#translator’s note and i barely managed to keep it at only five hundred

[sunriseverse]

doing translation will unlock something in you because you’ll realise how there are dozens, hundreds even, of subtly different ways to translate things, and all of them are correct, and all of them are different by implication, and you can never choose the “right” one because there will always be something lost in translation, and the best you can do is strive to close that gap. anyway this is about my blog title because i saw a gifset where someone translated it differently than i would and it’s making me chew drywall.

[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.” 

[stillness-in-green]

Brand's being anti-capitalist is actually kinda funny since he's one of the few Advisers that's in a business suit XD

It’s exceptionally funny for a guy who used to work under (and I say this with only the greatest of affections) a bunch of upper management types and a politician. But you’d better believe I was obsessively taking notes about it anyway!

The Japanese word there translates somewhat more literally as "mammonist"—what Viz uses—or, if you don’t want to put a Bible-derived term in the mouth of a Japanese character, just “money-worshipper.” And that is extra funny to me because it was not even twenty-five chapters ago that we were told about Nedzu’s “deep pockets” such that he could afford to pay for the upgrades to U.A.’s security systems,(1) so it’s not like Brand’s even wrong.

I mean, obviously we’re meant to see Brand as wrong about his summation of the heroes’ motives, but with this most recent chapter especially, I am once again left shaking my head that, on one side of this fight, we have the wealthy, handsome, popular, elite, well-educated, powerful heroes who had ample time to lay battle plans, painstakingly plot out where all their people would be, and allocate all the resources they could possibly need to build “a coffin in the sky”…

Meanwhile, on the other side, we have the guy who has spent most of the last month writhing on the ground in a cave, probably eating canned food when he could eat at all, fighting against his own power, barely able to communicate, and promptly separated from all of his friends and allies so the heroes could immediately seal off his quirk(s) and start bouncing him off of electrified walls as a warm-up before they have Deku and company beat him into a thin paste.

Fuckin’ hell, when you phrase it like that, the heroes sound like Yu-Gi-Oh! villains. This is Seto Kaiba level excess. This is Marvel villain Arcade killing people in a place literally named Murderworld. Yet somehow, it’s the heroes I’m supposed to be rooting for? Horikoshi, you can’t possibly be serious, can you?

Yes, yes, Shigaraki is a murderous terrorist, a big threat, blah blah blah. But look, this is a damn shonen story. It matters who the underdog is, and right now, the underdog is Shigaraki Tomura.

Tangent onto my fave aside, I would love to see more villains continue to call out heroes for all of the resources they endlessly dole out on beating up villains without ever even contemplating dropping some of those resources on trying de-escalation tactics now and again. And as to Brand and his business suit, I suppose he can still wear a sharp suit for work and have exceptionally strong opinions on where one’s money ought to be going. Presumably making obscene buckets of money is fine as long as it’s being used to fund as worthy a cause as Liberation!

I hope we get some more good stuff out of him; I’m going to be extremely annoyed if he gets taken down by Crust’s dad or whatever. I’d initially been strongly hoping he was a clone—now that Toga has Twice’s blood on hand, if she were running this like a power gamer, then technically any, even every villain on the field right now could be a clone! I’m not really expecting that to be the case at this point, though I’d be thrilled if it were, but I was high-key annoyed that Brand was on the cliffhanger page of 341 with the Sludge Villain and the heteromorph uprising, suggesting he’d be with them, only to have him get ‘ported in by AFO maybe, what, a day or two later at best? Sigh.

In any case, I’ll certainly be keeping an eye out for him and the rest. Thanks for the ask, @shockersalvage!

--

1: “Way more than a few hundred million yen!” said Kaminari, a number that roughs to $1.75 million. And that’s before even getting into the specialized battlefields and upgrades we’re just now finding out about!

[zaffrenotes]

[TRR: WD106] Avoiding A Blunder

Summary: Prince Liam has to fill in for Crown Prince Leo, and Murphy’s Law is put into motion at the end of his trip. Chaos ensues, condensed Wacky Drabble style. Fic Rating/Warning: M; alcohol consumption, minor health/medical emergency, anxiety/angst Author’s Note: All main characters belong to Pixelberry/The Royal Romance, I’m just borrowing them * Fictional versions of IRL individuals are included with affection; any other characters mentioned in this piece are my creation * This is my submission for @wackydrabbles Prompt 106: You’re gonna get us busted! * You have @the-soot-sprite and @ao719 to thank for this ridiculousness, lol - Soot reblogged a photo, Betsy sent me this request

and...this is what my brain came up with (PS - thank you both for the movie discussion) * For the purposes of this story, Triydalia is a fictional country that shares a border with Thailand * Word Count: 1999 😅 (7 minutes reading time)

Taglist (if your name is crossed out, I'll tag you in the comments): @/ao719 @burnsoslow @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @ofpixelsandscribbles @rainbowsinthestorm @superharriet @/the-soot-sprite @choiceskatie @jaqren @aestheticartsx @bbrandy2002 @dcbbw @gnatbrain @jared2612 @kingliam2019 @ladyangel70 @lovingchoices14 @nestledonthaveone @princessleac1 @queenjilian @sfb123 @texaskitten30 @theroyalheirshadowhunter @yourmajesty09

Liam was used to filling in for Leo at a moment’s notice; participating in conference calls with ambassadors for early morning updates when Leo overslept, and attending meetings with ministers when Leo went AWOL. He’d grown accustomed to his brother’s antics, but he wondered how Bastien managed to keep his position, when he’d lost track of Leo’s whereabouts countless times.

While Leo spent more time avoiding his duties as Crown Prince of Cordonia, Liam dutifully took on the extra responsibilities in stride. It often meant partitioning his already packed schedule to sit in on vital cabinet meetings or dining with visiting dignitaries, but sometimes Leo’s vanishing acts gave Liam the opportunity to travel.

Though their ambassadors handled the majority of day-to-day relations with other countries for trade, Constantine preferred to meet face-to-face when he could. One such time, a lingering cough turned to walking pneumonia, restricting Constantine to as much bed rest as possible. It also meant sending Leo to Japan for a meeting with the Prime Minister in his stead.

It would have been fine, if Leo hadn’t pulled another one of his disappearing acts.

--

A week later, Liam was seated on the royal jet on his way back from Tokyo, navy attache with espresso brown leather trim in the chair next to him. Across from him, Maxwell chatted with Anya over various Thai dishes. On the other side of the plane, Drake was in a heated discussion with leggy blonde Anitah while the ladies’ petite friend Donna observed in silence, fighting back a grin. “You’re an imbecile if that’s your opinion,” Anitah declared, raising her hands up in the air. “Are you sure that’s the hill you wanna die on?”

Drake smugly sipped from the crystal tumbler in his hand. “I’m right and you know it.”

“What are you two talking about?” Liam asked, relieved to think about anything other than what was in the bag and why it was so important he hand deliver it to his father.

“Fight Club being a better cinematic masterpiece than The Princess Bride,” Drake replied. “You guys agree, right? If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, you’d want to watch Tyler Durden fight the system instead of some…” he paused to sneer at Anitah, who crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue at him, “...story about a swashbuckler rescuing a princess? She’s not even a real princess!”

“Fight Club is such a guy movie though,” Anya argued, turning in her seat to face Drake. “Princess Bride appeals to men and women, with a much larger audience.”

“Okay, that’s two for Buttercup,” Drake sighed. “Maxwell? Li?” He looked at his friends expectantly.

“Fight Club, definitely,” Maxwell said, nodding his head. He’d spent the better part of the trip doing everything to get into Drake’s good graces after the octopus incident on the first night in Tokyo.

Before Liam could respond, a commotion from the front of the plane made everyone’s heads turn, where a pair of Kings Guards and two flight attendants were seated near the galley. One of the guards slipped into the cockpit, rushing out a moment later in Liam’s direction, as the jet slowly tilted to the right. “Apologies, Your Highness. Do you or any of your guests happen to speak Triydalian?”

Anya slowly raised her hand. “I knew a bit when I was a kid, but I haven’t used it in years.”

The guard motioned for her to join him. “Please come with us, miss. The pilots need a translator.”

“Is everything alright, Remy?” Liam peered past the guard, eyes widening at the sight of the other guard and one attendant hovering in front of the other attendant in a chair.

“We need to land the plane, Sir,” Remy answered, ushering Anya up from her seat. “Ramona passed out. She’s breathing but unresponsive.”

--

Twenty minutes later and after a jarring landing, they’d arrived at a small airport in the Republic of Triydalia, at the edge of one of the country’s many jungle forests. Calling it an airport was generous - it was more of a cleared dirt path in the middle of the jungle with a shack for an airport tower, and a man that looked like more of a hunter than an air traffic controller. After a choppy conversation that required pantomiming and hand signals, Anya left with Remy and the man from the tower to fetch a tribal doctor, while Anitah and Donna assisted the other member of the cabin crew to look after Ramona. They were warned to remain as quiet as possible and to stay inside the jet.

Minutes passed by in tense observation; Anitah and Drake continued their debate in low whispers, growing louder as they defended their choices. Liam could see the pilots discussing something pointedly as they checked readings on the instrument panel and worked on calculations. One of them stepped out, claiming that he needed to stretch his legs, and walked cautiously down the runway. When he returned, the other pilot joined him outside, despite the original warning to stay inside. Liam peered out the windows and checked his watch, worrying about Anya and Remy, along with his father’s instructions to avoid delaying their return.

While the remaining guard headed towards the back of the plane to pace back and forth for the eighth time, Liam took it upon himself to speak with the pilots. The air was thick and stifling the moment he stepped outside. Around them, there was nothing but green, green, and more green from the wilderness that surrounded them, abuzz with tropical birds and insects. At his side he carried the blue attache, remembering the promise to his father that the bag wouldn’t leave his sight. He spoke in a hushed tone when he approached the pilots. “You’re doing more than just stretching your legs, aren’t you, Captain?”

Both men grimaced slightly. “Yes, Your Highness. Even if we pulled back to one end of the runway, we’re still at least five hundred feet short of clearing takeoff.”

“What if we worked to try and clear the brush on either end?” Liam offered, looking off into the distance.

“There’s no way to clear out the trees, even the young ones,” the co-captain answered. “We might be able to take off if we could drop some weight, but the larger concern is the longer we wait, we increase the risk of encountering someone who doesn’t want us here.”

Liam nodded gravely; months of civil unrest in Triydalia meant rebel groups assembled faster than the government could contain them. There was no guarantee of anyone’s safety, stranded on a remote runway. There was no telling what was wrong with Ramona while she was unconscious, and therefore no way to treat her without the aid of a doctor. Ensuring the safety of the crew and his friends could have been avoided altogether if Leo didn’t constantly opt out of handling the duties of his station. In that moment, Liam abhorred the never-ending list of responsibilities thrust at him as a result of having to pick up the slack for his brother, knowing if their roles were reversed, Leo would manage to find a way to leave Liam to solve problems on his own.

“Could you excuse me for a moment?”

He’d barely finished asking the question before walking into the tall grass by the edge of the runway. Ignoring the pilots’ calls to return, Liam sprinted into the dense greenery, dodging between vines and scanning the ground for tripwires until he could no longer see the plane over his shoulder. When he finally stopped running, he bent over, hands on his knees as he gulped in air. Liam looked down at the blue bag in his hand, wondering what on earth was so precious to reduce him to a courier.

Shaking the bag did nothing; it felt practically empty, though he could tell something was inside. He couldn’t open the bag to check, since Prime Minister Abe and his father were the only ones with keys, and PM Abe handed him the sealed bag when they parted ways. Liam wanted to throw the infernal “murse” the ladies had good-naturedly teased him for into the bushes. Perspiration dotted his hairline, and he let out a primal scream, before taking slow, deep breaths to quiet the worrisome thoughts racing in his head and bring his heartbeat down to normal.

Cursed courier bag in his right hand, Liam braced his arm against his torso, pinning it in place with his elbow when he bent his other arm up towards his face. Curling his fingers into a relaxed fist, he pressed his lips against his thumb, thick brows furrowing in thought. All around him, wild birds called to one another amidst the chittering clamor of insects hidden in the foliage. He was so busy running through scenarios in his head that he didn’t hear the quiet click of a camera, turning to look up only when he heard a branch snap in the distance.

“Watch it! You’re gonna get us busted!” Donna hissed to Drake. She pocketed her phone, elbowing Drake in the ribs as they crouched behind large leaves. She ticked her head in Liam’s direction. “Go get your boy, none of us are safe out here.”

After some coaxing, Liam headed back to the plane with Donna and Drake, walking briskly through the jungle, eyes trained to look for anything out of the ordinary. Liam was alarmed when he heard and then saw the engines running, until Drake explained the pilots were burning off fuel to lighten the plane. They’d begun to walk up the steps, when Maxwell popped out above them. “Whoo!” Maxwell exclaimed, digging for another snack from the container he cradled in his arm. “Feels like a sauna out here!”

“Lower your voice, Maxwell! Please!” Liam seethed. His features pinched together in disbelief. “Are you...eating? Now?”

“You know I stress snack,” Maxwell replied, shrugging his shoulders. He shoved another cookie into his mouth.

Liam’s eyes lit up and he took the stairs two by two, knocking on the cockpit door before swinging it open. “What if we unloaded whatever’s not bolted down? The decor, dinnerware, the food and drink?”

“That...would certainly help,” the captain replied, looking back over his shoulder. He turned to his co-pilot. “It could be enough to get in the air after burning off the excess fuel.”

“You heard the man, Maxwell,” Liam said, offering his friend a nervous grin. “Get Drake to help you start unloading the plane. Has Ramona’s status changed?”

“Donna found the first aid kit just before she took off with Drake to go after you. Anitah found some smelling salts that gave her a rude wakeup call. Turns out her insulin pump shorted and she just needed some juice.”

Several more minutes passed as the group removed whatever they could from the plane, leaving piles of cookware, food, throw pillows, and even seat cushions to lighten the load. Drake whined when they gathered up the liquor, but he stuffed a bottle of whiskey in a cabinet by his seat. They’d nearly finished when Anya and Remy returned, running on foot. “That thing better be ready to take off!” Anya hollered, motioning for everyone to board. “Rebels on our tail! Time to go!”

Everyone scrambled back onto the plane; Liam relayed the urgency to depart to the pilots, who rapidly went through their flight checklist. Remy pulled Anya up onto the steps and they all clamored to buckle into their seats, the sound of gunfire in the air as the jet rolled forward and lurched up into the air, barely clearing the canopy.

Adrenaline pumping and breaths shallow, Liam looked around at his friends and the crew, thankful they were safely in the air again.

--

Liam thought he was having a stroke at twenty-four when he saw the contents of the bag. Constantine smiled with glee at the small gold cat, one paw raised.

[deiliamedlini]

WIP Wednesday

I have been mentally down and writing poorly for a few weeks now, and even my friend was like “oof, yeah don’t post this yet. It needs work” and thankfully has been stopping me from making rash decisions like randomly posting fics to AO3 on a whim.

The WIP below (even though it needs more editing) is the beginning of the new fic I’m going to post next. I’m finally back to the pirates too, which is making progress, but is just slow going because I’m making sure I’m not forgetting plots (which I already have so I am not rushing the chapter but it is in progress finally!).

It’s a Pre-Calamity AU with heavy emphasis on the AU. It’s basically Zelda being forced to train with Link for her safety. Antagonistic-but-not-enemies, to friends, to lovers trope. I want to call it Dance With Me because it’s not really about dancing (I like the other meanings of the phrase), but my friend says it sucks as a title and now I’m rethinking 😂 I’m doing so well! 

~~

When Princess Zelda was seventeen years old, she’d been fully prepared to die.

Ancient prophecies had foretold a Great Calamity that would sweep the land of Hyrule into a great blight and destroy it all unless those chosen by destiny could stop it.

Zelda had been one of those who’d been blessed by the Goddess’s alleged favor: Hylia’s spirit and magic coursed within her.

But the wielder of the Master Sword hadn’t been found in time.

Four champions stayed by the Divine Beasts: Urbosa, Revali, Daruk, and Mipha. And for a year, the five of them waited while King Rhoam of Hyrule went on a mad search for the Chosen Hero and for the location of the Master Sword itself.

Zelda had spent that time relentlessly pursuing the Goddess’ power; she passed out in the holy springs, prostrated herself before Goddess statues for hours at a time, devoted every waking second she had to prayer. But despite her greatest efforts, her attempts were fruitless.

But perhaps the Goddess were showing their favor after all, because despite every prophecy, despite every prediction, wall carving, and palm reading, the Calamity never came, and Zelda was spared a horrific death at the hands of darkness incarnate.

One year after the predicted date, the Champions felt like they could finally move away from the Beasts, ever watchful, but able to maintain some of their daily lives. Zelda stopped spending day and night in freezing water and instead moved to the Temple of Time where the weather was bearable, and the distance was well within reach of the Castle while still spending most of her time in holy grounds.

Two years after the predicted date, the Champions began to lead normal lives again, freely leaving their domains, though they were still ready to return at a moment’s notice. Zelda began to spend more time in the library, sifting through ancient tombs and personal diaries of past monarchs, hoping her answer lied in pages rather than prayer.

Three years after the predicted date, the Champions were harder to find on a day-to-day basis. But Zelda remained steadfast and relentless with her nose in books and her knees in the spring’s water. The Sheikah had to pull her out several times. They had to force her into recovery.

But by the fourth year, the Beasts had gathered dust, and Zelda had utterly given up, instead helping Purah and Robbie with their ancient tech and Guardian research, which—despite the lack of the Calamity—still had other practical applications.

It seemed that everything had been built up for no reason, that there was no Calamity after all.

So, it was only when they’d all gotten comfortable that the Yiga Clan, a cult devoted to the demon lord Ganon, began their relentless assault on Princess Zelda, heir to the Goddess’ devastating sealing powers.

The entirety of that year had been spent with Zelda running from attack after attack, losing her guards, losing Sheikah. She was sent back to the castle where Purah set up protective wards around her room that ran off ancient tech, and she continued working on them so they might be able to encompass the entire castle.

King Rhoam’s royal command had been that Zelda could not touch any Sheikah tech. She couldn’t look at Guardians, or ask about runes and wards. So, Zelda returned to her studies once more until her eyes burned from sitting over tombs in the candlelight.

She had to admit, she’d become proficient in her royal duties, following her father to almost everything she was permitted in. What she wasn’t, he’d fill her in on after.

At this point, a vast majority of Hyrule believed the peace was a sign that the Calamity was never going to arrive. The other school of thought, which Zelda subscribed to, was that the Calamity should be feared far more than ever, its unpredictability keeping the other half of the kingdom in a deeply rooted state of caution and suspense ever since.

Though Zelda had asked her father to let her leave the protection of the Castle more often for experiences outside of prayer, his answer was always the same: “I lost your mother to those cultists; I will not lose you as well.”

“I just want to swim in Lake Hylia,” she’d tried once. “The days have gotten unbearable. Please, father? I’ll take an entire company of guards with me.”

“I’m sorry, Zelda. No. You may go to a spring of your choice. The waters there will likely be a cool temperature. Perhaps try the Spring of Wisdom.”

Zelda was 21, though she felt as though one hundred years had passed. She was tired, bone weary with an exhaustion that had set in so deep, she spent a decent amount of her days simply sleeping. When she was awake, she stared at her hand, waiting for magic to miraculously hit her in the face. Perhaps if she stared long enough, the Goddess would take pity on her patheticness.

The days when she’d been sent out to pray were now her favorites. She’d found ways to coerce her guards into taking longer routes, stopping for longer breaks.

That’s what happened on the day her father had reached his breaking point regarding the attacks on her life.

She returned to the castle shaken and sore, but his tight arms held her as his body shook with relief. He sank to his knees and held her in his arms the way he’d done the day her mother died, and he realized he needed nothing more than to hold his child in his arms to remember that the world was still spinning as long as she was alive.

He’d told her that when he’d said goodnight to her, standing in the doorway of her room with poorly concealed heartache written all over his sagging body.

“I’m really fine,” Zelda said for the fourth time that hour. She sat on top of her long, blue satin sheets, sliding a bit as she tried to adjust her leg. Something about being curled into herself in some way helped make her feel comfortable as she smiled to ease her father’s mind.

“Okay. Well, I’m going to stop by in the morning, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” she said, shrugging as if she were entirely unaffected by everything she’d been through. She was good at that façade after five years of stares and whispers.

“Okay. Goodnight. May the Goddess watch over you.”

That was how Zelda found herself in the library before the crack of dawn, perched on a ladder in the top shelves of the restricted section. She had access, of course, but she was reading an untranslated a Sheikah tomb from a former handmaiden of the Princess of Hyrule before her ascent to the throne. That Princess had practically bled power, and Zelda hoped her handmaid noted something of interest.

She tucked the book under her arm and climbed down, crossing the library that was filled with several lifetimes worth of books, and stopped in the government documents. Her eyes trailed the spines for a familiar one with territories clearly outlined. She went to the language section to grab a reference book for Ancient Sheikah. Though she was mostly fluent in that, among several other languages, the ancient variations on words occasionally tripped her up. So she set back up to her room with her pile of books, ready to be confined by her father for her safety once again.

Zelda nodded to several of the guards she passed as they stood at their post. Despite the castle being one of the safest places in Hyrule thanks to all the tech, guards were still positioned in the most well-traveled places on their patrols, while two guards stood at her door and her father’s.

Biting her lip, Zelda craned her neck around her pile to try to find the doorknob, fumbling her hand around blindly, just barely able to turn the handle. And because the Goddess never wanted to cooperate with her, she dropped two of the books, though she managed to cling to the relic with tight fingers. The other two fell right onto her guard’s foot.

“I’m so sorry!” Zelda muttered, bending to pick them up.

The guard was beside her, nearly banging heads with her as he grabbed the heavy translation tomb. Thankfully for her, he flinched away in time; he was wearing a helmet that covered most of his head, and she didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that metal. “Don’t apologize,” the guard said softly, picking up the other book for her. “Would you like me to…” He gestured vaguely to her room.

“Oh, no thank you. Just stack them on top of this one.” He did, and she took a step inside before backing up. “Actually, would you mind getting the antechamber door for me, please?”

He stepped inside and pushed the second door open before backing up respectfully.

“Thank you so much,” she said, about to use her foot to close the door when she looked back. “And again, I am sorry I dropped a heavy book on your foot.”

He bowed his head and stepped back out, so she closed the door and set her books down.

Her father came into her room early, as promised.

“Zelda,” he said with a strained greeting. The corner of his lip twitched, like his muscles had become tired under the strain of holding it up for so long, and his eyes held no joy, no spark. It was forced chipperness, and Zelda picked up on it immediately.  “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

She sat on a chest at the foot of her bed, and he pulled the chair away from the desk to face her. “Well, let’s not beat around the bush. There have been many attempts on your life, but I have felt none so potently as yesterday’s. When they told me you’d been attacked, all I could remember was the news of your mother. And then when you were brought in…” he ran a hand along a bruise on her cheek that she didn’t realize she had until she felt a flare of pain cause her to flinch. “You are my precious daughter, and I love you. I never want to see you harmed. That said, others do. It’s becoming impossible for you to safely leave the castle.”

Zelda braced herself. This was where he confined her to her room or to the palace grounds for the foreseeable future. She folded her hands over her lap so he couldn’t see the shaking grow more visible.

“You’ve been unable to protect yourself with your powers, so we must resort to other means. You’re to learn to defend yourself, starting immediately. We still need you at the springs, so I cannot command you to stay here. You still are a priestess of Hylia. So, given your setbacks, you’ll need to learn.”

Zelda’s mouth dropped open as she let the words process through her mind. “I’m sorry, what?”

“We’ll hopefully have a sword in your hand soon enough, but you’ll be able to defend yourself from these cultists.”

“A sword?”

“It’s too dangerous. We’ve lost too many guards. And you can’t fight as it is. This is the best option.”

“No!” she said, much louder than intended. “Fight the Yiga?” She shuddered just at the word.

“Zelda, we need you to live. Hyrule needs you to succeed, and to succeed, you must survive.”

Standing up didn’t make it any easier to breathe, as Zelda had hoped. “You think I haven’t tried?” Tears threatened her eyes as her voice cracked on her last word. As if years of her life sacrificed to unreturned devotion wasn’t enough for her. For him. For all of Hyrule. She’d tried, she’d bargained, she’d offered up her comfort, her breath, her mind, her years, her time. She was one person. What was left for her to do?

“Do you think I just stand there and watch my knights get murdered? Do I just drop to my knees and pray? Is that what you think I do?”

“Zelda…”

“No! You’re right, father. I’ll lead the Yiga right to the Goddess Spring that you need me to go to again just so I can brandish a sword and strike one down with my prowess! Because, Goddess knows that my Knights have an easy enough time with the Yiga, so it should be a cinch for me!” The sarcasm oozed from her in an unintentional venom drip.

“You’re telling me that I’ve failed! You’re telling me to give up and grab a stupid sword! Give me some armor next time I go to the Temple of Time! I don’t need my priestess garb. I have my sword! Because it will absolutely save me!”

“Zelda, please.”

“Please,” she scoffed, finally feeling a hot tear on her cheek. “You’re telling me I’m going to die! Five years ago, I was ready. I knew I’d failed, but I stood vigil waiting for the Calamity to give my life in the final hope that it might stop Ganon! But now, I was blessed with time, and still I can’t do it! I can’t access her powers. So you want me to fail one more time by using a sword to defend myself? This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, and I was there when Lady Styla proposed that sham of a fashion show to lift spirits.”

“That’s irrelevant, Zelda.”

From the look on his face, she could tell he was not budging. She tried another tactic. “I-I shouldn’t be near a sword anyway! What if I stabbed myself by accident? Then there’s no way I’ll ever unlock mother’s power. I’ll be dead with or without the Yiga! I already dropped a book on my guard today! That could have been my foot with a knife! And before you tell me that there have been warrior queens and princesses throughout the history of Hyrule, that’s because they never met me. I’m not a fighter! I read books all day! I take notes. I can bore the Calamity to death with a detailed review of the territory lines in Northern Akkala! That might be more effective than a sword, at least.”

“Zelda, you’re not thinking of the big picture…”

“But if I don’t unlock the power because of some silly distraction like learning how to fight, then the world will fall to the Calamity. My time will now need to be spent in that wretched training area with all kinds of sweaty men. Do you want your precious daughter exposed to such a sight? Worse yet, what if I like it and decide to spend all my days there with… shirtless men!” She grimaced and blushed all at once.  

“This is the most absurd argument I’ve ever heard. You leave me no choice but to make that a command from your king rather than a request from your father. Because as much as I love you, I also am obligated to keep you safe.”

“Obligated?” her voice cracked again, losing some of her rambling thunder. “I’m an obligation? Is that how you see your daughter?”

She gasped when he let the silence answer for him.

“You start your training now. Your instructor has already been informed and will be ready for you.”

“Who?” she asked, glancing at the four guards at her door. Two hers, two her father’s. They were all hearing her shame. How long until everyone knew?

“He’s the most renowned swordsman in all of Hyrule, one of our best fighters, and he’s about your age, so he should be someone you can get along with.”

“The best fighter in all of Hyrule is only 22? No wonder the Yiga are everywhere, if those are our standards.”

“Be kind, Zelda.”

“Is that another order, My King?”

He sighed and crossed the room, stopping at her door. “One more thing. While you’re there, I’ve given him permission to overrule you if you command him not to train you. You will learn to stay safe, whether you want to or not. Now change and go. He’s expecting you now.” He turned his head to her guards. “Make sure she goes to the training yard, and if she refuses, come fetch me.”

As soon as he was gone, she slammed her door and sagged into the wood.

She did consider hiding out, but she knew her father would simply bring the soldier into her room to train if he had to. At this point, with the number of times the Yiga had come after her, she wouldn’t have really blamed her father if he’d locked her in a door-less room and dropped this instructor in through a hole in the ceiling until she learned to protect herself.  Truthfully, the idea itself—in theory—wasn’t the worst. Except for the fact that the Yiga were deadly warriors who trained to kill for most of their lives and slaughtered companies of trained Hylian knights.

Grabbing her most comfortable pants to train in, Zelda slowed as she remembered the event that had started this all.

The Great Tabanthan Bridge crossed the long expanse of the Tanagar Canyon, and she was always careful of the crossing. The fall alone would not only kill someone, but it’d likely flatten them clean out from a drop of that height. So, crossing it was not something that was taken lightly on a good day.

Being that far out there was entirely her fault to begin with.

She’d desired to visit the Temple to Hylia that was at the edge of the gorge, but she’d opted to lead everyone along the scenic route to enjoy some of her free time outside of the castle. The guards had protested briefly, but Zelda was adamant about a scenic detour.

What she hadn’t been able to predict or expect, no matter how much research she did, was that the Yiga were there, lying in wait for her and her guards.

She’d been bucked clean off her stubborn horse, and she’d been left on the great bridge as three Yiga ran for her. Though she’d gone to run, she was caught by one who appeared in front of her in a puff of smoke.

Trying to fight them off of her had been like the great struggle of praying for the Goddess’ powers: utterly futile, and a waste of time.  

Half of her attempts to shake them had been by holding the rope handle of the bridge and throwing herself precariously close so they’d have to follow.

The soldiers eventually reached her and fended the Yiga off, but they’d also recounted the entire incident to her father in horrific detail: how she was winded by the time she’d run halfway across the bridge, how she nearly fell off the great, how she couldn’t fight any of them off and had been overwhelmed, and how her weak strength had caused two large wounds in her palms from where she’d tried to push a blade away from her at one point.

Glancing down at her now-healed hands—thanks to the castle medics—Zelda pulled on her boots and tugged up the laces tight. She wasn’t weak. She just wasn’t… physically domineering. But put any puzzle, any riddle, any impossibility in front of her and she’d find the solution. That’s not weakness. That’s strength. She is strong… just not traditionally.

Her shirt was loose, and she tied up her hair before looking at herself in the mirror for a long time, finally noticing the bruise she’d sustained. She was going to hate this almost as much, if not more, than she hated horseback riding.

Resigned to her fate, Zelda trudged slowly toward the training yard, hoping to be late enough to at least remind everyone that she didn’t want to be there.

Glancing at the sun, she’d determined that she managed to be at least fifteen minutes late. Not bad. She could do worse next time.

The yard was empty of the usual hustle and bustle that went on, and she imagined that her father must have ordered it be kept clear for her private sessions. But it was also clear of an instructor.

She stood in the middle of the training yard and fisted her hands tightly as she looked around. No one. Her eyes narrowed at the empty space, searching for some sign of trickery. But the only others there were the two guards she had brought with her.

“Is this some sort of a joke?” Zelda asked, placing her hands on her hips. “Hello?”

There was no answer.

Shrugging happily to herself, she was ready to leave, but one look at her guards standing near the entrance reminded her of her father’s orders to fetch him if she didn’t go; either she stayed here long enough to prove that she made the attempt, or she’d be embarrassingly dragged back down by her father’s guards, humiliated as they would keep hold of her arms to ensure she followed them right back here. Her father would make sure she was here, no matter what.  

Crossing her arms, Zelda walked around. She rarely went to the training yards unless she was up in the parapets, so being down in the dirt and grass felt like she was in an entirely new world. One she didn’t belong in.

There were training dummies lined up against a wall and a worn dirt track in a wide circle around the outskirts of the otherwise square area. There was a bench. There were weapons on a rack.

And that was it.

She looked at the footprints etched in the dirt, kneeling down to read the story told by the shoe treads. There was a large step forward, and then several overlapping smaller ones as the wearer clearly stumbled back. Then a single skid mark as they were forced back. And then the imprint of a body where they’d fallen.

If Zelda were here under any other circumstances, she’d have smiled and tried to find all the stories in the dirt, but instead, she stood back up and sighed, craning her neck towards the barracks just past the archway. No one was outside, and no one was coming.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, prepared to leave. But her eye caught on a weapon rack, and she glanced one more time at the barracks before heading to the largest spear. She held it, pretending she was one of her knights. Goddess, if a Yiga came at her, she’d die. Fear first, and then clumsiness, because who could control this glorified stick well enough to kill a Yiga?

She shuddered and put it back.

“You can get there eventually,” someone said.

She spun around to see one of her two guards walking towards her. He removed his helmet, shaking out his blonde hair. Zelda watched in confusion as he set the helmet down on a post and pulled a blue band off his wrist to tie his long hair back.

“But only if you’re not fifteen minutes late on purpose,” he said, not looking up at her. “Princess,” he added with a bow of his head.

Her mouth dropped slightly and her cheeks warmed at the light scolding. “I beg your pardon?” she asked, almost doubting if she’d heard him correctly.

She scoffed at his audacity, recognizing the bright blue eyes of the guard she’d dropped her book on. Did he think that a conversation with her this morning gave a guard the right to chastise her?

He held out his hand, and she instinctively handed the spear back, though in hindsight she wished that she’d hit him with it instead. She’d been too stunned. He returned it to it’s place, and walked across the entirety of the training yard without so much as looking at her.

Her feet tumbled after him as she mentally and physically struggled to keep up. What was happening? Why wasn’t he answering her? Why was he even talking to her? Who was this man?

“Hey!” she finally called. He stopped and turned.

That’s when he looked up for the first time, his downcast blue eyes lifting off the dirt and settling on her green ones.

Pride swelled in her when she saw them waver, because clearly her voice had rattled him in some way. He clearly didn’t like looking her in the eye either. His eyes kept darting off of hers, and he had to keep forcing them back. Her own eyes narrowed, trying to understand this guard. “Who are you?”

“Your instructor.” 

[thefinalcinderella]

Kaze ga Tsuyoku Fuiteiru Chapter 7 - The Qualifiers (Part 2)

I will finish this novel by the end of summer...no matter what

Full list of translations here

Translation Notes

1. According to Wikipedia, the second leg of Hakone is 23.1km from Tsurumi to Totsuka and the longest leg of the race, so traditionally the fastest runner of each team runs this leg. It’s called the “Leg 2 of Flowers” because all the aces of each school take part in it

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The race unfolded at a fast pace right from the start.

Kakeru and Kiyose were part of the first group that consisted of twenty to thirty people. Kakeru was impatient to do a spurt, but he was admonished by Kiyose, running next to him, to “calm down,” and he managed to control his impatience.

Two black transfer students from Saikyo University were in the lead. In no time at all, they had established a lead from the first group and were already rounding the first corner of the runway. Iwanki, the black transfer student from Koufu Academy and a Hakone regular, also followed them resolutely. Iwanki was an ace in his final year of school who had run the second leg (1) of Hakone for three years in a row, and Kakeru felt the ace’s pride and ardor for Hakone as he stared at Iwanki’s distant back running far ahead.

As though influenced by the three in the lead’s running, the first group also passed the first kilometer in two minutes and forty-nine seconds. It might have been due to the fact that the JSDF’s runway was so wide that it was difficult to get a sense of distance; considering they were running twenty kilometers, it was a pretty fast pace. More and more people couldn’t keep up, and by the time they rounded the second corner, the runners were already all stretched out lengthwise.

Kiyose checked his watch and turned around. The other Chikusei-sou members were in the third group that consisted of seventy to eighty people, and they were running together.

Kiyose went out to the edge of the course, where it would be easier to see him from behind. His palm was facing down, signalling them to “restrain themselves.” According to the rules they had decided beforehand, he indicated numbers with his fingers in succession, telling them to “run up to five kilometers within three minutes and ten seconds per kilometer. The rest is decided by you.” “Decided by you” was indicated with a gesture of opening and closing his palm near his temple. He could see Yuki and Shindou nodding and quickly informing the others around them.

“Are we slowing down too?” Kakeru asked.

“Are we?” Kiyose asked back.

“No.”

He had absolutely no intention of doing that. As Kiyose ran, he lightly tapped Kakeru’s back.

“Once we’re on the regular roads, there will be new developments. When the time comes, just launch forward without worrying about me.”

Hanako had finished gathering the bags near the start point and was cheering on the residents making the second lap on the runway. It was so expansive that when the runners were running at the farthest side, she could only see specks. But as the group approached, she could feel the earth shaking, and when they passed before her eyes, she could feel the breathing of the runners and the heat dissipating off their sweaty bodies.

With a stopwatch in hand, Hanako was amazed.

Everyone is running at such a fast speed. They’re even faster than I would be if I pedalled my bike with all my strength. The runners are passing by so quickly that I can barely make out their faces—and they’re running a whole twenty kilometers at this speed.

The three black runners passed by, and about forty meters behind, the first group arrived. Kakeru and Kiyose were among them; they were still carrying themselves lightly and compactly, with calm expressions on their faces. The surrounding spectators cheered, “Let’s go!” Hanako also tried to call out to them, but she couldn’t; a lump of air was stuck in her chest.

The twins were in the third group. The eight people of Chikusei-sou were together, running as hard as they could to not fall behind—to get even a little bit further ahead.

“The lead is at a pace of two minutes and forty-nine seconds. Don’t let yourselves be dragged along!” As Hanako conveyed that information, she realized that she was on the verge of tears.

I never knew that the running form could be this beautiful. What a primitive and lonely sport this is. No one is able to support them. No matter how many spectators there are around them, no matter if the teammates they practiced together with are with them, those people are currently continuing to run using everything in their bodies, all by themselves.

They ran two laps on the runway, and after they had run five kilometers, the gap between the black runners in the lead and the first group was more than a hundred meters. A middle-aged man near Hanako clicked his tongue.

“Japanese runners are so weak.”

Not at all, Hanako wanted to say. What are you looking at? There’s no difference between those leading and those following. Why can’t you see the seriousness in their faces and their determination to overcome their physical limits? There’s no weak person here.

Clenching her fists tightly, Hanako’s eyes chased the Kansei uniforms. Don’t lose. Everyone, please don’t lose.

Even Hanako herself didn’t know what she was praying that they wouldn’t lose against; was it the rivals from the other schools, the people who were spectating along the route while making arbitrary judgements, or was it they themselves who were running? She didn’t know, but Hanako prayed with all her heart: she didn’t want them to lose. To anything.

Yaokatsu called out to her.

“Let’s go, Hana.”

Hey, hey, Yaokatsu prompted Hanako. “Everyone looks like they’re in a good position. Let’s wait for them at the finish line.”

The plasterer sniffed and nodded. It was the first time the people of the shopping district had seen track athletes running at close proximity. The speed was breathtaking, and they couldn’t help but be moved by how bravely the people of Chikusei-sou were competing, by no means inferior to anyone else.

They’re always laughing like idiots, but they were serious. They were serious about running. Watching the qualifiers, they finally realized that.

The people of the shopping district picked up the towels and water bottles and began to move through the park. They had to secure a good spot on the grass clearing to welcome the runners after they finished the race.

Hanako was blinking, drying the tears that had welled up. This was no time to cry. The race had only just started. She had to believe in them and do what she had to do.

Holding the plastic sheet, Hanako vigorously walked through the grass wet with morning dew.

The race took on a new dimension when they passed the five kilometer mark and went out onto the regular road. The first group began to come apart. The gap with the lead didn’t shorten, but it also didn’t get longer. It was still a very high-paced race, and some were falling behind.

Kakeru and Kiyose were firmly in the first group, which had about ten people; they were surrounded by ace runners from TSU, Kikui, and Koufu Academy. Kakeru confirmed that Sakaki wasn’t there. No sense of superiority or, of course, sympathy sprouted in Kakeru’s heart. He only thought, “Oh, I guess he couldn’t keep up with the pace.” But I’m going further. I’m gonna break away from this group.

At that point, the staff inside the leading car that was loaded up with TV cameras shouted in admiration, “Oi oi, there’re Kansei runners here. They’re doing pretty good!” But of course Kakeru and Kiyose had no way of knowing that. Where would the race go? They were playing a silent game with the runners around them.

Large track teams had backup members posted along the route, who were able to relay the positions of each runner and the pacing instructions from the coach. However, Kansei didn’t have enough people, and Kiyose had to pay attention to the other runners as well, not just his own running. Occasionally, he turned around to look at the situation—the eight people from Chikusei-sou were still huddled together, taking rear positions in the expanding second group. The previous second and third groups had also broken up, and those who weren’t left behind seemed to have merged with those that couldn’t keep up with the first group.

It could be seen from the twins, Musa, and Yuki’s faces that they still had spare energy left. Shindou and Nico-chan were calm, striving to maintain their own pace. King was managing to keep up, but Prince would soon be at risk. The Chikusei-sou group was also stretching out vertically.

More than that, if the members stuck together any longer, those with slow paces might drag them all backwards.

They passed the seven kilometer mark. The first group’s time for the last kilometer was 3.05 minutes. The race had slowed down a bit compared to the initial fast pace. This was probably due to the group psychology of being afraid of running out of steam in the latter half, as well as the slowing down of Iwanki, who was in third place, running a little further ahead.

It would only be after ten kilometers that some from the first group made a spurt, which Kiyose had judged would happen. There, of course, Kakeru and Kiyose had to cling on, but they also had to consider the impact on the rear. There would definitely be those who fell behind or fell off their pace because they lacked stamina, and the people of Chikusei-sou could not be swayed by it.

Kiyose approached the center line and made another signal towards the group in the back. He rotated his right arm widely. “Move out soon.” He fluttered his right hand’s fingers near his temple. “You guys can break up.” Next, he made a fist with his right hand and gave a thumbs up. “Good luck.”

Except for Prince, who couldn’t afford to do it, everyone raised their hands lightly to indicate they understood.

“Kakeru. Starting from the ten kilometer mark, the first turning point of this race will come. Don’t fall behind.”

Kakeru nodded at Kiyose’s whisper. He could sense that, both from the breathing of the runners in the first group and the fact that the scrambling for positions that would make it easier to break away was intensifying. The runners were inferring with each other, keeping each other in check, and waiting for their chance.

Even as they left the street in front of the station and approached the monorail overhead, there were spectators lining the streets along the way. But their voices were distant. They only caressed his ears like the roar of the sea, and tore back in an instant. It was because he was concentrating on the race, and Kakeru was reminded once again that today, his body was moving well.

There were times when his body felt light, but his pace didn’t reflect it. On the other hand, there were days when he felt like he wasn’t doing well, but was actually running at a very good pace. No matter how much he practiced, there were many times when his body and mind didn’t sync well in a real race, creating illusions.

Just to make sure, Kakeru dropped his gaze to his wristwatch for the first time; he had come this far at a pace of two minutes and fifty-seven seconds per kilometer. It’s not an illusion. Just as thought, I’m in good form today. Even if the race speeds up, I can still do it. I can go even faster.

Kiyose seemed to sense Kakeru’s confidence. Running next to him, he said “Whoa there,” as though calming a horse. “Wait, Kakeru. You’re free to do what you want after we pass the ten kilometer mark.”

If he put on a spurt too soon, he would self-destruct. Kakeru answered “Yes,” and controlled himself, not dropping his pace.

As soon as they passed under the monorail and saw the ten kilometer mark, the first group moved as expected.

A third-year from Kikui and the TSU captain put on a spurt. They pulled ahead of everyone except for Kakeru and Kiyose.

Using them as a shelter from the wind, Kakeru stayed right behind Kikui and TSU, who were competing against each other. After running about five hundred meters, he murmured, “I’m going.” Kiyose nodded without a word.

Kakeru overtook Kikui and TSU by running around them from the center line, and he continued to run according to his own rhythm. He didn’t have the leisure or urge to look back, but the sound of footsteps moving away from him was enough for him to know that he had pulled ahead and was in fourth place alone.

I feel great. The cutting wind and the road I’m stepping on are all mine for just this instant. As long as I’m running like this, this is a world only I can experience.

His heart was hot. He could feel the blood flowing to the tips of his fingers. He felt heavy—he wasn’t supposed to feel like this yet. He had to change his body more. Like a nimble beast that ran through the grassland without knowing pain. Like a silvery light in the darkness.

At the 11.2 kilometer turnaround point, Kakeru turned so cleanly that he looked like a brand-new aerodynamic machine. Slowing down is a sin. Because everything I have is for the sake of running.

Kakeru was already in range of Iwanki, who was ahead of him.

Seeing Kakeru accelerate right before his eyes, Kiyose was ecstatic.

Show me that run. The beauty of that existence, born for running.

The figure that easily surpasses frustration and envy. Like it’s some other creature. What a difference from me, who’s bound by gravity and struggling to supply oxygen to myself.

Kiyose managed to suppress his urge to shout. As expected, it’s only you. You’re the only one who can embody running like this. Kakeru, you’re the only one who can spur me on and show me a new world.

He wanted to catch up to Kakeru, but that was impossible for Kiyose, who had a bomb in his leg. He matched the pace of Kikui and TSU. Both of them were doing their best to get over the shock of being overtaken by Kakeru even though they had put on a spurt. How would this affect the ups and downs after they enter the park? The only tactic that remained for Kiyose was preserving his strength and taking a gamble on the end. He didn’t have the leeway to look behind him anymore.

But, he could feel it—the other eight had definitely witnessed Kakeru flying out from the group. He could tell that they were excited to see that sparkling running.

Jouji saw Kakeru, who was running past the turnaround point, from the front. He had the same face he had when he was jogging, his breathing composed and no hint of pain in his face. But, his eyes are different, Jouji thought. Kakeru’s dark eyes were shining with joy. It was the joy of just being in the act of running.

Kakeru probably didn’t know what kind of face he makes when he’s running. Jouji felt jealousy and affection at the same time. Can I run as purely as Kakeru? So innocently and freely to the point it’s inhuman. I want to run. Jouji thought. I want to run like Kakeru too.

Nico-chan groaned at Kakeru’s running as he ran right past him. I didn’t think he’d be that fast. How fast can he run when he’s going all out? That glint in his eyes is dazzling. It’s like he’s proving that there is such a thing as chosen ones.

But I’ll run through to the end. Nico-chan sucked air into his lungs that were beginning to scream. I can’t afford to fall behind Kakeru in my will to run.

The people wearing Kansei’s uniforms, with Kakeru in the lead, were connected by their passion and strength, and like a constellation shining in the night sky, they formed a single shape to reach the finish line.

---

Hanako staked out a spot on the grass clearing and then hurried towards the park course. The cheering squads from each school were crowding near the finish line. The spectators also formed a double or triple wall of people waiting for the runners to arrive. Since it suddenly became very noisy, the birds flew out of the park trees in surprise.

About fifty meters from the finish line, Hanako finally found a gap in the wall. Saying “Excuse me” as she slipped through, she was able to join the front row. She was wearing a Kansei jersey, so the spectators guessed that she was a staff member and considerately made room for her.

Hanako looked at her stopwatch; fifty-three minutes and thirty-five seconds had passed since the start of the race. They’re running twenty kilometers, so it’s going to take a while no matter how you look at it.

Just when she thought that, the sound of cheers approached like a wave. The cheering squads of each school were singing their school song and waving their flags about as though this was the critical moment.

The leading runner appeared from the shade of a green tree: it was a black international student from Saikyo University. Next was another black student, also from Saikyo.

“Amazing…” Hanako murmured.

Amidst the roars of the crowd, the two international students crossed the finish line in fifty-eight minutes and twelve seconds and fifty-eight minutes and twenty-eight seconds respectively. The word “unrivalled” would be a fitting word to describe their physical ability. Hanako wondered what happened to the Chikusei-sou members. While applauding the runners who finished, she stood on tiptoe and looked at the course.

A figure appeared, turning the curve. Hanako screamed in spite of herself. She couldn’t find the words.

It was Kakeru.

It was Kurahara Kakeru who approached the final stretch right before the finish line in third place.

“The top places are going to be the black runners anyways.”

Even the spectators who had been whispering that to each other erupted in undulating roars, unmatched by the ones earlier. Hanako forgot herself and was shouting, “Kurahara-kun! Kurahara-kun!”

It didn’t seem like Kakeru was hearing anything.

The ragged breathing passed in front of Hanako in an instant. Kakeru was only looking at the finish line straight ahead and dashed through the fifty meter distance as though he was running short distance. The spectators were swept away by his running which was brimming with persistence and fighting spirit.

The area in front of the finish line was silent for an instant, as though a saint had passed through.

Hanako checked her stopwatch. Kakeru had finished in fifty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds. Iwanki finished five seconds later. Kakeru had beaten the ace of Koufu Academy.

A buzz filled the area in front of the finish line.

“That was Kansei. I’ve never seen that school in Hakone before.”

“They have one amazing runner there.”

He’s Kurahara-kun. He’s Kurahara-kun, who’s still a first-year. Hanako wanted to say that to everyone around her. However, there was no time for that, because the trailing runners were reaching the final stretch in front of the finish line one by one.

---

When Kiyose passed fifteen kilometers and entered the park, he made his spurt as planned. Kikui and TSU increased their pace at almost the exact same time, but he had no intention of losing.

When he sped up on the upward slope, he felt a faint discomfort in his right shin. Shit, he thought, but he didn’t mess up his breathing or show it on his face—he was done for if his weakness was discovered. Right now, every second counted. It was not the time to worry about old wounds.

Kiyose continued to speed up without hesitating. The cheering squads’ musical performances were in complete harmony, singing in a chaotic scale. A few familiar faces from the shopping district seemed to be shouting along the course. However, he couldn’t hear anything. The Kikui runner pulled another step ahead. Every time his sole touched the ground, he felt a numbness in his shin. Even so, Kiyose had no intention of being outdistanced.

“Haiji-san!”

He definitely heard Kakeru’s yell. Kiyose poured his last strength into the muscles of his legs and practically collapsed through the finish line. He managed to move to a position where he wouldn’t be in the way and put his palm to his shin. It was hot. He was tied for sixth place with the Kikui runner. His time was exactly sixty minutes.

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[hd-learns-korean]

Musical Monday: Week 5!

Hey all! I hope everyone is doing Ok. Today I’m back with another musical Monday. This song is another recommendation and I think it’s great! Thank you so much for the fab song choice! 🥳

Song: New by Yves (Loona) 

Genre: Definite K-pop

My thoughts on the song: What a great summer bop is all I can say! Just the jam I was looking for. (God I sound so old!🤦‍♀️ )

 Just a note: I’ve used a few more Naver dictionary examples in this post  - Reason for this is because I know that I’m a langblr and I’m not a native speaker of Korean, so for study posts I wanna make sure that I at least get a couple of things right. Also you will be able to spot my own example sentences A MILE OFF! I mean I think if I said my own examples in real life I’d for sure get laughed at! 😅 

So if you spots any mistakes lemme know so I can fix ‘em! Thanks guys! 

Ok everybody Lets get this study train started! Hoot Hoot! 

👀뜨다 – 1.)To open one’s eyes/ to be awakened 2.) to hear/ to catch/ to understand

🎁Present Tense:  떠, 떠요, 뜹니다

⏰Past Tense: 떴어, 떴어요, 떴습니다

🔮Future Tense: 뜰 거야, 뜰 거예요, 뜰 겁니다

👀👀바라보다 1.) to look/ to watch/ to stare 2.) to hope

🎁Present Tense: 바라봐, 바라봐요, 바라봅니다

⏰Past Tense: 바라봤어, 바라봤어요, 바라봤습니다

🔮Future Tense: 바라볼 거야, 바라볼 거예요, 바라볼 겁니다

하늘을 바라보다 to look up at the sky

✨😎눈부시다 1.) dazzling/ glaring/ blinding 2.) be brilliant/ be gorgeous

🎁Present Tense:  눈부십니다,  눈부셔요, 눈부셔, 

⏰Past Tense: 눈부셨어, 눈부셨어요, 눈부셨습니다

🔮Future Tense: 눈부시겠어,  눈부시겠어요,  눈부시겠습니다

Examples from Naver:

눈부신 태양 the glaring sun

눈부신 재능 splendid talents

🚶‍♀️🚶‍♂️다가가다 to approach/ to go near 2.) to get close/ to become close

🎁Present Tense: 다가가, 다가가요, 다가갑니다

⏰Past Tense: 다가갔어, 다가갔어요, 다가갔습니다

🔮Future Tense: 다가갈 거야, 다가갈 거예요, 다가갈 겁니다

Examples I found on Naver: 

다가가 말하다 approach and speak

창가로 다가가다 approach the window seat

💫되다 1.) to become 2.) to change into 3.) to reach/ attain/ pass 4.) measure/ total/ amount to 5.) be done/ be completed 6.) consist of/ be composed of 7.) be enough/ be sufficient 8.) run out of 9.) grow

🎁Present Tense: 돼, 돼요, 됩니다

⏰Past Tense: 됐어, 됐어요, 됐습니다

🔮Future Tense: 될 거야, 될 거예요, 될 겁니다

Examples: I found these on Naver

2에 3을 더하면 5가 된다 two and three makes five

요리가 다 되었다 cooking is done

물질은 원자로 되어 있다 matter is composed of atoms

백 원만 있으면 됩니다 a hundred won will be enough

연료가 다 되었다 the gasoline (fuel) has run out

버릇이 되다 grow into a habit

부자가 되다 become rich

봄이 되었다 spring has come

🎨물들다 – 1.) to be dyed/ to be tinged 2.) to be influenced/ to be affected

Examples I found on Naver: 

그녀의 두 뺨이 붉게 물들었다 her cheeks turned red.

악에 물들다 be infatuated with evil

습관에 물들다 fall into a habit.

🥤채우다 1.) to fill up/ pack up 2/) serve out/ meet/ make/ fulfil

🎁Present Tense: 채워, 채워요, 채웁니다

⏰Past Tense: 채웠어, 채웠어여, 채웠습니다

🔮Future Tense: 채울 거야, 채울 거예요, 채울 겁니다 

Examples I found on Naver:

병에 물을 채우다 fill up a bottle with water

빈칸을 채우다 fill in the blanks

계약 기간을 채우다 see one’s contract through

🙅‍♀️🙅‍♂️💰초라하다 to be shabby/ poor/ humble 2.) to be insignificant/ pathetic

Examples I found on Naver

초라한 옷 shabby clothes

초라하게 살다 to be badly off

🍨달콤하다 1.) sweet 2.) honeyed/ sugared

Examples I found on Naver: 

맛이 달콤하다 to taste sweet

달콤한 말 sweet talk

달콤하게 말하다 talk in a wheedling tone

달콤한 말에 넘어가다 fall for somebody’s sweet talk

달콤한 미소 a sweet smile

🌺🌼🌻피어나다 1.) To bloom 2.) to rekindle, burn again 3.) come back to life 4.) Get better

Examples I found on naver: 

꽃이 피어나다 flowers bloom

My example: 봄과 여름에서 꽃이 피어나다. Flowers bloom in spring and summer.

⬅➡다르다 different/ dissimilar

Examples I found on naver: 

다른 방법은 없다 there’s no other choice

약간 다르다 slightly different/ somewhat different

완전히 다르다 completely different

다른 different, dissimilar, unlike anything else

🔦비추다 1.) shine a light 2.) reflected 3.) compare with/ check with 4.) drop a hint

🎁Present Tense:비춰, 비춰요, 비춥니다

⏰Past Tense: 비췄어, 비췄어요, 비췄습니다

🔮Future Tense: 비출 거야, 비출 거예요, 비출 겁니다

Examples I found on Naver: 

불빛이 비추다 the light shines

햇볕이 비추다 the sun shines

촛불을 비추다 light a candle

속마음을 비추다 show one’s innermost thoughts

🤷‍♀️묻다 1.) ask/inquire 2.) blame

🎁Present Tense: 물어/ 묻어, 물어요/묻어요, 묻습니다

⏰Past Tense: 물었어/ 묻었어, 물었어요/ 묻었어요, 물었습니다/ 묻었습니다

🔮Future Tense: 물을 거야/ 묻을 거야, 물을 거예요/ 묻을 거예요, 물을 겁니다/ 묻을 겁니다. 

Side note grammar form: ~에게 묻다 ask me ….

My own examples:

미나 씨, 도움이 필요하면 저에게 물어보세요. Mina if you need any help, ask me.

🥶차갑다 1.)cold/ chilly/ icy 2.) be cold- hearted

🎁Present Tense: 차가워, 차가워요, 차갑습니다

⏰Past Tense: 차가웠어, 차가웠어요, 차가웠습니다 

🔮Future Tense: 차가울 거야, 차가울 거예요, 차가울 겁니다

Examples I found on Naver: 

커피가 차갑게 식었다 the coffee has turned cold

그는 나의 질문에 차갑게 대답했다 he answered my questions coldly

얼음처럼 차가운 as cold as ice

차가운 눈으로 쳐다보다 look at a person coldly

날씨가 차갑다 the weather is cold

차갑게 굴다 behave coldly

🏃‍♀️🏃‍♂️뛰다 1.) run/ dash 2.) Jump/ skip/ hop 3.) soar/ skyrocket

🎁Present Tense: 뛰어, 뛰어요, 뜁니다

⏰Past Tense: 뛰었어, ���었어요, 뛰었습니다

🔮Future Tense: 뛸 거야, 뛸 거예여, 뛸 겁니다

Examples I found on Naver: 

전속력으로 뛰다 run as fast as one can go

최근에 휘발유 가격이 많이 뛰었다 The price of petrol has shot up recently.

기뻐서 뛰다 jump for joy

🤝닿다 1.) touch/ reach/ brush 2.) arrive/ get 3.) connections with a person

🎁Present Tense: 닿아, 닿아요, 닿습니다

⏰Past Tense: 닿았어, 닿았어요, 닿았습니다

🔮Future Tense: 닿을 거야, 닿을 거예요, 닿을 겁니다

Examples I found on Naver: 

천장에 닿다 reach to the ceiling

서울에 닿다 arrive in Seoul

손에 닿다 reach one’s hand

표면에 닿다 touch a surface

🤸‍♀️🤸‍♂️뻗다 1.) Reach 2.) stretch 3.) expand 4.) informal meaning ‘knocked out’ / sprawl out

🎁Present Tense: 뻗어, 뻗어요, 뻗습니다

⏰Past Tense: 뻗었어, 뻗었어요, 뻗었습니다

🔮Future Tense: 뻗을 거야, 뻗을 거예요, 뻗을 겁니다

다들 술에 취해 뻗어 있었다 Everyone was drunk and out of it/ everyone was sprawled out drunk. (Sounds like a good old English work party then?!) 

하늘로 뻗다 stretch out into the sky.

🥰맘 1.) personality 2.) mind 3. )feeling

Examples I found on Naver

맘이 넓다. Have a broad heart

맘이 좋다 I feel good

고운 맘 a tender heart

미안한 맘 feeling sorry

맘이 무겁다 to have a heavy heart

맘이 불안하다 to feel uneasy

맘을 가라앉히다 settle one’s mind

맘을 풀다. Blow one’s mind

My own examples:

‘부장님의 말 듣기후에, 저는 맘이 불안했습니다.’ After listening to the manager, I felt uneasy.

좋은 뉴스를 듣기후에, 저는 지금 맘을 가라앉히 수 있어요. After listening to the good news, I can calm down now.

내 남자친구는 고운 맘 있어요. My boyfriend has a sweet heart.

🤏겨우 1.) barely/ narrowly 2.) only, just, nearly, no more, at most

Examples I found on Naver:

겨우겨우 살아가다 barely make ends meet/ keep the wolf from the door

이제 겨우 7시다 it’s only seven o’clock

겨우 달아나다 barely escape

겨우 달래다. Barely appease

😘😏유혹 Temptation/ lure/ allurement

Examples I found on Naver: 

유혹적인 제의 an inviting/ seductive offer

유혹을 견디다 resist temptation

유혹에서 벗어나다 free oneself from temptation

🖐👏🤟짓 1.) act 2.) motion/ wave/ gesture

Examples I found on Naver: 

바보 같은 짓 하지 마라 don’t act like a fool

손짓 a wave

눈짓 a look

🔝위 1.)  top 2.) superior authority

Examples I found on Naver: 

위를 보세요 look above (you)

그 책은 선반 위에 있다 the book is on the shelf

저는 위에서 시키는 대로 했을 뿐입니다 I only follow orders from above/ I just did what they told me to do.

위에 above/ over

맨 위의 the uppermost

🤏🤏점점 gradually/ increasingly

Examples I found on Naver:

점점 더 워지다 be getting hotter

길은 점점 험해졌다 the road became steeper and steeper

점점 희미해지다 fade away

⏰그때 1.) that time/ those days 2.) at the time

Examples I found on Naver: 

좋아요, 그럼 그때 봐요 okay, I’ll see you then.

마침 그때 just at the moment

그때까지 by that time/ theretofore

처럼 like/ as though/ as if

I found these examples on Naver

돈을 물처럼 쓰다 spend money like water

평소처럼 as usual

그는 억만장자나 된 것처럼 말한다 he talks as if he’s a billionaire

너처럼 just like you

🤷‍♀️🤷‍♂️듯 – a  noun that indicates the speakers guess

I found these examples on Naver

알 듯 말 듯 like I know or not

사실인 듯 이야기하다 speak as if it were true

할 듯 말 듯 like it’s going to do

공기 1.) air 2.) atmosphere

Examples I found on Naver: 

공기를 들이마시다 breathe in/ inhale

공기의 aerial

상큼한 공기 cool crisp air

오염된 공기 polluted air

💖심장 1.) heart 2.) nerve/ cheek/ guts

Examples I found on Naver: 

심장이 빠르게 뛰었다 my heart was pounding

심장의 cardiac

심장이 강하다 be bold/ be cheeky

심장이 약하다 be timid/ faint-hearted

👸🤴당당히 1.) fairly, squarely, grandly, bravely 2.) in a dignified manner/ with pomp and glory

당당히 행동하다 act with confidence

기세가 당당하다 be in high – spirits

⏰순간 A moment / an instant

Examples I found on Naver: 

감동적인 순간 a touching moment

겁나는 순간 a scary moment

긴장된 순간 a tense moment

재미있는 순간 a funny moment

짧은 순간 a brief moment

순간적인 momentary

🌞태양 the sun

태양의 solar

🌋🔥타버린 burnt – out

🧭새벽녘 around dawn/ towards dawn

🔍거울 mirror

Examples I found on Naver:

손거울 hand mirror

전신거울 full-size mirror

백미러 rearview mirror

거울을 보다 Look into a mirror

My examples: 오늘은 시장에서 예쁜 손거울이 샀어요. I bought a pretty hand mirror at the market today.

😁얼굴 Face

Example I found on Naver: 

얼굴을 씻다 wash own face

얼굴을 찡그리다 grimace/ frown/scowl

각진 얼굴 angular shaped face

계란형 얼굴 oval shaped face

둥근 얼굴 round shaped face

My examples: 그 배우는 정말 각진 얼굴이 있지! 그는 광대뼈들은 칼 같아요!   The actor has such an angular face! His cheekbones are like knives! (Sorry, sorry I know my examples are kinda out there...but daymn this imaginary actor sounds SHARP!) 

🤷‍♀️🤷‍♂️누구 1.) who 2.) somebody’s 3.) I

Examples I found on Naver: 

누구 차례입니까? Whose turn is it?

누구 놀리니? Are you kidding me?

누구 앞에서 함부로 입을 놀려? You have no idea who you're talking to (A little bit of a sass mouth *snap snap*)

There we go guys another weeks study list completed! I hope you guys had fun reading it and find it helpful for studying with. Just a heads up though, I’m still a beginner so my translations may be a little rusty! Thank God for Naver dictionary and it’s plentiful examples! Also for all the words I break down here, I recommend searching for them on the Naver dictionary cos there a ton more examples and example sentences. 

I have also used Verbix to help find the verb conjugations. 

Right I’m off now to sing this song again  into my wooden spoon and pretend I’m in a 노래방. (I’m so sorry neighbours! Please forgive me for my horrendous singing!) 😅

Happy Studying! x 

Gifs: are not created by me. All credit should go to the original creators. I just found the gifs on tumblr. 

[kaialone]

Spirit Tracks Translation Comparison: Meeting Anjean

This will be a comparison of the original Japanese version and the US English localized version.

Specifically, this will cover the cutscene in which Link and Princess Zelda first encounter Anjean.

You can also watch this cutscene for yourself in English and Japanese. If you want, you can check out the EU English version, too.

For the comparison, the usual points apply:

Bolded is the original Japanese text, for the reference.

Bolded and italicized is my translation.

Italicized is the official NOA translation.

A (number) indicates that I have a specific comment to make on that part in the translation notes.

As you read this, please keep in mind that with translations like these, it’s important not to focus on the exact literal wordings, since there is no single “correct answer” when it comes to translations.

Rather than that, consider the actual information that is being conveyed, in which way, and why.

--

Characters in this part who had their names changed between versions:

Sharin = Anjean, Demon King Mallador = Demon King Malladus, Cirokuni = Alfonzo, “Teacher” = “Geezer“

--

Arriving at the Tower:

Zelda:

これは… この汽車はいったい…？

This is... What is this train...?

What's this train?

Anjean:

神の汽車…天上のお方からの 授かりものじゃ…

The Train of God... A gift from the Heavenly One... 

This, my dear, is the spirits' train.

They entrusted us with its keeping.

Zelda:

え…わたしの声が 聞こえているのですね？

Huh...? You can hear me?

How did you know that? And…you can hear me?

Zelda:

…あなたが… 賢者様ですか？

...Are you... the wise sage? 

Are you...the sage of this tower?

Anjean:

賢者というほどの 者ではないが…

I wouldn't really go as far as calling me a sage...

Well, I wouldn't put it exactly that way.

Anjean:

ワシは神の塔の婆 シャリンじゃ

I'm Sharin, the old hag of the Tower of God.

But I do watch over the Tower of Spirits.

My name is Anjean.

Zelda:

良かった！ シャリン様 大事な お話が あるのです！

Thank goodness! Lady Sharin, we need to talk about something important!

Am I glad to see you!

There's something we have to talk to you about!

Anjean:

なるほど…で そのような お化けの姿にされてしまったと

I see... And that's how you ended up with this ghastly look.  (1)

Mm, yes, that pallor you're sporting is quite frightful.

One might even call it...rather hideous, in fact.

Zelda:

お化けとは何です 失礼な！

What do you mean, ghastly?! How rude!

Hideous?! How dare you?!

Anjean:

やれやれ 血は争えんようじゃの

Well, well, looks like the apple doesn't fall far.

I see that feistiness runs in your family, my dear.

Anjean:

玄孫だというのに 勝気なところは変わらんわい

Five generations between you, but that headstrong attitude of yours is still the same.  (2)

But there's no need to get your feathers all ruffled.

Zelda:

え？わたしの…ご先祖様を ご存知なのですか？

Huh? Did you... know an ancestor of mine?  (3)

Oh...

Did you know someone in my family?

Anjean:

うむ ばあ様が若かりし日 この地に たどり着いた頃からな

Indeed, I met your grannie back when she came to this land during her youth.  (4)

Feisty AND bright, just like she was!

The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree, does it?

Yes, I knew one of your ancestors.

I met her when she had just arrived here.

Anjean:

退屈だった日々を いろいろと まぎらわせてもろうたわ

She brought plenty of distractions to my boring everyday life.

She and I were friends for a very long time.

Zelda:

海賊だった ご先祖様が この 地を発見したのは たしか百年前

As far as I am aware, my pirate ancestor discovered this land about a hundred years ago.

My family first arrived here about a century ago.

Zelda:

シャリン様は その頃から この塔に…?

Were you already in this tower during that time, Lady Sharin...?

Were you already here in the tower then, Anjean?

Anjean:

まあ 今それは よい…

Well, that's enough for now...

That's a story for another time, my dear.

Anjean:

それよりも 何かを企んでおる という魔族共の話じゃ

More importantly, we need to talk about what those demon folk are up to.

Right now, we must discuss a matter more grave.

Anjean:

おぬしらは この塔の役目を 知っておるか？

Do you two know about this tower's purpose?

Tell me, do you know the story of this tower?

Zelda:

この地に伝わる神話ですね…

You mean the ancient myth passed down in this land...

Only what the folktales say...

Zelda:

はるかな昔 神と魔王の 戦いが繰り返され…

Long ago, a battle between the God and the Demon King kept repeating many times over...

Long ago, the spirits of good and the Demon King

were embroiled in a never- ending war.

Zelda:

神は魔を倒し その魂を この塔に収め 封印を ほどこした

The divine was victorious over the demonic, and sealed his soul within this tower.

In the end, the spirits could not defeat him.

But they did manage to imprison him in this tower.

Zelda:

塔を囲む 四つの神殿から 送られてくる力…

それが神の塔の結界を強化し 魔王を縛めていると…

Energy flows into the tower from the four temples surrounding it...

This is what keeps reinforcing the barrier of the Tower of God, and binds the Demon King...

It's not chains or bars that keep him imprisoned,

but an energy that flows between the tower

and the four temples that surround it.

Zelda:

あっ もしかしたら塔と神殿を つないでいた線路が？

Oh! Could it be that the train tracks are connecting the tower and the temples?

Oh, of course! Anjean, then the Spirit Tracks--

Anjean:

うむ 神殿からの力を 塔に送りこんでおったのじゃ

Indeed, they carry the energy from the temples to the tower.

Correct, my dear. The Spirit Tracks carry that energy.

Anjean:

ゆえに線路が途切れてしまえば 塔の結界は力を失い…

そして封印も消え去る… 奴ら魔族の目的…

Therefore, if the tracks were to be cut off, the tower's barrier would lose its power...

And the seal would also vanish... That is what those demons are after...

If the tracks are lost, the tower's energy will fade,

and so will the Demon King's prison.

And that's just what the evil ones are after!

Anjean:

魔王マラドーの復活と見て 間違いなかろうな…

They're are definitely aiming to resurrect the Demon King Mallador...  (5)

They aim to resurrect Malladus, the Demon King.

Anjean:

今 塔はワシの力で かろうじて支えておるが

Right now, my power is barely holding the tower together, but...

Right now, my strength maintains his shackles,

Anjean:

封印が消えるは 時間の問題…

It's only a matter of time until the seal fades...

but it's only a matter of time until they're broken.

Anjean:

じゃが それだけでは マラドーは復活できん

奴が よみがえるためには もう一つ重要なものがある…

However, that alone cannot resurrect Mallador.

To revive him, they need one other important thing...

Of course, in order to resurrect Malladus,

they need one other key ingredient...

Anjean:

うむ おぬしじゃよ ゼルダ姫

おぬしら一族の故郷 はるか 遠い地の古き王国ハイラル…

その王家に代々 受け継がれし聖なる力…

Indeed, it's you, Princess Zelda.

Your family line's native land is the far-distant old Kingdom of Hyrule...

A sacred power has been passed down its royal family for generations...

A vessel from the royal line of ancient Hyrule,

with sacred power coursing through its veins.

Anjean:

それは魔王の強大な魂を 受け入れられる唯一の存在じゃ

ゆえに魔族共が マラドーの器として欲したもの…

それが おぬしの体なのじゃ

That's the only thing which can take in the Demon King's mighty soul.

Therefore, the vessel that the demons want for Mallador is...

Your body.

Yes, Malladus requires YOU in order to return.

But...only your shell, my dear.

It would be the only vessel suitable for him to inhabit.

Zelda:

いぃぃぃぃやぁぁぁぁあぁぁぁっ！！

Nooooooooooooooooooooo!!

Nooooooooooooo!

Zelda:

私に！ わたしの体に！！ 魔王の魂が入ってくる？！

Inside me?! Inside my body?!! That’s where they’re putting the Demon King's soul?!

The Demon King is going to run around in MY body?

Zelda:

あぁ！ なんて おぞましい！！

Ahhh! How repugnant!!

BLECH! That's too disgusting for words!

Zelda:

阻止です！

We will prevent this!

We HAVE to stop them!

Zelda:

魔王の復活を 断固阻止しないと！！

We absolutely have to prevent the Demon King's resurrection!!

We can't let the Demon King return!

Anjean:

う うむ そのためには…

この神の塔と各地の神殿を もう一度 線路でつなぐのじゃ

I-indeed, and in order to do that...

You need to connect the Tower of God and the surrounding temples with the tracks again.

My thoughts exactly, my dear.

Anjean:

この塔の上にいる 魔王の魂と おぬしの体…

The Demon King's soul and your body are at the top of this tower...

At the top of this tower is your body.

The Demon King's spirit is also there.

Anjean:

重なるには相応の 時間が かかろうて

その前に神殿の力を 再び塔に注ぎこめば良い

さすれば結界も 強き力を 取り戻すじゃろう

It will take some time for them to coalesce.

The power of the temples needs to flow into the tower again before that happens.

If you can manage that, the barrier should also regain its strength.

To prevent him from possessing your body,

you must fortify his prison. To do this,

restore the energy between the temples and this tower.

In other words...

Restore the tracks between here and the temples.

Zelda:

その方法は？

And how?

But how?!

Zelda:

線路を復活させる方法は！？

How do we restore the tracks?!

How do we restore the Spirit Tracks?

Anjean:

こ この塔上の階に 安置されておる四枚の石版…

T-there are four lithograph pieces enshrined in this tower's upper floor...

The answer lies above us in the floors of this tower.

Four stone rail maps are enshrined there.

Anjean:

聖なる石版を 手に入れるのじゃ

Get those sacred lithographs.

You must retrieve them.

Anjean:

石版は この世の線路を 統べる塔の装具…

The lithographs are utensils of this tower that control the tracks of this realm...  (6)

As you know, this tower connects our kingdom.

Anjean:

今 塔は復活前の魔王が放つ 邪気で満ちておる

Right now, the tower is filled with evil energy that the Demon King is emitting as his resurrection draws near.

Right now, the tower is filled with an evil energy.

Anjean:

この塔から石版を解放すれば 線路の一部が復活を遂げよう

If you can retrieve a lithograph from this tower, a portion of the tracks will be restored.

If you can get far enough to retrieve a rail map,

a portion of the tracks will be restored.

Anjean:

まずは この塔に上り 最初の石版を探さねば…

You should start by going up the tower and searching for the first lithograph...

Start your search by climbing the stairs.

Zelda:

わかりました！！

Understood!!

Of course! Thank you, Anjean!

Zelda:

リンク お願いがあります

Link. I have a favor to ask of you.

You have a very important mission ahead of you.

Zelda:

この塔の石版を 手に入れて下さい

これは世界の危機です

わかってくださいますよね？

Please get the lithographs from this tower.

This is a world crisis.

Surely you understand?

The kingdom is in danger. We're all counting on you.

You understand the gravity of the situation, don't you?

You must find the sacred rail maps in this tower!

Zelda:

わたしは ここで あなたを待っています

I will wait for you here.

I will wait for you here.

Zelda:

昔から 姫は そういうものなのです

See, that is what princesses have always done.

That's what princesses have always done.

Zelda:

ご先祖様たちも そうしていたそうです

I believe my ancestors have also done the same.

From what I understand, it's kind of a family tradition.

Zelda:

ええ 大丈夫です だから あなたが勇気を出して…

Yes, you will be just fine. So muster up your courage and...

No need to be scared. Just buck up and get moving--

Anjean:

あー 熱のこもった 説得中に悪いがの

Ah, sorry to interrupt during such a passionate persuasion, but

Sorry to interrupt such, um, an enthusiastic pep talk,

Anjean:

この塔を一人の力で 上る事は むずかしいぞ

going up this tower alone is nearly impossible.

but ascending this tower alone would be impossible.

Anjean:

侵入者よけのワナもある上 今 塔は魔物の巣じゃからな

'Cause, on top of all the traps against intruders, the tower's also infested with monsters right now.

There are traps set to snag trespassers...

Not to mention that pesky little monster infestation...

Zelda:

そ そうなのですか…？

ではシャリン様 申し訳ありませんが…

I-is that so...?

In that case, Lady Sharin, I am very sorry to trouble you, but...

...Is that so? Well, I feel terrible asking, but...

Zelda:

リンクの 道案内をお願いします

Would you please guide Link upstairs?

Anjean, can you guide Link upstairs?

Anjean:

言ったじゃろう？ 塔はワシの力で支えておると

Didn't I tell you? My power is holding the tower together.

Have you already forgotten what I said?

I have my hands full just keeping the tower together.

Anjean:

今この場所を 動く訳にはいかん

I can't leave this place right now.

I'm sorry, my dear, but I just can't leave my post.

Zelda:

…こ 困りましたわ どうしましょう…

...T-that is a problem. What should we do...?

Then what should we do?

Zelda:

今から戻ってシロクニを… あ 彼は怪我を…

Go back for now and get Cirokuni...? Oh wait, he is injured...

Should we go back and get Alfonzo?

Oh, but he's wounded.

Zelda:

城の兵士？ ジイ？ いっそ 全員で…でも時間が無いし…

The castle soldiers? Geezer? Better yet, all of them... But there is no time...

Teacher? The captain of the castle guard?

But I suppose there's no time for that, is there...

Anjean:

おぬしが行っては どうじゃ？

How about you go?

What if you went with him, my dear?

Zelda:

わたしが…ですか？

You mean... me?

...Me? Go with him?

Zelda:

わたし 一応 この国の責任者ですし

非力ですし 今こんな姿ですし

共に行っても力に なれないのではないかと…

But, I am only technically the one responsible for this country.  (7)

And I am powerless. And I am stuck like this.

Even if I did go with him, I most likely would not be of any help...

But I'm not sure how much help I'd be in this state.

Anjean:

これは世界の危機 なのじゃろう？

This is a world crisis, right?

Well, my dear, this kingdom is your responsibility.

You mustn't ever forget that.

Anjean:

同行すれば わずかでも役に 立てることが あるじゃろうて

I'm sure you'll at least be able to help a little bit if you go with him.

I'm sure you'll find a way to help out somehow.

Zelda:

……わかりました

...Very well.

Well... All right.

Zelda:

リンク 一緒に行きましょう…

Link, we will be going together...

We'd better get going then, Link.

Translation Notes:

In Japanese, Anjean describes Zelda’s appearance as being like an お化け/obake , which is a Japanese term that can be used to refer to beings like ghosts and ghouls. Zelda probably considers this rude since many obake are depicted as hideous monsters.

What I translated as “Five generations between you“ would more literally translate as “Even though you are her great-great-grandchild”. What Anjean means by that is that Zelda acts similar to her ancestor, despite being such a distant descendant of hers.

Technically “an ancestor of mine“ here could also be translated as “my ancestor”, but I chose the former since Zelda wouldn’t know for certain which great-great-grandparent of hers Anjean meant just yet.

What I adapted as “grannie” is ばあ様/baa-sama in Japanese. This one can be a bit hard to adapt, so for my translation I went for something I felt worked the best in this particular context.

The Demon King’s Japanese name is マラドー/Maradō, which is an anagram of マラード/Marādo, the Japanese spelling of “Mallard”. I romanize his name as “Mallador”, to try and reflect both the pronunciation and the reference.

Please note that what I translated as “realm” here is not the same as the “Realms” from the English version.

What I translated as “only technically” is 一応/ichiō in Japanese, which can have a variety of meanings, but in a context like this it refers to something like a less than ideal state, which could or should be done better.

--

Comparisons & Thoughts:

This cutscene is long and crucial, so you can probably already guess that they are several things to talk about in this one.

It’s gonna be a long one, but I hope you’ll enjoy it.

-

Since she is first introduced in this scene, I want to start by talking about Anjean.

In the Japanese version, Anjean’s speaking style is one that is very commonly used for elderly characters in fiction. Even if you only know a little Japanese, this one should become recognizable to you pretty quickly.

With Anjean, the general vibe I get from her is that she has her moments where she talks pretty much like you’d expect from an old sage, almost archaic even.

But she can also come across as pretty casual at times, with a sort of “cool grandma” vibe, for the lack of a better term.

I think the English version leans in pretty close to that so far. She speaks with some authority, but never takes herself too seriously.

I do feel they tone down her laid-back attitude ever so slightly, making her a bit more... gentle? Not that she is aloof in Japanese or anything, but I think in English her vibe leans more towards “sweet grandma” rather than “cool grandma”

But there are definitely elements of both in either version.

The English version also gives her a habit of referring to Zelda as “my dear”, which I’m assuming is meant to get across how she can sound a bit like a grandma, and I think it’s a neat idea. It’s something that can help her standout in English, where it’s not as easy to make written speaking styles distinct.

Though, in this particular scene this softens some of the moments where Anjean is supposed to be kind of blunt with Zelda.

Another thing is the fact that in English, Anjean also sometimes refers to Zelda as “Princess” or “Your Highness”, though it’s not always consistent.

This is something she almost never does in Japanese.

She calls her “Princess Zelda” once in this part, but other than that, she really only calls her “Zelda”, no honorifics or anything.

-

Before we move on to actual dialogue, there’s two more minor details about Anjean’s character that I want to mention here.

In the Japanese version, Anjean has a habit of referring to the God as 天上のお方/tenjō no okata, which I translated as “the Heavenly One”.

Basically, 天上/tenjō means “heavenly”, and お方/okata is a respectful way to refer to a person. It can be used regardless of gender, but depending on the context one could translate it as “lady” or “gentleman” for example.

I went for “the Heavenly One” since I felt it fits well in this context. In any case, the English version doesn’t seem to have any equivalent of this.

I thought this was a bit of a shame, particularly because it feels like a nice additional aspect of the relationship Anjean has with this God. It’s just a small bit of fluff, but it provides a little piece of worldbuilding and characterization.

Even with the English version using the term “spirits of good”, I think they could have come with an additional name for Anjean to call them, too.

-

Also in the Japanese version, Zelda always refers to Anjean with the highly respectful suffix 様/-sama, and some dialogue options show that Link also uses it for her. I’ve adapted this as “Lady” in my translation, but the English localization uses no equivalent for it.

Again, I think this a bit of a shame, since it’s kinda cute seeing the children being polite to her like that, but it probably would have taken up valuable text space.

-

When Anjean first appears and explains the train to the children, the English version adds the comment “How did you know that?” to Zelda’s response.

I’d understand it as just a bit of extra dialogue to flesh out the scene, but it doesn’t match well with what Anjean said right before.

She said “They entrusted us with its keeping”, which makes it fairly clear how she knows that?

-

In the Japanese version, Anjean calls herself “the old hag of the Tower of God”, in a sort of comedic, dismissive manner.

The English version doesn’t have something like that, which is one example of them toning down Anjean’s more casual moments.

-

There are a few notable differences between versions when Anjean is talking about Tetra here, so I will go over them one at a time.

First of all, in the Japanese version, we get the clarification that Zelda is specifically the 玄孫/yashago, the great-great-grandchild of Tetra.

The English version doesn’t mention this detail.

This could have just been for space, but I get the feeling they might have been trying to change the implications with Tetra slightly, which I will go over in a later part.

-

In the translation notes above I mentioned that the term ばあ様/baa-sama, which Anjean uses to refer to Tetra, can be a bit difficult to adapt.

To put it simply, it’s a term one may choose to refer to an elderly woman, including one’s own grandmother, great-grandmother, and so forth.

To me it has a both casual yet still respectful vibe to it, but I can’t say for certain how it comes across. From what I can tell, people do use it in real life, but not as frequently as some more common terms you may have heard?

After some consideration, I went for “your grannie” in my version, as I felt it best fit the context here, but it’s far from the only possibility.

Part of me almost wanted to go for something like “the old girl” instead, but the “grandmother” aspect of the original term is also important here, so I picked something that would retain that, too.

But yes, this ばあ様/baa-sama is almost like an affectionate term Anjean uses when directly referring to Tetra, and it even hides a little easter egg.

See, the Japanese version of this game has a feature where you can tap the kanji characters in the dialogue to display their pronunciation in hiragana.

To put it simply, this is a feature that helps younger children read the text, and many children’s media display the readings of kanji above them in a similar manner.

The aforementioned easter egg is that if you try and tap the word ばあ様/baa-sama in Anjean’s dialogue, it will actually display テトラ, Tetra’s name:

This is a fun little thing that confirms to the audience that this ancestor of Zelda’s really is Tetra, without having Anjean spell it out directly.

Of course, there was no way the English version could adapt this directly, since this gameplay feature doesn’t exist in that version.

One option one could have gone for is either to just have Anjean use something like “grannie” as I did here, and have the implications speak for themselves, or to have Anjean just flat out say “Tetra” instead.

The latter is actually how the European French version handled it, if I recall correctly, but it’s not what I would have done, personally.

I think part of the point here is that the audience, just like Anjean, has a deeper familiarity with Tetra that Zelda doesn’t have. Since to her, Tetra is this venerable distant ancestor of hers, not someone she knew personally.

Going back to the English version, they refrained from having a specific term for Anjean to use when talking about Tetra, which is a shame again, but they do try to allude to Tetra without spelling out her name here.

I think the line “Feisty AND bright, just like she was“ in particular is them trying to guide the audience in that direction, having Anjean just lean in slightly more when describing her, to make the implications more obvious.

But they also later omit the part where Zelda mentions that her ancestor was a pirate, so I don’t know.

-

Another difference here is how Anjean describes her relationship to Tetra:

She brought plenty of distractions to my boring everyday life.

She and I were friends for a very long time.

In the Japanese version, Anjean describes how her days had been boring previously, and how Tetra ended up bringing distractions from that.

While this can come across as an almost dismissive way to describe her, a distraction from boredom, Anjean’s mannerisms at this point, her smiling and laughing warmly, show us that she means this in a good way.

You get this sense of fond nostalgia, and her laid-back attitude about it makes sense for someone who probably got along well with Tetra.

The English version has her say that they were friends in a more direct manner.

It’s not really a bad approach to have characters be more clear, but I don’t feel it was necessary here. I think children could have figured out what she meant well enough.

Maybe they were worried Anjean could come across as too mean here, or maybe they just felt saying it directly worked better?

Regardless of that, the English version still has us lose out on the detail of Anjean describing her prior days as “boring”, which was an interesting peek into her character in the original version, and arguably serves as a minor set-up for the game’s ending, even.

Personally, I would have preferred it if they retained this detail in some form.

-

Alright, this part just amuses me:

The divine was victorious over the demonic, and sealed his soul within this tower.

In the end, the spirits could not defeat him.

But they did manage to imprison him in this tower.

Here the English version almost says the opposite of what the Japanese version says, regarding the “could not defeat him” part.

This a repeat of what we saw in the game’s intro cutscene, if you recall.

The English version just seems to have some reservation about stating that the Demon King was actually defeated back then.

It could be that they don’t want to have the implication that he was killed, hence him being a soul now, but I suppose they also could have wanted him to sound more threatening?

-

At this point we get the specific details about how exactly the Demon King is being kept imprisoned.

In the Japanese version, we now get the explanation about “the barrier” and how the train tracks carry the energy which continues to reinforce said barrier.

This technically reveals that the train tracks are actually very important for the first time, though it would still have been easy to guess for most players.

In the English version, there is no "barrier", and instead it appears that the Spirit Tracks themselves are holding the Demon King imprisoned, through the power of the energy they're carrying.

At least, that is generally how this version seems to portray it.

If you were to only read the English dialogue from this particular scene, you could probably also interpret it as the energy powering the tower, which in turn keeps the Demon King imprisoned, same as in Japanese, just without the specific mention of a barrier.

But earlier the English version of the intro cutscene specifically referred to “shackles” holding him, and the tower acting as a “lock”. With that context in mind, it seems clear they’re going for the former, rather than the latter.

So, ironically, the English version of this cutscene here happens to be a bit too close to the Japanese version at times, causing potential confusion.

Like I mentioned before, one can easily sum up the difference between versions as the tracks being like “cables” in Japanese, and like an “electric fence” in English.

I don’t think the English version’s portrayal is a bad idea though, and they rewrite it well enough, avoiding major plot holes.

Still, I think the already obvious twist that the tracks are actually something quite important feels weaker in English, considering they are literally called “Spirit Tracks” there.

The English version’s portrayal could also serve to simplify the whole idea, since the original concept could be considered a bit complicated?

I think it’s a matter of preference, but as a bit of trivia, these kinds of “barriers” or 結界/kekkai are actually a common Japanese fantasy trope.

They had even appeared in prior Zelda games at this point, like the barriers in the final dungeon of Ocarina of Time, and the barrier surrounding ancient Hyrule in the Wind Waker.

And in both of those instances, the English versions retained the term “barrier”, so I don’t think keeping it here would have been so bad.

-

In the Japanese version, Anjean says “Your family line’s native land is the far-distant old Kingdom of Hyrule…”, but in the English version she only brings up “the royal line of ancient Hyrule“.

I think the English version might be intentionally downplaying more direct mentions of the Hyruleans being relatively recent settlers in this land.

Obviously, the Hyruleans having come from a different land is still a fact in the English version, but overall there is slightly less attention drawn to it.

Not just through small changes like this one, but also through having less direct mentions of “the land” itself in the context of its history prior to the foundation of the new Hyrule.

These differences are often very minor, so you really have to look for them if you want to point them out, but like many things they add up over the course of the entire game.

-

In the Japanese version, Anjean says that Zelda’s body is “the only thing which can take in the Demon King’s mighty soul”, while in the English version she only says “It would be the only vessel suitable for him to inhabit.”

It’s a minor difference, but I like that the Japanese version specifies that it’s the only vessel they can use for his soul because he is simply too powerful.

Knowing this, the way Cole’s body is distorted when he eventually gets possessed makes more sense. It’s not just that he’s not “suitable” enough, it’s literally more power than his body can handle.

Having some more details like this in the Japanese version is a bit of a recurring thing.

Later down the line here, it also specifies that the Demon King is the one who is emitting the evil energy that’s currently filling the tower, which goes unmentioned in English.

As with many other minor omissions like this, I think these might be to save on some text space?

-

The Japanese version actually has Anjean stuttering a bit when Zelda loses her composure and starts almost yelling in her face, which I find pretty amusing.

It’s like even Anjean didn’t expect such a strong reaction out of Zelda, and is taken aback by it.

So I’m a bit sad the English version doesn’t have this.

-

This next line is another one that was changed almost completely between versions:

The lithographs are utensils of this tower that control the tracks of this realm…

As you know, this tower connects our kingdom.

I’m actually not completely sure what the Japanese line is supposed to mean.

The lithographs being utensils of the tower I can understand, but the next part is a bit trickier.

The words I translated as “this realm” could also be translated as “this world”, but I don’t know what exactly this would be referring to.

I don’t think they’re implying they control all train tracks in the entire world itself, because that would have been phrased differently.

I think the most likely answer is that Anjean just used an unusual phrasing to refer to the land, but maybe she said it like that because technically there are also train tracks in the Dark Realm/Dark World?

That’s my best guess.

I wouldn’t wonder if the English version rewrote this line because they also weren’t entirely sure of the original meaning.

Or maybe they just wanted to simplify it.

-

Zelda’s pep talk to Link is perfectly fine in the localization, but I want to point out that her line “Link. I have a favor to ask of you” from the Japanese version mirrors what she said the first time she asked Link for help.

So that might have been an intentional callback.

But just to be fair, I also want to say that I especially like how they had Anjean call it an “enthusiastic pep talk“ in English. That’s a good bit of localization right there.

-

Another really minor thing, but...

When Zelda is thinking of people they could ask for help, the Japanese version has her suggest the “castle soldiers”, and the English version has the “captain of the castle guard“.

The English version going right for the captain isn’t too weird, but this character actually has a name (it’s Russel.)

So the fact that Zelda doesn’t call him by name here in English makes me feel a bit bad for him.

-

And the final difference in this part is another more significant one.

When Anjean suggests that Zelda herself should go with Link, the Japanese version has Zelda being quite harsh on herself, saying that she is simply powerless, and even going as far as basically calling herself unfit to rule the country.

In response to that, Anjean simply states: “This is a world crisis, right?”, echoing the words Zelda had just said to Link right before.

It’s a blunt, but effective way to remind Zelda of her own convictions and responsibilities.

The English version removes most of Zelda’s self-deprecation, only having her say: “But I’m not sure how much help I’d be in this state”, which is also still more positive than how this line was phrased originally.

In turn, Anjean’s words to Zelda are slightly more encouraging, and have her be more direct. Here Anjean is also the one who first brings up Zelda’s responsibility to the kingdom.

I personally prefer the Japanese version here.

The English version has Zelda be less pessimistic, and Anjean be gentler with her, and this was probably an intentional change.

But I like how the Japanese version let’s Zelda just be a bit blunt with her self-doubts here, especially her implying she doesn’t even consider herself fit to rule, it adds to her characterization.

And while it’s a bit harsher, I think there is something stronger about Anjean saying Zelda’s own words back at her, to make her realize why this is something she has to do.

It’s a small gesture, but I think it both challenges Zelda’s determination here, and also makes her see that she already has at least part of what it would take.

It dares Zelda to prove that she will stand by what she said, even when it’s her own turn, which is exactly what a ruler should be able to do.

I don’t know, at the very least I think it would have been better if the English version let Zelda have that pessimistic moment here, it makes the fact that she still keeps going feel more significant. 

Of course, Zelda is still a young child, and in an ideal world she shouldn’t be shouldering any of this responsibility on her own yet, but the English version doesn’t hold back in that aspect either.

-

Looking back, I found myself thinking “that’s a shame” quite a lot with the localization in this cutscene.

And it’s true, this just happens to be a scene where we lose out on a lot of small, but still cool little bits of characterization here and there.

Each one of these might not be a huge deal on its own, but I feel we are reaching the point where the smaller changes are starting to add up, especially with Zelda.

This also happens to be a scene with discussions of plot details that saw alterations between versions, so that doesn’t help either.

But don’t get me wrong, overall this scene here is still well-done.

I think I can pretty safely say that this game’s English localization has great writing, even with the changes. It may be different, but it’s good at being itself.

And so we finally reach the end of this particularly long part.

Feel free to check out the next one!

--

< Previous Part | Start | Next Part >

--

[algaesway]

第1章

1: Rebirth - Wei Wuxian has died. This calls for a celebration!

‘Wei Wuxian has died. This calls for a celebration!’ 

Barely a day had passed since the great siege of the Luanzang Mound had come to its conclusion, and the news soon gained wings. It travelled far and wide through the cultivation world, spreading even faster than the flames of war. 

For a while, the chaotic campaign of encirclement and annihilation, which had been led by an alliance of the Four Great Sects and assisted by countless other sects of lesser influence, was on everyone’s lips. 

‘Why, indeed, that calls for a celebration! Which distinguished hero was it that managed to kill the Yiling Laozu with their own two hands?’

‘Who’d you think? It was his own shidi Jiang Cheng, the young leader of the Jiang Sect, who placed righteousness before family ties and spearheaded the Jiang Sect of Yunmeng, the Jin Sect of Lanling, the Lan Sect of Gusu, and the Nie Sect of Qinghe, to attack the Yiling Laozu’s lair at Luanzang Mound and completely wipe it out.’ 

‘For the sake of justice, I must say: what a well-deserved death!’

These words immediately elicited cheerful clapping and resonant calls of agreement: ‘That’s right, a well-deserved death indeed! If it weren’t for the Jiang Sect of Yunmeng kindly taking him in as a child and raising him, that Wei Ying would have spent his life as a complete no-name charlatan, drifting around country fields and low-class haunts.. What else is there to say? Even though the former head of the Jiang clan had raised him just like a real son, he brazenly defected from the sect and made the whole cultivation world his enemy, completely humiliating the Yunmeng Jiangs. To add insult to injury, he caused the tragic near-massacre of the whole Jiang family. Has there ever been a better example of a thankless wretch kicking his benefactors in the teeth? I don’t think so!’

‘It’s surprising that Jiang Cheng let that arrogant skivvy to live as long as he did. If I’d been in his position, I wouldn’t have let that bastard Wei get away with just a little stab wound when he defected. I would have just disposed of him and his little faction right away. If only he’d been killed then and there, he wouldn’t have had the chance to commit those deranged deeds later on, either. So what if they grew up in the same cultivation clan? When you’re up against a person like that, holding on to the innocence of childhood memories is a big mistake.’ 

‘That’s not the story I heard, though. Didn’t Wei Ying die because the demonic techniques he’d been cultivating turned against him, and his Ghost General underling tore him apart and devoured him? I heard he ended up nibbled to bits.’ 

‘Hahahaha.. That’s what we call karmic retribution.  I always wanted to say that the Ghost General he raised was just like a mad dog on a loose leash - biting at any person it came across, and finally mauling its owner to death. Served him right!’ 

‘Be that as it may, had the young leader of the Jiang sect not depended on his knowledge of Yiling Laozu’s weak points when devising the plan to besiege and destroy Luanzang Mound, it’s difficult to say whether the whole thing could have succeeded at all. Surely you haven’t forgotten just what Wei Wuxian has on his hands - how he annihilated an army of over three thousand distinguished cultivators in a single night?’

‘Wasn’t it five thousand?’ 

‘Three thousand, five thousand, what’s the difference? Personally, I think five thousand sounds more likely.’ 

‘What’s for sure is that he was a frenzied lunatic..’ 

‘At least he destroyed the Yin tiger amulet before his death, accumulating a bit of yin virtue too. Had he left that ghastly thing behind to continue wreaking havoc on the human world, the burden of his sins would be even greater.’ 

As these three words - the ‘Yin tiger amulet’ - were uttered, a spell of silence suddenly fell over the gathering, and everyone seemed to be on their guard.

A moment passed, and someone sighed: ‘Ah, well.. The thing is, back in the day, Wei Wuxian was considered a noble son of one of the wealthiest and most distinguished cultivation clans - it’s not like he was never on the right track. He made his name at a young age, he was so well-regarded and free to do what he pleased. How on earth did he sink so low?’ 

The topic of conversation shifted, and one after another, voices were roused to proclaim their opinions once again.

‘This clearly shows that cultivation must, ultimately, follow the orthodox path. The demon fell astray from the path, and for a while he seemed invincible, all hubris and bravado. But hey, how did he leave the stage in the end?’ 

At that, someone bellowed: ‘He didn’t even leave an intact corpse behind!’

‘Not all the damage was due to demonic cultivation, either. In the final analysis, Wei Wuxian’s character was too flawed, and he brought the wrath of both God and men upon himself. What we call good and evil always get their rightful compensation in the end;  Heaven’s reward is a good reincarnation..’ 

After death, all are free to pass judgment on one’s life. By and large, the same things were being repeated over and over again, with a voice of dissent occasionally piping up only to be immediately suppressed. 

Yet a dark haze still lingered in all hearts, impossible to banish. 

Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Laozu, had definitely died at Luanzang Mound; yet after the event, no one could summon what remained of his soul. 

Perhaps his soul, too, had been devoured when the army of ghosts ate away his body - or, perhaps, it had escaped. 

The former would, naturally, be a cause of universal delight and rejoicing. However, the Yiling Laozu could overturn the heavens and wreak havoc on earth, he could move the mountains and drain the seas - at least that was how the rumours had it. If he wanted to resist his soul being summoned, surely this would be like child’s play for him. If, one day, he were able to regain control of his spirit and possess a new body by force, all the cultivation sects - as well as the entire human realm - would surely be met with even more deranged curses and retaliations, sinking into a pitch-black reign of bloody terror. 

So it was that, after placing a hundred-and-twenty stone beasts to guard the summit of Luanzang Mound, all the distinguished families began conducting frequent soul-summoning ceremonies and searching vigilantly for any signs of demonic possession, keeping track of strange phenomena occurring throughout the lands, and using all their might to remain on guard. 

In the first year, there was only silence.

In the second year, there was only silence. 

In the third year, there was only silence.

……

In the thirteenth year, the silence still remained unbroken. 

By this point, more and more people had become convinced that Wei Wuxian may not have been so extraordinary after all - maybe he really had been extinguished in both body and soul. 

Even if he had once been capable of turning the clouds upside down and covering the rains with his hands, he had become the one who was turned over, in the end. 

No one can remain on the altar of the gods for eternity; and legends are just legend, nothing more.  

(see translation notes)

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Two Hundred Twenty-Five: Flying Overhead ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata ] [ SasuHina, gun ] [ Verse: We’re Not in Konoha Anymore... ] [ AO3 Link ]

How did it come to this…

Sitting in her chair by the window, Hinata stares through the panes at the cloudy night sky beyond. The moon, risen above them, alights the plumes of vapor to create a fantastic landscape of highlights and shadows. If only she could be there, among the clouds, rather than trapped in here.

She’s still not sure how they found her. Their little village had been remote, far back in the mountains. With her family gone and herself all alone, Hinata had been living on her own in the little house where she was born, doing well enough to survive. Most of the other families had perished or moved on...but she refused to leave.

And then...the men came. One bore strange books with symbols that matched the old markings in her home. Those, apparently, were what he was looking for.

...and Hinata herself.

Unable to resist so many adults, she’d been forced to accompany them, refused any explanation or details about why they had come for her, or where she would be going. They had taken her out of the mountains to a nearby city...and now, she’s aboard an airship, heading to goodness knows where. Lethargic and silent, she doesn’t even turn to look when one of the ringleader’s underlings offers her a plate of the ship’s provided food. In truth it smells amazing, and she’s starving...but she can’t bring herself to eat. The less she acquiesces, the better she’ll feel. She doesn’t want to give these kidnappers anything more than they can force out of her.

So, she keeps staring through the glass, wishing to anyone listening for a route of escape.

...and that’s when she sees it.

From between the hills of cloud cover zip several small flappers, each bearing a person as they streak toward the passenger airship. For a moment they hover alongside the cabins, and Hinata recoils as one peers right into their room.

A begoggled woman grins, blonde hair flying askew before the little planes head up toward the front of the ship.

Tension buildings in Hinata’s gut. Even she knows what this means:

Pirates.

Within a few minutes, the distant sounds of a ruckus begin to filter down from the bow. Gunfire and screaming begin approaching fast as the renegades make their way to the cabins.

At once, the men with her spring into action. All three lackeys and their leader barricade chairs and luggage in the corridor beyond, wielding their own firearms and laying down covering fire.

Retreating and leaving that to his men, the mastermind pulls out a morse code radio. “Hinata...I need you to stay still and quiet. You won’t get hurt if you do exactly as I say.” Hunching over the device, he holds the headset to an ear, the other hand tapping out a message Hinata can’t begin to translate.

Edging back from him, she looks around the room. This might be her one bid for freedom…! Her gaze lands on a glass bottle, empty from the group’s drinking. Taking it up by the neck, she inches toward her captor, hands shaking as she brings it up over his head. Now or never. Teeth gritting, she brings it down with a cry. The glass shatters, and he crumples like a sack of potatoes to the floor. Pawing through his jacket, she finds her necklace he took from her, the stone gleaming as she ties it back around her neck where it belongs.

Her heart thunders in her chest. She...she has to get out of here, but how? The door is blockaded by the other men. That...just leaves the window. Taking a steadying breath, she gives a grunt as she pulls up the pane, the passing air quickly whipping hair, clothes, and debris alike as she eases her way out.

Okay, Hinata...don’t look down…!

Toes finding a rib of the ship, she clings to the sill, eyes pinching shut as she affirms her grip. Then slowly, so slowly, she starts sidling her way to the next window. If she can just make it to another cabin, she can hide, or...make a run for it! Whatever happens, she has to get away from these people…!

Back in the room, the pirates force their way through, immediately turning its contents upside down. Reaching for the unconscious man, the captain’s amber eyes narrow. “...so...it’s you,” she mutters under her breath. “Any sign of it?”

“No ma’am! Or the girl, either!”

“Well she has to be somewhere!”

Noting the open window, one pirate sticks his head out, hollering as he finds Hinata clinging to the edge. Gasping, she leaps for the next opening, almost slipping as her hands hold on for dear life.

“There, she’s got the crystal! Get her! You, head into the next room and -!”

Flinching at the ruckus as her feet and hands shake, Hinata can barely manage a gasp as they give way. Like a stone, she begins to drop through the sky, a screech tearing at her throat as gravity takes over.

Panicking, realizing this is the end...her mind goes blissfully blank as the wind tears at the tresses of her hair and the skirt of her dress.

...but not all is yet lost.

Miles below, blissfully unaware, one Sasuke Uchiha scrambles back from his quick trip into town. Despite the late hour, he’s still doing his best to help his boss keep the surface operations of their mine going. A crew of miners is currently still digging, and Sasuke was tasked with fetching the overseer some dinner as they wait.

Jogging his way back and coming up to the edge of the pit, he can’t help but notice a twinkle far above him. “...huh…?” Slowing to a stop, he watches as something slowly descends from the sky, flying overhead and making to land just atop the mine.

Squinting, he tries to puzzle out what it could be...and as it gets closer, he can see it: it...it’s a person!

Eyes widening, he bolts forward, making his way to a ramp along the edge of the crater. Setting aside the thermos of food, he eases his way to the very edge where the person makes to land, carefully holding hands under their form. It looks like...a girl. About his age, and just...floating. A strange necklace - the source of the twinkling he noticed - slowly dims...and then she falls!

“Ah!” Barely catching her, Sasuke struggles to pull her up, knees shaking as he stands at the lip of the platform. After a long moment, he manages to shift their weight enough to collapse on his backside, the girl still in his arms.

...what on earth…?!

Staring at her with wide, incredulous eyes, Sasuke catches his breath before flinching as his boss yells. Having...no idea how to explain this, he decides to leave her for now. Carefully setting her back from the edge, he shrugs out of his jacket and lays it over her. He should do more, but...well, he can’t get scolded, and he needs to tell someone about her!

Taking up the thermos and making his way down, Sasuke is nonetheless interrupted as pipes start leaking, and the hoist sounds. Going to manage the latter, Sasuke stares up at the girl’s distant form, scrambling for the break as the cart makes it back to the surface.

...the results aren’t encouraging.

Empty handed, the crew all sigh and head for home, leaving Sasuke to finish powering things down for the night. Left without an adult to turn to, he gives the girl a glance before getting to work. Only once he’s finished does he retrieve her, carrying her all the way up the hill to the little house at the top.

Thankfully his brother is already asleep, and Sasuke quietly heads in. As gently as he can, he arranges his new guest into his bed, not wanting her to be uncomfortable. Once she’s tucked in, he can’t help but look a little closer. People don’t just...float! It had to be something to do with that crystal, but...it’s dull now. No more light, no more floating. Funny...for some reason, the little insignia carved into it looks vaguely familiar, but...why…?

Having no energy to ponder it tonight, he instead checks on his brother, ensuring he’s still asleep. Listening, he doesn’t hear any rattling in his breath. Good...he took his medicine, then. Sighing, Sasuke then slinks onto a spare set of cushions, mind full of the mystery as he sinks into sleep...

                                                           .oOo.

     Well, I think this is a first xD I can't think of any direct crossovers I've done in this yet, aka a plot-for-plot cross with another story. I've done universes, but not exact scenes. I'm a little leery of it cuz it's not as...original as shaping my own scene, but admittedly I LOVE crossing Naruto with Studio Ghibli, haha!      So this, for anyone unfamiliar, is about the first ten minutes of Castle in the Sky, but with Hinata and Sasuke! And a few other unnamed characters you might be able to guess, but most I don't have specific ideas for, lol - so minor spoilers if you haven't seen that movie...which you should. It's awesome. Studio Ghibli is always amazing xD      Buuut yeah, that's all for tonight! Thanks for reading n_n

[crystaljins]

Translation Error

Characters: Namjoon x Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Synopsis: Turns out the word for “brain” and “engine” on Namjoon’s planet is the same. Whoops. Alien!Namjoon drabble

Notes: I’ve been watching You who Came from the Stars recently and so this is a silly, short little drabble that stemmed from a desire to write about Namjoon. I didn’t know where I was going with this lol but there’s words and they’re about Namjoon so good job to me i guess

“I need you to stay calm!” Namjoon pleads. Perhaps he is attempting some damage control but you are so far beyond calm it’s going to take more than some gentle pleading from the man in question to get you off his coffee table.

“I am calm!” You argue back even though you screech the words like he’s standing a hundred metres away rather than directly in front of you. And you are calm! As calm as you can be after discovering that the neighbour you’ve been crushing on the passed few months is an alien from a planet in a completely different solar system to you.

You hadn’t visited him with the intention to confront him over some strange happenings that followed him wherever he went that particular morning. Though there were a lot of those- first there were the weird mechanical noises and the ominous glowing from his front door when you walked past. You had thought maybe he was part of a cult but then it had gotten stranger. 

You had survived a car accident. Not that that’s a strange or unusual happening in an of itself. There are the occasional people who are fortunate. No, what was strange was how you had survived it. For you had been sure you had been in your car as it flipped through the air after being t-boned, but then in the flash of an eye, you were barely conscious in Namjoon’s arms beside your wrecked car. Had you lost consciousness and had he pulled you out? But you car had been completely written off and you should have been too. The doors had been caved in on either side too- how could a mere human have fished you out of the wreckage like that? As it stands, apart from some awful whiplash, you are alive and unharmed.

But no. You had only walked into his apartment hoping to borrow some sugar, content to leave the stranger happenings as part of the mystery that comprised Namjoon, only to find everything in his house levitating. He had come across you then and when you demanded he come clean he had told you everything, about his alien origins, about his expedition to earth for a business trip, about his malfunctioning gravity regulator that he had been in the middle of repairing when you walked in.

He had been impressed at how well you had taken everything and was incredibly relieved until you plucked a frypan that was levitating nearby from the air and leapt onto his coffee table. You hadn’t come down since and every attempt to move towards you results in you swiping said frypan wildly through the air.

“I’m admittedly not that well-versed in human emotions yet but you don’t seem calm to me!” Namjoon argues but it was the wrong thing to say because the last thing you need a reminder of in that moment is that Namjoon isn’t human. And he’s only just managed to stop you screaming repeatedly but now you return to it. The sound is piercing and painful on his sensitive alien ears. He groans and presses his forefinger and thumb against the bridge of his nose to stave off a migraine as if you are the one being unreasonable. Perhaps the continuous screaming is a bit excessive but you only just found out that he’s an alien so you feel like your reaction is warranted. Is it even possible to over react in such a situation?

“Are you going to experiment on me?” You shout, again as if he’s a hundred metres away even though with his sensitive hearing he could probably hear you whispering from five hundred metres away.

“No!” Namjoon snaps. “I’m going to do no such thing!”

“Then are you here to take over the human race? Am I the first victim in your evil plot to wipe humans from the galaxy?” You demand. He goes to take a step towards you but you wave your frying pan around to keep him at bay. He holds both hands up in surrender and does not advance.

“(Y/N), don’t be ridiculous, why would I-“ whatever rational and reasonable defence Namjoon had prepared is interrupted at that moment by the poorly timed arrival of Taehyung.

“RM, I got that brain probe like you asked!” Taehyung calls, though back home he is referred to as “V”. He waves around a pointed contraption with a bright green handle like it is a children’s toy. He spots you on the couch and his whole face lights up and he says probably the least helpful thing he could in this situation. “Are we going to wipe her memory now?”

Namjoon tries to signal to Taehyung to stop speaking before he frightens you even more, but alas, it is too late.

“B-brain probe?” You ask, and your eyes have gone very wide and you have gone deathly pale. “Y-you’re going to... my brain...” your voice goes breathy as your eyes roll into the back of your head and you promptly pass out. Your figure crumples and Namjoon only just barely manages to catch your limp form in his arms before you topple off his coffee table.

Namjoon glares at Taehyung even as he cradles you gently in his arms. Taehyung holds both hands up in surrender, a human gesture he’d picked up from the young male humans he has recently taken to hanging around.

“What?” He asks defensively, swapping to their mother tongue now that you are unconscious. “You told me to get it!”

“Not for her! I was just about to convince her we aren’t trying to wipe out her race!” Namjoon cries and they’ve been on earth for so long that his mother tongue feels almost foreign in his mouth. “Now you’ve gone and done it! What if she reports us to the authorities?”

Taehyung frowns contemplatively while brandishing the probe at Namjoon.

“We could-“ Taehyung begins but Namjoon cuts him off before he can finish his sentence.

“For the last time, it’s not for wiping memories! It’s not even a brain probe! It’s an engine probe!” Namjoon complains, swapping to the earthen language once more. It’s not really Taehyung’s fault- it was a mere translation error. The word in their language for engine and brain just so happened to be the same and so Taehyung has mistranslated. Still, it did not help their case and when you rouse a few moments later, a well-timed glare from Namjoon has Taehyung stuffing the probe into his back pocket before you can see it.

“N-Namjoon?” You ask weakly, your eyes sliding open and your long eyelashes fluttering against the apples of your cheek. Something in his biology must malfunction in that moment because a pleasant tingling sensation spreads across his entire body at the precious way in which you rasp his name. Taehyung, who can probably detect the sensation Namjoon is experiencing through his sensitive electroreceptors, restrains a gag at Namjoon’s obnoxiously obvious fondness for you. He, personally, does not see the appeal of a human woman but he supposes Namjoon has spent a much longer time in your proximity. He had claimed he was “learning the human customs” but Taehyung knows that’s a big fat lie and that Namjoon has just been making excuses to see you. His species is not known for its subtlety.

“You’re... you’re really an alien?” You ask groggily. Wincing, Namjoon nods his head, resigned to his fate. Rather than snap awake and leap back onto the coffee table like he is expecting you to, you simply raise a hand to cup his cheek. Namjoon feels something in his body warm as an unfamiliar chemical is released into the vessels that run throughout his body. 

Taehyung watches the scene unfolding him with a mixture of mild disgust and intrigue. Throughout his time on earth, he has learnt that while some humans are quite affectionate, you are not one of those. Perhaps that is why the scene before him is so fascinating? Regardless, the scraps of affection you do throw Namjoon’s way on occasion have him goofy and lovestruck for weeks after and Taehyung knows he will be dealing with the repercussions of that particular little gesture well into the new year. “You won’t hurt me?” You ask him softly, sweetly. Smiling just slightly, Namjoon nods. The dimples in his handsome face deepen and alien or not you are still crushing embarrassingly hard.

“Never.” He promises and you don’t know it but it is a strict rule and tradition in his planet to never go back on one’s words. And that isn’t the only promise he’s made you but you don’t know about most of them because he makes them under his breath whenever you do something endearing that has him a little more lovestruck than before.

Behind him, Taehyung gags once more, repulsed by the obnoxious display of affection before him.

So this was the reason Namjoon had been delaying their return home from their business trip over the past few months.

[timmyrx2000]

Dipper Steps Up: Chapter 9

Chapter Index: (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13)

Chapter 9

A police car had parked in the driveway of the Taylor house. Dipper rang the doorbell, and Mabel answered the ring. "They're in back talking to Chuck's parents right now," she said. "I've already told them what happened."

The Taylors sat side by side at the dining-room table, holding hands, while two plainclothes policemen sat opposite them. As Dipper and Mabel came into the room, he saw that one was tall and built like an athlete, with oddly hooded eyes that made him look almost Asian, the other shorter, more heavy-set, and completely bald. The taller one asked, "Is there any close friend that your son might go to hide out with?" His words sounded businesslike, but the tone was warm.

Mr. Taylor said, "He's got a lot of friends. He's on the high-school baseball team, and sometimes his friends come here and sometimes he goes to their houses. Now and then one of them might spend the night here, or Chuck might do the same at their house. But I don't think any of them would hide him, especially if he's hurt."

"Steve," the bald policeman said, nodding toward Dipper, "this must be the boy that Joe and Frank called in about."

The taller detective looked around. "Mason Pines?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Tell us what happened."

Dipper went through it all: how Chuck seemed to be sick lately, how he had fainted once and blacked out once. He explained how he and Mabel had come over after the game to see how Chuck was, how Mabel had called out when the big crash came, and how he had tracked Chuck by the drops of blood.

"You didn't actually see him, and you don't know how badly he was hurt?" the bald policeman asked.

Dipper shook his head. "I'd bet he cut himself going through the window, though," he said. "I don't think it was too bad. He didn't have any trouble climbing the fence, and he must have been walking pretty fast, so I doubt he hurt his foot or leg."

"How high is the window?" the other detective asked.

"About twenty feet from the ground," Dipper said. "A pretty good drop, but Chuck's athletic."

"Are you sure it was his blood?" the bald one asked.

"Well, yeah," Dipper said. "It was fresh, and there's a splash of it under the window and small streaks on both sides of the fence. I don't think he was bleeding heavily, though. There'd be a drop about every five or six paces, and they were small. They got farther apart as they went along, as though the bleeding was slowing."

The tall detective, Steve, looked impressed. "You're a pretty observant kid."

Dipper didn't know what to say. He just shrugged.

He told the two detectives the names of the kids on the team, and the bald one made notes. Mr. and Mrs. Taylor identified the three that Chuck was closest to, and Steve said, "Meyer, call those names in and get addresses. We'll check them out to make sure Chuck didn't head to one of their houses." Then he thanked Dipper and Mabel and said, "We've got your home number and address. We'll be in touch if we need anything else."

Mabel said, "I hope you find him. Mrs. Taylor, call us if there's anything we can do."

Mrs. Taylor nodded, looking on the verge of tears.

On the walk back to their house, Dipper filled Mabel in on what Ford had told him. "Labyrinth," she murmured. "There's something—what is it? I can't remember!"

When they got home, they told their parents what had happened and asked if they could walk around the neighborhood and try to find someone who might have seen Chuck. Their dad agreed, and they set out on their bikes.

Half an hour later, after cruising the streets in a kind of widening circle focused on Chuck's house and finding no one who remembered seeing the boy, they rested near the Plaza of Piedmont Park, beneath the shade of a live oak, trying to think of their next move. Then Dipper's phone chimed—Grunkle Ford's ring. "Hello!" Dipper said.

"Dipper," Ford said, "I've got more information for you. Want to take this down?"

"Just a second." Dipper put his phone on speaker, then fished a pocket notebook from his vest. "Mabel's here, too," he said. He briefly explained that the police were looking for Chuck.

"All right," Ford said. "Here's what I found: He can't simply construct a labyrinth. It must be one that already exists, preferably an ancient one, like those the Native Americans used for meditation. Are there any of those nearby that your friend might have known about?"

"I don't know!" Dipper said.

"Yes!" Mabel said. "Oh, my gosh! Now I remember! Dipper, when we were about six or eight years old, Dad and Mom took us to the Round Peak Volcanic Park, remember? That's not far! And there was this weird sort of, I don't know, crop circle thingy, except it wasn't wheat, it was rocks piled up in patterns on the ground—"

"I do remember!" Dipper said. "You could see it from the trail, down in a kind of valley!"

"Would your friend have known about it?" Ford asked.

Mabel said, "Let me call and ask." She took out her phone and walked a little apart.

"All right," Ford said. "If that's where he's gone, listen carefully: The ritual must be performed as the sun is setting. He'd have to invoke the ancient powers with a series of chants—and I know that Nathaniel knew these, because some of them are written on the final pages of that old book in his awkward pencil printing, phonetic equivalents of Liksiyu words. Fiddleford helped me translate enough of them to tell they're what he would use."

"How do we stop him?" Dipper asked.

"You have to prevent him from completing the chant. If you can't do that, you must force him to take a backward step or to step outside the lines as he walks the labyrinth. If you manage it, Nathaniel's spirit will lose its hold on your friend. Or if you can keep him from leaving the labyrinth until after the sun has completely set, that would do it, too. But he'll be desperate—and remember, it will look like your friend, but unless you can cast Nathaniel's spirit out, it'll be him in control."

"No chants or anything we could use against him? No magic?"

"I'm sorry, Dipper, no. Everything hinges on stopping or interrupting the possession ritual, and it may be very dangerous. I wish I could be there!"

Mabel came running back. "His mom Chuck did a report on the rock maze for school one year!" she said. "Dipper, Mrs. Taylor will drive us over! Her husband's out driving around with the police, looking for Chuck!"

"His mother won't understand— " Ford started.

Mabel interrupted: "Yeah, she will! She knows about the ghost! She saw him once!"

"Oh," Ford said. "Well. Then—what you must do is get to this location before sunset—is that possible?"

"Yeah, if we hurry," Dipper said.

"Then go! Go as soon as you can and remember what I said! And be careful, Dipper! I hate to see this, but—don't trust your friend! He's not in control of himself. No matter what he says, don't trust him!"

"We got that covered, Grunkle Ford," Mabel said. "I've dealt with this before!"

"I—I beg your pardon?"

"Long story," Dipper said. "Tell you later."

"Both of you—be very careful!"

"We will. Gotta go!"

They raced toward the Taylor house, with Mabel on the phone, talking to Mrs. Taylor and barely missing parked cars and the occasional startled dog. They skidded into the yard and saw Mrs. Taylor already at the wheel of her gray Honda CRV, the engine running. She motioned to them, and they piled into the car, Mabel in the front, Dipper in the back seat. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"Yes!" Dipper said. "We have to hurry!"

"We need to get there before the sun goes down," Mabel added.

"Fasten your seatbelts," Mrs. Taylor said.

For all the urgency, though, the trip went slower than they wanted—Saturday-afternoon traffic thronged the streets, and what might have been a fifteen-minute drive under ideal conditions stretched into half an hour—though once Mrs. Taylor turned off Snake Road and onto Skyline Boulevard the going grew easier. She turned into the visitor's lot at a little past six-forty, with sunset still thirty or forty minutes away. Dipper noticed that the park hours were seven a.m. to ten p.m.—plenty of time, if they could just find Chuck first.

The Visitors' Center was not manned, but people came by laughing and talking, many of them with dogs on leashes. "The fastest way is up Water Tank Road," Chuck's mom said. "I don't know if anyone will stop us, but here goes!"

It was only a cracked, one-lane asphalt access road, and it went steeply uphill. "I kind of remember this park from when we were little," Dipper said. "I'd forgotten it was so close to Piedmont!"

"Yeah," Mabel said, turning around in the front seat. "It's an actual extinct volcano called Round Top."

"The labyrinths are visible from the trail called Round Top Loop," Mrs. Taylor said. Dipper held on—the small SUV bucketed over the rough pavement. "When he was in the fifth grade, Chuck was crazy about volcanoes. We came here several times, and he did a report for school about the volcano. It erupted, I think, ten million years ago." She hit a bump that made them reach for handholds "Sorry! Some of the labyrinths are recent, sort of works of art, but the big circle, they think was made hundreds of years ago by Miwok Indians."

They reached a barrier across the road and had to stop, but Round Top Loop passed right across the way—a foot trail, marked by a directional sign. As they got out and hurried along the path, Dipper told Mrs. Taylor what Ford had said. "We won't hurt him," he promised, "but remember, Chuck isn't in control right now. It's your ancestor, Nathaniel Northwest, who's trying to take him over for good."

"My brother got taken over when we were twelve," Mabel panted—they were all but jogging. "By an evil nacho chip! Who was a being of pure energy with no weaknesses, so I had to tickle him into submission!"

"What?"

"He was really an interdimensional demon, not a ghost," Dipper said. "But it was the same principle."

"It should be right ahead, off to the left," Mrs. Taylor said. She stopped. "We—we should be able to see it from here! It was right down there!"

Dipper looked past her. The ridge fell away to the left, leveling out—but it leveled into a valley like an enormous shallow salad bowl, the bottom tumbled with stones in no shape or order and spiked with weeds and seedlings. "I don't remember," he said.

"I'm almost sure this is the right place," Mabel said. "Could somebody have bulldozed all the rocks? Or moved them by magic?"

"Or—hid them with magic," Dipper said. "I'm going down."

"Wait!" Mrs. Taylor said, her voice changing to a husky, exhausted kind of hoarse croak. "I might be wrong. It could be farther along the trail. I'm winded."

"The sign back there said 'Circle Labyrinth ½ mile,'" Dipper told her. "This should be it." He looked over his shoulder. "And the sun will be down in a few minutes!"

He ran down the steep slope, having to take uncomfortably long steps. He heard Mabel yell, "Wait up, Dip!" and Mrs. Taylor shouted, her voice rasping even more, "Please, no!"

But—he waded into the earth itself! Or seemed to—the floor of the valley shimmered around his knees, his waist, his chest—it was an illusion. The second his head sank beneath the mirage, he saw the circular labyrinth, maybe seventy feet in diameter, a narrow winding intricate rock-lined path following the outer edge, doubling back, doubling again, crooked and confusing, leading to a center where a nearly spherical black boulder brooded.

And he saw Chuck.

The boy sat on the earth at the opening into the labyrinth, looking limp as a rag doll that had been propped there. He did not move, but Dipper could hear the drone of his voice, buzzing and harsh as a locust's stridulation: "Immani k'challa t'sun damvani kulo nunika t'skalla unul ai! Ai!"

"Chuck!" Dipper shouted and ran toward his friend.

"Stop!" The word hit him like the lash of a whip. He spun.

Mrs. Taylor stood glaring at him, dust sticking to the sweat on her face. Mabel stood in front of her, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. It looked as if Chuck's mom had wrenched her arm into a painful hold. "I had to be here," she said harshly. "I was going to send you two ahead, but no. Boy, did your research tell you that Nathaniel Northwest wasn't just a rich man, but a master of magic?"

"Wh-what?" Dipper asked.

"That time when this one was young and saw his ghost in the old house . . . she didn't back away. She went . . . inside."

Mrs. Taylor shoved Mabel, who stumbled forward, arms flailing for balance. Dipper caught her and saw Mrs. Taylor weaving her hands and arms in a strange pattern. He heard her words: "Blood be ice, breath be gone, flesh be clay, bone be stone!"

And, holding Mabel, he felt himself freeze into place, like the time he had been turned to wood—he couldn't move, couldn't speak. He felt Mabel go rigid, too.

But this time he could both see and hear. "I'm stronger than you imagine, boy," Mrs. Taylor said, her voice reverberating strangely, as if alternating between male and female. "Even unhoused from flesh, an exiled spirit, I have dominion sufficient to capture both the mother and the son, though I can move my puppets but one at a time. I'll leave this one for now."

Mrs. Taylor went limp, her knees buckling, and she fell forward on her face, thudding to the stony, sandy earth, and lay still. Instantly Chuck stood, his left arm dangling, dried blood streaking his forearm. Dipper saw he wore socks, no shoes, and that they had become so tattered he stood almost barefoot.

Chuck, or Chuck's body laughed. "There remains the journey in, the journey out," he said, his voice rattling with that weird duality, ancient buzzing insect and fifteen-year-old boy. He glanced at the setting sun. "My time is almost at hand. I will go in as leech but emerge as the only soul within this body. I limp in crippled, but stride out with the power of instantly healing this broken arm. I step in diminished, but I will step forth with my full magic restored to me." He raised his right hand as though clutching something from the air. "I will hold the mastery of life and death in my grasp. And when I return to live again—the three of you will have to die."

Laughing, he turned his back on them and stepped into the labyrinth.

To be continued

Note from the Authors: This was just an idea I had but the one who really worked his magic and wrote almost all of this is none other than BillEase. He’s an amazing author who usually hangs out at fanfiction.net. Don’t pass up on a chance to check out his stuff. This guy is AMAZING. He wrote the story, I just gave the plot.

[tuckevr]

Found in Yuri’s character file on your first run through (before anything gets freaky) translated from base64

If you found this note in a small wooden box with a heart on it, then *congratulations!* You are probably the first person to read this. I didn’t really plan on sharing this with anybody, but for some reason I think it’s exciting that somebody out there, a complete stranger, will come across this note and read my story. Someone I will never meet, sharing such a personal bond with me. I’m fascinated that either one of us could die - even as soon as tomorrow - with the other being completely clueless to the fact. To you, my entire life is within this note, and so I will live for as long as your memory can carry me. Writing this, I’m wondering if that makes you feel fascinated or violated. It’s so exciting.

I’m sorry if my story is a bit disorganized, but I’d like to get it down while it’s still fresh on my mind. First, I’ll tell you a little bit about myself. I’m a first-year college girl and have led, by most standards, a pretty unspectacular life up to this point. I grew up in an upper-middle class school district with decent teachers. I did track in middle school and some of high school, and I’ve had two boyfriends. Now, I’m studying for a career in occupational therapy, because I feel the field is undervalued and provides tremendous help to people.

I’m giving you this background because there’s this strange misconception that if you want to kill someone then you’re either sick in the head or you have anger management issues. But, it’s very apparent that I don’t fall into either of those categories. It’s true that most murder cases are in a domestic setting where someone loses control of their anger or something. But the thing is that those people kill under provocation, whether by a singular outburst or by a slow-burning series of misfortunes. Those people kill because in that brief moment, they want a specific someone, for a specific reason, to be hurt or killed.

What I’m talking about is wanting to kill someone for no specific reason, maybe just to see what it’s like. Do you ever get that? I wouldn’t know how others feel, because it’s not something I ever talked about. But I’ve been curious about what it’s like to kill someone ever since I was a child. Not killing anyone in particular, just a random person. It’s always just fascinated me that if I put my mind to it, I can approach anyone, and in five minutes they would be completely gone from this Earth.

But I’ve never done so for a couple of reasons. First of all, for most of my life it was logistically impossible for me to do it without getting caught. I only got my driver’s license a couple years ago, and even then, the preparations would take too much time, definitely stirring suspicion. It was only once I started college that I realized this was no longer an obstacle.

Another reason is that I was afraid of causing harm to too many people. You might laugh reading that, at how hypocritical it sounds. But, let me explain: Why should I feel bad about killing someone if they’re too dead to care? Who would I be feeling bad for? Contrarily, it’s the grief of the living that I’d rather not be responsible for. Because of this, I knew it would take a good deal of research before finding a suitable person to kill, and I’ve never had the means to do so - again, until I started college.

And now, having just experienced it, I’d say it was pretty satisfying in the end. Something I would try again? Probably not, since my curiosity has already been satisfied. It really wouldn’t be the same a second time.

But anyway, if by any chance you’re also curious to kill someone, then you’re welcome to take notes. :)

***

I started a hobby of people-watching soon after I entered college. People-watching is interesting to me because it’s taking one of the infinite extras in your life and turning them into a main character - without them knowing, of course. It’s so easy to forget that every single one of the hundreds of strangers you pass every day has a life story as deep and complex as your own. One thing I noticed about people-watching, and wanting to kill someone, is that you are in more constant awareness of this. When I find a person to observe, their story slowly becomes more clear to me over time, gaps being filled - it really is amazing.

I usually went to grocery stores on weekends and looked around in people’s shopping carts. If I saw something that interested me, I decided to observe the person for a little bit. Of course, since my goal was to find someone to kill, I ruled out anyone who had children or a partner with them. Wedding rings were another tell-tale sign.

So maybe once a weekend, I would find someone who fit my criteria, at which point I would follow them home and note their address. From there, it became incredibly easy to investigate a little bit more; most people have normal work hours, meaning I could spend afternoons going through their mail or looking around in their house. I repeated this with several people (and had one close call), but for varying reasons I didn’t really feel satisfied enough with them to kill any of them.

I started getting a bit impatient and thought that I might just settle for killing the man named Devon, even though I didn’t really want to kill someone wealthy. But then, I came across someone new - someone who just, felt perfect. The feeling only strengthened as I investigated her further, and I knew that she would be the one for me to kill.

A young-looking woman I met at the grocery store, as per usual. She was doing some light shopping with a basket. Her hair was wavy and dark brown, sitting inelegantly on her slumped shoulders and surrounding her tired-looking face. Her bare fingers told me she might be single, but beyond that, my gut was almost certain of it. This woman just seemed so…plain, really. I guess I felt a greater acuity for the personal lives of strangers ever since I started my people-watching. But the way she carried herself, I just got the feeling that if she suddenly died, nobody would be around to miss her. Of course, I still wanted to investigate her a bit.

I followed my usual routine of checking out her place during her work hours. I learned immediately from her mail that her name is Linda Watson. Linda lived in a quiet apartment complex, her mailbox easily accessible right outside her door. Instead of quickly shuffling through it, I decided I could take her mail back to my dorm and return it before she was finished with work (she only lived about 15 minutes from me). I did some research and learned how to open and reseal the envelopes without damaging them, which took some technique along with a hair dryer, rubbing alcohol, and Q-tips.

This made it easy for me to learn a little more about her. Linda was a 33-year-old woman who worked for a small accounting firm - I’d rather not name the place outright. Her birthday was December 11th which, coincidentally, was approaching in a couple weeks. I also managed to find a bank statement that gave me a nice look into how she’s been spending her past month. It was at this point I realized that my assessment of Linda Watson as an extremely plain woman was pretty spot-on, because there was absolutely nothing interesting on the list. A trip to Old Navy, a bunch of Starbucks, something about $40 from Amazon - no restaurants, no movies, nothing that would really imply she was spending any time socializing. That aside, I also found a cooking magazine, so I guess she was into cooking.

Apartments are harder to break into than suburban homes, because there are fewer doors and windows. Every time I got Linda’s mail, I would check the front door and the windows in the back, but they were always locked. This was a bit frustrating because I was really interested in getting into her house. So, I came up with a sort of plan that I thought would be fun, even if it didn’t work.

Last Saturday, I visited Linda Watson’s apartment complex as I would on weekdays. The difference is that this time, I wanted her to be home. I thought it would be interesting to have a conversation with her. If I got lucky, I could take advantage of the situation to discreetly unlock a window from the inside. So, I walked up to her door wearing nothing warmer than a light sweatshirt, and knocked. The adrenaline rush was crazy. I was afraid I might screw something up.

The door opened, and in front of me stood Linda Watson, exactly as I remembered her from the grocery store. It was at that moment, making eye contact for the first time, that I realized I was running the risk of beginning to care about this person. As selfish as it is, I couldn’t kill a person I cared about, even if it’s a 33-year-old woman standing in a doorway with a slightly perplexed look on her face, giving me a reserved “Hello.”

Arms crossed from the cold, I shyly returned Linda’s greeting. I explained that I was walking my dog near the woodsy area behind the back of her apartment, and that he had gotten away. I had been looking for my dog for an hour and was wondering if Linda may have seen him roaming about. Of course, Linda sympathetically apologized for the situation and that she couldn’t be of use to me, but that she would keep an eye out. I wore a defeated expression in response, apologizing in return for troubling her.

It somehow went exactly as I had hoped - Linda invited me inside to warm up a bit with some coffee. I outwardly hesitated before accepting her offer, although on the inside I wanted to jump through the door and hug her for cooperating so well. And that’s how Linda Watson ended up with a 19-year-old girl next to her on the couch - who knows if it was just a nice gesture or if she really has no better way to spend her Saturdays than talking to some kid she just met (who happens to be interested in killing her).

Linda soon learned that my name is Maria (it’s not) and that I attend the nearby community college (I don’t). I was a little bit nervous that she would ask me too many questions because I didn’t have many answers prepared. I was able to steer the conversation toward her, and she was pretty happy to talk. I asked what she does, and she told me that she works for the accounting firm I already knew about, communicating with outside clients and keeping records. I told her I was pretty nervous about growing up. She told me to enjoy college and to make lots of friends because there’s less opportunity once you start working.

When I asked if she was married or anything, she laughed. Of course I knew she wasn’t married, but I wanted to hear more about her love life. She said that she doesn’t currently have a boyfriend (I guess she’s at least had boyfriends, but who knows how long ago). When I asked her about kids, she said she doesn’t want them until she gets a better job. On top of that, she told me that her family has a history of some genetic diseases such as arthritis and depression, which she is afraid to give to her kids.

It’s funny that she mentioned that because when I asked to use her bathroom, I noticed a tube of prescription pills on the sink. It was labelled duloxetine, which I looked up later and discovered that it is in fact an antidepressant. I had a joking thought that maybe by killing her I’d be doing her a favor, but quickly decided I was a terrible person for coming up with that.

The rest of the visit was pretty dull. We talked about food and some other mundane stuff before I eventually made an excuse to leave. I didn’t get the chance to unlock a window or anything like that, but I didn’t really feel the need to go through her apartment anymore. As early as the drive back to my dorm, I was already thinking about how I would best like to kill Linda Watson.

The choice was between effectiveness and fun. I decided to go with fun, because it would be way more satisfying to kind of dissect her as I killed her, rather than just getting it done and calling it a day. Fast-forward one week to December 13th - today, actually. Linda Watson turned 34 two days ago. I made a fun little wager with myself where if Linda was spending her birthday weekend alone, I would pay her a visit and kill her. If she was out or had company, I would stop by next week or something instead.

So this morning, I drove over to Lowe’s and bought an axe. Again, I expect you’re laughing, but that’s also kind of the point. An axe is so kind of cliche and a “movies” thing that I actually thought it would be the most fun. Swinging it at someone and everything, it’s a really entertaining image. They actually had a bunch of different axes, so I picked one that had a good weight but was still light enough for me to swing quickly.

The drive after getting the axe was when the adrenaline really picked up. All that kept going through my mind on the way over was “Wow, I’m really doing this.” Not in a bad way, just like a surprised this is real life sort of thing. I also got this strange rush of recollections of the time I spent with Linda. It was like my life was flashing before my eyes, except it was just the rather mundane hour I spent with Linda - like snippets of our conversations, the sound of her laugh, her facial expressions and stuff.

I also wondered to myself what the crazy serial killers would be feeling at a time like this - schizophrenic delusions? Sexual buildup? I have no idea, but what I felt was kind of like ridiculously alert and numb in the senses at the same time, however that’s possible.

Before getting out of the car, I had the sense to stuff the axe into my backpack to look a little less ridiculous walking across the parking lot. The handle was sticking out, but that didn’t really matter. At that point my heart was pounding so hard I could feel my throat throbbing. I tried controlling my breath, but it’s really hard to not breathe fast when your heart is pounding like that.

I reached Linda Watson’s door and quietly put my ear to it after setting down my backpack. I heard a voice that wasn’t hers - company? No, it was just the TV, mixed with her occasional tapping footsteps behind the door. I actually kept my ear there for a really freaking long time, because I wanted to make absolutely sure nobody was over. Probably 10 minutes of that and a lot of reassuring myself convinced me.

I quietly opened my backpack zipper and held the axe in my hands. My fiercely shaking hands. What the hell was this kind of reaction that my body was making? I told my body to shut up, that it’s no big deal, but of course it wouldn’t listen. It was actually bizarre how much my hands were shaking. It must be the adrenaline buildup. I rolled my eyes at myself and got my hand to rest on the doorknob. If it’s locked, I’ll knock, it’ll be basically the same. I took a deep breath and forced my muscles into action.

I swiftly turned the doorknob. Not locked. In one movement, I opened up the door and slipped inside. Linda Watson, just a few steps away into the kitchen. I see - she was in the middle of cooking. She immediately jumped and turned around, startled. I expected that. Quickly, I let go of the doorknob and adjusted the axe into both hands. In the following split second, I realized that she would probably start to make a lot of noise. Looking back, I’m an idiot for not considering that. Just as Linda’s mouth opened to speak - maybe even started speaking - I forcefully swung my axe into the side of her head.

But, my axe was facing backwards. I hit her with the blunt end of the blade. I actually did this on purpose, because in that split second I somehow decided that it would be the way to keep her noise to a minimum. It actually worked. I felt barely any resistance in the swing as I collided with her head, knocking it clean aside. Linda’s half-formed syllable came out as a kind of weird grunt - a noisy exhalation is probably the best I could describe it. That happened at the same time as her head smacked into the cabinet from the force, and she fell backwards without any ability to keep her balance. I didn’t hesitate at all to keep swinging at her while she was half lying down on the ground, this time my axe facing the right way. I didn’t really know where to swing, so I kind of just started hacking at her collarbone area and chest. It didn’t feel like the axe was going too deep, but there was a nice “thunk” sort of sound every time the axe embedded into her. I even felt the soft sinking sensation ripple into my hands, like the axe was a kind of physical extension of my sense of touch.

On a whim, I swung once at her throat, but most of the swing actually missed and I hit the floor by accident, causing a loud, dull whack to resonate through the apartment. I didn’t have time to think about it. I swung again with better aim and got a more centered hit, feeling the bone or cartilage or whatever is in there, so I must have split it open. Right after that, I decided to swing at her face, and I got this diagonal cut along her nose and mouth, which felt pretty good so I did it once more.

I finally briefly stopped to survey the damage. Linda was bleeding ridiculously. The blood was kind of coming out in waves, in sync with her beating heart, probably. It was pooling all around her and riding along the cracks between the tiles. Her light blue shirt was all torn up and stained dark, kind of mixed with a fleshy mess around her chest. It was all just glistening red. Her face wasn’t much better, covered in dripping red at this point, and her lip was kind of hanging off, revealing red-stained teeth in a really weird way, like a zombie or something.

Linda wasn’t dead, though. Her limbs were kind of weakly, aimlessly trying to move while she was stuck on her back. More than anything, she reminded me of a bug that you crush but it still pitifully moves its legs around before it dies completely. That’s basically what she was doing. But I didn’t know how long it would take for her to die, or what kind of condition she was in. I ended up grabbing a big knife that was on the counter that she was using to cut up meat. Trying to step around the blood, I reached down and carved into the upper half of her neck, trying to sort of saw it from the left side to the right. It was a little awkward because the area was so soft and squished around the knife as I was cutting. But the sensation was completely different from the axe. It actually felt like I was cutting a tough piece of raw meat (which I guess technically, I was).

The blood started pouring out, and I hoped that I severed the most major arteries in there. It must have worked, because after a moment Linda’s limb movements kind of just had the strength drained from them, soon resting still on the floor. I took a few seconds to catch my breath. No time to stick around and think about the experience. I shook the knife blade through a dirty pan in the sink to clean off the blood, then threw the knife into my backpack. I did the same with the axe. I also took her laptop that was sitting on the counter. It had some recipe open for veal and mushrooms. I didn’t really take the laptop to use it, since I have a perfectly good one myself that I got for college. I just wanted to look through it for fun.

I finally went outside and closed the door behind me. I got some blood on my sweater and jeans. But funnily enough, I actually anticipated that so I wore dark colors.

The drive back to my dorm was just a constant replaying of the experience in my head. I guess that’s still kind of happening even now, actually. But it felt pretty nice. Linda Watson is dead. I kind of let the weight of that sink in. The sensation of having completely removed a human life from existence. It’s crazy. I don’t know how else to describe it.

Anyway, I threw the axe and knife into a dumpster on campus, which I think is picked up every Monday, so they’ll be gone by then. My roommate goes home on the weekends, so I have the dorm to myself today. It gave me the chance to go through Linda’s website history. I was right in thinking that’s where her deepest secrets would lie.

There was actually a lot of dirty stuff, like the names of websites for porn videos and stories and things like that. Same with her searches. A lot of the websites were boring, like cooking websites and recipes, and game websites like Bejeweled and stuff. I eventually got to the “one week ago” section of her history, and it gave me a chill.

There were a whole bunch of searches like “methods of suicide”, “how to tie a noose”, “dangerous household chemicals”, “carbon monoxide poisoning” - like a lot of them. She was probably ready to write a book on suicide after all the research she did. So I guess Linda was contemplating suicide. I wonder if it was influenced by her depression.

[youngster-monster]

Errare Diabolicum Est

Read on AO3

Rommath leans, touching the bare skin on his arm where his wounds used to be. He can still feel the beginning of a headache — an inescapable consequence of too much magic in too little time — but apart from that, he’s as healthy as can be.

In front of him, Kael’thas sighs and sags in his chair, pushing his hand through his long hair.

“Is there anything you can’t do?”

The king huffs a laugh and shrugs. “I don’t know, cooking? Winning this war? Summoning demons?”

“You cook better than Lor’themar—” Rommath ignores the muttered 'a murloc can cook better than Lor’themar’ and continues, “And you’ve beend doing a descent job at stopping Jaina and Sylvanas from tearing each other’s throat, which is definitely helping the war effort. Now, if only you could become a warlock...”

“As if we need more demons,” Kael’thas says, but the realization that there’s magic he cannot do appears to annoy him.

Rommath ducks his head to hide his grin in his mask.

So maybe Kael’thas Sunstrider, crown prince of the sin’dorei, is a massive nerd. And maybe he loathes to leave a school of magic untried.

To each their faults.

It takes him a month to find the time, between the war against the Legion and his kingly duties, to study fel magic until he’s confident enough in his abilities to try his hand at summoning and binding a demon.

(It would have taken at the least a year of non-stop studying for anyone else to get there but if there’s anything true about Kael’thas, it’s that he’s a bit of a genius.)

And then it’s another week before he finds a single free evening in his schedule to actually do the summoning. The preparations take a little more time than he expected: he stumbles in his quarters at sunset (fresh out of five consecutive hours of peace summit, because for some reason Silvermoon couldn’t stay free of those for long) and when he stands above the finished summoning circle, the moon is high in the sky.

Kael’thas yawns, pops his back, and wonders if he has the time to grab a bite before he gets to the whole ‘dragging a creature from the void into Azeroth’ thing.

Well, he can always do that after. There’s no time like the present for possible disasters, after all.

The ritual he’s using doesn’t come from any of the ‘So you want to be a warlock’ books he managed to get his hand on. Being a warlock is all about the mutual pact between summoner and demon: the creature offers its powers in exchange for a bit of the summoner’s magic and life-force. Warlocks tend to live short lives because of it and, because Kael’thas doesn’t feel like selling a part of his soul to the Legion just for shits and giggles, he’s decided to use his own ritual.

So he’s hungry, tired, and about to summon a demon using a highly modified, one-hundred percent original ritual he scribbled on spare pieces of paper during meetings. This might just be the worst idea he ever had.

(And he almost joined Illidan on his roaring rampage of revenge: that’s how bad it is.)

A snap of his fingers and candles are set alight, illuminating the room with a golden glow that can barely hides the green light of Argus that spills through the windows.

(Anything having to do with Illidan is a bad idea: it has been proven again and again in the last decade.)

Kael’thas draws the blade of his dagger over the palm of his hand and holds it over the circle, careful not to step in it as drops of blood fall on the chalk lines.

(Although the man does have a few good points.)

He’s just as careful to contain his yawn as he intones the words that will open the rift to another dimension— or whatever it does, he can’t quite remember right now.

Or he could, but he won’t, because he’s tired and also frustrated to tears, which in him translates to trying dangerous experimental magic as a way to vent.

(Like, the destruction of the Legion by any mean necessary? Kael’thas can get behind that. It’s unethical but it’s efficient, too, and they’re too desperate to complain about it. He would do the same for his people — almost did, if not for Lor’themar swift reaction.)

He utters the last words and it feels like the world stretches and tugs like a rubber band, before snapping back into place in the same way. The light of the candles flare in a flash of bright green flames, twisting around a jagged line of absolute darkness in the center of the circle so that it is the only thing visible. Kael’thas takes half a step back and blinks rapidly, trying to rid his eyes of the afterimage.

When his sights clears, it is to see a dumbfounded demon hunter standing in the middle of the summoning circle.

“What... the fuck,” Illidan says, in the perfect calm of someone about to snap and kill someone if looked at the wrong way, at the exact same time as Kael’thas says,

“How in hell—”

They both fall quiet and wait in awkward silence for a second before Illidan waves a hand and says, oddly polite in that peculiar way of his that suggests eternal suffering, “Go on.”

“That’s not what this ritual was supposed to do at all.” Kael’thas doesn’t seems sensitive to Illidan’s almost-tangible killing intent: he frowns, turns on his heels and strides to an open grimoire precariously balanced on a pile of even more books, twisting his fingers in his long hair as he does. He looks — agitated, and even more frustrated still, if that’s possible. He mutters under his breath, to low for Illidan to catch it.

“And what, pray tell, was it supposed to do?” Illidan crosses his arms over his chest and quirks an eyebrow, rage giving place to careful amusement.

Kael’thas turns his head sharply and narrows his eyes, as if to gauge if the demon hunter is messing with him or just plain stupid — which he perfectly knows he isn’t, so he’s messing with him either way. “Summon a demon, of course.”

“A demon,” Illidan says, deadpan.

“Yes, obviously!” And, saying that, Kael’thas makes a grand sweep of his arm that shows the mess of books, chalk and candles that is his room at the moment like it’s enough of an explanation, and then goes back to his notes.

“Obviously,” Illidan repeats.

“If you’re just going to repeat everything I say and not be any help at all, Lord Illidan, you can kindly get back to your quarters.” Kael’thas hisses, in such a way that the subtext of ‘please get the fuck out of my room’ is impossible to miss.

“Well, I didn’t chose to be here.” And before Kael’thas can say anything else, he asks, “Can I even get out of this circle?”

The question seems to drain all the anger out of Kael’thas. The mage stops in his riffling of his notes, and tilts his head to the side. “Well, there’s no reason you couldn’t — the binding only included demons, it’d be inefficient against someone any more powerful or less demonic, and if it could summon you then what if it had summoned a dreadlord or something such, now that would have been a disaster—” He shakes his head. “Anyway, do try— I’m sure nothing bad will happen.”

“How reassuring,” Illidan drawls as he steps over the lines of the circle. Nothing happens. He shrugs lightly to himself and walks to Kael’thas, looking over his shoulder. “I wasn’t aware you were also a warlock, on top of everything else.”

Kael’thas glances at him, now more tired than annoyed, and says, “I’m not.”

Illidan is very careful to keep his surprise hidden — too careful, and Kael’thas, trained since early childhood to see the slightest crack in a political’s adversary mask, smiles slightly at the thought that he managed to catch the infamous demon hunter off-guard.

“And I suppose you haven’t found this ritual in some old, dusty grimoire lost to history?”

Kael’thas scoffs. “Me, using outdated magical theory? I’m not stupid.”

“That’s what I thought.” Illidan sighs and shifts his weight to his other leg, looking at the scribbled notes with renewed interest. Kael’thas's handwriting is terrible. “This is... Really advanced summoning magic.” He turns his unsettling eyes on Kael’thas. “I’d like to look into it, if you’ll allow me.”

“How polite of you,” Kael’thas says. “I’ll give you a copy of my notes tomorrow morning, if only you can be bothered to get to the negotiations this time.”

Illidan actually looks distraught at the idea. “Can’t I take those?”

“No, I need them to see what I did wrong. Now get the hell out of my room, Lord Illidan.”

The demon hunter would probably roll his eyes if he could. As it is, he only walks out with a shake of his head that makes his long hair slides over his back in a rather delightful way. Kael’thas stares, but only a little.

--

“I think I got it this time,” Kael’thas tells Al’ar, who’s overlooking his work while very carefully not setting anything on fire. Kael’thas lightly pats his fluffy, embers-warm head with one hand as he writes adjustments on his notes with the other. The summoning array — which he’ll probably never get out of the floor, considering — has gained three extra circles (for extra security) and so many rhunes Kael’thas had to invent new ones to get what he wanted from the frustratingly old language. He’s writte them down somewhere, probably; Rommath will be happy to learn about them.

(They are, technically, a revolution in summoning magic, as is everything he’s been doing these last two months.)

“Ready?” The phoenix makes his peculiar hum-chirp of assent and Kael’thas nods. “Alright, here goes.”

Dawn is barely breaking — he might have forgotten to sleep, too engrossed in this new challenge. Al’ar swoops over the candles that mark the major points of the array, and the rising sun has nothing on the shimmering gold of his feathers as he lighs every single one and rises back to his perch.

Kael’thas smiles. He’s a familiar to his image: glorious and magnificent.

He guide his chant with rhytmic gestures (it’s something he’s seen warlock do so often he wonders how he managed to forget it the first time — a rookie mistake) and slowly build a web of light around the array. It expends with the words, swirls like fallen leaves caught in the wind, golden and fel-green and colored in hues that don’t have names yet, turns into a solid sphere of bright light—

And then it dissipates, and in its place stands Illidan Stormrage.

“Again?” Kael’thas says, throwing his hands up and looking at Al’ar with exasperation. The fantastical bird flaps his wings in something like a shrug and flies out the window, probably to go laugh about his failure with Rommath. Treators.

“I see you didn’t find the fault in your ritual,” Illidan replies with a mocking grin.

Kael’thas lifts his hands and then thinks better of it and lets them fall down again. Strangling the master of the demon hunters to death is not the way to go.

“Oh give me a break, you didn’t either.” He looks pointedly at Illidan, then the door. “Now would you kindly leave me to my frustrated hair-pulling, please?”

“Of course, your royal highness.” Illidan steps out of the array—

Well.

Illidan tries to step out of the array.

“You—”

“Improved the security measures, yes,” Kael’thas says dimly, trying his best not to laugh.

A pause. “I see.” Illidan takes a deep breath and knocks on the invisible barrier with his very long, very sharp nail (claw? Talon? Kael’thas isn’t used to being turned on by things he doesn’t know the therminology of and it’s bothering him). “Would you—”

“Get you out of here, yes, of course, pardon me.”

It takes a surprising amount of time and research to get the shield down. It is, apparently, easier to keep demons in than it is to get them out, or at least that’s the logic of Kael’thas unique summoning ritual.

It’s an opportunity to test his magic in ways he never thought about, so Kael’thas thinks he can be pardonned if, while trying to help Illidan, he throws a bunch of stuff into the array with him, to see what can enter and what is stopped by the barrier.

When it goes down, it frees Illidan — as well as six books of different weights and materials, a cushion, a candle, two knives, an apple core (Illidan got hungry during the hour it took to deactivate the array), a cup of tea (because Kael’thas has some manners at least) and a single sock. Living things cannot cross the threshold, as was proven by Kael’thas trying to throw a passing cat into the array and ending up with a slightly stunned and very irrate feline definitely out of the array.

“It might have something to do with intent,” Illidan says as he scans the loose pages of notes thrown over the floor. “The first time you summoned me— What were you thinking of?”

“Our first meeting,” The other mage admits easily. “When Lor’themar threw me over his shoulder and almost jumped off a cliff.”

 “Odd. You know Theron better— for all intent and purpose, he should have been the one summoned then.”

“Maybe something to do with demon blood?” Kael’thas gestures to Illidan’s— well, everything. The man does look rather demon-y. “This is a demon summoning ritual, after all. Demon hunters are at least half demon, as far as blood is concerned.”

Illidan hums noncommittally. “Or maybe you’re not cut to be a warlock.”

And then he flees (makes a tactical retreat) the scene before Kael’thas can throw more books at him.

--

“We need to stop meeting like this.”

‘I don’t know, I kind of enjoy having you on my bedroom floor.’

“You don’t say.”

--

“Still no success on this, hm?”

“Get out of there.”

--

“Fucking hell!”

“Good morning to you too, King Sunstrider.”

--

“I—”

“I will kill you with my bare hands and sends your corpse to the Legion if you say a single word, Illidan.”

--

“You’re supposed to be in Outland.”

“Well at least we now know cross-dimensional summoning isn’t the issue.”

--

"Still trying?”

“No. Here’s your paperwork. If I have to suffer through it then so do you.”

--

“I wish I could find a way to summon someone else. Non-consensual teleportation holds so many possibilities.”

“By the Light, I hope you never do.”

--

“I can’t believe you summoned me to the peace summit.”

“It wasn’t as if you’d get there yourself, hm?”

--

“I don’t know about you or royalty in general but demon hunters, against all odds, do actually need to sleep every so often, and I was doing that just now.”

“I’m bored, come help me work on this whole summoning mess.” 

“Ugh, fine.”

--

In the end, it’s a surprise it didn’t come bite him in the ass sooner than that.

Another fruitless attempt to summon an actual demon (as in: the Burning Legion kind) ends in Illidan standing in the ever-increasing array on his bedroom floor. But this time he is covered in drying blood, slightly out of breath and distinctly singed around the edge. His hairtie has been lost or broken and his hair falls freely over his shoulders, and he looks pissed.

“You need to stop this,” He says as soon as he appears.

“I’m trying, but for some reason you keep appearing!”

“Then stop trying!” Illidan snarls, revealing sharp teeth and green ichor. Out of a battle against the Legion.

Kael’thas bends his head and curls his fingers into his hair, pulling hard. “I’m so close! I can feel it! I just need to—”

“No.” Illidan stands to his full height and his wings opens just slightly, like a bird trying to make itself look bigger. “This has to stop.”

“I can’t!” Kael’thas looks up, crazed eyes and shivering hands. “I can find a way to actually summon a demon. I— I can do it, I just need to keep trying!”

Illidan is suddenly very close, breath smelling of sulfur and blood brushing over Kael’thas’s forehead as he stands above him, long black hair framing his face in darkness. “I don’t think you understand,” He says very quietly. Too calm, like a storm just before the first lightning strike. “This. Must. Stop. What if you had tried this an hour earlier? What if you’d taken me right out of a fight, or just before one? It’s a miracle you haven’t yet.”

Poison-green blood drips from his hairline and falls on Kael’thas face. He doesn’t flinch at the burn. Instead, he grabs Illidan’s horns and drags him lower, closer, and snarls right back. “I will succeed, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Isn’t there?” Illidan’s voice holds a promise of pain and Kael’thas— 

Shivers, although he is not afraid.

“I could destroy you,” Illidan adds, like it’s a surprise — like it’s new. Like he never noticed that Kael’thas — bright and always burning — is smaller than he is, weaker in the way a sword is ultimately weaker than fire.

“You could try,” Kael’thas retorts, holding Illidan’s gaze even as his back hits the wall. He wasn’t even aware they were moving.

A clawed hand fists in his hair and Illidan wrenches his head backward, barring his throat, and a second one curls around it, sharp talons brushing against his jugular. Kael’thas snaps his mouth closed and clenches his teeth around a growl, biting his tongue until it bleeds. He is better than this.

The horns in his hands are rugged and warm, jagged edges just sharp enough to hurt where they dig in his skin. He pulls harder and Illidan (willing or taken by surprise he cannot say, although he can guess) falls even closer. Kael’thas smiles, a predator threat of bloody teeth.

And then he kisses Illidan.

It’s not a nice kiss, definitely not a gentle one. It’s closer to a fight, maybe, and it tastes like one, green and red blood mixing together on their lips. Kael’thas only lets go of Illidan when he’s out of breath, and he licks his lips with a feral grin.

“You have no power over me,” He says happily, and in a wave of his fingers Illidan is thrown back through whatever space-time rift will spit him back where he’s from.

He’s making progress: now that he can forces the teleportation both ways, he might find what’s keeping him from summoning anyone or anything else.

Whistling, Kael'thas goes back to his notes.

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 9: Cluj-Napoca – Gone Bust

Flash update 4:

This will be the last of my flash updates (which seem to, in some instances, be running as long as normal updates anyway), though don't expect the following two updates to be any more substantial, due to reasons which will become apparent as you read them.

I felt marginally better today, than I had the previous day. The churning in my guts had abated, either through time, rest, or just shitting out the problem, and I felt ready and, dare I say it, even enthusiastic to head out into the city once more to look at stuff and go “ooh”. Oohing, however, was not my only order of the day; I still needed to collect my bus ticket out of this hellhole, as well as the customary Clujian souvenir (Cluj, incidentally, is a horrible name for anything; it sounds vaguely filthy and never not gross. I'm not sure why they don't just drop it from the city's title and just have the name be the far more pleasant sounding “Napoca”).

My day began vaguely disastrously. I had planned to walk up another, different, large hill set relatively close to my apartment, and  had spied, through a precursory stab at google-mapping, what looked like a rather nice park, through which I could walk to get to the base of the big towering bastard. The park was nice for all of about twenty yards, before it began drifting further and further from the idyllic nature laden stroll I had envisaged and slowly turned grey, rusty and mechanical. I was soon walking through a yard full of broken down and disused old busses. Not quite what I had in mind but at least I had nearly broken through to the other side and so, it would soon be over. Or it would have been, rather, had the far gate been open, which it was not. With no other option, short of developing a flea-like ability to jump over the fence which now blocked me, I turned back, set to face another ten minute walk through the automotive graveyard, in order to just get back to where I started. Good.

Once there, I traced the google maps approved route to the base of the hill (as I should have done to begin with; I definitely should have been aware by now that there's apparently literally only one way to get to where you want to go in this city, no matter how clearly it appears there is an alternate route) and began my ascent.

From the distance, I had seen this hill many times before and had assumed, from my fleeting glances that it had a sheer, grey, cliff-like side, through which a path cut, however, as I approached, I realised that had I looked slightly more discerningly, I would have spotted that the grey cliff edge was actually a mess of hundreds and hundreds of tombstones, packed so tightly and so messily as to create some kind of optical illusion of verticality.

...Oh.

Regardless, I walked up the hill, which, despite not being a terrifying ninety degree trek upwards, was still fairly steep, if a little short. I soon reached the top and, after a few mandatory pictures

cleek.

pushed through to the other side and onto...a dual carriageway, leading out of the city. Great. Why are these things so shockingly difficult to avoid?

I traced the carriageway, exactly as google prescribed, towards old town, planning to plunder, albeit politely (i.e. shop in) the souvenir shops which I had taken note of the previous evening. The one that had most caught my eye was this quirky looking place that sold traditional masquerade masks and ones that were supposed to vaguely look like Dracula (Nearly every shop here seems to sell something Dracula related, as Cluj Is situated in the Transylvania region, though, it should be pointed out, is most likely a ten hour train ride away from Castle Bran.

I had apparently misremembered the location of this shop and found myself crawling around old town looking for it, for the better part of an hour, before realising that my half-hearted aide-memoire, “it's one a straight bit” could easily have applied to the other set of straight bits present in the old town, though situated a little further north-east. Sighing, I headed towards them and very quickly found the shop.

I could not have been more disappointed. The quirkyness of the shop apparently extended literally only as far as those masks and thus, once inside, I was met with a tiny little glass case full of the most boring, tacky little souvenirs I could have imagined. Out of politeness, more than anything, I perused the selection, before, super awkwardly turning to the rather stern lady who ran the place, offering a barely perceptible shrug and shake of the head and just...leaving.

I quickly found another, better souvenir shop, through sheer luck, though annoyingly, left only with a magnet and a rather natty little hand-printed dracula poster, which I had stupidly bought for myself.

Time was pushing on and the bus station to which I needed to travel (amusingly named Autogara Fany) was some distance away. I decided to walk towards it, stopping at any suitable shop I passed on my way there. Of course, I found myself walking alongside a different dual-carriageway for the majority of the distance, and so found no suitable shops. Good. It was getting late now and many of the shops would be closed anyway, so I vowed to just...do that bit of my plan tomorrow, instead.

I thought that I had sort of cracked the whole 'buying tickets' thing. I understood the process well enough to be able to comprehend exactly what was going on at a given point, regardless of language and, failing that, at least had by little translations. Fany bus depot, though, managed to throw me for a loop.

I arrived, first of all, and realised that somehow, despite this being, by far, the most developed town I had thus far found myself in, the station had reverted to, rather than one centralised ticket office, numerous smaller offices, each one specifically dedicated to one particular bus company. I could not find the company representing the bus I had previously selected and so ended up in Fany's offices, asking for a ticket in as loud and clear a voice as I could. As I did, a hush fell over the office, the three women behind the desk became instantly silent. The one I was dealing with arched an eyebrow at me. This lingered for an uncomfortable second, before she turned to her colleagues and, in weirdly secretive, hushed tones, began discussing what I had asked for.

They knew full well what I was asking for, by the way, the language barrier wasn't an issue, as I had shown them the translation on my phone. For some reason, what I had requested, though, required a ludicrous amount of discussion, rather than simply an acceptable amount of printing a ticket.

After so, so long, the woman turned back to me. “SEVENTY FEEV” she snapped. An extra twenty five over what I had expected to pay. I sighed, knowing full well that that extra 25 leu was pretty much what was going to keep me afloat, financially, by the end of the trip and handed it over. I left with my ticket to a bus later than I had initially wanted to catch, which had cost me an extra 50% on top of what I had expected to pay, feeling like a div. All in all, not my favourite experience of the trip.

By now, my feet were aching, and on my left trotter, I could feel emergent blisters, beginning to form, oddly on my toes, rather than the balls of my feet (my theory at this point, is that the lovely warm, thick socks I had been wearing almost exclusively up until this point were made of slightly too rough a fabric for huge amounts of walking) and so I decided to return home. Only a forty five minute walk stood in between me and that.

I limped back to old town and took heart in the fact that I was only around fifteen more minutes away from home and, once there, I could make myself another bowl of that truly glorious pasta dinner I had been enj-ah, shit. I forgot. My last voyage to flavourtown had finished up my remaining peppers and onions. I needed to buy more, if I didn't want to eat just pasta and sauce. I groaned, hung my head for a second and then span on my feet. An action, which, if I'm honest, only exacerbated the blisters.

After another fifteen minute detour and a now twenty minute walk back to the apartment, I was finally home. Ruined. I slumped into bed and after the requisite period of cursing the fact that I was even alive, had recovered enough to make my dinner. I did and it was every bit as glorious as I had hoped. For the second night in a row, I passed out, without fully realising I had even decided to go to bed.

[beautifulrzilience]

“So, why you working at Staples?”

Hey ya’ll! Good afternoon. It feels like I haven’t really been on here (even though I took one day off). I’m still trying to figure out how this whole blogging thing works. When I should blog, how long, how often, etc. At the same time, I don’t want to burn myself out. In addition, I want to make sure that what I am writing about is thoughtful, provocative, and useful. So bare with me if you can.

Today I really feel compelled to talk about hustling while in graduate school. I remember back when I was an undergraduate, our McNair program directors hired this guy Don Asher to come talk to us about graduate school. By the way, if you don’t know what the Ronald E. McNair program is -- LOOK IT UP (It is a program designed for first-generation and/or low income undergraduate students of color who are interested in graduate school but have no idea how to get there. I think a big part of my success in getting into graduate school is thanks to having participated in this program). So I guess this guy was a big deal, some white guy who was being hired by hundreds of programs across the country to give us socially and culturally deprived kids the 411 about how to get to grad school and how to navigate it. I don’t remember much of what he said-except for one thing: hustling. 

He was going on and on about using our talents and creativity to find ways to make extra money while in graduate school, since even if we were to get fully funded in a program, it wasn’t going to be enough to sustain ourselves financially. And so when I first matriculated into UC Berkeley, and I realized my single studio was going to cost me $1,200 a month, plus a monthly $80 fee for my parking spot, $400 for groceries, my $390 car note, gas, living expenses etc. -- I also realized that the $1,500 a month I was getting from being a Graduate Student Instructor was not going to cut it.

So you’d think that of course I was going to naturally look for jobs that would boost my CV (curriculum vitae; a.k.a academic resume) up, which would mean searching for jobs that were relevant to academia. After all, I was a Doctoral Graduate Student at UC Berkeley. However, after being constantly stiffled with the elitism of students and faculty at Berkeley, I decided that I would look for a non-academic job. I just didn’t want to be around academics all day. They can be stuffy. I wanted to be somewhere where I could be my ‘authentic’ self. Talk about Love & Hip Hop and Bad Girls Club--talk shit--keep it real about life--you feel me?

So I thought, “Hmm, what are my options?” Well I knew what working in retail was like (since I was 16 I began working as a grocery bagger at Ralph’s Grocery store in Newport Beach,CA), maybe I’d try working somewhere (not in the grocery store business because I promised if I didn’t have to--I’d never go back--talk about humbling experience) where I could get some perks. Perhaps, Sephora (at the time I had discovered my love for makeup), or maybe Victoria Secrets (that’s before I knew how they exploited incarcerated peoples for their labor). But in the end, I randomly ended up getting hired at the Staples right across my studio. 

I know, STAPLES.

But let me tell you the story of how it happened-- how this came into fruition--and how this in itself was-and has been another humbling and rewarding experience. Because not only did it serve as a motivation to keep pushing through in school, but I also realized that some of the smartest people I know end up working at Staples. Some of these people are some of my closest friends I have. Friends that have become more like extended family. 

(from left to right: Napoleon Davila (my gay best friend), Joel Jara (my viejo who I had to force to be my best friend), Mary Giovanetti (my Italian Jersey girl), and Adam Vargas (you just gotta talk to him for 5 minutes--he a crazy one) This was my going away party at some bar in Berkeley, CA)

So one day I headed down to Staples because I needed a planner so I could manage my time efficiently (because at the graduate level, things can get a little hectic with all the responsibilities you end up having as a graduate student). As I find the isle I needed, there was a big hefty Black man on this ladder organizing some of the store’s merchandise. I guess he noticed that I was having a hard time deciding between the planners and asked me if I needed help. I looked up (I was sitting on the floor at this point and had a handful of different planners in front of me) and asked him, “Which one do you think is cuter?” He started laughing and his laugh was contagious so I started laughing and I told him, “I know, I know but I’m serious.” I don’t remember how things unfolded but we started chopping it up right then and there. We talked about issues pertaining to the Black and Latino community. At some point I remember interrupting him and asked, “Dude, what are you doing here? You’re so smart you should be in school!” That’s when he disclosed some of his personal life history and his struggles growing up in the Bay Area as a young Black brotha. 

I don’t know what compelled me to ask, but I did anyways, “Hey do you know if they’re hiring here?” in which he replied, “Yes we are.” So I asked, “Where’s the manager?” “I am the manager, stop by tomorrow for an interview.” I thanked him, finally picked a planner, went up to the front desk and paid for my shit and walked home. The next day I showed up for my interview, which turned out to be super informal. I’m never going to forget it, “Listen I already knew I was going to hire you, this is just for formalities. You have a great attitude and personality and we could use some of that to change the culture around here. You’re hired.”  LOL I know! Just like that, I ended up landing a job as a cashier at Staples in downtown Berkeley, CA. Who knew me going in there just to buy a planner for school would result in me getting the perfect part-time job that was right across from my place. Talk about convenient. 

The beginning was a little awkward for me. Getting adjusted to this type of work. Again, I had been used to working in a predominantly white and rich community in Southern California and as a grocery bagger at that. But things got better and I quickly befriended the people at my store. Before I knew it, I found myself at Staples quite often hanging out even if I wasn’t on the clock. Eventually I ended up transferring to the Copy and Print Center and that’s when things really took off. You could hear my hyena cackles from across the store. That’s how the “CC Krew & Allies” was born. Some of the funnest, memorable memories I have are with these people. When I got accepted into CUNY, I knew that meant having to say bye (not forevaa) to my homies at (what’s now called) the Print & Marketing Center and at Staples and I would transfer to the Staples that coincidentally enough (or not, maybe it’s just destiny) was going to be right down the street from my new studio. But I wasn’t sure if I would actually go through with the transfer because I just thought about what it would take to build a new family in a different place, and my heart just didn’t want to.

But fast forward to today, August 25th 2017, I made the decision to go through with my transfer  to the Staples out here in Harlem, NY. I thought it was going to be a hassle and it wasn’t. So I take it as a good sign. I’m open to making new family connections out here in the East Coast. I know I got a good job as a researcher for The Safe Return Project back in Richmond, CA (who were so generous to let me work away from Cali), and I am a Research Assistant for a professor for John Jay, but there’s a unique opportunity of familial kinship at Staples. And as far as sustaining myself through grad school, as my mom told me this morning, “Muy bueno hija, para que tengas un poco de dinero extra..” (Translation: “This is good baby girl, you’ll have some extra money coming in). My rent out here is $1,500 a month. I will be spending $115 a month on the train (a.k.a bart for my Bay area folks) for transportation... food.. clothes etc. 

The reality is folks, that for us People of Color, we have to hustle. That’s the name of the game. Nicki Minaj isn’t going to always pay our loans or our college tuition. Drake isn’t going to fund our research so that we don’t have to work. We have to constantly be hustling and grinding to make our educational aspirations a reality. 

And as a working class Woman of Color, I know this game all too well. I’m literally living the “American Dream.” From cleaning houses at the age of five with my mom in the upper echelons of Balboa, CA--to bagging groceries in Newport Beach, CA--to working as a cashier at Staples-- even if not the most glamorous jobs, I am grateful that I was able to make some extra cash for myself so that I didn’t have to financially depend on my parents who slave away each and every day to provide for us. I am proud of the hard work ethic my family has instilled in my brother and I. I am never going to be above taking a job at a place like Staples. In the words of one of good friends and mentees Jesse Ruiz, “Stay hungry, stay humble, & pay your dues!” So if you need a copy, hit yo girl up at the Print & Marketing Center. I got you.