re an absolute angel.”

Y/N draws her hand out from beneath the bed sheets, turning off the vibrating finger pads by pressing them against her palm. She looks down at the milky substance covering the toys and before Harry can make even a sound of encouragement, she’s already licking it off each individual piece. The girl looks up at the vampire as she cleans every trace of him off her fingers, swallowing it all down with a doe-like tint across her hazy gaze and murmuring a soft, “You taste good.” over a full mouth. Harry just watches silently, heavy breathing slowly starting to even out. God, she really is such a fucking godsend.

The next couple of minutes list by in a blur, all of his focus taken up by the feeling of unsettlement pricking at the back of his brain. Why had he let her touch him there? Why had he let her touch him in a place no one has since before his death?

Y/N puts the toys back in their box, putting them off to the side to thoroughly clean later. She reaches down, bunching up her bedspread in her hand and wiping Harry’s pelvis, thighs, and tummy down until he’s decently clean, as well as whatever is left on her hand. She then snuggles up to his side once again, laying her head into the crook between his arm and pectoral muscles, staring up at the ceiling thoughtfully along with him. The irritating red tint across Harry’s chest, stomach, and neck gradually fades away, and he barely flinches when he feels her sponge her lips against his Adam’s Apple. She lulls the tip of her middle finger up along the vein of his cock one more time for finality, smiling slyly when he hisses in sensitivity.

The immortal tilts his head down to appraise her, sniffling lightly and allowing a weak, watery smile across his raw lips. His tone is feathery and detached. “That was…Christ.”

Y/N giggles softly, nodding along to his unspoken opinion. “It was fun. Really fun. We should do it again sometime.” 

Harry splutters into a drunken laugh, mind still floating around the room. “I don’t think I could survive that again.”

Y/N grins up at him cheekily. “Pussy.” 

Her friend breaks into an expression of utter offense, cheeks still slightly rosy. He shoves her head roughly as vengeance. “Hey! Piss off. Don’t blame it on me, blame it on the male anatomy.” 

The girl shakes her head up at him, eyebrows shrugging mockingly. “Excuses, excuses.” 

“Whatever.” 

A moment passes, and then Y/N speaks up again, her index finger poking playfully into the center of his bare chest, right over the butterfly tattoo. “Also, you’re washing my sheets. Your mess, you clean it up.”

Harry grins against her forehead, scratching lightly at the back of her scalp. “Fair enough…Wait, is that why you wanted to do this? ‘Cause you knew I’d soil your sheets and you could force me to do your laundry?”

That hadn’t been her motive at all, and Harry knows that, but she plays along anyways for the hell of the joke. “Perhaps.” 

“Wow. I feel used.” 

“Too bad. Go do it. Now. Before it stains.”

Harry stares at her like she’s sprouted a second head. “I literally can’t walk right now! I can’t feel anything below my waist.”

Y/N lifts the comforter off her body, symbolically showing off the bruises his fingertips and rings had left the night before. “Well, neither can I!” 

Harry reaches down and touches the marks, chuckling to himself. “How unfortunate. Who’s gonna make breakfast, then, if neither of us can even stand?”

“We could UberEats some iHop.” 

“Who’s gonna get the door?”

“Well, I can’t solve everything on my own, now can I?!” Y/N slaps his hand away from her body. “Contribute! You’re the lead detective, after all.” 

“I am, aren’t I?” Harry cocks his head to the side in recollection, remembering his role in their imaginary dynamic duo scenario. “And because I’m the lead, I say…” He ropes his lean arms around the human and buries his face into her warm neck, pulling her close and intertwining their legs together, trapping her to the mattress along with him. “I say we just bum around for a bit longer. Just until one of us can actually muster up the strength to leave the bed.” 

Y/N makes an exasperated noise in the back of her throat, but makes no apparent attempt to leave his embrace. “Fine.” 

“Mystery solved, then! Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“You’re so dumb.” 

The pair stay cuddled for a bit, with Y/N’s hands loosely gripping Harry’s forearms, tracing across his mermaid tattoo absently. She wanders in her thoughts for a period of time, lost in the sensation of Harry’s warm breath fanning down her neck, his hot lips pressing small kisses behind her ear every once in a while. She likes their morning after routine; it’s innocent and fun and sharing moments like this makes it easy to forget her troubles. She wants more of this, and she finds herself trying to come up with ways to convince Harry to spend the night more often. This is only the fourth time he’s stayed until morning and she wants that number to grow. 

An idea dawns on her and she’s voicing it before her inhibitions can kill it off.

“Do you...Do you maybe wanna stay over the rest of the weekend?”

Harry draws his face from the alcove of her soft neck, eyebrows poised in curiosity. “The rest of the weekend?”

“Yeah!” Y/N shifts her gaze up to look at him, hope swirling around her pupils. “Like, spend the rest of today and tomorrow over, and then leave tomorrow night ‘cause I have work on Monday. Does that, like...Does that make sense?” 

“Yeah.” Harry says slowly, mulling over her offer, thinking back to his schedule. He doesn’t think he has any commitments this weekend that would require him being home— none he can’t cancel easily, anyways. He’d told Mitch he’d go see him play again at the pub later today, but it’s the same set as last time, so he doesn’t think his best friend would mind if he missed it just this once. Niall was planning a barbecue at his place on Sunday, but the Irish bloke does one almost every other week so it’s nothing Harry can’t make up. Plus, what type of idiot would pass up two day’s worth of amazing sex? The more, the merrier.

Y/N watches the vampire’s expression carefully, trying to interpret whether her request was out of their boundaries. She doesn’t want to make him feel like she’s trying to tie him down or suffocate him, she just wants to spend a bit more time in his presence, rather than through a phone screen. Her tone comes out dismissive, with just the tiniest hint of panic. “It’s okay if you can’t, though. Like, if you have other plans and stuff, I totally get it. Or if you just don’t want to, that’s fine, too! I just thought it’d be a fun little thing we can do since we already talk so much on the phone and everything, so I guess I just kinda figured you wouldn’t mind—”

“I get it, Y/N.” Harry interrupts Y/N’s unhinged word vomit, voice amused and nonchalant. “I think I’d like that, yeah.”

Y/N blinks in giddy surprise. “Really?” 

“Well, don’t sound so shocked.” Harry laughs lightly, fingers toying with the pearls laying across his clavicle. “The sex is pretty fucking good and I’m more than happy to have it at my disposal.” 

“Right.” Y/N gives him a deadpan look, shaking her head at his bluntness, reaching forward to fiddle with the chain of his cross necklace for the sake of having something to distract her from smiling like a fool. “Great, then. I have some old boxers that I know will probably fit you and an unopened pack of toothbrushes under the sink, so I think you’re set.” 

Harry’s lips purse at the mention of the men’s underwear, brows creasing a tad. “You just casually have men’s boxers laying around?” 

“They were my ex’s and I kept them out of spite. But don’t tell anyone, I don’t wanna get locked up for robbery.” 

The tightness in his chest— which he hadn’t even realized had formed— melts away. “My lips are sealed.”

“Good, or else I’d have to kill you.” The girl states darkly, a theatrical seriousness to her appearance. 

“Oh no.” Harry wails sarcastically, knotting a fist into her oversized tee and pulling her closer, connecting their lips and grinning into the kiss. “I’m shaking in fear.” 

Y/N gives in without much of a fight, hands still clinging to his forearms, a smile of her own creeping across her cheeks. “Asshole.”

“The only thing I’m relatively afraid of is my dick falling off. You have the sexual drive of a rabbit.” 

“Oh, like you’re any better?” 

“I’m innocent in all this! You’re usually the one instigating. I’m just a mere pawn— a poor, unsuspecting nun led astray.”

“God, I can’t believe I let you fuck me.” 

///

The following weekend, Harry officially invites Y/N over to his house. 

It had been talked about in passing a while back, and he figures it's only fair considering all the time they’ve ever spent together has been solely at her place. Plus, he could tell she was curious to see what his living situation is like, which is valid. You can tell a lot about people through their home, and when you’re sleeping with someone on the regular, you want to learn as much about them as possible. It’s important to know who you’re getting into bed with. Literally. 

Harry’s proud of his condo. He keeps it clean, he keeps it organized, and he keeps it styled in a manner that combines his Victorian gothic roots with modern day aesthetics. The floorboards of the apartment are made of waxed light-wash wood, most of the expanse of his living room covered in a furry dark grey rug. The lightness of the ground is contrasted by the matte mahogany walls, of which the largest is covered in Harry’s collection of first edition artwork. He had picked out every single piece himself throughout the span of the last two centuries, ranging from modern digital technique canvases to nineteenth century oil paintings, all arranged in neat alternating rows from oldest to newest. He can’t help that he’s such a stickler; his mom had raised him so. 

Though his art wall is his pride and joy, the glass wall that overlooks the city skyline comes in at a close second. Harry loves the city, despite the fact that he was born in a seemingly irrelevant town whose only redeeming quality was the bustling public market. Urban regions are just full of so much life, excitement, and potential, which are all concepts he never really got to explore before he transitioned. Cities represent everything he wanted as a young man, when he thought he had prosperous years ahead of him and an entire life left to build; they represent diversity, unique experiences, and endless possibilities. When that was stripped from him, he began to bounce around different countries and cities all over the world, seeking a place that would fill the hole his dreams had left behind. Los Angeles fit that space like a puzzle piece. 

That glorified window just means more to him than anyone could possibly know. Sometimes at night, he’ll just stand by it with his arms relaxed across his chest, watching the city gleam and glitter as individuals from all different backgrounds go about their business, blissfully ignorant to the beautiful concept that they all contribute to something much bigger— a concept that only centuries of wisdom could reveal. When he’s not wracked with jealousy and spite, looking out that window and witnessing the world change and evolve is therapeutic, in a way. It allows Harry to live vicariously through others who get to have what he never did. 

Aside from his art collection and the glass wall, the chandeliers that hang from his cavernous ceiling are third on his list of treasured possessions. They’re special and no one on this earth owns anything like them; Harry made sure of that. They were created by a Swedish interior designer Harry commissioned about ten years ago, so they are custom-made in every aspect of the term. They took months to construct and finalize, which is hardly difficult to believe, given their grandeur. Each chandelier is made of two extensive layers of delicate golden chains, all arranged around a wire center, connected by light bulbs at each peak. It gives his home a chic, avant-garde atmosphere that mirrors his personality down to the last chain link. 

The rest of his flat is tailored to compliment these three major determining factors. The wood paneling all around his apartment is carved with intricate, loopy designs, his two rounded coffee tables are made of the same marble that resides across his kitchen counters, and his kitchen sits directly under the second story ledge with elongated fluorescent poles embedded into the room’s ceiling, eloquently highlighting the creme walls and polished detailings of all his appliances. His sectional couches are made of an off-brown leather, covered in large rectangular couch cushions with a checkered print embroidered across the pillow cases, and weighted fleece blankets litter some areas of the elegant sofas. A wide staircase leads up to the second floor, made of grey glass steps and metal railings. 

The top story of his condo is less Victorian era, more modern composition. The ground is dark maroon carpeting, and the ledge leads to one singular corridor that splits into two seperate rooms at either ends. One is the master bedroom, and the other is an accompanying bedroom which he uses for storage. His room isn’t anything extravagant, per se. It’s big, but his decor is minimalistic, covered in all different muted shades of blacks and greys, from the comforter on his king-sized bed to the tall dresser. A fifty inch flat-screen is mounted on the wall, but he hardly uses it since the one in his living room is larger; it’s only really there as an ornament. Starburst lights hang from his ceiling— smaller, downplayed versions of his chandeliers— and his walk-in closet stands parallel to the entrance of his bathroom. 

The humongous bathroom was meant for two people, pretty obvious in the double-sink set up, but he doesn’t dwell on it much. He isn’t one for dating, and he’s just happy to have that luxury because it comes in handy the morning after one night stands. He has a jacuzzi-like bathtub, lined with water jets and all, and a big walk-in shower with a large overhead panel instead of a regular showerhead. The whole room is made of dark marble and porcelain, and he couldn’t possibly adore it more. Some of his best experiences had happened in this room, explicit and otherwise. 

In the end, Harry has every right to be arrogantly proud of his apartment. It had taken him months to decorate, years to fill with fond memories, and an immortal lifetime to find. He loves it with every trace of his soul, even when others disagree. Namely, Niall, who had mocked his sophisticated relics and old-timey architecture from the first time he’d set foot past the threshold; “You went the dark gothic route? Really? Way to feed into the stereotype, Dracula.” 

But no matter what anyone says, this is who he is, and he couldn’t be happier. After decades of migrating and aimlessly searching the globe, he’d finally found a place he could call home, and absolutely no one could take that from him. Especially not some Irish moron who doesn’t even know the definition of “foyer.”

How Harry manages to afford his flat is a whole other intriguing tale.

It had come up in a pillow talk conversation with Y/N once, and he had told her the story he feeds to any human who asks. He’s a regional manager for an offshore company and it’s mainly a lot of online work. Handling duties through business emails, videochat meetings, job portals, and things of the such. It paints a valid image as to why he’s home all the time. He also claims to be the company’s lone contact stationed in California, so he handles all of the responsibilities that would normally be bestowed upon three or four people. This paints a valid explanation as to how his imaginary position would tether such a high pay grade, which justifies his luxurious living arrangement.

That story is part of the truth. Harry does indeed have ties with corporate businesses. That is, ties to their CEOs’ pockets. It’s surprisingly easy to get past secretaries and security dressed in a nice suit and thousand dollar leather shoes, especially with the help of compulsion and Harry’s golden charisma. Thanks to those tools, he has managed to convince some of the biggest leaders in corporate California to quietly deposit generous sums of money into his bank account once a month. And with his persuasive supernatural abilities, he convinces them to write it off as regularly scheduled charity donations in their minds. That’s how he makes a living for himself— by scamming the rich. Xander likes to take the piss and call him a sugar baby, but Harry sees himself as more of a modern day Robin Hood, instead. 

Mitch says his charade is unlawful, but considering how corrupt the business world already is, the vampire feels next to no guilt. The one percent have always taken advantage of those poorer than them— that was obvious even back in Harry’s time— and he doesn’t see anything wrong with taking advantage of them right back, now that he has the means to. How’s that saying go? “Fuck the bourgeoisie” and all that. 

Everything taken into consideration, Harry’s pretty excited to show Y/N his condo. Watching people’s faces break into awe the second he turns the lights on always gives him such a deep surge of satisfaction. It makes all the hassle worth it.  

The immortal is currently sitting in his vintage car, flicking through his Spotify playlist to find something to entertain him while he waits for Y/N to finish her shift. He had offered to pick her up, knowing that it’s what any courteous host would do, and she had appreciatively accepted, telling him she’d be out by eight P.M. It’s seven fifty-three now and Harry had arrived around seven fifty, taking the slot right in front of the cafe’s entrance so she can spot him as soon as she walks out. These ten minutes are the longest he’s ever had to endure, which says a lot considering he’s endured tons of patience-testing moments in his two hundred years.

Harry swipes his thumb down the glass screen of his phone, sampling songs left and right to see what will stick. After listening to the first few chords of an array of forties dance music, seventies rock and roll, and twenty-first century bubblegum pop, he settles for Rodeo by Lil Nas X. Harry has a very intricate taste in music— it’s one of the traits he’s most proud of— and Mitch often tells him he’s too snotty when it comes to his preferences. He’ll admit it freely that, yes, he can be a piece of work musically, but just because he thinks the industry peaked in the seventies doesn’t mean he hates modern music. He likes most of it, including rap, and Lil Nas X happens to be one of his favorites, much to everyone’s surprise. Most of the artist’s songs are eccentric not only lyrically but also instrumentally, to the point where it’s almost comical— who names a song Panini, of all things?— but the music is catchy and Harry can let loose to it easily. 

The vampire also happened to meet the musician, on one occasion. He ran into him at a club and after a few drinks and some banter, somehow ended up getting invited over to a party at the celebrity’s Malibu mansion. That night is a blur, definitely due to the copious amounts of alcohol and psychedelics, but Harry remembers they had fun and that the guy was worth a listen. In fact, he was the genius that came up with the theme for the rapper’s Rodeo music video. 

A light knocking on the passenger’s seat window brings him out of his memories. Y/N stands outside, hugging her arms loosely over her tummy, decked in her usual work uniform of a navy polo and black skinny jeans. When the two lock eye contact, she gives him a soft wave and a tired smile. Harry lifts two fingers in greeting, returning her polite gesture and swiftly lowering the window. He leans forward across the center console, his grin taking on a playful hue, voice carrying the same effect. 

“Uber for Y/N?” 

The girl snorts and rolls her eyes, but plays along, reaching forward and jiggling the handle of his black Cadillac symbolically. “That’s me, yes. Open up.” 

“Eh, eh, eh.” Harry tuts, wagging a finger in her direction and then making a motion that tells her to back away. “I’m gonna have to see some ID. It’s one of our new safe driver policies. Gotta make sure you are who you say you are, miss.” 

Y/N’s expression drops flatly, eyes half-lidded as he smiles up at her brightly, batting his eyelashes innocently. “Open the door before you end up sucking your own dick tonight.” 

Harry’s shit-eating face falls so fast, it causes her to burst into laughter. A soft click vibrates through the handle below her fingers. “I’ll waive the background check. Just this once.”  

“Yeah, I figured as much.” Y/N taunts, yanking the door open and ducking into the shotgun seat, gently tugging it closed behind her. 

Once the human is situated in her spot, she releases a lengthy sigh, sinking down against the cushions as she grabs her seat belt and clicks it into place. 

Harry puts his cell phone down into the cubby hole below the stereo set, setting the car in reverse and slinging an arm behind her headrest to get a better view as he backs out of the parking space. His gaze momentarily flickers to her slumped form as the car retreats slowly, tone curious. “Long day?”

Y/N glimpses over, giving him a quick once-over and taking in his olive green Nike jumper, ripped denim boyfriend jeans, and pastel yellow Vans. He looks so boyishly cute, which is ironic given the premise of tonight’s rendezvous. The shoes (which he had worn the night they’d met all those weeks ago) and the position he’s in (perched above her with his sharp jaw and neck flexing as he cranes his torso to look for oncoming traffic) flashes her back to the first time she had been in his car. They had been way less acquainted, she had been much less relaxed, much more nervous, but the encounter very much carried the same exact intentions. That recollection makes her lips quirk a bit. The pair had grown so comfortable with each other since then, that Friday evening feels like it happened decades ago. 

“Yeah.” Y/N murmurs softly, gladly indulging a deep inhale of the vanilla and tobacco scent she had become familiar with, allowing it to soothe her nerves and wash away the stress of a hard day. “I’m just happy it’s over and that the weekend’s finally started. Wanna forget all about it.” 

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, love!” Harry plops back into his seat, shifting his car into drive and gifting her his famous brilliant smile, dimples winking to life as he taps his ringed fingers across his steering wheel humorously. “I’ve made you forget your name plenty of times before; I’m pretty sure I can erase one shitty work shift just fine.”

Y/N scoffs at his pompous claim, reaching up and prying the hair tie out of her locks, looping it over her wrist and shushing her stiff roots. She tucks strands behind her ears, the corners of her mouth twitching in endearment at the giddiness of his aura. “Just drive, Sherlock.” 

The mortal isn’t surprised to find that building in which the vampire lives is one of the tallest in the city, and that it’s basically smack in the center, as well. One look at Harry and anybody could immediately tell he thrives off being the center of attention, so of course his home is a direct reflection of that. Refined boy, refined personality, refined environment. It’s practically a law of science. 

Once Harry’s car is parked and the ignition rumbles to a smooth stop, Y/N unbuckles her seat belt and goes to unlock the passenger’s side door. Right as her hand is wrapping around the handle bar, the door swings open of its own accord and she just barely manages to stifle a blood-curdling scream full of shocked fear. When her eyes focus, Harry is standing there holding the door open for her, features painted with cocky amusement. 

“How did you—?” The girl whips around to look at the empty driver’s seat, eyebrows cinching in bewilderment as she turns back to face him. “How did you get around so fast?” 

Harry shrugs his shoulders offhandedly, reaching one bejeweled hand down to aid her out of the vehicle. “I did track when I was younger. Made me a fast walker.” 

Y/N hesitantly takes it, body language still slightly tense from the jump scare. With his help, she gradually climbs out, the door shutting behind her as she sweeps her sight around the parking garage in wonder. This is the first time Harry has ever invited her anywhere, let alone to where he spends most of his life. She doesn’t want to miss a thing. Even the simplest aspect can tell you a lot about a person. 

Y/N jerks a tad when she feels her friend’s cold fingers slipping down her palm, sifting between her own. She glances down at their intertwined hands for a second, a warm glow bursting through her chest. She’s always admired how his are so much bigger. 

Harry tugs her forward toward the elevator at the other end of the parking lot, bottom lip caught between his teeth in a sly smirk. “C’mon, Watson. Let me show you around.” 

Y/N stumbles after him, allowing the boy to guide her to where she needs to go as he weeds through cars effortlessly. She suddenly chimes up from behind, asking a random question to fill the leftover silence their footsteps spare. “That car next to yours had such a weird license plate. What the fuck does ‘craic’ mean?” 

Harry chuckles knowingly, perfectly aware of whose car she is referring to. “It’s this odd thing Irish people say. Utter rubbish, honestly.” 

A comfortable quietness fills the air of the elegant elevator as it shoots up towards the twenty-fourth floor of the skyscraper, the only other sound being the gentle lullaby of a nameless tune wafting through the speakers above their heads. Harry finds himself studying Y/N as she looks out at the city through the glass walls, the lights of the exterior buildings casting a beautiful buttery gleam across her relaxed characteristics, along with a radiant glint over the surface of her glossy eyes. Despite the slightly smeared mascara staining her waterline and the inherent frizziness her hair carries after being pulled into a tight ponytail all day, Harry finds that she looks nice. Pretty, even. 

The girl senses him staring, craning her head to return his gaze, the edges of her lips lilting upwards lightheartedly. He returns the gesture, peeling away to focus on something— anything— else. He deems the control panel a worthy replacement.

As the numbers on the dial drag by, Harry finds himself absentmindedly thumbing over Y/N’s knuckles. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind, so he continues doing it, massaging the crest of each bump and pressing down gently along the troughs. He enjoys the sensation of her silky warm skin heating his icy own, and he ponders whether she likes how cold his touch is, or if she hates it as much as he does. He expels that notion from his mind; he refuses to let such a stupid concept upset him. He just keeps caressing her hand, restraining his mind from ambling too far into its meaning. It’s just to pass the time. 

He keeps the movements going until their ride skates to a joltless halt with a sharp ding! and then he steps out, having to give his full attention to leading her down the long corridor to his flat. Y/N is so caught up in drinking up her surroundings, she almost bumps into the creature when he comes to an abrupt stop in front of the entrance of what she can only deduce is his home. Harry drops her hand, much to her disappointment, fishing into his back pocket for his keys. He patiently filters through his keychain, picking out the right one and working it into the lock, a soft click emitting from the mechanism. 

Harry pushes the door open with his palm, standing off to the side just outside the threshold and tilting his head towards it, posture bowing slightly. “Ladies first.” 

Y/N thanks him quietly, taking a cautious step forward into his hallway. She can’t help the way her heart skips a beat at his gentlemanly tendencies; she rarely meets anyone as respectful as Harry seems to be and she finds his old-timey attributes to be refreshing. Helping her out the car, taking her hand to guide her through the parking lot, rubbing at her knuckles innocently, holding the door open for her— it’s all such an archaic form of chivalry she wishes she’d see more often these days. She doesn’t know if it’s a British thing, if he had just been raised like that, or if he simply does it to get laid, but she’s thankful for it either way. 

With one last glance at her friend over her shoulder, she begins wandering down the dark narrow path unsurely. The sound of the door slinking shut behind her and Harry’s footsteps ease her. 

She stops once she senses the corridor open up into a larger space, which she guesses is his living room. A soft gasp escapes her at the sight before her. The whole area is washed in darkness, the only source of light stemming from the large glass pane that stretches from the floor of the apartment to its tall ceiling. Dozens of buildings and cars glimmer below, the breath-taking image of the lively city looking almost like a snapshot from a professional movie. It’s absolutely gorgeous and she feels like she could stare at it for eons. 

A chilly hand suddenly presses along the dip of her spine, ushering her forward an inch or two, Harry’s invisible voice and warm breath hitting the shell of her left ear. “S’cuse me, dove.”   

The boy reaches behind her for the light switch and the condo bursts into radiance with one simple flick of his wrist. 

“Oh...my God.”

Harry’s home is something straight out of a luxury catalogue. The light floorboards and the mahogany panels. The massive leather couches and hand-sewn cushions. The extravagant chandeliers and glass staircase. The marble kitchen and generously packed liquor shelves. The ginormous wall of priceless artwork, littered with pieces from all different eras of history. It feels like stepping into a decor wonderland.

“Not too bad, huh?” Harry pipes up playfully, anchoring her back into reality from the floaty stupor that had consumed her mind. 

“Not too—? Are you kidding?” Y/N sputters incredulously, whizzing her head to the side sharply. “You were keeping an entire Four Seasons royal suite from me?!”

Harry belts out a bundle of childish giggles, the edges of his eyes crinkling and the tip of his button nose twitching. “I never thought of it much, to be honest. I’d grown to like your place.” 

“Right. Because a creaky mattress and a kitchen the size of a broom closet is so much more satisfying than chandeliers and a fucking glass wall.”

The vampire glimpses around his flat indicatively. “Okay, I see your point.”

“Exactly.” 

Y/N drifts forward, running the tips of her fingers across the backrest of the aged leather sofa and along the corners of the throw pillow, doing a slow circle at the middle of his home, taking everything in a second time around to make sure it isn’t a mirage. “Fuck, this is incredible. Is your boss looking for any more regional managers, by any chance?”

Harry follows after her, tucking his hands into the back pockets of his boyfriend jeans, chewing along the inside of his cheek to suppress a proud smile— a result of her explosive reaction. “I’m afraid my position is the one and only, sorry.”

Y/N droops her shoulders in exaggerated contempt, presenting a shitty English accent to tease him. “Bollocks.”

It garners the designated feedback, her tummy somersaulting at Harry’s exorbitant laughter. 

The boy comes to stand before her, cocking his head to the side questioningly towards his kitchen. “Can I offer you a drink?”

Y/N glimpses over at his bar area, eyes dancing over his extensive array of fancy bottles. “Oh, please do.”

Despite only having known Y/N for a few weeks, Harry has gotten quite acquainted with her tastes, even outside of sexual matters. She doesn't like the taste of alcohol, but she likes its effects. And he likes them, too, if he’s being honest. Her blood always begins to smell more appetizing after just a few sips and the way her cheeks heat up so easily when she’s buzzed always makes his breathing trip. 

He works his extensive skills, pulling from his liquor cabinet and mixing flavored liquids and syrups until he comes up with something that he thinks the girl will enjoy. It’s fruity, with hints of peach, lime, and strawberry, but also warm and fulfilling, with a rich whiskey and a few dashes of bitters. He plunks in a couple of ice cubes and mixes it together with a bar spoon, tapping it against the rim with finality and swiping it over his tongue in a quick taste test. He’s pretty happy with his concoction. 

Harry glances up to where Y/N is leaning against the armrest of his couch, her legs crossed before her as she stares at one of the abstract paintings mounted on his wall. It’s an original, as are the rest of them, which he had purchased some odd seventy years ago from a barely known artist whose talent had gone to waste in the world. It’s a deconstructed sunflower, with the color palette inverted and the strokes of the brush uneven and jagged. Odd and complicated, but beautiful, nonetheless. Its complexity is what makes it significant. 

The vampire slowly wanders over from his kitchen, holding her drink in one hand and a cloth napkin in the other. He takes the spot beside her along the armrest, speaking wistfully as if recalling a fond memory. “It’s a flower.”

Y/N nods slowly in recognition, peeling her gaze away with the corners of her lips jilting. “Mmhm, a sunflower.”

Harry’s brows jump in shock. Barely anyone ever guesses the identity correctly. He’s found that as time passes and humanity becomes more reliant on technology rather than cognizant knowledge, society in general has reduced to a more pea-brained state than ever. As a result, the amount of people who can interpret and understand the meaning behind complex artwork has greatly diminished, unfortunately, so he’s pleasantly surprised to find that one of the few who still possesses that talent happens to be the girl he’s shagging. “Wow, that’s a first. It’s so unusual, no one ever really gets it.”

“I guess I just have an affinity for the unusual.” His guest quips, giving him a jesting shrug of her eyebrows and a suggestive grin. 

You have no idea.

“You underestimated me, Holmes.” 

“That I did. My sincerest apologies.” Harry returns her joking simper, proceeding to then dip an index finger inside the stout glass in his grasp, bringing it up before her face. “Taste.”

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N parts her lips and allows him to coax the wet digit in, the tangy flavor of the mixture making her taste buds tingle. She encloses her mouth around his finger, lulling her tongue along it slowly with a mischievous glint shining across her irises. 

Harry’s prominent jaw clenches as he watches the scene unfold, breath bated and a moan threatening to betray him. She truly wastes no time.

He gradually pulls his finger from her tongue, struggling to clear his throat, missing its texture already. “How is it? More syrup? More biters?”

Y/N gazes up at him drunkenly, though it’s definitely not from the liquor. Her lips quirk cheekily as a result of how visibly frazzled she’d gotten him. “It’s perfect. Better than anything I’ve had at a club, that’s for sure.” 

“Yeah?” Harry taps his opal ring against the bottom of the lowball glass, trying to reign in his previous composure. “Think I could be a bartender?” 

“You don’t hit me as the type of person who has the patience for it.” The girl remarks wittily, slinking her head to the side and biting back a giggle when Harry makes a face at her.

“You make a valid point, I suppose.” The vampire responds with an airy sigh, nodding in surrender. “The stupid blabbing from drunk morons and impending fear of being vomited on would be too much for me. I wouldn’t last a day.” 

“You wouldn’t last a single night, let alone a whole day.”

“Alright, pipe down!” Harry deadpans, bumping her shoulder with his vengefully. “You’re bruising my ego.”

“It’s humongous,” Y/N snorts, shoving him in return, “it can take a few hits.”

The pair sit there in silence for a suspended moment, just taking in the expanse of the art before them. Harry then turns his torso towards her once more, bringing the drink in his grip up to her mouth. “Here, have a proper sip. Put my all into it.” 

Y/N obliges, looking up at him with her signature doe-like air of trusting innocence, allowing him to tip the hem of the cup against her mouth. The cool beverage filters through her taste buds and down her throat, the sweet and sour mixture leaving an enjoyable tingle in its wake. A few streams of the liquid bead out of the corners of her lips and Harry impulsively gathers them with the side of his index finger, the napkin in his other hand completely forgotten. 

As he goes to pull back in order to clean up, Y/N leans forward and traps his digit between her lips like before. This time, there’s a more insistent sultry hint sparkling around her pupils. 

“Christ...” Harry pants, watching Y/N work her way down his forefinger with a silent groan hinging on his teeth. 

He doesn’t deny himself from indulging the dirty action this time around. Her mouth is as soft and warm as ever, sending chills racing down his spine despite the sweater hugging his body. His mind slips for a second, reminiscing in all the other ways he’s felt the inside of her mouth before, a faint red tinge splattering across his cheekbones. 

Y/N draws his finger out, kissing messily across its length and over the pad, looking up at him through tension-heavied lashes. She doesn't speak a word, but her intentions are clear in the electricity between them.

He can’t hold back any longer, his next comment coming out as a pained growl. “God, you’re such a filthy little thing.”  

She hums softly in the back of her throat at his explicit compliment, suckling at the center of her bottom lip needily. “I like being your filthy little thing.”

Harry swallows thickly in order to keep himself somewhat tame, fangs suddenly pricking his tongue in warning.

The mortal scoots closer to him, sifting her fingers between his around the drink and bringing it upwards, downing the last couple of inches in one go. She draws the cup from his grasp, reaching over to set it down carefully on the coffee table before turning back and snuggling deeper into his heaving chest. 

Harry scoffs in amusement, but he can feel a certain charring scratching at the back of his throat. “Drinks like that are meant to be savored, darling. You’re not supposed to just pound them.” 

Y/N stretches her neck upwards, taking his earlobe between her teeth, lips wet and cold from the alcohol. His lashes flutter when her warm breath hits his skin, contradicting the sensations from before. 

“Why don’t you let me worry about how I drink, and you can worry about a different kind of pounding.”

And that’s all it takes, really. That’s all it takes for Harry to completely drop any self-control he has left. 

The creature jars his face towards her, large hand shooting upwards to grip her jaw firmly, holding her in place as he crashes their mouths together. It’s all tongue and clacking teeth, desperate whines and stuttered gasps. Y/N’s hands fumble for something to tether to while Harry takes it upon himself to grasp at her opposite hip with his free hand, yanking her onto his lap. She buries her fists in the cotton fabric of his jumper, balancing her knees on either sides of his parted thighs. The boy’s fingers coast from her jaw down to her throat, tightening ever so slightly. The action is minimal, but it reveals that flare of dominance Y/N has become addicted to. 

“Do you want it here?” Harry rasps against her eager tongue, smirking into the kiss when he feels her start to rock along the bulge that is beginning to tent his denim pants. “Do you want me to bend you over the couch and fuck you, baby? With the chandelier making your skin glow? Where we can put on a show for the whole city to see?”

It’s a tempting offer and his words obviously have some form of impact, seen in the way Y/N’s grinding takes on a hungrier, deeper pace against his clothed cock. 

“I want…” Y/N finds it difficult to voice her desires, the responsible party being the manner in which Harry glues cracked mewls onto the roof of her mouth. “I want it in your bed.” 

She doesn’t know why, but she just wants him to take her some place where the moment they share is intimate, unseen by the prying eyes of others. She wants to christen his bed exactly how he had done hers; she craves that strange connection, for some reason. Y/N isn’t naive, she knows she’s not the only person Harry has had in his home and in his sheets. But she wants that experience, nonetheless, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She knows she’s not his only, but at least she’s one. 

Harry slowly breaks their kiss, brushing the tip of his nose across her own in a small comforting gesture. He blinks at her groggily, the copper specks in his eyes glitzing under the golden hue of the lighting. When he speaks, its soft and low, almost as if he doesn’t want to risk another soul overhearing. “Okay. Whatever you want, it’s yours.” 

Y/N almost doesn’t get anything she wants, given that she nearly kills herself on the trek up the stairs, courtesy of her weakened knees and wobbly ankles. Harry just barely manages to save her, but he finds the occurrence too hilarious to spare her the embarrassment. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny!” She exclaims indignantly as he helps her up the last few glass steps, clinging to him like a scared puppy, her hands still shaking with adrenaline. “I could have died!” 

Her shrieking only makes him laugh harder and he nearly keels over, palm clutching his stomach as if to keep it from popping. “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s just— your face when you— and how you tripped sideways— I—”

Y/N shoves him hard towards the corridor where his bedroom lies, but it’s hard to maintain an angry demeanor when the young man’s giggles sound like bells and when he looks so cute with his curls flopping across his forehead. “Dickhead.” 

They’re almost at his bedroom door when Harry grabs onto her wrist, tugging her roughly so that she lurches forward into his chest. He plants a wet kiss onto the bridge of her nose, expression entertained. “Stop being such a bad sport. It was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, okay.” She huffs begrudgingly, glancing down impatiently at his plump lips as he walks backwards down the hallway with her in tow. “You can invalidate my rage once you have a near death experience yourself.”

The irony of it all. 

Harry kicks the door open, ghosting his mouth over Y/N’s and watching her sight do a quick sweep around the area. “Welcome to my lair.” 

The human likes his aesthetic. The room has different hues of the same color, so it all ties together nicely, and the hanging lights look like miniature versions of the two large ones downstairs. The bed is huge, which is a relief because for once, they won’t have to actively worry about accidentally rolling off the edge mid-fuck. “It’s nice. Very chic.” 

“Thanks.” Harry reaches up and cups either side of her neck with his palms, dragging his damp lips over her chin and down the center of her jugular, smiling against her skin when he feels her shiver. “It doesn't have a bookshelf wall like yours, but I make due.”

“Yeah.” Y/N wisps out weakly, leaning her head back as he speckles his mouth across that sensitive point on her throat he discovered ages ago. “I bet.”

She feels Harry’s touch travel down her torso, cold fingers suddenly smearing across her love handles beneath her work shirt. His grip tightens at the hem with the intention of pulling the polo off, breath hot as it washes over her collarbones. “Wanna find out just how good I make it work?”

Y/N’s arms instinctively raise on command, her reply shaky and fragile. “Yes, please.” 

Harry makes it work. He makes it work so fucking well. He doesn’t need crazy positions or any vibrating toys to make her feel good; he just knows her so thoroughly by now that he’s able to tend to every single one of her needs like it’s his sole purpose. The sex is missionary, with her splayed out across her back upon his mound of feathered pillows, her thighs clamped over his hips as he slams into her at a harsh, curt pace. Her calves are tied around the backs of his thighs, her nails are carving memories into the broad expanse of his shoulders, they’re both panting curse words and encouragement into each other’s mouths, and he’s cradling her to his chest as if he wants to absorb her heartbeat right through her ribs. If only obtaining one were that easy. 

Y/N allows her head to fall back against the cushions, drawing away from the prolonged kiss only because she needs air to continue. Harry’s lips busy themselves elsewhere, running down the valley of her chest and toying with one of her pebbled nipples. Y/N’s back gives a sharp arch the second he brushes across the sensitive nub and the taunting coo he releases goes straight to her core. 

“Liked that, darling? Like it when I kiss you there?”

The girl’s lashes have fallen shut, her eyes lulling around in their sockets as he maintains a steady rhythm between her thighs, ramming into her with so much force, the headboard is knocking into the wall. It’s loud and intense enough that Harry has to fit one of his palms between the railings, bracing the weight of the bed in order to prevent a hole from forming. 

Y/N’s voice fills the dense atmosphere, so shattered and raw, she can hardly understand herself. “It feels so— so good, H.” 

“I love it when you call me that. Sounds so pretty coming from your lips.” The vampire’s tongue flicks over her nipple a handful of times, dark veins momentarily webbing over the whites of his eyes at the cracked whimper she lets loose. “And of course it feels good. I always make you feel good, don’t I? Always make my girl cum so—fucking—hard.” 

Y/N’s trembling fingers card into the curls along the nape of Harry’s neck as he thrusts to his words, twisting them around her knuckles and swimming in the throaty groan he pours over the clammy skin of her breasts. Her whisper sounds distant and dreamy. “Please...Please don’t stop.”

Harry gazes up at her through heavy lashes, lapping at her chest more fervently, accent thick and deep. “I won’t, baby. Not until I have you dripping all over my sheets.”

After a few more minutes of fractured moans bouncing around the panels of the room and the noise of wet skin slapping together, something catches Y/N’s bleary eyes. She wills past the blissful fog in her mind, focusing on the intriguing object hanging from one of the railings of Harry’s bedpost, swaying back and forth wildly due to his strong tempo. 

“Are those...Are those handcuffs?” 

Harry’s attention jumps to where hers is pinned, his powerful stride coming to a gradual stop. He’s heaving and shuddering above her, ringlets matted to his jaw and across his temples, cheeks flushed the prettiest shade of cherry red. His Adam’s Apple bobs once and he gives a short nod. “Y-Yeah. I’ve had them for a while...”

The hope dripping from his voice is practically palpable and Y/N interprets it easily. She glances down at him as he takes quivering inhales against her chest, his eyes bleeding lust. Her mumble is so quiet and soft, he wonders how it’s possible for her to make some of the preposterously loud sounds he’s used to hearing whenever he’s buried this deep. “Use them on me. Please?”

Harry bends to her request without hesitation. He locks her wrists into the restraints, sponging a kiss onto each before giving them one hard tug to check for security. He then regains his rough slams, but with more fervor than before. 

The monster sits back onto his heels, groping her waist roughly and working her against his thighs, watching welts form on her flesh along the pads of his fingers. Y/N unconsciously begins circling her hips to match his speed and the fractured groan that rips out of him makes her walls tighten. He looks incredible looming in front of her, head toppled back between his shoulder blades, bouncing to his every ram. His throat flexes with the weight, jaw taut and inked pectorals glistening with sweat under the dim lights dangling from his ceiling. “That’s it, pet, just like that. Love the way you ride it. You’re so fucking tight and warm and...and just— Christ, just fuck me.”

She wishes she could frame this moment in time and drag it out forever.  

Harry swings his head forward again, blinking the blurriness from his vision to take in the image before him. Y/N just looks so fucking gorgeous like that, tied down at his beck and call, her chest bouncing pertly as her fingers bunch around the chain link, thighs clinging to his waist as she chews her bottom lip raw in an attempt to control her noises. 

The vampire ducks down, connecting their mouths in a sloppy kiss that cajoles her into spilling all the moans she had been withholding. He feels them trickle down his lungs and diffuse into his bones, flames lapping across his insides as their foreheads bump and noses smudge, ragged breaths intermingling. “Let it out for me, hm? Wanna know how I’m making you feel, don’t care who hears.”

As if that isn’t enough, there’s an instance where Harry’s animalistic senses suddenly enhance and he comes to the realization that the metal cuffs have made a tiny laceration along her skin. 

A thin trail of blood travels down her suspended arm, but she doesn’t seem to notice, too lost in the pleasure Harry is pounding into the pit of her stomach. So he simply leans upwards and licks the sweet droplet clean, feeling heat spark across every fiber of his being. He laps up the entire stream and then presses a tender kiss to her palm for good measure, grunting out a gentle, “There’s a good girl.” when she whines at the affectionate gesture. 

The release Harry is getting from between Y/N’s legs mixes with the ecstasy her blood brings, and it shoves him over the edge in a manner he hasn’t experienced since that first time they slept together all those weeks ago. Since the first time he tasted what lies in her veins, while also simultaneously getting to taste the indescribable relief her body so readily brings him.

After all is said and done that night, something peculiar happens. After they both milk their orgasms for everything it’s worth, and after Y/N gives into exhaustion in his arms with her wrists bruised and a content watery smile on her face, and after he gets a heftier drink from her neck and heals the two little puncture wounds with his own blood...The most bizarre, unexpected event occurs. 

Harry falls asleep soundly for the first time in months, and all he dreams about is how Y/N tasted. 

///

Y/N wakes up the next morning to her body covered in Harry’s Nike jumper, to an empty spot beside her in the messy duvet, to a familiar tune tinging her ears from a distance, and to a satisfying ache between her thighs. 

As soon as she cracks the bedroom door open, the smell of pancakes wafts in through the chilled morning air. Specifically, lemon and blueberry pancakes. Her grandmother’s lemon and blueberry pancakes.

A shiver runs down Y/N’s spine the second she sets a toe along the cold glass panels of Harry’s staircase. She takes a deep breath, pulling the extra length of the sweater’s sleeves over her fists and tugging the hem of the article downwards as if she could convince it to cover more than just half her thighs. She carefully works her way down the steps, flinching at the iciness that travels up her legs with every motion. When she finally thunks down emptily onto the light-wash floorboards, her body has grown accustomed to the temperature. As she pads across the furry rug in Harry’s living room, she finds herself wondering why everything connected to him is always so unusually cold— colder than any normal person could withstand. His touch, his lips, the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chest, even his thighs; everything is always freezing, and she doesn’t understand how he can bear it. It’s such an odd affinity to have. 

The human gradually wanders into the vampire’s kitchen, peeking inside the room from behind one of the archway’s walls. What she sees throws her for a loop. 

Harry is cooking breakfast, as she expected from the sweet scent she’d awoken to, but he’s doing it in a manner she never really expected from him. 

Music stems from a portable speaker he has situated at the center of the marble kitchen island, blaring loud enough to fill the entire giant home with high notes, guitar chords, and acapella riffs. The young man is dancing across his kitchen as he cooks, clad in nothing but a set of black Calvin Klein briefs and a pair of fuzzy magenta socks. Y/N rakes down his body, admiring the crimson and purple love bites she had left on his chest and the raspberry red scratches zig-zagging across his back, the marks flexing with the movements of his muscles. They’re strangely faint, for some reason. Practically barely there. 

She chalks it up to the fact that maybe she hadn’t bruised him as much as she’d thought. 

Y/N forces herself to keep her mind from straying onto anymore explicit topics; it’s probably not even ten A.M. yet. She needs to get herself under control.

Grooving while in the kitchen isn’t necessarily weird (she’s guilty of it herself), but Harry’s dancing techniques very much are. The only accurate depiction of it is that for a boy in his twenties, he dances like an old geezer in his eighties. His moves are choppy and old-schooled, almost like what you’d expect to see in a nineteen fifties disco hall, and watching him ebb and flow across the tiled ground to choreography similar to that of Dirty Dancing and Footloose... It would send anybody into a fit of laughter. Especially since Harry is so tall and lanky, so how he manages to move in such a way is beyond her understanding. 

Aside from that, his choice of music is baffling, as well. Not only because she recognizes the soundtrack, but because she would have never expected someone like him— with his cocky behavior and overly-confident caliber— to be into these types of songs at all. She always pegged him for the seventies rock and roll type. 

“You like Hamilton?” 

Harry’s actions creak to a halt and he whips around towards where the disturbance had stemmed, spatula clutched in one hand and a marble plate stacked with pancakes in the other. His face breaks into a bright smile, voice slathered with dramatic friendliness. “Well, look who finally got up! I was starting to think you were dead, Sleeping Beauty.”

Y/N narrows her eyes at him mockingly, walking over to the kitchen counter and propping herself onto her elbows, chin in hand as she watches him set down the platter of food before her. She tips forward onto her toes, taking a deep inhale of the homey, sugary smell, letting it wash over her in flashes of childhood memories. “Are these like the ones I make?”

“Lemon and blueberry, yeah.” Harry bobs his head casually, turning around to place his metal spatula down into the sink, as well as to retrieve a glass bottle of maple syrup from one of his cupboards. “They’re pretty close, I think. I’ve never seen you use a recipe or measuring cups or anything when you make them, so I kinda eyeballed it to the best of my ability. Hope I did your nan justice.”

He pours a decently-sized glop of syrup over the mountain of treats and Y/N watches excitedly as it trickles down all the layers. He then pushes back from the table, pulling open a drawer and rummaging through, continuing to whistle along to the tune of Satisfied as he bops the cabinet closed with his hip and sets down an extra pair of forks and knives beside the plate. 

Harry cuts a neat triangle out of the pancake at the top, pointing at her with his fork as he shrugs his brows nonchalantly. “And to answer your question from before: yes, I do like Hamilton.”

“Hm. Interesting.” Y/N murmurs, going cross-eyed as Harry offers her the forkful of food in his possession, poking at her mouth playfully and getting maple syrup all over her lips. She opens obediently, allowing him to feed her the piece. “You don’t really seem like the type of guy— oh, wow, these are actually really good!”

Harry bites into his lower lip with his two front teeth, a proud smile dimpling his cheeks as the light draft from the air vent ruffles a couple of his sex-mussed ringlets across his forehead. “Yeah? You mean it?”

The mortal nods her head vigorously as she finishes chewing and swallowing, wiping away some of the leftover syrup from her top lip with her middle finger and sucking it clean. “Yeah! You hit it spot on.”

“Aces. I should be on The Great British Bake Off.” Harry makes a small, celebratory fist bump next to his hip and the childish gesture makes Y/N snort softly. 

“Like I was saying, you don’t really strike me as the type of guy who would be into musicals.” The girl comments, watching her friend cut another triangle out of the first pancake and pop it into his own mouth. 

The vampire chews thoughtfully for a second, lifting one shoulder offhandedly and swallowing fully before talking. “I’m really not, to be honest. But this specific musical is pretty good. The songs are catchy.”

He nudges the other pair of utensils across the counter for emphasis, silently inviting her to dig into the dish along with him. She accepts, slicing down the other side of the stack as he leans forward onto his elbows, mimicking her stance. He gives her a curious glance. “What about you? Do you like musicals?” 

Y/N shrugs, poking a few chunks of food onto her fork. “Not really, but I had a major Hamilton phase back in college. That’s why I recognized it.” 

Harry hums in understanding, picking a blueberry off and chewing it slowly, a sly smirk beginning to tweak the corners of his mouth. “So were you, like, a nerd back then?” 

“Well, I wouldn’t say a nerd, but I had decent grades and was pretty quiet.”

He swallows down audibly, blinking impassively. “That’s literally the definition of a nerd.” 

Y/N returns his flat expression. “Fuck off.”

Harry throws his palms up in peaceful surrender, but he still has that shit-eating grin present. “Alright, fine, fine...It’s okay if you were, though. You were probably one of those cute ones, y’know? With the clunky glasses and innocent goody-goody face.” 

“Shut up.”

“Oh, and with one of those short little plaid skirts?” He releases a pained groan, clutching his chest and closing his eyes for a second. She has no doubt he’s sketching some type of graphic image of her in his mind. “God, I bet you looked so good. Do you still have it? Can you wear it for me?”

“I said shut up!” Y/N reaches forward and stabs at his tummy lightly with her fork, ignoring the warmth crawling up her neck and across her cheeks. “Fucking perv.”

Harry smacks her utensil away with his own, giggling lightly as she tries to prick him again, continuing to fight her off. “I’m just asking a question! For science!” 

Y/N twists her fork around his, trying to outmaneuver him into dropping it. “How could my fashion sense in college possibly contribute to science in any way?” 

The vampire easily catches onto her play, slipping himself out of her grasp and trying to trap her makeshift sword down against the tabletop. He purses his lips into a simper, glimpsing up at her through his lashes and quirking his brows cheekily. “Biologically, of course. It contributes to my solo reproductive activities.”

“You are vile.” 

“Really? ‘Cause you seemed pretty happy to help with said activities last night.” 

Y/N drops her fork onto the brim of the platter, reaching up to massage at her temples and keep herself from swatting Harry’s eyeballs out of their sockets. “I’m finished.” 

“Yeah,” the jade of his irises glimmers coyly as he sets down his utensil beside hers in a ceasefire, “you definitely finished.”

Harry chuckles boyishly as Y/N drags her palms down her face, trying to hide away how flustered he’s getting her. She decides to change the subject, not caring to steer the conversation smoothly at all, but rather jumping to another topic right away. “So does this mean you have all the lyrics memorized? Since you like them so much?” 

“I do, yeah.” Harry taps his fingers against the marble counter to the beat of the song currently playing. “Do you?” 

“I was obsessed, so of course I do.” Y/N reasons, her own digits following in tune with the immortal’s. “I think Non-Stop was probably my favorite to sing. It made for a good shower concert.”

“Well, it’s settled then.” Harry quips happily, reaching for his phone and tapping across the screen. “We’re duetting this. Right now. C’mon, Burr.”

Y/N’s motions stop, shyness creeping in from the back of her brain. “Oh, I don’t know, Harry. I never really—”

Her refusal is interrupted by the beginning of the arrangement mentioned, the notes blasting through the speaker as Harry purposefully turns up the volume to drown her out. He taps at his ear symbolically, mouthing, “Sorry, I can't hear you!” and he doesn’t even attempt to ward off the evil grin creeping across his face. 

“Harry, I’m serious—” 

But it’s already too late. Harry juts his hand out in front of him, pointing at his companion with a theatrical edge as he begins to serenade, picking up the slack of her part. 

“After the war I went back to New York. A-After the war I went back to New York. I finished up my studies and I practiced law. I practiced law, Burr worked next door!”

He looks at her expectantly, urging her to jump into the next half as her assigned role. Y/N muscles down her hesitation and recites the lines timidly with her brows creased in hesitation, but at least she’s participating. “Even though we started at the very same time, Alexander Hamilton began to climb. How to account for his rise to the top?”

Harry joins her in the next stanza, grabbing her hand midair in encouragement, trying to shake her out of her rut. “Man, the man is non-stop!”

Y/N is surprised at how well they sound harmonizing together, and she can feel her discomfort slowly begin to melt. She watches as Harry freely boasts his solo with absolutely no remorse, making grand gestures as he slides down the side of the counter, his movements dragging her along. 

“Gentlemen of the jury, I'm curious, bear with me. Are you aware that we're making history?” The boy taps at his chin to symbolize that he’s thinking, acting out the story the lyrics construct. “This is the first murder trial of our brand-new nation, the liberty behind deliberation.”

He points at Y/N once again and she does the supporting vocals, gradually beginning to gain more confidence. “Non-stop!”

“I intend to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, with my assistant counsel—”

Harry doesn’t even have to cue Y/N this time around; she picks up her half immediately, falling into line with him flawlessly as if they’ve done this a million times before. “Co-counsel. Hamilton, sit down. Our client Levi Weeks is innocent, call your first witness.”

Harry quickly rounds the corner of the kitchen island, giving her body a grand spin as he draws closer, coming to stand right before her. She gives him a fake exasperated look to match the attitude her character depicts, shaking her head in disapproval. “That's all you had to say.”

“Okay…” The creature yanks Y/N forward into his bare chest, leaning down and flirting his lips right over hers tauntingly, eyes half-lidded in amusement. “One more thing—”

“Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room?” The girl rolls her eyes dramatically, shoving past Harry’s shoulder and she finds it humorous how these lines fit so well, almost as if they were actually directed at him, calling him out on the arrogance he always seems to dote. “Why do you assume you're the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude may be your doom.”

Harry swivels on his heel, following her as she scurries outside the kitchen entrance, running into the living room. 

“Why do you write like you're running out of time?” Y/N grabs onto one of the couch cushions, pretending to scribble over it with a fake pen. “Write day and night, like you're running out of time? Everyday you fight, like you're running out of time.”

Harry swipes at her from across the couch, trying to grasp onto the jumper she’s wearing. “Keep on fighting in the meantime.”

Y/N ducks out of the path of his grabbing hand, chucking the pillow forward and it bonks him square in the face. She sticks her tongue out at him as Harry scowls dully, climbing onto his sofa and scuttling towards her on his hand and knees.

She jumps just out of reach, diving across the other end of the furniture. The vampire throws his weight to try and tackle her to the sofa, but she just barely escapes. He ends up toppling over the backrest due to his over-abundant momentum. 

“Non-stop!” Y/N waves her middle up at him triumphantly as he pushes himself up off the ground, giving her a challenging look as he takes off after her once again. 

The pair continue to sing back and forth, with Harry chasing Y/N around the living room and kitchen as he belts out his part of the song, Y/N always somehow managing to slip from his grasp as soon as her turn hits. They’re a mess of giggles, silly faces, and boisterous actions as they reenact the play and neither can recall a time they had ever had more fun. There’s never been an instance when they felt so comfortable with another soul that they are willing to run around half-naked, screaming lyrics at each other in their underwear, not caring who sees or overhears. It just feels so second-nature.

A section of the song comes up where a woman is singing and Harry immediately takes up the part, placing his hand on his bare hip and standing in the most feminine fashion he can possibly muster, fanning at his face. “I am sailing off to London, I am accompanied by someone who always pays.” 

The exaggeration makes Y/N bend over laughing and her distraction allows Harry to nab her. He pulls her into his embrace by her forearms, cackling through the following stanza as she wriggles and squirms to try and get free. “I have found a wealthy husband who will keep me in comfort for all my days.” 

Y/N finally gives up on trying to thrash herself free, going limp against his chest and glimpsing up at him with begrudged annoyance, but a fond smile is unmistakably buckling her cheeks. Harry leans down, singing right in her face just to flaunt his victory, their noses brushing. “He is not a lot of fun, but…”

And then, there’s a shift in the ambiance between them. 

Harry gazes down at her as she giggles up at him from his arms, full of so much genuine warmth and excitement, she could power the entire city if she wanted. Her shoulders are heaving slightly as a result of all the running, there’s still faint traces of black mascara smeared under her waterline and down her cheeks from the previous evening’s exertions, she has some acne scarring littering her cheekbones that look fairly recent, and her hair looks like it could nest a family of at least ten birds. But despite these imperfections, Harry finds himself feeling oddly endeared by it all. These flaws are all things he’s gotten used to and has grown to treasure in Y/N. They make her who she is. They make her witty, and they make her clever. They make her fun, as well as trusting. They make her likeable, and energetic, and kind. They make her a good friend and a generous lover. They make her... her. Harry gets the feeling that if she didn’t have all of these traits— if even one was missing— this little arrangement they have going wouldn’t have flourished the way it did. 

Yeah, maybe he would have slept with her once or twice more just to scratch an itch, but he most likely would have let it fizzle to an end after the fact. Her personality paired with these small details— albeit, not all entirely attractive— that make up her existence play a key role in the dynamic they share. And he wouldn’t trade them for anything else— wouldn't trade Y/N for anyone else. Not anytime soon. 

A warm surge travels through his chest, filling his veins like kerosine, heating him from the heels of his socked feet to the tips of his ice cold fingers. An unorthodox swelling sensation twists inside his ribs, right where his heart used to beat, and he finds himself reciting the next line in a soft voice packed with more emotion than he’s shown or felt in the last two centuries.

“There’s no one who can match you, for turn of phrase…”

Y/N seems oblivious to all of the unsettling experiences he’s undergoing, her amused expression not changing in the slightest. Harry allows the rest of the song lyrics to pass by, the lump in his throat too heavy to fight. Instead, he just keeps staring down at Y/N with brows frowning in confusion, his breathing coming out bated and shaky, and that knot in his chest continuing to tighten until it becomes painful. He gets the sudden urge to kiss her— to feel her lips press to his and feel her give into him the way she always does. The way she has for the last four weeks. He doesn’t want it to be sloppy or desperate or sexual; he wants it to be intimate, soft, and caring. He wants it to be special. Something they share. Something only they share.

Then, that moment passes. That flicker of weakness that had leaked through vanishes and Harry feels like he can breathe properly again.

He breaks their locked eyes, releasing Y/N from his hold and taking a swift step back, coughing awkwardly to try and rid the tickling sensation in the back of his throat. He scratches at the nape of his neck nervously, fiddling with his baby curls and attempting to piece himself back together after that unexpected and unwelcome intrusion of his innermost feelings. Though, he doesn’t know if that spectacle even files under the category of emotions; from what he remembers, they aren’t supposed to tangibly attack you in such a manner. It felt more like a violation— like someone had gone in and started poking and prodding at his subconscious with a metal skewer. 

“Harry…?” Y/N inches closer to him, concern prevalent in her voice and across her features as she stretches her hand out caringly. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.” 

“I-I’m—” His voice comes out higher than usual and quivering, so he coughs once again to get it under control, taking another step back. He's scared that if she touches him, that horrible burning sensation will come back. “I’m fine. Just...Just forgot the lyrics.” 

“Oh, okay…” The girl doesn’t sound convinced with the answer, but she lets the subject falter anyways, her hand dropping back down beside her thigh. “Just checking.” 

“Yeah, I got that. Uh, thanks. But I’m all good now.” He holds up a clenched first and juts out his pinky, wiggling it for significance. “Promise”

Y/N scoffs gently at his playful deed. “Alright, then.” 

Harry eyes her attentively as she returns to her previous spot in front of the plate of pancakes, retrieving her fork and starting to pick at them like before, as if nothing had happened. As if Harry hadn’t just almost had a cardiac arrest, despite the fact that the organ responsible had crumbled to dust ages ago.

“Are you gonna eat anymore?” Y/N signals down at the stack of pastries before her questioningly. “Because if you don’t get some now, I’ll eat them all myself. Don’t think I won’t. They’re better than the ones I make and—”

The vampire suddenly feels like bile is rising up his throat and his words spew out before he can think to stop them, though he’s not so sure he would. 

“Do you want to stay over the rest of the weekend?”

[tipsycad147]

Why do people become Pagan? The top ten reasons

by Michelle Gruben

“Why are you Pagan?” If you were to ask this question of a dozen people, you would probably get a dozen different answers. For Christians (and others who believe in one true God) the revival of polytheism may be confounding. For others, it is hard to understand why a sensible modern person would seem to turn their back on science to worship the gods of old.

Before we get too far along, let's cover some background info. Paganism is defined broadly as non-Abrahamic religion that is Nature-based, polytheistic, or both. Wiccans, for instance, generally worship a creator Goddess and a God who is Her consort. The Wiccan cosmology does not acknowledge the existence of the Christian God (or the concepts of Satan and Hell).

Wicca is the best-known of modern Pagan religions, but there are many sub-groups and branches of Pagan belief and practice. Druidism, neo-Shamanism, Greek/Roman reconstructionism, and Norse Heathenry are just a few. There are also eclectic Pagans who combine elements from various traditions to make their own “flavor” of Paganism. While occult practices (e.g., divination and spellcasting) are common in Paganism, not all Pagans participate in these practices. Conversely, not everyone who is involved in the occult is a Pagan.

Most Pagans are polytheist, meaning they recognize the existence of more than one God. But there is more to Paganism than “the more, the merrier!” Here are some general traits of Pagan religions (keep in mind that not every religion will have them all): Rejection of Judeo-Christian cosmology, observance of seasonal rites, reverence toward Nature, rejection of religious authority and focus on individual experiences, paranormal/psychic beliefs and practices, emphasis on personal responsibility over sin or evil.

Not surprisingly, a preference for one or more of these traits is what attracts many people to Pagan religions—but we’ll get to that in a moment.

At the risk of stating the obvious, religion is a choice. If a person follows a Pagan religion, they are expressing a preference for Paganism over another religion, or no religion. Thinking about the reasons why people choose to become Pagan can lead to better understanding of Pagan friends and family. If you are Pagan, you may even learn something about yourself!

For the record, I’m Pagan in a mixed-religion household. This (totally unscientific) list is based on my own observations within the Pagan community. I’ve tried to present them in a way that’s inclusive and fair. Without further ado, here are some of the most common reasons why people choose to follow a Pagan religion:

1. They were raised Pagan.

Contemporary Pagan groups began forming in the 1930s, and achieved breakthrough status with the emergence of Wicca in the 1950s. Before that time, very few people in the West were raised Pagan. If you wanted to be initiated in a Pagan tradition, you had to seek one out—often at great expense to your personal or professional reputation.

Nowadays, that’s not the case. Neo-Paganism as a social/demographic phenomenon is in its third generation. It’s fairly common to find adults who were raised Pagan, or even whose parents were raised Pagan! It’s also possible to find those who were raised Pagan, but left Paganism. “Mom used to go out in the woods with her friends and do weird stuff—I never really got into it.”)

Some Pagan clergy will participate in the general blessing of infants and children, such as the ritual of “Wiccaning.” However, most Pagan paths do not have formal initiation for children. Pagans also overwhelmingly value religious choice. If someone continues their Pagan practice into adulthood, it is likely because they found something meaningful in it.

2. They want sexual acceptance and/or sexual freedom.

Of all the world religions, Paganism is arguably the most tolerant of the varied expression of human sexuality. Sex is considered a divine gift and a sacred rite. Lusty Gods and fertile Goddesses appear in all the major pantheons. (Along with gender-bending, raunchy stories, and other sexy fun.) For most Pagans, sex is just no big deal as long as it’s between consenting adults (or deities).

Pagan groups almost universally accept gay members, and some traditions even have queer or queer-leaning branches (Radical Faeries, Dianic Wicca). Pagan activists have been on the forefront of the struggle for equal rights. Compare that to the sluggish response of churches—even liberal churches—to embrace LGBTQ members and clergy, and you’ll understand why sexual minorities have been so attracted to Paganism. For people who are used to hearing their sexual desires called dirty, sinful, or shameful, the difference can be life-changing.

It’s not just queer folks who embrace Paganism as a safe­­ haven. Horny folks do, too. In most Pagan belief systems, sex is not considered a sin but a morally neutral act. Sex for fun is fun, sex for magick is magick. It’s not how much sex you’re having, but your intention that characterizes the act. The only moral imperative is in how you’re treating yourself and your partners.

Partners? Oh, yes! Polyamory, group sex, and (legal) exhibitionism are accepted within some Pagan communities. That’s an undeniable treat for people who want to enjoy these activities without religious shame.

3. They don’t care for dogma and/or authority.

There is no holy book, no central governing body, and no real priestly authority within the mass of related beliefs filed under Paganism. This is great news for people of a certain temperament—religious rebels and militant agnostics. (“I don’t know, and you don’t either!”)

As a social movement, neo-Paganism is deeply indebted to the Transcendentalist writers of the 19th century. Their poems and essays held the germ of the idea that fuels Pagan practice: That God speaks directly to everyone—often through Nature—and not only to a specially qualified few, inside special buildings.

Some Pagan groups do have ordained clergy. But there are still significant differences between Pagan clergy and those of more established organized religions:

First, Pagan titles like “High Priestess” are usually self-conferred or passed along from student to teacher. This does not mean that they’re not “real” clergy, but it does mean that their power is limited outside their own group or coven. (A Pagan leader may also be ordained as a minister by another organization, such as the Church of All Worlds or the Unitarian Universalist church. This allows them to receive certain legal privileges that independent Pagan clergy usually do not enjoy.)

Secondly, Pagan clergy tend to function more as community leaders than authority figures. Pagan priesthood does not confer any real power over others, either temporal or spiritual. Most Pagan leaders encourage discussion and self-study by their students and congregants. Certainly a dedicated Priest or Priestess will have more experience working with their deities than a beginner. They may have the skills to do rituals or advanced deity work that a novice does not. In a sense, though, every Pagan is their own Priest or Priestess—and the best Pagan clergy respect that. This makes Paganism very attractive to those who don’t want to experience God(s) secondhand.

4. They long for a connection to Nature.

The earth, the trees, the sky, the sea—most world religions recognize these wonders as the work of a mighty creator God. And yet, most leave it at that.

Not so with Paganism. Pagan religions are sometimes described as “Earth-based”—meaning the Earth and its cycles are central to what Pagans hold sacred. Most Pagans profess a deep reverence for natural places, the seasons, the web of plants and animals, and the processes of birth, aging, and dying. While it’s not technically required, many Pagan services are held outdoors. “Skyclad” (nude) rites are another way that Pagans shed the trappings of modern society and get back to the core of being.

Some people come to Paganism as an extension of their environmentalist or eco-feminist views. Others simply want to reconnect with Nature as an antidote to the alienation that comes with busy, digitized lives.

5. They’ve had negative experiences with other religions.

It’s a sad but undeniable fact. People who turn toward one religion are often, with the same movement, turning away from a religion that has hurt them. If you spend enough time in Pagan communities, you will certainly meet some of these displaced folks.

Perhaps a certain religious doctrine—such as the prohibition against homosexuality—is causing the person emotional pain. Maybe they’re frustrated with persecution, corruption, or hypocrisy within the religious group they came from. Or maybe they’re rebelling against the religious beliefs of a parent or spouse. Whatever the case, Paganism appears to offer a chance for a fresh start, one with less restriction and oversight than they may be used to. Pagans don’t evangelize—which may make them seem more trustworthy to folks who have been burned.

As with all life choices, there are right and wrong reasons to become a Pagan. And you can’t ever really know someone else’s motives. The best thing that Pagans can do is treat religious refugees kindly, answer their questions honestly, and wait for them to figure out if Paganism is right for them.

6. They have trouble with the concepts of sin and evil.

Of all the barriers between Pagan beliefs and Abrahamic religion, the idea of sin is the thorniest. Original sin is a tough doctrine to swallow, even for many Christians. Who wants to suffer for something that happened before they were born? That Paganism has no equivalent concept to sin and sinfulness is one of its biggest selling points, so to speak. (Pagan beliefs about the origin/existence of evil are so diverse I won’t even try to tackle the topic here.)

As mentioned earlier, there’s no single Pagan concept of God. Still, one idea you see over and over in Paganism is the doctrine of non-dual immanence. God/Goddess existing here and now, and not in some distant place or kingdom to come. Lack of meditation or participation or acceptance can distance us from the sacred, but God/Goddess is always there. Furthermore, divinity is present within the material world, and the world is inseparable from its creator.

All of this is pretty difficult to reconcile with Judeo-Christian ideas about original sin and the fall of man. (Some Hermetic Pagans do accept them as metaphorical/alchemical truths—but that’s a whole other beaker of worms.) In Biblical cosmology, the world is created by God, but separate from God. The world we know is basically fallen and can only be redeemed through God’s intervention. In Paganism, the world we know is basically holy and does not require redemption. (Only observation and celebration, if we want to be happy and—perhaps—please the Gods.) The other worlds are holy, too—not more, nor less.

As for behavior? Paganism emphasizes individual freedom and responsibility over moral absolutism. Most Pagans live by an individual moral/ethical code, but shun universal behavioral codes. Pagan ethics have been heavily influenced by the Wiccan Rede: “An it harm none, do what ye will.” This in turn derives from Aleister Crowley’s “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law”—possibly the most mis-interpreted eleven words of all time.

It’s not that Pagans believe that you can or should do whatever you want. On the contrary, Paganism teaches that actions (and even thoughts) reverberate through the universe to affect oneself and others. There’s no real concept of sin, but Paganism is not amoral. In encouraging moral behavior, Paganism substitutes concepts like karma, duty, interconnectedness, for a paternal god figure keeping score.

7. They yearn for representations of the Divine Feminine.

Dion Fortune wrote “A religion without a Goddess is halfway to atheism.” Women’s bodies are the carriers of life. And yet, many world religions downplay or denigrate the contribution of women. In Abrahamic religions, women can be vessels and saints, but are rarely prophets and never God. Many people yearn for distant time—real or imagined—when women’s bodies could also be a representation of deity.

As a social phenomenon, the rise of Wicca and Goddess spirituality has coincided pretty neatly with the expansion of women’s rights. As long as women are to be regarded as equal to men in society, there are those who feel that patriarchal religions can never be wholly legitimate.

Everyone has an earthly mother and a father. If you believe in God, it makes a kind of intuitive sense that everyone has a divine Mother and Father, too. Yet religions that include a Goddess are usually labeled polytheist and Pagan automatically.

8. They want explanations for psychic and paranormal events.

Out-of-body experiences, premonitions, telepathy, ghost encounters—weird stuff sometimes happens. If you haven’t had an inexplicable experience, then you likely know someone who has. Pagans aren’t alone in experiencing the paranormal, of course. But they tend to be better equipped to talk about it than the average person.

Imagine a person who has recurring paranormal experiences, or experiences they believe to be paranormal. Mainstream science tells them that these experiences are illusory. Mainstream religion—when it’s not condemning them as evil—seems mostly too embarrassed to talk about occult happenings. It’s no surprise that the person would be drawn to a Pagan community where psychic stuff is openly discussed, accepted, and even encouraged.

Don’t get me wrong—mental illness and paranormal delusions do occur, and can cause great harm. But the not-crazy among us still yearn for a safe haven to discuss our psychic lives without condemnation. I believe—though I can’t prove—that so-called paranormal experiences are actually quite common among the general population. I’ve also observed that persistent psychic curiosity is one of the major reasons that people turn to Paganism.

9. They’re attracted to the power and control offered by magick.

I once read an academic paper that was trying to explain the rise of Wicca and witchcraft among teenage girls. The conclusion was that when a young women lacks a sense of control in her life—i.e., economic, sexual, or social autonomy—a religion that offers a secret source of power is immensely attractive. (Who wouldn’t want to be able to cast a love spell on a crush, or curse a bully?) The author observed that many teen girls become practicing Pagans in junior high and high school. They tend to lose interest after finding another source of personal power (a job, a relationship, a better group of friends).

As a young Pagan woman, I found the tone of this particular paper to be condescending, bordering on insulting. But one thing is obviously true: Occultism purports to offer power to the powerless, esoteric means to an end when exoteric means have come up short. Why else would there be so many people interested in fast answers—love spells, get-rich-quick spells, and the like?

Lots of people approach witchcraft and/or Paganism because they want to learn to use magick. They see it as a way to fix their lives in a hurry or achieve undeserved success. Many of them move along when they realize that real magick is real work.

10. They’ve been called by a God or Goddess.

A burning bush, a deathbed vision of Christ, a miracle from the Virgin Mary—these are the types of religious experiences that are familiar to most people. But Pagans have religious epiphanies, too. Although most of us don’t talk about it outside of trusted circles, our Gods and Goddesses call to us in dramatic and in subtle ways.

Like any other type of religious conversion, some people drift gradually toward an acceptance of Paganism, while others are thrust toward it by a single epiphany. Some people may scoff at the idea of elder Gods asserting their presence in the 21st century. But it's certainly no wackier than what other religious people believe. (And it's hard to be so cavalier when Odin’s keeping you awake at night with a to-do list.)

For most Pagans, one or more of the above reasons has contributed to their finding their religious path. There are certainly other reasons that aren’t on this list. Of course, the best way to find out why a particular person is Pagan is to (respectfully) ask!

https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/why-do-people-become-pagan-top-ten-reasons

[missmentelle]

Why do people stay in unhappy or abusive relationships? (sorry if this question has already been asked!)

The reasons that people stay in abusive and unhealthy relationships are individual and multifaceted - two people in similarly toxic relationships may have wildly different reasons for staying. It’s also important to remember that there is rarely just one or two reasons to stay - there are a lot of different factors at play, and the primary things keeping someone in the relationship may shift over time. In general though, some of the big things keeping people in abusive relationships include:

Fear. The most dangerous time to be in an abusive relationship is when you leave the relationship - many people stay in abusive relationships because they are afraid their partner will harm or even kill them if they attempt to leave. Their partner may have made explicit threats to do this, or they may have simply demonstrated that they fly off the handle every time something does not go their way. An abuser may make a point of purchasing or carrying a weapon to terrify their victim, or they may destroy furniture, possessions and walls to show their victim how destructive they can be when they are crossed. Even non-violent abusers can make their victims afraid to leave the relationship - they might threaten to leak nude photos, spread rumours, stalk their victim or even harm themselves if the victim dares to leave, among other things.

Finances and logistics. It is very difficult to leave an abusive relationship if you do not have any money - you won’t have the resources to get your own apartment, buy a plane ticket out of town, or even purchase gas and food. Abusers are acutely aware of this, and may go out of their way to make sure their victim is financially dependent on them; they might forbid their partner from working, actively saboutage the victim’s job or education, take the victim’s money, put all shared assets in their own name, and tightly control all household spending. This puts victims in a situation where they may have to choose between an abuser and homelessness, which is not a choice anyone makes lightly. There are other logistics that can also hold you back from leaving - immigrants, for instance, may be dependent on their partner for visa status and be unable to stay in the country if they leave the relationship.

Children. Having kids in the mix complicates things. A victim may stay in a relationship because they are afraid of losing custody if they leave, or because they don’t want to give their children a “broken home”. Abusers who intentionally deprive their victim of financial independence may also use this to make threats about custody, telling the victim that they themselves would be awarded full custody because the victim does not have an income. Abusers may also intentionally turn children against the victim parent by playing the role of the “fun” parent and belittling their partner in front of the children, making victims believe that the children would hate them for taking them away from the other parent. Courts are not always kind to parents who flee domestic violence, and concerns about losing access to children are not unfounded.

Love and concern for the abuser. A lot of abuse victims genuinely love and care for their abusers; most abusers are not monsters 24/7, and have moments where they are kind, funny, loving or apologetic, especially in the early stages of the relationship. An abused victim may cling to positive memories from the relationship and fleeting moments of kindness, believing that this version of their partner is the “real” version, and that the abusiveness is just a temporary thing brought on by stress/drinking/mental illness/etc. They might believe that if they are just patient and loving and “stick out” the abuse, that their partner may change and deal with their issues, and become a loving partner once more. Even victims who are not hopeful that their partner will change may have a lot of concern about their partner’s well-being if they leave - many recognize that their abuser is mentally ill, isolated, without a support network, and at risk of harming themselves if the relationship ends.

Low self-esteem. Many abusers are able to successfully convince their victims that they deserve the abuse, or that the abuse is their fault. The victim may even end up in a position where they defend the way the abuser treats them, believing that they brought it on themselves for being too demanding/naggy/stupid/etc, and that the abuser would not treat them that way if they could be better. The “look what you made me do” defense can be very effective when used on someone who had low self-esteem to begin with. Abusers often convince their victims that no one else will ever want them, and that they should be grateful to the abuser for putting up with them at all. The issue is framed as “it’s either me or being alone forever”, instead of “it’s either me or you leave to find someone who doesn’t treat you like garbage”.

Lack of supports. Even if you have the financial means to escape, you might not have anywhere to go. Toxic relationships tend to be all-consuming, and by the time you are ready to leave, you may have alienated or drifted away from all of your friends and family long ago - the only social connections you have left might be your abuser and people close to them. Leaving might mean heading out into a very lonely existence, without people to lean on and assure you that you are making the right decision.

Shame. Leaving a toxic relationship means that you have to admit the relationship was toxic, and by extension, that you missed all the warning signs and allowed yourself to become stuck in a toxic relationship. You might have valiantly defended your partner from friends and family that pointed out their toxic behaviour for years, and you might be afraid of hearing a chorus of “I told you so”s when you tell people that you broke up. As backwards as it may seem, people sometimes stay in abusive relationships just to try to “prove” to themselves that they aren’t the kind of person who would end up in an abusive relationship.

Sunk costs. If you have been in a bad relationship for a long period of time, eventually, you can start to use the length of time you’ve been in the relationship as justification to keep the relationship going. “We’ve been together for X years, I can’t throw that away” is a common thing to hear when someone is asked why they haven’t left their toxic partner. You might also have endured a lot of terrible things with that partner, and by leaving, you might feel that everything you went through was “for nothing”.

No frame of reference. If you have been around abusive relationships all your life, if you have only ever been in abusive relationships, or if you have never been in a relationship before, you might not know what kind of behaviour is abusive and what is not. This is especially true of people whose abusers are never physically violent. There are a lot of people out there with the idea that “Well, my partner follows me, goes through my phone, tells me what to wear and forbids me from speaking to certain friends, but they’re just being protective because they love me! They’ve never hit me, that would be abuse”. A person may stay in an unhealthy relationship because they genuinely believe that being screamed at and mocked is just a normal part of a relationship, and that all relationships are like this behind closed doors.

People in abusive relationships may be in very different situations, but feel equally trapped. A 36-year-old who has two children with an abuser who does not allow them to have a job is in a very different situation than a 16-year-old who thinks it might be normal that their high school partner calls them fat and looks through their text messages, but both are stuck, and both are likely to need support and assistance to leave the relationship. Hope this answers your question!Miss Mentelle

[nooksickle]

Four Proofs

Pablo Picasso, Gertrude Stein, 1905-1906

When she saw herself, finished, she said, It doesn’t look like me. Picasso said, It will. Perhaps it will look like her because it is the document and will remain, while she is just a person who will fade. Now, when we think of her, we think of this painting. Picasso was planning ahead. The painting is evidence but not proof. There’s no proof that she looked like that, even though we have the document. She existed enough to be painted. She could have been an idea, but that’s another kind of existing. The hand is a tool. The brush is a tool. The paint as well. There is no machine here, but the work gets done. A hammer is a tool when banging its head but a lever when pulling up nails. A lever is a machine, has a fulcrum which can be moved to change the ratio of something or other, effort for distance. There is a fulcrum in the mind that can be moved as well. I do not know what else to say about this.

Raphael, Saint George and the Dragon, 1504-06

It’s hard to talk about what you believe while you are believing it. Fervor reduces thought to shorthand and all we get is an icon. Give a man a weapon and you have a warrior. Put him on a horse and you have a hero. The weapon is a tool. The horse is a metaphor. Raphael painted this twice—white horse facing east against the greens, white horse facing west against the yellows. The maiden flees or prays, depending. A basic dragon, the kind you’d expect from the Renaissance. Evidence of evil but not proof. There’s a companion piece as well:  Saint Michael. Paint angels, it’s easier: you don’t need the horse. Michael stands on Satan’s throat, vanquishing, while everything brown burns red. All these things happened. Allegedly. When you paint an evil thing, do you invoke it or take away its power? This has nothing to do with faith but is still a good question. Raphael was trying to say something about spirituality. This could be the definition of painting. The best part of spirituality is reverence. There are other parts. Some people like to hear the sound of their own voice. If you don’t believe in the world it would be stupid to paint it. If you don’t believe in God, who are you talking to?

Caravaggio, David with the Head of Goliath, 1609-1610

Wanted for murder, a price on his head, Caravaggio does what he always does—he tries to paint his way out of it. This bad boy—whose moodiness came to be called the Baroque, this thug whose soul was as big as Rome and full of anvils—paints his own face on Goliath’s severed head and offers himself up as villain, captured, to escape the hammers of the law. Allegory, yes. A truth as well. But truth doesn’t count in law, only proof. He took the gods and made them human. His Bacchus was a worn-out drunk. An animal likely to sleep in a pool of its own sick. He raised the status of the still life, made subjects out of objects, turned nature into drama—the bloom on the grapes, the bloom on the boys, leaves as important as nudes. Exaggerated light, pure theater. Evidence of a mind he delights in. Evicted from Rome, he wants back in. They want his head, and he’s prepared to give it to them. He paints David in yellow pants while the pope’s nephew arranges his pardon. July 1610— Caravaggio rolls up his paintings and sets sail from Naples, heading north. They stop for supplies. No one’s heard of the pardon. Jail. He pays his way out, but the boat and his paintings have sailed on without him. He follows. Malaria. He dies three days before his pardon arrives and three days after Rembrandt’s fourth birthday. His painted head arrives in Rome weeks later. All painting is sent downstream, into the future.

René Magritte, La Clairvoyance, 1936

Odin had ravens. Zeus was a swan. Magritte saw an egg and painted a bird. Part of heroism is being able to see the future and still remain standing. If you don’t believe in God or Fate you still must believe in narrative. I am waiting for you, here in the train station, says the train station. Philosophy is thinking. Prophesy is wishful thinking. It’s easy to find evidence of the future but harder to make people believe you. This is only obvious if you have tried. Odin had proxies. Zeus had disguises. Magritte saw the back of his head in a mirror. Not hindsight, not really. A debriefing. He claimed that an image was treacherous. He was right about that but he might not have understood directionality. His paintings, though mysterious, conceal nothing. A possible world and its incomprehensibilities. A purposeful distortion. Dreaming in the service of. True in the sense of carpentry.

- by Richard Siken 

[duhragonball]

Dragon Ball Z 124

In three years, killer androids will kill all the Z-Fighters and wreck the world.    Everybody’s training to prevent it.     Yamcha’s doing practice strikes in Bulma’s backyard, which seems kind of pedestrian.   You’d think he could find a nice waterfall to stand under like Tien always does.

Vegeta, on the other hand, is training inside Capsule 3, whose artificial gravity now goes up to 300g.    Yamcha seems more interested in that than his own work, especially when Vegeta gets flustered and destroys all the robots he was training with.

So Dr. Brief has to pull an all-nighter to repair them.    I always liked this aspect of the three year gap before the Androids show up.   It’s not just the warriors who are training.   Dr. Brief and Bulma have to hustle as well in order to support them.

Well, maybe not Bulma, at least not tonight.   

During the night, Yamcha sneaks into Capsule 3 and tries 300 times normal gravity for himself.

The dub made it seem like Yamcha was determined to prove that he could do anything Vegeta could handle.   That motivation was kind of foolish, but I could at least understand it.    Here, in the Japanese version of the anime, we really don’t get a sense of why Yamcha tries this at all.   He seems more curious than anything else.   As it is, it takes everything he’s got just to reach up and press the off-switch.

I’m just gonna leave this here.  In the dub, Bulma’s mother kind of complimented Vegeta in a more hypothetical sense, before finally remembering that she’s a married woman.   In the Japanese, she barely seems aware that Dr. Brief is in the room.   She’s like “Yeah, I’d knock boots with Goku, sure, but Vegeta?    That forehead of his.... well, it does things for me.”  

Then Capsule 3 explodes and tips over.   

Naturally, Bulma crawls into the wreckage to cop a feel. 

She tells Vegeta to rest and let her take care of him until he’s recovered, and he tells her to get lost.    Notably, he calls her a “human slave”, which I guess sums up his attitude toward Bulma and her family.  

But since Vegeta can’t stand up, he’s not in much of a position to argue.

Back at Goku’s place, he and Piccolo are sparring.   I always liked the way they smile nostalgically at each other.   

Then Gohan tries to cut in, because he’s determined to get stronger as well.    This just makes Goku and Piccolo even happier.   

Vegeta’s badly hurt from the accident in Capsule 3, but apparently he’s not so badly hurt that he can’t recuperate at home instead of a hospital.   Dr. Brief expresses amazement at his toughness.    I feel like this whole episode is designed to try to rehabilitate Vegeta for the audience.    This guy’s been a real shithead for the past several dozen episodes, but now we know he’ll eventually hook up with Bulma, so Toei seems determined to justify that development.    So we see a lot of characters remarking on how determined and fearless Vegeta is.  

While he recovers, Vegeta has a dream where he chases after Goku and Trunks.

I’ve always liked this.   Dream sequences in Dragon Ball are always pretty great, actually.  Vegeta tries to defy the Super Saiyans, but all he can do is power up with his pale blue aura that doesn’t mean jack anymore.

Goku and Trunks are like “Oh, that’s cute.”   Then they power up even more.  

Then they recede into the distance, symbolizing Vegeta’s inability to catch up to them.  

Then he flashes back to his chldhood, where King Vegeta promises him that he’s the greatest Saiyan of his era, and perhaps even the next Legendary Super Saiyan.

And this encourages Vegeta, even though it doesn’t really change his situation.   After everything that’s happened, he’s still relying on Saiyan eugenics as proof of his supremacy.    The fact that Goku has already surpassed him doesn’t matter, because Vegeta’s still a “super-elite”.   What’s that gotten him so far, though?

Vegeta’s attitude here is best demonstrated in his reaction to meeting Future Trunks.    Maybe if he knew Trunks was his son, it would have changed his outlook, but as it is, he insisted that Trunks couldn’t possibly be a Saiyan, because of his hair color.     I’m pretty sure Vegeta knows that half-Saiyans could have other hair colors besides black, but he refuses to admit that a half-Saiyan could rival Goku in power.    Because if he admitted that, it would mean that his super-elite pureblood status really is meaningless.

There was a time when I was sure Vegeta would never become a Super Saiyan, because he had this kind of mentality.   I figured the only way he’d ever progress would be to cast aside these outmoded ideas, and embrace the new.    I thought it was foolish of him to cling to his father’s words.     Now, I’m starting to look at it differently.   Trunks told Goku that Bulma saw how “lonesome” Vegeta was, and that was how they ended up making a baby together.   Maybe the reason Vegeta has to cling to his dead father’s supremacism is because he really doesn’t have anyone else to turn to.    The whole “super-elite Saiyan pride” thing has been his only comfort for a very long time.    That’s not an easy thing to give up, not when you have nothing else to take its place.

But now... well, maybe he’s not as alone as he thought, eh?

Soon, Vegeta’s back to work at 400 times normal gravity.   That sounds like a bad idea, although I notice he’s only doing exercises in Capsule 3 this time.   Maybe it’s Capsule 4 now, I dunno.  

Yamcha peeks in on him from the porthole and he seems pleased.   Then he tells Puar that they’re going on a training journey.   

Yamcha didn’t have a very big part in this episode, but I think it works.   He’s never been exactly confrontational with Vegeta.   There’s a constant pressure from the fandom for him to be jealous or hostile towards Vegeta in some way, but I think he recognizes that Vegeta is an ally, at least for now.   He may even see him as a rival for Bulma’s affections.   I think I prefer to assume that Yamcha is sharp enough to see the writing on the wall.   He and Bulma have been on the rocks for years, and he’s seen the way she looks at this guy. 

To read between the lines a little, I think Yamcha would have preferred to leave West City to train, as he’d always done in the past.   But he was concerned about leaving Bulma while Vegeta was so erratic.     Now that he’s seen Vegeta refocusing his efforts, he feels like he can get on with his own work.    He knows things will be okay while he’s gone.    Alternately, seeing Vegeta get back on the horse has inspired him to seek his own path forward.  

I guess if you want to stick to “Jealous Yamcha” as an interpretation, you could make the case that he looked at Puar and said “Yeah, this guy’s gonna be in that capsule thing for the next three years, so I don’t have to worry about him stealing my girl.    Too bad he forgot about the communications equipment.   Bulma nags him from the house, and I think everyone in the fandom realized this must be Saiyan foreplay.

Vegeta asks her if she wants to live past three years, and he response is to describe herself as “well-built” and “beautiful.”   Geez, Bulma, just send the guy nudes already. 

Geets tells her to shut up, and I’m pretty sure he knows that won’t be happening, ever.

Back at Goku’s place, he and Piccolo decide to call it a day, but Gohan asks to keep going, which impresses them both.    Some nice foreshadowing here.   Gohan feels like he has something to prove.   He’s the weakest of these three, and he’s determined to close that gap somehow.  

[akatdollie]

Send me 💘 + a ship and I’ll tell you—

@hidan-san

SasoHida - Modern Verse - Artist Alt

where they first met and how - Sasori was painting a triptych in a church where Hidan is a priest. He is somewhat familiar with biblical texts, and favors a more Michelangelo style - that is, he portrays most of his painted subjects in various states of undress. So, he was asked by a local bishop to, uh… please. Cover them up. FOR THE SAKE OF THE CHILDREN.

Sasori, of course, spiteful. Makes them even MORE naked, more debauched. Throws in a beheaded Dionysus just for flavor. Hidan knows he’s not supposed to laugh, but…

God. This shortie is funny as fuck.

And the bishop can’t even oppose because… technically, yes. It is a pagan god being beheaded. He is portraying Adam and Even in their natural state. This damn satanic redhead is bending ALL THE RULES without breaking them.

how long their ‘flirting’ phase was before feelings got involved - Sasori spent a month on each panel, then one more month making them all dirty. Hidan spent the dirty month hiding his snickers and offering quiet suggestions on how to make it worse better - like, say, having a snake bite a sinner’s testicles.

Sasori turned him down. Not because it was too much, but because, quote unquote, ‘it has already been done. I am creative with my torture.’

That is when Hidan decided that he had to marry this twink.

who fell for who first ( if applicable ) - See above.

where their first date was and what it was like - It was at the church. Hidan noticed that the artist was useless in the mornings and brought him coffee - Sasori’s third cup that day.

Sasori, who is never opposed to being spoiled, sniffed at the coffee for poison. But then decided that death was better than being awake without caffeine. He drank the coffee, staring blankly while Hidan blathered on and on about it being cruelty-free, wondering when he was going to die and being strangely okay with that.

who asks who out and how ( with a sign? spelled out on a cake? just a simple ‘will you go out with me’? ) - Hidan tricks Sasori into giving him his phone number by asking for a business card lol. Then he calls Sasori and asks him how much a nude portrait of himself would cost. Sasori told him two thousand, flat.

Hidan like. I don’t have that type of money - how about a date? Fifty dollars, tops.

Sasori had nothing better to do and accepted.

who proposes first - Assuming that marriage is legal, Hidan. In general, he makes the first move, and neither he nor Sasori do flings at this point in their lives.

if they keep / kept their relationship secret or let everyone know right away - Hidan bragged about dating the damn satanic redhead to anyone that would listen and several that wouldn’t. Sasori just quietly changed his relationship status to “It’s complicated.”

Hidan laughed.

where the proposal happens and how ( kiss cam at a baseball game? on a hillside surrounded by ducks? at a disney park? ) - It happens in the church where they met and Hidan works, on an afternoon where the sun streams in through the windows and everything is golden. Hidan asks Sasori if he wants to be together forever, to which Sasori scoffs, “Of course,” and Hidan pulls out the ring. “Heh. Guess I don’t need to bribe you.” Then he puts it back AND SASORI IS LIKE WAIT NO-

if they adopt any pets together - A Husky! Whose name is “Wolf.” Sasori calls her, “dog.”

who’s more dominant - Sasori, though Hidan makes the first move. (I feel like this is common in Sasori’s ships to be honest.)

where their first kiss was and what it was like - IT WAS in a theater. Sasori hated the movie and turned to Hidan and said they were making out now. Hidan, naturally, obliged.

if they have any matching couples stuff ( mugs? sweaters? pillowcases? ) - They have matching decor because Sasori is in charge of interior design XD. After hearing that Sasori thought Hidan was poisoning him, he also bought Sasori a bunch of coffee mugs (which Hidan occasionally uses) referring to poison.

how into pda they are - HIDAN IS —less forward at first — BUT THEN GETS VERY INTO IT. He constantly has an arm on Sasori’s shoulders (possessive—plus he likes bugging his beau). To which Sasori protests, weakly.

who holds the umbrella when it rains - Hidan. Sasori makes him.

where their usual ‘date spot’ is ( if applicable ) - at home, with takeout, watching Netflix, on the couch. Sasori is reading a book.

who’s more protective - hard to say. Sasori would poison someone that tried taking something that was his, but Hidan would get a baseball bat with nails at the end and go to town on the offender in question.

how long it is before they sleep together ( can be as in ‘had sex’ or as in ‘shared a bed’ ) - uhhh I want to say a three months? They didn’t rush things but once Sasori fell asleep on the couch and Hidan put him to bed. But then Sasori wouldn’t let go of his shirt, and rather than wake him up, Hidan shrugged and slept too.

if they argue about anything - Constantly. Bickering is a hobby for them.

who leaves more marks ( lipstick, hickeys, scratchmarks etc. ) - Hidan leaves more marks and Sasori smacks him when he bites too hard.

who steals whose clothes and how often - Sasori steals Hidan’s clothes, especially his comfy hoodies and night clothes… Hidan is not stylish enough—or small enough—to steal everyday clothes haha.

how they cuddle ( spooning? facing each other? ) - Hidan splayed on top of Sasori like a starfish.

what their favourite nonsexual activity is - Sasori likes gossiping, but doesn’t necessarily have people he can trust with sensitive information. Hidan is a good listener.

Hidan likes watching Sasori rant about other artists/people and eggs him on. He finds it hilarious.

He makes a point of talking through the anger afterward. As a priest, he often counsels people through these things... and he kinda likes feeling useful.

But Sasori hates hates HATES when Hidan tries to tell him how to live his life. Hidan has learned that this is not a good idea.

how long they stay mad at each other - FOR-FUCKING-EVER

what their usual coffee / tea orders are - Sasori has Turkish coffee, and Hidan has green tea (it reminds him of home), usually with some sort of pastry.

if they ever have any children together - not unless they adopt.

if they have any special pet names for each other - Hidan calls Sasori “dollface” and Sasori calls Hidan “idiot.”

if they ever split up and / or get back together - NEITHER OF THEM BELIEVE IN DIVORCE SO NO.

what their shared living space is like ( messy? clean? what kind of decor? ) - very clean with a bit of disorganization that Sasori nags Hidan about. Neither Sasori nor Hidan are messy people - Sasori by nature, Hidan by habit - and though Sasori is somewhat of a hoarder, he usually keeps it neat and contained to his personal spaces.

Sasori chooses the decor. It is sleek and modern with stainless steel.

what their first christmas as a couple was like - They got into an argument because Sasori didn’t celebrate Christmas and Hidan felt like Sasori was looking down on him. No, Sasori literally couldn’t care less. But he failed to communicate this until they got into a heated argument where Sasori threatened Hidan with his palette knife and Hidan laughed at him because those things are so nonthreatening. Then Sasori stabbed him with it.  

They made up in the hospital room. Sasori explained himself. Hidan thought it was hot.

They learned new things about each other that day.

what their names are in each other’s phones - Hidan is “Hidan” in Sasori’s phone. Hidan jokingly changes it depending on his mood, to Father Hidan, Bishop Mao, Pope Urban the Third.

Sasori is ”damn satanic redhead”. Sasori knows this and doesn’t care. Just dryly tells Hidan to not mention his revolving head at the next meeting of the exorcists. (Hidan cackles.)

if they have any ‘couple traditions’ ( buying a new mug for their collection every year? baking every friday evening? ) - Not that I can think of.

who falls asleep first and who wakes up first - Hidan goes to bed first because he has to wake up to pray. Sasori is. . . impossible to wake up before 9am without at least two cups of coffee. He stays up until 3am.

who’s the big spoon / little spoon - Hidan is the big spoon I guess? If only because it is more convenient. Sasori won’t admit he likes it.

who hogs the bathroom - god. They fight over the bathroom. Hidan and his hair/skin products, Sasori and his makeup, they physically push each other out of the mirror. Christ.

who kills the spiders / takes them outside - Hidan is FRIGHTENED OF SPIDERS and would kill them if he weren’t backing away rapidly.

Sasori takes them outside.

X

[misskaygray-blog]

Model, producer and co-creator

Model, producer and co-creator of YouTube channel ComeCurious, Reed is essentially the physical embodiment of sex positivity, which she defines as trying to make people feel like what theyre doing and what theyre into isnt wrong, its normal and its absolutely fine. Shes a huge advocate for removing stigma and taboos around sex, and we caught up with her to learn more about webcamming, a line of sex work that is seldom talked about. That wasn't always the case. Before she started stripping — both online and off — Domino was a suit: working at a Fortune 500 company as a graphic designer. She quit the firm out of boredom in 2010, and now mainly flexes her aesthetic skills to push her online sex shows. Unlike most cam girls, Domino isn't affiliated with a network like LiveJasmin. She's completely independent, streaming strip and fetish sex shows from her home studio, straight from a website she built herself. Stripping at a local joint came first, but after breaking her wrist, Domino segued away from brick and mortar clubs. She'd heard there was good money to be made doing pretty much the same stuff online — and she could be her own boss.How did you get into webcamming?Part of the misconception comes from the fact that it's not policed. It's a very underground industry, and there's no governing body you can turn to, so people can be taken advantage of. It's an online community and it's hard to police. Anything can go wrong; people can be abusive and feel like they can go away with it, but then you can also just turn off the screen. But many women feel like they need to stay because of the money. I've never felt like I had to do that, but then again, it's the same when people stay in the wrong job for so long because they're scared of leaving and losing that financial security. It's so close to the porn industry and a lot of the sex industry isn't policed. If you have a problem and you go to the police about it, most of the time they'll just say well, you're asking for it, which is not acceptable. We're freelance and self-employed. We work for ourselves and these are our decisions, and we should be respected in the same way everyone else is respected.

As with most sex work, webcamming doesn’t have the best reputation. It’s often seen as exploitation or a last-resort hustle to pay off debt, but Reed Amber, 26, explains how webcam models are just your average self-employed freelancers with the same amount of agency and independence as anyone else.For the unfamiliar, camming is where clients pay to either watch a livestream of or have an individual video chat with a sex worker. It can’t be pirated and watched for free because the whole point of it is that it’s intimate and personal—you’re actually interacting with the person behind the screen.So as I sat there, in front of my laptop, I thought to myself, Why didnt I just respond the way that I normally do when somebody proclaims something which I dont agree with? Why didnt I just say, firmly but reasonably, you are wrong and these are the reasons why… Perhaps it was because it was so personal, that I felt like for once, I wasnt defending femininity as a whole, but just myself. Which on the surface would seem like a less daunting task, but for me it left me stumped. I knew that I was a feminist and it wasnt often that I had to justify myself to anybody. I was used to breaking down all the reasons that men used to justify their behavior.And as a cam girl, you won't know where it's coming from. You'll get your split — typically around 35-percent, but sometimes upwards of 70 — siphoned to you via an innocuous credit card processing site like CCBill, while the site takes the rest of the cut. However you earn that cut is up to you. Some sites, like Streamate, allow actual sex to the point of orgy, while others limit your act to a solo show. You can do whatever you think will earn cash in the form of dollars-per-minute private shows or instant "tips". That's the formula. You're up against tens of thousands of women (and men, to a lesser degree) offering the same product in varying versions. That's a tough stab at making a living, even with your clothes on.

If abuse were such a big problem, Anna says, then why would any Romanian girls bother with it at all? Why wouldn't they just find some other job? In a country whose GDP only stopped shrinking two years ago, with 20 per cent of the population living below the poverty line and personal income levels far below Kazakhstan, Iran and Gabon, that question answers itself. There's a reason Anna's so happy to be independent from her former employers, a status she equates with nothing less than her "freedom".Her conditions at the next studio were bare at best, and at times the most personal privacy she had, while performing for strangers on live camera, were a few hanging sheets separating her from the others walking in and out of some rundown flat. Although she was the frequent victim of what would certainly qualify as flagrant, physical sexual harassment in any other business, Anna stuck through it, priding herself on her ability to talk a path out of a "bad situation" with male employers.Youd think that all an Insta celeb has to do is look hot, but its actually a full time job. Ona Artist posts new photos every day and does a week of photoshoots every month. She manages all her social media and built her own website. The way her business model works is that she advertises on Instagram and from there, people can go to her private site and cam with her naked. On Instagram, because of censorship restrictions, you cant see her nude. So, the more you want from her, the more you pay, and the more explicit it gets. It's just like any other online business, really.It happened through a friend of a friend of mine. Thats usually how these things go. She had found, through a network of girls, a website that paid decent money for cam girling if you put the work in. I signed up, submitted my name, ID, bank details and some photos and within 24 hours I was approved as a bonafide Cam Girl ­with no bloody idea of what I was doing. CONTINUED BELOW...

[obsession-squidfessions-blog]

one of the most popular of the cam portals

MyFreeCams, one of the most popular of the cam portals, has a domain registered to a Leo Radvinsky, and a legal contact in the Netherlands.Entirely unsurprisingly, it's impossible to get in touch with any of the people who actually run these networks. None of the above entities from LiveJasmin, Streamate, or MyFreeCams responded to efforts to confirm that they do indeed exist and have some affiliation with the websites in question. All that's available is a semi-robotic technical support chat, which fields basic questions about how to use the site and credit card processing. These web cam kingpins might as well not exist. We don't know where the money goes.Domino wakes up at 8 am every morning and performs booked shows for clients paying between $US90 and $US120 an hour. That's about sixteen times her state minimum wage, and she doesn't have to leave her bedroom. If a client wants to book through MyFreeCams rather than sending money directly, Domino charges double. There's not a cent lost to a middle man. It seems like a pretty swell setup: "I love my job," Domino gushes. "I can work when I want to, as much as I want to, [and] nobody can tell me how to do my job. She's right. At her strip club, she was required to come in four to five days a week, spinning on a pole. Now, she can work all day. Or not at all. The last time we spoke, she was working on an ebook project, spending her time as she pleased.Since the dawn of streaming, the porn industry has been suffering financially. As people have started watching and uploading porn on tube sites for free, the days of big-budget porn and making a lot of money as a porn star are fading away. At the same time, though, streaming has also spawned a supplement to the porn industry that cant be replicated: camming.

Exactly! That's where I got my first taste of sex positivity. Going through my relationships and going to university I was like ‘woah, nobody thinks the way I do, I must be weird'. But being a webcam model, I realised everyone is into something different, they just feel like they can't talk about it.If abuse were such a big problem, Anna says, then why would any Romanian girls bother with it at all? Why wouldn't they just find some other job? In a country whose GDP only stopped shrinking two years ago, with 20 per cent of the population living below the poverty line and personal income levels far below Kazakhstan, Iran and Gabon, that question answers itself. There's a reason Anna's so happy to be independent from her former employers, a status she equates with nothing less than her "freedom".Sometimes self-­regulation regarding finances is the best option for some people: Ive been treated better and more fairly as a Cam Girl and nude model than I was in my last retail job where I, no word of a lie, got fired for looking sad. Yet despite how much control one can have over their career as a Cam Girl there are certainly discrepancies within the industry, including safety issues and issues of future employability, as well as what is considered a fair payment and no guarantee on a basic minimum wage for hours put in. It leaves a lot up to chance.Working an eight-hour day, she earns close to 4,000 euros (£3,600) per month - nearly 10 times the Romanian average wage. As Lana's employer, Studio 20 also makes 4,000 euros per month from her online sessions. And at the top of the video chat money-making pyramid, LiveJasmin - the online cam site that streams Studio 20's content and is responsible for collecting payment from the credit cards of clients - takes double that: 8,000 euros.

It happened through a friend of a friend of mine. Thats usually how these things go. She had found, through a network of girls, a website that paid decent money for cam girling if you put the work in. I signed up, submitted my name, ID, bank details and some photos and within 24 hours I was approved as a bonafide Cam Girl ­with no bloody idea of what I was doing.But some women are not free to make the choices Lana has. Oana, 28, counts herself as an escapee from the sex industry. At 16 - a minor - she fell in love with a boyfriend who persuaded her to do video chat.It depends on the profile that you set up because when you make a profile, you write a little bio about yourself, and my bio might be seen as a little more out there'. I'm open to anything, like roleplay, so a lot of the time I get roleplay requests, more just because I find them fun no matter how unusual or bizarre they are. What excites me are uncommon and unusual requests that you wouldn't really come across. Life's too boring otherwise.But despite fulfilling all my internet male expectations, Anna's impossible to really pin down. On both IM and video chat, she's prone to mannerisms and quips that make you want to pay for her time. A lot of it. She's beautiful without surfeit, an honest form that's pleasing even over a low-resolution video stream. Her English is fantastic, her personality disarming. She'll sit casually, like a girl the morning after a sleepover, musing about her cats and future. When she first "performed" for me on camera, discarding her herd of cats and cigarette for a bottle of baby oil, a few alarmed neurons felt like I should rush to Bucharest and wrap a blanket around her. Her innocence is a cool switch. The tokens evaporated. CONTINUED BELOW...

[roidespd-blog]

Chapter Three : THE DESOLATION OF THE GRINDR USER

« Grindr is a sociopath nest », Anonymous 

Grindr was launched on March 25, 2009. About a month or so earlier, I lost my virginity to the sweetest guy you could imagine. I met him on what we could consider one of Grindr’s ancestors, Gaypax— I still have that account, out of nostalgia. The design is so ugly I wonder now how I did spend so much time on it (we weren’t picky back then…) So Grindr was born at the exact time my sexual and romantic life was unfolding. It means that, except for the few years I’ve spent frenetically masturbating to La Redoute’s underwear catalogues and downloading dirty pictures of Brad Pitt naked with a very slow wifi, I’ve always been accustomed to gay apps.

Recently, the new and improved french magazine Tétu published an article called « Faut-il brûler Grindr?». Though not as detailed as I was hoping it would be, it did not changed my general opinion about the dating app paradigm. 

FLASHBACK France, 1971. A young gay man living in a beautiful city called Paris. Mike Brant just released his first major hit, Rock’N’Roll is slowly dying and Les Bidasses en Folie is this year’s biggest success at the box office. Unfortunately for him, the Gay Rights Movement is just at its infancy, homosexuality is still considered a mental illness and sodomy is punishable by law. So he shut his mouth and do his dirty business privately. he spends time around Place de Clichy and finds very discreet bars that can welcome him without too much judgement. He takes long walks toward the Tuileries bushes and sucks a stranger’s dong without any verbal exchange. He ends up marrying that fine young Marie, daughter of a friend of his dad, makes a couple of kids and from time to time, goes back to those places, shameful of himself.

That was the life of a gay man in France. If he didn’t get killed along the way. CUT TO 2009. Grindr is the first official gay dating app launched around the world. In France, the ban on sodomy disappeared in 1981 and since 1992, you are no longer considered a crazy person for being attracted to a person of the same sex (well, not from an official medical point, anyway). The app came to fruition through a simple question asked by its creator, Joel Simkhai : « WHO ELSE IS GAY AROUND HERE? ».

By 2012, 4 million people were using the App. 27 million as of 2017. Tinder followed in 2012 — you are welcome, straight people. Then SCRUFF, GAYROMEO, HORNET, BLUED, … What is wrong, then ? You damn well know something is wrong.

SMARTPHONE, 21st CENTURY’S NEW BACKROOM

If you go to a bar, you have to talk to the bartender, exchange a least a fews words with strangers, even dance as your look around and are being seen by others in the flesh. If you go to a gaybar, the same thing happens. If you go to a gaybar then the gaybar’s backroomn, rules change.

As the dating apps was closing in on worldwide domination, it became clear that the natural human kindness and respect would ultimately have no effect on the way people would communicate with one another on Grindr. I’ve been working in a bookstore for the past four years, you see. I expect a “hello”, “goodbye” and a smile during any interactions with clients — from them and myself. So there’s nothing more annoying that someone coming up to you, barking what they want to and leaving without any civility whatsoever. The Grindr equivalent would be Step 1 : A DICK PICK (or ass pick. I once had a fisting commemorative photo sent to me) straight up. Step 2 : A terribly convenient “cc sava tu ch?” or a “cho?” Step 3A : If you are polite enough to answer something, a conclusive “tu reçoi” or “tu bouge” Step 3B : you did not answer a singe word and the guy either sends you a “????” or insults the shit out of you. I sometimes do not answer impolite clients at work. Guess what ? Bitches say hello if you stare down at them long enough. On the internet, never gonna happen.

I remember the first couple of times I went on Grindr. I tried to answer everyone, even a “no, thank you”. There was always some “Hello”s, “How are you?”s, a few “My name is”s. But as the years went by, gay men (as I mostly talk to gay or bisexual cis men on these apps, I can only give my opinion on that category of people) adopted a series of unofficial rules to talk to each other.

1. If we are on this app, we are ready to fuck. 2. We do not have time for small talk. 3. We do not need your name, but dick size and multiple nudes are welcome. A picture is worth a thousand blablablahs. 4. We need to be very precise about what we want, so as not to waste our precious time. 5. Seriously, give us a full diagnosis of your body shape through pics, boy. 6. Chems ? 9. There are no rule 7 & 8, because 6 & 9. Now, turn around.

There are also lots of personal rules users seem keen on sharing them publicly as to implement unofficial rule number 4.

NO FEMS, NO BLACKS, NO ASIANS

“Pretty chill guy here. Very open minded and friendly. I love men from different cultures. Just no Asians. Asians leave me alone. I’m not racist” “Don’t message me. I’ll message you :). No Blacks Asians or fems. Love it when fats call themselves masc. hahahaha.” “Tell me if top/btm. Don’t really believe in “vers”. […] Attracted to Latin & White (trying to sound PC)” “Chill masc sane… just described nobody on here… Over 35, Asian or fem = block.. haha” “99% of you are losers. I’m the top 1%. So prove yourself first” The last one was written by a white male, by the way. They all were.

In our modern society, we’re not fools enough to believe that racism disappeared and everyone is accepting of others. Just look at the whole series of events called “while Black” where white people called cops on black folks for getting out of their airbnbs, talking in a Starbucks without ordering or falling asleep in a communal room at college. Nevertheless, you don’t see parades of racists proudly marching with “NO BLACKS” signs on the streets — you see another type of marches, yes. Free speech and stuff, sure. So why has it become acceptable in people’s minds to shade light on their racism in their profiles, barely hiding behind the “sexual preference” bullshit excuse ?

In an article dated September 2018 called “Why is it OK for online dates to block whole ethnic groups?” (2), the Observer related the appalling anecdote of an elderly white man who responded to a Grindr user of asian descent : “Asian, ew gross”.

I myself was told that I was too fat, too small, too twinkish, then not enough of those, or too white (but so we’re clear : RESERVE RACISM IS NOT A THING. STOP TRYING TO MAKE IT A THING!).

Racism also works with the beliefs that if you look or act a certain way, you obviously are what someone’s fantasy is. You are a black man so I assume that my hole will expand by ten once you’re inside me. You a blond light weight with feminine traits. You’re a submissive bottom and a real whore.

The world works on assumptions (ex : the myth of the BIG BLACK DICK or the for-sure global instinct that Tom Hanks would never have to face any #MeToo accusations) and apps follow that same path but without any policing. The absence of ramifications from someone’s actions further implement a feeling of unapologetic mindfulness — the same way being in a dark backroom with strangers you can’t see does not seem to add any consequences to what you’ll do next.

Recently, Grindr tried to course correct its past errors by creating “Kindr” (3). Was it a new app that would prevent people from actively using hate speech ? WELL WHY DON’T YOU PREVENT IT ON GRINDR THEN ? Was it a new platform to exchange ideas and experiences so that we can find another way to communicate together ?

Here’s how they introduce Kindr on their official site : At Grindr, we’re into diversity (MONEY), inclusion, and users who treat each other with respect. We’re not into racism, bullying, or other forms of toxic behavior (YOU ARE THE TOXIC BEHAVIOR). These are our preferences, and we’ve updated our Community Guidelines to better reflect them. Same app. New rules (DID YOU THOUGH?) Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Their type. Their tastes. But nobody is entitled to tear someone else down because of their race, size, gender, HIV status, age, or — quite simply — being who they are. (AS LONG AS IT DOES NOT PUT YOUR BUSINESS IN A RISKY POSITION) Join us in building a kinder Grindr. (DO YOUR OWN DAMN WORK). Express yourself, but not at the expense of someone else (OR US). Report discrimination when you see it (LIKE WITH THE JEWS BACK THEN. ALSO, WE THE USERS, ALREADY DID THAT). Use your voice and share your story to call out prejudice and spark change. Together, we can amplify the conversation and take steps towards a kinder, more respectful community (SEE, WE AT GRINDR ARE WOKE).

There you have it. A marketing scam to ease the pain of millions of users whose relationships and self esteem were affected by Grindr’s lack of interest in their consumers. How many years did it take for a simple statement from the CEO ? What’s actually concrete about these actions ?

in the community guide lines, it is stated that they “will remove any discriminatory statements displayed on profiles. […] Profile language that is used to openly discriminate against other users’ traits and characteristics will not be tolerated and will be subject to review by our moderation team”. FINE. So, if someone says “no short fat asians”, theoretically it would be removed from the profile. But if it says “more into vanilla and spice than chocolate and rice. So hit me up if this is you” (an actual Grindr profile, by the way), what can a Grindr moderator do about it ? The racism is still there. Are we to believe that EVERY single profile is being reviewed in detail ?

#deletegrindr was a popular hashtag over a year ago. I’m not on twitter and I still heard about it. Was it a cultural shift in the way gay people wanted to treat other gay people ? Were we on the verge of a revolution ? Nop. Grindr released data informations of thousands and thousands of profiles about HIV status (something that you can put on your Grindr profile) to third party companies. Since then, Grindr released the Kindr initiative and rewrote its policies.

I’m not against dating apps. I think it was a wonderful tool back in the day to extend one’s horizon, explore and experiment with love, sex and adventures. It no longer works that way. I didn’t even talk about the spreading of drug using through profile description and the real danger of stimulants in someone’s sex life.

#deletegrindr should come back and this time, it has to work. Silicon Valley, go make an app from scratch. One that would implement actual kindness to the machine, not based on popularity. Think of what people need, not what they want. People are shitheads. I’m a shithead. What I want is never good for me.

And YOU. You, little queer boy reading this. Don’t go on Grindr before going to bed to check the hotties in your area. Forget about that 6'2 monster cock Swedish god that lives nearby and offered you a quick hump for the ride. Ask him for a drink, put down your phone, get to know him a little and then fuck his brains out. You’re still gonna fuck but you’ll find humanity where there was once none.

That’s my preaching for the night. I gave up long ago on apps. I delete them all and stay away for months. Then, I feel lonely and get back to one or two. I met this new guy that way (4).The nice thing about it was that we did not talk dick sizes, favorite positions or any sexual desires until way after we actually met (and we’re talking two full weeks of messages). I’m not on any dating apps now.

(1) https://tetu.com (2) https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2018/sep/29/wltm-colour-blind-dating-app-racial-discrimination-grindr-tinder-algorithm-racism (3) https://www.kindr.grindr.com (4) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ezra_Miller

[fuckyeahevanrwood]

Evan Rachel Wood and Julie Taymor on Why Across the Universe ‘Scared the Shit Out of People’

The Beatles have always had a cinematic presence, from the 1964 faux-documentary A Hard Day’s Night to the experimental shorts of John and Yoko. But no director has ever used the Beatles’ music as inventively and audaciously as Julie Taymor, whose 2007 film Across the Universe is being rereleased in theaters for three days by Fathom Events. Using 33 Beatles songs and minimal dialogue, Across the Universe tells the story of three young adults in the late 1960s: Lucy (then 17-year-old Evan Rachel Wood), an all-American girl who wants to change the world; her brother Max (Joe Anderson), a rebel who gets dragged into Vietnam; and Jude (Jim Sturgess), a working-class artist from Liverpool who follows his dreams across the ocean. Their stories coalesce in New York City, where they befriend blues musicians, acid heads, radical extremists, a closeted lesbian, and Bono in a ridiculous mustache. Fictional characters become entangled in real events (the Detroit riots, the Columbia student protests), using songs from every Beatles era to express a nation’s political and psychedelic awakening.

Taymor’s film is as visual as it is musical. The magical-realism elements Taymor brought to her Oscar-winning film Frida and her Broadway hit The Lion King are blown to epic proportions in Across the Universe. “I Want You” becomes a nightmare ballet about Max’s recruitment and subsequent dehumanization in Vietnam, ending with an image of soldiers carrying the Statue of Liberty as they crush villages underfoot. “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” is a psychedelic circus featuring collage animation and 20-foot puppets. “Because” scores an underwater love-in. Even in more traditionally constructed scenes, the scale is breathtaking; the entire film was shot on location and, according to Taymor, employed 5,000 extras.

Across the Universe also runs well over two hours — not a big deal in this age of bloated superhero adventures, but in 2007, the length of Taymor’s cut alarmed Sony executives. Without her approval, the studio test-screened an alternate cut that eliminated much of the film’s political content and minimized the nonwhite supporting characters. Taymor fought back hard, and while she won final cut, she was smeared in the press (industry publications used words like “ballistic” and “hysteria”) and, she says, torpedoed by Sony’s marketing department. The film polarized critics (Roger Ebert loved it, Ann Hornaday hated it) and opened to limp box office, failing to recoup its budget.

And yet — in the past decade, the audience for Across the Universe has grown, its inevitable cult-classic status realized. At the present moment, the film’s portrayal of ’60s activism and art as weapons against government oppression seems especially resonant. In the lead-up to the Fathom Events release, Vulture had a candid conversation with Taymor and Wood about the unusual process of making the film, the bizarre logistics of Wood’s first nude scene, the ongoing challenges facing female directors, and the potential influence of Across the Universe on millennial activists. (Given the timing of the interview, we also threw in a few Westworld season-finale questions.)

There’s no film quite like Across the Universe, so I’d imagine making it was a unique experience. Evan Rachel Wood: It was one of the best experiences of my life. I was 17. Once I heard Julie was making a Beatles movie, I remember just thinking, “There’s nobody else that can do this. And I won’t let anybody else do it!” It just had to be. And then I got the part and we all spent about seven or eight months in New York together.

Julie Taymor: We rehearsed it like a normal musical in theater … and it bonded everybody. I’ll never forget Evan walking in the hallways with this Bowie T-shirt, because at one point we’d asked David Bowie if he was going to play Mr. Kite. And I think that at the moment Evan was really like, “Bowie, Bowie!”

ERW: Well, yeah, I mean I’m always like, “Bowie, Bowie.” But I was also all about Eddie Izzard.  I was always doing Eddie’s stand-up in the hallway.

JT: One of the things that I remember profoundly — this was during the Iraq War right? And it was really touchy subject. When we did the march down Fifth Avenue to Washington Square, the anti-Vietnam War march with the Bread and Puppet Theater puppets — everybody thought they were marching against the Iraq War. Now this is what I wanted to say: When Across the Universe came out ten years ago, it was right before Obama. And maybe this is just my own feeling, but I feel that this movie was very popular amongst young people. And I think people were very inspired by what the youth of America did in the 1960s, how they really made things change.

ERW:  I even remember  that a lot of people in the neighborhood wanted us to leave up the peace signs and protest signs, because it wasrelevant.

I have a vivid memory of going down to the Lower East Side when you were filming and seeing a whole block transformed into a ’60s fantasy of New York City. It was magical, like stepping into a dream. Were there any moments that felt like that to you as you were making it? ERW: Oh my God, all of it. Certainly the scene where we stumble upon the puppets and the blue meanies and Eddie Izzard started coming out and singing. That was when I was really on a different planet.

JT:  We shot that in Garrison, New York, and all of those were papier-mâché handmade puppets, giant puppets. There is almost no CGI in that section. It’s all real.

ERW: I think “I Want You” is one of my favorite numbers in the movie.

JT:  I was walking on a beach in Mexico when I came up with the idea — I’d done the Haggadah at the Public Theater years before, where the slaves are carrying the pyramids across the sands of Egypt. And I got the idea of all the young boys in their underwear and their army boots supporting [the Statue of] Liberty, and the image of Liberty charging through the jungles of the Third World, mashing and stepping and destroying all the trees. You know, the irony of us being this country that says we’re bringing Liberty, at the same time we’re bringing it at the expense of many people.

Evan, what was involved in the scene where you and Jim Sturgess are singing “Because” and making out underwater? ERW:  Speeding up the songs, and then learning how to sing them really fast. So the scenes were like, [sings] “becausetheworldisrounditturnsmeon…” And then she slowed it down so that it looked like it was in real time. So we filmed underwater all day. We would just take a deep breath and dive under and then try to get the song out as quickly as possible.

JT: And she also had to work hard to hide her breasts, right Evan?

ERW:  Oh, I always had to hide my breasts. I could only show one boob because it was PG-13. Two made it an R but one was fine!  And that was my first nude scene.

Julie, you fought the studio to get final cut on this film, when Sony wanted to shorten it. I was reading some of the press from that time, and I was noticing how gendered the language is when they write about you and this movie. There’s a Variety article that says, “She went ballistic to save her child.” JT: Thanks for reminding me. I’d almost forgotten how awful that was.

I’m sorry to bring it up! But I think it’s important to acknowledge that double standard. JT:  You know, for me, I’ve been through it.  Being a successful director on Broadway brings out all kinds of knives and hatred. But the misogyny business is true. And I put blinders on and just tried to do the work. I think every director, male and female, has babies, you know what I mean? It’s not just women. But you’re right. It is sexist dialogue. We loved our movie. And it wasn’t that it wasn’t working. It was working. They just smelled the money and thought if we dumb it down, literally, and get rid of the politics — I saw a cut where they got rid of the Detroit riot. There was no black child who was killed.

ERW:  Prudence wasn’t even gay!

JT: Yeah, they cut “I Want to Hold Your Hand,” so many of the things that I knew young people and everybody would love. Evan had a line — this was one of the first signs of the kind of difficult road that would come. Lucy, who’s 16 or 17, is walking home from school and her best friend says that one of their friends got pregnant. And Lucy says, “I’m never having children. Having children is narcissistic, like putting out carbon copies of yourself.” I remember my best friend, when I was 16, telling me that. I mean, that line came from experience. But the studio said at the time, “Oh, Lucy can’t say that, it will make her so unlikable.” No, will make her likable! Because you have that sign that when she’s a high-school student, that she will become someone like Gloria Steinem or Jane Fonda, that she’s going to become an activist.

The other thing is the poster. The poster that we’re releasing it with now is the underwater poster, the psychedelic poster of them kissing. The one that they put out, the strawberry, everybody who made this film hates. Well, if we’re being honest! [Laughs.] The problem with it is, I think what happens in Hollywood is they think that you can only market to 14-to-15-year-old girls. And we always said this movie, even if it’s PG-13, will appeal from 10-year-olds up through the parents. I mean, the Beatles appeal to all ages. If you watched the karaoke James Corden video with Paul McCartney in Liverpool, all these people in the bars were from 16 years old up to 80. And I’m hoping that with this rerelease this summer, we’ll see the teenagers and the young adults, and also the families.

Evan, you tweeted recently that you’ve been struggling to sell a movie that you will direct with a script written by women. ERW: Oh my goodness, the responses are just breathtaking. I mean, split down the middle: Some people totally get what I’m saying and some people are so angry with me! But the thing is, what I was trying to say was not a sense of entitlement like, “I should have this,” even though I do believe that I could make a really great film. It was just to expose what these rooms are like that you walk into over and over and over again. And until you have the more inclusive pitch rooms with women and people of color and LGBT representation, then you’re not going to see this movie.

And I hear people saying all the time, “Why aren’t there more female directors, why aren’t there more stories about women?” So I wanted to say, “Hey, just so you guys know, I’m really trying. And nada.”  I’m starring in the film, I co-wrote it, I’m directing it, I had an amazing cast, I had amazing DPs, an amazing crew. So everybody that read it was like “absolutely,” but the only people that are wishy about it are financiers, because it is very female-driven. And I do believe that they just don’t understand this film. So that’s what I was trying to say.

You did get a number responses that are just people saying, “ I want to see that film.” ERW: And I did get a lot of inquiries after that tweet. But also lot of people saying my idea is probably not very good, and you’ve never directed anything, and how dare you. I do believe that if I was a man with 25 years’ experience in the industry, who’s worked with some of the greatest directors in the history of film, and who’s lived and breathed it since I was a child — to say that I would have nothing to offer, when I know there are other people with a penis, with less than I have backing me up, that get green-lit, that’s where I’m taking issue. [Laughs.] Because it does seem like there’s an imbalance and it’s unfair. And that’s what I was trying to call out.

Julie, do you have any advice for Evan in this situation? JT: Listen, I’m going through the same thing after 40 years. Evan knows, there’s a movie that I wanted to make with her, a female-driven epic love story. Haven’t been able to do that one. I mean, we still try, and I’m doing [a film adaptation of] Gloria Steinem’s My Life on the Road that will be extremely female-driven! And we will be making it this fall. But I have a number of films that have not gotten off the ground and things that I’ve wanted to do. And it probably has a lot to do with the ballistic-baby concept. Even if people realize that the press has misogynistic writing or fear of a powerful woman, unless they meet you personally — and then I often get people being so surprised! [Laughs.] But I work with a lot of the same people over and over and over again, so I have a very good team and very good friends and collaborators. Evan and Jim, all of the kids on Across the Universe, we’ve stayed close.

Quite honestly, ten years ago, when women were in big positions, they were not supporting other women. They were terrified of losing their job and they had to support the boys’ films. I don’t need to name names, you can all go look at it, but it wasn’t necessarily better that women were at the top because they were frightened of making a mistake and that they would then be called out for having supported chick flicks or women’s things. It was fear. For me it’s more. I have the scarlet letter of “A” on me — not “adultery,” but “art.” Even though The Lion King is the most successful entertainment in the history of all entertainment. [Ed. note: Broadway’s The Lion King has grossed $8 billion to date, more than all the Star Wars movies combined.]

ERW: And Across the Universe is a masterpiece.

JT: And it’s also been very, very successful without a whole lot of press. I mean, Frida didn’t get press either.

ERW:  We even said that when we were making it: “This is going to be a cult classic, this is going to be something that throughout the years will continue to grow and grow.”

JT: The studio is all new people now, and they love it. And they’re very supportive. But I think it’d be great if they would just rerelease the film completely, because it didn’t go out enough as a movie. But they’re dipping their toe in with Fathom. If it does really well this summer, maybe they will do a real rerelease, which would be amazing because I do feel like it’s time. The success of La La Land — well, that had two very big stars in it, but it really comes on the heels of what Across the Universe did ten years ago.

ERW: I want to add about Julie, that she has such a strong vision and she holds true to her conviction. She’s a real artist. And yes, that does scare the shit out of people, because they don’t understand.

JT: Well, they think I’m not interested in commercial success. You gotta be kidding, of course I am!

ERW: Exactly. They underestimate what people want and how art moves people. I mean fuck, look at the Beatles, they changed the world. But I’ve worked with male directors that are complicated and have the same kind of conviction and they’re kind of hailed for it. But when you’re a woman, and you say, “I’m not going to do that, it’s not right,” they’re like, “Well she’s crazy. She’s difficult.” Julie is not crazy or difficult. She’s an artist. And I’ve worked with male artists that are similar that don’t get any shit for it.

JT: Well, thanks Evan. The thing is that we all knew what the movie was, and we presented it all. Maybe the falling Vietnamese ladiessurprised the producers because that was the first day of shooting. That I can understand, kind of gulping for a moment. But the rest of it, we did what was on paper and what we rehearsed. I didn’t change anything. I just did what I intended to do. I remember Amy Pascal jumping up and down in the first screening at Sony, just going, “It’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.” And the marketing woman was thrilled. Somebody else got in there and just smelled the money. But at any rate, you heard that already. And yes, I have gone through it and I will continue. But there’s enough great people wanting the kind of films that I want to make and the theater that I want to make. So you know, I’m not dying here.

All right, I know I can’t wrap this up without asking some Westworld finale questions. Evan, is that okay with you? ERW: Ha! Of course.

How much time did you and Tessa Thompson spend practicing Dolores together? ERW: That is so funny. You know it’s hilarious because we became really good friends at the beginning of season two, and then we started hanging out, and then all of a sudden we realized that we were gonna be the same person [laughs] and it was very strange! This show is so funny. Because they didn’t tell us anything.

But I thought she did an amazing job. I would send her recordings of myself doing the dialogue, and then she really sold it. I thought it was great. But you know, we weren’t really doing scenes together and I was basically playing a different character this season. So when she found out she had to kind of be me, she came to me and said, “Wait — what have you been doing?” [Laughs.] I’m like, “OH! Oh right! Yeah, I’ve got to do the voice for you and everything!” So I just made recordings and she really made it her own, it was good.

Ed Harris told us he has no idea what’s going on in the showwhile he’s making it. Have you had a similar experience? ERW: I had no idea what was happening in season two. At all. And we shot out of order, so most of the time — I mean, it was insane to be an actor on season two. I don’t know how I feel about it. [Laughs.] But it was a ride. We stopped reading the call sheets. We would show up and Jeffrey and I would ask what episode we were in. It was kind of that level of — we just lived in the moment in whatever scene that we were doing, and that’s how we made it.

[shystoryrebel]

Assignment is Half Complete

‘Hey Tahira ! I want to show you something. Where are you?’

‘Reaching to you in five minutes at Vishvavidyalaya metro station.’ She replied back.

‘Why? Are you planning for an outing?’

‘Ask, where WE are going, not where I am going. We are going to Shipra Mall, Ghaziabad and after that to the flat of Samir. I want you to be with me.’ I retorted angrily.

‘OK, fine, I am coming.’ And she cut the phone.

Within ten minutes Tahira seen coming out of the metro station. Fresh and Smiling.

‘To the flat of Samir?’ She asked me as I got into the car.

‘Yeah! We will just be there. We will complete the assignment.’ I said. It was strange to see Tahira behaving like a classic, girlfriend. She always tries to make me believe that she was unusually the one special Muslim girl, cannot allow anybody to touch her, unless the guy is ready to marry her. But what she didn’t know was that that the metropolitan guys of Delhi didn’t mind even to lick her butts to get her.

‘Assignments? I thought all your assignments were done with me on my place. She mocked.

Shut up you sweet bitch. I could not complete my assignments as you kept on fiddling me to quench your thirst. I know your drives and bendy morals. I love you and your tough morals. I was too kind and soft a friend to sleep with you when your dam morals permit.

She remained silent and didn’t exchange any word for the next few minutes.

‘You wanted me to be kind to you and show something to de-stress you.’ She said pointedly.

I twisted my face.

But I like her. She was very decent and graceful. Her parents were very hard-working and religious person. Her father spent long hours in his meat shop and the part time work at home after shop, meant every penny matters to Tahira. They give excellent ‘Sanskars’to their daughter.

‘Did you see my new ‘Gucci’ bag?’ Mom and dad gave me, the special gift they had promised me if I get 75% in exams.’

I drove on very coolly; I was not talking about anything else other than my very precious asset sitting by my side. She was pretty excited by the time we reached Shipra Mall Ghaziabd.

Shipra Mall is the most popular hand out in Delhi and NCR where an average income boy can take his BFF for enjoying happy moments. She was looking paragon of beauty in her lehengaand top. Her shining body, curvy hips, fleshy thighs, stilettos, sharp breasts, side brushed hairstyle et. Al., all were making stunning but very graceful.

A flat near Shipra Mall means upwards of one crore, but for Samir it was a minor amount. He had two or may be more, one where he lives with his parents and the other this one where he frequently visits with his friends and girl friends.

We finally reached the flat after taking a round of Shipra Mall and having some light refreshments at McD. Girls like Tahira have a sense of discomfort even in the safest hideout from the world. Bloody conservative kasba girl turned metro sex bomb.

‘Where is Samir?’ Asked Tahira.

‘He is coming after some time. He is doing some work at home but looking forward to meeting you.

‘Who? Me?’ She was taken by surprise.

‘Yes’ I said as she flicked out her expensive ‘Prada’ sun glasses and put them in the designer case. Perfect. The show was complete. No, it wasn’t. Next she took out much more expensive perfume ‘CK Eternity’ and sprayed. Bloody show off but mind in dark ages.

‘And why he wants to meet me?’ She asked again.

‘Why are you behaving in such a manner? I am not a guy who can hook up with any girl.’ I said. Such suspicion only spoils relationships and ensures failures…Tahira had been to rehab for her addictions and depressions but that was more than almost two years back. This is how Samir had first described Tahira but I always dream and imagine Tahira as lehenga-choli attired rock chic with eyes piercing every visible and non-visible part of her body. Such a beauty is enough to vibrate my entire existence.

‘Leave that discussion.’ ‘Sweetheart, how absolutely ravishing you look! Such beautiful colour, such an attractive body, ripples with sexy muscle!’

‘Ritik, I want to go to washroom’ said Tahira.

In India safe and clean loo is big problem but people are more worried about dal, onion, free electricity, water and other freebies. Bloody beggar mentality. Great socialism. She went inside the washroom to check whether she can use the loo without having to balance on a dirty floor.

She handed me over her fragranced stroll and hand bag. I can’t express the sensuous pleasure I got with her stroll and hand bag in my hand. I smelled the stroll many times before Tahira came with twisted mouth.

‘It is a tension in India to relieve in a loo’. Said Tahira, with a heavy sigh.

Entering the flat I hugged her tightly (feeling Tahira’s breasts) ‘A very nice pair you’ve got here, a wee glimpse of Helen’s two wee apples!’

Her touch in itself was enough to drive me in a state of erection. I tried to hide it but she noticed. A man! Man in me was ready to blast which drove me half mad…mystic power of the long hard road!

I had a good life in the college, not caring about etiquette or tidiness or washing, rich in bees and sheep and olive. And then I meet this kasba Muslim girl, the daughter of a conservative Muslim businessman from Aligarh.

‘Here she stands, Tahira’ I muttered to myself.

I had glimpsed at her for a few seconds for sure, my heart was jumping. Or maybe it had just stopped beating completely. I was choking. She created a weird pulsation in my bowels. I felt the blood flash down to the ends of my arteries and veins and then ready to burst out. I could sense my brain imploding. I was going to die or burst. Impossible to control!

Tahira was breathtakingly beautiful. Realistically beautiful is more apt for a decent and graceful girl like Tahira. All the things that I used to imagine or dream for a girlfriend had just come true. She was a dream. You can’t even dream of something so perfect. Even plastic surgeons can’t create such a mesmerizing Indian beauty. Her beauty was hard to describe. Her black eyes always cry for love.

I was driven mad by the mystic power of great Aphrodite!

‘Tahira won’t you at least lie down with me on the sofa? it’s been such a long time!’ I coaxed her.

‘Oh no – Mind you, but I’m not saying I don’t love you…Before marriage can’t!’ Said Tahira.

‘You please, you love me? Why won’t you then? I persisted.

‘What, you love cheat? I may be mother before marriage.’ Said she.

‘No – Tahira, this is very safe place. All right, I won’t do anything. Come out of the shell. Let’s lie down. I pleaded.

‘Don’t be silly Ritik. We can’t do this here and now.’ Said stubborn Tahira.

‘There is nothing wrong if we make love here.’ I reasoned.

But I know marriage with Tahira was very difficult, if not impossible. Although she succeeded in persuading her very uncompromising parents because they thought marrying their daughter with a Hindu Brahman boy and son of an IAS officer will enhance their status in the kasai (butcher) community but my parents were not ready to accept a meat eating daughter of a Muslim kasai as their daughter-in-law. Tahira also knew this bitter reality.

‘And you know than how I suppose to purify myself to again become a pure Muslim’ She frightfully said.

‘That’s easy. Take a bath with few drops of Holy Jumjum water in the bucket and recite few lines from Holy Quran.’ I argued.

‘Please don’t ask to violate my religion.’ She pleaded.

‘On God! Please forget about the religion.’ I said in a commanding manner.

And ultimately I pulled her on the bed.

I bended over her to kiss Tahira. She stared in shock but didn’t protest, just watched.

I kissed her again and again. She remained quiet for few minutes but soon started kissing me back.

I kissed her cheeks, her lips, her forehead, her nose, her eyes, her ears…..

She switched off the lights.

I hugged her tightly.

‘This is wrong.’ She resisted a little.

‘Nothing wrong, I love you.’ And my hand reached to open the knot of her choli.

‘No’, she said and tried to remove my hand.

I slid my hand inside her choli.

‘Please no…’ she said.

I closed her mouth with torrent of kisses. She struggled a little but after few futile nos she started to respond…matching me and outpacing me..

‘This isn’t right, Ritik.’ She puffed, but biting my cheek.

I removed her choli.

“Don’t, Ritik!’ she murmured but lifted her shoulder to get it off.

I removed my shirt. Now her warmth and softness dissolved in me.

She tried to stop me last time but I removed her ghahra and rest of her clothes and mine too.

‘I have a cousin, waiting to marry me,’ she reminded me.

‘I am a different girl, Ritik,’ she almost sobbed.

‘You are a very wonderful girl’ I said.

Now she was finally nude, lying on her back. On the bed her legs spread wide, her long black hair hanging, her head tilted back with her red – hot eyes closed. She wore no jewelry, no flowers in the hair and no make ups. She lost in a new world.

It was this woman whose dream I had from my childhood.

I had a special plan for our wedding night, I want to bed smelling of new wine, drying-racks, fleeces and affluence – and she of perfume, saffron, French kisses, spending, over eating and erotic rituals. Don’t get the idea she was mesmerizing.

I could not control myself for that day.

‘Ritik,’ she said,, and held me very close. Passion repressed for years were now uncontrollable. I bit and kissed her entire body and was lost inside her. We were one in each other.

I knew there will be no life without her. What happened was not lust but my real love. It is said men withdraw after sex but I was more closer to her and keep her with me forever.

‘You are amazing, Tahira. Every bit of you is amazing.’ ‘I can’t live without you, Tahira,’ I said.

‘Don’t say that, please,’ she said. ‘And complete your assignments.’

We both laughed.

‘My assignment is half complete now.’ ‘Hope to complete it soon.’ I said.

Not everything in life had a reason.

The truth is that I hardly knew me.

‘I am tired. I want to go home.’ She said and stood up.

I started the car. We hugged and sat in the car. I I dropped her at her house. The door was shut behind her. Her perfume lingered in the car and in my heart for ever.

I was getting late and was soon home for dinner. Ritik: heard his mother calling him from the kitchen. Now she started to sound more kind. Some marriage propels may be there. All talked a lot. They wanted my ‘Yes,’ but I had Tahira in my mind. They wanted me to get married, as soon as possible.

I opened my mouth about my plan to marry Tahira. They were all stunned. There was storm in my family. I had to fight my hostile and conservative parents to get their ‘Yes’ for this proposal. Every relative came in to break my relationship with Tahira. But my crying persuasions bore results positively and my parents were melted. I got positive vibes from all.

Not everything in life had a reason.

The truth was that I hardly knew me.

But Tahira’s parents had almost made up their mind for this marriage. It was strange to see how little care they have for their daughter. They even didn’t meet my parents. But they knew everything about me and my family.

‘Chauvinist minds’, ‘Bloody hypocrites.’ I murmured.

Busy in this confusion and stress of civilizations and religions, I could not contact Tahira.

She willed herself to not check her phone to see if he had replied. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was constantly checking his 'last seen at' status and yes, he had logged in just five minutes ago. Yet she couldn't stop herself. This sinking feeling to find absolutely no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost torturous. And then, just as she sat down in her chair, her phone vibrated. With her heart thudding in her ear, she unlocked her phone and stared at the screen. Finally! It was his message. But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing. She didn't know if he was joking or not. What was this?

Dear Tahira,

Its only when one is not there, one realizes her value. You were, you are and will always be mine and my most splendid possession. And when could be better than having your best friend as your buddy for life. Back then we were simply students…I was unsure and presses by useless consideration….scared may be. But today I am firm. Yes. My answer is yes.

You are my wife.

I am always there and will be, love you.

Yours only,

Ritik.

“Shri Ganeshay Namah”

Smt. & Shri Ram Krishan Aiyyar

Will be deeply honored by Your Gracious Presence,

To share with them the joy that fills their hearts on the splendid and festive

Celebrations at the WEDDING of their loving Son

Ritik Krishan Aiyyar

(S/o Sht. & Shri Ram Krishan Aiyyar)

With

Tahira Khan

(D/o Shri Shah Rukh Khan)

ON

30 th November 2015

Wedding Ceremony – 4.00 P.M.onwards

Reception & Dinner – 8.00 P.M. onwards

Venue: ‘RADHA – GOVIND – DHAM (Banquet Hall),

G.T.Karnal Road, Delhi-110036

R.S.V.P.

With Best Compliments From

All near and Dear of All near and Dear of

Aiyyar Family Khan Family

“For Yesterday’s Memories, Today’s Love and Tomorrow’s Dreams.”

Aiyyars & Khans

[littledonkeyburrito]

Another one. If you ever wanted to learn about me, now is the time.

Have you ever been in your kitchen naked? Often Do you have any idea how to make cotton candy? If I had the machine I’m sure I could figure it out Would you rather go a week without showering or brushing your teeth? Teeth. This time last year, what was your relationship status? Single When was the last time you went to the mall? Saturday

Do you like the smell of coconuts? Yes, especially after my sailing trip through the San Blas Islands. We drank so many coconuts that we had literally just picked up and smashed open on a rock. We also cut some open and added spiced rum which was always a good idea. Who else in your house is awake right now? There is nobody else in my apartment. If you were in school, would you rather write a paper or take a test? I did a lot better on exams. How many of the Harry Potter books have you read? All of them

When was the last time you checked your MySpace? oh wow I have no idea. I think I deleted my page when I was like .. 15? Look out your window. How many people do you see? 6. I live in the inner city so there’s always people around Where was the last place you bought a clothing item? Mango

Are you the youngest person living in your house? Well I’m the only one, so yes. How many piercings do you have? Just my ears Could you honestly say that you’re a virgin? I honestly cannot even close to say that What color is your front door? White Did you reject or accept your last friend request? Accept I think Have you been suspended this school year? I haven’t gone to school in a long time. I only got suspended once, in year 10. What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid? Climbing things probably. I don’t remember Are you wearing any socks? No Can you play pool? I know how but I am super bad at it.

What’s the most relaxing thing you did today? I slept for a long ass time

Do you shop at the grocery store closest to your house? No. The closest big one is like a 10 minute walk and it’s right on the tourist strip so it’s expensive and full of tourists. I catch the metro to a cheaper one which actually involves less walking. Which one of your guy friends is the best looking? Idk let’s not go there

What does your car smell like? I don’t have a car anymore

Who could make you feel better right now? Probably any of my friends

Have you had an epiphany lately? I don’t think so What color shoes are you wearing? None

Which one of your friends is the most brutally honest? Hehe gotta be Maggie

Do you have anything to say to your ex bf/gf? Nope In what year will/did you turn 21? 2015

Who was the last person you gave a birthday present to? Gloria

Puedes hablar español bueno? No hablo bien, pero es suficiente para vivir

Which day of the week do you watch the most TV? Just netflix and any day

Which band do you have the most of on your iPod/music player? Probably Green Day because I never delete anything and I’ve been accumulating stuff since I was 16

What’s the closest pink object to you? I think the only pink thing in my apartment is a pair of bright pink chopsticks

Do you really weigh the weight on your driver’s license? Driver’s licences have weight on them? I don’t think mine does. It probably hasn’t changed much anyway

What’s your favorite non-carbonated, non-alcoholic beverage? Fresh orange juice, or cold milk tea

What’s the most epic thing you’ve done so far this month? One of several adventures in Panama at the start of the month. Ziplining approx 200m off the ground through the forest was pretty rad. Also fun was sneaking around and sleeping with my tour guide without anybody in the group finding out. And of course that crazy mexican restaurant in Panama City is fucking wild. Last week I did cocaine in my boss’s kitchen on a wednesday night so I guess you could call that epic too. It’s pretty a pretty interesting month actually.

Big Mac or Whopper? Big Mac

What’s your favorite vacation spot? So many good places. I think Panama City may have topped the ranks but other noteable places are Essaouira and the High Atlas Mountains in Morocco, Granada and Madrid in Spain, Cartagena in Colombia and Tolou Village in China.

What color underwear are you wearing? Purple. I don’t know why but almost all of my underwear are some shade of purple.

Have you ever slapped anybody? Yeah but jokingly

What are you listening to right now? General street noise

Where will you be in six hours? Still at home, probably still on the couch

What do you wish you had more time to do? I wish I’d had more time in Central America

Who was the last person to ride in your passenger’s seat? Fuck that’s thinking back a fair way. I haven’t had my car since January so I don’t remember

Would you ever let anybody else drive your car? Only Mum ever drove my car

Which one of your friends will be the most successful? I hope we all do alright How old will you be on your next birthday? 24. Shit I had to actually think about that and do maths in my head.

What store did you last shop at? Alcampo

Are you an official couple with the last person you kissed? No

Looking back, did you ever think you would be where you are now? Definitely not

Do you like someone? I guess so

Are you happier now or three months ago? Probably equal

What’s the greatest thing that happened to you today? I didn’t go back to that shitty job.

How old do you think you will be when you finally have kids? idk probably never

Do you think you’ll be married in ten years? No idea

Does your ex still love/like you? Doubt it

Are you stubborn? At times

Do you tend to hold a grudge? No

Where were you at 9am this morning? In bed

How has the week been? Better now that I quit that job.

Did you go out or stay in last night? Stayed in.

Something you do a lot? Sleep

How many states have you lived in? I guess only one because the UK has counties and Spain has provinces

Can you commit to one person? Probably, never tried

Who was the last person to hold your hand? The boy in central america

Do you think you and your best friend will be friends in 10 years? I hope so

What do you miss most about your ex? His sweet sweet abs

Are you attracted to the last person that kissed you? Yes.

What’s a fact about the last person you kissed? He has a lot of scars

Something you really want right now? A job I actually enjoy

How long have you liked the person you like? uhh since I met him about a month ago I guess

Did anyone see you kiss the last person you kissed? Nobody saw that kiss but I think his friends probably saw us kiss earlier in the evening

Can you recall the last time you liked someone? Like a proper crush? Not since I was in australia I think

Are you happy with the way things are going? Eh, could be better but could be a lot worse. I do okay.

Do you think you will be in a relationship 3 months from now? Probably not

What plans do you have for tomorrow? Just looking online for jobs and probably bingeing on netflix

Has a friendship ended recently that you wish hadn’t? A friendship ended but tbh I’m pretty indifferent about it. Hadn’t really known him that long and he was starting to get annoying anyway.

Have you ever kissed the last person you texted? No

Do you and your last ex hate each other? Depends on definition of ex. I don’t hate anyone but they might hate me..?

When was the last time you were sick? I had a cold a couple of weeks ago

Are you one of those people who are always cold? My feet get cold easily.

Do you tend to waste a lot of money? Nah, I spend it all on travel.

Have you ever regretted kissing someone? Ehhh I guess so

When was the last time you got a haircut? About 2 months ago

Did you sing at all today? Yeah

Do you own any articles of clothing with skulls on it? No.

Are you faster at text messaging or typing on the computer? Isn’t everyone faster on the computer? I’m still pretty quick on my phone though.

If you won a trip to a nude beach would you go or give the trip away? I’d go with a friend probably.

When it comes to jeans: skinny, flared or boot cut? Skinny.

Honestly - can you say that looks don’t matter at ALL? No because there’s so many cute people in the world

Have you ever changed clothes in a public area (not a dressing room)? Yeah

How many months apart is your birthday from your best friends? About 6 months

Yes or no: Techno music? Nah.

They say diamonds are a girls best friend; what do you say? My dad used to be a jeweller so I’m very desensitised to the idea of them.

Have you ever kissed anybody who had a mustache? Yeah but not just a moustache. There’s always been other facial hair to go with it.

If you were famous do you think you could handle the popularity? Probably not

Have you ever kissed someone whose name started with a letter P? I don’t think so

Did you talk to one of your best friends today? What did you talk about? Yeah, about how I keep forgetting how dirty the lyrics to Despacito are and whenever I read them or actively listen to the song I’m shocked again.

Do you get on better with funny or serious people? Funny

Do you have mood swings around the time of the month? Sometimes

Have your friends met the last person you kissed? No

How old is your oldest cousin? 24 but my brother is the oldest in the family of our generation

What if you saw your best friend holding hands with your ex? That would be confusing

Your last relationship, who dumped who? Mutual

How old were you when you had your first boyfriend/girlfriend? 14. Lasted like a month. Then no others until I was 20

Is your home town nice? It’s a beach town so tourists really like it but the only benefit it has for me is that my dad still lives there.

What if you got stuck in a lift with the last person who Facebook messaged you? I’d wonder what he was doing in Spain, firstly. But honestly he’d probably just make it a hilarious experience.

When/where did your last hug take place? No idea

Do you consider yourself mature enough to make your own decisions? Well I’ve made plenty of life-changing decisions on my own, such as dropping out of uni, quitting my job, learning a new language, moving to a foreign country, travelling on my own, etc.

Have your parents ever told you about their love lives, and any previous relationships they had before they met? I don’t know much about my mum’s history although I’m not sure she had much before dad. I know a bit more about my dad’s history and actually I have his first wife on facebook because we went to see her (and her current partner) when we were travelling in the south of spain a few months ago.

You get a text from someone saying that they want to hang out - who would you most like it to be from? Well I don’t have any friends in this country, so...

Do you and your friends have any inside jokes? Several

Do you think someone has feelings for you? Are these feelings returned? Honestly, I am unsure of how the central american guy feels about me. At first I thought we were just hooking up but after our last day together I got the feeling that he liked me more than that and then it made me all confused so now I don’t know how to feel about him.

What if the last person you texted were to ask you out? Last message I sent was to a small group chat consisting of me and two of my friends who are engaged to each other. So that would be weird

Would you prefer to be somewhere else right now? If so, where? And why would you prefer to be there? I want to be travelling. It’s cool that I’m in spain but because I live here I never really get up to adventures. 

Can you remember what you dreamt about last night? Uhhh I think I dreamt that my little cousin was blind.

[tipsycad147]

Why do people become Pagan? The top ten reasons

Posted by Michelle Gruben on Mar 02, 2017

“Why are you Pagan?” If you were to ask this question of a dozen people, you would probably get a dozen different answers. For Christians (and others who believe in one true God) the revival of polytheism may be confounding. For others, it is hard to understand why a sensible modern person would seem to turn their back on science to worship the gods of old.

Before we get too far along, let's cover some background info. Paganism is defined broadly as non-Abrahamic religion that is Nature-based, polytheistic, or both. Wiccans, for instance, generally worship a creator Goddess and a God who is Her consort. The Wiccan cosmology does not acknowledge the existence of the Christian God (or the concepts of Satan and Hell).

Wicca is the best-known of modern Pagan religions, but there are many sub-groups and branches of Pagan belief and practice. Druidism, neo-Shamanism, Greek/Roman reconstructionism, and Norse Heathenry are just a few. There are also eclectic Pagans who combine elements from various traditions to make their own “flavor” of Paganism. While occult practices (e.g., divination and spellcasting) are common in Paganism, not all Pagans participate in these practices. Conversely, not everyone who is involved in the occult is a Pagan.

Most Pagans are polytheist, meaning they recognise the existence of more than one God. But there is more to Paganism than “the more, the merrier!” Here are some general traits of Pagan religions (keep in mind that not every religion will have them all): Rejection of Judeo-Christian cosmology, observance of seasonal rites, reverence toward Nature, rejection of religious authority and focus on individual experiences, paranormal/psychic beliefs and practices, emphasis on personal responsibility over sin or evil.

Not surprisingly, a preference for one or more of these traits is what attracts many people to Pagan religions—but we’ll get to that in a moment.

At the risk of stating the obvious, religion is a choice. If a person follows a Pagan religion, they are expressing a preference for Paganism over another religion, or no religion. Thinking about the reasons why people choose to become Pagan can lead to better understanding of Pagan friends and family. If you are Pagan, you may even learn something about yourself!

For the record, I’m Pagan in a mixed-religion household. This (totally unscientific) list is based on my own observations within the Pagan community. I’ve tried to present them in a way that’s inclusive and fair. Without further ado, here are some of the most common reasons why people choose to follow a Pagan religion:

1. They were raised Pagan.

Contemporary Pagan groups began forming in the 1930s, and achieved breakthrough status with the emergence of Wicca in the 1950s. Before that time, very few people in the West were raised Pagan. If you wanted to be initiated in a Pagan tradition, you had to seek one out—often at great expense to your personal or professional reputation.

Nowadays, that’s not the case. Neo-Paganism as a social/demographic phenomenon is in its third generation. It’s fairly common to find adults who were raised Pagan, or even whose parents were raised Pagan! It’s also possible to find those who were raised Pagan, but left Paganism. “Mom used to go out in the woods with her friends and do weird stuff—I never really got into it.”)

Some Pagan clergy will participate in the general blessing of infants and children, such as the ritual of “Wiccaning.” However, most Pagan paths do not have formal initiation for children. Pagans also overwhelmingly value religious choice. If someone continues their Pagan practice into adulthood, it is likely because they found something meaningful in it.

2. They want sexual acceptance and/or sexual freedom.

Of all the world religions, Paganism is arguably the most tolerant of the varied expression of human sexuality. Sex is considered a divine gift and a sacred rite. Lusty Gods and fertile Goddesses appear in all the major pantheons. (Along with gender-bending, raunchy stories, and other sexy fun.) For most Pagans, sex is just no big deal as long as it’s between consenting adults (or deities).

Pagan groups almost universally accept gay members, and some traditions even have queer or queer-leaning branches (Radical Faeries, Dianic Wicca). Pagan activists have been on the forefront of the struggle for equal rights. Compare that to the sluggish response of churches—even liberal churches—to embrace LGBTQ members and clergy, and you’ll understand why sexual minorities have been so attracted to Paganism. For people who are used to hearing their sexual desires called dirty, sinful, or shameful, the difference can be life-changing.

It’s not just queer folks who embrace Paganism as a safe­ haven. Horny folks do, too. In most Pagan belief systems, sex is not considered a sin but a morally neutral act. Sex for fun is fun, sex for magick is magick. It’s not how much sex you’re having, but your intention that characterises the act. The only moral imperative is in how you’re treating yourself and your partners.

Partners? Oh, yes! Polyamory, group sex, and (legal) exhibitionism are accepted within some Pagan communities. That’s an undeniable treat for people who want to enjoy these activities without religious shame.

3. They don’t care for dogma and/or authority.

There is no holy book, no central governing body, and no real priestly authority within the mass of related beliefs filed under Paganism. This is great news for people of a certain temperament—religious rebels and militant agnostics. (“I don’t know, and you don’t either!”)

As a social movement, neo-Paganism is deeply indebted to the Transcendentalist writers of the 19th century. Their poems and essays held the germ of the idea that fuels Pagan practice: That God speaks directly to everyone—often through Nature—and not only to a specially qualified few, inside special buildings.

Some Pagan groups do have ordained clergy. But there are still significant differences between Pagan clergy and those of more established organised religions:

First, Pagan titles like “High Priestess” are usually self-conferred or passed along from student to teacher. This does not mean that they’re not “real” clergy, but it does mean that their power is limited outside their own group or coven. (A Pagan leader may also be ordained as a minister by another organisation, such as the Church of All Worlds or the Unitarian Universalist church. This allows them to receive certain legal privileges that independent Pagan clergy usually do not enjoy.)

Secondly, Pagan clergy tend to function more as community leaders than authority figures. Pagan priesthood does not confer any real power over others, either temporal or spiritual. Most Pagan leaders encourage discussion and self-study by their students and congregants. Certainly a dedicated Priest or Priestess will have more experience working with their deities than a beginner. They may have the skills to do rituals or advanced deity work that a novice does not. In a sense, though, every Pagan is their own Priest or Priestess—and the best Pagan clergy respect that. This makes Paganism very attractive to those who don’t want to experience God(s) secondhand.

4. They long for a connection to Nature.

The earth, the trees, the sky, the sea—most world religions recognise these wonders as the work of a mighty creator God. And yet, most leave it at that.

Not so with Paganism. Pagan religions are sometimes described as “Earth-based”—meaning the Earth and its cycles are central to what Pagans hold sacred. Most Pagans profess a deep reverence for natural places, the seasons, the web of plants and animals, and the processes of birth, ageing, and dying. While it’s not technically required, many Pagan services are held outdoors. “Skyclad” (nude) rites are another way that Pagans shed the trappings of modern society and get back to the core of being.

Some people come to Paganism as an extension of their environmentalist or eco-feminist views. Others simply want to reconnect with Nature as an antidote to the alienation that comes with busy, digitised lives.

5. They’ve had negative experiences with other religions.

It’s a sad but undeniable fact. People who turn toward one religion are often, with the same movement, turning away from a religion that has hurt them. If you spend enough time in Pagan communities, you will certainly meet some of these displaced folks.

Perhaps a certain religious doctrine—such as the prohibition against homosexuality—is causing the person emotional pain. Maybe they’re frustrated with persecution, corruption, or hypocrisy within the religious group they came from. Or maybe they’re rebelling against the religious beliefs of a parent or spouse. Whatever the case, Paganism appears to offer a chance for a fresh start, one with less restriction and oversight than they may be used to. Pagans don’t evangelise—which may make them seem more trustworthy to folks who have been burned.

As with all life choices, there are right and wrong reasons to become a Pagan. And you can’t ever really know someone else’s motives. The best thing that Pagans can do is treat religious refugees kindly, answer their questions honestly, and wait for them to figure out if Paganism is right for them.

6. They have trouble with the concepts of sin and evil.

Of all the barriers between Pagan beliefs and Abrahamic religion, the idea of sin is the thorniest. Original sin is a tough doctrine to swallow, even for many Christians. Who wants to suffer for something that happened before they were born? That Paganism has no equivalent concept to sin and sinfulness is one of its biggest selling points, so to speak. (Pagan beliefs about the origin/existence of evil are so diverse I won’t even try to tackle the topic here.)

As mentioned earlier, there’s no single Pagan concept of God. Still, one idea you see over and over in Paganism is the doctrine of non-dual immanence. God/Goddess existing here and now, and not in some distant place or kingdom to come. Lack of meditation or participation or acceptance can distance us from the sacred, but God/Goddess is always there. Furthermore, divinity is present within the material world, and the world is inseparable from its creator.

All of this is pretty difficult to reconcile with Judeo-Christian ideas about original sin and the fall of man. (Some Hermetic Pagans do accept them as metaphorical/alchemical truths—but that’s a whole other beaker of worms.) In Biblical cosmology, the world is created by God, but separate from God. The world we know is basically fallen and can only be redeemed through God’s intervention. In Paganism, the world we know is basically holy and does not require redemption. (Only observation and celebration, if we want to be happy and—perhaps—please the Gods.) The other worlds are holy, too—not more, nor less.

As for behaviour? Paganism emphasises individual freedom and responsibility over moral absolutism. Most Pagans live by an individual moral/ethical code, but shun universal behavioural codes. Pagan ethics have been heavily influenced by the Wiccan Rede: “An it harm none, do what ye will.” This in turn derives from Aleister Crowley’s “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law”—possibly the most mis-interpreted eleven words of all time.

It’s not that Pagans believe that you can or should do whatever you want. On the contrary, Paganism teaches that actions (and even thoughts) reverberate through the universe to affect oneself and others. There’s no real concept of sin, but Paganism is not amoral. In encouraging moral behaviour, Paganism substitutes concepts like karma, duty, interconnectedness, for a paternal god figure keeping score.

7. They yearn for representations of the Divine Feminine.

Dion Fortune wrote “A religion without a Goddess is halfway to atheism.” Women’s bodies are the carriers of life. And yet, many world religions downplay or denigrate the contribution of women. In Abrahamic religions, women can be vessels and saints, but are rarely prophets and never God. Many people yearn for distant time—real or imagined—when women’s bodies could also be a representation of deity.

As a social phenomenon, the rise of Wicca and Goddess spirituality has coincided pretty neatly with the expansion of women’s rights. As long as women are to be regarded as equal to men in society, there are those who feel that patriarchal religions can never be wholly legitimate.

Everyone has an earthly mother and a father. If you believe in God, it makes a kind of intuitive sense that everyone has a divine Mother and Father, too. Yet religions that include a Goddess are usually labelled polytheist and Pagan automatically.

8. They want explanations for psychic and paranormal events.

Out-of-body experiences, premonitions, telepathy, ghost encounters—weird stuff sometimes happens. If you haven’t had an inexplicable experience, then you likely know someone who has. Pagans aren’t alone in experiencing the paranormal, of course. But they tend to be better equipped to talk about it than the average person.

Imagine a person who has recurring paranormal experiences, or experiences they believe to be paranormal. Mainstream science tells them that these experiences are illusory. Mainstream religion—when it’s not condemning them as evil—seems mostly too embarrassed to talk about occult happenings. It’s no surprise that the person would be drawn to a Pagan community where psychic stuff is openly discussed, accepted, and even encouraged.

Don’t get me wrong—mental illness and paranormal delusions do occur, and can cause great harm. But the not-crazy among us still yearn for a safe haven to discuss our psychic lives without condemnation. I believe—though I can’t prove—that so-called paranormal experiences are actually quite common among the general population. I’ve also observed that persistent psychic curiosity is one of the major reasons that people turn to Paganism.

9. They’re attracted to the power and control offered by magick.

I once read an academic paper that was trying to explain the rise of Wicca and witchcraft among teenage girls. The conclusion was that when a young women lacks a sense of control in her life—i.e., economic, sexual, or social autonomy—a religion that offers a secret source of power is immensely attractive. (Who wouldn’t want to be able to cast a love spell on a crush, or curse a bully?) The author observed that many teen girls become practising Pagans in junior high and high school. They tend to lose interest after finding another source of personal power (a job, a relationship, a better group of friends).

As a young Pagan woman, I found the tone of this particular paper to be condescending, bordering on insulting. But one thing is obviously true: Occultism purports to offer power to the powerless, esoteric means to an end when esoteric means have come up short. Why else would there be so many people interested in fast answers—love spells, get-rich-quick spells, and the like?

Lots of people approach witchcraft and/or Paganism because they want to learn to use magick. They see it as a way to fix their lives in a hurry or achieve undeserved success. Many of them move along when they realise that real magick is real work.

10. They’ve been called by a God or Goddess.

A burning bush, a deathbed vision of Christ, a miracle from the Virgin Mary—these are the types of religious experiences that are familiar to most people. But Pagans have religious epiphanies, too. Although most of us don’t talk about it outside of trusted circles, our Gods and Goddesses call to us in dramatic and in subtle ways.

Like any other type of religious conversion, some people drift gradually toward an acceptance of Paganism, while others are thrust toward it by a single epiphany. Some people may scoff at the idea of elder Gods asserting their presence in the 21st century. But it's certainly no wackier than what other religious people believe. (And it's hard to be so cavalier when Odin’s keeping you awake at night with a to-do list.)

For most Pagans, one or more of the above reasons has contributed to their finding their religious path. There are certainly other reasons that aren’t on this list. Of course, the best way to find out why a particular person is Pagan is to (respectfully) ask!

https://www.groveandgrotto.com/blogs/articles/why-do-people-become-pagan-top-ten-reasons