#the phones are fine. whether or not bringing back their more wild traits from before they were domesticated makes them worse as pets

[tahwarts]

people actually forget that phones before smartphones didnt have headphone jacks!!! like all those nokias youre nostalgic about and my old ass sony ericsson phone that opened by rotating that even tho it branded itself as a walkman phone you had to use a clunky ass adapter in the charging port. (although it did come with it when you bought it, at least.) iphone giveth iphone taketh away i guess

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: VIII

Like wolves we've run wild

Let passion get too much

And let ourselves get burned by the fire

We're walking on wire

But nothing feels higher

Then when I see that look in your eyes

Small Talk, Niall Horan

A/N: here she is!! another part!! you’re probably used to this now, but part 8 got a little long, and will continue in a part 9 but honestly!! who cares!! it just means more vampirerry for all of us 😌 here we deep dive into a few more dates with a dash of some good ole jealousy!! love to see it love to hear it!! and andrea and i would just like to say THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO VOTED IN THE 1D CRAFT AWARDS!!!! we cannot believe ysijwa was even nominated, let alone that it won most unique!!! as a thank you, we’re doing a livestream this sunday!! you can send in questions, we’ll discuss the story, and just have a lil chat so please tune in!! details can be found here!! and please if you like what you are reading here!! reblog it!! leave reactions in the tags (we read every single one)!! send a message to andrea and i!! feedback and interaction is what keeps content creators motivated to keep writing and updating!! and that’s a general rule for all content creators not just us!! we do this for free so a lil love note is always appreciated 💌 alrighty now that that’s out of the way!! let’s dive in!!

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

word count: 30k

content/warnings: confessions of an immortal shopaholic, blair waldorf dark au, the glamorization of the sugar baby lifestyle, harry not understanding the concept of sharing, y/n “eat the rich” y/l/n, harry the walking rosetta stone (tw: google translate), an italian chef (and psychic) who will also adopt someone before dessert is served, A Cinderella Story 6: Fifty Shades of Gucci Grey (rated R), an internal monologue of john mulaney’s “now we don’t have time to unpack all THAT!!!”, and a definitive guide on how to get rid of unnecessary parts of an outfit

Harry is aware that he has a taste for excess. 

He wasn’t always like this, truly.  When he was human, everything about his life had been thoroughly middle class.  He was apprenticed to his father, the town’s blacksmith, and spent the majority of his life living in modesty.  He wore plain clothes that had been sewn by his mother with the cheapest and most durable material she could find.  He spent most of his days at the forge, or dutifully completing chores at home.  He prayed quietly in church, took only the bare minimum of what he needed from anything, and, for the most part, kept his head down.  He’d lived his life with no fancies, no frills, and no fun, in the hopes that all his humble modesty would serve him well in his next life. 

And then he ended up eternally damned, so a fat lot of good that suffering had done him.  All he got from following such a plain mode of life was intimacy issues, a newfound bloodlust, and a broken neck. Therefore, when it came to his afterlife, Harry decided to try a different route. 

And that route, lucky for him, always seems to lead him back to Gucci. 

Harry’s tried a lot of styles and a lot of designers in his two hundred and some years of life, but he’s yet to find anything that speaks to him like Gucci does.  Whether it’s a leather wallet, a blue velvet suit, a sheer pussy bow shirt, or a silk neck scarf; if it has the Gucci label stamped on it, Harry probably owns it. 

Whenever he steps foot in the store, sales associates flock to him, knowing that he’ll drop at least five thousand in one visit.  Harry knows he should feel a tad guilty, but frankly, he thinks he’s earned it— more so than those billionaires he compels into making monthly donations to the “charity funds,” also known as his bank account. 

His methods, however, do bring him a bit of flack from his friends.  While Mitch normally does everything with Harry, the laid back and neutrally good-aligned vampire can only spend so much time in a high-end boutique before claiming that he’s “choking on the cologne of the entitled.” Niall, on the other hand, doesn’t let his teasing nature stop him from joining Harry, but Niall’s affinity for polyester usually stops Harry from allowing him inside the store.  And Xander is a non-starter— the last time Harry tried to bring him, the vampire had spent the entire time cracking scathing jokes about Harry being a sugar baby, to which Harry responded with a comment about Xander being jealous of the salesman fitting Harry.  That little argument turned into a three day battle of neither speaking to the other, and had only been settled when they each agreed that the other deserved to lose an eyebrow for what was said.  

Harry could recount more instances of friction caused by his shopping habits, but needless to say, he either frequents the shopping district of Los Angeles by himself, or with Adam, who is wonderfully indifferent to Harry’s methods of obtaining pocket change, as well as how he spends said pocket change, and possesses the bonus trait of having an eye for beautifully tailored trousers. 

It’s Adam who is by Harry’s side as he walks into the Gucci store for the third time in two weeks, his disinterested expression nearly eclipsed by the confident smirk that adorns Harry’s ruby lips. 

It’s almost like they have a censor for him, Harry thinks smugly, as the associates begin to whisper to each other at the sight of him.  Even if he didn’t absolutely love the brand, Harry would come to Gucci just for the boost to his ego. 

Despite having accompanied Harry before, Adam still leans over to his friend, raising a quizzical brow as his eyes scan over the racks of clothing they pass. “Do we have to go to the counter, or—?”

“Oh, I never have to go to the counter.” Harry chuckles lightly, brushing his icy fingers over a smooth silk shirt styled on a mannequin. “They—”

“Mr. Styles!”

The egotistical simper on Harry’s lips grows, and he shoots Adam a smug look before turning around. “They come to me.”

“Mr. Styles, it’s so nice to see you again.” Mr. Koffman, the manager of this particular location, stops in front of Harry after a brisk walk over, fixing the fit of his suit jacket before extending his hand to Harry and Adam. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.” Harry shakes his hand once, enjoying the usual look of bemusement that flashes through the human man’s eyes at his strong grip and cool skin. “And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m just fine.” He replies, shaking Adam’s hand once without moving his attention from Harry. “We’re thrilled to have you back so soon.  I understand we have a suit in the works for you?”

Adam rolls his eyes the moment Mr. Koffman turns away from him, turning his attention to the rack of jackets to the left and running his fingers over the material. 

“Yeah, I got the call this morning to come pick it up.” Harry pauses, giving Adam a sideways glance as his grin grows. “But I was wondering if I could do one last fitting, just to make sure everything’s set…?”

“Oh, uh—” Harry enjoys the frayed tone that echoes from the manager’s mouth as he begins to scramble, a light sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I’m so sorry, but we have another appointment coming in fifteen minutes, and—”

Harry sighs in mock disappointment, clicking his tongue as he gives a slight nod. “Ah.  I see.” He sighs again and lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, glancing at Adam from the corner of his eye.  The other vampire is watching him with a half-amused, half-exasperated expression, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower to bite back a laugh. 

The light sheen of nervous sweat on Mr. Koffman’s brow begins to drip down his temple. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Styles—”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Harry waves off the apology with an unconcerned air, glancing at his own statement watch and sighing again. “If you could just have my suit sent down to the Gucci location on Rodeo, I’d really appreciate it— I know they’ll be able to squeeze me in for a last minute fitting.” Harry smiles at Koffman, whose face fades a shade paler as the creature gestures to his friend. “C’mon, Adam.”

“No, no, there won’t be any need for that!” Mr. Koffman says quickly, checking his watch again as his hand reaches for the handkerchief in his suit pocket.  He dabs at his moist forehead while forcing a smile at Harry, who gives an easygoing smile back. 

“It’s alright, Mr. Koffman, really— if you’re unable to make some room for me, I’m sure they’ll be happy to—”

“You’ve been a wonderful and loyal customer to us, Mr. Styles— we’d be more than happy to make room for you.” The human smiles again, the action more strained than before as he tucks his handkerchief away and clasps his hands in front of him. “Just— Just give me one moment to arrange it with alterations, and move some things around.  Please, feel free to browse,” He gestures to the racks of clothing around them. “And I’ll be back in a few minutes once we have everything ready for you.”

Harry hums in the back of his throat, faking hesitation as he replies in a slow voice. “Well...if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble…”

“No trouble at all.  Not for you.” Koffman, to his credit, manages to make the response sound natural before scurrying away, already dialing a number on his phone as he speed-climbs the staircase leading to the alterations department. 

The laugh Harry’s been choking on for the last three minutes escapes the moment the human disappears, echoing off the marble walls around them as Harry turns to Adam with a glint in his eye. 

Adam, on the other hand, looks less entertained and more annoyed. “Was that really necessary?” He asks in a bored tone, crossing his arms as his eyebrows raise in question. “Why do you need to try the suit on?  You had, like, three fittings.  It’ll be fine.”

“I know, but I want to make sure it’s perfect before I take it home— I’m spending way too much money for it to possibly be defective.  And I want you to see it in all the glory of the mirrored Gucci fitting room.” Harry pats his friend’s shoulder as he steps past him, his attention captured by a pair of red leather and snakeskin boots sitting on a pedestal in the corner. 

Adam snorts once, short and harsh. “Were those the only reasons, Mr. Styles?”

“Well, now that you mention it…” Harry drags a finger over the embroidered side of the boots, his cherry lips rising at the corners. “I do enjoy making Koffman squirm.  He’s so easily bothered by the littlest of things; it’s like an open invitation to cause some trouble.”

“Y’know, if I didn’t know what you really were,” Adam laughs once in spite of himself, shaking his head in disbelief while checking out a pair of plaid trousers. “I’d think you were the devil.” 

Harry’s smile twists into something more sinister as he fiddles with his gold cross, twisting the pendant under the overhead lighting so it glints symbolically in Adam’s eye. “It’s a good thing I’m not, hm?  I’d be unstoppable.”

“We’d all be doomed, that’s for sure.” 

“Oh, absolutely. But world-domination aside, everyone knows the devil wears Prada, not Gucci. Get it together, Prendergast.” 

The clicking of dress shoes against the marble steps alert Harry to Koffman’s return before his sputtering heartbeat does, and the vampire turns his head just in time to see him descend down the spiral staircase. 

“Good news, Mr. Styles!” He beams at Harry as he steps off the last platform, nearly tripping over his feet in his effort to get to his client. “I was able to talk to the girls, rearrange some appointments, and we’ll be able to do a final fitting for you.”

“That’s wonderful t’hear, Mr. Koffman.” Harry tucks his cross back beneath his shirt with a pleased grin, catching Adam’s eye over the mortal’s shoulder. “I wasn’t fancying the drive to Rodeo.”

“I wouldn’t either, sir.” Koffman nods solemnly, gesturing to the stairs with a stubby hand. “But we’re always glad to make accommodations for you here.”

And isn’t that the truth, Harry thinks as he makes his way upstairs, Adam hot on his heels as Koffman leads the two of them to the alterations department.  Part of the reason why Gucci— and this location, if Harry’s honest— holds such a place in his unbeating heart is because it reminds him of an era long gone.  When Harry steps through the gold archways of the store, he instantly transforms into a person worth noting, and is waited on as if he were a lord in Victorian England who was set to inherit twenty thousand pounds.  Now, of course, Harry could drop the equivalent of twenty thousand pounds in one shopping trip, but it was a large sum of money back then, when Harry could only dream of such wealth. 

Now, the immortal’s reality involves him being waited on the moment he enters the alteration department, with one attendant handing him a glass of champagne as another shows him a display of accessories to match his custom suit, which hangs proudly inside a garment bag on the wall.  Adam, for all his eyerolls, still accepts the complimentary champagne and appraises the accessories right along with Harry, who gets a chance to roll his own eyes as an attendant named Mara convinces him to try on a platinum watch.

“Would you like to try one as well, Mr. Styles?” The other attendant, Blair— Harry’s favourite consultant at the store, truth be told— bats her eyes at him as she taps a finger over the Rolex already adorning Harry’s wrist. “Could be nice to switch it up, no?”

Harry offers a polite smile as he readjusts the band of the watch on his arm, tutting in reply. “I’m afraid I’m rather attached to the Rolex brand for my watches, Blair.” He sighs before nodding his head at Adam, who’s become enamoured with the platinum band on his wrist. “Best to focus your energy on that one, I think.  He’ll make you some easy commission.”

“It’s not about commission, Mr. Styles, it’s about finding you something you’ll love.” Blair pouts as she leads him behind the dressing room curtain, her lithe fingers unzipping the garment bag covering his suit with one swift motion. “I thought you’d know me well enough by now to know you’re much more than commission to me.”

The smile on Harry’s face only falters for one second, the flicker going unnoticed by the employee as she carefully removes the suit from the bag.  The last time Harry had been here for a fitting, she hadn’t been working— he remembers because the new attendant they’d sent to deal with him had nearly zipped his suit into the garment bag when the fitting was over.  It had been Blair, however, who had originally measured him for the suit, and Harry remembers her wandering fingers that paused at his inseam a moment longer than needed, how she had showered Harry with praise as he modeled the sample suit.  It had done him good then as he strutted around the alterations department, flexing underneath the chandelier light as she’d complimented his every pose, but that had been nearly two months ago.  Moreover, it had been two brunches, four dinners, three walks, and an antiquing trip ago.  A lifetime ago, really.

“That’s very kind of you, Blair.” Harry finally manages to respond, his fingers pausing at the buttons of his shirt as she hangs the separate parts of the suit on their own hangers. “I’d trust no one else with a suit this expensive, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” A light giggle escapes the girl as she hangs the jacket on the wall, stepping back and admiring the pieces with a keen eye. “I’m glad you decided to go with the light grey fabric; it’ll compliment your eyes so nicely.” When she turns back around, Harry doesn’t miss how the same keen eye skirts over the half unbuttoned fabric covering his torso. “I’ll give you a moment to slip everything on.  If you need anything…” The girl tugs the curtain back just enough to let herself out, her pink lips tugging into a simper. “Just call for me.”

Harry’s smile grows tighter as the curtain closes behind her, and disappears the moment he’s out of her sight.  He’d forgotten, really, the effect he has on most mortals.  It had been something he’d paid close attention to before, delighting in how they all unknowingly stroked his ego as their jaws dropped whenever he’d walked by.  In a way, it’s nice to know that he’s still capable of that— he’s still a narcissist, after all— but it’s a little less satisfying when he’s grown so used to that careful attention from Y/N.  When it comes to stroking, he thinks shrewdly, a smirk slowly crawling onto his face as he strips out of the rest of his clothes, there’s no one better than her. 

Once he’s stripped completely, he dresses in the custom suit, pulling the crisp fabric along his muscled limbs and tugging it into place.  He starts with the silk black shirt, slipping his arms into the sleeves and buttoning the two sides together, excluding the top three holes.  After that, he steps into the grey trousers, tucking the shirt in and taking a moment to admire the black stripe that runs down the inseam of the pants, which— to Blair’s credit— hug his thighs perfectly.  Once he’s satisfied with the lay of the article, he slips the suit jacket overtop, adjusting the sleeves over the dress shirt as he fiddles with the cuffs.

“Now, don’t worry about the cufflinks with the suit, Mr. Styles,” Blair calls through the curtain, her voice grating across Harry’s admiration with an irritating cadence as she seems to predict his need. “They’re just some samples given by the store.  I’ve personally selected some more appropriate pairs that match your style much better.”

When Harry tugs back the curtain, Adam has shifted himself to the plush velvet couch in the middle of the room, his champagne glass already refilled as he slouches back against the cushions.  Mara, it seems, has disappeared from the fitting room, but Blair is standing just to the side, next to a table lined with gold accessories for Harry to try.

“Well?” Harry asks, stepping to the platform that sits in front of the mirrored wall, his jeweled hands tugging at the starched lapel of the jacket.  He regards himself in the mirror for a moment, admiring the fit across his sturdy shoulders, before rotating around to face the vampire and mortal. “What do you think, Adam?”

Adam takes a long sip of his champagne, mulling over his reply for so long that it sparks irritation in Harry’s stomach, which is only soothed by his long awaited comment. “It looks good.” He nods, squinting his eyes as he tilts his head to the side. “A little plain, compared to what you normally wear, but it’s nice.”

“I don’t know if it’s proper to call this plain.” Blair scoffs, looping the tape measure in her hands around her neck as she approaches Harry, her heels clicking against the lacquered floor. “Mr. Styles usually has a preference for something more patterned, true, but there’s something to be said for a sleek, simple suit.” Harry watches the way her eyes flicker down his body, pausing at his inseam with a look that’s less than professional. “And that black stripe along the inside of the pant certainly...draws the eye, does it not?”

Although her words are laced with implications, Harry directs a smirk at Adam as he rakes a hand through his curled locks. “It’s alright, Blair.  Adam’s right, it is a little plain compared to what I normally wear, but every man needs a nicely tailored formal suit in his closet.”

“Exactly.” Blair nods in earnest response as she begins to circle Harry, her detail oriented eyes sweeping over every aspect of the suit.  In the reflection of the mirror, Harry catches the way her eyes settle over the fit of his backside, her heartbeat increasing for just a moment until Harry clears his throat.

“The cufflinks, love?” Harry prompts, raising his arms as he begins to fiddle with the cuffs. “These sample ones are horrid.  You said something about gold…?”

The attendant snaps from her objectifying stupor, her eyes meeting Harry’s in the mirror as a light blush settles over her cheeks. “Yes, I, um, picked some out for you here.” Her heels click again as she retrieves the velvet lined tray that’s studded with jewelry, bringing it to Harry for him to examine. “We have a few variations of the Gucci logo— interlocking G’s, some embossed onto gold coins— but I think this pair we just got in might be to your liking.”

Harry reaches for the cufflinks Blair points to, pinching one between his fingers and lifting it close to his eye to examine it.  It’s a pair of interlocking G’s, but instead of a smooth finish similar to the other pairs before him, these have textured engravings all around the letters.  It takes Harry a moment to realize that the engravings are scales, and the G’s are actually—

“They’re engraved to look like snakes, with black Swarovski crystal eyes.” Blair begins her infomercial-like spiel, holding up the other cufflink for her own examination. “They’re 18K gold with an aged finish, and the attention to detail is just extraordinary.  Even the back is engraved with an Arabesque motif.” She twists the cufflink around in her fingers as Harry does the same, examining the engraving with an approving nod.

“They’re lovely.” Harry murmurs, wrapping his fist around the cufflink to secure it before removing the sample cufflink from his own sleeve.  With one swift motion, he’s swapped one piece of gold hardware for another, fiddling with the fit of the sleeve as he sets the new cufflink amongst the fabric. “S’a nice fit, I think.”

“It’s a wonderful fit.” Before he can reach for the other cufflink, Blair snags his sleeve in her grasp, replacing the sample in a motion nearly as swift as Harry’s. “Beautiful, really.  It’s such an understated suit, which works to its advantage, but the pop of gold on the cuffs will really make everything stand out so much more.”

Harry nods seriously, a pensive look on his face as he examines the sleeves once more before raising his arms. “What d’you think, Adam?  Look alright?”

Adam offers a passive nod as he becomes distracted by the rack of watches again, his fingers draping over another platinum band. “Looks good, man.  But you know that.”

“I know.” Harry flashes a blinding smile at his friend, dropping one emerald eye into a wink as he fiddles with the cufflinks. “But I like hearing you say it.”

“It really is a perfect fit, Mr. Styles.” Blair nearly coos the words as she circles him again, her careful fingers tugging and adjusting the lines of the suit just enough that it can be considered appropriate for her job.  “Gorgeous.  The best we’ve done, I think.” Her fingers dance over his lapel as she adjusts the fall of his open neckline, and a flash of warning ignites in Harry’s stomach as her skin grazes the ink of Harry’s chest. “But the suit is only doing half the work, you know.  The rest is all—” Her touch travels up the lapel and across his shoulder, her body taking a step behind his own as her touch settles on the nape of his neck. “You.”

Although her skin barely brushes the back of his neck, the pin-prick touch bursts into a shudder that paralyzes Harry’s entire body, tensing his every limb.  When it releases, his frame spasms one single time in reflex, yanking itself away from the human’s touch.

The shudder doesn’t go unnoticed by Blair or Adam, although each has their own response based on what they know of Harry.  As his jade eyes harden to stone, Harry catches the cautious movements of Adam, who is slowly pulling himself into a tense and careful posture in the corner of Harry’s eye.  Blair, on the other hand, is merely frozen with her hand still hanging in midair, a confused and bewildered expression painted onto her features.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Styles?” She questions, her self-preservation betraying her as she takes another step forward with her outstretched fingers once again reaching for Harry’s shoulder. “Is something in the suit bothering you?”

Harry gives a rough shake of his head as he leans back from her touch once again, forcing himself to take a deep breath through his nose to collect himself.  When he speaks, his voice is low, raspy, and filled with a quiet fury that exceeds the intensity that would accompany a scream. “I think I’ve mentioned before,” He enunciates each word clearly, his delivery cold in every aspect. “I prefer not to be touched there.”

Despite the tense undercurrent of Harry’s voice, Blair’s expression relaxes once she realizes the cause of it. “My apologies.  I was just trying to adjust the fit.” When she places her hand on Harry’s elbow and tugs at the sleeve, her brow creases at the taut joint, but her voice remains as smooth and slick as ever. “I’ll make sure to keep my hands to myself— or at least, wait for your direction on where to put them.”

The smile that curves over her lips begins to fall as Harry’s face stays as stony as ever, his own mouth dragged down into a frown as the implications of her words settle around him.  Part of him wants to snap right there, to give into the instinct to bare his teeth, swell his chest, and show this emboldened employee what she’s really touching, but Adam’s eyes over her shoulder urge him not to. 

His friend knows how sensitive Harry can get when his guard is at full throttle, especially when that issue stems from anything vaguely related to that particularly haunted place the young woman had carelessly touched. Watch it, Adam’s gaze seems to say as he shakes his head just enough for Harry to notice.  It was an accident. You’re fine. 

Harry inhales deeply once again, grounding himself in his human persona with each rise and fall of his chest. “That would be wise, I think.” He finally responds, straightening his back and turning to face himself in the mirror once again. “Just be a bit more careful.”

It seems that Blair has finally gotten the hint, because every touch of her fingers over him for the rest of the fitting is calculated and precise.  Her hands do drift a little further on his body than what’s necessary, but she makes sure she doesn’t graze against his icy bare skin again.  What Harry finds most curious, however, is that every swipe of her fingers against the fabric grates on what seems to be his last nerve.

They’ve played this cat and mouse game before, always teasing, always touching, and just barely staying out of reach.  But it seems Harry has gotten too lax in his ways, he thinks, as his cold eyes watch the movements of the girl in the mirror, because she’s never been this blatant before, especially in front of another customer.  Does she actually think something could happen between the two of them?  Does she really believe that Harry would drag her behind the curtained partition, meticulously remove the suit he’s just paid thousands for, and trace his own fingers over her supple flesh as if he’s fitting her for himself?

The thought nearly pulls a ridiculing laugh from Harry’s chest, but that laugh is replaced with a pondering thought that irks Harry the moment it flickers into his mind.  He could do that, yes.  He’s certainly done worse, and Blair can probably sense that.  If Harry were in her position, of being the mouse that believes it’s the cat, he would probably think that something was going to come out of all their chasing eventually.  And why hasn’t it?

The answer, of course, comes to Harry a moment after the question does.  Even though Blair is, by society’s standards, objectively attractive, and obviously willing to follow any direction he gives her, Harry is smart enough to not draw attention to himself by hooking up and feeding from a consultant that works at his favourite store.  It had been Niall, he thinks, who summed up a simple yet effective rule wonderfully for him once: Don’t shit where you eat.  Plain and simple.  

But there’s a second answer that grinds at the back of Harry’s mind, festering inside every thought as Blair makes final adjustments, blathers on about accessories and additions, and tries to raise her commission by once again showing Harry watches.  Harry doesn’t want Blair, because Harry has Y/N.  Being touched by Blair feels wrong because Harry’s so used to being touched by Y/N.  And Blair grazing over his neck bothered him so much because he can, apparently, only stand someone’s fingers grazing there if Y/N is the one doing it.

And perhaps festering isn’t the right word, Harry muses, because the warmth that’s spreading through him with that realization feels a lot more like blossoming than anything else.  It flowers within him, lavender weaving through every limb, letting him know that maybe— just maybe— he’s not as selfish as he thinks.  He could be a complete monster, and fabricate a relationship for Y/N while still pursuing other people, but he has, at the very least, one shred of decency hidden within him.  Although he indulges his base desires whenever he’s with her, he at least has the power to resist one of them.

With that in mind, Harry finds it easier to pay less mind to Blair’s lingering touches and sly compliments, and instead focuses on cherry-picking the suggestions he wants to take from her.

“Y’think I should change the shoes, then?” Harry steps down from the platform, drifting closer to the full length mirrors to examine the black leather loafers adorning his feet. “Something more colourful?”

“Not necessarily colourful, no— after all, we’ve worked hard to create a cohesive look.  We wouldn’t want to interrupt that with a sudden burst of fuschia.” Blair laughs once, brushing her hair behind her ears as she hums in consideration. “But something with a bit of gold, maybe?  To match the cufflinks?  We could add some gold hardware to those loafers, or just find a new pair for you…”

“New is always better.” Adam chimes in from the couch, tilting his half full glass to Harry with a wry smile. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Styles?”

Harry points a ringed finger at him, winking once in confirmation. “Right you are, Mr. Prendergast.” He begins scanning the room, his eyes catching every pair of shoes displayed and comparing them in his mind. “Do you have some selections we could look at, Blair?”

“If you give me a few moments, I could certainly run to the back and pull some—”

As Harry’s keen eyes settle onto a pair of boots on display in the corner of the room, he raises a hand, cutting the girl off in one swift motion. “That may not be necessary.” He murmurs, walking over to the pedestal and examining the newest object of his fascination.

The boots are made of matte leather with polished snakeskin over the toes of the shoes, both fabrics shining the darkest black Harry has ever seen.  The leg of the boot is relatively short, and would probably only come to Harry’s ankle, with a black heel that would add an inch or two to Harry’s already tall frame.  But the pièce de résistance that draws Harry’s eye the moment he sees them are the embroidered gold dragons that adorn the outer sides of each boot, their bodies coiled in such a way that Harry almost swears he can see them breathing. 

He slides one finger around the toe of the boot, nearly shivering in how pleasurable the silky surface feels against his skin. “How much?” He mumbles the phrase with a reverent look in his eyes, his voice as delicate as his touch.

Blair’s smile twists into one of apology as words Harry has never heard from her before fall from her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Styles, but those are actually a custom order for another client.  They’re not for sale.”

Harry hums low in his throat, his fingertips dancing over the gold embroidery. “I’ll add another thousand onto whatever they’re paying.” He says, earning a breath of hesitation from Blair and a sigh of exhaustion from Adam.

“Christ, Harry,” The latter groans, rubbing his eyes in a frustrated manner at Harry’s familiar antics. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re bad at sharing?  Did you skip that part of kindergarten?”

“Kindergarten wasn’t really a thing where I grew up.” Harry reminds his friend, shrugging indifferently before turning his attention back to the torn consultant. “So?  Another thousand?  I think that adds on quite a nice percentage of commission for you, doesn’t it?”

“I— Mr. Styles, I’m not really sure if—” Blair stutters over her words as she quickly strides over to him, the clicking of her heels against the marble floor punctuating each pound of her heart in her chest. “I don’t really think we can do that.”

A short laugh echoes from Harry’s ruby lips as a grin dimples his cheeks, the humour of her words apparent only to him. “You know I don’t take no for an answer, Blair.” He raises his eyes to hers and locks their gazes, lowering his voice to a smooth and convincing octave, pupils dilating as supernatural magic flows into his irises.  When her own eyes respond the same, her face falling slack for just a moment, Harry knows he’s alright to continue. “You didn’t answer my question.  How much?”

“Just under four thousand.” The consultant replies immediately as the compulsion settles into her brain. “They would be around five if you wanted to add on the thousand you mentioned before.”

The smile on his face twists into something more conceited, and Harry steps back from the boots with a satisfied sigh. “I’ll take them, then.” Confidence weaves itself through his voice as he meticulously removes the suit jacket from his body. “Call Mara to wrap them up, won’t you?  While I’m changing, I’ll need you to start pulling some more selections for me.”

Blair blinks the compulsion from her eyes as Harry’s stare dips from hers, her tone thick with confusion as she sleepily takes the jacket from Harry’s hands. “More selections, Mr. Styles?  Of what?”

“Yeah, Harry.” Adam’s words are tinged with trepidation as he subtly checks the time on the watch now hanging off his wrist. “Of what?”

“Cocktail dresses, I think.  Although I’m not opposed to a cute little romper, as long as it has a bit of sparkle and shows off some leg.” Harry says thoughtfully, rubbing over his pillowy lips as he ponders the thought. “But I think a cocktail dress would work best.  Black, maybe.  To keep it classy, but not too classy.” He says, shooting a wicked grin at Blair. “I’d like to see a bit of skin.”

“I’m— I’m sorry,” The befuddlement in the human girl’s voice finally begins to clear up, leaving curiosity-tinged jealousy in its place. “What sort of event is this outfit for?”

Harry’s loafers echo around the marble room as he makes his way back to the changing area, a plan already forming in his head as he speaks. “A dinner.  Semi-formal, so no floor length gowns or anything like that.  Maybe bring some matching heels as well, although...” Harry pauses with the changing curtain clutched tight in his hand. “I think a quick trip to Christian Louboutin down the street may yield better results in that department.”

“Quick trip,” Adam quotes scornfully, downing the rest of his champagne and setting the glass down on the gold side table with a groan. “That’s what this was supposed to be, H, and we’ve been here for an hour!  We were supposed to pick up your suit, and then head back to Niall’s for the barbecue—”

“So text Niall and tell him we’re running behind; he certainly has no problem doing that to us.” A snort sounds deep in Harry’s throat as Blair walks to the ornate desk in the back of the room and picks up the gold-plated rotary phone, dialing a short number with practiced speed. “And, with the amount of times he’s complained to me about my lack of punctuality, he should be used to it by now.”

The other vampire rolls his eyes again, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers with a groan. “Fine.” He relents, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “But you’re buying me this watch as payment.” 

“Fine.” Harry shrugs as he echoes the word, his voice casual and without a care as he slips behind the curtain and finishes undressing.  

Once he’s hung the suit back up on its hangers and redressed in his normal clothing, he retracts the plush curtain once more to find an annoyed Adam hanging up the phone, his newly purchased boots gone from the pedestal, and the heavy gold accessories that had been picked out for Harry being swapped for finer and daintier pieces.

Harry begins to examine the gold chains, humming in thought over the delicate pendants that swing from them. “How’d Niall take it?” He tosses the question to Adam over his shoulder, not particularly concerned about the answer.

“He told me to call you a wanker and rip off your ear, so,” Adam tucks his phone back into his pocket, shaking his head at the Irishman’s harsh words. “About as well as you’d expect.”

Another hum vibrates through Harry’s throat as he sets a mental note to make amends with his friend at a later date. “So do you want to rip off my right ear, or my left?  I have to admit, my left is my prettier ear, so I’d be appreciative if you left that one alone.”

The laugh that leaves Adam is so genuine that Harry knows he can’t be too annoyed at him.  When his friend joins him in overlooking the jewelry, Harry offers him an airy smile in return, pointing out a detail in one of the pendants to Adam’s interested gaze.

“Explain something to me.” Adam starts after a moment, his own hands grazing over a diamond bracelet. “Why go to all this trouble?  A dress, shoes, accessories… what’s the point?”

If it were any of his other friends asking the question, Harry would take a defensive response, spouting off a justified reply about how he looks so good in the suit that it needs to be seen, and that he can’t wear it and have Y/N not match him in clothing that’s sufficiently up to par.  But Adam’s eyes, albeit frustrated at times, have always been kind, and contain a depth of clarity that Harry can’t resist. He’s always been the most level-headed of the group, second only to Mitch, so the monster always feels safe trusting him with his innermost thoughts. 

“S’nice, I suppose.” Harry replies with as casual a tone as he can allow, lifting his shoulder as the sound of a rolling cart heavy with clothing pricks his ears from down the hall. “I’m taking something from Y/N, so… it makes me feel nice to give her something in return, y’know?  Makes me feel a little less guilty, at least, if she’s having a good time.”

Although Adam’s eyebrows raise at the mention of guilt, he makes no other comment on the surprisingly candid confession from his friend. “I get that.” He says slowly, settling down the gold necklace in his hand with a gentle touch. “I’m surprised you get it, but I get it.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry huffs as Blair rounds the corner and enters the room with a rack laden with black garment bags. “Don’t tell Niall I said that, alright?  He’ll never let me hear the end of it, and if he thinks I’m going soft— which I’m not—” Harry tacks on quickly. “He’ll start trying to fuck with me, and then I’ll have to rip off his ear, and it’ll be a whole thing.”

“My lips are sealed, man.” Adam laughs, gesturing over his shoulder to the clothing cart. “Shall we pick a dress for the lucky lady, then?”

A smirk paints its way onto Harry’s face. “Mhmm.  As long as you’re the one modeling it.”

///

A package arrives the next afternoon.

Like any Saturday when she isn’t working or with Harry, Y/N is home alone, trying to unwind from the previous week’s trials and tribulations.  Although she’s worked customer service jobs at home, working a customer service job in Los Angeles is a whole other demon, and she finds herself more exhausted than she’s ever been more often than she’s not.  It’s probably a good thing, she muses to herself over a cup of tea and her new copy of Sense and Sensibility, that she doesn’t have many friends in L.A., because she wouldn’t have the energy to go out with them anyways.  And honestly, she prefers it that way.  She’s learned to get along with her coworkers enough at her job that she doesn’t feel isolated, and sees Harry enough outside of work that she feels she has a shred of something resembling a social life.  Her quiet afternoons at home by herself are really a godsend, in a way.  They give her an opportunity to recharge to be present enough for social interactions during the week.  Being lonely can be a challenge, yes, but being alone is an entirely different thing, and it’s something that Y/N quite enjoys.

Which is why she’s so confused when her doorbell rings at 2:13 P.M. on a Saturday afternoon.

The moment the sound pricks her ears, Y/N pauses her reading, setting her book down on her lap as she sends a confused look towards the front door.  Her eyes slide to her phone next to her, tapping the screen to make sure she hasn’t missed any messages from anyone.  Harry, surely, would at least text her before showing up unplanned, wouldn’t he?

When her phone screen is found to be predictably blank, and the doorbell rings again, Y/N stumbles her way from her couch to the front door, her chain clanging against the frame as she unlocks it and pulls the door open.

A man she doesn’t know raises an eyebrow at her as she looks up at him, and a spark of fear flickers in her stomach before she realizes he’s wearing a UPS uniform and holding a large brown package in his hands.

“Are you Miss Y/N Y/L/N?” He asks, glancing down at the tablet in his hands. 

“Uh— yeah.  Yes, I am.” Y/N replies slowly, tugging the patchwork cardigan she’d stolen from Harry around her frame. “Hi?”

The UPS delivery man gives her a quizzical look. “Hi.” He repeats back to her in a monotone voice, extending the tablet in his hand. “Sign here, please.”

The urge to argue that she wasn’t expecting anything bubbles up in Y/N’s throat, but she tamps it down as she accepts the tablet, using the pen attached to the device to sign her name.  It’s probably from her mother, she thinks, scrawling her signature quickly before handing the tablet back.  Even though L.A. is famously a city without seasons, her mother has probably knit her two new blankets for the winter months, or sweaters, or some other woolen article of clothing that Y/N will have no use for.

The UPS delivery man swaps the tablet in her hand for the package in his, barely sparing Y/N another glance before retreating back down her hallway.  

“Um, thank you!” Y/N calls after him, shifting the surprisingly heavy package in her palms as she nudges the door shut with her socked foot.  

She carries the box to her living room, setting it down on her coffee table before pausing for a moment to double back and relock her front door (although she’s adjusted to living alone, the fear that’s been implanted in her from a young age about living in a big city still has a hold on her).

The box, she discovers upon further examination, has no return address, but it does sound like there’s multiple items inside when shaken.  And then Y/N remembers that she’s an adult, and should probably not be shaking a box when she doesn’t know what sits inside, so she sits back on her couch with a confused pout— until she once again remembers that she’s an adult, and can open a package addressed to herself.

It takes a moment of struggling to tear off the thick tape lining the seam of the box— a moment which would probably have been shorter if Y/N had retrieved a knife from the kitchen, truth be told— but the opening of the package makes the contents no more clear.  When she pulls back the top of the box, she finds sheets of packing tissue paper, which she tosses onto her living room floor without care to reveal the surprises inside.

And what a surprise the black and white box with Gucci stamped on top is.  Nearly as much a surprise as the second larger black and white Gucci box underneath, or the red and black box next to it labeled Christian Louboutin.

Y/N’s not quite sure how long she sits there staring at the packages in shock, but when she finally manages to unfreeze her limbs to take a sip of her tea, the liquid is considerably colder than it had been when she set it down to open the door.  The packages are so unexpected that it takes her a moment to realize that designer boxes typically contain designer items inside them, and maybe unpacking those will bring her greater insight into what the fuck is happening right now.

Of course, that’s not the case.  

Beginning with the smaller Gucci box, Y/N carefully extracts it from the brown container and sets it on her lap, untying the black ribbon encircling it as if she were dismantling a bomb.  When she lifts off the lid to find a matte black leather clutch purse with a gold Gucci emblem as the clasp, she almost thinks that a bomb would be preferable, because surely, there’s been a mistake.  Y/N certainly hasn’t purchased a Gucci clutch for herself, so it’s entirely likely that this was a gift for someone else, and the UPS man had just gotten the address wrong.  Yes, she thinks to herself, ghosting her fingers over the supple leather in shock, that must be it.  It’s a mistake.  And because it’s a mistake, she should back this all up and call UPS to have them fix it.

And then she remembers the UPS man had said her name, and that’s enough motivation to open the Christian Louboutin box next.

Based on the brand, Y/N suspected that the box would reveal a pair of shoes.  It’s still a shock, however, when she finds a pair of black satin heels that shine even in the low light of her apartment, with a satin ribbon death trap of an ankle tie, and signature red lacquered bottoms.

By the time Y/N reaches the third box, she’s moving on autopilot, her fingers robotically untying the black ribbon and lifting the lid without her instructing herself to do so.  The only words she can manage upon seeing the black cocktail dress is a gentle but emotive “What the fuck?”

The dress, she finds as she cautiously lifts it from the box, is made of satin, and is nothing she would ever purchase for herself in a million years.  The neckline dips into a low V, supported by off the shoulder cuffs, and Y/N can already tell by the cut of the fabric that if she were to slip it onto her body, the knee length dress would cling to her form.  And— Y/N shifts the dress into the light as her eyes widen in shock— as if that weren’t enough, there’s a leg slit that runs so high that Y/N flushes at the mere thought of her thigh peaking through.

It’s that detail, coupled with the suspicion that a single item of the package— let alone all three together— costs more than her rent that leads Y/N to the realization that only one person she knows could have sent all of this.

Folding the dress carefully back in the box and setting it to the side, Y/N fumbles to retrieve her phone from where she had left it earlier.  After unlocking it, she flips to her contacts and clicks on the familiar name, raising the device to her ear with a slow motion.

The phone rings four times before Harry’s voicemail crackles through the speaker. “Hi, you’ve reached Harry.  I can’t talk right now, but if you leave a message at the beep, I’ll try to get back to you.” There’s a moment of hesitation in the recording, and Y/N almost thinks she’s missed the beep before Harry’s accented voice returns. “Unless you’re Niall.” 

The expected beep finally sounds, and Y/N swallows hard as she tries to find the words she needs. “Hey, Harry, it’s, um, it’s Y/N.  I just received your package— I mean, I think it’s from you, because I don’t know who else would send me a Gucci dress— which I can’t accept, by the way.  That’s why I’m calling.  So, um,” She sucks in a harsh breath to give pause to her rambling before continuing. “Just— just call me back, alright?  Thanks.”

While Harry is usually attentive to every call and message from Y/N, her voicemail receives no reply, nor does her second phone call, or her third, or the four texts she sends to Harry in between.  By five P.M., she’s given up on hearing back from Harry at all, and is nearly resolved to pack up the box again and march it to Harry’s apartment when his signature sharp rap echoes on her front door.

Despite her frustration at receiving no reply from him, there’s an air of relief running through Y/N as she tightens the cardigan around herself and strides to her front door.  She unlocks it quickly, her greeting already falling from her lips before the door is even open.

“You better have a good reason for ignoring me all afternoon, Harry, because I’ve been wracking my brain to figure out why—”

And then Y/N’s frantic eyes finally settle on the man before her, and the rest of her beration dies before it can leave her throat. 

Harry is leaning casually against her frame with his arms crossed over his broad chest, as usual, and he’s dressed in a grey suit that clings to his body in a way that is so attractive, Y/N didn’t even think it was possible for a man to look this utterly flawless.  The suit fabric looks soft to the touch, more luxurious than anything Y/N could ever dream of, and the black silk shirt that lies underneath looks even softer. The human tries to not let herself focus on the way the shirt is slightly unbuttoned, showing off the inked swallows that decorate Harry’s muscled chest, as well as his usual cross necklace.  However, letting her eyes drift lower proves to be a mistake, as her gaze is immediately drawn to the black stripe that runs down the inseam of Harry’s pant legs, highlighting the muscles of his thighs in a way that makes her mouth water.  Even his shoes, black leather boots embroidered with gold dragons, are attractive in a way that Y/N doesn’t understand.

“Hello, darling.” Harry’s charming voice and dimpled smile pull the girl’s eyes back to his face just in time to see his lips drop into a discouraged frown.

Although Harry is usually greatly fond of seeing Y/N clad in cozy clothes with her hair in a messy ponytail (especially when his own cardigan is part of the ensemble), the look isn’t necessarily welcome at the moment. Yes, she looks adorable in her pastel blue pajama pants with cartoon sheep scattered all over the fabric. And yes, she looks incredibly cute swaddled in an oversized The Nightmare Before Christmas tee along with his patchwork coat. However, given the premise of the plans he’s drawn for tonight, her outfit is far from appropriate. Especially because he’d expected her to be wearing the dress he’d bought her along with the heels and clutch, dishing out a sexy but classy aesthetic rather than the ever-present lonely couch potato one.

He gives her entire body a quick, judgmental sweep, brows cinching. “I— why aren’t you ready?”

The confusion bubbling in Y/N’s mind molds into indignation at his words, albeit a hint of bewilderment lingers. “Ready for what?” Y/N demands, crossing her arms over her chest as she stares at Harry expectantly. “I’ve been trying to call you all day about the dress, and you didn’t answer a single time, so I don’t know what—”

“The dress?” Harry’s brow draws together deeper, his easy going demeanor twisting to match Y/N’s within a moment. “Why were you calling about the dress?  Does it not fit?”

Y/N’s mouth gapes open at the question. “I haven’t tried it on, Harry, I—”

“What?  Why not?”

“Because I can’t accept it!” Y/N exclaims, the suffix of obviously unspoken between them. “It’s way too expensive by itself, let alone with the shoes and the purse!”

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Harry responds in a slow and careful voice. “Why don’t we step inside, love, and continue discussing this while you get ready, yeah?”

Y/N scoffs at the condescension in his voice, but does as he says, stepping back from the doorway and allowing Harry to walk inside before locking the door behind him. “Ready for what?” She demands again, following Harry’s path down the hallway to the living room. “You still haven’t told me!”

“Christ, Watson, I thought if I sent you a dress and heels, you’d figure it out!” Harry replies with a half-joking sigh, a degree of annoyance beginning to work its way into his tone as he touches the ribbon of one of the Gucci boxes. “You’re losing your touch, huh?”

“Okay, well, apparently I’m a little slow tonight, so fill me in, Sherlock.” Y/N matches Harry’s snippy remark with ease, pinching the bridge of her nose as her head begins to throb in irritation. “What’s going on?  What obvious clue have I missed?”

“I sent you the outfit for you to wear—”

“I figured that much out, thanks.”

Harry’s emerald eyes snap to hers in an exasperated flat glance before continuing. “—to dinner.  I made us a reservation at my favourite Italian place, and I thought that the dress and the shoes would be enough of a hint that I could keep the rest a surprise.” He gathers the ribbon with his fingers again, rubbing the fabric between them as his face drops its usual haughty front. “You really didn’t...you didn’t try it on?  Do you not like it?”

The disappointed hesitation threaded through Harry’s thick accent stops Y/N short, worming its way into her aggravated chest and leaving a spark of guilt behind. When she speaks again, her voice is dulled by genuine warmth, less sharp and pointed and more soothing and grateful. “I...I do like it.  It’s a lovely dress; a little more body-hugging than what I would’ve picked, truthfully, but it’s beautiful.” Y/N offers Harry a soft teasing smile before continuing. “I just...I can’t accept something so expensive from you.”

“Why not?” Harry’s brows re-furrow in sheer confusion as he drops the ribbon from his grip, turning to face her fully. “It’s just a dress, Y/N—”

“It’s a Gucci dress.  And purse.  And Louboutin shoes.” Y/N states with a disbelieving laugh, crossing her arms over her abdomen as she drops her gaze to the rug she’d picked out from IKEA. “It’s too much, Harry.  I know you meant well, but I can never...I could never pay you back for this, or give you something as nice, or…”

A disheartened pout tugs at the corner of Harry’s lips as he registers the mortal’s words.  It hadn’t occurred to him that his gift could be perceived negatively; he’d just thought she’d like it. He likes to think their friendship is in comfortable enough territory now that gifts wouldn't be a turnoff, especially because of how much more time they’ve been spending together outside of the bedroom. However, as he stands here now watching her hug herself in the living room of the tiny apartment she’d told him she was so proud to afford, he can see how wrong he’d been in that assumption.  Y/N is independent, and has been from the moment he met her.  A gift like this— so extravagant and expensive— could come off as him mocking her financial status, almost, even if it had originally been bought with good intentions.

Harry worries his bottom lip between his teeth as something that feels a lot like embarrassment begins to boil in his stomach.  She’ll feel like she owes him something, when that’s the farthest thing from the truth.  If anything, it’s long overdue payment for everything Harry has unknowingly taken from her.  

“I don’t care about that.” Voice dropping quieter, Harry takes a step forward, his cool fingers wiggling their way between hers and pulling her arm from her tummy.  Once her hand is within his grasp, he squeezes it gently, his thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles. He talks slowly, keeping his tone level and honest to communicate the real innocence behind his prestigious present. “I don’t need you to pay me back, and I don’t want you to feel bad.  The money thing— that’s not an issue for me.  And I understand if...it makes you uncomfortable…” His gaze flickers to the ground as well before meeting hers again. “I can take it back if you’d like, if it bothers you that much.  But I was hoping…” 

He rubs his finger over his cherry lips pensively, taking a moment to clear his throat before continuing. “Well.  The reservation is already made, I’m already dressed— and looking like a proper stud, if I may say so myself—” He laughs once in an attempt to lighten the mood, his eyes glued to Y/N’s face to see if she takes to the joke. He feels cool relief flood his veins when she scoffs slightly, the edges of her mouth ticking upwards humorously. “And you’ll match me so well in that dress that it’ll probably put me to shame, dove.”

Y/N glimpses up at him hesitantly, squeezing his fingers with a playful air. “You’re really good with words, y’know that?”

“I like to think I’m good at quite a few things.” Harry grins suggestively, cheekily squeezing her grasp right back. “And I hope I can add ‘getting you all dolled up and convincing you to come along to dinner with me’ to that list. So...what do you say?”

Y/N chews on her bottom lip as she mulls over the suggestion, her fingers grazing over the lionhead ring on Harry’s hand.  He has gone to a lot of trouble, she thinks, glancing over his appearance one more time.  His curls are carefully coiffed, his skin is practically glowing, his trusty cross necklace glints alluringly in the buttery lighting, alongside a small gold hoop on his pierced ear, and the way the suit fits over his body, hugging every flexing muscle and annunciating every hypnotizing curve… 

“What time is the reservation?” She finally asks, eyes flickering to the clock on her wall that reads ten after five.

Harry’s eyes follow hers. “Seven.” He says immediately, licking his lips once as he grips her hand in anticipation again. “We have plenty of time to make it, if— if you want to.”

It could’ve easily been the money Harry spent on the clothing that sways Y/N to say yes.  It could’ve been the humiliation of not realizing what he was planning and ruining his surprise.  But in reality, the thing that causes the next sentence to fall from Y/N’s mouth is the quiet weariness in Harry’s tone— a certain shyness that she hasn’t seen in him before, paired with a specific type of subtle raw hope that makes her heart absolutely melt.

“Alright.” She murmurs, nodding her head once as she draws away from his touch. “I’ll go shower, then, and get ready.  Are you alright waiting out here?”

A relieved smile jolts at the corner of Harry’s lips as he easily nods in return. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.  I’d offer to hop in with you, but…” He gestures to himself vaguely as his grin widens with conceited teasing, shrugging one shoulder offhandedly as if what he says next should be obvious. “We wouldn’t want to ruin perfection, now would we?”

The jesting response pulls an eye roll from the human girl. “Uh huh.” She snorts, snatching her phone from the coffee table as she begins to make her way to the bathroom. “I won’t be long.”

“Take all the time you need, sweetheart.” Harry calls after her, slipping his own phone from his pocket.  The click of the door lock pricks his ears, but he waits until he hears the shower running to unlock his device and dial the restaurant number.

“Bella Vita Ristorante, how many I help you?”

Harry exhales hard as he rubs a hand over his eyes, his head falling back to hang off his shoulders as his mind recalculates the evening’s plans, shifting things out of place to mold everything around this minor hiccup. He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, swallowing down the instinctive bothered bite threatening to elbow through. “May I speak to Vincenzo, please?”

“Yes, of course. Just a moment, please.” There’s a shuffling on the other end of the line, and Harry’s gaze slides to the Rolex on his wrist as he waits, not nearly as patient as he knows he should be.

“Hello?” A familiar rough Italian accent echoes through the phone speaker, followed by a light clearing of the person’s throat. “This is Vincenzo.”

“Ciao, Vincenzo, é Harry.” Hi, Vincenzo, it’s Harry. He answers in Italian on reflex, gliding his hand over his lips once more as he fights the urge to tug on his styled hair. “Come stai?” How are you?

Friendly excitement breaks into the man’s voice the second the vampire makes his identity known. “Signor Styles, sto bene, grazie! Non vedo l'ora di vedere te e la tua ospite stasera.” Mr. Styles, I’m well, thank you! I’m looking forward to seeing you and your guest tonight.

Harry glances at the bathroom door symbolically, exhaling curtly through his nose. His tone comes out apologetic and unsure. “Sì, chiamo di stasera.  Abbiamo riscontrato un piccolo problema.  C'è un modo per spingere la prenotazione da sei a sette?” Yes, I’m calling about tonight.  We ran into a little problem.  Is there any way we can push the reservation from six to seven?

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, and Harry waits with bated breath for Vincenzo’s reply. The waiter’s response flows through the phone with a rueful heaviness that makes the immortal’s stomach plummet. “Siamo molto impegnati stasera, Harry… È un sabato, dopotutto.” We’re very busy tonight, Harry… It’s a Saturday, after all.

A frustrated sigh falls from Harry’s lips as he scratches at the nape of his neck, once again itching to yank at his curls but forcing himself to refrain the impulse. “Lo so, Vincenzo, e mi dispiace chiederti il ​​favore, ma devo. Sai che te lo devo e ti lascio una generosa mancia.” I know, Vincenzo, and I’m sorry to ask you such a favour, but I have to.  You know I’ll owe you, and I’ll leave a generous tip.

When Vincenzo replies, the hesitation in his voice is gone, replaced by reassurance and familiar fondness. “No, no, Harry, non mi devi niente. Per te, non è un problema. Gli amici aiutano gli amici per gentilezza, lo sai. Mi assicurerò che il tuo tavolo sia pronto per le sette.” No, no, Harry, you don’t owe me anything.  For you, this is no problem.  Friends help friends out of kindness, you know that. I’ll make sure your table is ready for seven.

Harry heaves a grand sigh of relief, a wide smile cracking his face in half. His head swings forward as a light laugh falls from his ruby lips, all tension washing out of his strong shoulders in one swift wave. “Grazie mille. Ti devo, lo fare.” Thank you so much.  I owe you, I do.

His friend’s casual demeanor filters through the phone with a dismissive click of his tongue, and Harry can practically see the older man waving his hand passively. “Senza senso. Ci vediamo più tardi, sì?” Nonsense.  I will see you later, yes?

“Sì. Grazie ancora. Ciao, Vincenzo.” Yes.  Thank you again.  Goodbye, Vincenzo.

As Harry hangs up the phone, he feels a weight lift off his chest.  He knows that it wouldn’t have been a problem if Vincenzo had been unable to move the reservation; all it would’ve taken is a few words of persuasion at the host stand, and Harry would’ve been able to waltz right into the restaurant.  But Vincenzo has been kind to him— has been such a good friend, really— and Harry would hate to tarnish that relationship.

With the new reservation secured, Harry tucks his phone back into his suit pocket, turning his attention to the gifts he’d brought Y/N that are still in their boxes.  He removes the satin dress from its packaging, meticulously folding it over his arm as he snags the clutch and heels with his hands and carries them to Y/N’s room.

Harry nudges the door to the bedroom open with his foot, hesitating in the door frame as Y/N’s familiar honey and lavender scent fills his senses, and the vampire’s gaze slinks over a place he’s spent countless hours in as she’s slept soundly next to him.  There’s been a few changes, he observes— warm satisfaction begins to bloom in his chest when he sees the tapestry on the wall has been replaced with the framed Monet print from the antique mall, her half emptied overnight bag is lying on her chair still from her last overnight stay at his condo, and the comforter on her bed hasn’t been fixed back in its usual place.  Harry sets the Louboutins on the ground before tugging the comforter back into order, draping the dress onto the bed and smoothing the creases that formed.  After he lays the clutch down next to the dress, Harry steps back and admires his choices.  It was good that he’d gone with the black satin, he thinks, brushing a hand over the shining fabric with a fulfilled expression.  It’s simple, yet elegant, and matches him perfectly, which brings a flutter of pleasure to his dormant chest like nothing else.

With the dress sufficiently laid out, Harry turns on his heel to leave, and his quick movement blows an unfamiliar scent around the room.  Harry inhales deeply, wrinkling his nose in response to the thick fragrance of carnations and cedar that settle into his senses.  While cedar isn’t one of his favourite scents, he doesn’t usually mind it, but the overpowering presence of carnations nearly gags him, and Harry twists back around to find the source of the offensive stench.

It only takes a second for his eyes to settle on the cause, a new addition to Y/N’s bedroom that he hadn’t noticed when he first walked in.  He takes one stride across the small room to her bedside table, picking up the object with a gentle grip.

The picture frame is made entirely of glass, but has a decorative gold edge lining the small rectangle as both decoration and protection of delicate hands from sharp corners.  In the center of the frame is a photo of three girls dressed in navy blue caps and gowns with red and white sashes around their necks, their arms thrown around each other as their posture curves, and bright smiles on all of their faces.  Although she looks years younger, her hair is longer, and her eyes more naive, Harry recognizes Y/N on the left right away.  The identities of the other two girls, however, stump him.

Of course he wouldn’t recognize them on sight, as Harry has never met any of Y/N’s hometown friends, but his ruby lips drop into a frown when he realizes that he can’t even conjure a name for either of the girls.  No first initial, no general idea— just nothing.  They’re ghosts to him.

Harry traces a finger down the younger Y/N’s face, searching for any part of the woman he knows now in the girl who existed then.  The acne on her cheeks that she’s covered in makeup for the photo match the pattern of light scarring she has on her face, small marks that Harry’s traced in the dead of the night as he listens to her breathe.  Her eyes, while younger, do show a faint glimmer of that stubbornness that he’s been so prone to witnessing.  But it’s her smile, Harry realizes, that is the most different.  While the size and shape of it are the same, there’s a dullness to it that digs into his mind, scraping against his every perception of her.  This is around the time she’d have been with her ex, he remembers, dragging a finger down the edge of the frame.  But what else was life like for her there?  She had friends, obviously, friends who still care about her enough to send her this framed photo drenched in their carnation and cedar scent.  Life couldn’t have been all that bad.

He sets the framed photo back down on her bedside table, scanning the room with a keen eye more closely than he had before.  If he tore through every book on her wall of shelves, would he find any inscriptions written to her from a person in her past?  Notes that had been slipped between herself and others in high school science class, still pressed between yellowed pages as bookmarks?  What if he dug into her bedside table drawer?  Would he find more pictures, letters from those she’d left behind?  It’s strange to think that with all the time Harry has spent in this room, there’s still so many secrets buried within its four glossy walls.

Harry settles his gaze onto the silk dress once again, worrying his bottom lip between his sharp teeth as he does so.  Y/N had been worried that a Gucci dress wouldn’t be a good fit for her, and while Harry had thought she meant she couldn’t wear a designer brand, maybe she’d meant she didn’t want to.  Maybe her hesitation didn’t lie in just the cost of the outfit, but in her not wanting something so extravagant.

Sucking in a short breath through his teeth, Harry clears his mind of the thought.  Y/N wouldn’t have said yes if she didn’t want to, he assures himself, quickly adjusting the hem of the dress on the bed.  And besides, it’s just for a few hours.  She’ll be out of the dress soon enough, and into…

Harry turns back to her vanity, swiping the overnight bag from where he’d spotted it on the chair.  A pair of sweatpants already lies inside, but Harry still tugs open Y/N’s dresser and snags another pair, as well as a comfortable t-shirt for her to sleep in.  He packs two pairs of fresh panties as well, one high-waisted cotton and another a cheeky pretty lace (the latter is definitely for selfish reasons, if he’s being honest) along with Y/N’s favourite pair of fuzzy slipper socks, because he knows how her feet get cold on the tile of his kitchen floor in the mornings.  

The image in his head brings a smile to his face as he grabs a few hair ties from her vanity and throws them into the bag, along with her half empty bag of makeup removers.  She always gets a chill in the morning in general, so she normally emerges from his bedroom with one of his sweaters tugged around her tired body, half mumbling incoherently until Harry slides a cup of coffee into her hands.  In truth, sleeping next to his icy body probably does nothing to help the mortal, but Harry just tries to wrap her in an extra blanket to help remedy the situation.

Just as he’s tugging the zipper on the back shut, he hears the creak of the bathroom door, followed by the soft steps of Y/N’s feet against the runner rug down her hallway.  Harry straightens up just as the bedroom door is nudged open, and whatever sharp comment was on the tip of his tongue dies away as he sees Y/N.

She’s already done her hair, having styled it into soft curls that are pinned back from her face with two gold clasps on either side of her head, and if Harry were in a more comprehensive mindset, he’d be pleased that the gold will match the adornments on the clutch.  But Harry isn’t in a comprehensive mindset, due to the fact that Y/N’s body, still damp from her shower, is wrapped in only the smallest blue towel Harry has ever seen.

After Y/N shuts the door behind her, she turns around and sees Harry standing in her bedroom with a bag in his hand, and she clutches the towel tighter to her chest in surprise. “Harry—” Her heartbeat stutters as she locks eyes with the creature before her, her cheeks immediately flushing with heat. “What are you doing?  I said to wait in the living room!”

“I know.” He licks his lips slowly as his eyes flicker down her figure and back again, the bright emerald darkening to jade when he meets her gaze once more. “I was just laying out your outfit.  Although now that you’re here, wearing only that—” He gestures to the towel with his free hand as the edge of his lips curl. “Why don’t we just cut out the middleman and have a quick shag?”

Y/N scoffs in response, pushing her way past her lover to her dresser drawers. “I already showered, H, and I even put effort into my hair, so we have to go out.  Can’t waste it, y’know?” With her hand wrapped around the handle of her dresser, the human girl pauses, her gaze drifting curiously from Harry’s face to the bag clutched in his grasp. “What’s that?”

It takes a moment for Harry’s attention to turn from Y/N’s glistening cleavage to the object she’s nodding towards. “Oh, I— uh— I packed an overnight bag for you.” He clears his throat as he sets the bag on the bed, taking a step back from the item like it’s a ticking bomb. “It’s not— I’m not insinuating that you have to stay over if you don’t want to, of course. And you don’t have to use it, but I just thought that if you decided to, you’d want something comfy to sleep in.”

“How is it,” Y/N laughs softly, her curls bouncing as she shakes her head in disbelief. “That you can go from saying you want to fuck me to telling me you packed me an overnight bag, all in the span of one minute?”

Harry presses into the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he chuckles, dimples winking awake and eyes glimmering all at once. “S’easy, really, when you look like that.  It makes me horny—”

“Everything makes you horny.”

“—but I’m still a gentleman.”

A low hum echoes from Y/N’s throat as she opens her underwear drawer, surveilling the contents before she begins to rummage for what she’s looking for. “Alright then.  Would the gentleman be so kind as to step outside so I can finish getting ready?”

Y/N hears two quiet footsteps behind her before she can feel Harry’s cool breath on her neck, her damp skin prickling at the sensation.

“Do I really have to step outside?” He groans lowly as his lips graze the shell of Y/N’s ear temptingly, and she shivers when his teeth follow behind. “S’nothing I haven’t seen before.”

There’s a nagging temptation in the back of Y/N’s mind to twist around on her heel, drop her towel to the ground, give into Harry’s half-hypnotic seduction, and let him drag her back to her bed to take care of the heat that’s beginning to swell between her thighs.  But she knows she’s already pushing the seven P.M. deadline, and if she allows herself to take that detour, she’ll never make it on time.

“Yes.” She mumbles, suppressing a whine as Harry’s lips move to the pulse point on her neck, smudging open kisses down her heated skin. “I just need to do my makeup and get dressed, and then I’ll be ready to go.”

A disappointed sigh rustles across the shell of her ear. “Alright.” Harry murmurs defeatedly, smudging one last kiss to her jugular before stepping back from her intoxicating cloud of flowers and sugar that, if the burn in the back of his throat is any indication, is doubly intense from her shower. “I’ll just be outside then, doll.  Take your time.”

Y/N keeps her back to Harry, clutching her towel with a clenched hand until she hears the click of her bedroom door shutting behind him.  She knows that if she looks at him again, and sees that stupidly suggestive smirk on his face, she’d give him whatever he wants— which, considering she’s already trying to do that by going to this dinner, is a bit of a problem.  Once he’s gone, however, she’s free to heave an exhale of relief as she searches for the undergarments she’s pictured in her mind.

While Y/N was in the shower, she’d been trying to picture what she would wear with the expensive dress that Harry had purchased for her.  She only has one strapless bra— a nude coloured cotton contraption, which she’d purchased at a Target last minute for a dinner party a neighbour had thrown back home a few years ago— and she didn’t think that pairing the cheap article with a Gucci dress was going to work.  Some of her friends back home, however, had just mailed her a little care package earlier in the week, and one of the things they’d included was a strapless bustier with a note reading “Here’s to getting L.A.’d!” tucked inside.  They’d meant it as a joke, of course, but as Y/N extracts the lace garment from her drawer, she sends a silent thank you to her friends and their strangely omniscient humour.

Y/N releases her grip on her towel, drying the rest of the dampness from her body quickly before tossing the fabric over the back of her closet door.  After selecting a matching pair of black lace panties, Y/N slips the undergarments on, fidgeting with the bustier to get it to sit right.

A gentle knock echoes from the other side of her bedroom door just as she gets the clothing settled. “How’s it going in there, love?” Harry’s voice floats through the crack in the door, half muffled through the barrier. “Have you got the dress on yet?”

“Not yet,” Y/N calls back, sitting down at her vanity as she analytically surveys her makeup. “Patience is a virtue, Holmes, don’t you know that?”

On the other side of the door, Harry lets out a long sigh, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers along the inside of his elbow. “Yeah, well,” He leans his back against the door, sliding one ankle over the other as he lets the wood support his weight. “‘M not very virtuous, Watson.  I think you can attest to that.”

Harry glances over his shoulder at the wooden door, a smug smile peaking onto his lips as he hears the blood rush to Y/N’s cheeks from inside the room. “What?” He taunts, satisfaction laced into his accent. “Cat got your tongue?”

Pressing his head back against the wood to hear better, Harry is met with the sound of a makeup brush sweeping against Y/N’s silky skin, so quiet that human ears could never detect it.  He focuses his attention a little harder to try and picture the steps of her getting ready routine as she performs them. 

A rustling of fabric that sounds a lot like lace pricks his ears, taking his attention with it as Y/N grumbles a reply. “You’re such an ass.”

“Ah, nevermind, then.  Tongue’s still there, and as sharp as ever, I see.” Harry chuckles lowly as he listens to the nearly silent stroking of mascara over Y/N’s lashes.  

He likes that, he realizes, as he raises one hand from its crossed position to rub over his pillowy lips while he waits.  He likes hearing the muted sounds of Y/N getting ready— the bristling of makeup brushes against her skin, the hushed hums that leave her mouth as she debates over what colours to use on her eyelids, the muffled spritz of her perfume bottle against her neck.  The notes of poppies and vanilla mix with her natural scent of lavender and honey, and Harry’s eyelids flutter when the fragrance rolls under the door and envelops him completely.

It takes a harsh bite of his tongue and digging his fingernails into his clenched palms for Harry to restrain the moan fighting to break through his tightened jaw.  Months ago, when he first smelled Y/N in that club, he’d sworn that she smelled more delicious than any aroma he’d ever encountered, but now… Harry wants to laugh at the naivety of his past self, and probably would, if unclenching his jaw didn’t mean letting a growl fall from his throat.  Now, he’s convinced Y/N’s scent is an aphrodisiac created just for him.  All it takes is one small inhale, and his entire body responds.  Even now, as he presses his pounding head back against the panel, he can feel his mouth flooding with venom, his abdomen tightening, and a subtle throb beginning to bulge his—

“Harry?” Y/N’s voice breaks through the cloud of arousal dulling Harry’s senses. “Can you help me zip up the dress?”

The vampire swallows the excess venom in his mouth in an attempt to clear the lump in his throat. “Uh, yeah.” He replies, his voice strained as he struggles to regain control of himself.  He clutches the door handle in his icy hand, pushing the barrier open with restrained strength. “Yeah, I can.”

When he steps into the room, he expects to see Y/N facing the door, her hands clutching the loose dress to her chest the way she’d clutched her towel earlier.  For a moment, there’s a flicker of excitement in Harry’s belly that beats back the desire rolling around inside him.  He’s been waiting to see her in his dress for only a day, but it feels like an eternity, and he pastes a charming smile onto his face as he lifts his eyes to meet Y/N’s.

What he’s greeted with, however, is the smooth expanse of the girl’s exposed back, a clear line of tantalizing skin running from the nape of her neck to the curve just below her backside, only broken up by a thick band of black lace with satin ribbing.  

While he was able to control himself in the hallway, the inside of Y/N’s bedroom— with her mouthwatering scent surrounding him and her exposed skin in his line of sight— is an entirely different story.  Harry can feel the way his canopy green eyes darken, and it’s a good thing Y/N is facing the wall, or else she’d see the shards of crimson that he can’t stop from flitting across his irises.  With every step he takes towards the human, he becomes more aware of just how mortal she is— how her heart pounds louder with each passing moment, the shallowness of her breathing as he gets closer, the heat radiating off of every inch of her skin.  Even with his centuries of experience behind him, it’s nearly too much for Harry, whose every instinct is screaming at him to lock the door and ravage the girl in front of him in every way he can.

Harry doesn’t stop walking until the front of his chest brushes against Y/N’s back and his breath is hitting her neck.  He unhurriedly skims his palms over her bare shoulders, feeling the goosebumps that form underneath his icy touch as his hands run down her arms and back up again.

“This…” His voice is thick with desire as one hand travels down the trail of Y’N’s spine, eliciting a shiver from her before grazing the edge of the black lace. “This is new.  I haven’t seen this before.”

“I…” Y/N’s speech falters as she feels Harry’s freezing digits trail down the small of her back as his other hand continues to stroke across her shoulder, barely touching the base of her neck with each movement. “I got it from my friends back home.  They, um—” She sucks in a harsh breath as Harry’s hand inches its way towards her throat. “They sent me a package.”

Harry hums low in her ear, the sound vibrating throughout her body before settling in her warming tummy. “Did they?  How thoughtful.” With his palm finally at her neck, he squeezes it once, applying the slightest bit of pressure to her jugular as his lips brush against the top of her ear. “I should send them a thank you note.”

The feeling of Y/N swallowing beneath his grip sends another wave of desire crashing over Harry, and he bites back a low growl as the fingertips of his other hand find the golden Gucci emblem zipper at the back of her dress.  When he does, he tugs the metal tag up slowly, the sound of the zip barely audible over Y/N’s ragged breathing. 

“S’a shame, really.” Harry murmurs in her ear, letting his teeth graze her earlobe just hard enough to catch her breath. “A crying shame.”

“What—” Y/N’s heart pounds out of her chest as Harry squeezes her neck once more, applying just a smidge more pressure than he did previously. “What’s a shame?”

Harry’s lips trail down her jaw, smearing a single kiss along the dip where it curves to meet her neck. His fingers squeeze her one last time before releasing. “That this pretty little piece your friends sent you is going to end up ripped to shreds on my bedroom floor.” 

The blunt reply incites a squeak of surprise from Y/N as Harry tugs the zipper completely to the top of the dress, settling the seam flat against her flushed back before stepping away.

“Fits like a glove.” Harry murmurs as his hands return to his sides, fixing the fall of his own suit that was disturbed during his previous actions.  He raises a single finger and makes a twirling motion as he dimples a smirk the human girl can’t see. “Give me a twirl, will you, dove?”

Y/N inhales a deep breath as steadily as she can, using the moment to calm her racing pulse before turning around to face Harry with a flustered complexion. 

The dress, made of black satin, has a sweetheart neckline that sits off her shoulders, and hugs tight to the curves of her body all the way down to the hem, which sits just above her knees.  It could be considered conservative, really, if it weren’t for the leg slit running so far up her thigh that Y/N is a little worried about flashing her underwear every time she takes a step.

Harry, however, seems to share none of those concerns, as he hungrily drinks in the sight of her with a satisfied grin and lust swirling through his jade irises.  She’s kept her makeup fairly neutral, save for the bold red lipstick adorning her lips, and while Harry feels a prick of sadness at the realization that he’ll have difficulty kissing her throughout the evening, the idea of smearing said lipstick across her face afterwards erases the feeling completely.  And the dress… “Y’look so fucking gorgeous in that dress, angel.” He hums lowly, rubbing his thumb over his lionhead ring absentmindedly. “So much better than Adam did, and without all the complaining, too.”

Y/N stares at her lover with a blank expression “What—?”

“Does it feel alright?” Harry strides around the mortal girl, examining the fall of the fabric with a keen eye. “I took a guess on your size, though I think I did pretty well. I've licked every inch of your body to the point where I practically have it memorized, so it was relatively easy.” He gives her a cheeky grin as his hand grazes her waist. “But Gucci sizing can be a bit tricky.”

“It— yeah.  It feels alright.” Y/N tugs on the hem of the dress as she feels heat crackle across her ears, shooting him an accusing stare as she touches the thigh slit. “This is a little much, but other than that…”

“That’s my favourite detail, actually.” Harry laughs lightly as he walks to her bed, taking a seat on the edge before reaching for the Louboutin box. “But it’ll feel a lot more natural once you have the heels on.”

“Uh, yeah, about those…” Y/N eyes the offending shoes as Harry extracts them from the packaging, doubt painting itself all over her face. “Those look like six inch deathtraps, and I don’t really trust something that uses a ribbon to attach itself to my ankle, so I think I’ll take a raincheck on the heels.  I have some flats I can wear instead.”

Harry scoffs, a snort echoing from the back of his throat as he shakes his head. “You’ll be fine, love.  I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.  You may not trust the shoes, but you can trust me, can’t you?” He unravels the ribbon from one of the shoes and pats his knee expectantly. “C’mere.  I’ll make sure I tie them nice and tight, yeah?”

Y/N nearly chews on her bottom lip before she remembers the lipstick she’d carefully applied earlier. “Alright.” She relents, walking over and lifting her foot to rest on his bent knee. “But if I snap my ankle in half, you’re paying my hospital bill.”

“And I would do so gladly, except it won’t be necessary.” A quiet chuckle rolls out of Harry’s lips as he grips her calf gently, fitting her foot into the sole of the heel with one smooth motion.  Once it’s sitting nicely, Harry diligently wraps the satin ribbon around her ankle, stopping midway up her calf before tying it tightly into a neat bow. “See?  Nice and secure, darling.  You’ll be alright.”

Y/N’s cheeks boil as Harry presses a single kiss to the slope of her knee before setting her foot gently on the ground. “Next one, please.” He smiles up at her with a twinkle in his sea glass eyes.

That twinkle, however, darkens the moment Y/N hikes her other bare foot onto his knee, gripping his shoulder for support as she teeters on one heel.  The leg that she’s lifting is the side of the dress with the thigh slit, and she can tell from the expression on Harry’s face that he has quite the view.

Just like he did previously with the zipper, Harry takes his time slipping Y/N’s foot into the second stiletto.  He trails his fingers all the way up her calf and back down before reaching for the ribbon, and is more meticulous in his motions as he ties the satin around her calf.  

Y/N swivels on her other foot as she tightens her grip on Harry’s shoulders, fisting the fabric of his suit between her fingers. “Thanks, H.” She clears her throat as Harry’s cool hands keep their grip on her lower leg, massaging the muscle beneath his fingers with careful and concise motions. “That’s, um, that’s good, I think.”

Harry hums in response, letting her know he’s registered her words, but he doesn’t release her from his grip.  Instead, he bends at his hips, making sure that Y/N can still grasp him for support as he connects his lips to the smooth skin of her calf.

He smudges his mouth all along the area up to her knee, each kiss sloppy and open-mouthed as he inhales more and more of her intense fragrance.  His nose nudges along the tender and dimpled flesh of her thigh, her scent growing stronger the higher Harry gets, and it burns his aching throat with lust and thirst.  He can feel the heat radiating from her core, and he wants nothing more than to burrow his face between her legs and lose himself completely in her taste.  But he’s already come so far, and put so much work into this night; he can’t let it all go to waste because his self-control is particularly weak at this moment. 

With that in mind, he sucks in another long breath, sponging one last kiss to the top of Y/N’s kneecap. “Does it all fit nicely?” He asks, voice gravelly with desire as he squeezes her calf. “The dress, the shoes… is it all alright?”

“Y-Yeah.” Y/N whispers, releasing the fabric of Harry’s jacket before it creases, smoothing it with her palms. “It all fits good.”

“Mmm.  Perfect.” His lips twitch against her skin as he drags another searing breath into his lungs. “Anything I give you always fits so fucking good.”

Another flash of heat rises to Y/N’s cheeks, and she nods weakly in response, not trusting her ability to form words. A quiet hum is the only comprehensible noise she can manage. “Mhmm.” 

Harry straightens up the slightest bit, giving her an expectant look as he releases the grip of one hand on her calf to lightly touch the shell of his pierced ear. “Sorry, pet.  Didn’t hear you quite clearly.” He says, his voice taking on a sterner tone. “Did you agree?”

Although embarrassment begins to crawl up Y/N’s spine, it quickly mixes with irritation.  She knows what he’s getting at, and she can’t afford to let herself give in. “Yeah.” She mumbles, keeping her response as short as she can.

Despite the edge beginning to creep into Y/N’s voice, Harry can’t stop himself from pressing the matter.  He never can, really, when he’s in a mood like this.  When his mouth is filled with venom, when his head is throbbing so much that he can hear a steady drumbeat vibrating through his skull.  He can’t stop.

“M’gonna need to hear you say it, I’m afraid.” He raises his ringed hand to the human girl’s chin, gripping it between his thumb and forefinger as he regards her with a firm and conceited gaze. “Speak up, minx.  I know you have no issue with being loud.”

All it takes is that one reminder for all of Y/N’s resolve to fall away, her entire body flooding with warmth as she lets out a trembling sigh.  She swallows the weight in her throat down as much as she can, pinning her eyes to where Harry is gripping her calf with a strong hand. “Everything you give me always fits so good.” She whispers, her voice higher than it was a moment before.

Harry squeezes the backside of her knee once. “Look me in the eyes when you say it.”

Y/N’s entire body feels as if it’s on fire as sweat begins to bead across her forehead, but her mouth is as dry as a desert. She swallows thickly once more, gathering all the composure she can muster. “Everything—” Her voice cracks once, and she clears her throat as Harry’s thumb sweeps across her chin in an encouraging manner. “Everything you give me always fits so good.”

When she completes the task, Harry gropes her knee once more, but this time the action is a show of satisfaction rather than demand.  He trails his fingers up her bent leg to her thigh, only stopping to dig his fingertips into the crease where her backside begins to plump. “That’s my good girl.”

Delicately setting Y/N’s heeled foot back on the ground, Harry rises from the bed, both of her hands grasped in his own to help her remain steady.  Once he’s eye level with his lover once again, he leans forward and stamps a chaste kiss onto her forehead, his lips already tugging into a small grin before he pulls away.

“Y’ready to go, then?” He questions casually, smoothing the thumb of his right hand over her knuckles as his left hand snags the Gucci clutch from the bed, along with Y/N’s phone.  He unclaps the clutch and settles the phone into its silk lining before handing the bag to the human girl.  

Y/N clears her throat once more as she takes a shaky step towards her vanity, grabbing the lipstick she’d applied before and tossing it into the bag, clasping it shut with a final snap. “I suppose so.” She chews on the inside of her cheek as she shoots Harry a nervous glance. “I might need you to carry me down the stairs of my building, though.”

Harry laughs once as he grabs the overnight bag he’d packed with one hand and reclaims Y/N’s left hand in the other. “Don’t worry, pet.  I’ll make sure Cinderella doesn’t lose a shoe.  Or break an ankle.”

“Thanks, Prince Charming.”

“Considering I’m the one that got the dress, I think the Fairy Godmother role fits just a smidge better.”

///

Although it takes careful steps, more than a few stumbles, and Harry’s hand wrapped securely around her waist, Y/N manages to make it down the multiple flights of stairs in her apartment building to Harry’s car waiting below.  After the ten minute car ride into downtown L.A., the majority of which is spent with Harry’s hand sitting perfectly still on Y/N’s exposed thigh, the vampire pulls the car in front of a large restaurant with a line of well-dressed parties winding down the sidewalk.

The restaurant itself, Bella Vita, is one that Y/N’s heard of in passing, but has never experienced firsthand herself, probably because it holds a reputation for being the premier Italian restaurant in all of Los Angeles.  Shock covers her features as she stares out the car window at the grand glass double doors, but only for a moment; after all, could she have expected anything less from Harry, who seems to indulge in luxuries the way most people do chocolate?

When the passenger side door swings open, the surprise returns as Y/N glances up and sees a blonde man she doesn’t know dressed in a suit holding the door open.  The breast of his outfit is embroidered with the restaurant name, but it’s not until Harry, who has already vacated the driver’s side and is behind him, flips the valet his keys.

“Thanks, mate.” Thinly veiled irritation works its way through Harry’s voice as he steps in front of the valet, clapping his large hand over the employee’s shoulder. “I got it from here.”

The valet nods curtly, releasing his grip on the door as Harry extends his hand to Y/N.  The mortal girl grasps it within her own, eager to receive the help he offers as she swings her exposed legs out of the low car and onto the ground. 

“There we go, love.” Harry’s voice softens as he pulls her to stand, giving her a moment to find her balance on her own before sliding his arm around her hips. “Y’alright?”

“I’m fine.” Y/N nods in confirmation as she folds her arms in front of her body, grasping the Gucci clutch in tight hands while she appraises the packed high-end restaurant. “I see why you insisted on the dress now.”

A low laugh rumbles from Harry’s chest as he shuts the car door with his free hand. “I told you, you need to trust me more.  Have a little faith.” He extends his palm towards the valet, shaking his hand quickly and smoothly while sliding him a bill. “Thanks, Leo.”

Leo retracts his hand from Harry’s icy grasp with another respectful nod of his head, slipping the bill into the inside pocket of his suit. “Of course, Mr. Styles.  Enjoy your dinner.”

Y/N watches as the valet hurries to the driver’s side of the car, sliding in and starting the engine with ease as Harry begins to lead Y/N to the door. 

“So…” She quirks an eyebrow as Harry confidently bypasses the long line of people waiting to be seated. “You’re Mr. Styles here, are you?  Do you come here that often?”

Harry lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug, releasing his grip on Y/N’s waist to open the large glass door for her. “Every once in a while, I suppose.” He quips, the answer as non-committal as most things Harry says.  Once Y/N steps into the restaurant, the vampire follows closely behind, clutching her warm hand in his own as he leans down to whisper in her ear. “But I wouldn’t say it’s too often—”

“Harry!”

An older man that looks to be in his mid-seventies emerges from behind the corner, dressed in a fine suit and with an animated grin on his tan, weathered face.  He waves off the host at the stand who had been about to approach the two new guests, his arms already outstretched towards Harry.

“Vincenzo!” Harry responds with equal enthusiasm as he lets go of Y/N’s hand to clutch Vincenzo’s between his palms.  He leans forward and pecks two air kisses onto the employee’s cheeks as the older man does the same. “È così bello rivederti. Come stai?” It’s so nice to see you again.  How are you?

Y/N’s eyes widen in utter shock at the fluent Italian that easily slips from Harry’s ruby lips, watching as Vincenzo takes a step back from him with the same excitement as when he first turned the corner.

“Sto bene, grazie. È meraviglioso anche vederti.” I’m well, thank you.  It’s wonderful to see you, too.  Vincenzo’s attention lists over Harry’s shoulder to Y/N, who is still standing behind him with her mouth half open in bewilderment. 

“Grazie ancora per aver riorganizzato la prenotazione per noi.” Thank you again for rearranging the reservation for us.  Harry reaches back and intertwines his fingers with Y/N’s again as another Italian phrase slips off his tongue with practiced ease. “Ti devo un favore.” I owe you a favour.

“Te l'ho già detto, non mi devi niente. Gli amici aiutano gli amici.” I’ve already told you, you don’t owe me anything.  Friends help friends.  Vincenzo raises an eyebrow as he gestures to Y/N, who’s still a half step behind Harry as he carries out the conversation. “A proposito di ... chi è questo, Harry?” Speaking of… Who is this, Harry?

“Perdonami, sono stato scortese.” Forgive me, I’ve been rude.  Letting go of Y/N’s hand, Harry drifts his palm to the small of Y/N’s back, rubbing his thumb over the satin of her dress as he gently guides her forward for a proper introduction. “Vincenzo, sono Y/N, la mia ... amica.  Y/N, questo è Vincenzo, il titolare del ristorante.” Vincenzo, this is Y/N Y/L/N, my… friend.  Y/N, this is Vincenzo Genovesi, the owner of the restaurant.

Y/N’s ears prick up when she hears her name, and she smiles shyly in greeting at the older man. “Hi.” She wants to offer a more formal presentation, but is unsure if he speaks English or not, so she simply extends her hand to shake his. 

Vincenzo’s smile grows as he grasps her hand in his own, bringing it to his lips and planting an innocent kiss to her skin before taking a polite step back. “È così bello conoscerti.  Sei così bello!”

With a gentle squeeze to her love handles, Harry lowers his mouth to Y/N’s ear, his lips barely grazing her sensitive skin as he speaks. “He says it’s lovely to meet you, and that you’re very beautiful.” He translates, and Y/N can feel the way he’s smiling into her hair.

A shiver rolls down her spine as his cool breath meets her neck, but she manages to ignore the sensation, and instead sends a grateful smile in Vincenzo’s direction. “Oh… Thank you.  Grazie.” She tacks on, and although she tries her best to mimic Harry’s Italian accent, the way the immortal’s body tenses against her side as he represses a laugh tells her that she didn’t pass the test.

Vincenzo, however, waves off Harry’s amused expression, flipping his hand airily in his direction before taking Y/N’s again. She finds out that he indeed does speak English, and it comes out with a thick accent that holds so much genuine kindness, she immediately takes a strong liking to the aged gentleman. “Wipe that grin off your face, cretino, at least she’s trying!” He pats Y/N’s hand reassuringly, shaking his head with a disappointed scoff. “The last time he brought someone here, they spent the entire time doing a Godfather impression.  And it wasn’t even a good one!”

“How many times do I have to apologize for bringing Niall until you let me forget it?” Harry sighs in exasperation, his hand snaking around Y/N tighter than before. “I’ve already forbidden him from coming back.”

Shaking his head with a hearty laugh, Vincenzo pats Y/N’s hand once more before stepping back to the host stand and grabbing two leather-bound menus from the shelf. “I will never forget, Harry.  But don’t worry; I’ve still reserved your favourite table in the back of the restaurant.  Come, bella donna,” He tucks the menus underneath his arm as he gently loops Y/N’s arm through his own, tugging her from Harry’s grasp as he begins to lead her away from the entrance. “Let me escort you to the table, yes?”

Y/N allows Vincenzo to lead her, but glances over her shoulder to meet Harry’s amused gaze as he trails behind them, large hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks as his eyebrows poise teasingly.  The table in question, she discovers, is tucked away in a private corner of the restaurant, framed by a plethora of flora and candles that reflect back on the stone walls.  

Although Vincenzo releases her arm to retract Y/N’s chair, Harry beats him to it, pulling the seat out smoothly and waiting until Y/N is seated comfortably to push the back of it in.  He brushes his cool hand over her shoulder, nudging a loose curl away from her bare neck while offering her a dimpled smile.

As Harry takes his own seat across from her, the older Italian man gives him a knowing look, his eyes glinting with mirth. “Solo un amica, eh?” Just a friend, eh?

The vampire half rolls his eyes, nodding his head slightly as he lays the cloth napkin over his thigh, voice stubbornly flat. “Sì. Solo un amica.” Yes.  Just a friend.

Vincenzo sets a menu down before each of them, clicking his tongue in unconvinced disbelief. “Non guardi un amica come l'hai appena guardata.” You don’t look at a friend the way you just looked at her.

Flipping his menu open with disinterest, Harry makes a bored sound in the back of his throat, waving off Vincenzo with a leisurely gesture. “Vorrei la carta dei vini, Vincenzo, non la tua opinione non richiesta.” I’d like the wine list, Vincenzo, not your unsolicited opinion.

A laugh echoes from the older man’s belly as he shakes his head in amusement, taking a step away from the table. “Certo, Signor Styles.  Lo farò portare subito dal cameriere.” Certainly, Mr. Styles.  I’ll have the waiter bring it right away.  

Turning his attention back to Y/N, Vincenzo takes her hand and kisses it once more. “Bella donna,” He begins, heaving a long sigh. “It was lovely to meet you.  And if this one ever gives you trouble,” he gestures to Harry with a nod, giving her a playfully wink,  “I have five grandsons that would die for the opportunity to dine with a woman as beautiful as yourself.”

Harry’s face hardens at the comment, but Y/N laughs at the joke, squeezing Vincenzo’s hand before releasing it. “Thank you, Vincenzo.  It was so nice to meet you… Next time I come, you’ll have to teach me some Italian.” She adds, glancing at Harry as the curiosity of what they discussed before burns a hole in her belly.

The moment Vincenzo leaves the pair to their own devices, the mortal girl leans forward, the inquiry already falling off her lips. “Speaking of Italian…” She runs her finger around the stem of her empty wine glass, cocking her head to the side. “What were you and Vincenzo talking about?”

Harry waves off her question just as he did Vincenzo’s comments. “Nothing important.  Don’t worry,” a sly grin works its way onto his lips as he smoothly changes the subject, “he wasn’t offering to set me up with his granddaughters, if that’s what you were worried about.  It seems he only wants you in the family.”

“Who wouldn’t?  I’m a delight.” Y/N remarks, a wry smile raising the corners of her lips. “But seriously, Harry— where did you learn to speak fluent Italian?”

The answer rolls off his tongue as easily as the language did. “Italy.” He states simply, as if it should be obvious.

And it’s not a lie; he really did learn in Italy.  It just happened to be during the early 1900s, when he had been bouncing around between Florence, Venice, and Rome.  He’d liked Italy, actually, and would’ve stayed there longer, but then an Archduke was assassinated, and Harry had to return to Britain to fight in what was then called “the War To End All Wars.” Harry had figured that he might as well, given that he could shrug off bullet wounds as easily as a knick, and could use his blood to help heal other soldiers when travesties struck. The Italian, it turned out, had come in handy as he fought his way through Europe, but considering the bloody conditions under which he did so, Harry much prefers using it to woo a lovely girl in an expensive restaurant.

“Italy.” Y/N repeats the word in a deadpan voice, crossing her arms over her chest as she leans back in her chair, kinking an eyebrow stubbornly. “When were you in Italy?”

Ah, Harry thinks, habitually rubbing his thumb over his ruby lips.  It seems a little white lie is necessary. “During uni.  I did a semester abroad.”

For a moment, he thinks that Y/N doesn’t buy the fib.  Her other eyebrow quirks upwards to meet its partner, but her gaze remains as suspicious as it has been since she first asked the question.  When she finally opens her mouth to speak, there’s a small, irrational part of Harry that thinks she might prod for more. 

“What do you mean, ‘a semester abroad’?” She questions, and Harry is about to over-explain when her posture suddenly relaxes, her arms returning to her sides as an easygoing laugh falls from her mouth, a seemingly entertaining realization dawning on her. “Wait, you grew up in England!  You already lived abroad!”

A breathless and relieved chuckle rolls out of Harry as his shoulders drop, the tension rolling out of him as he leans forward. “I suppose that’s true, hm?” He hums, reaching for Y/N’s warm hand and tugging it onto the table to intertwine her fingers with his own. “I really just went a few doors down the neighborhood, didn’t I?”

“You really did.” Y/N sighs wistfully, drifting her thumb over the back of Harry’s knuckle without a second thought. “I’m jealous, though.  I wish I had gone away for school, even just to a different state.  I could’ve been living in Washington, or Oregon, or New York.  It would’ve been so nice.”

The corners of Harry’s lips weigh down into a frown as he considers the possibilities laced into the comment. “I suppose, but…” He casts his gaze towards their knitted hands.  Hers looks so much smaller wrapped inside his. “If you did, then you might not have moved to L.A.  And then we wouldn’t have—”

“Good evening, Mr. Styles, Miss Y/L/N.” A waiter that Harry hasn’t met before appears beside the table with a wine menu clasped in one hand and a basket of bread in the other.  

The server is younger than others Harry has seen before, but Harry knows Vincenzo hires his staff carefully, and that he wouldn’t send anyone too inexperienced to take care of Harry.  From the sweat beading his brow, the vampire can tell that Vincenzo has given the waiter a speech about Harry’s status with the restaurant owner, and the thought brings a small spark of satisfaction to him.  However, that satisfaction disappears the moment he sees the waiter’s eyes linger on Y/N a moment longer than needed. He nods kindly to both of them, but the immortal can’t evade the small spark of irritation that zips down his spine at the employee’s subtle interest in his companion.  Shifting in his seat, Harry tightens his grasp on Y/N’s hand, but keeps his demeanor neutral and polite.  It’s not like he can blame the poor boy, really.  Not when Y/N’s silky lips are sheathed in such a breathtaking shade of red.

“My name is Luca, and I’ll be your server for tonight.” He shifts his attention back to Harry as he sets the bread basket on the table before extending the small leatherbound menu to him. “Here’s the wine list you asked for, Mr. Styles.  I’ll give you some time to look it over, and then I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.”

Although his right hand is closer to the server, Harry reaches for the menu with his left in order to maintain his grasp on Y/N’s. “Thank you, Luca.  I appreciate it.”

Luca nods once as he takes a step back from the table, clasping his hands behind his back. “Prego, signore.” You’re welcome, sir. 

Harry’s eyebrow jolts up in mild surprise. “Oh, parli italiano?” Oh, you speak Italian?  He asks, the flip in language gliding down his tongue without so much as a second thought. Harry hadn’t expected it, given that the young man’s natural accent is as American as can be. 

Pausing on the ball of his foot, Luca nods as colour begins to rise to his cheeks. “Sì, signore, la mia famiglia è italiana.  Mia nonna mi ha insegnato a parlarlo quando ero giovane.” Yes, sir, my family is Italian.  My grandmother taught me to speak it when I was very young.

“Tua nonna è una signora molto intelligente, allora.” Your grandmother is a very smart lady, then.  Harry’s mind drifts back to his own upbringing, when his mother would gather him and his sister around the table on Sunday nights, reading them Latin passages by candlelight.  The memory brings a sad smile to his face. “Grazie per il menu. Lo daremo un'occhiata.” Thank you for the menu.  We’ll take a look at it.

Luca nods again, but there’s hesitation in the motion as his eyes drift to Y/N once more, flickering from her own gaze back down to her crimson lips. “Is there anything I can get you before I go, miss?  Some water, perhaps?”

Y/N sends a bright smile to the young man, nodding her head as a strand of her curled hair loosens from its pin. “Yes, please.  And thank you.”

“Due acque, Luca.” Two waters, Luca.  Harry interjects, clearing his throat quietly as he catches the human boy’s eye, giving a curt jut of his chin that signals he’s done ordering for the time being. “Grazie.”

Y/N reaches for the basket of bread the moment Luca has scurried away, her eyes lighting up as she hears the first slice crackle open. “Ooh, garlic bread.” She thrums happily as she takes a small bite while being mindful of her red lipstick, setting the rest of the bread on her side plate as she chews slowly and indulges the flurry of delicious flavors. She talks lightly over a semi-full mouth, careful as to not give Harry an unpleasant eyeful. “So what’s on the menu for drinks?  I’m assuming you’re, like, an expert on wine, right?”

Harry’s lips twitch as he bites back a laugh at the hint of annoyance in her voice. “What makes you say that?”

“You shop Gucci like it’s Target, you speak Italian, you’re a regular at this place…” Y/N’s eyes sweep over their private corner of the restaurant before sending a teasing glance to Harry. “Being a sommelier on the side just seems like something to add to the list of things you’re infuriatingly good at.”

Despite the small jab, a satisfied smile settles on Harry’s lips as he squeezes Y/N’s hand. “You really are good at stroking my ego, aren’t you, dove?  I suppose we can add that to the list of things you’re infuriatingly good at?”

The familiar comment brings Y/N back to the night the two of them met, in a dark and deafening club that’s the complete opposite of their current location.  She twists her fingers within Harry’s, flipping their hands to examine his palm as memories float through her mind like movie scenes.  How Harry had looked when he first walked over, the soothing and seductive tone of his voice, how she’d done her best to match his flirtatious compliments… how he’d kissed her in his car before taking her back to her apartment.  She should’ve known then, Y/N thinks, that she wouldn’t have been able to let someone like Harry be just a one night stand. 

“I guess I’ll allow you to add it.” Y/N murmurs teasingly as she clasps their hands together once more. “But, unfortunately for me, wine knowledge is not on that list, so… you pick something.  I trust your taste.”

“Alright, then.  No pressure for me.” Harry jokes, snapping his gaze from her hypnotizing irises to peruse the menu once more. “Would you like red, white, or rosé?”

The human hums as she considers the question, pursing her lips in thought, as if the answer she gives is life or death. “Red, I think.” She replies, watching as Harry’s brow furrows in thought while shifting his eyes to the red wine list. 

A moment later, Luca appears again with two glasses of ice water balanced on a tray, which he sets down on the table before each of them.  While both of them offer a murmur of thanks, it’s only Y/N’s show of gratitude that incites a darkening of his cheeks.

Another thread of irritation flares down Harry’s spine, but he forces himself to dampen it down with a reminder that if he were the one waiting on Y/N— rather than being the one sitting across from her— he’d probably be doing the exact same thing. “Penso che abbiamo preso una decisione, Luca.” I think we’ve made a decision, Luca.  He says with a tight smile, snapping the wine menu shut and handing it back to the young man. “Prendiamo due bicchieri del tuo cabernet sauvignon, per favore.” We’ll have two glasses of your cabernet sauvignon, please.

Luca nods as he accepts the menu, his eyes flickering to Y/N’s ruby lips yet again. That’s three times in the last ten minutes...not that the vampire’s counting or anything. 

“Ovviamente. Li prendo per te che scrivi.” Of course.  I’ll get those for you right away. The server answers politely before tucking the menu under his arm and hurrying off.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” Y/N says the moment the waiter is gone, her eyes alight with amusement as she pulls her hand from Harry’s to take a sip of her ice water. “But I can’t ignore it.”

Clearing his throat as he reaches for a slice of garlic bread, Harry slinks his head to the side before answering. “Ignore what?” He asks offhandedly, taking a bite of his bread and chewing it slowly.  Had Luca’s fascination with her crimson smile not gone unnoticed?  Or had Harry’s aggravation begun to show on his face?

“The Italian.” Y/N admits, setting her glass down and sitting forward as she rests her bent elbows on the table, propping her head upon her interlocked fingers. “I feel a bit left out, and, truthfully, a little jealous.  I want to learn.”

A playful laugh echoes from Harry’s throat as he taps a ringed finger against the table. “I can’t exactly teach you an entire language over one dinner, sweetheart.  I’m good, but I’m not that good.”

“Hm.  I know.  It’s tragic.” Y/N sighs, giggling quietly at the way Harry’s laughter cuts off completely and is replaced with a wounded sound of protest. “But what about some important phrases?  Just so I’m not in the dark all evening while you play Roman Holiday?”

Harry prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Alright.  Why don’t we start with Mi dispiace?”

“Mi dispiace.” Y/N repeats slowly, trying her best to wrap her red lips around the Italian diction. “What does that mean?”

“It means ‘I’m sorry’, which one could say in reference to, oh, I don’t know…” Harry shrugs lightly, matching the motion with a theatrical dejected sigh. “Insinuating that your date is without certain… talents?”

Although Y/N laughs again, she reaches across the table and wraps her hand around Harry’s, trying to tamp down the mirth in her voice when she replies. “Mi dispiace.” She repeats again, giving Harry her best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

“That’s passable, I suppose.” Harry props his chin up in his palm, rubbing his thumb over his pillowy lips in thought. “And then we have ti perdono— I forgive you.”

“How kind of you, Mr. Styles.” Y/N simpers, biting her tongue between her teeth to hold back more sounds of glee. “Give me another one.”

Harry regards her with a thoughtful air, his hand sliding from his mouth to his hair to tug on his styled curls before traveling back down to rest on the table. His voice comes out a tad deeper, a vein of sultriness running beneath it that she just barely detects. “Sei molto bella con quel vestito.”

One of the words tweaks Y/N’s memory from earlier, but she still traces a finger over Harry’s initial rings as she locks eyes with him expectantly. “What does that mean?”

Swiping his tongue over his lips, Harry peers at her through his thick lashes as he encircles his free hand around the stem of his water glass. “You look very beautiful in that dress.”

A pleasurable flush rolls through Y/N’s belly at the compliment.  No matter how many times Harry pays her a positive comment, she somehow always still feels a rush with each word that falls from his soft lips. “Thank you.” She mumbles shyly, tucking her thumb between Harry’s ring and pinkie finger. “I mean— grazie.” 

“Try saying it back to me.” Despite the encouraging words that are said under the guise of teaching, there’s an undercurrent of command that turns the satisfaction in Y/N’s tummy to anticipation. “Molto bella.”

The mortal’s eyes flicker between Harry’s own emerald irises and his mouth as he curls a ringed finger over her hand, stroking the icy digit over her heated skin. “Molto bella.” She repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Fantastico, tesoro.” The praise slips easily from his lips as he lets himself bask in the warmth her flesh brings to his. 

“‘Tesoro’,” Y/N repeats, a tinge of confusion settling onto her face. “What does that mean?”

“It’s, uh,” Harry scoffs to himself in realization, unaware he had even let the term fall from his mouth. “It— well, it means ‘treasure,’ but it’s kind of the Italian equivalent of ‘darling’.”

The vampire can hear the way Y/N’s heartbeat spikes, sending a new wave of blood to warm her cheeks. “That—” The human girl mimics the way he’d cleared his earlier as she reaches for her water glass. “That’s pretty.”

“It is, yeah.  You’ll probably be hearing it often.” Harry continues to drag the pad of his finger down the ridges of his lover’s knuckles as a fond smile crescents his Cupid’s bow. “And here’s another one you’ll be hearing often— piegarsi.”

Y/N pauses with her water raised halfway to her lips. “And what does that one mean?”

Harry waits until her mouth has reached the rim of the glass and she’s taken a sip of ice water. “Bend over.” 

The response is instantaneous, just as he’d imagined. The mortal chokes on her water, coughing up a storm as she quickly lowers the drink from her mouth, half bending over the table and yanking her hand from his as her cheeks light with fire. “Harry!” She gasps once she regains her breath, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone else at the restaurant overheard his lewd statement. 

“What?” He asks innocently, but quickly gives into snickering, his body curling over the table as he cackles. “I’m not wrong!  You really will be hearing it often, so you should know what it means!”

“That doesn’t give you the right to say it in public!” Y/N exclaims hotly, shooting him a look of irritated disbelief that’s exaggerated to hide the boiling that’s working its way into her stomach.

Still chuckling every few moments, Harry reaches for her hand once again, interlocking their fingers and bringing her palm to his mouth. “Alright,” He kisses her heated palm while gazing at her through half lidded eyes. “Alright, I’m sorry.  Mi dispiace, tesoro.”

Y/N purses her painted lips, but sighs in defeat after a few moments of Harry’s moony eyes boring into her own. “Fine.  I forgive you.  Ti perdono.”

Although the annoyance has faded from Y/N’s complexion, Harry still keeps her hand flushed to his lips, stamping kisses to a new area of skin with unpatterned frequency.  He’s not certain if her warmth is just her or the residual embarrassment, but he doesn’t care.  It’s just nice, he thinks, his eyes crinkling in the corners as he smiles at Y/N from across the table.  It’s comfortable.

“I have your glasses of cabernet sauvignon, Mr. Styles.” Luca interrupts from beside Harry, who had been so focused on the feeling of Y/N skin against his that he hadn’t noticed the waiter’s return. 

Harry gently lowers Y/N’s hand from his mouth, setting her palm down on the table with care. “Grazie.” Harry says casually, straightening his posture to allow Luca to set the glasses down. 

Y/N does the same, offering the young server a thankful smile once again. “Grazie.” Her voice rings sweetly from behind her lips, her confidence more stable thanks to Harry’s miniature Rosetta Stone lecture. 

“Prego, signorina.” Luca matches the Italian easily, his eyebrows raising in hopeful shock. “Parli anche italiano?” Do you speak Italian, too?

The human girl’s eyes flick to Harry as her mouth falls open without sound, and the immortal reads the distress signal easily. 

“No, lei non—” He cuts himself off in the middle of the address to Luca when he remembers that Y/N doesn’t like being spoken for.  Harry redirects his attention back to her questioning eyes. “I mean— he asked if you speak Italian.”

Y/N gives Harry an appreciative smile before turning back to Luca, the expression turning apologetic. “No, I don’t.  I wish I did, though.”

“It’s a fairly easy language to learn.” Luca tucks his tray underneath his arm as he regards the girl timidly. “And your accent is wonderful already.”

Harry hides his smirk behind his wine glass, stifling the laugh that’s threatening to sound.  The server must be entranced by her beauty, he thinks, because that’s the most blatant lie Harry has heard in a long time.

Y/N, however, accepts the compliment with ease. “Thank you.  It’s not true, but I appreciate the effort to be kind.”

The tips of Luca’s ears redden as he laughs breathlessly. “Are you, um, ready to order?”

“Oh, uh—” Y/N drops her gaze to the unopened menu in front of her before offering an rueful glance at the waiter. “I still need a few minutes, I think.”

“That’s alright, take your time.  I’ll be back shortly.” Luca assures her, turning to Harry and giving one last nod of acknowledgement before leaving them again.

Despite already having the menu of the restaurant memorized, Harry slides the leatherbound cover open, dragging a ringed finger down the smooth pages as he feigns searching for a dish. “You know…” He flits his gaze to Y/N’s face as an amused grin begins to tug at the corners of his mouth. “That’s really not fair of you.”

Y/N looks up from her own opened menu the moment Harry speaks, a bemused shadow falling over her face. “What’s not fair of me?”

Harry reaches for his wine glass as he laughs gently, shaking his head before taking a small sip of the smooth cabernet. “Being so charming to Luca.  The poor boy looks like he’s going to pass out each time you speak to him.”

Her cherry lips curve into an exasperated smile as she rolls her eyes. “I have no idea what you mean.” She states, turning her attention back down to the cursive menu. 

“Oh, you don’t, do you?” Harry replies dryly, quirking an eyebrow as he sets his beverage back down on the table. “So you’re not noticing how his eyes are glued to your mouth every time you say something?”

“Nope,” Y/N pops her lips on the last consonant sound of the word as she reaches for her own wine glass. “Because it’s not happening.  We’re just talking, H.  He’s the waiter; he has to look at me.”

“Right.” Harry drags the word out, completely unconvinced. His own eyes glue to Y/N’s lips as they wrap around the edge of her glass, his throat growing slightly parched as he studies the way they curve in a manner that he deems practically flawless. “So do you think the way he’s staring at your tits is also in his job description, then?”

Y/N snorts at the snarky remark, lowering her glass to rest just in front of her chest. “You’re the one who picked out a dress with such a low neckline.” She unwraps her index finger from the wine glass to point it at him in an accusatory manner. “Why did you get it, then, if you didn’t want my tits out on display?”

Harry takes a swig of his own wine as he fights back a laugh at her bold statement. “Let me fill you in on a little secret, mi amore.” He says, lowering his voice and setting down his delicate glass with a muted thud. “The main reason I got it…” The vampire watches the way Y/N’s breathing hitches when she feels the snakeskin tip of his boot brush against the back of her bare calf beneath the table. “Is because I’m curious to see what it would look like as a crumpled heap at the bottom of my staircase.”

The toe of his boot travels higher up her leg, circling around the bend of her knee before just barely grazing the soft flesh of her lower outer thigh.  Y/N does her best to control her breathing, but the effort is in vain when the cold metal zipper presses against her dimpled skin. 

“Harry…” His name leaves her crimson lips in a warning tone as she glances around the restaurant, eyeing the closest couple five tables away. 

“‘M excited to see it later, y’know? Been thinking about ripping it off ever since I zipped you into it.” Harry drags the toe of his boot back down her leg, coasting it lightly against her ribbon-wrapped ankle in small and concise motions. “But I suppose I’ll just have to be a bit more patient.  At least I’ll be seeing you like that; poor Luca could only dream of it.”

The human girl clears her throat quietly, taking another measured sip of her wine as she wills herself to steady. “The only thing poor about Luca is that he’s going to come back to the table and I still won’t know what I want.” She shifts her attention back to the open menu, ignoring the eye roll she receives from her lover across the table as she looks over the Italian in front of her. “I don’t know what any of this is.”

“Let me help, cara— which means, ‘dear,’ by the way.” Harry says in an amused voice, dropping his gaze to the cursive menu. “Do you want fish?  Pasta?  Red meat?  Chicken?”

“Maybe pasta.” Y/N murmurs in reply, running a finger down the booklet page as she reads over the Italian descriptions.  Her eyes catch the prices next to dishes, and she nearly gasps, but bites back the sound of surprise at the last moment.

“Alright…” Scanning down the pasta list, Harry bookmarks a few dishes he thinks Y/N may like. “You’d enjoy the ‘Spaghetti Cacio e Pepe’, I think.” He muses, rubbing a finger over his chin in thought. “Or the ‘Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto’.  That’s kind of like pasta— it’s a potato dumpling, and you can choose if you want a meat or gorgonzola sauce.”

“That sounds good.” Y/N finds the mentioned items on the menu, her eyes sweeping over the Italian descriptions to try and pick out the words Harry mentioned. “I think I’ll go with the last one, with the gorgonzola sauce.” Taking a sip of her wine to seal her decision, Y/N poses a question to Harry. “What are you thinking of having?”

“I’m not sure…” Harry lifts his shoulder in a careless shrug as he continues to scan the menu. “I have a few favourites, and those are always solid choices.  The lamb is quite good here; I haven’t had that in a while.”

As Harry peruses his decisions, Y/N begins to chew on the inside of her cheek, narrowly avoiding her habit of biting her lips and ruining the raspberry lacquer she’d painted on earlier as an idea forms in her head. 

“Harry,” She begins, waiting until he raises his jade eyes to meet hers before continuing. “When Luca comes back over…” The girl chooses her words carefully, doing her best to voice her question in the most understandable way. “Could you order for me?”

Just as she suspected he might, Harry rests his menu back down against the table, giving his whole attention to Y/N as his brows furrow. “You want me to order for you?” He asks, confusion threaded through his accent as his mind flips back to their first date, when Y/N had nearly skinned him alive for attempting to do just that. “Why?”

She shifts in her seat under his hot gaze, her own eyes dropping to her lap as her cheeks sear. “It’s— It’s in Italian, so it’ll probably be easier if you say it.”

Harry shakes his head in disagreement as he tries to reassure his date. “No, doll, it’s alright if you say it in English.  Luca will get it.  And if worse comes to worse—” He cracks a smile, tapping a bejeweled finger against the booklet. “Y’can just point.  He’ll get the gist.”

Despite the solutions offered, Y/N continues to shift around, her foot bumping against Harry’s boot as a soft sigh falls from her lips.  She’d hoped Harry would’ve just accepted the request on her first try, but he seems determined not to repeat his mistake from their first date, which means Y/N has to get a lot more honest.

“No, H, I want…” She purses her lips as she twists her fingers around the stem of her wine glass, gently swirling the dark liquid inside. “I want you to order for me.”

The smile on his face darkens into a befuddled expression. “I mean, I can,” Harry says slowly, closing the menu and sliding it onto the table as he appraises the girl across from him. “But I’m a little confused on your reasoning.  Last time I tried to order for you, you said I was trying to make decisions for you—”

“And you were,” Y/N can’t help but to defend herself, flashing a stormy look at Harry from beneath her lashes. “That’s why I’m telling you what I’d like now.”

Harry’s mouth gapes open as he stares at Y/N with a blank expression.  A scoffing laugh finally falls from his lips as he shakes his head again, reaching for his wine and bringing the glass to his lips. “You are the most confusing woman I’ve ever met, d’you know that?”

Y/N lets a beat of silence fall between them as she rethinks her question and how best to phrase it in a way that still lets her feel like she’s living in the twenty-first century. “I mean I— you said that it was polite, right?  At that brunch.  Your mom taught you it was a sign of respect.” Her eyes fall to the opal ring sitting on his pinky, sparkling in the candlelight like it always does.

Harry lowers his glass, watching Y/N with a guarded gaze. “Yeah.” He murmurs, licking his lips once as he places his cup back on the table. “She did, yeah.”

“And you’ve gone to a lot of trouble tonight— the dress, the reservation, everything— and I just— I wanted to—” The more Y/N tries to articulate her thoughts, the more tangled her thoughts become, and she sucks in a harsh breath of frustration. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

Although Harry has a suspicion about her meaning, he doesn’t try to finish her sentence.  The last thing he wants to do is make Y/N feel like he’s trying to speak over her. “It’s alright.” He says instead, snaking his hand across the table to weave her fingers through his. “Take your time, tesoro.”

Heeding his advice, Y/N takes a moment to just focus on the feeling of Harry’s cool fingers wrapped around hers, and allows her thoughts to gather themselves together on their own.  When she tries again, her speech is hesitant, but less frustrated than before.

“I think I… understand you more now.” She mumbles the words, keeping her eyes glued to the shining stones that adorn Harry’s rings. “When you do things that I’m not used to… I know you’re doing them out of kindness, and not because you think I’m incapable.” Raising her stare to meet Harry’s entrancing emerald eyes, Y/N takes a deep breath before continuing. “You’ve done a lot to make me comfortable, and I appreciate it, so… I want to do something for you.  It’s no Gucci dress—” Y/N laughs breathlessly, her cheeks flushing again as her intent flickers away from Harry’s own for just a moment before— to his relief— returning. “— but you were taught it was a sign of respect, like opening a door, or pulling out a chair.  So if you want to order for me… you can.” She finishes in a quiet voice. “If you’d like to.”

A slow smile spreads over Harry’s strawberry lips as Y/N wraps up her speech. “Really?” He asks, his voice hushed with delight. “And you won’t accuse me of treating you like you’re incapable?”

Y/N’s eyes flash to him in a darkened glare, but her tone holds a jesting bite. “Not unless you piss me off.”

A soft exhale of air leaves Harry’s nostrils, the beginnings of a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He quips in return, catching Luca’s eye over Y/N’s shoulder as the waiter approaches the table again.

Although his body is turned towards Harry, Luca’s eyes canvas Y/N once more, the action bolder this time as his irises spend longer resting on her cleavage after observing her tinted pout.  The lengthened look grates against Harry’s nerves, and he clears his throat in a slightly irritated manner to call the young man’s attention back his way.

“Oh, uhm—” Luca’s ears redden as he turns back to Harry, clearing his throat as he steadies himself. “Sei pronto per ordinare, signor Styles?” Are you ready to order, Mr. Styles?

“Sì,” Harry replies curtly, tapping his thumb against Y/N’s soft hand. “Y/N vorrebbe gli Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto con la salsa al gorgonzola, e io prendo il filet mignon, cotto raro, per favore.” Y/N will have the Gnocchi al Vostro Gusto with the gorgonzola sauce, and I’ll have the filet mignon, cooked rare, please. He says smoothly, and he can’t deny the satisfied pleasure that curls inside his belly when he sees the gentle eyes Y/N gives him across the table.

Luca nods once as he takes the menus from the two of them, careful to keep his eyes away from Y/N’s mouth as he gathers her leatherbound copy and scuttles off to submit their orders to the kitchen.

“Okay.” Y/N says reluctantly, squeezing Harry’s hand within her own with a sigh as she watches the waiter disappear. “I will admit, I did notice his eyes drifting a little low there.”

“Sorry, what was that?” Harry asks, eyes widening in dramatized disbelief.  He wills himself to keep a triumphant grin off his face, but knows he doesn’t quite succeed. “Did you just admit I was right?  Did that just happen?”

“Oh, shut up.” Rolling her eyes, Y/N shakes her head as she takes another bite of garlic bread, her tongue poking from her mouth to catch a crumb at the corner of her lip. “If you’re going to act like such a child, I’ll take it back.”

Harry brings her knuckles to his mouth, brushing them against his lips in a tender motion. “I’m just trying to savour the moment, angel.” His cool breath crawls over her skin, eliciting a shiver from the human girl that he adores. “Who knows when I’ll get to experience it again.”

“Never, if I have any say in it.”

“Should we ask Luca to weigh in on this little debate, too? You know, since he’s practically as acquainted with you as I am.” 

“Bite me.”

The monster’s dimples wink at the irony of her insult, and his voice carries a knowing edge that only he can decipher. “Don’t I always?”

They fall into their usual rhythm after that, easily discussing what each of them had been up to throughout the week during their gaps away from the other.  Those gaps, Harry realizes as he listens to a work story from Y/N, are becoming shorter and shorter. He’d swung by Y/N’s cafe for lunch on Thursday to order a mediocre at best sandwich, and indulge in a far from mediocre makeout session in the back of his car.  And watching Y/N hurriedly tighten her ponytail while she stumbled away from his Cadillac, cheeks flaming as she nearly ran to the employee entrance around the back of the building before her break ended, had prompted Harry to call her that night for a long overdue phone sex session.  

Even after they had both helped the other reach climax, and post-orgasm photos had been sent (Harry had received a picture of Y/N stretched out on her bed, her face visibly heated and chest sweaty as she wore nothing but his “enjoy health” t-shirt, and in return, he’d sent a snapshot of his cum-covered abdomen, fingers resting delicately at the edge of his butterfly tattoo), the vampire and human had stayed on the line as they both caught their breath.  Harry had followed the nude photo with a picture of him posing with a glass of water and a thumbs up, smiling grandly amidst his colored cheeks and sweaty curls, captioning it “Make sure to hydrate after a workout!” The energy it took to take the self-timed photo was worth it when he’d heard Y/N’s laugh tumble out from the opposite end of the line. 

It’s the same carefree laugh that she’s trying to stifle now, her hand pressed over her mouth and nose as her eyes send an apologetic glance at Luca setting her plate of gnocchi down in front of her.

“Thank you, Luca,” She manages to choke out, wiping her eyes with the edge of her thumb to stop the saltwater threatening to rush down her heated cheeks. “It looks delicious.”

Harry nods in agreement as the waiter sets his own dish in front of him, his mischievous smirk still shining at Y/N from across the table. “Grazie.” He says as he curls his lips around his newly topped off wine glass.

Y/N bites her tongue to hold back the continuous laughter that’s on the verge of bursting from her chest like a dam.  With every moment Harry keeps his eyes locked on hers, the human girl has to press her lips harder and harder together, and barely manages to wait until Luca has left them again to release the wave of giggles that crest out of her chest.

“Something amusing?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he sets his glass down, hardly able to hold back his own laughter as couples seated away from them begin to take notice of the boisterous sounds.

“You—” Y/N sucks in a ragged breath, half snorting once more as she manages to calm herself enough to take a small sip of wine.  The liquid soothes the raw ache in her throat that is practically raw from the convulsed snickers. “You did not say that to him!”

“I did.” Harry answers smugly, adjusting the napkin covering the light grey fabric stretched over his lap before picking up his knife and fork. “He was too certain that no girl had ever faked it with him just because of a leg shake.  I couldn’t let him live in that delusion; it’d be a crime, really.  Just plain cruel.”

“Oh, right, like telling your friend that all the girls he’s been with have been faking it isn’t cruel?” She gently sets down her wine glass at the edge of her plate as she voices the retort, shaking her head in disbelief. “Poor Niall.”

“Not Poor Niall!  I was trying to help him!” Despite the claim, Harry can’t stop himself from chuckling out the words. “How’s he going to fix his ways if he doesn’t know anything is wrong?”

“Alright, so riddle me this, then, Dr. Phil.” Y/N picks up her fork, spearing a piece of gnocchi and holding the chunk above her plate as she issues her challenge to Harry. “How did you become the expert in whether or not a girl is faking it?  Do you have a lot of experience with that?”

“Not in the slightest.  I think you know that much.” Just as he did before, Harry begins to slide the tip of his boot up Y/N’s calf, relishing in the slight hitch in her breath and stutter of her heart. “If I’m an expert in anything, it’s how to make someone cum until their legs actually shake.  That’s why I can tell the fake from the real.”

Y/N takes a deep breath through her mouth, closing her eyes for a moment as she forms a coherent reply. “I guess I do know that.” She relents, opening her eyes just in time to see the simper that’s growing again across Harry’s face as he continues to rub up and down her leg with his shoe.  Y/N lifts her fork, carefully slipping the sauce-covered gnocchi into her mouth. “But Niall doesn’t— holy shit.” The mortal gasps as the flavours burst across her tongue, the perfect mix of savoury and salty and drenched in decadence.

“It’s good, innit?” Harry pokes his cheek with his tongue as he slices off a corner of his steak, checking the rarity of the meat before bringing it to his mouth. “There’s a reason this is my favourite restaurant, and it’s not just Vincenzo.”

“It’s fucking delicious.” Y/N can’t think to censor herself as she meticulously chews and swallows the bite, savouring every second before poking another gnocchi onto her fork. “I understand the price now.  It’s still outrageous, but I get it.”

Harry watches the way Y/N’s lashes flutter as she chews her bites, and the satisfaction growing in his belly increases. “High quality is worth paying for.” He states, slicing off another portion of steak. 

Y/N nods slowly, swallowing the food before pointing the prongs of her fork at Harry’s plate. “How’s your filet mignon?” She asks, spearing another bite of gnocchi onto the utensil. “Worth the price point?”

Dragging the bite on his fork through the sauce that’s pooled on his plate, Harry beckons her forward as he extends the piece towards her. “Open your mouth and find out.”

There’s something about the way that Y/N immediately obeys the command— setting down her own fork and leaning across the table to wrap her lips around Harry’s— that sends a shiver down his spine.  With her mouth closed, she slides the cut of beef off the silverware and leans back in her seat, chewing thoughtfully with a contemplative look on her face. 

A drop of sauce is smeared from the bite, dripping from the edge of her mouth, and although it goes unnoticed by Y/N, it’s all Harry can see as he watches her savor the bite of food.  He leans forward more, collecting the droplet on the pad of his thumb, which he brings to his mouth and licks off casually before settling back in his chair.

“Like it, tesoro?” He asks, an expectant look glinting in his eye as he slices off another bite for himself. 

Y/N cocks her head to the side as she swallows, trying her best to focus on the flavour and not the way Harry had been so careful not to smear her lipstick as he touched her. “I like the sauce.  It’s sweet, but has a bit of a kick to it.  The steak, however…” She wrinkles her nose the slightest bit. “It’s a little too rare for my taste, I think.  I’m not really a fan of anything bloody.”

Harry curls his tongue inside his mouth as he allows himself a single laugh. “No?” He questions, spearing a piece of meat and sliding it past his lips. “I can’t say the same.  I like my steaks cooked rare.  The bloodier, the better.” 

“I bet you’re one of those weirdos who orders blue steak, huh?” Y/N asks, taking a gulp of her wine to wash out the taste of the meat. “Like, still cold in the middle, and looking practically raw…”

“Oh, no.  Not at all.” Harry’s chuckles increase, and he has to hide them behind a false cough to stop himself from drawing more attention. “It tastes much better if the meal is warm.”

Although Y/N doesn’t grasp the full meaning behind his words— and thank God she doesn’t, Harry thinks, because she’d probably run screaming from the restaurant— she hums in acknowledgement as she swirls the wine around her glass.

“But you’re enjoying your meal, right?” Harry changes the subject swiftly, deciding he’s indulged his one-sided humour long enough. “I have no problem sending it back if it’s not to your liking.”

The human’s eyes widen as she swiftly sets down her glass, shaking her head at the question. “No, no, it’s delicious!  Probably the best thing I’ve ever eaten, honestly.” She collects another bit on her fork, twirling the potato dumpling through the gorgonzola sauce before motioning to Harry. “Wanna try?”

When Harry nods in response, they slip back into their former position, both of them leaning forward in their seats to meet in the middle of the table.  Y/N slips the fork into his mouth, feeling the resistance as Harry’s white teeth meet the strong metal of the cutlery. 

Just as had happened to her a few moments prior, a small droplet of sauce gathers at the corner of Harry’s mouth as she pulls her fork away.  Y/N collects the sauce with her thumb as Harry had as well, but before she can sit herself back in her chair, Harry captures her wrist within his cool hand. 

Keeping his canopy green eyes locked with hers, the creature slips her thumb into his mouth, licking the remnants of the bite off the digit with his slick tongue.  His boot continues its climb up her leg, just barely reaching her thigh again before traveling back down to plant itself firmly onto the floor of the restaurant.

A quiet gasp leaves Y/N’s mouth as Harry lulls his tongue around her thumb one last time, and the barely audible sound raises his strawberry lips into a hint of a grin as he extracts the finger from his mouth.  With his hand still wrapped around her wrist, Harry brings her open palm forward and plants a delicate kiss to the center of her hand.

“That’s quite good.” Harry finally says nonchalantly, attentively setting Y/N’s hand back down on the table and releasing her wrist from his grasp. “I’ll have to try it the next time we come.”

Y/N struggles to regulate her breathing as she retracts her hand from the table, setting it down in her lap as her fingers involuntarily clench into her heated thigh. “Um, yeah.” She wisps, clearing her throat once as she reaches for a slice of garlic bread. “Yeah, it’s, uh, it’s really good.  The sauce is— it has a nice balance to it, I think, with the thyme…”

“I agree.” Harry wipes his wet finger off on the napkin laying over his thigh. “You’ve got quite the mouth on you, don’t you, pet?”

“You would know.” Y/N huffs snidely, cheeks blazing as she reaches for her wine again to extract a heavy gulp of the liquor.  

In the moments of silence that fall between them, Y/N allows herself to canvas the restaurant, observing the interactions of those around her.  True to Vincenzo’s promise of a private spot, the couples nearest to them are all at least five tables away, and partially hidden from view because of the positioning of their corner booth.  However, Y/N’s sharp eyes don’t miss how every formally-dressed staff member, from servers to busboys and hosts, cast their eyes in Harry’s direction each time they pass by.  Some even whisper to their coworkers as they turn the corner, their gazes always lingering on Harry with a mix of awe and wonder.

“Have you noticed how all the staff here watch you?” Y/N asks as she catches the eye of a passing waitress, who offers her a tense smile before sliding her stare towards Harry. 

“Do they?” Harry replies curiously, raising his wine glass to his lips as he lightly shrugs. “I’ve never paid much attention to it.”

“I think Vincenzo’s given them all the update on the prestigious British bachelor, Harry Styles.” Y/N pokes fun, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully as she contemplates Harry with an observant eye. “Or maybe they’ve all just noticed the ridiculous amount of designer labels you insist on wearing.” She teases him with a playful grin, tapping a finger against the Gucci cufflinks on his sleeves. “I feel a bit like a celebrity.”

A modest laugh breaks past Harry’s lips as he lowers the glass, keeping his ringed fingers twisted around the stem. “In my experience, I’ve found you’re treated best when you treat the staff best.  I tip well, so I receive better service.  When I receive better service, I tip more.  It’s a bit of a cycle, isn’t it?” He asks rhetorically, the tip of his boot once again exploring the soft skin of Y/N’s bare leg. “But I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.  I thought I’d test the waters tonight and see how well you like the high life before I arrange anything more… extravagant.”

“More extravagant?” Y/N laughs at the idea, propping her elbow on the table and plopping her chin in her hand as her eyebrows raise. “What could possibly be more extravagant than a Gucci cocktail dress, Loubotin heels, and a fifty dollar pasta dish?”

The answer rolls off Harry’s tongue immediately, slathered in a jesting, matter-of-fact tone. “A trip to the Bahamas, obviously.”

Although Y/N’s eyes widen slightly at the comment, it’s not long before she giggles softly, the wine beginning to twist its way through her system.  Harry can smell the way her lavender and honey scent is intertwined with the dark, fruity notes of the liquor, but even if he couldn’t, it would be obvious in the way she draws towards him with a tender smile on her face.  Despite the dewy appearance of her skin amidst the lulled candlelight, it’s the genuine warmth behind Y/N’s eyes that makes Harry feel like her gaze could thaw the ice from his long-frozen limbs.

It’s that warmth that brings Harry to reach over the table after Luca has cleared their bare plates and refilled their glasses, dragging his hands across the linen tablecloth with his palms turned upwards.  He just can’t ever seem to stifle the need to touch her.

The motion is a quiet question in itself, and Y/N gives the desired answer when she fills his empty grasp with her own palms, automatically tangling her bare fingers with Harry’s jeweled digits. For a moment, Harry just sits there, thumbing over her fragile knuckles in the way he’s grown so accustomed to doing, basking in the heat that congregates in his chest and gives him the feeling that he’s glowing.  He almost hates to break the perfect silence between them, which is so understanding, but he’s been thinking about his words too carefully to swallow them back.

“Thank you for agreeing to let me take you out.” He says, his voice gentle and low, a far cry from his usual cocky drawl. “It’s…It’s been a really long time since I’ve done something like this with anyone, let alone had this much fun doing it.” He takes a quiet breath through barely parted lips. “It’s nice.”

His ears prick with the sound of Y/N’s hummingbird heartbeat thrumming in her chest, the pattern bringing an ache to his tummy in an entirely new way, but the ache is quickly soothed by the soft smile that adorns her crimson lips.

“It’s…It’s been a while for me, as well.  Which you know.” She laughs airily, but is too entranced by the vivid color of Harry’s eyes to tear her gaze away. “I’m having fun, too.  I’m glad— I mean—”

Harry continues to rub over her knuckles patiently, keeping his touch as gentle as she is, making sure to gift her an instance to collect her thoughts.

“I’ll admit, I was… worried at first.  When we started to go on actual dates.” The mortal takes a deep breath through her nose, but it hardly calms her down as she inhales the vanilla and tobacco scent of Harry’s cologne. “We were doing so well with just sex, y’know?  And I was worried that adding more would… ruin it.”

The faint grin playing on the edge of Harry’s mouth disappears, and a chill runs through his bones at the possibility of what they have dismantling at the seams. “But it hasn’t… Has it?”

The seconds Harry spends waiting for an answer is agony, but the relief is instantaneous when Y/N replies in a bashful voice. “No.” She whispers, her gaze faltering down to her lap before raising back to him. “It hasn’t.”

“I feel like…” Harry worries his bottom lip between his teeth, nearly forgetting to be mindful of his strength so as to not break his skin. “I feel like it’s made things better, even.  Like… like we work better together, yeah?” He clears his throat gingerly as nerves begin to dip into his dormant veins.  He knows he’s treading on dangerously thin ice, and he’s never been more at risk of plunging into the freezing depths below, but he can’t make himself return to shore.  Not now. “Not that we weren’t working well before, because we were.  We were working really well— incredibly well.  But I just feel like tacking on this little bit of extra stuff makes everything more fulfilling.”

A wry smile breaks across Y/N’s face. “Right, because who doesn’t love getting wined and dined before getting their back done in?” She jokes easily, and Harry snorts in spite of himself, grateful for how she always manages to save him from making an ass of himself.

“I just really like spending time with you, I guess.” He squeezes her hands within his own before the sincere moment disappears. “It feels natural.  Really natural.”

“It does.  And while we’re confessing our innermost confessions over garlic bread…” The mortal purses her lips as a sparkle appears in her eyes, glinting at Harry like the North Star. “I want you to know how grateful I am for what we have.  I was feeling really lonely and out of place when we met, and running into you…” Y/N hesitates for a fraction of a instant, just long enough for Harry’s own breathing to catch. “It really helped me get back on my feet.  It’s just nice to have someone who I mesh with so well, especially after such a big move and everything, so…” A new wave of heat works its way over the apples of her cheeks. “I suppose this is a bit of a ‘thank you’.  Thanks for coming up to me that night at the club.”

Harry’s lips quirk at the corners as the tender confession settles into his chest. “Thank you for letting me chat you up.  It was a two way street, love.  Although—” His signature smirk begins to make a reappearance. “It’s not like I had to try very hard— you practically drooled the second you laid your eyes on me.”

Y/N’s mouth drops open indignantly as she yanks her hands back from his, rolling her eyes heavily while smoothing the hem of her dress. “Alright, that’s enough.  Moment over, dickhead.  Go back to sipping your wine and looking hot in your suit in silence.”

Although Harry obeys her order and picks up his wine glass with nimble fingers, his eyes grow teasingly large over the rim, accent dripping with faux shock. “You think I’m hot?”

“I’d hope you know that,” Y/N says cooly as she grasps the stem of her own glass. “I don’t let just anyone choke me.”

It’s Harry’s turn to cough on his liquor as he registers the comment, and he struggles not to spill the dark liquid down the front of his brand new suit as he barks out a laugh.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” he says after he swallows the drink, setting his glass back down on the table firmly. “I don’t let just anyone use my jacuzzi whenever they want.”

“Right, right, because you allowing me to use your hot tub is equivalent to me letting you wrap your fingers around my throat.” Y/N snorts, drumming her digits against the table top. “Practically identical.”

Harry snakes his hand across the table and cards their grips once more, squeezing her fingers playfully as he taps against her knuckles. “It’s not like you complain while it’s happening.”

“Only because it’s hard to talk when my air flow is restricted.”

“Really?  Because you still manage to moan just fine.”

Harry delights in the way her eyes hurriedly dash to the other diners, her heartbeat stuttering in her heaving chest.  He likes that he can still get a rise out of her with his crude jokes, even after all he’s said to her.

“Christ, Harry, lower your voice!  Don’t let anyone hear you!” Y/N protests, cupping a hand over her sizzling cheek.

“No one can hear me, love.” He chuckles lightly as he reassures her with another squeeze of her fingers. “S’why I always request a private table.”

“Oh, so you have a pattern, then?” She quirks an eyebrow at the comment. “Do you bring women here that often to discuss choking?  So much that you need a private table?”

Although there’s a mocking air to her words, Harry’s laugh cuts off. “No.  I don’t.”

Y/N hums in the back of her throat as she raises her wine glass to her lips. “I don’t believe you.  I think I’ll ask Vinzenco on our way out.  He seems like an honest man.”

Cool relief flushes through Harry’s body, but he hides it behind an incredulous gasp. “So what I’m hearing is that you’re interested in him.  Do you want Vincenzo to choke you instead?” His face breaks into a look of exaggerated disbelief tinged with fake disgust. “He’s married, you tramp!”

Y/N can’t help but laugh when Harry yanks his hand away from hers, pretending to wipe it on his napkin while gagging, as if touching her is a horrendous act. 

“I hate you.” She giggles, shaking her head slowly. 

“I promise you that no matter how much you hate me, Vincenzo’s wife would hate you tenfold.” Harry shakes out his hand before setting it back down on the table. 

“Don’t worry.” Y/N rolls her eyes at the exaggeration. “I don’t plan on breaking up a marriage tonight.”

“How gracious of you.” Harry murmurs, but he leans forward with a mischievous glint in his eye as he shamelessly canvasses Y/N’s body. “You could, you know.  Vincenzo is only a man.  Look how you had Poor Luca drooling tonight.  You in that dress…” He settles his eyes on her prominent cleavage. “Y’look like Aphrodite, almost.”

Despite the heat that flashes over Y/N’s entire body, she keeps her voice dry when she responds. “I don’t know about that; this isn’t much of a grecian look.”

“Well…” A grin creeps onto Harry’s face, igniting his jade irises with humour. “You look like Aphrodite if Aphrodite was a twenty-first century sugar baby.”

Y/N’s mouth drops open before she spits out an indignant reply. “I’m not a sugar baby!”

“Sorry, who bought you that dress?”

“That doesn’t count—”

“And who do you call ‘daddy’?”

Harry can hear the way blood rushes to her cheeks, and it sends a delicious shiver down his spine. 

Y/N, however, glares up at him through her thick lashes, her hands twisting the cloth napkin in her lap. “You’re a prick.”

“I’m simply stating facts, darling.” Harry sighs lightly, ducking one of his hands underneath the table and reaching to give her bare knee a squeeze.  He revels in the way she jumps at his touch. “And I’ve got videos of you whimpering that over and over to prove it.”

“If you keep this up,” Y/N says, forcing her voice to stay steady as she nods to his grasp on her skin. “You won’t be getting any more of them.”

“Is that so?” Harry’s hand travels further up her leg, the metal of his rings icy against the heated flesh of her inner thighs. “Guess you won’t be getting any more videos of me playing with myself either, then.  Fair’s fair.”

The whimper that falls from Y/N’s lips is so quiet that if Harry were human, he wouldn’t have been able to detect it. “Harry—” 

“You don’t like that, do you?” He taunts lowly, continuing to rub over her thigh as he leaves a trail of goosebumps in his wake. “The idea of me taking that away? Of never seeing me lose myself for you on video ever again?”

Y/N clears her throat thickly. “N-No.”

“I didn’t think so.” With his free hand, Harry lifts his wine to his lips, taking a long sip as his darkened eyes stay locked to hers. “So you’d better behave for me then, hm?”

Despite the electrifying way her entire body is starting to fizzle, Y/N still manages to choke out an amused scoff. “You’re starting to sound like a cheap porno, H.  Be careful.”

“Careful?  You want to be careful?” Harry asks, eyebrows poised as he digs his fingertips into the meaty flesh of her thigh. “Alright.”

In one fast motion, Harry snakes his hand completely up Y/N’s dress to cup over her lace-covered cunt, running the pads of his fingers over the dampening cloth.  He hooks one finger into the side of the lace and gives a sharp yank, and although Y/N’s not sure how he does it, or how Harry attained the sudden rush of strength needed to do so, she feels the delicate fabric rip right down the center. 

Before she can even process what’s happened, the act is over as quickly as it started as Harry settles back into his seat, eyebrows cocked in a conceited fashion as he watches her assess the new issue. 

“You’ll have to be careful now, won’t you, minx?  Gonna have t’keep your legs closed like a proper good girl— which I know is hard for you whenever I’m around.” He teases, his hand still clenched under the table as the other raises his glass to his strawberry lips. “Otherwise we might have a little mishap, hm?”

Y/N’s breath stutters in her pounding chest as she clenches her thighs as tight as she can. “You didn’t.”

Raising his hand from beneath the table, Harry opens his palm for just a moment, flashing her the scrap of black lace that had once been her panties before coasting his hand beneath his jacket and tucking the article into his pocket. “Didn't I?”

“Harry!” Y/N hisses, her voice dangerously low as she leans over the table. 

“Yes?” He replies innocently, wrapping his hand firmly around his glass. “Something the matter?”

Y/N gapes at the man across from her in disbelief. “You’re such a dick, you know that?” 

“I promise you, I’m well aware.” Harry laughs lightly as he polishes off the last of his wine. “But it’s not like you don’t like it.  You wouldn’t bounce on my cock if you didn’t.”

Sucking in a harsh breath through her teeth, Y/N clenches the tight satin of her dress in her fists. “God, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Yeah?” Harry quirks an eyebrow with a cocky smirk. “Good luck trying to catch me without flashing your entire arse to the kitchen staff.”

“I swear on my life, I’m going to rip off your—” 

“Ciao, Harry! Bella donna!” Vincenzo’s voice cuts over Y/N’s thinly-veiled threat as he approaches the table with arms wide and a smile pasted onto his face. “Come trovi tutto? Possiamo portarti dell'altro vino? La carta dei dolci?” How are you finding everything?  Can we get you more wine?  The dessert menu?

“È tutto delizioso, Vincenzo, grazie.” Everything is delicious, Vincenzo, thank you. Harry drawls, his grin growing as he turns to Y/N with a condescending tilt of his head. “What do you think, tesoro?  Are you in the mood for dessert?  Or have you had enough?”

Y/N’s mouth is too dry for her to answer, especially with the way Harry’s irises twinkle suggestively at his own words, so she finishes the last dregs of her wine before shaking her head tightly. “No— no dessert for me, thanks.”

Vincenzo heaves a dramatic gasp as he turns his full attention to her. “Bella donna, what is this?  Surely you want to try our dessert?  Even just some homemade gelato?”

“Oh, no, Vincenzo, thank you, but I don’t think I could squeeze any more food into my stomach.” Y/N fights to keep herself from sounding flustered, but she knows it’s a losing battle when she hears Harry mutter something about how wonderful she is at squeezing under his breath.

Vincenzo clicks his tongue with a shake of his head, twisting his astonished gaze back to Harry. “Harry, per favore, sicuramente puoi convincere il tuo appuntamento a mangiare un boccone di dessert? È sulla casa.” Harry, please, surely you can convince your date to have a bite of dessert?  It’s on the house.

The vampire presses his tongue into his cheek as he appraises Y/N again, the clenching of her abdomen drawing his eye more than anything else. Harry uses the tip of his boot to once again trail up the back of her calf beneath the tablecloth, giving her a wicked grin. “You’re sure you don’t want anything else, tesoro?”

Y/N jerks her head once more as a shadow crosses over her eyes. “No, thank you.” She reiterates in a strained voice.

With a casual shrug of his shoulders, Harry twists to face Vincenzo again, voice surrendered. “Grazie per l'offerta, Vincenzo, ma sembra che stiamo bene. Accettiamo solo il conto, per favore.” Thank you for the offer, Vincenzo, but it looks like we’re fine.  We’ll just take the check, please.

The restaurant owner sighs in disappointment, but nods in acceptance. “Va bene, va bene, solo l'assegno. Ma la prossima volta che torni, mi amore,” Vincenzo shifts his attention back to Y/N, who meets his smile as best as she can. “Dovrai provare due dolci per compensare la mancanza di uno stasera, vero?” Okay, okay, just the check.  But next time you come back, my love, you’ll have to try two desserts to make up for the lack of one tonight, yes?

Harry leans across the table and whispers the translation low in her ear, his cool breath sending a shiver down her spine as it rolls over her body.

“Yes, Vincenzo.  Next time.” Y/N promises quickly, clasping her hands tightly around the hem of her tight dress as the thigh slit begins to ride up.

Vincenzo motions over his shoulder for Luca to bring the check, chatting happily to Harry in Italian throughout the whole transaction.  Y/N stays quiet the entire time, instinctively hiding her boiling cheeks behind her hands each time one of them casts a glance her way.  Despite the nerves wreaking havoc in her belly, Harry continues to make casual conversation as he swipes his credit card, laughing and joking with Vincenzo like he has all the time in the world.  By the time the restaurant owner bids them both goodbye, Y/N’s certain she’s sweated well through the thin fabric of her dress from her nerves.

Harry, however, looks perfectly at ease as he tucks his wallet back into his suit jacket. “You handled that well, doll.  ‘M proud of you.” He says easily, rubbing a finger down the condensation dotting his glass of ice water. 

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” Y/N hisses at him, clenching her thighs together as another waiter passes dangerously close to their table. “How am I supposed to walk out of here without anyone noticing?”

“Like this.” Harry rises from the table and extends a hand to Y/N, who eyes it warily from her seated position. “C’mon, love, you’re going to have to trust me.” He goads her with a sigh, wiggling his fingers until Y/N gives in and settles her palm inside his.

Making sure his own body is hiding Y/N from the line of sight of anyone else, Harry helps pull his lover from her chair before removing his jacket with one swift motion.  He settles the rich grey fabric over her bare shoulders, draping the article in such a way that it covers the deep thigh slit that exposes her bare skin. 

“How’s that?” Harry asks lowly, voice tender as he fixes the collar of the jacket around Y/N’s delicate neck. “S’that better?”

The moment Harry’s familiar and intoxicating cologne fills her senses, all the irritation evaporates from Y/N’s veins, leaving behind only the quiet thrum of attraction that’s intensified by the man’s fragrance. 

“Yeah.” She whispers, the cadence of her voice nearing shyness as Harry tugs a lock of hair from underneath the collar of the jacket. “It’s a bit better.”

“Good.” The vampire leans down and stamps his lips to the girl’s forehead, letting his mouth linger for a few seconds before straightening up. “I promise I won’t let anyone see anything.  And even if someone does see something, as long as you’re with me, nobody will say a word.”

Y/N nods gently as Harry grasps her hand in his own to lead her out of the restaurant and back to his car. “Alright.  I trust you.”

That warmth from earlier begins to spread through Harry’s chest again the moment she utters the words. “I’m glad to hear that.” He snakes his hand inside the jacket, brushing his fingertips against her breast before dipping his hand into the pocket.  When he withdraws it, the lace of her ripped panties is visible for only a moment before he tucks it into the back of his slacks with a smirk. “These are mine now. A little spoil of war for my trophy case.”

Despite his protective stance around her as he begins to weave the two of them through tables, Y/N scoffs at the action. “I still can’t believe you did that, you asshole.”

“Oh, I’m an asshole?” Harry glances over his shoulder as he quirks an eyebrow teasingly. “Alright, then.  I can just drop you back off at your apartment, if you’d like.  Go back to my place alone tonight. Gonna have to unbutton my trousers on my own, and peel this nice shirt off by myself, and crawl in between my sheets rather than in between your thighs. Such a shame.”

Y/N can’t stop the whine that echoes the back of her throat. “No, H—”

“That’s what I thought.” Harry steps back from her just enough to tug open the glass front door of the restaurant, his eyes already settling on the valet.  When he speaks, however, it’s just for her to hear, and her alone. It sends a current of anticipation through her veins as it washes across the shell of her ear, his breath smelling of sweet grapes and notes of cherry from their wine, thick with the tangy scent of liquor and cooler than usual from the chilled beverage. Despite that coldness, his next promise settles into her exposed core with a familiar heat that she knows only he can resolve.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’m not done with you just yet. It’s gonna be a long night.” 

[ninetalees]

Sufferance

(noun) the absence of objection rather than genuine approval; toleration.

7 years after the events of Sword/Shield, Gym Leader Bede comes to Postwick to conduct some research in the Slumbering Weald; Hop is his unwilling companion.

Warnings for: Eventual Hop x Bede (cheeryfairyshipping) and eventual M-rated content.

Chapter 1

Hop couldn't concentrate today.

It might have been the pleasant spring sun, filtering in through the window and bouncing off the laminated pages he was pursuing, compelling him to turn his attention to the window. The heat and the amusing scene of the frolicking Wooloo in the fields did a fine job of keeping his attention on anything but his work.

It also might have been the anticipation. Every now and then his gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. Gloria had a match today - only an exhibition one - but Hop always exulted in the prospect of watching her live. It was now 12:45 - the matches were due to start at 1 - he would take his lunch then and sit out in the grass in front of the lab to watch on his laptop.

He got up from his chair and shielded his eyes to peer at Sonia rifling through the shelves on the balcony above. Her back was to him and her humming as she concentrated was a soothing and familiar melody. It was hard to believe it had been 7 years since he had started working with her; they had fallen into a comfortable synchronicity so quickly there had barely been an adjustment period, and it was very early on in their professional relationship that Hop had felt he had been there forever.

"Sonia?" he called. Sonia's red ponytail bobbed as she snapped to attention, and she stood to come and peer over the railing at him.

"Hey Hop," she replied with a smile. "Everything alright?"

Hop grinned back. "Grand." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I was just letting you know I'm gonna take lunch in a few? Gloria has a tournament starting at 1 and I don't want to miss it - if I'm not there to take a call at the end and discuss every single detail she'll go spare." His grin widened at the memory of once having missed a tournament because himself and Sonia were out in the Wild Area on a work project. There was no signal out there, and Hop had forgotten to tell Gloria he would be away (of course he had the tournament recording for his return.) He had come back to Wedgehurst with 5 missed calls, several texts, and a disgruntled selfie asking whether he had died.

"Oh, wonderful! She has matches today?" Sonia threw up her hands in jubilation; to Hop's immense relief, she was not holding a book. "I would love to watch, too. It's been ages since I've settled in to watch a tournament and Nessa is always griping I never get round to watching any of her matches." Her smile became coy. "What do you say to taking an extended break and watching on a laptop in the garden? I can make some ice tea."

Hop nodded enthusiastically. "Sounds like a plan! I'll get the stream up and running." Sonia, to many people's surprise, had never had to be strict with Hop. Despite his reputation for impulsiveness and general air of chaos, he was focused and determined about things he had a passion for. Studiousness and discipline were two traits integral to a successful Pokémon Professor and not ones Hop was famed for, but he had proved himself with his diligence from the start. Hop did not always follow a straight line from A to B, but even with his many stops and detours along the way he almost always managed to produce work to a high standard. But Sonia had known this long before the day she had asked him to come on board as her assistant.

Hop grabbed his laptop from the gleaming countertop and made his way outside with a skip in his step, pausing only to pet Yamper who had weaved excitedly between his legs. It was difficult not to be in a good mood: the sun was shining, work was not too busy for him to steal some downtime, and he was about to settle in for an afternoon of quality battles. Even if he did not do so much of it himself anymore, his interest had not been quelled in the slightest. Watching Gloria on the field was poetry in motion, and a fantastic learning opportunity – watching her direct her partners was a fully immersive lesson in how to draw out Pokémon’s full potential via flawless strategy and iron-clad bonds of trust. Hop set the laptop down on the garden table out back and opened the umbrella before settling down to bring up the livestream of the tournament. Sonia emerged a couple of minutes later, balancing a tray carrying a jug of peach ice tea and two glasses. Yamper trotted after her obediently, careful to avoid getting in the way. Once she had set the tray down and taken her seat, Yamper leapt into her lap as Sonia laughingly scratched behind her ears. “Learned your lesson after years of close calls involving mugs of tea, eh?” she cooed, and Yamper barked happily while Hop chuckled. “You’re not the only one, Yamper. Only recently, despite years of having being told, have I discovered the true perils of running indoors, especially in a tea-laden Sonia’s vicinity.”

They both laughed, then, and Sonia poured the ice tea as Hop hit play. The announcer’s voice crackled and boomed over the laptop speakers, and Hop felt the familiar adrenalin rush course through him as the camera panned over the pitch. There were not many big names in the tournament today – just Gloria, Nessa and some random challengers. Gloria would make short work of them all, Hop had no doubt. Although he didn’t dare comment as such in front of Sonia.

First up were two of the random challengers – young woman and an older gentleman. Hop and Sonia mostly chatted among themselves for the span of that battle, Yamper interjecting occasionally to demand one of the treats hidden in Sonia’s pockets. Hop watched from the corner of his eye as the young woman’s Manectric decimated the opponent’s Blastoise with a wicked Thunderbolt. “Solid,” he remarked, and Sonia looked up from checking her phone. “Mhmm,” she replied, sipping some ice tea. “Who’s up next?”

“Gloria and a challenger.” As he spoke, Hop had gotten out his own phone to shoot Gloria a quick ‘good luck’ text – not that she would need it, or even see it until the tournament was over. But, still – he wanted her to know he was thinking of her.

Gloria strolled out on the pitch as her number, 37, flashed up on the huge monitor behind her. Despite an occasional wave and smile to the roaring crowd her gaze was set ahead, eyes gleaming with steely determination. It had been 7 years since she had taken Leon’s place as Champion, but Hop had never quite gotten over the scale of the difference between them as battlers, both in style and presence on the pitch. Leon had been so flashy, posing and swishing his cape and blowing kisses, hamming it to the max. Gloria, regardless of who her opponent was, always stepped up with an air of aloofness to the crowd, her attention solely on the match before her. Hop always wondered if Rose’s presence and lack thereof during Gloria's reign had anything to do with that, but Leon never brought him up. So Hop never asked.

He was pulled away from his thoughts by Sonia clapping excitedly as Gloria let out Saber, her Haxorus, to face her opponent’s Beartic. The camera panned over the man’s face for a moment and Hop noted the traces of a smug smile on his face. From the perspective of an untrained eye, it might look as though he had an advantage from a type matchup perspective. But Hop knew better – Gloria would make short work of him and not have to withdraw a single Pokémon.

Indeed, Saber demolished the Beartic with a single, well-aimed Close Combat move and the rest of the match flew by in a similar fashion. Hop couldn’t help but smile at Sonia’s rapt attention, her eyes fixed on the screen as she petted Yamper absentmindedly. It was easy to forget that Sonia had once been a fine battler, a rival even to Leon – Hop always meant to ask her if she ever missed it.

Gloria withdrew Saber and bowed with a flourish as the match ended. She crossed the field to shake her crestfallen opponent’s hand, and that was the last they saw before the pitch darkened again in preparation for the next battle. Sonia leaned back as the ad break started, her eyes shining. “My gosh, that was thrilling!” she remarked. “I really do need to try and watch these more often – that poor fellow couldn’t get a move in edgeways!”

“That’s Gloria,” replied Hop happily. He took a gulp of ice tea, as though it had just been him out working up a sweat. “She’s in a league of her own. The more I watch her, the more vindicated I feel in not being able to match her in battle – can definitely see her holding the title even longer than Leon did!” There was a smile on his face as he spoke, but Sonia’s gaze became slightly pitying. “Don’t say that.” She cast her eyes down to Yamper, who was now dozing. “About yourself, I mean. Being good with Pokémon isn’t all about battling.”

Hop fought the urge to scowl. “I know that.” Even after all this time, people seemed so delicate around in him relation to Gloria and her success. Gloria was his best friend, and he had let go the dream of defeating Leon and becoming Champion a long time ago. He knew Sonia didn’t appreciate when he was self-deprecating – because, she said, she valued his input and effort so much here with her. But it annoyed Hop that people seemed to think they would hurt his feelings if they joked about it with him: he wanted so badly to be rid of that legacy of being second-best to Gloria in the Gym Challenge. He walked a different path, now, one less glitzy but fulfilling and important all the same. They were silent as the show returned and the commentator announced Nessa and another challenger were up to bat. Hop’s temporary irritation dissipated as he watched Sonia zap to attention. Nessa was her best friend – Hop suspected she might be more. As he spent most of his days with Sonia, he was privy to details of her life that many others were not: even then, he wasn’t completely sure. But he knew what he saw. He observed them together whenever Nessa came to visit, or whenever Sonia returned from hanging out with her. She always spent the rest of the evening with cheeks flushed with happiness, texting constantly. It was nice to see.

Nessa defeated the challenger with ease, and before long it was the final.

Any air of disquiet that might have remained between them dissipated entirely when the commentator announced it would be Nessa and Gloria facing off in the final round. Hop leaned forward in his chair, near vibrating with excitement. Sonia, too, was tensed eagerly as both combatants waved to the camera with the assured ease of those used to the eyes of the world being upon them. They crossed to the centre of the pitch to shake hands, keeping in line with the finalists’ tradition, then turned to take their places as the commentator announced the match was about to begin.

As Hop had predicted, it didn’t take long. Nessa was a fine trainer indeed, but still, like all of them, was nowhere near Gloria’s level. Gloria was well-prepared with her Bolthund, Lassie, and took down Nessa’s team with one well-aimed electric attack after another. Lassie moved as though she were an extension of Gloria herself, striking with precision in time with each of Gloria’s commands. Sonia raised a hand to cover her mouth as Nessa’s dynamaxed Drednaw came down in an explosion of light, and Gloria and Lassie celebrated in its wake.

“Ohhh,” the sound escaped Sonia in a long exhale. “Poor Nessa.” She shook her head. “I suppose we can’t be surprised though really, can we?” She chuckled. “Wow. I really enjoyed that! Be sure to wrangle me in next time there’s another tournament on. Nessa would be incredibly chuffed if I got into watching her matches more.”

“Would be my pleasure,” Hop replied cheerily. It had been fun to watch with Sonia – perhaps a few more matches and she would open up about her past rivalry with Leon. He would have loved to see her measured, cerebral approach applied on the battlefield. He stood, fingering his phone in his pocket, and Sonia grinned at him. “Off to make a call?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind.” His eyes drifted to watch the screen go dark as the commentator was signing off. “Need to get to unpacking what we’ve just seen, the usual.”

Sonia nodded and stood with her slumbering Yamper clasped to her chest. “Of course.” She turned back towards the back door that was, thankfully, slightly ajar. “Send my best!”

“Always do,” Hop shot back, already turning to dial. He strolled over to the back wall and leaned over it, arm dangling over the side. Gloria answered on the second ring, breathless and slightly echoey in the changing room. “Hop!” she cried. “Thanks for the text!”

Hop laughed quietly. “You’re welcome. Not like you needed it.” He turned his eyes towards the sky. “Great match! The last one especially – Nessa’s going to have to employ more than a half-ground type as her wildcard to get anywhere near you.”

“Ah, she’s amazing.” Hop could picture clearly the self-effacing wave of her hand. “It’s always a pleasure to battle her. All the leaders have their own quirks and eccentricities – the fun is in figuring them out and how to get round them.”

Hop nodded. “Yeah,” he said, when he realised she couldn’t see that. “Like a puzzle. You’d think I’d have been better at it.” They both laughed, and Hop felt himself relax. It was so easy with her.

“Anyway,” she continued. “We’ll be getting in at around 8:30 – you’ll be there to meet us, won’t you?”

Hop froze. “Meet you? Where? Who’s we?” he asked.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “Um, myself and Bede? At the station?” She ventured at last. “We’ll be in Postwick tonight?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Hop took the phone away from his ear to speak directly into the microphone on the top. “What are you on about?”

“Oh wow.” Gloria cleared her throat. “Uh, okay – I figured you already knew, because Bede got onto Sonia first? But he’s coming to our neck of the woods to do some study about Fairy-types in the Slumbering Weald for a month or so, and he asked Sonia to help out with resources and stuff? He got in touch a couple of weeks ago.”

Hop was stunned into silence for a long moment, head spinning. Bede, here? In Postwick – in the Slumbering Weald himself and Gloria held so dear? His relationship with the fellow was complicated; they had managed to leave the past behind them to the extent that Hop didn’t pull a face at the mere sight of him anymore. Bede and Gloria were close friends – or as close as one could be to Bede – and so Hop often ended up spending more time with him than he ever would have of his own volition by association. Hop could manage that; could manage having a drink with him in a group of three or four and not going for the jugular when he said something arrogant or disparaging. He didn’t know if he could manage weeks with him one-on-one, watching him traipse around his hometown and poking into the secrets of the Slumbering Weald.

“Hop?” he was startled back to reality by Gloria, sounding a little concerned now. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you, like I said it’s something I assumed Sonia would have mentioned and it just never came up. He’s staying with my mum – we have a spare room and she’s always delighted to have company, so it’s not like he’ll be hanging around Wedgehurst in the evenings or anything.” Luckily, Hop no longer lived with his mother in Postwick; while he worked only just up the road from his childhood home, at 21 and with a full-time job it seemed about time he found a place of his own. He rented a one-bedroom apartment above the now-closed boutique in Wedgehurst. The previous owner had been the little old lady who had also run the shop; when she had grown too frail to live alone she had moved out to live with her daughter in Motostoke. The family had been happy to rent her previous lodgings to Hop at a reasonable price, him being a local they had known for years. The apartment was small, with only two rooms - a living room-cum-kitchen and a bedroom - and somewhat old-fashioned, with a deep red shag carpet and wooden panelling in the front room, but Hop loved the place. He had made it his own, with his faded Pokémon League posters on the walls and Wooloo-patterned bedding on the rickety single bed. It was home.

“Hop?” Gloria asked again, and Hop shook his head. He could be professional about this – if Bede was coming to study the Slumbering Weald, this was work for him. As long as they didn’t stray too far outside that scope they would be alright. He could do it, for Gloria and for Sonia.  

“Sorry, sorry Gloria,” he replied at last, pressing a hand to his forehead. “It’s fine. Was just a bit taken by surprise, that’s all.” He sighed. “Look, I can’t say I’m thrilled at the prospect but it’s my job to be civil and help him out, isn’t it? Would be a pretty pants professor if I refused to lend a hand to someone in furthering their knowledge just because they got on my tits a bit, wouldn’t I?” His smile returned as he spoke. Honestly, Bede’s topic of study sounded pretty interesting; he was sure they would have plenty to discuss around it and would have no reason resort to petty squabbling as long as they both remembered why they were there.

“Oh, Hop, thank you.” He could picture her shoulders sagging with relief. “You are the best professor ever.”

“Professor’s assistant, at least for now,” he corrected with a small laugh. “You don’t need to thank me, Gloria. I’ll behave myself provided Bede does too.”

“Oh, stop it. Of course he will. He’s a nice guy, you should give him more of a chance.” Hop opened his mouth, his lips forming the shape of a snarled retort, only to sigh instead. No point getting off on the wrong foot with this. “Sure,” he responded at last. “Anyway, what’s the plan tonight?”

“Well, we’ll be getting into Wedgehurst at around 8:30,” Gloria replied. “Then I said I would cook dinner at my place? Mum is away until tomorrow – using a package deal I got as a thank you for an endorsement from the Rose Hotel – so I’m going to crash at home with Bede and then head out early in the morning. He’s going to get up with me and head out to the lab to meet with you and Sonia to discuss what he wants to do.” She paused, allowing that to sink in. “Sorry I can’t stick around longer. Busy, busy.”

“Nah, sure what would you be doing? I get it.” He had to smile at her apologetic tone – he knew if she could stay and supervise to ensure they made an effort to get along, she absolutely would. Hop knew she would love if he and Bede were to become friends – perhaps this was fate.

“Anyway,” Gloria broke the silence, obviously aware Hop had drifted into his own thoughts again. “See you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Hop replied. “See you tonight.”

 ***

The sun was just beginning to set when Hop headed out to the station. It was always a breathtaking sight, the rolling hills of Wedgehurst and Postwick dark blotches against the majesty of the glowing pink-orange sky. Hop paused to observe it, hands jammed in his pockets. He shivered against the cool evening breeze, rocking back on his heels. Just down the hill he could see the neon lights of the station glowing ominously. He pulled out his phone to check the time – 20:24. No point being late, he would only be delaying the inevitable and invoking Gloria’s wrath; the station was literally a 3 minute walk from his home, he had no excuse. He had even gotten off from work early – he suspected Sonia felt guilty for forgetting that his former nemesis would be around town for a few weeks starting tomorrow. She had been so flustered when he had told her. She had been so busy when he had called, she’d said, and once the conversation had finished her promise had gone right out of head. Hop had been magnanimous: he had had time to accept that it was happening and there was nothing that could be done. He was determined to be mature about the whole thing; Sonia, he suspected, was far more grateful he hadn’t made a fuss than she had let on.

As he made his way down the cobblestone street, he could see the lights of the train approaching in the distance. He was struck with the picture of Gloria and Bede sitting opposite one another, chatting and showing each other stupid shite on their phones, the same way himself and Gloria had so very long ago on that first trip to Motostoke. He ground his teeth together, annoyed at the prick of jealousy that accompanied that image. Don’t be stupid. Bede’s friendship with Gloria would never be as deep as the bond Hop and her shared. Getting territorial would not prove a warm welcome.

He headed into the swinging gates at the entrance just at the train pulled up to the platform. The station was fairly empty, as always, save for the handful of people waiting in the reception area. Passengers trickled out, into the arms of loved ones or hurrying on their respective ways. Hop strained until he caught sight of a flash of white-blond. He barely had time to register it as Bede before Gloria was in his line of vision, waving wildly before careening into his arms.

“Hey Gloria,” he greeted, wrapping his arms around her. The moment was so supremely normal that for a second he forgot completely about the bizarre situation he was in and just enjoyed holding his best friend.

That couldn’t last, however, and eventually he had to release her and step back regard Bede lingering behind her. Even when not bound to his gym uniform, he tended towards pink – Opal’s legacy, Hop supposed. Tonight he donned a rose-coloured jumper and pale blue jeans, his long, white-blond hair brushed back into a loose ponytail. The single diamond earring he wore, dangling on a golden chain, glimmered in the fluorescent lighting of the station interior. Hop realised with a jolt he hadn’t even begun to consider how stark and strange Bede would appear against the pastel greens and greys of his hometown. He was surreal, like an accidental splotch of electric pink on a careless artist’s quaint countryside watercolour. 

“Hop.” Bede moved forward, his hand extended in greeting. Hop shook himself from his reverie to grasp it, careful to meet Bede’s eyes and ignore Gloria’s stern look.

“Hiya, Bede,” he replied, shaking his hand before returning his own to his pockets. “Good… good to see you.”

“Likewise.” Bede’s lip curled. Hop was sure he could see the insincerity behind that statement in his eyes and was highly amused by the prospect of annoying him for weeks on end. He had to bite back a snide retort. Give him a chance. Like he hadn’t given him ample chances already – it had been 7 years, and Hop was still unable to warm to him. That had to mean something. They stood for a moment, sizing each other up, before Gloria took Bede’s arm and gestured towards the doorway with her free hand.

“Come on you two,” she insisted, tugging on Bede’s sleeve. “I don’t know about you Bede, but I’m beat. Let’s get some food on and settle in.”

Bede smiled angelically back at her. “Sounds heavenly.” Hop supressed the urge to roll his eyes at that contrived posh accent and dug his hands deeper into his pockets to trail after them towards Postwick.

It was going to be a long month.

***

A/N: Still reeling I actually started this, so out of the game with fanfiction it’s unbelievable, haha. Last time I was posting it was on fanfiction.net and author’s notes were still a thing. Anyways – not sure how far into this I’ll get, but will do my best! Updates will be sporadic because I work full-time and am somewhat rusty with fanfiction and writing in general – but I do adore these characters. Will upload to AO3 (believe that’s where the cool kids hang out nowadays) once I am approved for an account.

And yes, the Poké-nicknames are the same ones I use in-game, hehe.

Enjoy! Feedback appreciated.

[vanchlo]

The Assistant / Chapter Thirty-Six, “I’ll Be Seeing You”

Links: 

- *NEW* Check out the new character survey I filled out from Becky’s POV here!

- *NEW* Take a look at the new character survey I filled out from Harry’s POV here!  

- All chapters can be found here!

- Inspo tag can be found here!

- Spotify playlist *updated often* can be listened to here!

Warnings: None

Word Count: 7.2k words

                                             SNEAKYYYYYYYY PEEK

“I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next two weeks with that teasing around in my head - the fact that I get to work with him every day for five days a week. A dream come true, in every way. I’m rather positive tonight will tide me over until next week when I have my orientation.

I have a good feeling for the first time in a while, so many of them actually.

“God, it’ll be weird going back to being boss and employee again. It was so much easier being just friends,” I remark jokingly, the song flowing from his lips mixing with that of my own.

“Eh,” Harry says, shrugging his broad shoulders covered in his long black peacoat. “Don’ think o’ it that way, Becks, we’re colleagues now, which ‘s even betta.”

Song Inspo: I’ll Be Seeing You by Billie Holiday (click to listen and am I the only one thinking of The Notebook now?) 

               “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” - T.S. Eliot

Confliction knits together in my stomach as I travel the halls on my way to work. Enthusiasm peeks through when I pass the several courtrooms on my way, imagining myself in them sat next to Harry, his co-counsel. No longer are there feelings of disdain and longing when I pass Courtroom #5, or the mailroom I so often hid inside the walls of. Disdain found its way back to me when I entered the door for Administration, my lousy desk calling for me from its corner. I somehow can’t seem to escape that character trait. Nonetheless, a smile stuck to my lips at times throughout the morning as I browsed new work outfits online during downtime. 

The morning went by painfully slow as I waited to try and catch Sophie after her many meetings and phone calls. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure how I would survive two more weeks of the humdrum between these four walls with my new future teasing me. Not when something out of a dream had woven its way into my life now, getting to work with Harry as his mentee, and a second chance at all of it. A second chance I wasn’t going to waste this time. 

“Hey, Sophie. Good morning, I was wondering if I could speak to you about something?” I ask her, finally finding the right moment as she walks by my desk after a meeting. 

“Yes of course, love. I was just going to grab some tea, why don’t you join me?” she murmurs with a smile, waving her arm as a signal to follow her down the hallway to the nearby break room. “Does this have anything to do with the glowing recommendation I gave about you to a certain Mr. Styles yesterday?”

“Maybe,” I laugh softly, holding open the door for her. 

“Did you get called back for another interview?!” she asks excitedly, her long maroon pants twirling around her legs when she turns to face me. 

“Even better, I got the job!” I answer, matching her excitement easily. She lets out a yelp of joy before wrapping me in a hug. 

“I’m so happy for you, love, even though I’ll be sad to see you go,” she hums, the heavy charm bracelet on her wrist brushing against my back. 

“Thank you, I am too. It’s pretty bittersweet.” 

“Yes, indeed. When will be your last day with us?” she inquires, patting my arm on her way to the electronic kettle she’s had her eyes on. 

“The uh twenty-fifth officially, so I have two weeks left to help find a replacement and finish up my work.”

“Ah, that sounds right,” she mumbles as she removes a packet of tea from a box in the drawer, ginger tea. 

“I was wondering if there is any chance that I’d be able to take a day off somewhere in there to complete some orientation for the uh, new job. If not, that’s of course okay. I just thought I’d ask, since sometimes I’m sent home early for the day or some days are slow,” I suggest nervously, clasping my hands together to keep myself from fidgeting too much. 

“Of course. Hmmm, let me think,” she almost whispers, tapping her long pink fingernails against the counter while swirling the teabag in the steaming water. “I think next Friday would be fine, since those days are rather slow anyways. Does that work for you, love?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to uh, check with Mr. Styles about it to see if it works with him. You know, his cases and the like,” I respond uncertainly, toying with the dainty golden ring Skye got me for Christmas, an amethyst stone set into the middle. 

“Is this Mr. Styles the former boss you spoke of?” she inquires, turning to face me with a grin budding on her lips. I’m unsure of what to say and so I nod my head, but I can tell by the look on her face that I’m not hiding my expressions very well either. “What’s that big smile for, huh, Becky?”

“Nothing,” I respond quickly, trying to save myself as I walk around, reaching into the cupboards for a mug. 

“You haven’t been wearing that big smile for nothing, and it didn’t get five times brighter when I brought up his name for nothing either.”

Her name falls from my lips in a futile warning, marked by an accidental laugh. My name soon follows even though I try to ignore it as I inspect the tea drawer, packets ranging from peach, mint, ginger, green, wild berry, and even glazed lemon loaf. I indulge myself and finally try the sweet lemon one, smiling at the smell of the teabag. 

“I don’t know how to put it into words,” I suffice, picking up the electric kettle, watching how the teabag reacts to the boiling water. 

“Feelings are hard to put into words sometimes, aren’t they?” Sophie replies, somehow putting my confliction and doubt so easily into a phrase. 

“Yeah, and they’re scary to admit.”

“That they are, love,” she tuts, her spoon clanging against the ceramic inside of the mug as she stirs honey into hers. “They’re even harder to admit when you have them for somebody . . Am I getting close?”

“Very,” I respond, jiggling the teabag in and out of the scalding liquid, feeling the tendrils of steam tickle my face. 

“Answer me this, are you feeling better about going back to work for him?”

“Yes, very much so, until I start thinking about it too much,” I reveal softly, growing more comfortable telling her as the seconds pass, wishing it were this easy to tell him. 

“If it’s in your plans, perhaps you should tell him what you told me, or start it off that way. He sounded rather fond of you over the phone, you should know. A very kind and attentive man, as well,” she murmurs sweetly, tapping her spoon on the lip of her mug a few times. “Whatever you decide to do, Becky, I wish you luck and I hope you’re happy. Why don’t you go give a ring to tell him about next Friday?” 

“Thank you, Sophie, really. It means a lot to me,” I reply slowly, weight clinging to every word. 

“Sure thing, love. Now go and make me proud and call him, so you don’t have to wait two weeks to see him.”

I just nod, a smile plastered all over my face as I pick up my tea and bring it with me, feeling her hand on my arm. Few people meander the halls as I join them until I find an empty bench tucked away in a private corner. After setting down the hot mug of tea on a windowsill, I can already feel my fingers trembling pulling my phone from my pocket. Once again, the numbers flow from my fingers effortlessly as I type in his number, but then I stop. I delete them and switch over to Recent Calls, hastily tapping Harry (work) before I lose my bravery. I suppose I should get used to calling this number, anyways, I conclude amongst my thoughts. As I listen to it ring, I debate whether to pick up the tea, but when I glance at the shakes consuming my fingers, I decide against it. They only come to shake harder and faster as I wait, and wait, and wait. 

Suddenly the sound changes, but my ears are met with disappointment. “Hi, ya’ve reached tha office of Harry Styles here at Styles and Lawson. ‘m sorry I missed yer call due t’ bein’ out o’ tha office or in court. Please leave yer name and numba, and ‘ll return yer call as soon as I can,” his pre-recorded message trickles into my ears, the same cold one I’ve heard over and over again. I try to remember the last time I heard it, but it must have been years. Wow, years is a long time. 

The beep comes out of nowhere and I’m stumbling over my words already, “Hi, Harry. This is Becky. If you could give me a call back when you get a chance, that would be great. I’ll try to answer, but I’m at work . . Talk to you soon, bye.” 

Groaning, my fingers soon get caught in my hair anxiously. Taking a deep breath, I try to talk myself down and realize that this happens all of the time. He may be in a meeting, in the middle of a trial, on the phone with a client, out for the day- there are so many possibilities. They don’t soften the blow of wanting to hear his voice and not getting to. No, they can’t take that way or make up for the loss. Exhaling, I stand to my feet and go to reach for my tea, right as my phone begins to buzz in my pocket. 

“Skye, if this is you calling in the middle of my shift again, or Robbie,” I mumble behind gritted teeth, blinking hard as I sit back down. 

I don’t even glance at the name on my screen before answering it with a dreary ‘hello.’

“My goodness, don’ sound so happy t’ talk t’ me,” Harry rasps from the other side, his voice having a cooling effect on the hot frustration coursing through my body. 

“I’m sorry, I-I am. I thought you were somebody else,” I reply, trying not to laugh, but it makes its way out. 

“Ah I see, well that person ‘s in fer a bad time with you,” he titters, and I think I can almost picture it. His eyes crinkling, him doing that scrunchy nose thing, the light green speckles in his eyes sparkling, and him playing with his bottom lip. “So what’s up, Becks? I see ya left a message, but I didn’t listen, jus’ called ya back. Shouldn’t ya be workin’?” he teases, his tone changing to a cocktail of firm and teasing towards the end. My favorite sound. All of it, just it all. 

“Yeah,” I laugh nervously, thinking back to what Sophie said, and trying to focus on only the day off. “I just spoke to my boss and she gave me next Friday off, so I can come and do my orientation that day with you. Would that work for you, Harry?”

“Ah, that’s very nice o’ her. She was very helpful and lovely when I spoke t’ her on tha phone yestaday. Ya, lemme pull up me calendar t’ see what I have goin’ on next Friday,” Harry responds warmly, distraction plaguing his voice quickly. 

“Oh she was? She said you were very nice as well, and that she gave me, I quote ‘a glowing recommendation.’ So, what’d you two talk about?”

“None o’ yer business ‘s what. That’s fer me t’ know and fer you t’ not find out,” he quips with a laugh, typing and clicking appearing softly in his background. “Okay, Friday. Let’s see.” 

“Harry,” I tease not so seriously, hearing a humored hum from him. 

“Becks,” he echoes with an affable scoff. “Oh here, Friday. Ya, that should work fer you t’ c’min t’ do yer orientation. How does nine t’ five sound, bug?” he continues, clicking his tongue habitually, something I remember he does to help him to focus. 

There’s that nickname again, Becky. That’s what, how many times he’s used it in the last two days?

Okay, you have a good point, but hush. 

“Great! I mean, that sounds great. I’ll plan for nine am then, and will dinner and drinks work afterward too?” I question, feeling like I’m stepping further out on this limb that I’ve been climbing dangerously. 

“Ummmmm,” he murmurs, clicking his tongue again absentmindedly. Somehow, even that is cute and it’s just so him, and it makes the missing him ache just a little bit more. “No, ‘m sorry, Becks. ‘m s’posed t’ go out t’ dinna with my sista at half-past five,” he reports solemnly, and that ache hits a little harder now. 

“That’s okay,” I chirp, trying to mask the disappointment in my voice. I feel like I do it pretty well, but I’ve never been the best at telling. 

“No, we’ll figure out anotha day. We’ve put this off fer too long now- Okay, lemme look su’more,” he mumbles, and now I’m sure he’s playing with his bottom lip. And I’m also sure that this all couldn’t be better. I get to see him in less than two weeks, and now maybe sooner. 

Yaaaaaaay!

Yipeeeeeee!

“I see, you’re just too busy for me, because you’re such a popular man,” I sigh dramatically feeling the teasing smile tug at my lips. 

“I am not too busy fer you. ‘s jus’ a busy life bein’ a lawyer, so ya betta get ready fer it, Becks. And I dunno ‘bout bein’ popular, I jus’ think ‘s tha bloody New Years thing. All o’ these friends are comin’ outta tha woodwork, wantin’ t’ get drinks or dinna, saying oh ‘s been so long since I saw ya last blah blah. Ugh, ‘s ridiculous,” he drawls with a groan being the period to his sentence, and all I can do is laugh. 

“You can say ‘no’, you do know that right?” 

“‘Course I know, Becks, but I dunno, tha nostalgia kinda draws me in too. ‘s like oh maybe going to get drinks with Matt from uni would be fun, even tho’ he was a prick, but hey he threw those cool parties,” he explains, a chuckle soon devouring his words and then my ears. Oh, how I’ve missed that sound so dearly. “But no, you and I are gettin’ dinna and drinks. Hey, what’re ya doin’ t’night?” 

“T-Tonight tonight? Um, nothing. I work until six, that’s all. Otherwise, you could probably find me sprawled out on the sofa watching FRIENDS or old reruns of Hell’s Kitchen after that,” I stutter, tripping over my words and more so the idea he just pitched, one that knocked me off my feet rather quickly and completely.  

“Ooooo tha trashy shows,” he chuckles and I have to resist rolling my eyes. 

“Hey, you watch them too!” 

“Not Hell’s Kitchen, altho- wait, ya ‘ve watched it a few times, I admit,” he relents, earning a ‘ha!’ from me that pulls a laugh from his lips. 

Oh, I could do this all day. 

Soon you get to!

Okay, don’t remind me, because I can’t have another reason for these next two weeks to be pure torture. 

“Harry watches trashy tv, hmmm,” I coo happily, that magical sound of his filling my ears again, and then my heart. “We should watch more of it together sometime. But yes, tonight would work. What are you thinking?”

“‘m really glad it finally worked out, and ya we will. Um, how ‘bout six-thirty, does that give ya enuff time?” he poses, and hastily my heart thrashes around in my chest with excitement, growing anxious at the thought of seeing him tonight. Thank, God, he said six-thirty so I can stop home and actually make myself look decent. I didn’t even try when I got up this morning.

“Yeah, six-thirty works. Where would you like to have dinner? Um, what about . . . tacos?”

“Tacos?” he chimes in at the same time as me, sending us both into a fit of contagious giggles. “Happy we’re already on tha same page with some stuff.”

“Me too . . So, tacos and we’ll find a pub somewhere for drinks?”

“Ya, I know a good place ‘ll take ya t’,” he rasps, a light coming through in his voice. I’m not sure if it’s my own internalized buzz of emotions, or if perhaps it’s his own showing through. “Shots and e’rythin,” he purs devilishly. 

“No, Harry, no shots,” I giggle, unable to contain it for any longer. 

“Yes, at least a few. That’s how ya celebrate, not with bloody margaritas, bug. I guess I have loads t’ teach ya ‘bout alcohol, I gotta turn ya onto sumthin’ otha than those bleedin’ wine coolers ya like. Those jus’ give ya gut rot and taste like candy, don’ do anythin’ fer a buzz,” he comments, that other side of him shining through now, more and more with every word he lets go. 

“Oh boy, am I in for it with you, or what?” I exhale, happiness sticking to every breath. 

“Yes indeed, ya are, Becks. Betta get ready fer some fun t’night,” he drawls, the honey sticking lazily to his deep voice. 

“But you’re almost thirty, I thought old people can’t have fun, Harry?”

The groan lined with affable humor tells me what he’s thinking first, and then I hear him sigh, “Ya betta not start this again, ‘m yer boss again, y’know,” he snickers, feigning authority in his soft baritone. 

“No, not for a week officially. Not yet. You’re just my friend right now,” I smile, thinking of Sophie when the feelings start to bleed through into my voice, piecing themselves together, although bittersweetly. I know I can’t handle being just friends, but every second more I’m starting to realize that oftentimes, friends has to come first before more. We have some catching up to do, that’s for sure. 

“Alrighty then. Well, yer just friend has t’ go t’ a meetin’ now, and ‘s tellin’ ya that ya should prolly get back t’ work now too.”

“Wait, since when do you go to meetings? Are you trying to be a good role model for me or something? Aw, how nice of you!” I exclaim, almost confident of the surprise in my voice being genuine. 

“Becks,” Harry laughs, the sound consuming his voice and playing in my ear, but not for long enough. God, that has to be my favorite song. “‘ll see ya t’night, love. Six-thirty,” he hums happily, and for once, I don’t have to wish for what he’s having, because I’m having it too. I feel it, the bubbly hope that could drown me in a moment. I want to let it, and I decide to. 

“Bye, Harry. Have a good day, I’m excited to see you.”

“‘m lookin’ forward t’ it too, bug. Bye,” he croons, and I hope he can hear the smile in my voice, because I can see his already. I think his is filled with hope too. 

It’s a miracle that I didn’t spill my tea as I walked back into the admin office, although it may have been a different story if I hadn’t taken that few minute breather to recover. I was even more surprised when tears of joy didn’t leave my eyes when I shared the new development with Sophie during my lunch break. Although I previously thought it was impossible, my excitement for later tonight only grew when I told her about it, and we both freaked out about it. I really do think I will miss her, she was perhaps one of the best bosses I’ve ever had. 

Waiting at my desk for the time to pass, I still can’t believe that later tonight I get to go and have dinner and drinks with my favorite boss of all time. 

+

Low and behold, searching my closet for something to wear later that night seems next to impossible. Each full hanger that I pass feels like it takes with it a precious minute of my time. After trying on and tossing aside three other outfits, I finally decided on one. Luckily, redoing my morning routine doesn’t take very long, and I soon have minty fresh breath and clean skin again. At the last minute, I decide to ditch the heavy makeup, and leave it minimal. I slide my violet peacoat over the striped maroon sweater and dark jeans, and my brown chelsea boots soon enter the snow. 

The smell of tortillas, peppers, and chili powder hits me in the face when the bell tinkles above my head on the door. Voices buzz around the inside of Pedro’s, a local Mexican restaurant I haven’t been to in well, years. That thought comes to me as a shock as I look around, and finally spot the reason for my absence, sitting at the same table in the right corner we’d always claim. I linger there by the door for a few moments, admiring him as he stares at his phone intensely. Unsurprisingly, I find it adorable how he toys with his bottom lip between his two fingers and jiggles his leg resting on the chair’s rung. A warmth grows in my chest at the sight of him, and a combination of excitement and relief builds with every step I take closer to him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve felt it escape me with every step I’ve put between us, and finally now I’m returning to him. 

The red and white menu is glossy between my hands, and sticky in some places when I take a seat across from him. I don’t let a word slip and only focus on the menu, despite his green eyes waiting for me silently. 

“Yer late, y’know. Not makin’ a very good impression with yer boss, are we?” Harry comments, pulling back the scarlet fabric of his button down to tap his watch. 

The menu falls with a feathery sound to the table when I belatedly make eye contact with him. I try to resist the feelings that tug at my lips when I watch the corners of his curl. 

“Hush, it’s six thirty-four. The traffic was horrid, and it’s after hours, boss. And, I haven’t even started working for you again yet,” I chuckle, savoring the way the dimples fall into his cheeks effortlessly, not there a second ago. He seems to relent, shoving his phone away in his pocket, his eyes lifting to mine again. 

“How was yer day then?”

“It was a typical boring Friday. How was yours?” I reply, resting my hands on top of each other and mindlessly letting my fingers dance atop each other. 

“‘Bout tha same. ‘m tryna find a new case, but now I gotta keep you in mind. I gotta rememba ya’ll be workin’ with me in two weeks, so I gotta do stuff like clean my bloody office and be mo’ stringent when pickin’ cases ,” he titters, touching his pointer finger to his head as I try not to lose myself in his mossy green eyes. 

At the sound of his words, I find it even harder not to. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the next two weeks with that teasing around in my head - the fact that I get to work with him every day for five days a week. A dream come true, in every way. I’m rather positive tonight will tide me over until next week when I have my orientation. 

I have a good feeling for the first time in a while, so many of them actually.

“God, it’ll be weird going back to being boss and employee again. It was so much easier being just friends,” I remark jokingly, the song flowing from his lips mixing with that of my own. 

“Eh,” Harry says, shrugging his broad shoulders covered in a thick black Northface coat. “Don’ think o’ it that way, Becks, we’re colleagues now, which ‘s even betta.” 

“Sure. ‘Associate and partner’ and ‘mentor and mentee’ don’t really sound that way, but okay. It’s not like you have almost ten years of experience over me, or anything.” 

“Well ya, that’s what happens when yer tha new fish in tha pond, it happens t’ us all. Ya jus’ gotta climb tha ladder one step atta time, love,” he replies, the dimple in one of his cheeks finding a permanent residence there. 

“Fish can’t climb ladders, silly. And I know, but it’s odd to think that you’re only three years older than me, and have so much experience in law when I’m just starting. I guess that’s why you don’t putz around like me,” I note, drawn in by him randomly sliding a plain silver ring with a black line in the middle, up and down his left middle finger. 

“Wait, what was that, ‘m only how many years older than you? I didn’t catch that,” he teases, cupping his hand around the outside of his ear, inching his neck towards me with the funniest look on his face. 

The only response I give him is the old stink eye which almost makes a laugh explode from his lips. 

“Ya betta watch those ‘old jokes’ y’know. I have power ova you ‘gain, Becks,” he quips, wiggling his eyebrows at me while he does the worst impression of an evil laugh. 

I’m waiting for him to start choking on it so then I can finally laugh. 

His words try to propel me back to the times when I would take his words seriously, but I don’t dare go there. I can’t do that again after all of our random visits earlier this year, and how much they changed everything, including assuring me that he’ll never be that douchey boss to me again.

“Oh yeah!” I exclaim, something sparking inside of my brain. “You’re almost thirty! Ooooo, my prime joke time is coming up,” I squeal with a devilish laugh, rubbing my hands together as he shakes his head disapprovingly, although with reddening cheeks. My name leaves his lips in a breathy giggle as those dimples peek out from his cheeks, saying hi to me. 

“By tha way,” he begins once he recovers and has the bravery to look back at me. “‘m already sick o’ you, so you’ll be working with Myles fer tha week o’ February fourth. I have a case in Glasgow that entire week. Plus, he has an interesting case in Family Court that you should really see, it’ll be interesting.”

“Oh lovely, you’re already tired of me and passing me off to somebody else,” I groan, some dramatics playing in my voice, but not entirely. 

I wish I had a drink already so I could twirl my straw in it absently, trying to hide my heart-crushing disappointment. I remember he had said sometimes I may work with Myles or Rose for a case if there was something better elsewhere, but I didn’t think it’d be almost as soon as I started. Talk about anti-climatic, I ponder silently while my eyes stay glued to the menu, even though I’m not reading any words. There are too many whizzing around in my head for that to happen. 

“Stop it, you pout,” he teases, his hand ruffling my hair. I look up and do my best pout, puppy dog eyes, bottom lip sticking out and all. “‘m sorry t’ break yer heart, but ‘s fer yer best interest, Becks. ‘ve had tha case set up a while, which happens, and ‘ll already have started on it by tha time ya start, but you’ll still be able t’ help me. Myles’ case ‘s far mo’ interestin’ and you’ll learn loads from him. What, has sumbody missed me?” Harry hums, a hand dancing along my arm until it arrives at the crook of my neck where it touches my tickle spot. I squirm and jerk away from his ticklish touch, whimpering in annoyance. “C’mon, pout, let’s go and order.” 

I slide off of the hightop red barstool, following him to the counter begrudgingly and slowly. I mumble a question to him about what we’re getting and he automatically tells me that we’re getting the usual, as if there was another option. We get stuck waiting in a line and when Harry looks over to me, I play the pout extra hard. 

“What’re you still poutin’ ‘bout, Becks?”

“You’re passing me to Myles my second week back,” I whimper, crossing my arms over my chest. 

“Oh stop it, you’ll be fine. He likes you and he’s easy t’ get on with.”

“No fair,” I reply, looking away as the disappointment worsens inside of me. I know I’m being selfish, but I just want him all to myself. I figure that’s not too much to ask after everything that’s happened, but apparently it is. “I’m supposed to be your mentee, and I hardly get to work with you my first week there.” 

“Oh, baby Becks, you’ll do jus’ fine, love. My case ‘s incredibly boring, and tha travellin’ wouldn’t be any fun. I know you’ll miss me, that’s tha real reason yer sad,” he cracks, throwing his arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his side. The sudden wave of his woodsy-vanilla scent conflicts me as does the utterly adorable nickname he used. I want to stay there snuggled against his warm side, but at the same time, I want to pull away to prove my point. By now, I’m not sure how much of my pouting is dramatics or just the plain truth. I have to wait two weeks to work at the firm, just to be passed to Myles within five days. It’s discouraging to think about when my thoughts have been consumed by him in just the last few days, and I haven’t looked forward to something this much in a while.

“Hmmmph,” I respond, sufficing with turning away and not looking at him. I find it difficult to not think about what it would be like travelling with him for a case. My thoughts consist of those like sitting beside each other on a plane, hotel rooms, and sharing a car. Sure, Harry, you say it wouldn’t be any fun, but I’d beg to differ there, sir.

“Hey, don’t be that way with me. Ya still get t’ help me with it fer tha first week, and then ‘m all yers when I get back. Sound good?” he murmurs, rubbing his hand along my shoulder as he presses me to his side again. 

“Fine, only because you’re hard to stay mad at,” I respond with a sigh, soon hearing his melodic giggle that helps to weed away the disappointment wreaking havoc inside of me. 

“Good, coz ‘s only five days, bug,” he hums gently. The closer I am to him, the more I wish he would kiss the top of my head, like he used to do. Ugh. “Ya think ya can survive without me fer that long?”

“Yeah,” I tell him automatically, but quickly I’m unsure of that. I don’t know how well I’ll do with the tease of getting to work with him for a few days, and then having him leave again after that, if only for a few days. This is all turning out to be full of teases with my visits with him being peppered amongst the next few weeks. “It’s right after your birthday.” 

“Ya, happy birthday t’ me on that one,” he exhales, but I hear the smile even if I don’t see it right away. My sudden sadness is forgotten when ideas blossom inside my head of what to get him for his birthday, as he squeezes my shoulder. It’s also hard to ignore the fact that his arm is still around me, and the all consuming fact of never wanting it to leave. 

Soon, the line moves and with it, his arm falls from around me when Harry steps up to order for us. I make him take the plastic cups to fill up our drinks after I get my card out first to pay, him shaking his head as he waddles over to the soda machine. 

“If you’re going to be all sad about it, then you can pay for drinks, as long as it doesn’t get too expensive,” I tell him, listening to the whoosh of the orange liquid pouring into my cup. 

“‘ll pay fer all o’ ‘em, cheap or not,” Harry hums confidently, bumping shoulders with me softly on his way back to our table. 

We both slide off our coats to hang over the back of our chairs, and the chatter of other customers fills my ears as we sip at our drinks. My eyes quickly wander to the scarlet button up fastened just high enough to show his silver cross necklace, black floral designs covering the fabric. It pains me to look away from the thick dark brown chest hair blooming below the cross charm, unsure of when it was the last time I saw that.

“So, what have ya been up t’ since June?” he remarks, replacing the clear plastic straw between his cherry lips. I find it difficult to tear my eyes away to ruminate on his question enough to answer it without sounding stupid. 

“Um, pretty much just uni and working.”

“Oh ya, bloody hell ‘m dumb, ya jus’ graduated. How was it all? I wanna hear all ‘bout it, Becks - tha good, tha bad, and tha ugly,” he continues, warmth filling his lips as his green eyes stare back at mine. Sometimes the rawness inside of them is too much to handle and they take my breath away, every glint of gold and green in them. I’m not sure if you really know what you’re signing up for there, bud. 

“There’s not really much to say you haven’t heard before, or well, experienced yourself during your degree. It sucked at times, the Bar was awful although I feel like the worrying was worse than the exam, and I’m just really glad to be done and to finally have found a job. And, graduation was pretty gratifying,” I recall aloud to him, savoring how he devotes every second of his attention to me and what I’m saying. It’s both lovely and nerve wracking at the same time, especially as a thought pops into my head. I wish he could’ve been there in the stands, watching me walk the line, and hugging me afterwards. I wish . . 

“Ya, sounds ‘bout right. ‘m sorry ya didn’t have tha best experience, bug, but hey like ya said, ‘s ova. Onto bigga and betta things, like they say,” he smiles, and I swear it sparks something inside of my heart that has begun to return in the last couple of days. Something I’m finally ready to feel again. “Where’d ya do yer clinicals at and how’d they go this last Fall?”

“You’re right, and I did them at Turner and Jones over on the east side. They went well, but it was hard at times. It was a whole new place, and instead of sitting at a desk every day listening to lectures or doing assignments online, I was in the thick of it every day. I worked with just about all of their six lawyers there, and got to argue my first case with their help. I even won it, which was hard to believe. They were pretty great, and at the time I was sad I wasn’t able to find a job there, but now I’ve found my way back to you.” 

The way his lips curl up into his cheeks that round out from the expression feels good and hurts at the same time. It chips away at the wall around my heart that’s slowly been cracking ever since I laid eyes upon him again yesterday morning. 

“Bloody hell, ya make me mo’ and mo’ proud o’ you, y’know that? Great job, love . . That’s quite tha trek e’ry day t’ be drivin’ from tha west side ova t’ Turner’s. I bet yer glad t’ be done with that. ‘ve heard good things ‘bout ‘em, and a friend o’ mine even works there. I mean, ‘ve come up against many o’ em in my time in cases, but I respect ‘em,” he muses to me, stealing my idea to twirl the straw around in his ice chips and Coke. I feel the cracking of the barrier inside of my chest as his smile glows brighter in front of my eyes. It’s poised right at me. “Ya, funny how that works, huh? Kinda, ‘circle o’ life’ or sumthin, huh?” I mumble a confirmation, but the rest of my words are whisked away when his name is called from the counter where he escapes to. 

“I can’t believe n’body else was hirin’, that’s mad,” he notes, setting down the red plastic tray that hits the table heavily with wrapped food. “I can’t complain tho’, got tha best new associate I could ask fer.” Words escape me and leave a hot smile on my face as I pick up a hard-shelled taco, gratefulness etched into the lines of my lips. Boy, is he dreamy in so many goddamn ways. 

“What was your life like uh, recently?”

“Crazy busy, I was filled up tha arse with cases. I was in Scotland fer prolly a few weeks total, up in Edinburgh, Glasgow, then Birmingham, Liverpool, Manchester, and all ova London,” he answers, crinkling of the paper wrapper accenting his words. A pause follows his reply as he chews a bite of his soft-shelled taco, two more on the tray in front of him. The smells of cheese, queso, freshly fried tortilla chips, and the sweet churros make my taco taste one hundred times better. The nostalgia and absence only makes each bite taste better than the last. “I became an uncle again a few weeks ago, so that’s been pretty exciting. My sister, Gemma, had a li’l boy afta Christmas. Harper’s ova tha moon ‘bout him, his name ‘s Oliver or they call him Ollie.”

“Awwww, Harry, that’s so awesome! Babies are so much fun! How old is Harper now? I don’t think I’ve met her before, but I’ve heard loads. You should have your sister stop by the firm one day, I’d love to meet them!” 

“Ya, ‘course. ‘m sure they’d love t’ meet ya too, all three o’ ‘em. Speakin’ of, Harper will be four soon. It blows me mind,” he giggles, eyes drowning in the steaming container of queso he plunges a chip into with fingernails coated in pink polish. 

“What else, Mr. Lawyer?” I inquire simply, realizing my fault when he looks at me with confusion screwing up his features, chewing the cheesy chip noisily. “What else have you been up to besides work? Like, did you have a fun summer?”

“Ya, I reckon. I took my mum onn’a holiday down south, that was loads o’ fun. I had some good days at tha beach with Rory, who you’ll meet soon, he’s anotha one o’ me colleagues. He came t’ work at tha firm afta you had left, but ‘ve known him since uni. He’s prolly one o’ me best friends, that bloody idiot, but he’s loads o’ fun,” he responds, reaching for another chip and I take his lead, holding back a moan at the long forgotten taste of Pedro’s homemade queso. The enjoyment spills out of me when I spot the weary look stealing the happiness from Harry’s features as he zones out staring at the table. 

“What’s wrong, was it not the best summer ever?” I ask jokingly although softly, and as soon as the words fly from my mouth, I think I regret them for a few reasons. 

He hums an amused sound, tapping his finger against the side of his half eaten taco before his rosey pink lips part, “It was good, but it wasn’t tha best, by any means. I uh, dated this girl fer a bit, but it didn’t go anywhere. I mean, she was nice and pretty, but it was a mistake o’ sorts. I thought it’d make me happy datin’ her, but it didn’t,” he recalls sadly. 

At the first words about her, my eyes fall and I can look at him no longer, instead drawing shapes in the queso with my chip. I want to eat it, but a tight queasiness knits together in my stomach, and I wait for it to pass. I wait for him to stop talking about her, and for me to stop caring as the confliction runs deep within my bones. I can’t decide if I’m grateful or seething to hear the words that spill from his mouth. They bring me back to the summer from hell and also answers so many questions I’ve had. 

Girl, don’t even go there. 

Stay positive! 

Angel’s right, did you not hear how he said it wasn’t right for him? About how it was a mistake? Not to mention, that he wasn’t happy? 

Okay, you have some good points. 

No shit, Sherlock.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, bringing the chips to my lips. 

“Oh, ‘s fine, Becks. It was months ago, and ‘m ova it. Guess ‘m jus’ glad I realized early on it wasn’t workin’ fer me.”

“Yeah, that’s good,” I say softly, warm cheese and soft peppers tickling my tongue as many other words wish to do the rest. His revelation tries to sink underneath my skin, but I try to brush it away instead, not sure of what to do with it. I’m feeling both sides of the emotional spectrum at the mere mention of his relationship with her. I don’t know how to feel about it, and I don’t want to have to decide. 

“How ‘bout you, did ya meet anybody ova tha summer or I guess, tha fall?” Harry queries lightheartedly, and the surprise of it all pulls my eyes to his. The hints of anger left over from his confession melt away at the care I find in his eyes. Another feeling trickles in when for a second, I think I see an anxiousness hiding in the shallows. 

“God, no. Working, clinicals, and the Bar were more than enough for me. Skye’s the only person I really need,” I respond immediately, surprised at his question, although mutual. My word vomit seems to be biting me in the ass already, and quickly I wish I hadn’t phrased it that way. No, not when I want him to be my person. “What I mean is she’s my bestest friend besides Robbie, but nah, I don’t have much luck with guys.” 

I blink hard with hot cheeks as I finish my first taco and hastily grab another one, hunger and embarrassment fueling my actions. The shell is crunchy and anything but soggy between my lips, and the spicy signature sour cream is warm against my tongue as the cheese melts with every bite. 

“Sounds like we both got shit luck with love, huh?” Harry sighs, shaking his head as he grabs another taco. 

“Yep, it’s the worst,” I agree aloud after taking a sip of my soda, which turns out to be more noisy than I thought it would be. 

Thank God it’s empty so I can go and fill it up and escape this awkward fest, but at the same time there are so many words threatening to spill from my lips. They all basically revolve around the fact that I don’t care if I have shit luck with love, as long as my luck finally turns around for him, belatedly. 

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 172: Festival Planning and New Attack Training

Previously on BnHA: We spent some time with Gentle, our New Villain who commits chivalrous crimes to punish the worst scum of society, such as guys who sell expired pudding. He’s not as popular as that trendy League of Villains because he’s not big on violence. But he does have a new project up his sleeves! Meanwhile at U.A., class A got to work planning their cultural festival program. Jirou was in need of a drummer, and Bakugou somehow ended up getting volunteered. Turns out he’s actually pretty good, but he was reluctant to perform because he overheard some jerks from the department of gen ed talking shit about class A and blaming them for starting trouble all the time. So he wasn’t keen on the idea of performing to indulge these people. However he is on board to aggressively “knock them dead with his sound”, whatever that means! Everyone was like “...well all right then!” And everything was looking up. And then we found out that Gentle plans to invade U.A. during the festival. Because apparently we can never have nice things.

Today on BnHA: Jirou recruits the rest of the band members: Momo on keyboard, Tokoyami and Kaminari on guitar, and her own self on vocals. A handful of kids -- Todoroki, Kirishima, Sero, Kouda, and Aoyama -- are assigned to the “staging” team in charge of making everything look cool. And the rest of the kids are assigned to the Dance Team, including IIDA FUCKING TENYA, because when I tell you guys this manga always delivers everything I want, I mean ev.ery.thing. With that settled, Deku meets with All Might the next day and discusses his recent progress (or lack thereof) with One for All. All Might tells Deku he needs to develop a long-range attack, and they head out to the woods for some training. Deku learns that 20% Full Cowl gives him enough power to unleash wind pressure attacks. And with a little nudging, All Might gets Deku to realize he can create a new attack by activating 20% OFA in specific parts of his body, the way he did back before he mastered Full Cowl. Then to end the chapter, we cut to Aizawa and Mirio, who are bringing Eri to visit U.A. for the very first time.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 199 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.)

look who knows how to play the piano because she’s so stinkin’ rich!

MOMOJIROU IS ALIVE AND WELL, PEOPLE

oh my god look how cute she is

look how cute they are. GOD THIS IS THE BEST

Jirou says she’s gonna be on bass, so they just have guitar and vocals left!

cool cool. they can get literally anyone to do those and I’ll be happy. anyone EXCEPT Iida, that is. because Iida needs to be on that dance floor you guys

lol Todoroki

I’m fucking dying. Todoroki is nailing that space alien combination of “knows just enough to ask oddly specific questions while still somehow being totally naive and clueless”

Mina is explaining to those unaware that “staging” refers to things that set the atmosphere, such as disco balls, sparklers, streamers, etc.

I wonder if putting Aoyama in charge of that would lead to success or disaster

ooh, apparently Aizawa made arrangements to borrow the gym! so they’ll really have room to go nuts

I have no idea what’s going on in Mina’s head you guys but omg

yes. yes. I can see it now

this girl has a fucking VISION and she will not be deterred

TEAM SNOWMAN

okay so I’m fairly convinced now that Mina might actually be a creative genius and they should really let her loose more often in training. let that imagination go wild and see where it takes you. she could come up with some extremely unpredictable strategies. I’m serious

amazingly, no one is even arguing this except for Aoyama lol. he’s standing there all “I’m the disco ball?” while the rest of them are all “oh is this what you meant by teaming up? cool beans”

(ETA: no one argued it because this is literally what they ended up doing. pretty sure the staging team had one planning meeting and were all “okay, so basically just do all that stuff Mina said?” and agreed on it and then spent the rest of the month playing on their phones while pretending to work real hard. they didn’t even bother to work out the actual logistics of it until basically the night before. this is why Deku hadn’t checked that fucking rope you guys.)

I want to save this panel and use it as a meme reaction image omg

and that clack you see is the sound of the intern kids finally returning from their supplementary courses!

they’re excited to also get in on this!

Ochako is surprised that Jirou’s not singing!

-- oh no

when I said “literally anyone” I should have been just slightly more specific huh

oh thank god they’re making these guys try out first

I can’t fucking wait to see this in the anime omg

Hagakure says that Jirou’s singing is actually amazing and she thinks she should be on vocals

but Jirou really doesn’t want to and says it’s just gonna complicate things

but they’re all encouraging her!

oh my god she’s gonna do it!

AND THEY ALL LOVE IT

can’t fucking wait. omg. it’s gonna be like a whole year, but hopefully it’ll be worth it

so now Jirou says they need two guitarists

Kaminari is volunteering which is GREAT because Jirou and Momo are already there, so yeah

but Mineta is also volunteering which is. less great

oh my god

at this point the list of people I ship Bakugou with is significantly longer than the list of people I don’t ship him with, I think

OH NO MINETA CAN’T REACH THE FRET BOARD “BECAUSE OF HIS CHARACTER DESIGN.” OH WHAT A TRAGEDY. OH WELL

sometimes Horikoshi does nice things. I’ll admit

GASP

YESSSSSSSSSSS

THIS IS AMAZINGGGG. DREAM BAND. RIGHT HERE

Mineta is sulking and the girls are taking pity on him, and honestly I don’t mind it. weirdly. because it’s one of the few times he’s not being a little troll. he just looks small and sad

MAYBE I’M JUST FEELING GENEROUS TODAY. Mineta, you can exist today

like, even when Mina offers him a “harem part”, he doesn’t turn completely gross, he just kind of goes red a bit. I’m completely fine with this. Horikoshi can write this toned down version of Mineta and I’m cool with it. but I’m sure it won’t last though. alas

(ETA: my biggest problem with Mineta is that he beat Mirio in that goddamn poll his character has no purpose other than being obnoxious. he literally has no other personality traits besides “pervert.” if Horikoshi made even the slightest attempt to tone down that bullshit and actually try to do more with him I’d probably make more of an effort to at least tolerate him. but alas, that ship has sailed I think.)

holy shit how late did they stay up planning this??

you actually got Bakugou to stay up 5 whole hours past his bedtime. incredible

AND HERE THEY ARE

do you guys think Bakugou knows how to do that thing where you twirl the drumstick around on your fingers

also if he doesn’t get to shout “WE ARE SEX BOB-OMB!!!! ONE TWO THREE FOUR!” then I will forever be upset about the opportunity wasted. in fact, it’s happening in my mind whether Horikoshi likes it or not. that is canon. prove me wrong

(ETA: I have my own mental version of this entire performance and let me tell you, it is very specific)

AND IIDA FUCKING TENYA IS ON THE DANCE TEAM! WE DID IT TUMBLR

I’m gonna play some Yeah Yeah Yeahs because right now that’s kind of my mental image for what the band might sound like lol

so now we’re cutting to the break room the next day and Izuku is having some tea with dad

it’s very cute but also All Might’s wondering if Deku had something he specifically wanted to talk to him about, since he’s meeting up with him at such a busy time

geez All Might can’t a boy just have some TEA with his DAD without being INTERROGATED, GEEZ

but also he’s 100% right to ask, and he does it so gently so that Deku can either take the invitation to talk, or decline politely if he so chooses. All Might really is the best

sure enough, Deku does have something on his mind!

he’s telling All Might about how he was able to bring out 20% of OFA under duress, but only for a short time, and even then it put a ton of strain on his body. not only that but it wasn’t even enough to win

so he’s trying to figure out how he should fight in the current situation, since he can’t master 100% yet

um whoa

say what now??

I mean like, obviously yes, that would be ideal. but are you implying that there’s some sort of obvious long-range move he should be able to figure out?

Izuku says he wants to learn how to do a weather-altering technique (and I forgot All Might could do those; has he even done it since the opening chapter?), but right now he’s not able yet

but All Might says he has “a few other...” and then he trails off

and he’s saying they should change locations

omg. I’m so hyped!?!

so now they’re in a forested area on the school grounds, and Deku has changed into his gym uniform

is this still during school hours. and Deku still has those supplemental lessons on top of that. All Might doesn’t have any classes he’s supposed to be teaching either? just drop all of your fucking responsibilities then why don’t you

All Might is telling Deku to break out 20% full cowl, and Deku is hesitating

“YEAH!! IT’S FINE!” lol okay then

so here we go!

this is always so badass. and I appreciate it so much more when it’s not in the context of a super dragged out fight coming on the tail end of 40 chapters of nonsense

:D what’s he gonna doooo

WHOA

UH, DAMN!?

DEKU DID YOU NOT REALIZE THAT YOU HAD BECOME A TOTAL FUCKING BADASS??!

Deku is wincing though and he’s saying “but in any case, my body’s...”

but All Might is wagging a finger in a knowing way and he’s telling Deku to look back at his journey

damn we got like a powerpoint and everything

does Deku’s mind just naturally think this way. because he’s trained it through all of that obsessive note-taking. I realize this is mostly for our benefit, but it really wouldn’t surprise me if his thoughts actually were this organized

anyways his eyes are widening, because he’s clearly drawn some conclusion from this pattern that I have yet to see! I don’t have a big hero brain like you Deku

GASP

All Might says he wasn’t always bringing out 100% himself??

oh shit

so since he is capable of holding 20% briefly without doing permanent damage to himself, then if he combines points two and six -- drawing out 20% OFA to a specific part of his body -- then he can utilize this badass new air attack!

though All Might says it’s gonna be harder than it sounds, and that it requires significantly more nuanced control

so Deku’s thinking that he’s gonna practice with his fingers

oh god

I’m still traumatized from that fight against Todoroki honestly. I look at this and can’t help but think “oh shit he’s gonna snap them all one by one” oh my god. it’s making me very uncomfortable even though I’m fully aware it’s not actually going to happen. Deku you’ve fucked me up

oh snap and we’re fast-forwarding to the day of the cultural fest!!

(ETA: lol no, I just thought this because I saw Eri there. jumped the gun just a bit)

OH MY GODDD

 MIRIO IS THE SWEETEST, PUREST, GENTLEST, KINDEST SOUL ON PLANET EARTH AND IT’S SO DAMN GREAT

DON’T THINK I DIDN’T NOTICE THE BACK OF YOUR HEAD THERE, AIZAWA SHOUTA. OBVIOUSLY YOU HAD TO BE THERE WHEN THEY WENT TO PICK HER UP

ERIIIIII

SHE’S SO CUTE!! WEARING DIFFERENT CLOTHES FOR THE FIRST TIME EVER!! DID THEY GET HER FUCKING SHOES OMG

SHE’S GONNA HAVE SUCH A GREAT TIME AT CLASS A’S DANCE PARTY. OR AT LEAST SHE FUCKING BETTER. GENTLE I S2G IF YOU FUCK THIS UP... [THROAT-SLITTING GESTURE!!!]

oh my god. I’m so excited oh shit

BONUS:

IT’S ERI’S PROFILE YOU GUYSSSSS. I’m gonna link to it over on aitaikimochi’s tumblr! here!

THIS OUTFIT IS THE CUTEST EVER. I’m gonna gush over it some more in tomorrow’s recap too. it’s just so cute

the clothes Aizawa got her just go to prove that no one is perfect. having some flaws just adds to his charm though

I also want to see Eri eating apples with Tokoyami now

so she is indeed six! my approximate guess was right! however as of where the manga currently is, she’s just about to turn seven. she’s getting so big! they have to figure out what to do about school for her. although her dad is a teacher so

[the-ultimate-wish]

The Good Ending

Part 1

—

There they were, 6 unfortunate children with their souls trapped in the underground. Decades upon decades passed, and within that time, their void opened up into thousands of worlds. Worlds where they could escape to, experience life, and learn how not so alone they were in a multiverse. Though with that temporary freedom, they learned of a common outcome to their demise, they fought beasts and villains and gods, they learned that though life was given to them it could easily be taken away. And they learned...

The end was now.

—

After returning from the havoc of Pandora, Pacifica found herself feeling incredibly ill; figures. In a universe where her form was corporeal she was bound to get sick. It was just awful. So she was left off at the inn to rest for the time being, dying internally from the boredom. She would kill to not suffer this overbearing sickness anymore, literally. It was almost a plausible thought, that is, until she realized how tiring it was to even stand up and walk. That's how bad it was.

Meanwhile, Dante had managed to have gone undetected the whole time working within the enemy ranks: MAST. Granted, he was really questioning why this monster group had added him on despite being... Monsters Against Soul Traits... but he'd soon prove useful to them once he got his hands on a potion to strengthen monster souls. If he didn't... it was off with his head. During the Pandora havoc, Dante barely realized anything actually happened, but once everything returned to normal he figured something was up. And also how long it had been. This was not good. Not only had- he could only assume- Pacifica gone adventure wild, probably gaining herself more lv, but he had left their universe for too long without communicating with his group. There was bound to be repercussions.

First things first however, he had to go locate Pacifica. Whether she liked it or not, she was coming back with him to the void to test a theory he had about still being stable in their world. "Hopefully it won't be too late," he thought to himself. With the check of his phone, Dante discovered the various unread messages on his cell and found Pacifica's message about her being stuck at the inn. Well that was easy enough. Dante quickly made his way over to the inn and up to where her room would be.

—

"God, I wanna dieeeeee. Againnnn," Pacifica groaned, currently sliding down her bed and onto the floor for some sort of physical activity. "This fucking suuuuuucks."

With a twist and a push, she completely planted herself on the floor face down and groaned into the carpet. "I never got sick when I was dead. Is this my karma? For being alive again? Maybe it was my immortality back home that kept me from getting sick..." She looked up breifly, "Yeaaaaaaah! That's it! I gotta fff-ucking become immortal! Maybe the bats- the vamps bat friends will help me out." Flopping onto her back now, Pacifica cupped her hands and droned out, "Piiiiiiiperrrr... Chloooooeeeee... come get meeeeee..."

Just then, the door opened up and Pacifica whipped her head towards it. "Aha! God answered my prayer-!" She gasped, but was stopped short at the sight of red hair and a purple jacket. "Oh Dante. It's just you." Defeated, she plopped back into the floor.

Dante looked confused. He wasn't expecting that kind of response from her, but he quickly realized that she was just sick. Well... maybe more than sick. "Pacifica? What in Irene's name are you doing on the floor?"

"I'm contemplating my mortality."

Had he not known better, he for sure would've assumed she was drunk. "Okay- get your sick butt back into the bed. Clearly you're in no condition to be going anywhere-"

"Hey where were you?" Pacifica got some of her senses together and remembered his very clear absence for an extended period of time. The question stopped him in his tracks to help her up. "Like, seriously. I think the last time I saw you was... at that beach? Back at that Ebott universe- the uhhh one big city place. Then you were gone for the dragons, though to be fair so was I..." For that brief pause, she stopped talking and stared off at the ceiling feeling a headache coming on.

Dante took the chance to go to her and help pick her up from the floor. "Uh- I was..."

"And then you were gone when the whole 'world merging in a box' happened, which was like... months."

He carefully moved her back onto the bed and sat her down. "I was... around," he improvised. "We just didn't find each other. But I guess I'm glad you're not dead?" Clearly, she did not look very alive at all and maybe he was starting to assume she was becoming a zombie.

Pacifica scoffed. "I can't fucking die. We're immortals. Kinda. Nothing can kill me. Well, maybe, unless like I turn into a vampire. Heyyyy! Wanna become a vamp with me?" She turned and patted his arm all excited. "We can become fucking immortal man! Let's do it!!!"

"Uh no. Hard pass," Dante glared at her. "And I'm not letting you become a vampire; that's ridiculous." Even though he almost considered it once before when he was dating Chloe... he kinda missed her.

"Don't be a lil bitch Dnate," she slurred. "You're just whiney because Chloe dumped you and is a vamp. When I'm better, I'm gonna become a vamp and live forever and be all cool and get all the pimps- no wait I'll be the pimp-" Pacifica was interrupted by a shove as Dante got up to stand.

"Seriously, Pacifica? How many times are we gonna have this argument. And besides, becoming a vampire is a terrible idea. Not only were we temporarily immortal in the underground, but then we were also immortal as ghosts in the void, and now you want to live through that torture again in life? What about your friends, huh? Say you became immortal and we finally got our group to this universe safely. You wanna watch us all die again?" Dante caught a fleeting moment of awareness on Pacifica's face as he continued speaking. "Think about it. They come here and they live life again and everything is all fine. They experience things, they laugh, they cry, they grow... they grow up. And they grow old..."

As the words came out of his mouth, Dante slowed down and realized himself how... how nice that'd actually be. At first, he just wanted to cancel out Pacifica's stupid illness induced dream of immortality for her sake, but perhaps he was actually getting somewhere with this. Maybe they could get their friends out; of course, only after he solved their glitching problem and figured out if leaving destabilized their universe... Yeah. "Oh my god that's genius!"

Then he heard a faint sniffle and quickly turned around to see Pacifica whipping at her eyes. Had... was she crying? What did he say? "...Pacifica?"

"Fuck off." She turned away, still rubbing at her eyes.

Shit, what did he do. What does he do?

"I get it okay. It's just a fucking joke." Her nose got runny, so she ran her hand across get nose to catch the snot from dripping down. Fuck him. "Thanks for the shitty thought of Kaipo dying on me," she thought to herself. In contrast to Dante's hopeful take away from his speech, Pacifica pictured a horribly depressing future where they all died for good. No goodbyes, no futures together, and Kaipo's lifeless body in her hands. She was just making a fucking joke...

"Uh..." Dante was at a loss. Was she talking about the immortality? Did she catch on to his idea and thought getting the others out was a joke? Was it just the sickness convoluting her emotions?

Well the friends thing wasn't too far fetched, he figured. "Uh, you know, I think there might actually be a chance now to finally bring everyone over. I... when you asked what I was doing gone for so long, I actually looked into some resear-"

Pacifica snapped. "Oh, so now you care about them?!" From his blank expression, she pushed on. "Where the hell did this sudden interest in our group come from, huh? Why bring them up now when you were gone for a long time. And- god damn- you were even the one who wanted to keep everyone in the void in the first place!"

—

| Next

[in-the-grip-of-depression]

In The Grip Of Depression Chapter 15: Slowly Losing It

Chapter 1|Previous Chapter|Next Chapter Trigger Warnings: mentions of blood, violence, vomiting, torture

Roman popped up next to Thomas and sent a glance at the bottle in front of him with a shudder as Thomas asked about Virgil.

This was what had been happening for the last two weeks and Roman said what he usually did "We haven't seen him yet"

Thomas sighed and glared at the bottle of pills. "What about Pr... Depression?"

Roman grimaced "He's gone quiet now and stares at the trees as if they're going to grow teeth and eat him."

Thomas frowned at that "Do you think maybe he's staring at Virgil?" he asked in a shaky voice.

Roman shrugged "Like I said, we haven't seen Virgil so maybe."

Thomas sighed again. "I hate this. I wish we knew if he was OK."

Roman put a comforting hand on Thomas's shoulder. "we all wish this wasn't happening but this is what Virgil wanted us to do so we have to do it."

Thomas's phone went off and he turned off the alarm and grabbed the bottle of antidepressants. He tipped one onto his hand and gulped it down with a mouthful of water.

"It never gets any easier." he murmured "Each time I take one I feel so horrible and guilty."

Before Roman could say anything Patton appeared, panting.

"Roman I was doing the usual check up on the barrier and I think I saw Virgil." he said quickly and Roman turned to Thomas who said "Go, see if you can see him."

Roman didn't need telling twice and immediately went back to the mindspace, running to where the barrier was, followed by Patton.

When they arrived Logan greeted them. "Pres.... I mean... Depression has been more restless than normal."

Logan stumbled slightly over Prestons name. They'd all decided that to help the process they'd start referring to him by his label rather than his name but Logan was still getting used to it.

Roman looked through the barrier which was becoming slightly more opaque as the days went by. Logan had a theory that it was strengthening each time Thomas took a pill and that's why it was becoming harder to look through.

On the other side was a ragged, dirty, slightly bloody looking Preston who was staring into one spot without blinking.

Roman turned his eyes to where Preston was staring and noticed something flitting between the trees.

"I think I can see something." Roman murmured when suddenly Preston started backing away until his back was against the barrier.

"what's going on?" Patton asked but got his answer as a dark cloud seemed to seep between the trees and a dark figure lurched towards the barrier.

"is that.... Virgil?" Roman gasped in disbelief.

Sure enough the cloud dispersed to show Virgil limping towards the barrier. His face was littered with scratches, his hair wild and untamed, his eyes were dull and rimmed with black. His arms seemed to be bleeding freely in some places from recent looking injuries and his clothes were torn and stained with blood.

Overall he looked like he'd been through hell and the others hated that he had to go through this.

He eventually came to a stop, his eyes flitting from each of them before coming to a rest on Preston.

"If one of us kills the other I wonder how that'd effect the situation. Would the barrier lift and consider it a job well done or would Thomas have to stop taking the medication? If that's true then how is he supposed to know when it's worked because from what I've seen this barrier is getting harder to see out of and if no one can see what our states are they can't tell Thomas when it's safe to stop taking the pills." Virgil spoke quickly in an emotionless voice, hoarse from all the screaming he'd been doing.

Preston seemed to flinch at Virgils voice which shocked the others.

Virgil let out an empty laugh at Prestons reaction. "Don't worry about any of that, I don't plan on killing you just yet. I'm a bit fucked up from this process but I haven't become the utter monster you said I will. Not yet anyway."

Roman cleared his throat and asked "Virgil why did you disappear for so long?"

Virgil pulled his eyes away from Preston so they were locked onto Roman.

"There's no point in me going through this if the rest of you are going to suffer alongside me because you're watching me screaming in agony everyday. You guys don't need to see that."

Roman sighed "it would still probably help us more than not being able to see you at all so we don't know what's happening."

Virgil took a few steps closer to the barrier and gestured to his scratched up face. "You really think you can stand there and not react when I start doing this to myself in an attempt to block out the pain radiating through my entire being?"

Patton sniffed and said "We're concerned kiddo and the not knowing just makes us think up the worst scenarios."

Virgil closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Fine, I'll stay out here for the next day or so but you'll see. Its better for all of us that I stay as far away from the barrier as possible."

Preston suddenly used the barrier to push himself to his feet and took a couple shaky steps away from Virgil.

"What are you doing P.. Depression?" Logan asked.

Preston winced at being referred to as Depression but otherwise didn't react to Logans question, he just kept his eyes on Virgil warily.

Virgil suddenly inhaled sharply and backed away from the barrier his eyes darting towards the trees and then back to the barrier as if deciding whether or not to make a run for it.

Roman stared at Virgil in concern and shock as Virgil growled out "You want to see what I go through each day? Then keep watching because today's show is about to start."

Preston was shaking slightly and he had backed up against the barrier with a half-hearted sneer on his face.

"I think todays pill is kicking in." Logan muttered.

Virgils eyes were full of unshed tears as pain began to flood his senses. He couldn't hold back the shriek of agony as it felt like everything in his body had been set on fire.

Preston was in a similar state except his mouth was open in a silent scream.

The barrier pulsed and both of them suddenly let out matching screams which made the others flinch as they collapsed on the floor.

Virgil started clawing at himself and reopening some of the scratches on his face as the pain kicked up a notch.

He started choking as something hot bubbled in his throat and he pushed himself onto all fours in an attempt at getting rid of the sensation.

Prestons screams cut off suddenly as blood splattered the ground around him. The red liquid was pouring from his mouth as he struggled to breathe.

Virgil also began coughing up blood until both of them were kneeling in a pool of blood.

After a while the pain and coughing up blood came to a stop and there was a long silence where the only sound was Virgil and Preston gasping for breath.

Pattons face was streaked with tears as he held onto a rather shaken Logan who hadn't seen this type of reaction to the pill yet.

Roman had seen Preston coughing up blood the day before so he wasn't as caught off guard but seeing Virgil like that had definitely got to him.

He wished he could break down the barrier and rescue Virgil but he knew that it was a foolish dream that he wouldn't be able to make happen.

Virgil had apparently recovered enough to get to his feet again but his eyes had a strange glint to them and the way he was staring at Preston was definitely scary.

Preston sensed Virgils gaze and they locked eyes, both of them with that same look in their eyes.

Preston got to his feet with a creepy smirk on his face as he rasped out "Your 'friends' seem to think they're safe on the other side of the barrier but I can still hurt them if I hurt you"

Romans eyes widened at that and waited for Virgil to retort with some sarcastic comment or insult but was utterly stunned and horrified when Virgil just grinned and replied in a harsh growl "Try it and I'll rip your eyes out and shoved them down your vile little throat."

Preston took a small step to the side, causing Virgil to do the same the other way so they were now circling each other like two wolves readying themselves to tear each others throats out.

"Remember the good old days when I could make you cry just by bringing up how much the others hated you?" Preston taunted and Virgil let out a small snarl "That had nothing to do with anything you did though. If I'd been in my right mind I wouldn't have fell for half your shit."

Preston was smiling smugly "But you weren't and I almost destroyed Thomas with a few simple words and threats. You were weak and so easy to break."

Virgil suddenly laughed "the key word in that sentence was 'were'. Maybe back then I was weak but not anymore."

Prestons eyes flittered to where the others were watching with fear on their faces and then back to Virgil with a sly smirk. "Really? So you're not the same weak little trait who listened to every word spewed by De....."

Before Preston could finish Virgil had launched himself at him and his hands were around his throat, squeezing tightly.

"don't you fucking dare!" Virgil roared, black smoke starting to form around him as he glared down at Preston with a murderous expression.

Preston chuckled weakly, his gaze flickering from Virgil to the now utterly horrified expressions on the others faces. His plan was working.

Virgil was consumed by his anger and would have probably continued choking Preston of a familiar voice hadn't called his name.

He looked round, noticed the tear streaked faces of his friends and then looked back down at Preston who he quickly released and jumped away from as if he'd been zapped.

He backed away from Preston and stumbled over, the black haze vanishing as he realised what he'd been doing. He sat staring at his hands in horror while tears started to fall from his eyes.

"What's happening to me?" he whispered in despair, barely noticing that the others were trying to speak to him.

He remembered what Preston had said during the first day of being here, about how at his very core was a cruel monster.

He kept having moments where he felt so ready to hurt someone and he'd been fighting it ever since he'd punched Preston and damaged his cheekbone but as the days progressed he was finding it harder to stop himself acting on the violent urges. He truly was becoming a monster and he was terrified.

He clenched his eyes shut, not caring if Preston managed to recover and attack him. He thought back to when he'd had the idea of antidepressants, he'd been so ready to sacrifice himself to save Thomas and the others.

He still felt like that but he knew they were starting to regret letting him go through with this. They wouldn't be able to continue down this road when they saw the thing Virgil was becoming because of it.

Virgil needed another plan. He knew that if they stopped with the pills now he'd probably end up becoming a worse monster than Preston had ever been, with his ability to force Thomas to listen to him. He wondered if he could maybe convince the others that he was a danger to Thomas.

He remembered how they'd reacted when he'd woken up from his coma and shut down that idea. Maybe he could convince them that he and Preston were in league with each other? Virgil knew he wouldn't be able to do that. He hated Preston way too much to even try and pretend, besides Preston wouldn't play along.

He was jolted from his thoughts by a sharp pain in his back and his eyes shot open to see Preston standing over him with a smug grin on his face.

Virgil glanced down and noticed the knife Preston had apparently kept a hold of was now sticking out of his back. He vaguely noticed the others screaming and shouting his name before black smoke suddenly shot out of him and blasted Preston backwards several feet until he collided with the barrier.

Virgil grimaced as he tugged the knife out of his back, ignoring the blood that began trickling from the wound.

He stood up, the black smoke swirling around him wildly as he examined the knife in his hands. He'd reached a decision about what to do. He was just going to explain what was going to happen and make sure they knew the importance of making sure Thomas took the pills.

First, however, he had to deal with Preston.

[inner-whirlwind]

Why relationships are not for me (but I secretly hope they were)

I always knew I wasn’t meant to be loved.

And yes, I know what you’re going to say, I’m young and I still have time.

But trust me, even if that’s true, it’s not going to happen.

And honestly, it’s fine. I’ve made peace with it a long time ago, but the irony is that deep down, I do want to date someone. I want someone I can be vulnerable with.

At the same time, I hate the idea of being vulnerable with someone. Like I can’t even imagine someone who would know all my quirks and weird traits and still decide to stay. Still decide that I’m worth it. That’s just something I doubt it’s ever going to happen.

And even though I have, in some way, come to terms with the fact that I won’t be in a relationship ever, it’s still something that I would like to experience, you know? The romantic in me will always hope I experience that at some point.

But I’m terrible at emotions. And even worse at loving myself. I have mastered the art of self-deprecation. And the worst part is that no matter how many people tell me they care and believe in me, my head still tells me that I shouldn’t trust them. That what they are saying it’s not true.

Let’s not get started on my anxiety. The constant whirlwind of emotions and thoughts racing through my head, constantly 24/7, 365 days a year is exhausting. It doesn’t help with the fact that I should be better at loving myself. I’m constantly over analyzing every little interaction I have. And therefore constantly beating myself up over every single thing I do.

For you to understand why I think the way I think, let me tell you about my love life. Or lack thereof.

I’ve always only liked (like really like) my friends, or people that I knew or interacted with (later, I discovered there’s a term for that: demisexual). But since I was little, I was too shy to ever confess my feelings. I was content with admiring from afar. I never had a high school sweetheart (or anything remotely similar). For most of high school, I only liked one boy. He was the best soccer player in my grade (I love soccer, by the way) and was just funny and nice to everyone. There was only one issue: He had a long-term girlfriend all throughout high school. But again, I was happy living in fantasyland, maybe because I didn’t want to get hurt by acknowledging that there was no one who liked me (nobody getting a crush on me is one of the few constants in my life, to be honest). Or that I always got a crush on people who would never return my feelings. So high school came and went with just fantasies of what would’ve happened if I wasn’t the person I was.

Then came college.

It was my chance to start over. And boy didn’t I take advantage of that. Like I said, I only get a crush on people I’m friends with, for the most part, which didn’t change in college. My junior year, I discovered what my friends sort of had guessed during high school: I like girls too. She was a close friend of mine.

Figuring out and accepting I did like girls was a rough time. It was a lot of getting to know — and accepting — myself, a lot of talking with others. There was also another first in this situation. That the person I liked might like me back, if I were to believe what people I confided in were telling me.

Based on my previous history, it was a wild concept. And unsurprisingly, I managed to fuck that up too.

Once I admitted I liked her, the question remained of whether I should tell her or not. You see, I value friendship a lot. And the last thing I wanted was to lose that. She was my friend and I would’ve hated losing that.

After chickening out a few times, I managed to tell her how I felt (because I was done being a coward, I told myself). It didn’t go as I wanted (because it never really does for me, at least in this matter).

I still remember parts of the conversation.

I called her on the phone (first mistake).

I remember the highlights of the conversation: me telling her something along the lines of ‘hey I know we’re friends but I also like you as more than that. How about we give each other a chance? But it’s totally cool if you don’t feel the same’ (because I had to protect myself).

And her, taking a moment before -- gently? -- letting me down, saying that she can’t say the feelings aren’t mutual but that because of her experience, it’s best if we remain friends.

(My other mistake was rushing into telling her how I felt, I would later learned)

I said yes, of course, because I never wanted to lose her friendship. (It still didn’t help).

We stopped talking for a few months. Or rather, she stopped talking to me and the thing I feared happened: We weren’t friends anymore. It was pretty traumatic (and maybe another reason why I’m now so afraid to move on and think of being a relationship with someone).

She later came and apologized (and explained why she acted the way she did) and we started over -- sort of. At least, the friendship was restored. We even went on to become roommates.

But the thing about me is that I have trouble moving on. And in some way, I doubt I ever fully do. Like I will get a crush on someone else, but a part of me will always feel a little something for the other person.

And for those wondering, I think I still like her. And yes, we still live together. The thing now is that she’s getting back into the dating game (which I always knew she would because she’s so hot). And I get a little scared when I think that one day she’s going to find someone and move on, and I’ll be left alone -- without a roommate and without a friend.

And yes, it’s my own fault for subjecting myself to this torture, which I guess in some ways prevents me from moving on. But at the same time I always just wanted to have her in my life. And the worst part is those little moments where I can see the potential of us that keeps the -- very tiny -- hope inside me that she’ll ever feel the same way (which she won’t, she won’t, she won’t, I need to remind myself).

And that brings me to another point. That hearing her talk about all these dates and all these people she like is only a reminder that I wasn’t good enough. And that I’m probably never going to be. That’s probably the part that hurts the most. Mostly because my head already tells me I’m not good enough, and I now have a constant proof and reminder that what I think it’s somewhat true.

I’ll admit it’s weird to live like this. I just hope I’m able to still be the friend she needs until she no longer needs me. Because that’s going to happen at some point. Because it’s me and I have a knack for fucking shit up, so why would this time be different, right? She will join Bruno (the soccer dude from high school) in that small club of people I will forever have a tiny crush on. That’s the life I have decided to live. And who knows? The romantic in me will probably always hold the hope that a person will come my way that will like even the most eccentric parts of me. That will prove wrong all of my assumptions (but I highly doubt it). And maybe all of this will just be a bad memory soon. Or maybe not.

// 

11.12.18

[pass3rby]

Caught By Your Past

25th Part

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed Pairing: Altair x Malik Warnings: modern AU, mature, OOC, original female character; unbetaed.

A/N: Good morning, San Francisco (or any other city of your choice for that matter)! Let's kick the day up, shall we?

She was on her way back home from campus when her phone went off. Having to fish it out of the tangle in her bag – USB cable, flash disc, second one, tissues, earbuds, lipstick – almost made her regret her habit of towing around the whole tech station and then some. Almost. She stumbled across her phone soon enough and the thoughts of getting rid of all those things first thing after stepping over the flat's threshold, disappeared again.

Checking the display, she gave a dejected sigh before accepting the call.

“Yeah?” So maybe her tone held a bit of a fake cheer, but there was no need to ruin someone else's mood, was there.

“There's this place I've heard is pretty rad!”

She figured as much; an eagerness to check out new places was a well-known trait of her friend. Trademark, barely restrained excitement in Mary's voice hit her full blast and really, was she ever void of energy? Gie was yet to see her anywhere near depleted. It would feel so good to talk with someone of a similar exhaustion level to her own. Maybe she could call Evie... Jacob's a pain in his sister's ass, too. That might work.

“Enjoy,” keeping up with the current conversation, she went with a sudden spur of a moment and entered a convenience store she was about to pass by. Time to treat herself; who knows how it'll look at home when she gets there. While choosing a thoroughly inappropriate late snack, she might as well listen to Mary, gushing over this new hot spot.

With luck, she only wanted to spill the beans and details about the new place and that would be the end of it. Gie was out for count as it was, just happy to drag herself to bed. Normally, she would welcome an opportunity to go out, but the constant hot & cold vibes coming from an unnamed pair of lost cases was starting to take its toll on her. Just as she was leaving for today's lessons, she heard them yelling again. And although staying out would keep her away from that for a little bit, she was ripe for a generous hibernation, not an evening out.

“You have to come with us!”

So, Mary was gathering a crew for the night out. Gie went with a neutral response, while absentmindedly checking one of the apples on sale:

“Sounds amazing-”

“I thought so, too! Pretty sweet. It's in a nice part of the city, too. Kinda dingy street, but it's not like we're gonna get jumped there.” True social life enthusiast that her classmate was, her mouth went two hundred miles per hour already, not even waiting for the explanative part of Gie's negative response. Also, no to that apple. Neither unhealthy, nor with enough chocolate percentage in it.

Tough luck today, buddy.

Skirting the whole fruit & vegetables section, she dived further to the more sin enabling and supplying section of the store.

“Altair and Malik are at each other's throat again.” There. At least she could make use of Mary knowing about the situation. Saves loads of time otherwise spent by a lengthy explanation. Maybe she won't even need to ring Evie up, after all.

Her friend, being a trooper, jumped promptly over onto the new topic like a pro.

“Thought you said neither of them is Spanish. Or French.”

“They're not, smartass,” and that chocolate looked tempting. She wasn't going to lower herself to buying an ice cream bucket, but that extra large hazelnut milk chocolate bar had her name on its wrapping. “You met them both to know that yourself.”

“So what's the deal?” Mary's voice was intent on the topic, fully focused like she always was with everything she decided to participate in. A good friend although and at the same time because of her brazen attitude, right there.

Okay, chocolate. You're coming with me. Do not resist and I won't be forced to use handcuffs on you.

Apprehending the criminal, she turned on her heel to go fetch something to drink, too – before re-turning around to grab a second bar. Just in case.

“I don't know. I mean, they are sorta... all-or-nothing kind of deal?”

“So, they either fuck or hate each other.” The words coming from the phone stayed true to its owner's spirit – no beating around the bush, they mowed the topic right over.

A vivid memory of mum threatening to wash her mouth with soap whenever she 'slipped', popped up in her mind. Mary wouldn't've last one day visit at their house without frothing at the mouth – one way or another. Funny thought right there.

“Pretty much. Without the-”

“-fucking. Yadda yadda yadda. I don't know if I should laugh at your brother or rethink my gender and step between them and wait which one would grab my ass first.”

“Mary!”

“What? They're attractive! Ten out of ten would tap that.”

Most of her friends did not miss the opportunity to tell her how dumb she was to let Altair go when their pack of she wolves was out last Friday. Mary'd just shrugged. 'Well at least you're out of competition if the guys ever changed their mind' – that're her exact words. While at least one of the girls would mean them, the free-spirited drinker had been quite obviously taking the piss. Like right now. Tough empathy – that's what Gie called it; Mary was the best.

Mood getting back on its feet, having shaken off the gloom, Georgie chuckled wryly and joined in the game.

“You'd stand no chance anyway. They wouldn't even notice you there.”

“That bad?”

“Their eyes are boning each other constantly, only their bodies resist the pull.” Now, that was a relief to say it out loud. Gie picked up a flavored green iced tea out of a refrigerator before making a bee-line to the cashier.

“Mindfucked too much?” It was hard to tell whether Mary was home already or not. While such generous use of foul language would usually point you somewhere 'safe to express yourself' if not in the home base direction outright, Mary was known to drop an F-bombs on a daily basis wherever. In the middle of the class wouldn't be her first time either. She lived closer to the campus, though.

“More like not enough.” Putting the handpicked items onto an empty space next to the register, she greeted the employee before refocusing back on Mary. Her answer must've betray a part of her previous dejected mood, because the response was instant and spot on.

“Damn. You're not coming, are you.”

“Not feeling it, I'm sorry.” There was no denying that she felt better now, but she'd still prefer to stay home tonight.

“Alright,” Her phone transported a heavily put-upon sigh right to her ear, “You're excused this once. If they drag you into their depressive circle of hell, though, I'm gonna come haunt their asses.” Fierce friends had certain perks.

“Or hunt.” Gie shot back good naturedly as she was getting through the payment procedure. That going off without a hitch, she was out of the store in no time.

“What do you know. It could bring the same results.”

“Despair?” It would be hard to miss her snicker. The door of the store closed behind her and she got back on her track leading home with renewed vigor, failsafe mechanism safely tucked in her bag.

“Ha ha. That's what I get for caring about you.”

But when the phone call ended ten minutes later, she wondered whether Mary will have to be taken up on her offer, if it'll really come to that. Will there be silence when she gets home? What sort of scene will greet her?[P1]  To make the suddenly reinstated warzone even worse, the pair of undecisive fools was getting along pretty fine as of late.

Did Thor hit them with his hammer over their heads or something?

Now, arguments and bickering were a part of any relationship. Clashes were either handled or not and that was it; a 'make it or break it' sort of deal basically and again, a pretty standard one at that. These two? They had brought the art of disputes to a whole another level by the sheer amount of practice in pair. What was left there to argue about, though? She could swear that they've argued even about the water pressure in the shower already.

Taking a step back, maybe there was no need for them to make it official at all. They fought like a couple already, so there was a good chance that they had the partner software for encouraging staying together installed, too. But maybe not.

Them being as they are? Holding onto the remnants of their wild card statuses while also leaning over toward the other? It could bring literally anything. As of now, chaos and strangling of one another would be her bet on the most probable outcome, no matter what she really hoped for.

What truly boggled her mind was that the 'wild card' issue was more of Malik's signature there than Altair's. Sounding strange? Maybe because it was. If anything, you could always count on Malik being solid. As on him being a silent snide sniper. His words got the kill while his face might as well been cut from marble. That was his nature and it came with an objectively calm demeanor. All of that, her brother might rightfully pride himself for, because he perfected every single part of it to a state of art. Throwing him off, not to mention making his wall of tranquility crumble to dust wasn't an easy achievement.

Then Altair entered – or re-entered – the picture, turning out to be an equivalent to the proverbial fairy with a magical wand. 'Unusual' wouldn't even make the cut for an appropriate description of how out of character this was for her brother and still, the facts stood.

Not that she hadn't wondered about the strange enigma before; it only wasn't as important then as many other aspects that needed to be accounted for. But maybe it should have been. Altair's presence was undeniably toying with Malik on a full scale, so it was safe to assume that their whole relationship must've been even more complicated, elaborate or not, than she anticipated – and she gave a lot of room to possible variations of their history.

What was so bad about Altair that kept Malik doubtful?

Their personalities clashing could hardly be the reason – it obviously didn't matter even back in their heydays. Was he still hung up on the fact that she and Altair together were the plan A and the reason why the guy was here in the first place? Her brother could, indeed, hold a grudge. Was it the job? If so, then... Okay, it wasn't a traditional nine-to-five job where you are safely tucked in an office, she'd give Malik that. But Gie saw them together; this hesitating and dancing around each other would make sense only if they did not feel as strongly about each other anymore. To that, she called bullshit. She'd probably do the best to ask Altair about that when the soonest opportunity arises.

Using the key to their flat, she unlocked the door and nudged it ajar.

No sound.

Promising enough. Entering the flat, she put her bag on the bench right by the door.

Altair was passed out, half-lying behind the living room's low table, half-propped up on her beanbag in a position that suggested something was missing in the picture. The flat screen was still on, although only some commercial nonsense on low volume was taking up the screen there.

Before she could investigate the crime scene any further, different kind of muted noises caught her attention. They were coming from the direction corresponding with only one room in the apartment. That answered the question of where Malik disappeared to. Taking one deep breath for courage, she walked over to the kitchen.

“Hey.” Her greeting was on a cautious side of the spectrum, but nobody could blame her.

“Hey yourself,” Malik answered in kind readily enough if a bit distracted. Scanning what must've been instructions on a box of something presumably eventually edible, his attention taking its sweet time to shift onto her. Not that she minded; this wasn't bad compared to any kind of confrontation. She'd had it up to here of that.

“Coffee?” The offhand offer made its way to her, while Malik's eyes flicked back and forth between her and what appeared to be an instant version of Rubik's cube to him. An already made batch of coffee was the current main star of the kitchen counter. Steam coming from it declared that the beverage was fresh, too.

“Uh... I'll probably go with just tea? Thanks, though.” Perking up at that, he decidedly put the package back in the pantry, obviously finding the required amount of effort overly too much to bother with. It would also be Malik's attitude to food in general in a nutshell.

She was about to go over and set necessary things up to fix herself a cup, but Malik was one step ahead of her.

“The tests weren't bad then?” She watched as her brother proceeded to put water in the electric kettle before switching the thing on.

Oh.

“They were fine.” Since she had to wait for the water to boil, it was only sound logic to plop down on a chair – which was exactly what she did.

“Were they.”

“Stop it, you moron, you're not my parent.” Reminding him her adult status was a moot point now, but she did it anyway. Meanwhile, Malik poured himself a mugful of the steamy, tar black liquid, completely unperturbed.

“Look at the good news. The day's just gotten better for the both of us.” For all intents and purposes, his expectant look was interchangeable with the one of a hawk stalking its prey. She grudgingly conceded only because there was no other easy way of getting from under that type of scrutiny.

“I may not ace them both, but it wasn't as terrible as I expected. Professor de Sable took ill and our tests will be marked by a substitute teacher, so there's no way I'll get a bad mark on that one either.”

The nightmarish teacher had been picking on her ever since her first year of taking the course. She couldn't help but secretly think of his illness as a gift from above.

“I though you said you got a different lecturer already?” If Gie was ten years younger, she'd probably appreciate his brotherly frown much more. As it was, she could handle one numskull without any additional help.

“False alarm. That would be that substitute I've mentioned. Looks like the baldhead doesn't know when to-” Sensing warning in the air, she promptly changed the intended ending of her sentence:

“-leave the scene,” which was closely followed by a quietly mumbled “or kick the bucket” original version.

“You were saying?”

“I said that he apparently must've dig his heels in somehow.” Gie blatantly lied without an ounce of shame in her body.

The good thing about being raised into adulthood by a strict brother? He was still way more lenient than their parents would be. She held no hope of her brother believing that's what she really said, but he let her be anyway, because Malik himself thought that the guy was an asshole. But even better than that; any 'tight spots' like this one trained her in the façade game that Malik was a master of, too.

When he wanted to be, that is. Looking at him taking the box full of teabags in his hand, nose wrinkling in disgust, one wouldn't believe such a claim. If Malik could, he would hold that box like a bag full of dog presents, no doubt. Dork.

“Sheesh, you're a riot. Give me that,” Getting back on her feet, she stole the box which was offending her brother's sensibilities out of his grasp and fished out one teabag before storing the rest back in the cupboard. Right on time, the kettle switched off, too, so she threw the teabag inside an empty mug that Malik had left on the counter for that purpose exactly and poured hot over it straight away. Brimming with satisfaction, she looked over at Malik, who still did not bother to regain his stony decorum. As much as he was furrowing his brows, though, he was in a casual, laid-back mood.

“You should stop.” Still, his voice was as gruff as always. His nod towards her drink said all there was needed to decipher what he was referring to. She nonchalantly ignored the clue, pretending ignorance.

“With what?” She intentionally gave Malik an innocent look.

“Drinking that garbage.” As if she did not see that coming. The deadpan nag made her snicker for its utter uselessness. They had gone over this one thousand times already and yet, somehow, Malik never seemed to tire of it.

“You should stop,” she shot back to exact her revenge.

“With what?” Humoring her, he went along with the game, striking the familiar pose which included folded arms on his chest. His eyes were soft, though; contrary to their hard shine whenever adapting the posture in a serious conflict.

He probably expected her to say something along the lines of “nagging me about the tea” and to be fair, nobody could blame him for it since that was exactly what she wanted to go with. Initially. But a single, no matter how short, moment to rethink the opportunity was all it took to decide on a change. Biting on her lower lip, she went for it.

“Being so stubborn.” And she might as well ask for a sky to lean down and hand over some of its stars to her while she was at it. Honestly, Gie was well-aware of how her words sounded. But demanding an all-out annihilation of the character trait wasn't the point here. Therefore, she clarified:

“Why do you guys argue so much – really?”

Fully prepared to see him withdrawing into himself and closing off again, she faced a distinctly different reaction. While Malik was fast to catch onto what she was talking about, he showed no sign of being displeased with the topic.

“I argue with idiots in general. That's my job. I thought you already knew that.” Even busy with removing the teabag out of her mug after taking a careful, evaluating sip, it didn't stop her from pointing the obvious, encouraged by his response:

“Yeah, but not like you do with Altair...” It was much easier to continue pursuing the matter with his open attitude and his trademark scowl on vacation.

At last noticing that the issue was really troubling her, his blasé vibe evaporated out of the room. Sh- shrooms in a meadow. Counting her chickens way too soon.

“Geor-”

“I know I have no right to stick my nose into it, but what happened so wrong that you feel the constant need to butt heads?”

Silence and him clenching his jaw didn't look much promising in regard to her hopes of getting an answer when-

“We just do.” While his tone was even, and Malik obviously managed to reign whatever had made him grit his teeth in, all she got for her trouble was less than a bare minimum one would be able to work with. Before she could even let out a put-upon exhale at the cryptic reply, though, he gave in and elaborated further:

“It's the way we deal with stuff.” Now it was his turn to mumble something. What, Gie didn't manage to catch, “We've solved the... issue already, though.”

“So you'll argue less now?”

“Not likely,” if that wasn't a definitive statement right there. Splendid. She was starting to think that Mary was right. In one-year time, Italian mafia will pale in comparison. Relationship preferences...

Thinking back a bit, this was the first time Malik also openly addressed his relationship with Altair in her company. And what a fanfare did he chose to play it with. Speaking of that, on a closer look, Malik seemed this close to ask a question of its own, but he swiftly buried it expertly, shoving his attention into the caffeinated drink of his choice, he was holding. She could guess what this was about, though. Her brother was truly hopeless.

Ask who needs it spelled out for them again, brother.

“Hey.” Unphased, she walked over and started to unload stuff from the fridge that would make for a solid, good meal when rightly prepared. Chicken, vegetables and rice will do it.

“Hm?”

“I really don't mind, okay?” Malik took some time to react other than pin her with an intense gaze.

“Why?”

She smiled. For once, he was the dumb one.

“Because you're my brother.” Good and done with that, she pulled out a cutting board, issuing a challenge:

“Wanna cook together?”

“You'll tell me to get out in five minutes flat.” Was the gruff answer.

“That's not an answer.”

Keeping an eye on her with undisguised suspicion, he cautiously went to get a knife.

“The kitchen counter is not long enough for both of us.”

“I was here first!” Immediately calling dibs on the piece of furniture, she laughed as he swore.

Next

[tompriestley]

➵  BASICS

NAME: Tomas Priestley GOES BY: Tomas, Coffee Maker. AGE / D.O.B: 19th December, 1994. [26 yo] FACECLAIM: Jordan Fisher GENDER & SEXUALITY: Cis-Man, Bi. HOMETOWN: Fort Myers, Florida.  CURRENTLY: Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NYC. AFFILIATION: None. JOB POSITION: Intern for New York Times. EDUCATION: College, Media & Communication Degree.  RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single. CHILDREN: None.

➵  TRAITS

POSITIVE: Trusting, Fearless, Encouraging, Jovial, Contented. NEGATIVE: Chaotic, Inexperienced, Reckless, Gullible, Impulsive.

➵  BIOGRAPHY

Picturesque is the Priestley household; townhouse in a popular, inexpensive area of Fort Myers, Florida and a kind of family that always wants to be doing something active; moving, running – causing noise; a ruckus; chaos in every avenue. There’s so many of them that it seems impossible to avoid, Alexander and Emilia Priestley liked the idea of a big family from when they were youths and they had secure enough jobs, financials to actually run it without too many hitches. (A hefty inheritance from Emilia’s grandfather in Barcelona that mysteriously left her a sum that seems suspiciously high for a man who appeared as an ordinary businessman, definitely helped with that.) It was nearly every half a decade, there would be a new Priestley child; equally as full of energy as the last.

Tomás was second-born of the Priestley’s, only outranked by his older brother Lorenzo but he never felt like the younger one considering they were all free souls; unrestricted in the sense that they saw their parents one at a time, usually – a twenty four hour shift for their father and an in and out mother who knew more about her current and future court cases that her firstborn’s favourite colour. But, that was OK. They had enough love and devotion between them and it’s almost biological how wild they could be – Tomás could even swear that everyone in Fort Myers knew at least one Priestley.

Throughout all that, the sweet perfection of the family that seemed just as kind behind closed doors as they were out of it, kids boarding down the sidewalks of the beaches, running rampant in coffee shops because there’s more than life than just the rules and the staling of the ordinary. Tomás and Lorenzo noticed it first, when they’d go to bed at night and there’s a sound that’s not so joyous and pleasant coming from their parents room – the arguments that eventually Anna-Maria caught wind of, denied and unsettled the household despite how every morning, the façade is upheld and there’s nothing wrong in the eyes of the Priestley parents when they offer white smiles and hugs at the dinner table; it’s too perfect.

Because it’s not.

And Enzo went off to pursue law at Charleston – just like his mother; made the following in footsteps first and left Tomás in the limbo of how he wasn’t made to be a lawyer; didn’t work well with the mathematics for starters, the eldest brother of the chaotic duo went for the organised route and left the second of them simply wanting to write stories; is the only one absorbing the news from the television on the kitchen side when they’re having breakfast.

The little doodles on the napkins in restaurants at family dinners, the listening ears as he eavesdropped on gossip about the town like he was just there as witness and reporter. He liked it. And it fitted what he wanted – he could see himself doing that, being a writer, editor-in-chief – the dream is there. As it remained to be when he started his final year of school, stayed ever close to his sister Anna-Maria who also, to his quiet approval seemed to want to go into something in the cookery world; open a restaurant; head chef, a kind of left wing decision that whilst he knows his parents would never reject (because they’ve always been taught to pursue dreams) but perhaps doubt in silence.

Except – Tomás realised that when he was a little older, his mother making business trips to Spain, familial things she’d said, were getting increasingly longer, the arguments at least fewer at night. But perhaps, because there was an absence there; a hole in the bubbliness and energy in the townhouse, the bustling of feet barrelling down three flights of stairs is sound forever engrained in the man’s mind.

He misses it.

Because his application for his degree at NYU came back as accepted – as was his internship for the New York Times.

That was both the greatest and worst day of his life.

And not just because it meant moving away from his family and making his own life outside of them. Hanna – one of his younger sisters had been involved in a crash that left her in a coma. Same day, almost the same hour, everything that felt good about that day is clouded in a grey that drowned every single Priestley in seconds as they all found their way to hospital in bursts – dragged out of work, of school and an array of cars that blocked the front entrance for a little longer than helpful just so they could be first there.

Tomás attempted to delay his travel plans to New York, but, like most relentless of business moguls, he was told straight that it would jeopardise not only his college, but his internship and despite extenuating circumstances. Not even his sister in a comatose was a good enough excuse. It broke him – gutted him a little deeper than he wanted when he packed those bags. This time, because his parents had told him to, the same ones that didn’t seem all that enthused about his choices, encouraged him to go for his dreams because that’s what parents did.

Hanna was in the best care, under the best doctors and whether he stayed or left, he couldn’t change a thing.

But it still hurt, and it’s an irony that brings the family closer; they were always relatively tight knit, but one Priestley down means that they all go down, Tomás hates putting his phone down for both business purposes, and in case he ever needs to take that call.

He hopes he never has to.

New York isn’t what he imagined, but like he’s grown up, he’s a little too chaotic – has seen what real trauma is that he won’t let the coffee making and the fact that nobody quite takes him seriously (yet) deter him from achieving his goals. Too enthused to be there, too chaotic in the way he’s leaving doodles on executives desks, sliding along the corridors when he drops paper works on trays and files away in tiny compact rooms barefooted (because, brogues kill his feet) when nobody’s looking and wears the grin like it’s nobody’s business.

Can’t knock the guy down because he’s accustomed to getting back up and getting through it.

➵ HEADCANONS

Fresh coffee splashes over Tomas’ shoes, and from over-stacked hands goes the prints – down into the same spillage that’s soaking his once white socks. Brogues stained and slick with the hot liquid that trickles off fresh lacquer. He’s bug eying the mess that’s right at his feet. Shit, shit, shit lord, fuck. It’s said a hundred times in his head – is still being said even when he’s collecting those brown stained sheets from the floor and hopelessly smacks the papers in some flair of dramatics as thought they’re salvageable. There’s a redness about his cheeks, the late revelation that the print team are looking at him; stifling laughter; disappointed; disgusted mostly – an array of emotions that cross over every possible spectrum of this man is an idiot and reminds Priestley very much how he isn’t equipped for his job, and that getting further seems near unreachable given his one assignment of the day is now smeared and illegible. Thus, the calculations for how much time he has to reprint, rebind and organise a new stack of tomorrow’s article drafts begins; and if he sacrifices dignity of getting out of coffee stained clothes, he might just do it.

A house of noise near enough vibrates the walls of the cramped townhouse, Tomas is running along the downstairs corridors; a child; second eldest of an overflowing family. Loves it; so enjoys his siblings rivalries; all trivial; all playful and a kind of too easy upbringing that makes the Priestley name sounds too much like The Thompson’s, the whole name on the damn letterbox and a front yard that is a little too primp for a three by three that serves as nothing more than aesthetic when it’s practicality doesn’t extend past showing off the ornamental wishing well that sits in the centre. Tomas understands it a little more than his younger siblings, knows what that late night yelling means behind closed doors when everyone else is sleeping. He lies awake at night just listening to the story to be told, stares a little too long at his parents in the morning wearing the perfection masks when making breakfast and that energy of excitement reverberates the house once more. Tomas tries to help – take weight off having seven children in the house, a crazy number to manage in a small place that barely has enough bedrooms with two sharing, but they carried an air that they loved it. That finances were fine; his father as a firefighter and his mother as some hotshot lawyer that a young Tomas doesn’t quite understand just yet – much like how those clashing schedules were never going to work in the long term; stress worn, never shown. And Tomas doesn’t want to do law and he had never been quite heroic enough to be a first responder. His older brother, the favourite for that. He liked to write about it however – stories that were told to engage and passed around scrap papers in the house, those late night rows that he heard become rumours between ever aging siblings; his older brother collecting them and tossing them out before they ever made it back to their parents. Peacekeeper; eventual lawman; proud son of the Priestley’s. Tomas, the intern, doesn’t much compare to that.

Tomas sits in the plastic chair of his Editor’s office, picking at the edge of the armrest as he looks at the cardboard tray holding his boss’ coffee, has said twice already to them that it’s getting cold as if it’s an important detail – breaks the quiet a little more than just feeling this amounting dread that eats away at the man when he waits for his grilling. Priestley has his speech prepared – and it consists of: I swear, boss, I didn’t mean to get the Times barred from Starbucks, I didn’t know it wasn’t a joke when eighty-six orders were given to me, I just thought I was being… nice… It hadn’t just been the excessive order, but the detail that he’d been told about the new drink on the menu: Bean-yonce (you know, the one that definitely does not exist.) and insisted he’d been given that order after being told repeatedly, no, they don’t serve that.

Shoes clack fast on the sidewalk when Tomas is barrelling through the concrete jungle with a pen in hand like a Wildman in the wilderness, text from a friend than tell that there’s a story brewing on 36th street and he’s desperate to get the scoop, wants to at least have something to claim as one of the first on scene – if he makes it in time, only comes close because he’s already nearby. In these moments, thinks about the possibility that this could be the make and break it one; the entry to the big time (whatever that means, changes, depending on the circumstance.) and that his internship at NYT might be taken with a little more severity if he can come back with something that’d be front page news. And sometimes, that desperation crosses into reckless and downright, foolish when he continues to dive headfirst into an emergency responders scene, phone out, pen ready to jot down statements on his goddamn arm if his videoing doesn’t cut it. Nine times out of ten, he’s being dragged out of a firefight; the crossfire and doted luckiest man alive for coming out unscathed and ultimately confused about why he cannot get closer to get the details; the ones that really matter – all whilst grinning like he doesn’t hear the sound of shouting from a neighbouring rooftop that maybe, just maybe, the person he wants to interview might jump before he gets the chance. He then wonders how fast he can climb, definitely, should not find out. 

There’s a little scrawling in the corner of his notebook – a doodle some might say, a little cartoonised character that takes up residence on each little lined paper and acts as a marker for the little flipbook’s Tomas seems to end up creating in the little bursts of time he does have – between work, family and the extra effort put into his job that takes up nearly every waking hour. But he likes to doodle, scribble little stories that match up – or don’t – depends on the day really; a tranquillity that he thinks spurs from his five younger siblings and how keeping them entertained at times can be gruelling; sketching seems like an out to writing the stories where imagery sometimes can denote it in another way. Often leaves little scrap papers around the office of figures waving at editor’s desks and soon removed and labelled annoying when to Tomas it’s a day brightener; because sometimes, New Yorkers need it.

➵  CONNECTIONS

ALEXANDER PRIESTLEY | Father, Fort Myers, Florida. EMILIA PRIESTLEY | Mother, Barcelona, Spain.  LORENZO PRIESTLEY | Brother, 1990, [31 yo] ANNA-MARIA PRIESTLEY | Sister, 1992, [24 yo] HANNA PRIESTLEY | Sister, 2002, [19 yo] CRUZ PRIESTLEY | Brother, 2006, [14 yo, twin] ADAN PRIESTLEY | Brother, 2006 [14 yo, twin] RAMONA PRIESTLEY | Sister, 2013 [7 yo]

➵  WANTED CONNECTIONS

NEW YORK TIMERS [0/?] Bog-standard office connects and all the crazy crackheads that might be running and/or in similar positions, other interns that are with him and all the true madness that any person that throws themselves into shit does. Give me all the dumb HCs.

YOU ARE WHO NOW? [0/2] Tomás is the kind of guy who’d probs like chat up a mafia boss at the damn bar like a bumbling idiot and tell wacky stories about one time, he nearly spilt ice cream on his bosses four thousand dollar suit and lost his job like it might be the CRIME OF THE CENTURY to admit whilst y’know, he’s this irritating thorn in everyone’s side (or amusing lil shit, who knows, maybe they’ll vibe) but regardless, maybe uses/abuses him for his media-ness, heads-up on working stories etc. (despite being an intern) he thinks he’s got SUCH COOL FRIENDS who know everyone and he enjoys bouncing foolhardy stories with them.

COFFEE DEALER [0/1] The kind that ain’t illegal; the person who’s always working the opening shift at the café and he’s always ordering 32 coffees that are that the most ridiculous over the top types of office coffee because he’s the intern and this is clearly, his job. Probably laugh at him, pity him, like him, think he’s crazy for humouring it every morning but this could be fun and quirky.

COP THE STORY [0/2] So, perhaps, that little nosy cop that knows that the intern definitely has loose lips in the sense of he’ll say everything he’s thinking and definitely share things he probably shouldn’t. Also, the cop that’s pulling him out/bailing him away from dangerous situations. Police being second on the scene to Tomás who appears to always be there with a desire for the exclusive; notepad and a pen in hand like some fly on every city wall. Baits him sometimes perhaps and uses him as a stand in; sends a civvie media annoyance into the fray instead of potentially losing a cop? Hm.

I MISSED OUT TO HIM? [0/2] Anyone who knows Tomás will probably be fully aware he’s a literal idiot in the sense that whilst he writes and sells GREAT stories he is pretty hopeless in most every other skill of the world and will probably be out to ruin his chances of progressing past coffee connoisseur and perhaps they applied with him and didn’t get the internship where he did and there’s some unpleasant blood there?

GOVERN-MENTALS [0/1] So, still a work in progress on this one, his mother is a hotshot lawyer and probably has some connections that somehow helped Tomás get somewhere with feet in doors. Possibly a friend of a friend, of a friend or something unlikely that are high up in the government ranks and pushed for him to avoid media and go the law route like some of his other sibling. Possibly some typical prove he’s something to them because his family probably remain sceptical of his choice of path. This leads onto the familial connects.

SCANDALOUS SHENANIGANS [0/1] Give him someone who’s got the scandal of the century, he’s stumbled upon it and has no idea what to do with the information. Doesn’t know who deserves to be presented with it; whether he’s got to fight for credit to get his name on it. Whether he’s blackmailed to keep quiet; paid off; a complicated thing that could get spicy and messy.

➵  QUICK LINKS

THREADS

MUSINGS

HEADCANONS

SELF-PARAS

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Brooke you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Bellatrix Black!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Bellatrix is such a complex character, so it was a delight to get an application that explores so many different sides of her personality! Her possessiveness, her addiction to torture, the vestiges of insanity, her love for her family -- it all came through beautifully in your app. I know she’ll be a much wanted addition to our mix, and I can’t wait to see how you explore her characteristics and allow her to grow depending on where the plot takes us. Congratulations and welcome!

application beneath the cut ( tw: death, torture, blood )

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Hi, my name is Brooke. I’m 26 and go by she/her. I live in EST time zone, USA.

ACTIVITY

I’m a teacher so my activity during the week can be a bit spotty if I have school functions, however I am active on weekends. So my number is anywhere from 6-8 given the day of the week. I also have the app on my phone and can post during my lunch breaks and when out and about.

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I was RPing here a while back as Lucius, but RL got away from me so I had to drop him. My friend Orlik is still here as Umbridge so I felt like coming back now that my life is more settled.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

I love Luna. She is someone so utterly full of life and she gives no fucks in the best possible way.

ANYTHING ELSE?

I am a devoted Ravenclaw!

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Bellatrix- Means “female warrior” in Latin. This is the name of the star that marks the left shoulder of the constellation Orion.

Eris- Eris was the goddess of strife and discord

Black- a nickname given from the earliest times to a swarthy or dark-haired person

FACE CLAIM

Eva Green suits me fine! She has a wild beauty about her that fits my view of Bellatrix.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

Ah, Bellatrix Black. The infamous zealot for Voldemort’s cause. Wielder of the power of Occlumency. Bringer of pain and destruction. What’s not to love about our resident crazy witch? She’s wild, full of blood lust, and evil. These types of characters are a blast to play! It is a small chance to drop the modern niceties and bring out a wilder side of you. Yet, Bellatrix is a character who is not one dimensional. Yes, she’s mad, but there’s also passion, loyalty, and even love.

Bella (I’ll call her that even though I imagine she’d allow no one but her sisters and Voldemort to call her that) is passion incarnate. Every action she does is done with her full self. Nothing is half assed with her. At any moment she is ready to kill for her cause and kill she will, with brutal skill and violent strength. Such is her passion that she utterly defends her cause, her blood purity, and family.

This brings us to her next point. Loyalty. She is of course loyal to the Death Eaters, but I would even say her loyalty to her family comes before that. She loves her sister Narcissa and I think, deep down, even Andromeda, though her passion would never allow her to admit it.  The loyalty for the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black is so deeply ingrained in her that she’d stop at nothing to make sure it’s honor is upheld to the highest. Merlin help the person who dares sully their good name. This of course means Andromeda, which brings out a heavy struggle in the two sides of Bella. Loyalty and Passion conflicting at once.

But let us not forget love. Bella has memories of her sisters that are not easily forgotten, even in throes of passion and madness. She loves them dearly as she does her master. She may not understand her feelings as love however. She might see it more as possession. They are HERS and must be protected at all costs. How she manages her love among her other traits as the war develops remains to be seen, but it is clear it will be a struggle for all involved. Nothing will stop her from her goals, not even herself.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Bellatrix uses sex as a means for power. Whether it be to sleep her way to the top or to get someone hooked on her extensive bedroom skills, Bella has no qualms about working what she has. She is bisexual with a heavy lean towards women. Women are so soft and delicate and so fun to break.  The sight of blood, dark and wet, makes her hot and she loves to break out the knives for a little fun. The feel of steel on flesh, lightly touching and teasing as it raises goosebumps on the skin makes her dizzy. But it all becomes clear once she plunges the blade into her unfortunate lover’s flesh. Muggles are particularly fun to play with, so innocent and trusting. You know that Bellatrix has been around if attractive young muggles begin to disappear at a frightening speed.

Bella does not feel love, per say. She feels possessive and things that she marks are hers are just that. HERS. Her sisters. Her master. All hers. The thought of her beloved Andromeda in the possession of anyone else fills her with rage. HERS. NO ONE ELSE’S. Andy will return, even if it means she returns to Bella in her burial shroud.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

-A MOODBOARD-  http://www.gomoodboard.com/boards/P2Bme_9I/share

-A PLAYLIST

Starset- My Demons (theme song)

“I cannot stop this sickness taking over It takes control and drags me into nowhere I need your help, I can’t fight this forever I know you’re watching, I can feel you out there

Take me high and I’ll sing Oh you make everything okay (okay, okay) We are one in the same Oh you take all of the pain away (away, away) Save me if I become My demons”

The Offspring – You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid

“Slowly out of line And drifting closer in your sights So play it out I’m wide awake It’s a scene about me There’s something in your way And now someone is gonna pay And if you can’t get what you want Well it’s all because of me”

Nancy Sinatra- Bang, Bang

“Bang bang, he shot me down Bang bang, I hit the ground Bang bang, that awful sound Bang bang, my baby shot me down

Seasons came and changed the time When I grew up, I called him mine He would always laugh and say “Remember when we used to play?”

Lana del Rey- Ultraviolence

“He used to call me DN That stood for deadly nightshade ‘Cause I was filled with poison But blessed with beauty and rage”

Imagine Dragons- Thunder

“Just a young gun with a quick fuse I was uptight, wanna let loose I was dreaming of bigger things And wanna leave my own life behind Not a yes sir, not a follower Fit the box, fit the mold Have a seat in the foyer, take a number I was lightning before the thunder”

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

The following section should be looked at like a survey for your character. Answer them in character and feel free to use gifs. Or, if you’d rather, answer them in third person or OOC without gifs. Answers do not have to be extremely lengthy.

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

Skin is full of holes, you know. Did you know that? Little tiny holes. Openings. Entry ways. There’s a phobia for that, you know. Imagine. A fear of itty bitty little tiny holes. It makes one think of something sick. Infested. Infected. Trypophobia. Foraminissanguinem is my spell. Imagine a geyser. So beautiful. Now imagine three trillion of them erupting. Each from a point nearly invisible to the naked eye. So beautiful, no?

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: There is one object I have always admired since I was a tiny pip of a girl. The Staring Glass Eye in Borgin and Burke’s. It’s quite a simple object. Unassuming. Small. Shiny. Yet it does so much more than meets…well, the eye. It resembles a glass eye. Of course, it does. A small, round, shiny glass eye with a blue iris. Pretty little thing. Would match my collection. I do so love the color blue. Once held, its owner is alerted to anyone or anything that attempts to sneak up on it. It sees through all things, solid or otherwise. Organic or otherwise. Such a useful tool, no? I believe I’ll inquire about its whereabouts. If lucky, it will remain at the store for my purchase.

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

None. What a ridiculous question. Next!

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

That I were not the very image of blood purity. I am Bellatrix Eris Black, eldest daughter of Cygnus and Druella Black, of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black. The blood of my veins is that of a pure blood witch. My lineage is pure and superior. To declare otherwise is to meet the end of my wand.

WRITING SAMPLE

The echo of footsteps reverberated around the abandoned alley. The man, breathing heavy, pulled himself along the wall with one hand. The other was wrapped protectively around his broken ribs. Each footstep was a burning agony. Each intake of breath threatened collapse. Yet, he continued on. The safe house was near. Just a bit further and he’d be with the others. They weren’t expecting him, but he’d be welcomed. The information he’d acquired…he shivered slightly, feeling cold. Was it the chill weather or the rapid loss of blood that brought on the shiver? He couldn’t say. A high feminine giggle echoed somewhere nearby. He paused, barely breathing. It faded in the night, leaving a haunting silence in its wake. He shivered again. Must keep moving.

Behind him, stalked a predator. The metallic scent of blood wafting in her nostrils. She shivered as well, yet for a wholly different reason. A sigh followed by another high pitched little giggle. What fun! Stooping down, one long finger reached out to touch the crimson liquid splattered on the cobblestone. A pianist’s fingers, he father used to tell her. In happier times, that is. The blood was still warm. The coated finger was raised to the woman’s lips. A fine color to match her already ruby lips. A tip of pink tongue darted out to taste the salty liquid. Another sigh, like one offered to a sweet-talking lover. Oh, this was fun.

So close. He just had to make it. She was closer, he knew. But there was no rush in her pursuit. She knew as well as he, that he was not going to make it. A tear slipped down his face, falling to mix with the blood on the stone. If he could just get close enough. If he could just find some way to alert them, then it would not be for nothing. They needed to know. He needed them to know. Another step. He stumbled and then fell. Black spots danced before his eyes, blacker than the night. The sound of footsteps drew nearer until they were right upon him. She tutted, sadly, before straddling the man. Her weight upon his broken ribs brought gasps of pain. She nuzzled him gently. Her finger, still coated in the man’s blood, stroked his stubbled cheek. A smear spread upon it, barely noticeable in his already bloodied features. She smiled, which tore a sob from the man’s lips. It was too wide, too toothy. She leaned in close, her lips almost to his ear, and whispered gently. His sobs came swiftly. “Did you really think I’d let you go so easily?” She pressed her lips to his cheek before sticking out her tongue. She licked the side of his bloodied face and shuddered heavily. “We’ve only just begun our fun.”

[theliterateape]

Harmless Experiment — A Terrible Serial Killer

by Erik Lewin

My mother had a great sense of humor. She appreciated funny movies, and she knew I loved them too. We’d go to the local theater sometimes. We didn’t have a lot of dough, my dad was an entrepreneur surviving week-to-week, but he still managed to buy my mom a sandy beige sports car. I think he knew what a pain in the ass he was to live with—that’s another story—so this was his tiny way of making amends.

My mom was a beauty. This was not my biased estimation, it was objective fact. She came from Israel as a little girl and her complexion was imbued with that light, dark sweetness. Her brown hair was long and very soft. She had high cheekbones too, so between all these traits, nobody could ever figure out where she was from. A true exotic. Most strikingly, her eyes were never accusing or threatening. They were innocent. Very smart too, and aware, which made their innocent quality all the more impressive. She chose to see the good in all things.

I have always had a thing for Chevy Chase movies. The weekend Spies Like Us opened, the one where he plays alongside Dan Aykroyd, was an absolute must see. The commercials looked hilarious and captivated my attention. I’d lay on the Berber carpet in our living room, propped up on two giant Persian pillows, and slide my little fingers over the channel switches on the black box remote. I kept clicking the different channels all day to catch another glimpse of the commercial with the Spies Like Us trailer. Naturally I was begging my mom to go to the theater, and it was an easy sell because she was into it too.

We jumped into the hot new car. My mom lit a cigarette, turned on the radio station WPLJ that played rock tunes–Bon Jovi’s Livin On a Prayer was released recently and came on–and we sang along to its rousing chorus. I rubbed my feet on the plush mat and didn’t even mind the cigarette smoke too much. When we got to the theater we discovered we weren’t the only ones excited about the movie–it sold out right after we got our tickets. They overbooked it, all the seats were taken, but we just sat on the floor in the back. We left in absolute stitches, joking about how we were about to pee ourselves during so many hilarious scenes in the movie.

Then I broke this piece of news to her: that I would need to purchase ten lab mice for a science fair experiment I was assigned to do with my friend, Sam. She groaned for a couple reasons–Sam and I couldn’t seem to stay out of trouble together–and mice? I assured her that Sam would actually give the mice, who were our test subjects and needed to be watched carefully–room and board at his parents’ house. I simply had to give him cash for the purchase, and after a little hesitation, mom forked it over for the mice, food and a cage.

Sam was one of my closest little buddies. We were kind of allies as inmates in a religious day school. We cracked jokes during daily services and passed notes during all our classes. The last time I slept over his place, we tossed huge water balloons at oncoming cars. We scored a direct hit on one Buick, the water splashing across the windshield, damn near causing the driver to crash right into a tree. He chased us back to Sam’s house. His mother caught us making this fast escape, and we giggled while the man barked that his life was almost cut short by a couple dumb kids.

We were also pretty poor students. In my case, I was severely challenged in math and science. It didn’t interest me, other than whether Lysol spray could actually make a fart catch fire. We had this total hot, bitchy lady for a science teacher. She was short with her students, always admonishing us to hand in our outstanding assignments.

The big thing was the science fair. It was a major part of the year’s grade, but more than that, it required an idea, a scientific experiment of some sort to actually do and then present to the school. You were allowed a partner. Sam and I teamed up and one day we hung around his place with his stepfather, Rick, who was in construction. We came up with this idea we thought would be so cool – Rick could help us build a maze out of wood and we could run mice through it. As stupid as that sounds, we took it to another level when we added the necessary ‘scientific experiment’ twist–we would split lab mice into two groups. One group would subsist on their usual diet, while we’d ply the other with drugs, then set both loose to see which performed better. In other words, how would a massive, continual injection of sugar affect the animals’ ability to negotiate the maze. The other test group would be cared for in the ‘normal’ fashion, as in, not torturing and slowly killing them. It was a fantastically idiotic idea that we set to work on with great relish. Rick helped us with the materials and the building of the maze, and we agreed that Sam would house them.

This plan worked… for a while. I’d go to Sam’s to work on our plan that violated every letter of the animal cruelty law. We named each mouse after a part of the name of our hero, New York Yankee Don Mattingly, whose name is forever tarnished. We gassed up half the mice with a dropper full of liquid sugar and got them crazy wired. We had to constantly adjust the dosage because at first, they were too overloaded and were climbing the walls of the maze, not trying to run through it. Meanwhile, the well-nourished group was struggling to escape, but were coming quite close. Turns out a diet of food and water is quite conducive to optimum performance.

All of this was working, actually–we recorded our observations in a notebook by each individual mouse and monitored their progress. It looked like we’d be okay. Then I got a phone call from Sam that his family had to go out of town for the weekend, unexpectedly, and asked if I could take the mice and keep them at my place.

I knew my mom wouldn’t be too thrilled but hey, it was for school, and they’d just be in the cage. I took the mice off Sam’s hands and left them in my room so my parents wouldn’t be reminded they now ran a rodent rescue. After I came back from school, it was time to avoid doing any homework, and go shoot some hoops in the playground. Sam called to check in and I assured him the mice were all fine, feeding away and rustling around in the cage. They were my test subjects and while I wouldn’t exactly call them cute, I was impressed with myself for having a real experiment in progress. I’d even begun to grow fond of the little guys.

When I came back from the playground, sweaty and hungry, I ducked into my room and undressed for the shower. It was eerily quiet. No rustling. The cage was empty! Nerves prickled my neck and arms. Holy shit… holy shit, I kept repeating in my puberty addled brain, investigating the cage for any magician’s trap door they may have slipped into, just having a little fun with Erik, when the cat’s away the mice will play, right?

They weren’t under the bed. They weren’t making a sound. Where the hell had seven lab mice gone? Then I heard bumping noises behind my dresser, which was long and wide and pushed up against the wall. I stuck my head in the crack and saw a couple of those suckers running back and forth along its length. We had trained them well. Then I heard the radiator clang. I got down on all fours and craned my neck under the bottom of the it, and sure enough, there was a hole in the wall! How many of our prize mice had made a daring POW escape to my neighbo’s apartment? It then occurred to me that the door to my room was open the whole time I’d been at the playground. The rest of them must be loose everywhere—

There were no options. I had to bring my mother into this. Better she know now, than to open a cupboard in the kitchen and have a mouse fly out of it. 

         “Uh, mom, you’re not gonna like this.”

         “You playing ball before homework? Not really. Get in the shower and get ready for dinner. No games, phone or TV. Do your homework.” She was busy in the dinette, with bills and papers spread out in piles under the warm yellow light. She dragged from a smoke and waved me away. 

         “But mom, you don’t understand.”

         “I understand fully well, young man, you weren’t suppo—”

         A tiny face with whiskers stuck its head out from under her papers.

         “Ahhhhhh!!!” She leapt from the chair.

         The little guy squeaked and ran around the table.

         “That’s what I was trying to tell you!” I laughed. “They’re out! They got outta the cage in a wild bid for freedom!” 

         “We have to catch them before your father comes home,” she said, the anger leaving her eyes in favor of its usual softness. She smiled. “Were there other sightings?”

         “My bedroom–the scene of the crime–I’ll show you.”

 After my mom surveyed the challenge facing us behind the dresser, and the hole in the radiator, she said: “We can’t have these guys getting a free ride, staying here like this and not paying any rent.” We giggled. “As far as the hole in the radiator, I think Mrs. Silvestry will finally have some of the company she’s always wanted.”

         “You’re not worried about the mice spreading around the building?” I asked.

         “What mice?” My mom said, crossing her arms. “Get dressed, we need to go to the pet store.”

 I threw my dirty clothes back on and we jumped in the car. We were at a pet shop next to my mom’s bank in five minutes flat. She instructed me to go in and procure traps–it was my mess and I needed to figure out how to clean it up.

         “What if we can’t round them all up? Should I get new mice?”

         “Not if you still want to live here.”

         “Ok, I’m going.” What the hell was Sam gonna say when I told him about the great escape?

         “Welcome to Pet land,” I heard when I walked in. I’d never had so much as a hamster, so this animal kingdom was totally foreign to me. Huge fish tanks, colorful birds squawking, reptiles, and the strange intermingled smells of different creatures surrounded me. I went to the front counter where the man had greeted me. He was in his late teens, mullet haircut, flannel cutoff at the arms, thin scruff under his chin. He had a look in his eyes like he could tell you exactly what it said when you played Ozzy Osbourne records backwards.

         “I need help. I’ve got a bunch of lab mice loose in my house.”

         “Alright, gotcha. So you need traps. Aisle three.”

         “Maybe you could… uh, do the traps keep them alive and unharmed? How does it work, I’ve never hunted an animal before.”

He spit out hubba bubba gum into his hand and tossed it in the trash.

         “You running a shelter? You set the traps and that’s that, they’re in there. Can’t get out. Our bestseller is the glue trap, they won’t get outta that, trust me. I’ll show you, this way.”

I was mortified. Back in the car I showed my mom the pile of glue traps we now had at our disposal. She nodded approvingly. We went back into my room and the kitchen and living room and set up all the traps like we were on some kind of commando mission. Apparently there was a substance on the surface of the glue that attracted the poor buggers to the trap. The good news was the traps worked. That was also the bad news because the actual glue doesn’t poison the mouse, but simply holds it in place while it thrashes about in a futile effort to free itself.

         “Your father will be home soon. You have to take care of it.”

         “How?”

         “Consider this part of the experiment.”

And so I went about the grim business of being the hatchet man for these mice. My sugar riddled mice, whom I’d actually grown fond of, were now in the hands of a monster. Because when each guy was on the glue trap, looking at me with its furtive, desperate eyes, I slid him down an incinerator shoot.

         “Mom, the good news is I’d make an awful serial killer,” I said, tears wetting my cheeks.

         “My poor baby,” she said, hugging me. “And you’ll never be a scientist. But, with these kinds of misadventures, you’ll tell some good stories, just like in our funny movies.”

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