#barely know Italian barely know words and concepts and meanings and life

[hannahssimblr]

Chapter Sixteen (Part 3)

We’re the last customers in the local Centra before it shuts, and even though we aren’t that hungry, we buy Pringles and a sharing packet of Minstrels, both agreeing that the idea of becoming suddenly ravenous back at the beach house with nothing but those those stale rice cakes to feed us is a harrowing concept. We get toothpaste and toothbrushes, and at the last second I grab a bottle of white wine. Jude teases me about it when we step out onto the footpath. 

“What’s all that you said at the restaurant about not wanting to drink anymore?”

“Well, I didn’t say that, I said I’d like to drink more like the Italians. I thought maybe we could try it out.”

“Civilised drinking?”

“Yeah.”

Back at the house we put the snacks in little bowls as though we’re expecting guests, and I grab a pair of wine glasses from a cupboard above the fridge. I turn on one of the little lamps in the living room and pour out a glass for us both. 

“Are you feeling civilised yet?” Jude asks me after my first sip. 

“I’m always feeling civilised.” I’m lying, I have no concept of what that feels like, but after half of the glass I at least feel relaxed. The wine sits in my belly and heats my cheeks, and the fact that I cannot have more than this, just this one glass that I’ve limited myself to, means that for once I actually think about what it tastes like. I always drank wine because it was cheap and strong, but never asked myself if I really enjoyed the flavour, and all of a sudden I’m not sure that I do. I must pull a sour face after one of my mindful sips, because Jude laughs at me. 

“It’s not you, Evie. It’s the wine. It’s shit.” He says, and I give him my glass so he can take it into the kitchen and pour it down the sink. 

When he comes back to the couch we sit and talk for ages. He’s very good at articulating himself, at telling stories and painting a picture with words, to the point that I always feel like I can imagine things perfectly. He tells me about America, the dry brush of the Chihuahuan Desert and the way the rocky mountains might look under sunset skies on the train to Denver, and in exchange I tell him about things that happened to me back when I lived my flat, midlands life, which I always thought was unbearably boring, but he settles the full weight of his attention on me when I’m speaking to him, and I feel, as I always do with him, like I am the most fascinating girl with the most fascinating stories he’s ever heard.

He touches me all the time, to emphasise a point he’s making, to tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear, or fix the strap of my bra as it slips down my shoulder, and every time he does I feel the imprint of his warm fingers on me for ages. When we kiss again his touch is gentle and soft. Even as he does more daring things, like cup my breasts or suck on the skin beneath my ear, nothing about it feels wrong. I didn’t know it was really possible for such things to feel natural and right, when before I’ve always felt a little bit put off by them, objectified or slightly violated.

We must kiss for at least an hour, and even when we aren’t kissing we’re lying there and lazily stroking each other’s skin and talking about everything we can think of, and it slowly occurs to me that he’s not asking any more from me. He’s not just getting the girly stuff out of the way so that he can earn his way into my knickers, and it’s far easier to relax when I stop waiting for the moment he starts peeling away my clothes and asking me to put my hand into his trousers. What’s funny though, is that with the pressure to do those things stripped away I find myself wanting them all on my own. 

I don’t know when the kissing gets desperate and more urgent, but it must have been sometime before I put my hands inside his T-shirt and he slung my thigh over his hip so that we’re lying with our bodies pressed together. The bare skin of his stomach lies flush against mine, as my vest rides up a few inches above my trousers, and I mustn’t be thinking straight at all, because I don’t do anything to halt our slow grinding against each other, which feels so good even through two layers of denim that stars fly across my vision. I whimper in his ear, which draws a low groan from him, a hot rush of air against my neck, and his fingers grip my hips for better friction. I tangle my fingers in his hair and throw my neck back against the cushions and everything is suddenly a hundred times hotter than it was a few seconds ago. 

“No.” He’s saying now, pushing my hands away and sitting up. “It’s time to go to bed.” For some reason I think that I might die because of this. “Can’t we kiss for another while?”

He closes his eyes for a moment and when I accidentally brush his thigh with my foot his nostrils flare. “Sorry, I need a timeout.”

I look at him and wonder, “Have I tempted you? Are you that turned on just from kissing?” I don’t know why I’m teasing him, as though I’m not twice as turned on.

“Evie,” He sounds agonised. “I’m very clearly horny for you, are you surprised?” He gets up very slowly. “I’m not going to pressure you into things you don’t want when you said you aren’t ready, but I can’t keep on doing… this with you for any prolonged amount of time. We had to stop. I’m going to show you where you can sleep.” He goes into his bedroom, which suddenly feels like a very sexy, forbidden place to be, and gets me a t-shirt. It swamps my body and comes halfway down my thighs, and has something on the front about Kasabian. Like the last t-shirt he gave me, it is ancient and worn and soft, the kind of thing once loved, now relegated to the summer house wardrobe. I hope that he’ll never ask for it back. 

After we brush our teeth, I take my makeup off with the hand soap by the sink. When we go towards our separate rooms, he blocks the door with his body. “Goodnight, Evie.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb. “I’m genuinely sorry that I wouldn’t kiss you all night.”

“How dare you.”

He drifts in towards me and stares at my lips, and even though he doesn’t kiss them again, the way that he is reacting to me makes me feel like some kind of seductress, a siren that he can hardly resist, and I shiver with pleasure. Me. In the last second, the corner of his mouth twitches up with humour. “I’m just too afraid that I’ll drive you wild and you’ll corrupt and befoul my innocent body.” 

“I get it. You’re just a man.” I shrug. 

“I am. A human man.” He pecks my forehead and knocks my hands away from him so he can shut the door on me. I slink off to bed on my own.

I lie awake forever in the bottom bunk in Ivy’s bedroom. I am cold, as the heating went off hours ago, and my mind is alive and buzzing. Each time I close my eyes, or even drift away for a few minutes my dreams, memories from the day, are so vivid and real that they wake me in an instant. The house is too quiet. The blinds are too thin to block out the moonlight. I’ve been up to pee already, and to have water. I get up a third time and go to his room. 

“Hello.” I whisper as I open the door. I hear the covers shift. 

“Evie.” His voice is alert, and I know that he wasn’t asleep either. 

“Can I come in for a minute?”

“Yeah.” 

I feel around in the dark until I touch the side of his mattress, and then I crawl boldly under the duvet with him. He isn’t wearing a t-shirt anymore, and his skin feels hot. 

“I can’t sleep.” I whisper. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well either.” He tells me. “Usually I stay awake for most of the night.”

“You’ve seemed tired these last few months.”

“Well, that’s why.”

It’s a bit odd not being able to see him. The blinds in his room are so much better than Ivy’s, but it’s interesting to feel for him in the dark. I trace my hands over his shoulders and his neck until I find his face, and I don’t know why I want to touch him, like I think I’m going to be able to feel the expressions that I can’t see, but he doesn’t mind it. He must have recovered from his earlier affliction because he’s permitting skin on skin contact again. He finds my arm and my wrist and gently links his fingers with mine. 

“I’m cold.” I say. 

“I can feel that.”

“It’s okay, you’re so warm, you’ll heat me up nicely.”

“Yeah I get that way.” I like the way that his foot snakes its way up between my calves and hooks our legs together. My hand leaves his face and settles above his heart. 

“It’s beating quite fast.”

“Only because you’re here.”

“Oh.”

“I hoped you might come back.”

“I didn’t like being on my own without you, not when I knew you were here, in another room, it felt wrong to be apart for some reason.”

“Me too, but only because I’m scared to lose you again.”

“Again?”

“All I’ve done is lose you and push you away. I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“I’m afraid you’ll run away from me.”

“I won’t.”

I tuck my head beneath his chin and wrap my arms around him. “Okay.”

“Maybe we should try and sleep.”

I shut my eyes and let his body envelop me in cosy warmth,  but I am still not tired. His hand smoothes a slow path from my hip to my ribs and back, and his heartbeat never slows. I’m a bit edgy. I keep anticipating that he’ll do something bold and daring, but he doesn’t, he keeps things very chaste and innocent, and eventually I begin to feel mildly infuriated, even though I’m the one who said I wanted it this way. Now I want him to touch me, so I take matters into my own hands, grab his wrist and press his hand firmly against my breast, hoping it’ll make it obvious enough.

His voice is tight, surprised. “This is what you want?” His thumb brushes over my nipple through the thin t-shirt material. I can hardly see him in the dark, only his outline and the glow of the moon on the curve of his shoulder, but I feel his breath quicken on my skin as he shifts closer to kiss the side of my neck. Then he moves to my mouth, and before I know it he’s leaning over me and kissing me so slowly, so deeply that I feel a bit dizzy. 

“Yes please.” I gasp into his mouth.

Apparently this is what he really wanted too. He pushes his T-shirt up my legs and puts his hands underneath it to stroke my bare skin while I arch into him. I don’t really care how I seem, or what I might feel about this tomorrow, all of these ideas I have of what I would or wouldn’t do according to my own personal rule book of what sort of behaviour is acceptable for me, none of it really seems to matter as much as these urgent feelings in my body that plead with me to do something. 

“I really think that you’re lovely.” He says, a surprisingly sweet thing to say considering he’s groping my bare chest and hard inside his boxer shorts, and it makes me feel a little bit shy. 

“Well I think the same about you.” I say. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I curl my hand around the back of his neck and kiss him with everything that I have, and when he yanks me closer to him and slides his thigh between my legs. I grind against it instantly as my body goes on ahead without my brain. I would never ordinarily do things like this, and yet, the way that he’s kissing me, the way his hands urge me on and the sound that escapes him, like some small yelp or moan serves to melt all apprehension out of my head. “Like this.” He says, and puts me on top of him so that I can feel him desiring me, right against the place that I want him. I feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body. “Is it okay? Or do you want to stop now?” 

I no longer care about the things I said this afternoon. Since then he’s dated me, danced with me, kissed me and shared with me the bad wine that’s still warming my belly, and his body is hot and real underneath me and now all of those things I thought I knew before seem so wrong. “Do you want to stop?” I whisper. 

“No, not at all.” I bury my face in his neck while he hauls me against him and rolls my hips against the solid ridge inside his boxers. Without the restriction of the denim it’s a hundred times better, and my whole body erupts with sensation, like there are sparks shooting through every nerve ending and bursting out of my fingertips. Jude’s hands are everywhere, under my t-shirt, inside the back of my underwear holding me, encouraging me in a way that draws pleasured sighs from us both, and I wish that we had the light on, just to see what he looks like when he sounds like that. I bet that he’s twice as pretty. 

His heart is thumping beneath me. “Do you want me to get you off now?”

I lift my head from his pillow, drag my hair out of my face and look down at his outline. He smoothes the sides of my thighs from my hips to knees and back again while I consider it. I really shouldn’t want that. It might not be a good idea, I’m too self conscious, but when he strokes me through my underwear to give me a teaser of what he could do to me, all reasonable thought dribbles straight out of my ears.

“Yes.” 

“Get on your back.”

I roll onto the sheets, and he shoves my t-shirt up to my chin. I gasp with surprise and delight while he trails kisses from my belly to the hollow of my neck. “Tell me what you like.” He says. 

“Whatever you want.”

He chuckles. “I’m just trying to make you come. Can you tell me how?”

How direct. “Oh. I don’t… I don’t really know. Is it weird that I don’t know how to say it?”

“Do you want to show me yourself?”

If the lights were on he’d see my face burning bright red. “You want me to… do that in front of you?”

He holds my wrist and slips our hands beneath the waistband of my underwear, his atop mine. “Together.” He says. “Just show me what you do to yourself.”

For a wild moment I wonder if this is some kind of joke, if he’s going to take his hand away and say ‘just kidding, I can’t believe you thought I’d want you to do that!’ But laughing at me appears to be about the last thing he wants to do, so I chase away my hesitancy and show him what to do. 

It must be about the most intimate thing I’ve ever done. He touches me, touching myself while he kisses my mouth between my deepening sighs, and then I move my hand away and let him take over on his own, and say things like “Do you like that?” in this rough, sexy voice that makes me feel like I truly might combust. 

He says other things too, whispers the kinds of words into my skin that will make me blush when I think about them tomorrow, but for now I let them wind around me and push me until I let out staggered, breathless gasps and all I can do is feel the loveliness of these sensations. I begin to reach the brink, but immediately worry about it as soon as I start thinking about what he’s witnessing.

He seems to understand. “You can just let go,” He tells me. “It’s just me.” and I do. He takes me straight over the edge with a curl of his fingers as he hurls me into a kaleidoscope of euphoria, and I’m tumbling, freefalling into sweet oblivion until I land back in his arms. 

I lay there just breathing for a while, and he brushes strands of hair from my forehead, kisses my neck and rests his hand on my belly, which reminds me that my t-shirt is still bunched up around my collarbone. I quickly readjust it to cover myself, because even though Jude can’t see me in the dark and he had his fingers inside me two minutes ago, some things don’t just change in an instant, and I’m still embarrassed to have my boobs out.

He’s touching my face like he’s trying to memorise my features, smoothing his thumbs over my cheeks and tracing the shapes on my nose and my lips and then pressing his own lips against all of the same places and the attention is so soft and warm that I could turn to liquid and melt right onto the sheets. “That was hot.” He says. “Did anyone ever tell you that you make the sexiest little sounds?” 

I would burst out laughing if I hadn’t already melted. “No. Nobody has ever told me things like that.” 

“Well those other guys are losers, then.” He lies back onto his pillows and I automatically follow, nose to nose in the dark. “Do you want me to, um, touch you back?” It’s not like I have a lot of real, valuable experience with sexual things, but I have learned enough to know that nothing is given freely without reciprocation.  

He just hooks his elbow around my neck and rests my head on his chest. “Yeah, I’d like that. Next time. Not now though.”

“Then what would you like?”

“To try and sleep.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I just want to be here with you.” His heart beat finally slows beneath my ear and I shut my eyes while he traces slow, dreamy shapes with the tips of his fingers against my hip. 

“You liked that?” I whisper. “Just touching me?” It was enough?

“I liked it so much.” His voice is thick with sleep. “I like you so much. So much that I don’t know what to do. You’re perfect.”

“I’m not perfect.” I start to protest. “I’m about the furthest thing from it, actually, I’m a bit of a mess, and-” He’s shushing me now and turning me over to wrap himself around me and deliver more of those sweet soft kisses to the back of my head. “I know you’re not, you just seem that way to me right now. Go to sleep.”

“You want me to stop talking?”

“Mm. If you want.” 

 “Alright, that’s fair enough.”

“Night, pretty girl.” he murmurs, and drifts away in an instant.

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky girl part 3 #tw: sex #sim spice

[jojo-hut-jrs]

rikiel baby baby boy + "Could you... hold onto me for awhile?" pretty please with italian sugar on top

I will say that I don't know a whole lot about rikiel so-

sorry this is late

60. "Could you... hold onto me for awhile?"

You had every right to be mad with him, and in truth you felt that you should remain mad with him even now.

But you can't, not when he just lying there so...pathetically.

He's finally arrived at that point where his wailing is only a hoarse whimper, grating and strangling in his throat as he struggles with each breath. The flush of emotion is the only thing keeping color to his face amidst the drain of exhaustion, arms limp by his side as he presses his head against the floor.

He flinches at your approach as if electrocuted, all the confidence and assertiveness he held and displayed during your argument now completely eviscerated, and he can barely bring himself to squirm away from your touch out of shame.

It's too similar to how he was before, and it hurts you to realize he never really changed at all deep down.

You knew him back before he disappeared, though not well, and you certainly didn't expect him to be so enthusiastic in finding you upon his return. You had only known him for his worst qualities, but upon your chance meeting, you realized that he was different then, so full of life and eagerness and the will to carry himself forward, and he attributed your random appearance in his life to fate and clung his nails in deep.

He was still a loser, even then, and that was something he was vehement in confirming to you. It wasn't his typical self-loathing and lament that you had expected from such a statement, but rather he spoke in acknowledgement of his own failures and challenged it with the desire to overcome them. He was a loser not because he was weak or untalented, but because somewhere out there, someone was stronger and smarter, such is a rule of life. But he would get better, he would get stronger, and soon, very soon, he wouldn't be the loser anymore.

You didn't fully understand what he meant by that at the time, but you found yourself enamored with him and supporting his endeavors. He had so much to tell you when you first met, and he told you so, so much...in restraint. His little stories held vast and deep meaning, and you felt as though he possessed complexions beyond anything you could have fathomed on your own. You followed behind him in each step, and you drank in his every word.

But as your relationship grew and his confidence swelled, so did the details of his stories, and what was once a inspiring tale of newfound worth soon nosedived into something strange and horrible. Slowly his speech stopped making sense, his view of purpose and possibility taking on a very grim and disturbing reality in his eyes that you felt helplessly lost within. What had started as a welcomed acknowledgment of his own worth had now begun to morph into a gross egotism as he recited to you his endless possibilities that were bestowed upon him. His desire to overcome his past failures had become an obsession, and an aggression in how he carried himself. There was always a tenderness in his eyes, an shimmer of life, but sometimes you caught sight of something else whenever he would let his gaze linger on you for too long.

It was a slow, dreadful crawl towards the fall, but it was the bug thing that really forced everything to a head.

Not too long ago he mentioned them, let the concept fall from his lips in easily digestible pieces that you now realize was his attempt to familiarize you with the idea. It was possibilities at first, then potential, slowly spreading and growing into the absurd and soon the very, very real, and when you finally felt the things crawling against your skin you had begged him to “send them back”, and he grew angry at your reaction.

His anger was unfamiliar even to him, and it was easy to see now how he had lost himself to it. What he showed you was meant to awe and wonder you, but it drew you away from him even further and he did not fathom the rejection. Instead he took his hurt and he let it hurt you, he mocked your reaction at what was supposed to be great, and he masked himself with elevation at your small-mindedness. As the argument grew so did his egotism, and it very well looked as if he enjoyed the way he seemed so much larger in comparison to you, at the way his rising anger had made you cower beneath him.

But then you turned his argument on its head, and threw everything back at him so that his confidence had wilted. And finally you had insinuated that he never really changed at all, that he never would be as great as he thought himself, and that finally broke him into what you saw now.

Now, shaking in your arms, his resolve is shattered, and you don't really know what to do except hold him, despite his weak protests. He looked deflated, hollowed as if someone had opened him up and scooped out everything inside, leaving him empty of body and spirit. Slowly he stopped resisting your touch, and soon his breath evened out just enough for him to be able to speak.

"I'm s-orry," he croaked, "I'm so sorry..."

He couldn’t met your eye, hiding from your gaze as he nestled into you, clearly too ashamed to face you but yearning for you all the same.

“What happened, rikiel? What’s been going on with you lately? Do you even realize how you’ve been acting to me- to yourself?”

He says nothing to your questioning at first, letting his breath grow steady and lull against you in a manner almost peaceful if not for the occasional spasm in his limbs. You hear him inhale deeply close to your neck and clear his throat, but he lets his reply die away before it is even spoken.

“Rikiel,” you try to sound a little stern, to let him know that now is the time to talk, but your hesitate to start another argument and send him back into an episode.

He murmurs another apology against your skin, tensing up at your words. You want to push him off, you force him to look up at you instead of hiding beneath your chin where he feels hidden and safe, but just as you place a hand on his shoulder he takes hold of your wrist.

“Could you…hold onto me for awhile?” He suddenly asks you. “Please? Just for a little while longer?”

You pause, refusing a response until finally he his forced to lift his face and look at you directly.

“I promise I’ll explain. Later. But…please, just for now?”

You say nothing, but all the same you let him return to your neck. Instantly he buries his face into your skin and inhales sharply, like he’s trying to drink you in, feeling his pulse lingering within your own so intensely that it makes you profoundly and confusingly uncomfortable in a way that you can’t pinpoint. It’s familiar in the sense that you’ve felt this near him before, but not in this context, and you sudden wish that his face was anywhere else but this close to the artery in your throat.

But just as you think to shift away from him, he pulls back.

“Hey,” he says, and the calm look on his face does not instill reassurance within you, “do you believe in gravity?”

#jjba rikiel #jjba #jojo’s bizarre adventure #Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure stone ocean #shittys jojo writing #rikiel x reader

[kinetic-elaboration]

July 23: Today’s Writing Excerpt

Had to spend the whole day gearing up for it but I did write today. It was slow and sort of awkward going--two hours to get down about 2,000 words--and having glanced at the finished scene, I do think some of that awkwardness is visible (audible?) in the text. I’m also really unsure about the concept of the scene more generally. I ended up picking really random details to fill it, and I’m not sure they read as natural. Also, the whole beat of this particular scene in the fic--I’m really not confident in it. I need it in here and I need certain things to happen, but I didn’t wan it to drag me too much into a Romance Feel because this isn’t a fluffy fic, generally. But I’m not sure how to... mash together the mood of the whole fic and the needs of this scene.

I know I’m way too close to it at this point to judge it. So I’m trying not to obsess too much, but to just let my thoughts percolate.

I need to do some cleaning tomorrow, and I’m going out to the movies in the afternoon. If I have time (lol), I might try to get the next scene down. It’s short, all vibes no plot, which might be very easy or very hard, too soon to tell. I think the presence of the next scene in the draft will help me to judge this one. I’ll get to see how one flows into the other and if what I wrote today sticks out like a sore thumb or not. I don’t know. It’s nice to feel like I’m taking my time with this but pretty much all writing makes me anxious!

Here’s a bit of today’s work:

*

Outside is little cooler than within, but the air has a clarity to it, as well as a softness; for the first time all day, he feels like he can breathe deeply in. The last flare of sunset has begun to fade, the sky above them skimming from deep orange and pink into a sedate purple-blue directly above, arcing out to an infinite height and nearly clear. Off to their right, he can make out a few hints of the beach, the horizon edge where the world drops away: a slash of white to indicate the sand, the dark waves of the ocean shimmering beyond. To the left, the view contains only the mundane and human world of buildings and sidewalks and streetlamps not yet turned on. The businesses on either side of the street send out warm and inviting panels of light, to combat the growing gloom; faint strains of Italian music waft out from the pizzeria across the way. There are signs of life: a group of teenagers on skateboards passing by on their way to the beach; an older couple leaving the ice cream shop, holding hands.

But when they pass, he feels like he's found the quiet center of the universe, and he's there alone with Clarke.

He expects she'll want to walk toward the ocean. At the crossroads of [Name] Street with [Name], which runs parallel to the beach, they'd have a decent view of the waves and the guttering ends of the sunset. But she turns toward the east instead, her hands in her jacket pockets, her steps easy and slow. He jogs to catch up to her.

"Where are we going?" he asks.

"That place looks pretty." She gestures, without taking her hand from her pocket, toward Luna's nature shop, the very last stop at the corner of the street. She's built a mini-garden spilling out onto the sidewalk, barely contained by a green metal fence, with a few tables and benches for people to sit and drink the coffee and tea she sells. Strings of round yellow lights loop the perimeter. They glow with a particular warmth against the lavender-blue sky.

"Luna's shop," he says, and Clarke glances at him with a second's unconcealed surprise and asks:

"Do you live around here?"

"Currently."

Clarke nods, and after a few moments, Bellamy asks, "Do you?"

"No. I mean, my dad does. I'm visiting him for the summer. He's—" She cuts herself off abruptly, staring straight down the street and not at him, and a deep frown furrows between her brows.

"A great guy?" Bellamy puts in: a possible joke that she doesn't latch on to.

"He's got a penthouse on the beach," she answers instead. "That's all I was going to say.”

#the year 2022 #2022: excerpt

[shinesobrightsometimes]

I wish I didn’t know who the fuck harry styles is

#or was #I don’t know English anymore #barely know Italian barely know words and concepts and meanings and life

[babymetaldoll]

I've been working out a little bit (Spencer Reid/Reader)

Requested: Yes.

Summary: Spencer has been working out with Penelope, and they are doing their best to keep it a secret. Until (Y/N) finds out and tries to help. And though he doesn't want to because he is embarrassed about his poor athletic performance, somehow she manages to help.  

Category: Fluff

Warnings: Curses, frustration. Good old fools in love.

Word count: 3.8K

A/N: Hello, pretty people! I've missed you! I hope you like this little story. It's one of the last requests pending on my list. Tomorrow I can finally visit my grandparents, I'll be taking care of them for at least two weeks, and though I know it's hard work, I am just so happy I can be with them again!! I miss them! Take care, whenever you are! Love you!

Masterlist

                                    𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁𐄙𐄁

- "No fucking way, Spencer!" (Y/N) widened her eyes and laughed so hard tears filled her eyes. She was sitting at her desk at work, staring at her best friend, who could barely walk due to the two hours he had spent that morning training with Penelope.

- "Please, don't tell anyone."- he whispered and looked around the bullpen. He was too embarrassed already to let anyone else know he had to take the mandatory fit test. He wanted to avoid the jokes, especially Derek's.

- "Your secret is safe with me, as always, chipmunk"- (Y/N) smiled and bit her lips, trying not to laugh anymore- "But why on earth are you working out? You have enough case hours to cover a fit test!"

- "Apparently, I can't skip it this year. Both me and Penelope have to take it."- Spencer whispered and sat down very slowly, pain written all over his face.

His best friend stared at him reading the mix of embarrassment and physical pain he felt with each movement he made. (Y/N) smiled and opened one of her drawers, looking for the last Snicker she had hidden in case of need. Watching Spencer in pain was precisely the case. She stood up and handed him the candy, making his heart skip a beat. Spencer did his best to hide the blush on his cheeks and just looked away.

- "I can help you if you want."- (Y/N) whispered and cut him the most adorable smile she had.

- "Help me what?"

- "Working out."- she replied and bit her granola bar- "I can teach you how to kick ass, and I do look hot wearing sweat shorts."

Spencer nearly chook. He flushed and closed his eyes, trying to cover up his embarrassment. But (Y/N) giggled and turned around. Her job there was done. Now Spencer had to be picturing her in her sweat shorts.

Of course, he was. He couldn't stop, actually.

The two agents were the youngest of the team, and somehow sometimes in-between cases, it showed. Especially when they were on their own, and their conversations ended up in casual flirting.

(Y/N) was head over feet in love with Spencer, though she was never going to face it. God knows Penelope had tried to force her to deal with her feelings. But she was closed as an oyster. No matter how much Garcia insisted or how drunk they were, (Y/N) kept denying her true feelings in public.

Spencer wasn't indifferent. Not at all. As a matter of fact, he was in love with (Y/N). Everything about her bewitched him. Ever since the first time he laid eyes on her, he felt it. She was tailor-made for him. If only he weren't a nervous wreck each time he saw her...

After two years working together, Spencer had managed to overcome part of my shyness and awkwardness around (Y/N). They were best friends, and they would usually hang out in their free time. The little free time they had in the BAU. But even when they could playfully flirt all the time, Spencer was sure she didn't like him that way. He convinced himself she was just joking.

--

(Y/N) headed to the Batcave holding a large frappuccino and knocked on the half-opened door before walking in.

- "Penelope García, I had the feeling you were running caffeine low."

- "Oh my pretty little thing! How do you do it? You read my mind!"- the tech analyst nearly hyperventilated as soon as she held her ice and creamed coffee.

- "Reid and I were out for a little break, and I knew you would like one of these to cheer up your afternoon"- Garcia sipped her frappuccino and nodded. But as soon as she had finished savoring the perfect coffee, she asked.

- "So, you and Reid..."

- "We were out getting coffee, like the best friends we are."

- "But, there's coffee here in the kitchenette. There's no need to go out and get coffee unless you want to find an excuse to be alone with him."- (Y/N) raised an eyebrow and sighed. Garcia did that every single chance she got.

- "You and I know the FBI doesn't share our concept of "good" coffee."- (Y/N) looked at her friend and just smiled- "Besides, I told you, I felt you needed some extra sugar and joy in your life after your early workout session this morning."

- "That little snitch!"- (Y/N) chuckled and shook her head.

- "Don't get mad at Reid. He didn't tell me anything. I kind of figured there was something wrong 'cos he looked in so much pain just breathing."

- "Oh man, he is sored, but I am sure he would be way sorer if you train with him."

- "I offered myself to help him"- Garcia raised an eyebrow at (Y/N) 's words, and the young agent wide opened her eyes, blushing- "Stop staring at me like I'm a perv! I meant helping him train for the test. I could help you too."

- "Thank you, but no, thank you. I trained with you, and there's no way we are going to do all that boxing again."

- "Come on! You said you had fun!"

- "I did! I really did... but I could barely move the next day! And I had a date! I couldn't even dance, less doing... other... nevermind"- Penelope stopped herself in her tracks and shook her head.

- "Shit, PG!"- (Y/N) closed her eyes and chuckled- "Spare me the details."

- "Sorry... anyway... you and the little genius should definitely train in a more... horizontal way."

- "Garcia! Stop it!"- (Y/N) laughed and stood up- "I'm gonna go back to work 'cos clearly you have some hormonal issues today, and you are projecting."

- "Stop acting like you haven't thought about it!"- Garcia said and chuckled as her friend walked away.

- "I'm not telling you anything."

- "That means yes!"

- "No! it doesn't!"- (Y/N) was blushing; that's why she refused to turn around and look at Penelope.

- "Oh! It so does!"

--

The end of that day found Spencer even more sore, hungry and weary than he had felt in years. All he wanted to do was go home, eat pizza leftovers from the night before, and go straight to bed.

Until...

- "Hey, chipmunk!"- (Y/N) looked at Spencer, gathering all his things and getting ready to go home.- "Dinner at my place tonight. My treat."

- "I can pick the take out tonight?"- he said immediately and asked himself where did that come from if, a second earlier, all he wanted to do was to go to bed. Probably from the same place that kept coming back to the image of her in sweat shorts.

- "Even better. I'll cook"- (Y/N) answered and winked, playfully- "You deserve a proper homemade dinner after all the workout you did this morning."

Spencer looked at her and didn't even notice the silly smile on his face. If he had known how in love he was looking, he would have probably slapped himself. (Y/N) sighed and stood up.

- "I'm gonna take that silence as a "Great (Y/N)! Thank you! How considered! I'm so lucky to have you in my life".

Spencer rolled his eyes and shook his head.

- "Thank you, (Y/N). But I'll give you more praise if your food turns out to be eatable"- the young agent gasped, pretending to be insulted by his words, and hit Reid's arm with her knuckles.

- "Auch! (Y/N)!"

- "I'm being nice, and you are insulting me! I'm having second thoughts about driving you over!"

- "I can take the subway! You are such a slow driver I can actually be there faster."

Spencer stuck out his tongue at her and ran to the elevator, 'cos his friend widened her eyes and ran after him, probably to hit him again.

Morgan and Prentiss stared at the scene in silence, sharing a few looks, both of them thinking the exact same thing: "When are these two goofs ever going to hook up?"

- "They are annoying"- Rossi stood next to Emily's desk and crossed his arms on his chest.

- "They are in love"- she corrected, but David shook his head and sighed.

- "I know, and they are adorable, but it's so annoying staring at the same scene over and over again, waiting for something, anything, to happen between them."

- "Are you turning into a bitter old man who completely forgot about the charm of being young and in love?"- Prentiss raised an eyebrow and turned to Rossi. The Italian stared right into her eyes and shook his head.

- "I'm just saying someone should try to tell them something."

- "I've tried to talk to him about her a million times. But Reid is one private kid."- Derek said from his desk as the three of them stared at Spencer and (Y/N) getting into the elevator, still arguing and playfully playing.

- "And he is so insecure. He doesn't think she likes him."

- "Likes him? She is clearly in love with him!"- Prentiss said, annoyed- "I swear, if nothing happens between them this weekend, I'm going to intervene."

- "Now who is forgetting about the charm of being young and in love?"- Rossi joked and sighed- "Come on guys, dinner's on me."

--

(Y/N)' s dinner was a success. Spencer ate two portions of honey mustard-glazed chicken bake. She even managed to make him eat vegetables. And Spencer didn't even argue. Not only because it was delicious, and his body really needed some homemade dinner. But also 'cos (Y/N) got him wrapped around her fingers, even without knowing it. And if she asked him to eat veggies, Spencer (no matter how much he would argue) would eat his damn veggies. And he could actually enjoy them.

- "Ok, chipmunk, you ate all your food. You earned your dessert"- (Y/N) smiled and picked the dirty dishes from the table.

- "Let me do that. You already fed me. The least I can do is do the dishes."

Spencer followed her moves and took the dishes to the sink. (Y/N) didn't argue with that. It wasn't the first time Spencer cleaned the kitchen with her, after all. They had been good friends, close friends, for a long time, and they were used to being around each other.

But this time, it felt somehow different. Like there was something in the air warning them things were about to change for good.

- "Ok, doc. Do you wanna eat your dessert watching tv for a while?"- (Y/N) handed Spencer an ice cream bowl with chocolate chips on top and some whipped cream.

- "A smiley ice cream bowl?"- Spencer chuckled as he stared at it. He loved it.

- "Yes, you are never too old to eat food with a smile on it. And that's a life lesson, Spencer Walter Reid."- she said and walked to the couch, holding the remote control.

- "You are filled with wisdom, (Y/N)"- Reid teased her and sat by her side.

- "I know. It would help if you let me train you. You would pass your fit test in a blink."- she said and continued surfing channels.

- "Thanks, but no thanks. I wanna do it on my own."- Spencer glued his eyes on the screen and ate his dessert. (Y/N) just nodded and continued surfing channels.

- "Why?"- she asked him after a few minutes. They had been watching an old movie in silence, just eating their ice cream.

- "Why what?"- he whispered and looked at her just for a second. He didn't trust himself around (Y/N), especially under those circumstances: alone in her house. She had changed into leggings and an old extra-large sweatshirt. Her hair was in a messy bun. And Spencer didn't feel able to look at her into the eyes, 'cos he was going to cave in. He was going to grab her face with both hands and kiss her right there. No questions asked.

Which is why he avoided looking at her.

- "Why don't you want me to help you train?"

- "Just because"- he answered and glued his eyes to the screen. But (Y/N) knew better. She moved closer to him on the couch and held his hands. Spencer shivered right away at the sensation of her skin. It was so warm and soft. All he craved was some more of that. He wanted to feel her. Touch her. Taste her.

His head was going way too fast, and just because she held his hand.

- "Spencer, look at me"- she whispered and practically begged her friend to pay her attention- "I just wanna help. It's just a stupid fit test. It ain't hard."

- "For you."- he mumbled and looked down at his hand as her fingers played against his skin.

- "I didn't want you or anyone to help me 'cos I'm a fucking SSA who should be perfectly able to perform a simple fit test on his own. But no. I can't! And do you know what that means?"

- "That finally I know there's one thing you are not good at?"- she answered and smiled at him. Spencer raised his eyes and met hers. He knew his cheeks were all shades of pink, but for once, he just didn't care. He just wanted to look at her and see if she meant it. Or if she was just teasing him.

- "Right"- he snorted and shook his head.

- "I mean it, Spencer. You don't have to be good at everything."

- "It's a fit test. It's basic to be an agent. I need to be able to catch an unsub."- (Y/N) frowned and tried to understand where all that self-doubt and insecurity was coming from. To her eyes, Spencer had nothing to be ashamed of. To her, he was perfect in every single way.

- "You already catch unsubs, chipmunk. Everyday. You don't have to kick down doors to make a profile. And you don't have to run six miles to get the bad guy. Everything that you do every day at work is what an SSA is supposed to do. And you excel at it."

(Y/N) sighed and smiled at her best friend, trying to push aside the urge she felt to kiss him. His golden-brown eyes looked so big, like honey pools, she could stare for a lifetime. Spencer didn't know what to say. He really wasn't good with praises. He wasn't used to them. Not in that way.

- "Besides"- (Y/N) added after a few seconds of silence when she realized she might have said too much and started panicking.

- "It feels good to finally know there is one thing I am better than you at."

- "What are you talking about?"- Spencer answered right away, in the sassiest tone of voice.- "Just because I suck working out doesn't mean you are better. Even at my lowest, I'm still better than whatever you can do in a gym."

Reid was obviously joking. He knew (Y/N) could kick ass. Not only had she saved his life many times on the field, but also, he had seen her working out. And she could definitely kick his ass if she wanted to.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to tease her just because.

- "You take that back, Reid!"- she threatened him and

- "No"- he sentenced and crossed his arms on his chest

- "Last chance. Take it back, or you will pay for it."

- "Make me."

And that was it.

In a second, (Y/N) was on him tickling him, and trying to practice a chokehold on him. But Spencer was faster, and somehow, stronger than her. Maybe it was because he was struggling with himself. A part of him wanted her closer, and a part of him didn't want her too close, 'cos he knew his pants were going to start feeling too tight if she did.

Whatever the reason was, after two minutes of wrestling, Spencer had (Y/N) pinned down against the couch. And the way she panted against the fabric of the cushion wasn't helping him with his pants.

- "Spencer, it hurts"- she cried and tried to move from his grip, but he didn't let her go.

- "If you want me to release you, you have to say I am the best agent in this house."

- "Never!"- (Y/N) quickly answered and continued struggling.

- "Just say it, I've got you held, and I'm not going to let you free until you say it."- something in his tone of voice, it was teasing but also... sexy? (Y/N) knew Spencer wasn't trying to act that way, but it was working for her in a way she hadn't imagined. He would be so soft. And now, there he was, acting like a dominant man, holding her tight, not letting her move, literally pinned against the couch.

If only it were all happening in a different context.

- "Let me go, Spencer Reid!"- (Y/N) battled against his arms, but it was useless

- "Just say it"- he leaned in and whispered in her ear, and (Y/N) sword she could almost feel his smile as he spoke.

- "You are the best agent!! There, happy?"- she mumbled, making her best to sound annoyed and not turned on. Spencer released her, and she quickly sat down properly, rubbing her left wrist.

- "Did I hurt you?"- Spencer whispered and noticed how flustered she was. That was a first.

- "No. But I gotta tell you, you are stronger than I thought."- she said and stuck out her tongue to him, trying to be playful and innocent, though you could feel it in the air. That moment was anything but innocent.

- "Yeah, I've been working out a little bit."- Spencer answered and chuckled at his own words.

- "Well, you are going to have to learn how to control your new strength, 'cos this is going to leave a bruise"- (Y/N) whined and showed him her sore wrist. Spencer winced, ashamed he had been so hard on her without meaning any harm. He moved closer to her and held her wrist carefully. (Y/N) just looked at him as he kissed her wrist a few times.

That man couldn't be real. He was such a tease.

Did he know all the things he was, in fact, doing to her with that simple touch?

He surely had to know. Otherwise, there was no explanation, she thought.

- "Thanks"- (Y/N) whispered and fixed her eyes on his lips, still landing small kisses on her wrist.

That was when she stopped breathing. Spencer was literally breathtaking. He smiled at her, and she just couldn't help it anymore. (Y/N) leaned in and kissed him. It was a soft, short peck. But she had dared to do the unthinkable.

She kissed her best friend.

Spencer widened his eyes, shocked, and looked at her, not saying a word. They just stayed still for a good thirty seconds until Spencer finally made his move, cupping her jaw carefully with both hands and pulling her face against his.

The way she moaned into the kiss made him feel more in control than he had ever been before.

It was a soft kiss but intense. Spencer's lips rubbed carefully against her mouth, and his tongue moved carefully, making its way until he could taste her. (Y/N) moved closer to him until she was basically sitting on his lap, and his arms wrapped around her body, locking her against him.

They were in heaven.

Until it was over. Their phones buzzed at the same time, breaking the spell, ending the charm. (Y/N) jumped from Spencer's arms and grabbed her phone.

- "We've got a case"- she whispered and turned to him. He was agitated, his cheeks were red, his pants felt tight, and he was starving for more of those kisses.

- "Ok."- he replied but didn't move.

- "I'm gonna change, then we can go."- (Y/N) added, but he didn't say a word. To be fair, Spencer wasn't processing what was going on. He was still trying to elaborate a coherent thought. And most of all, he was fighting the boner in his pants that didn't let him stand up.

You could blame all the sugar in his body after the massive bowl of ice cream, or all the praising (Y/N) had given him, but Spencer found a new level of courage in that kiss. He decided it was time to stop overthinking it. It was time to act on his feelings.

- "(Y/N)"- Reid knocked on her bedroom door and heard her from the walking closet.

- "I'm almost ready. Did you talk with Garcia?"

- "No, but I don't wanna leave things like this. I wanted to talk about what just happened."

(Y/N) sighed and took a look at herself in the mirror. She could still feel her cheeks burning after that kiss, after feeling her best friend hard underneath her body, holding her against him. But she wasn't sure she wanted to hear what Reid was about to say. Most of all, because she was sure it was going to be something along the lines: "That kiss was a mistake, you are my friend. I don't wanna ruin this."

- "That kiss was..."- he mumbled and walked to her as soon as she showed up in the room, but words were hard to find when she looked at him that way.

- "Spencer, I..."- she tried to speak, but he just continued.

- "Would you like to..."

- "Pretend it didn't happen?"

- "Go out on a date with me?"- the two of them said at the same time and widened their eyes in shock.

- "What?"- (Y/N) questioned and stared at her best friend in shock- "You want to go out with me?"

- "You want to pretend it never happened?"- he asked her, scared he might have rushed to the wrong conclusions.

- "No, no, no, I don't... I can't pretend it didn't happen"- (Y/N) quickly answered and held Spencer's hand, afraid she might have ruined everything.

- "I was just scared you were going to reject me or..."- (Y/N) bt her lips and dared to look at him- "I wanna go out on a date with you"- she whispered and watched his whole face change as a big silly grin drawn on his lips.

- "Really?"- he murmured, still not sure it was actually happening. He asked her out. She said yes. He was sure that was never going to happen in real life.

- "Really"- she assured him and leaned in slowly to kiss him one more time. But her phone rang again, and so did his. This time it was a message from Hotch. Wheels up as soon as they reached the FBI.

- "But after we catch the bad guy."- (Y/N) added, and Spencer chuckled.

- "Sounds like a plan."

Spencer Reid’s taglist: 

@calm-and-doctor @all-tings-diego

Requested by @shilohpug​ 

#spencer reid #matthew gray gubler #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction #babymetaldoll writes #babymetaldoll edits

[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.” 

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #vampire!harry #vampire!harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #vampire au #one direction fanfiction #one direction imagine #one direction fic #harry styles smut #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #ysijwa #writing

[somnianus]

On Chinese and Eastern Dramatic Acting vs Western

Part 1    Part 2

Mostly in ref to the Untamed/Word of Honor, but applies to a lot of East Asian works-

I’ve been getting the sense that people I know from the west (also being Asian-American myself) often interpret Chinese/Japanese/Korean drama and theatre to be too corny/cheesy/over-acted. A quick search on some internet forums confirms this. Maybe it’s because I used to watch a lot of C-dramas when I was a kid (Legend of the Condor Heroes/Return of C Heroes/Journey to the West/The Reincarnated Princess/etc), I personally did not notice that the acting was over the top. 

I don’t really speak for the quality of acting of these actors because I barely follow them in their careers, but I do know that some of them are immature actors or don’t have much formal training (which may cause the cheesiness above). However, Eastern dramatic acting in general does seem like a common complaint, so I decided to look into it - this is all coming from someone who JUST recently got back into watching C-dramas btw, doing my own research so don’t mind me if there’s some incorrect things down here, I am by NO means at all an expert in drama and theater (lol):

^Villains are often depicted with very exaggerated facial expressions (Above, Xue Yang, The Untamed)

Part 1

1. Chinese concept of mo vs western equivalent of “mimesis” or “imitation”

From this, an excellent chapter on Chinese theatrical concepts vs Western concepts.

Mo plays a significant part in traditional Chinese theatre, usually held to be antithetical to the realism of Western theatre because of its emphasis on theatricality. 

Mo means mimesis or imitation, but in a very different sense from the Western concept. One of the first Chinese scholars to use this term, Fu Sinian, used it to compare Western theatre to Chinese theatre:

Presenting a real event and performing an entertaining show are not compatible. The former emphasizes imitation (yige zhong mofang^b); the latter stresses spontaneity and entertainment. The former performance produces a lifelike image; the latter has nothing to produce. The former puts emphasis on the plot; the latter puts emphasis on theatricality. Therefore they are completely contradictory to one another.

This guy actually goes onto critique Chinese theater, saying it should be more like Western realism, so that there will “be no singing, and the acting will imitate people’s real gestures.” However! Other Chinese critics tried to approach Western vs traditional Chinese drama as two DIFFERENT but still valid forms of art. For example, Yu Shangyuan (1927) said western performance is “writing realistically” (xie shi) and chinese performance as “writing suggestively” (xie yi). Western dramas really rely on an accurate/semi-accurate representation of life and realism. Traditional Chinese drama and acting relied on the “symbolic and imaginative.”

Then what is mo? It is the emotional display, the emotional revelation, that is shown on stage. Starting from the Yuan dynasty, the Chinese drama was thought to be a continuation of poetry rather than its own independent stage art.

Poetry is where the intent of the heart goes. Lying in the heart, it is “intent”; when uttered in words, it is “poetry.” When an emotion stirs inside, one expresses it in words; finding this inadequate, one sighs over it; not content with this, one sings it in poetry; still not satisfied, one unconsciously dances with one’s hands and feet. [anonymous, 1975, from Shi Daxu 200 BCE]

Chinese drama with dancing and singing, was the most expressive product of poetry. The importance of mo cannot be stressed enough - it is the measure by which traditional Chinese drama was judged, how well this drama make you feel? Love, pain, loss, guilt, happiness? Plot becomes something that doesn’t matter as much (more on that later).

^Beijing/Peking Opera - highly stylized, emotive, “unrealistic” performances

To emphasize how central and important this concept is, it’s thought that a good Chinese playwright never fails to “seize a highly dramatic scene to stage an elaborate presentation of an emotional state.”

Love is of source unknown, yet it grows ever deeper. The living may die of it, by its power the dead live again. [Peony Pavilion, Mu dan ting]

This quote really shows how important it was to show these emotions on stage, to inspire the audience to feel deeply. Chinese critics believed that the best part about drama was how efficient it is to display emotion. Playwrights should “depict extreme bitterness, extreme happiness, extreme silliness, and extreme sobriety; imitate these feelings to the utmost (miao mo jin xing^p).”

Such performances are not necessarily accurately mimicking reality, but they are obtained through the “revelation” of a character’s internal emotional world.

2. Mo vs the depiction of reality or theatrical truth

The Chinese concept of aesthetic truth relates a lot to theatrical truth. In a lot of traditional Chinese art, painting, poetry, etc, aesthetic truth is not empirical, and doesn’t have to be accurate to life, or realistic. It’s a “truth that lies beyond mere superficial likeness.”

To the Chinese artist, an accurate resemblance between art and reality is not only superficial but often distorting. Chinese artists hold a dialectical view on the “form” (xing) and the “spirit” or “content” (shen) of an artistic object. According to them, xing  and shen are not always complementary. On the contrary, they often stand in opposition to one another. (referenced in the chapter above)

Traditional Chinese artists would rather represent the object with the wish that their representation matches its spirit, or abstract identity, than its actual form because a “photographic image is a shallow image.” It’s easy to draw a picture of something realistically, but it’s much harder and more satisfying to depict its nature, its feeling, its spirit.

This also naturally affects theater and dramatic performances.

Dramatic writing can be divided into two types: “a painting-like work” or a “transformed work,” in which the latter has higher artistic value because it reaches more towards the essence of dramatic object. Realistic imitations are fine, but they’re not really enough to reveal the mo or true feelings of something.

In addition, traditional Chinese dramatists believe that “all dramas are nothing but allegories. One need not ask about their origins in actual life.” You might be able to see, then, that these older playwrights and critics really fancied the overdramatic depictions of emotions.

a. The Chinese notion of theatrical truth/aesthetic truth vs European

Onto what we, as part of the Western audience, are more used to:

For Italian neoclassical critics, the pleasure of a drama hinges  on how accurate, how realistic, the depiction is. Castelvetro, the leading Italian Neo-Classical critic and creator of the concept of “the three unities,” claims thus:

We cannot imagine a king who did not exist, nor attribute any action to him.

Another Italian critic, Robortellus, said that a creative/imaginative story with no “verisimilitude” (truthfulness, in this context, realism) is less appealing than one that imitates a real-life event:

Thus if a tragic plot contained an action which did not really take place and was not true, but was represented by the poet himself in accordance with verisimiltude, it would perhaps move the souls of the auditors, but certainly less.

So basically, it’s fundamentally the opposite of Chinese theater. Italian dramatic works prized being realistic, being properly adapted from reality and real events. Chinese dramatic works, however, enjoyed the emphasis on heartfelt emotional demonstrations, or mo. Even in critical writings, the word “truth” is used, but it is usually used to modify the word “heart” or “emotion.” It is very concerned with the internal, the truthfulness of heartfelt emotional expression.

Taken these contexts, you can see why the Chinese stage/dramas are wholly “unreal” as Tao-Ching Hsu puts it. Everything, the makeup, the costumes, the props, is expressive and suggestive rather than imitative.

b. Bejing/Peking Opera, jingju

A famous example is the Beijing/Peking Opera, jingju. The makeup and costumes themselves are fantastical representations. The colors and patterns suggest different moods, temperaments, characters, and even changes in emotions. Actors would make distinct movements to depict distinct emotions with varying levels of energy. The stage itself may be sparse, because it is not as important as the expression of emotion and drama. 

The stage is sparse not because of the lack of technology or funding, but because it leaves room for the actor themselves to fully express their internal thinking/feeling/emotions. Characters can cross hundreds of miles in a few steps or may take the whole stage to cross a supposed road. This representation looks “unreal” to a realistic-minded audience, but it is very genuine to a Chinese audience.

Summary (so far)

This crucial understanding of the concept of mo (the emotional revelation), and the way traditional Chinese drama depicts life and stories, informs how their modern works are also portrayed. Coming from a Western dramatic background, where realism and plot are the most important aspects of a work, it can be very confusing, right? Even Chinese scholars began to judge their own dramatic works through a Western lens.

How does this traditional background affect modern Chinese dramas and works? I think it still has a very large effect, even though much of Western ideals about dramatic works have been heavily integrated into modern Chinese dramas.

Part 2: On Theatricality and how it transfers into Chinese Cinema

#cdramas #theater #acting style #beijing opera #the untamed #word of honor #kdramas #jdramas #theatricality #east asian cinema

[the-bau-quinjet]

Love your writing and saw your requests were open! How would you feel about a Spencer x reader (more of a Rossi and niece or daughter reader) where Rossi is giving her away to Spencer. Maybe based on First Man by Camila Cabello. I thought it would be a cute concept!

Pumpkin

Summary: I pretty much followed the request!

Warnings: none, it’s just fluff!

Word count: 1053

a/n: This request was so freaking cute! I listened to the song, and just had to write it right away :)) The italics are flashbacks and bold are lyrics from the song!

“Are you ready for this, pumpkin?” The question was gentle, as if your life wasn’t about to change drastically. 

“Yeah,” You took a deep breath to prepare yourself, “I am.” You looped your arm through his, turning to walk through the large oak doors in front of you. 

“I want you to meet my uncle.” Spencer jumped slightly when you started speaking, unprepared for something to break the silence. “I know we haven’t talked about family much, but he’s all I have. You know my parents died when I was really young, so he raised me like his own. I want you to meet him.” You nodded, confident in your words. 

“I would love to meet him.” Spencer put on a brave face, but internally he was screaming about everything that could go wrong. “When do you want to do it?” He cringed at how awkward the question sounded. 

“He just got back to the city today, so we could do dinner tomorrow? Something casual.” You smiled, affectionately leaning into Spencer’s side on the couch. 

“That sounds great. Whatever you want, baby.” At least if dinner was tomorrow, he only had a short period of time to feel anxious about it. 

-

“Don’t worry. He’s going to love you.” You tried to calm Spencer down as you walked into the restaurant. You squeezed his hand, giving the hostess your name for the reservation. 

“The other member of your party is already here, please follow me.” She lead you through the maze of tables and booths to the back left corner where a man was sitting, shielded from view by a menu “Here you are.” She smiled, accepting your thanks before turning to walk back to the front of the restaurant. 

Spencer kept his focus on the ground, steeling himself for the moment he officially met your uncle. 

“Uncle Dave!” You squealed, jumping to hug your uncle when he rose from the table. 

“Rossi?” Spencer paled at the realization of exactly who your uncle is.

“Reid?” Dave was equally as shocked to find out just who his niece has been seeing for the past 5 months. 

“Wait, you two know each other?”

You smiled at the memory as doors finally swung open, allowing you to start walking. You squeezed Dave’s arm as you took the first few steps down the aisle, excited for the journey you are about to begin. 

“That was the last box. Thank you all so much for helping us move!” You hugged every member of the BAU as they left your new apartment. The one you now get to share with Spencer. 

“Of course, pumpkin.” Dave hugged you for slightly longer than normal, sighing as he let you go. “You’re so grown up.” A sad smile graced his features as he took in what was really happening. “You better take care of her.” He turned to Spencer, putting on an intimidating face. 

“I will. I already don’t deserve her. I won’t do anything to mess this up.” Spencer replied confidently, ready to show how much he truly loves you at a moments notice. 

“As long as you always know she’s too good for you, we should be fine.” Dave joked back, trying to lighten the mood. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry before.” You whispered as you walked arm in arm down the aisle. Dave had tears in his eyes, struggling to rein in his emotions.

“You look so beautiful. I just keep thinking about how small you were. You’ll always be my little girl.” 

“Rossi, can I talk to you for a minute?” Spencer asked after knocking on the man’s office door.

He looked up from his desk, noting the nervous expression on the younger man’s face. “Sure kid. What do you need?”

“I just, I wanted to ask you... I mean, I know I don’t need your permission, but your Y/N’s only family...” It took every ounce of self confidence in him for Spencer to ask the next question. “I want to marry her, and it would mean the world to her if she knew we had your blessing.” He held his breath, waiting for a response. 

“I’ve never seen her happier than when she’s with you.” He took a deep breath, mentally preparing for the moment his baby girl gets married. “As long as you keep making her happy, I’d be honored to welcome you to the family.”

Upon reaching the end of the aisle, you pulled Dave into a bone crushing hug. “Thank you. For everything.” The took a few deep breaths, trying to keep the tears at bay for a little longer. 

“Of course, pumpkin. I just want you to be happy. I can tell you two really love each other.” He spoke through the tightening of his throat.

“Well, you were the first man who really loved me.” You hugged one more time, whispering quick “I love yous” before turning to look at your soon to be husband. 

A few more steps and you are hand in hand with Spencer, about to recite your vows. 

Spencer had just taken you to dinner at your favorite Italian restaurant. He lead you back to your apartment, but stopped in the hallway outside the door. “I love you so much, it’s hard for me to think about my life before you were in it. I was going to ask you inside with everyone, but I want this to just be between us.” He ignored the confused look on your face, reaching into his pocket and getting down on one knee. “Y/N L/N, will you marry me?”

You instantly felt tears in your eyes, you struggled to get the one simple word out, “yes.”

Upon entering your apartment, you were instantly met with the entire BAU and your friends, all there to congratulate you on your engagement. 

“I’m so happy for you, pumpkin.” You smiled up at your uncle, still in shock over the nights events. “You deserve the world and I know he’s going to do everything in his power to give it to you.”

“You may now kiss the bride.” The officiant’s words were barely registered as Spencer pulled you closer to him. He kissed you for the first time as his wife with the same passion that has been present since day one. 

tag list:

@mac99martin  @goldeng1rl8  @measure-in-pain

#Spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #requests #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid one shot

[tiarnanabhfainni]

alright lads i have written spn fic about the family of deanna campbell, path dependency, kansas coal mining and generational misery. also dean mirrors because that’s what this whole industry runs on. it was heavily inspired by this insane post by tumblr-user @uhuraha. you can also find it under the cut

blood and bone is the price of coal

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out. 

The Winchester and Campbell names have long pedigrees. Two families whose history goes back as long as humans have records. In fact, their traditions are as old as angels can remember. The Winchesters. Men of Letters. Generations upon generations of knowledge of the arcane passed from mouth to pen to typewriter. The Campbells. Hunters. Parents, siblings, and cousins standing shoulder to shoulder in the endless bloody fight against the monsters under the bed.

Deanna Campbell née Foster had no such pedigree.

See, her family had a somewhat different history than that of the Campbells or the Winchesters. Deanna was the first of her family to be drawn into the shadowy world of the supernatural. Her death at the hands of a demon was not the result of centuries of angelic influence on her family line. That cooling body on the kitchen tiles was not preordained by fate. A fluke. A woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and as a result crossed paths with a demon. There really could have been any woman sitting at that kitchen table with Dean Winchester in 1973 and the apocalypse would have gone ahead.

Because the Foster family business was not hunting things or saving people. It was coal mining. Generations of men lining up to take their place in the cavernous tunnels. Hauling their shovels and pickaxes far below the surface to obtain the precious black stone hiding under Kansas soil.

-----------------

Jacob Foster was one such miner who toiled below the packed earth almost a century before an angel placed Dean Winchester in the perfect place to witness the damnation of his family to a life of misery and revenge.

It’s hard to determine the exact relationship between Jacob and Deanna. He was not a cosmically important man. As a result, there aren’t many records of his life that survived.  He could have been her grand-uncle or maybe some distant cousin. It doesn’t really matter in the end because either way he worked in the coal mines like everyone else in the family. Like his father before him.

Jacob’s life was a small one. His family had been poor as long as he’d known them. A family life that might have sounded familiar to hundreds around the country. An exploited, overworked drunk of a father and a mother wasting away at the kitchen counter, bent over with exhaustion.

The wages from his father’s long hours were barely enough to cover the food on the table and yet still most of it found its way into the pockets of the men who owned the local taverns and bars. His mother did her best with what she was given.

She put as much food on the table as she could with the means available to her. Not once did she confront Jacob’s father about the money he spent on drink nor did she ask for a larger cut of his paycheck for use on groceries.

Sometimes Jacob felt that her fear had more of a presence in the house than she did.

--------------------

Dean’s life shrank the night his mother burned alive on the ceiling. His childhood shaped itself to fit inside broken, dirty apartments and cheap motel rooms. The overpowering stench of a man blackout drunk on bourbon and beer became more familiar to him than that of home cooked meals.

He did his best with the scraps of approval he was given and never asked for more.

His father was grieving, overworked, and doing his best and what could Dean do but take what he could get.

--------------------

The lack of records makes it hard to be precise about what age Jacob was when he first went down under the shifting earth to search for precious black fuel in the pits. The family stories are confused on this point. Historians agree that the youngest boys in that particular mine were thirteen years old. But Deanna’s aunt always insisted that Jacob’s mother was fearful for her child’s safety and so she wheedled a year or two of reprieve from his father.

But regardless of his mother’s concern there was no other job open to her son and so - some time before his sixteenth birthday - Jacob’s father put a shovel in his hand and placed a cap on his head and walked him down the dirt tracks to the mine

In another life maybe Jacob could have been something else.

Maybe if his father was a butcher, he could have studied book-keeping and gone to work in an airy office rather than a dark airless hole in the ground. If the miner’s union was stronger in those days, maybe his father could have earned money enough to get his son into trade. But instead, the mine-owners underpaid their workers with little organised protest against them and Jacob worked where he was always destined to. Carefully extracting the bedrock of industrial expansion. Digging up coal that would keep other homes warm.

-------------------------

John Winchester first put a gun in his eldest son’s hand at six years old, brought him down to the woods and had him fire at cans. He looked his little boy in the eyes and handed him the tools to the trade that his mother had sacrificed so much to keep him out of.

Before he turned 16, Dean wasn’t allowed on any other hunts other than salt ‘n burns. But it was fitting in a way. Dean Winchester, grandson to Deanna Campbell née Foster, digging his shovel into hard-packed earth. The bruises on his face warmed up by the crackling flames in the open grave, earned while protecting someone else’s home.

There’s a concept in social science known as path dependency. The gist is this: the decisions you will be faced with in the future are heavily dependent on the choices you make now. Human trajectories are resistant to change. Once a family enters the mines it becomes nearly impossible for them to dig their way out.

-------------------

In his early years down in the shafts of a Kansas coal mine, Jacob was careful to save as much from his paychecks as he could. He handed this money over to his mother as she wrung her hands over the kitchen counter.

But every year the hours got longer, the pit got deeper and his paychecks grew slimmer. The siren call of the bourbon behind the barman’s back grew ever stronger.

Can we grow beyond our parents? Every tool that Jacob had was handed to him by his father. His leather workman’s boots, his dusty cap, the shovel he used to break his own back. And his father’s oldest and deepest friend, the whiskey he drank to numb himself to the grinding misery and exploitation that defined his life.

Path dependency means that the past matters. Every option that lies before us was predetermined by choices made long before their consequences would be felt. Once a man enters the mines, can his sons ever dig their way out?

By his twentieth birthday Jacob was leaving all of his paycheck on the barman’s lowest shelf.

-----------------------

The hunting life is founded on revenge.

Supernatural forces cut a life short, and husbands, wives, mothers, brothers, and daughters dive headfirst into miserable, bitter, and transitory lives where their only options are dying young or dying alone.

In 1983, John Winchester’s marriage and home went up in smoke and the ground shifted beneath him. He packed his car with a hunter’s basics, - a shovel, some shotguns, whiskey - and dragged his family down into the mine.

Dean Winchester only ever got out of the life once. After his brother threw himself into the pit.

But it’s hard to live on the surface when you know what lurks underneath and every tool Dean had, he got from his father.

----------------------

The rules of Jacob’s mine stated that no more than five pounds of black powder explosive could be taken into the mines by a miner at one time. But inspections were rare, and miners rarely took time to remember the rules by hour six in the pits.

The explosion that killed Jacob and his father also took out three of his cousins, five 13-year-old runners and a group of newly arrived Italian immigrants to the town who barely spoke a word of English. The local undertaker was put to hard work in the following days. 43 closed pine coffins lowered slowly underground. Maybe in another life Jacob could have been a painter, a baker, a steel mill worker.

Instead, he died as he lived. Smothered by coal dust.

----------------------

Dean Winchester looked heaven, fate and God in the eyes and told them all to go fuck themselves. He taught an angel free will, cancelled the apocalypse and stripped the cosmic author of all of his power.

Dean Winchester died choking on blood in a barn in Kansas hunting a monster that his father failed to kill. He couldn’t dig his way out.

#spn #dean winchester #john winchester #fic tag #so yep #i have notes on research on the ao3 link but i am not bothered to transcribe #basically listen to springhill mining disaster by luke kelly #the reason i left mullingar #and navigator by the pogues to get a feel for the mood i was in while writing this lmao

[teawaffles]

The Fugitives from the Fire: Chapter 1

T/N: Takes place before Chapter 39 of the manga (“The Dark Night of London”). Also, in order to appreciate a certain plot point to the fullest, I would recommend reading Book 2 Story 4 (“It Happened One Night”) before starting this one.

TW for this story // All the elements you would expect from a murder mystery: injury, blood, mention of suicide, violence, death

——The moment Miss Hudson opened the door to his room, Sherlock let out a long, long sigh.

It sounded as if he was squeezing every inch of air out of his lungs.

“What is it, Miss Hudson.”

Sherlock was sunk deep into his armchair, newspaper in hand. As if she could feel a headache coming on, Miss Hudson pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Every single time — what’s going on in this room, Sherlock?”

Frowning, she looked around the flat this great detective shared with his assistant. As always, it was thoroughly in a mess. But as always, Sherlock gave his typical response.

“There isn’t anything to get that upset about, is there? Besides, I’m not doing any scientific experiments right now.”

“I can never understand your concept of hygiene: how do you manage to live among all this without batting an eye……? Anyway, at the very least, make sure it’s clean enough that you’re not embarrassed to let people in. In a sense, we are in the service industry, you know.”

Standing tall and firm in the doorway, she began to lecture Sherlock, when an enigmatic grin broke across his face.

“If a client turns away just upon seeing this, then doesn’t it reflect the triviality of their request? In other words, I’m trying to screen my clients as soon as they enter this room.”

“If you quibble on like that, you’re the one who’s going to get screened out by your clients and lose your income. I certainly detest the idea of allowing someone with no earnings to live here.”

She launched into a scathing rebuke of those lazy words, and Sherlock raised both hands in a gesture of temporary surrender.

“Alright. When John comes back, we’ll tidy up together,” he said, looking out the window.

At that perfunctory remark, Miss Hudson placed both hands on her hips.

“John-kun, John-kun — you never stop talking about him. At least, when it comes to cleaning, I’d like you to do it yourself even without anyone else telling you to. My heart truly goes out to your future wife.”

“No need to worry: I consider myself married to my work.” [1]

“……So that means, I’m going to have a bachelor living here for the rest of my life?”

She thought of herself in her old age, briskly caring for an elderly detective; at that unpleasantly vivid image, a chill ran down her spine. [2]

And so they went on and on like this, as they normally did — when all of a sudden, a knock came from the ground floor entrance. From Sherlock’s experience, a visit at this time was usually linked to a “riddle”.

“Yes yes, please hold on just a moment.”

Breaking off their conversation, Miss Hudson pattered down to the ground floor. Sherlock put his newspaper on the table, and listened as she answered the door.

Then, as he’d intuited, after they exchanged a few words at the entrance, someone promptly came up the stairs — he could hear it creaking — and a familiar face appeared at the open door.

Sherlock flashed him a bold grin.

“——Hey, Lestrade. Tough case?”

It was Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. Sherlock had brought up a “tough” case as a matter of course, and to that, Lestrade gave a solemn nod.

“Exactly, Holmes. It’s a bit of a tricky one — I need your help.”

“Details?”

Skipping the pleasantries, Sherlock lit a cigarette, as he was wont to do. But Lestrade’s expression turned grave.

“Sorry, but it’s urgent: I don’t have time to fill you in right now. Can we talk in the carriage?”

“Wha? Hmm……”

Looking out the window at the street below, Sherlock began to sway restlessly.

“What’s wrong? Is there a problem?”

The detective didn’t have an immediate response, and as Lestrade questioned him, Sherlock began mumbling to no one in particular.

“Look, can’t you see John’s not here? ……Goddammit, seriously — where did he go?”

“…………”

Lestrade kept his expression sombre, but for a split second, even he nearly broke into laughter at that line. This eccentric man, who lacked scruples about troubling the people around him, had just admitted to feeling an ordinary emotion like loneliness — and it did feel a little odd.

Standing to the side, Miss Hudson also broke into a smile. For the man known as Sherlock Holmes, it seemed John H Watson had already become an inseparable part of his life.

Seeing their reactions, Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion.

“Oi, why’re you two smiling away? Did I say something weird?”

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Lestrade replied. “It’s just, that was an unexpected line coming from you, so I couldn’t help it. I wasn’t making fun of you. It’s good that you have such an irreplaceable friend.”

“That’s none of your concern…… Though, is there really no time to wait for John?”

In a flash, Lestrade’s expression reverted to its grim state.

“Sorry, but yes: I want to get going as soon as we can. However, if you need Dr Watson, we could wait a while longer……”

But Sherlock quickly waved his hand, interrupting Lestrade’s compromise.

“No, it’s fine. Anyway, I don’t know when he’s coming back. There’re times like this too.”

Saying that, he stubbed his barely-smoked cigarette in an ashtray, dressed himself and got ready to leave. Uttering a quick word of apology, together with the detective, Lestrade headed to the Brougham four-wheeled carriage waiting outside.

Placing one foot into the vehicle, Sherlock waved to Miss Hudson as she stood at the entrance.

“So, Miss Hudson: I’ll attend your marriage counselling session when I get back.”

“I don’t recall having ever mentioned such a thing?”

She smiled at Sherlock’s joke, concealing within it a quiet rage. As if fleeing from her terrifying presence, the two men set off in haste.

Footnotes:

[1] Oh yes I saw my chance and took it — this is a BBC Sherlock reference |ω･)ﾉ But to be super-precise, I’ve dug into the exact translation in the notes below.

Aside: There was another small reference back in Book 2 Story 1, when Sherlock told William that he was “flattered” :3

[2] This is actually hinted at in the original stories: when Sherlock retired in Sussex, he said he was living with his old housekeeper (Wikipedia)

Translator’s notes

That line about marriage

I took some liberty with that translation, so here’s a more pedantic version of it. The reference comes from Season 1 Episode 1 of BBC Sherlock (“A Study in Pink”), when Sherlock and John were having dinner in an Italian restaurant while on a case.

The line as written in the book: “俺にとっては仕事が嫁さんみたいなもんだからな”

(Because) to me, my work is like my wife.

The line from BBC Sherlock’s Japanese dub: “ジョン、僕は仕事と結婚したつもりだ。” (source)

(It’s a literal translation of the original line below)

The original line from BBC Sherlock: “John, I consider myself married to my work.”

Aside: The “flattered” reference comes from the line immediately after this one — “…and while I am flattered by your interest…”

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #the girl who sees rainbows

[mcwriting]

Lost in Rome

hello, friends! Ever since "La Vita Dolce," I've wanted to write something else involving Italy and at least one Italian phrase, and so this lil story was born! Hope you all enjoy!

Ship: Tom Holland x Reader

Word Count: 1488

Warnings: mentions of drinking, vv slight language

★

You had been walking around Rome for what felt like an eternity.

(It had only been like 30 minutes)

You knew the bar was right near Piazza Navona, but you'd only been to that part of the city one other time, having been staying south on the other side of the river in Trastevere.

You felt embarrassed knowing you were dragging your friends around the city without much of a guide, but you were too stubborn to admit that you were actually lost.

"Maybe we should've gone to Bar San Calisto again. It was cheap and close but noooo. I just had to look up a 'best bars in Rome' list" you thought as you continued to trudge on.

Not only were you lost, but you also didn't have the ability to look up where you were going, since you'd decided to go cheap and not buy an international plan or a vpn, choosing to only using wifi so you'd "stay in the moment."

That moment seemed stupid now that every marble wall and cobblestone street started to meld together in your brain as it continued to darken.

A trip to Rome was something you'd been wanting to do for years, so when your university offered up the chance to go study abroad for 4 weeks, you immediately began scrounging up the funds to go, even scoring a scholarship based on the fact that you'd taken Italian classes in school.

You'd only been there a week but thankfully had bonded with your roommate before even going, having struck up a conversation at the informational meeting the semester before. Since then, you had also bonded with those in the room next door, them sticking to you as their translator.

Finally, you couldn't take it anymore, stopping.

"Okay, look, guys. I'm really sorry but I literally have no idea where we are," you admitted, feeling guilty. Everyone else smiled.

"That's okay! This place is beautiful! I'm sure we'll find it eventually," your roommate, Olivia, said.

"Yeah. Didn't you say it was at Piazza Navona?" Aaron, one of your neighbors, asked. You nodded. "Well as long as we can find that, then we're basically there!"

After some wandering, your group found itself in the square in front of the Pantheon, which was a step in the right direction, but you were determined to actually find the right place.

There was a hotel right there, so you quickly stepped in to ask the desk worker to point you towards the Piazza, who explained that it was only a couple streets East of where you were.

Relieved, you and your friends quickly walked that way, breathing out a collective sigh when you walked into the giant open square, looking around at the familiar structures from the second day of class when you'd toured the area.

"Sooo... where's this bar?" Aaron's roommate Joseph asked.

You all circled the square from the inside and out a couple times, not seeing any signs with the name "Bar del Fico Roma" anywhere.

Dread started to wash over you as you realized the website must not have meant the bar was actually on the square, but was somewhere nearby. You felt stupid for not screenshotting the website page or, you know, actually looking it up first.

"Fine, that's it! I'm marching up to the next person I see and asking where this darn place is. We've made it this far!" you said, exasperated.

The first thing that caught your eye was a group of people who looked close to your age, talking in a small group. They were pretty well dressed, typical of a young Italian, so you immediately started over towards them, expecting them to be the most helpful in giving directions.

"Wait, y/n!" Olivia protested, but you ignored her, walking between a shorter boy and taller girl.

You couldn't help but sigh out the words as you started speaking, placing a light hand on the boy's arm.

“Scusa, potresti dirme dov’è la-" "Excuse me, could you tell me where the-"

"Sorry! I don't speak Italian!" the boy answered in a British accent, turning to face you with hands in surrender.

You both seemed taken aback when your eyes met.

Tom Holland?

"Um, oh what was the word for sorry in Italian again?" the actor in front of you asked, looking to one of his many Spider-man costars around you. Before one could answer, you blurted out one for him.

"It's 'mi dispiace' or 'perdonami,' depending on how you want to say it," you started, realizing how stupid you probably sounded to be teaching a world famous actor Italian words after accidentally infiltrating his conversation.

However, Tom was more shocked by your American accent. Your eyes still widened as you realized what was actually going on.

"Oh my gosh, what am I saying, um. I- I'm so sorry. We're just trying to find this bar and got lost and-"

"Which bar?" he asked in return. You furrowed your brows and looked at him funny, wondering why he would care. He seemed to take notice. "It's just that, we're also headed to a bar and can't seem to find it, either."

You chuckled at the situation, baffled.

"Well, um, it's called 'Bar del Fico Roma.'"

Tom's eyes widened.

"Hey, that's where we're headed!" Jacob Batalon cut in, making you look at him and the rest of the actors in surprise. You could see your own friends shock from your peripheral.

"No way! Really?" Joseph said for you. The group nodded.

"I just got it pulled up on maps," Zendaya said, holding up her phone. Realization suddenly hit that she of all people was the one who you had been standing next to this whole time.

You and your friends all gasped incredulously, amazed at your luck after spending all that time lost.

"If you want, we can show you the way," Tom offered.

"What? No, no we couldn't impose like that," you began, knowing your friends were probably internally screaming at you.

"Oh come on," Tom responded. "We're all going to the same place anyways, not like we won't see you there. It's barely a five minute's walk."

"Seriously, y/n. Do you really want to go around asking more locals for help when we've got it right here?" Olivia asked, raising a good point.

"Alright, fine," you started, rolling your eyes. You turned back to Tom. "You know what they say, 'when in Rome.' Seriously, thank you. All of you. You're definitely saving our asses."

He chuckled as Zendaya began leading the way. Though the sun had set, lights throughout the roads and emanating from various shops lit the way.

Without meaning to, you fell into step with Tom, easily matching his gait as you crossed through the bustling piazza.

"So what brings you to Italy?" He asked. "You don't quite sound like a local."

"We're studying abroad through our university. Unfortunately for me, these goons keep following me 'cause I speak the language," you joked, causing Olivia to slap the back of her hand to your shoulder.

"Ah, I see. I was definitely confused when you went from Italian to American in an instant. Y/n, was it?"

"Yes! Yeah, that's me. And you're obviously Tom Holland."

"You better remember that later, he tends to forget his own name after a few drinks," Zendaya called back to you, causing the group to laugh.

"Hey! That was one time!" Tom defended himself. "Not my fault I was going through a breakup!"

He turned back to you.

"Don't listen to them. I'm quite fun to drink with. You should see for yourself."

"Is that some sort of offer..?" you questioned playfully, tucking your hair behind your ear.

"If everyone's alright with it, I figured you all would join us at the lounge. I'm more than happy to pay for a round or two," he winked.

The group was approaching the bar, and any anxiety you'd had about finding it finally quelled when you could see people outside laughing and drinking as they enjoyed the summer night.

"Hmm... I don't know..." you sing-songed, looking up at the sky.

"Dude are you crazy?" Aaron exclaimed, causing the others to argue in agreement with him.

"Okay, okay. Of course we would be happy to join you for a drink. Thank you."

Both groups cheered in approval.

"The only thing I ask in return is a little lesson in Italian and, if all goes well, a pretty lady's number at the end of the night," he said smoothly, giving you a look.

The others looked between you with wide eyes, surprised at his open flirting. You couldn't help but smile and blush before replying.

"I think that's something I can manage. Now come on, your first lesson will be in ordering drinks," you said, grabbing his hand to lead him in what was about to be the best night of his life.

And yours.

★

A/N: Okay fun fact I thought up this concept immediately after publishing La Vita Dolce and just... never wrote it? The entire work was actually written around the one Italian phrase I used haha.

Anyways... Hope you all enjoyed as per usual and feel free to hmu anytime about anything :)

Send a message or ask if you’d like to be added to my permanent or series taglists so I can verify you’ve been added!

@jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl, @agentnataliahofferson, @spider-babe, @justafangirlduh

#lost in rome #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #tom holland one shot #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland imagine #tom holland drabble #tom holland spiderman

[collectionofcherries]

👀couldnt help but notice you talking about hannibal in your billy loomis imagine 👀 also couldnt help but to notice thats in your fandom list 👀 maybe you should shoot your shot with an imagine with hanni 👀

So over on my Naruto blog I did a little fluff piece called Morning Coffee that everyone seemed to enjoy so I thought I'd bring it here. It’s a simple concept, it follows your morning to the start of your cup to the end of it. Hope you enjoy! --- ☕ Morning Coffee ☕

---

written in the mind-frame of a Female!Reader but there are no pronouns mentioned nor gender specific anatomical body parts.  Warnings: None, flirting with the idea of smut but no actual smut. Sexual longing maybe? Word Count: 1,155

--- Hannibal Lecter

   Having coffee with a friend shouldn't have been this stressful, being this stressed in the morning couldn't be good for you but it wasn't like you could help it. How are you supposed to dress for morning coffee with a man who practically lives in three piece suits? Formal? Business casual? Casual casual? Your clothing covered floor seemed to bare no answers as you stared at what you swore was everything you owned...had everything always been this ugly? God! Why did you even propose a breakfast together? Hannibal does dinner but no you had to pitch breakfast to be different and try to impress him, yeah you're sure he'd be impressed by the amount of clothing on the floor. If you'd been like everyone else and just gone for dinner you'd have more time to try on clothes but a look at the clock told you that you had to leave now or you'd be late and that'd be terrible, that'd be rude and Hannibal can't stand people who're rude. However messy your floor was it was worth it for the compliment you got when Hannibal opened his door to greet you. “I don't see you in colour often, red looks lovely on you.”     Well, guess you're wearing red for the rest of your life.     "Oh thank you.” Finds it's way out of your throat as your face is painted the colour that apparently looks lovely on you.     “Please, come in.” He welcomes stepping to the side to allow room.    You never gave much thought to what a foyer could be, yours is technically where you just kick off your shoes and put your keys but this, this was proper foyer. Just the entrance to his house was nice. God it was big too, he could probably rent it out to a poor college kid for like 500 bucks if he wanted not that he looked like he needed the extra money. Did you even know how to say Foyer properly? You bet Hannibal did, without a doubt he knew all those fancy French words--was that word even French? Oh no, what if you were stupid and it wasn't French? What if this wasn't even a foyer? How dumb were you? H-- hands came up to your shoulders jolting you out of your spiral. Hannibal gently pulls the edges of your jacket and you immediately understand. “Thank you.” You repeat once again.    He smiles with a nod as he slides your jacket off of you with your help and hangs it up on a beautiful wood stand you're sure costs more than half your rent. Thinking about how much money was within these walls could make your head spin but that spinning is halted by the soothing tones of his voice. “Lost in thought?” He inquired.    “Uh, just early morning brain fog you know?” You try to bluff.    It's not convincing but he nods anyway. “Perhaps some coffee would help.”     “Sounds good.” You agree.    Following him through his house only furthers your awe, you could spent a lifetime in here just looking at stuff. “I thought it'd be pleasant to make breakfast together instead of having it ready, eating together is one experience but preparing a meal is another entirely.” He explained    The idea of sharing an experience with Hannibal was one that filled you with butterflies, the more you thought about it you didn't think you'd heard of Hannibal cooking with anyone else, maybe the stress of this morning would pay off after all. “I'm not a chef but I'll do my best, what're we making?”     “Uova al purgatorio.” Which leads to a bit of a blank stare on your end, as pretty as it sounds you've got no idea what that means. “It's an Italian dish, eggs in Purgatory.” He explained.    “Sounds interesting.” You quip.    “It is, the name comes from the eggs sitting in a tomato base, the white of the eggs floating within the red sauce giving the illusion of souls trapped within the unknown of Purgatory.” He explains as he prepares the boiling water for your coffee. “Even at breakfast it seems we wonder where our souls go to lay.”     “Well makes sense for Italy home of the Pope, I'm sure there's religious overtones at most meals.”    He smiles a little and nods. “During my time in Italy it truly does surround you, it's an interesting feeling, almost euphoric to be encapsulated by it at every

turn.” He remarked.    “Wow, you spent time in Italy? It looks beautiful there.” You say, trying to stray a little further from the religious aspect, you don't exactly know where Hannibal falls on that spectrum and the last thing you want to do is come across rude or disrespectful to him. “Coffee smells great.” You add as he pours the boiling water into his very fancy looking French Press.    Your attempt to change subjects doesn't go unnoticed at all but he once again nods as he looks at you. “Yes, I traveled quite a bit in my youth, I called Italy my home for some time.” He explains.     “Do you ever miss it?” You ask    “I take with me what I relish in the places I've been, while I may no longer be surrounded by the Primavera or the walls of Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini they are ever present in my mind, reproduced with the utmost detail.” You could listen to Hannibal talk all day, it wouldn't matter what he said you just like the way he said things, the timbre of his voice. “Have you ever given thought to travelling?” He prodded.    “Course, who doesn't think about travelling? See far off places, experience new people, new things, different cultures.” You reminisce.    “What stops you?”     You shrug a little. “Funds mainly but I'd want to take the time to learn the language of where I'm going, understand the culture so I don't offend anyone. I don't want to be one of those tourists that makes an ass out of themselves.” You said cringing at the end.    “It's considerate to take the time to understand a culture you will not live in, many go on whims like they're visiting amusement parks.” He agreed. “Would Italy be a place you'd like to visit or would you find their taste for religion leaving a sour taste in your mouth?” He asked.    Did you really think you'd get out of a question Hannibal wanted answered? You shrugged a little once again trying to make sure you phrase things that wouldn't step on toes that were in shoes that likely cost more than your rent. “I'm unsure...I don't know if my broader and more open views would be welcome in the narrower scope of such a religious place and I wouldn't want to impose myself or my views upon anyone.” You slowly clamber out as he pours two cups of what smells like incredibly coffee. “Thank you.” You quickly add as you take it from his hands.    “While I do know you enough to welcome you into my home, I'm not sure if I know you well enough to know of the open views you believe would be scrutinized under the gaze of the Church. Do you speak a broader view of all religions? Racial rights? Sexual appetite?”     You stomach almost leaps into your throat at the last question, talking sexual appetites with someone who could feed that said appetite for the rest of your life? How were you supposed to talk about that? You didn't want to impose but you certainly didn't want to miss any chance of feeding that appetite. “All of the above, you know?” You pitch at first. “I'm a big believer in religious freedoms for everyone, from anywhere--just freedom for everyone in general.” You tackle first, that's the more important one and the one that won't get you into any trouble. “And um--yeah I suppose my sexual appetite wouldn't please the Church.” You say with a small laugh breaking your gaze from Hannibal and down at your coffee cup. “Not exactly a born again virgin.” Smooth. Great job. Wow. Fuck. Maybe you could drown yourself in this coffee? You take a sip and to spite being too shy to ask for sugar or milk this coffee is great, actually smooth. Unlike you. “This is great, what is this?” You try.    Why do you try? He always notices, you're luckier than you know that it endlessly amuses him rather than annoys him. “It's Peaberry Coffee from Tanzania, it's a rounder sweeter bean, almost tea like.” He explains, allowing for a moment for you to believe you've somehow fooled him into letting his prior question go thoroughly unanswered. “It can take a more refined palette to taste all the notes.” He remarks.    “I don't know how refined mine is, I just know it's nice.”

You admit with a small laugh.    “Usually our tongues know more than we think, close your eyes and allow the flavours to dance over your tongue.” He instructed.    Hannibal could tell you to jump off a cliff and if he said it nice enough you probably would. You take a small breath and take another sip and try your damnest to impress Hannibal if only even a little but as you swallow you know your guesses are little more than shots in the dark. “It's sweet...kind of like a berry...?” You weakly pitch.    You're not wrong but Hannibal can tell your guess isn't confident. “Do you know you have a habit of coming in on yourself when you're unsure of what you're saying?” He asks letting you know he's been on to you for much longer than you would have hoped. He comes around from his large kitchen island to stand in front of you and you fight the urge to step back and away which only adds to how hard your heart beats in your chest. “Coming in on ones self allows negative neurons to fire, by simply lifting your head you'll allude more confidence and though red looks lovely on you so does that.” That compliment alone made your head spin so his next action of bringing his warm hand up to gently lift your head? Your entire body felt weak. It was laughable that the simple touch of his thumb resting on your chin and his forefinger below it could have such an effect on you, looking up at him him with unsure eyes as to where this went next was laughable to him. You were putty in his hands, vulnerable in every meaning of the word. "Try again, close your eyes and when you take a sip allow it to work around your mouth, to explore every inch of your tongue.”    Was this porn? This could be porn, this might as well be porn as far as your body was concerned apparently. It took you a moment to actually get your limbs to move and grab your coffee again and it felt good to close your eyes, you liked Hannibal but being so close and having him stare back at you was overwhelming. And he knew it, there was something very satisfying about your kind of vulnerability, it was raw and open for him to touch and mold with his hands. You brought the cup to your lips and took another sip and once again tried to find a defined note in this coffee and maybe it was having your head tilted up, maybe it was having him so close but an answer did come from your mouth. “Cedar?”    Opening your eyes you knew you'd gotten it right by the contented look you were rewarded with. "I had a hunch your tongue knew more than you were letting on.” He teased.    He let his thumb trail back and forth on your chin before moving it away and your head felt like it was floating. “What does your tongue taste? I'm sure it's much more experienced than mine.”     You're sure if you didn't feel so floaty such a blatantly flirty question wouldn't have come out of you but it seemed to fly just fine as a small amused breath made it's way out of him. “Your assumption would be correct.” He let you know. “The notes in this coffee I've become very acquainted with over the years so it wouldn't be much of an exercise in taste for me to tell you them all. Perhaps another breakfast we could expand upon both our tongues.” Your entire body clenched and you had to practically drown out your whine of want by taking a sip of your coffee. “For now we'll be expanding on yours, come, wash up I'll show you how to make uova al purgatorio, a taste from my past.” He said walking back around the kitchen island.    You follow him around the island and with one last sip put your empty coffee cup into the sink. --- ~Admin Coral 🍒 Buy Me A Coffee?

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal imagine #hannibal scenario #hannibal nbc #slasher imagine #horror imagine #hannibal lecter imagine #mads mikkelsen #Admin Coral #slasher x female!reader #slasher x F!reader #slasher x fem!reader #Hannibal lecter x Female reader #Hannibal Lecter x F!reader #Fem!reader #Female reader #Female!reader #I know it seems like I'm adding an odd amount of female reader in here but it's just so anyone who doesn't want to reader it from a female #perspective can use work block and not have this come up in their feed

[aaliyah-babe]

The One With The Butt: Part One

pairings: eventual joey x reader, jamie x reader

authors note: i own nothing from friends, all credit goes to their respective owners. feedback is always appreciated!

feedback is the glue that holds my writing together!

you guys had gotten invited to the play that joey was in, you were sat next to pheobe on the end,

“oh look! look, there’s joeys picture! this is so exciting!” rachel squealed, showing you all joeys picture.

“you can always spot who’s never seen one of his plays before, notice no fear, no sense of impending doom...” chandler trailed off,

“the exclamation point in the titles scares me. you know, it’s not just freud, it’s freud!” pheobe exclaims, and you giggle at her.

the lights went down as you readied yourself for joeys plays, they weren’t all bad, but they weren’t all good, don’t get yourself wrong he was a good actor, he just chose the wrong stuff to act in.

“shh. the magic is about to happen!” ross shushed everyone

“well, eva,” you heard joey say with a german accent and you sighed, knowing it was gonna be another bust. “we’ve done some excellent work here,”

you looked at pheobe and she gave you the same look before you started giggling quietly, and ross gave you a warning look which made you stop.

“and i would have to say your problem is quite clear,” joey said before stopping. a piano intro started playing before joey got up from his seat and began singing, “all you want is a dinkle, what you envy’s a schwang! a thing through which you can tinkle, or play with or simply let hang,”

you looked at ross before whispering, “now can we laugh,” and he started chuckling aswell.

the play went on for what felt like hours, you had looked through the cast around five times, pheobe nudging you to look at joeys dancing and singing at times which made you both laugh quietly, before the show was finished.

everybody on the stage took a bow before you all got up and started clapping, yelling at the cast,

“yes! excellent!”

they walked off the stage as you all groaned, sitting back down,

“oh my god, that was nauseating,” you sighed into pheobes shoulder,

“i feel violated,” rachel agreed,

“did anybody else feel like they wanted to peel the skin off their body to have something else to do?” monica asked,

“ross, 10:00,” chandler nudged ross,

“i’d it? feels like 2:00,” ross groaned,

“no, 10:00,”

“what?”

“there’s a beautiful woman at 8, 9, 10:00!” chandler sighed which made you all look in his direction and see a very beautiful woman touching up her lipstick.

“wow she is pretty,” you agreed with chandler,

“she’s amazing! she makes the women i dream about look like short, fat, bald men,”

“well, go over to her. she’s not with anyone,” monica said to him,

“oh yeah, right. and what would my opening line be? “excuse me..” chandler said before blubbering words,

“oh come on! she’s a person, you can do it,” rachel encouraged,

“oh please could she be more out of my league? ross back me up here,” chandler patted ross on the back,

“he could never get a woman like that in a million years,” ross agreed,

“thank you,”

“oh, oh! but you know you always see these really beautiful women with these really nothing guys, you could be one of those guys!” pheobe encouraged him,

“oh yeah! come on chandler, do it!” you told him.

“you think?” he asked you all,

“oh yeah!”

“oh, god. i cant believe i’m even considering this. i’m very, very aware of my tongue,”

“come on!”

“here it goes,” chandler walked away and started talking to the woman,

he started saying a few things before he started walking back over,

“chandler?” the woman asked, making him go back over,

“wow, go chandler,” you nudged monica.

joey walked out and you all said hey.

“i didn’t know you could dance!” ross said,

everybody else said stuff to him about the play,

“was it good?” he asked, hopeful. your heart hurt for the boy.

everybody was silent before they all said the same things they did before.

“come on you guys, it wasn’t that bad, i was the lead! it was better than that thing with the trolls!” he argues,

“you’re right joey, you are, come here,” you hugged him,

“did you at least like it?” he asked, still hopeful,

“i’m not gonna lie to you joe. it wasn’t the best play,” his face fell, “but! you’re a good actor i just think your always going for the wrong roles!” you said and he smiled a little,

“thanks y/n/n,” he hugged you again, before letting you go not completely and just let his arm drape around your shoulder.

“she said yes! she said yes!” chandler ran over before turning to joey, “awful play man! woah!”

you rubbed joeys back, feeling bad for him a little.

“her names aurora and she’s italian and she pronounces my name “chand-ler,” “chand-ler,” he was proud of himself you could see, “i think i like it better that way- oh listen! the usher gave me this to give to you.” he gave joey a card.

“what is it?” rachel asked,

joey read the card as his face lit up, “estelle leonard talent agency, an agency left me its card!” he smiled,

“told you,” you whispered to him and he smiled at you.

“maybe they want to sign me!” he smiled happily,

“based on this play?” pheobe asked and joey frowned, “based on this play!”

you guys were hanging out at the coffee house and jamie had joined you, and once again joey distanced himself from you and him. what the hell was his problem? it pissed you off that your bestfriend clearly didn’t like your boyfriend and didn’t even try to hide it!

“hey, kids,” chandler walked in, after his date with aurora.

“hey, chandler,” jamie said to him,

“well this line is passion, and this is just a line,” phoebe read monica’s hand,

“wow i can’t believe i’ve been here seven seconds and you haven’t asked me about my date,” chandler said,

“how was your date chandler?” everybody asked,

“yeah, chand-ler?” monica said, making you smile.

“it was unbelievable! i’ve never met anyone like her. she’s had the most amazing life! she was in the israeli army...”

“luckily, none of the bullets hit the engine block. so, we made it to the border. but just barely and i... i’ve been talking about myself all night long, i’m sorry. what about you? tell me one of your stories!” aurora said to chandler, who smiled at the woman in front of him.

“alright, once.... once, i got on the subway, right? and it was at night and i rode it all the way to brooklyn, just for the hell of it,” he said which made aurora laugh and he smiled again,

“we talked till like 2:00,” chandler said, “it was this perfect evening... more or less,”

“all of the sudden we realise we’re in yemen!” aurora exclaims,

“i’m sorry we is?” chandler asked,

“we would be me and rick,” she answered,

“who’s rick?” joey asked,

“who’s rick?” chandler asked her,

“my husband,” she answered.

“ew,” everyone groaned for chandler,

“oh, so your divorced?” chandler asked,

“no,” she said,

“oh, i’m- i’m sorry your widowed... hopefully?” he asked again,

“no, i’m still married.”

“so uh, tell me. how do you think your husband would feel about you sitting here with me, sliding your foot so far up my pant leg you can count the change in my pocket?”

“don’t worry. i imagine he’d be okay with you because really with ethan,” she giggled,

“ethan? there’s an ethan?” chandler asked,

“ethan is my... boyfriend,” she answered

“what?!” everyone exclaimed.

“explain something to me. what kind of relationship do you imagine us having if you already have a husband and a boyfriend?” chandler asked,

“i suppose, mainly sexual,” she offers.

“huh,”

“aw, i’m sorry it didn’t work out,” monica apologised,

“what not work out? i’m seeing her again on thursday,” everyone looked at him confused, “didn’t you listen to the story?”

“didn’t you listen to the story?” you asked,

“yeah, this is twisted! how could you get involved with a woman like this?” monica asked,

“i had some trouble with it at first too, but the way i look at it, i get all of the good stuff, all the fun, all the talking, all the sex and none of the responsibility! i mean this is every guys fantasy,”

“that is not true,” phoebe said, “ross, jamie, is this your fantasy?”

“no,” they both said,

you smiled at your boyfriend before kissing his cheek, he looked at ross before they both nodded their heads, “yeah, it is,”

you glared at jamie.

“maybe somebody shouldn’t be with somebody then,” joey muttered but you heard him anyways, what is his deal? you were so going to talk to him after this.

“so you guys don’t mind going out with someone else, who’s going out with someone else?” monica asks.

“i couldn’t do it,” joey says,

“good for you, joe,” pheobe says to him,

“when i’m with a woman, i need to know that i’m going out with more people than she is,” that made you sigh,

“well, you know monogamy can be a tricky concept. i mean anthropologically speaking...” everybody pretended to sleep and fake snore as ross bored everyone,

“fine, fine. now you’ll never know,” he sighs,

“we’re kidding, go! tell us,” monica says,

“all right, there’s a theory put forth by richard leakey...” and there goes everybody snoring again,

let me know if you want to be mentioned in future taglists!

taglist: @zestygingergirl

#chandler bing #friends #friends series #joey tribbiani #monica geller #pheobe buffay #rachel green #ross geller #x reader #funny

[muertawrites]

Two Halves - Chapter Seven (Zuko x Reader)

Part Six

Word Count: 3,000 (really? it seemed longer...)

Author’s Note: I decided to make this one cute because it’s been a hella weird week (year) and I needed some sweet Zuko lovin’ in my life. The only downside is that now I’m piney as fuck, but it’s fine because I’ve got spaghetti from my favorite Italian place in the fridge and comfort food fixes everything. I’d also like to use this time to admit that I’ve always thought King Kuei was cute, because clearly I have a thing for adorable dumbasses who live their lives in denial (shout out to Mark, my ex, fuck you and I hope you miss me every fucking day because we both know you loved me as much as I loved you but were too weak to just own up to your feelings because you’re a punkass little bitch boy ♥). King Kuei and reader are BFFs and that’s canon. 

I hope you’re all holding out okay and staying safe - PSA to wear a mask whenever you go out, make sure it covers both your mouth and nose at all times, wash your hands after being out in public, and stay the hell away from people outside your household. Do something nice for yourself today, you deserve it. I wish you all find a love someday who makes you feel as fluttery inside as these fics make me feel, and that they love you endlessly and fearlessly. I need to stop writing now, I’ve put myself in my feels. 

~ Muerta

Much to the dismay of the international affairs advisors, their opportunities for stalking you about your daily life are drastically cut short when Iroh announces he wants to return to Ba Sing Se. 

“I've been away from the Jasmine Dragon for too long,” he explains, breaking the news over dinner. “I miss her dearly and would like to be with her again.” 

“I should go back to the Earth Kingdom, too,” Toph speaks up. “The metal bending program will probably have to be rebuilt - the idiots I left in charge of it can barely bend rocks.” 

You and Zuko exchange amused looks, though the idea of being left totally alone with him - without the comfort of your mutual friends - makes you lightheaded. Having to go toe to toe with Advisor Qiang and his sketchy, passive aggressive behavior while also navigating a potentially deadly political climate? No sweat. Having to face your husband every day without the distraction of your friends and family to break the awkward tension? Horrifying, but in an exciting, slightly panicky way. 

“It would be a good idea to visit,” Zuko muses, “see how the city is rebuilding. Aang’s coming back in a week or two on his way to the Northern Air Temple, and I bet he’d give us a lift.” 

“Do the international affairs advisors have to come, too?” you ask. “I'm tired of their assistants taking notes on how I prefer to pour my own tea in the morning.” 

Zuko smirks, shaking his head. 

“I'm sending them to the Southern Tribe,” he tells you. “Hakoda’s hosting a summit for them to celebrate our union.” 

“You're finally getting your life changing field trip with Hothead!” Toph cheers, playfully jabbing her elbow into your arm. “Now we can start a club - Sokka really wants to get jackets.” 

As Appa glides through the air, you lean over the edge of his saddle, gazing out at the clouds as they pass. It’s your first time flying, and everything about it amazes and terrifies you - the miniscule landscape below, the shift of Appa’s massive body under his movement and breathing, the cold breeze kissing your cheeks and running its fingers through your hair, the way the sky is so much more vast than you ever could have imagined - it’s like you’ve fallen into a different world entirely. 

You reach down and stroke at Appa’s fur, earning an appreciative grunt from the bison. Aang turns back from his place at the reins to grin at you, much more excited about your first time in the air than you are. 

“What do you think?” he wonders cheerfully. 

“It's like sailing, but in a dream,” you reply. “The clouds remind me of glaciers back home.” 

“Makes you wish you were an air bender, doesn't it?” Aang chuckles. 

You laugh nervously, shaking your head. 

“No! I can't stop thinking about how long the fall is from up here!” 

Aang tosses his head back with laughter, the sound of his voice carried on the wind filling you with the feeling of walking through the threshold of the cottage you shared with Sokka and Katara as a child; neither of them are present, but having Aang nearby feels just as much like home. 

Across the saddle, Zuko smiles at you. You’re a few feet away from him, yet you still feel the warmth from his body as his eyes meet yours; his gaze is different somehow, as if he's seeing you for the first time. You blush, bashfully returning his grin. 

“Are you okay?” Toph asks beside you. She's clutching your hand, neither of you very fond of your height off the ground. “Your heart rate jumped.” 

“I'm fine,” you tell her. “I just looked down.” 

Ba Sing Se is larger than you ever thought a city could be. As you approach, you stare in awe at the epic sprawl of the place, each district looking like its own little country within a quilt of a continent. You've been to the North Pole before, having spent a year there after the war, but even the shock of seeing their massive skyline pales in comparison to just how huge the Earth Kingdom is. Zuko smirks at you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. 

“Wait until you see it from the ground,” he teases. 

You’re even more amazed by the city as you view it from the palace. It sprawls in every direction, some of its buildings reaching as high as Appa can float; Iroh explains that it's a new concept designed by the most renowned Earth Kingdom architects, some of them planning towers that stretch one hundred stories. Everything about the place seems impossible. 

Inside the palace, King Kuei meets you in the entry hall, greeting Aang with a warm hug and Zuko with a firm handshake. 

“It's so good to see you all!” he exclaims. “It's been far too long. Tonight we’re having a party to celebrate your arrival, and to congratulate the newlyweds!” 

You smile, bowing low at the waist as you thank him. 

“My husband has told me of your hospitality,” you say. “It’s an honor to be celebrated by you.” 

When you straighten up, Kuei takes your hand and politely places his lips to the back of your palm, closing his other hand atop it. 

“And I've been told about your exquisite nerve,” he replies, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Your bravery deserves to be celebrated.” 

After a tour of the palace, you and Zuko are led to your suite. The windows in both the sitting room and bedroom look out over an incredible view of the city, in which you can almost see as far as the eastern wall; you can hardly pull yourself away, leaving Zuko the task of inspecting the rooms to ensure everything is in order. 

“We have a problem,” he says, stepping out to where you perch by the sitting room window. “There's only one bed.” 

You snap your head to attention, fixing him with a quizzical expression. 

“... I mean, I guess that's normal,” you reply, piecing the situation together in your head. “We are married.” 

“Do you want me to request another room for myself?” Zuko asks. “I could get one of the bedrolls from Appa’s pack and sleep on the floor.”

You shake your head, pacing over to where he stands. 

“I trust you,” you tell him. “We have to get comfortable with each other at some point.” 

Zuko nods, blushing and unable to hold your gaze. 

“You're right,” he agrees. “I trust you, too.” 

You gently take his hand, causing him to shift his eyes back to yours; you smile, giving his palm a light squeeze. 

“Zuko, it’s okay,” you assure him. “Really. I’m okay with it.” 

Zuko nods again, reaching absently to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear. 

“I just want you to feel safe,” he admits. “You’ve already got enough to worry about without… all of this.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you smile at him. 

“All you’ve done since the day we met is protect me,” you remind him. “Sleeping with you is the last thing that could possibly worry me.” 

Zuko chuckles, leaning to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” he playfully scolds. “Or I’ll make you sleep on the bed roll.” 

You gasp, giggling as you push his shoulder. 

“I can’t believe my own husband would make me sleep on the floor,” you tease. “And in a strange city, no less! You’re so awful to me.” 

Zuko rolls his eyes, smirking as he bends and hooks his arms under your bum, lifting you up over his shoulder. You squeal, laughing as he carries you into the bedroom and flops you down on the mattress, jestfully smacking a pillow into your face. 

“Get changed, Queenie” he tells you, retreating into the sitting room before you can launch a counterattack. “The party’s in an hour.”

In the ballroom of the Earth King’s palace, it seems everyone in the city has turned out to celebrate your arrival. 

You sit in a throne beside Kuei’s, Zuko to your left and Aang to the Earth King’s right. Dignitaries from Kuei’s cabinet as well as various parts of the kingdom come to give their regards, all greeting you much more fondly than many of the guests at your wedding; Kuei is excited to introduce you to everyone, giving fervent, detailed descriptions of what each person does and launching you into long conversations with them. You don’t mind his enthusiasm, finding it endearing that he cares so much and so openly about the people who serve him. 

“Ah, here’s a very special guest!” Kuei announces, cheerfully clapping his hands. 

A woman approaches the throne, leading a large, furry animal up the steps towards you; its long claws and massive stature send a chill through you, but once you look into its beady little eyes and notice its round ears and bumbling demeanor, you’re enamored. 

“Is that a bear?” you ask, excitedly gripping Kuei’s sleeve. 

“Yes!” he cheers. “His name is Bosco; he’s a close friend of mine.” 

Bosco lets out a soft growl as Kuei scratches him under the chin, pulling the fuzzy giant into a tight hug. 

“He loves cuddles and blackberries,” Kuei tells you. “Don’t let his claws scare you - he’s a big softy.” 

One of the servers appears with a bowl of fresh fruit, setting it into your lap for you to share with your newest party guest. You carefully take a blackberry into your palm, holding it out for Bosco to sniff; his nose hovers above your fingers, letting out a few warm huffs of breath onto your skin before licking the berry up into his mouth. You turn to Kuei and give him a wide smile, gathering more berries into your hand for Bosco to eat. 

“I love him,” you tell your host. “He might be coming back to the Fire Nation with me.” 

Kuei laughs, giving Bosco a loving pat on the head as you continue to fatten him up, switching between feeding him and running your fingers through his thick coat, giggling when his tongue flops out to lick your cheek; you never expected an animal fabled to be so fearsome to turn out so sweet. 

Once the bowl of fruit is empty, Bosco settles onto the floor at the foot of Kuei’s throne, letting out a heavy yawn. Kuei reaches to scratch behind his ears, then stands, offering you his hand. 

“Would you like to dance?” he asks. “I heard you and the Avatar made quite the display at your wedding.” 

“We did!” Aang chimes in, also getting to his feet and sweeping Toph (who stands just to the side of the thrones, having declined the royal treatment for the evening) into his arms. “We were taught a few Earth Kingdom dances by your advisors, too!” 

Toph laughs as you’re both led onto the dancefloor, taking her position beside Aang. 

“And that’s why I call him Twinkle Toes,” she jokes. 

Kuei chuckles, taking you by the waist and starting the dance, twirling with you in an interlaced circle between Toph and Aang. You each pass from partner to partner, raising your hands to meet them together and spinning gracefully around each other before returning to the escort you  started with. Kuei’s arm skillfully finds your waist when he takes you back in, each of you facing the opposite direction with your sides pressed together, turning in a clockwise motion. He grins at you, and you can’t help but smile back. 

“You’re a natural!” he praises you. “I’m sorry I have two left feet.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. 

“Back home, they consider me clumsy,” you confess. “I used to step on my brother and sister’s toes when they tried to teach me to dance - I still do sometimes!” 

Kuei chortles, taking your hand in his and repeating the sequence of steps you just completed. You recite the ritual five times before the dance is over, ending with each of you bowing to each other with cheerful, elated smiles. Someone behind Kuei clears his throat, and he turns to find Zuko, his hand outstretched toward you. 

“You promised to teach me to dance,” he reminds you. 

You nod, a burning heat pinkening your cheeks as you take his hand. 

“I did,” you echo. “Thank you for the wonderful dance, your majesty.” 

Kuei smirks knowingly between the two of you, bowing before taking his leave. 

“The pleasure was all mine, my lady,” he says in parting. “It’s rare that I have such an excellent partner.” 

Zuko’s arm locks around your waist, skirting you to the edge of the dance floor where he stands stiffly, holding you in place in front of him. You let out a soft giggle, resting your hands on his chest. 

“I thought you didn’t want to learn how to dance with an audience?” you prod, starting to sway in time with the music. Zuko does the same, his body drifting along in sync with yours. 

“I wouldn’t enjoy the party if I sat through it,” he explains, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. You quirk a brow, grinning teasingly at him. 

“Sure,” you say. “It definitely didn’t have anything to do with me dancing so close with another man.” 

“Not at all,” Zuko replies. His hand at the small of your back clutches you a little tighter, giving himself away. “It looked like fun and I wanted to join in.” 

You roll your eyes, smirking as you take a step back from him, lacing your fingers with his. 

“Let’s find Aang,” you suggest. “He can help me teach you the dance we did at our wedding.” 

For the rest of the evening, you, Aang, Toph, and Zuko occupy a small corner of the dance floor, guiding the Firelord with the steps of your favorite traditional Water Tribe dance. He’s nervous, moving with rigid gestures and clearly unsure of what his body is supposed to do when set to music, but he tries, watching every move you make with rapt attention. By the end of the night he has the dance memorized, and you twirl in time with him as Aang cheers him on, Toph laughing beside him at the ridiculousness of the scene; Kuei even joins in, rousing Bosco from his nap and dancing with the bear on his two hind legs, sending the entire ballroom into gleeful fits. 

“You’re better at this than you think, you know,” you tell Zuko when you’re left alone, dancing with him much the same way you danced with the king earlier in the night. “I noticed at our wedding that you have great rhythm.” 

Zuko blushes, his lips curling into a timid smile. 

“I’m a fighter, not a dancer,” he says. 

“They’re not that different,” you shrug. “From what I’ve seen of fire bending, it’s a lot like dancing.” 

Zuko hums, gently turning you so that your chest is pressed against his, his hand resting firmly at your waist. 

“Maybe it’s the music lessons my mother forced me to take when I was a kid,” he muses. “Uncle still keeps asking me to play the tsungi horn for him when we’re together.” 

“You play the tsungi horn?” you exclaim, eyebrows raising in excitement. “You should play for both of us sometime!” 

Zuko groans, immediately switching the dance so he can pass you off to Aang. 

You lean against the sitting room in your guest suite, watching the lights of Ba Sing Se as they flicker with the movement of its people. The world looks dreamlike from where you sit, as if it's been turned upside down; a black expanse of sky hangs above a sea of stars, and you float between the two, dizzy with the surrealism. 

Zuko emerges from the bedroom, having changed into his pajamas after giving you the chance to do the same. He crosses the room to where you sit, resting a hand on your shoulder. 

“You coming to bed?” he asks. You nod, standing and following him back into the bedroom. 

Zuko allows you to slip between she sheets before him, giving you a few moments to get comfortable before crawling in beside you, keeping to his side of the bed. Even though the mattress is large enough to fit another couple between you, you can still feel the warmth of his skin spreading across the fabric below, feel the weight of his body sharing the same space as yours. Your heart flutters against your ribs, making your breathing shallow. 

“I had fun tonight,” Zuko whispers into the darkness around you. “Thank you for teaching me how to dance.” 

“I had fun, too,” you reply. “I can teach you the dance people do for Water Tribe weddings; I wish we could’ve done it at ours.” 

“I’d like that. I’m sorry we didn’t have much Water Tribe tradition when we got married… We should go back and have a ceremony there. I’d like to see you in a Water Tribe wedding gown.” 

A shiver runs through your veins, heating your skin as if a fire has been lit beneath it. You roll over to face him, making out his silhouette against the rest of the shadows in the room. 

“I’m glad you asked me to marry you,” you admit to him, the manic jitters in your chest rising to your throat. “I don’t think anyone else could treat me better.” 

Zuko reaches his hand towards you, finding yours beneath the blankets and curling his fingers with yours. For a moment you forget that your relationship was arranged, feeling as if you’re lovers instead of leaders, tasked with repairing a world that’s been shattered since long before you were born. 

“I’m glad you agreed,” Zuko answers. “I was afraid you’d hate my guts because I stalked your brother and sister for six months when we were teenagers.” 

You release a breath of laughter, the pressure in your body unraveling with it. Zuko’s thumb runs tenderly across your knuckles, and you forget that anyone else in the world exists except for the two of you. 

“Goodnight, Zuko,” you murmur. 

“Goodnight,” he hums back to you. “Sleep well.” 

You wake early in the morning with his arm draped over your waist, your head tucked under his chin with your cheek pressed to his chest. You drift back to sleep to his quiet, blissful snores, his heartbeat pulsing in time with your own.

📚 table of contents 📚

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#muerta's works #zuko #two halves #zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko x you #prince zuko fanfic #zuko fanfic #zuko fanfiction #prince zuko fanfiction #atla fanfiction #atla fanfic #self-insert #self insert #self insert fic #self insert fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction series #slow burn

[muthaz-rapapa]

Let’s talk TroPreCure! (^∀^ 🌺)

i’m so stupidly proud of this dumb pun “tropurikyua~”, hahahahaha

Last post of the year and wow is there are lot to be excited for!

I even had to make a list for the stuff I want to talk about and I’m sure I already forgot one or two things but we’ll get to them as we continue to float~ along the wave to February 28th, mmkay? :)

Now for what has peaked my interest so far. And yes, we have to talk about the following first:

1) HealPre the shortest Precure season??

Unless they plan for double features in February (which I doubt but you never know), HealPre is likely going to reach only 45 episodes long instead of the usual 48~50 before TroPre I’m using this shortening of the title for now so if there’s a better alternative, tell me and I’ll switch out begins its broadcast.

Understandable because the producers probably want to get back to their normal scheduling as soon as possible (toy sales, y’know) and I suspect pushing the start of the new season back by a month is the most they’re willing to compromise.

As for me, I’m quite happy about this since HealPre’s lost its hold on my attention a while ago so the sooner TroPre gets here, the better. Though the downside might be a scrambled climax and a rushed, underwhelming ending for HealPre (I dunno if it’s January’s titles that feel a bit messy or if the hiatus is still throwing me off) but whatever. We’ll refresh ourselves with the new blood Cures so it’s all good.

2) Tropical movie announced for Autumn 2021, no All Stars??

(source)

First saw this mentioned on Youtube somewhere but it’s all over the fandom forums by now. I mean, HealPre’s movie is set for March, the usual time slot for All Stars release. If Toei intended for there to be an All Stars in 2021, there’s no way they would announce the seasonal movie before it so speculations of them skipping it this year are probably true.

To squeeze it somewhere between March and October-ish would force them to readjust their budgets as well and I don’t think even Toei wants to go through that extra hassle after all the trouble the pandemic’s caused for everyone already. It’s just easier to resume All Stars in 2022.

That, and I think Laura being a major character in TroPre despite not having a Cure title (yet) would make for an awkward situation when the three latest teams gather so perhaps that’s also one of the reasons. But I’ll get back to Laura in a bit.

3) Cure Summer is a RAINBOW Cure

So god help me if I see anyone calling her a Pink Cure.

Yes, she’s the lead Cure for this season. NO, she is not a Pink Cure.

Look, even the official website has a rainbow overlay for her profile pic and text font while everyone else’s respective theme colors are a solid hue:

Therefore, RAINBOW.

In promotional material and merchandising, they’re probably going to advertise her primarily with pink bah and at worst, she might occasionally be labeled as a White Cure with multiple subcolors (her outfit is not pink-dominant) but definitely NOT. PINK.

...also, this goes without saying but f***yea, we finally got a lead Cure practically and unabashedly wearing the LGBTQ flag and you cannot tell me otherwise, Toei!

Own up to it! Declare Manatsu/Cure Summer as the Precure queer icon!

I’m not gonna stop yellin’ until you do! 😠

4) Laura = obvious midseason Cure is obvious

First of all, Laura is a babe. I already love her the best and she’s not even Precure yet. <3

Anyways, the set-up is pretty much in the description. Important main character who’s not a mascot, stated to have a self-confident personality and just speaks her mind (oooh, I like~ :D), magical/foreign being from another world looking for Precure to save her home, possesses her own special item(s), has aspirations to become the next Queen (so she’s a princess-candidate or something to that effect, I suppose).

We’ve seen various combinations of these traits in past midseason (and a few starter) Cures so nobody should be surprised when we all guessed that one of the Cures would be a real live mermaid.

The only question is why not just make Laura a Cure from the get-go if she’s introduced to us at the beginning (like Hime or Lala) and having a team of five with no unnecessary extra add-ons later on (like Smile).

Well, there’s a simple answer for that: formula.

Toei is afraid that if they don’t spit out some new animation sequence at the halfway and third quarter points of the show, the kids will lose interest and abandon the series altogether. Which means failed toy sales. Oh nooo... [/sarcasm]

...Yea. 

And this way they can also have Laura available in the Cure lineup for the next All Stars in 2022 instead of making her sit the fight out if we were going to have one in 2021. I’m convinced that’s gotta be one of the reasons. *shrug*

But ok, whatever. Her debut is gonna be later, that’s all. She’s a delayed Cure.  Midseason Cure, same difference.

Moving along to the more important stuff now like what’s her Cure name gonna be, y/y?

Well, knowing Toei, a translation of the term “mermaid” into another language is the most predictable route even though we already have a Cure Mermaid. Not like that ever stopped them from repeating words before (ex. Cure Happy vs Cure Felice). Though if they do go down that road, I hope they opt for the Spanish/Italian “sirena” and not the French “sirène” because the latter sounds too close to how Cure Selene is pronounced in Japanese. And, putting it nicely, we all know Japanese pronunciation of foreign words is as off kilter as can be.

Hell, even the the Portuguese “sereia” sounds aesthetic as hell so it’d be nice if they can just remember there are other languages that exist out there besides Japanese, English and French when making the final decision at the writing table! *stomps foot* >:/

Alternatively, “nereid” or “naiad” are good choices too but they remind me too much of Greek myths and Laura’s from the Grand Ocean which covers more than just a couple of seas (Greece is surrounded by three, btw) so...

I dunno. But whatever it’s gonna be, she’s definitely got a strong association with water and her powers will probably be based on that.

As for theme color, since there’s noticeably no blue or green Cure in the starter lineup, it’s likely she will take up that spot when she debuts around ep 20.

Pink is also open since Cure Summer, again, is technically not a Pink Cure and Laura’s hair and tail fin are hot and light pink respectively but looking at Laura’s design and concept, does anyone seriously believe that?

Her upper torso consists of aquamarine while the body of her tail is definitely some shade of cyan, implying they’re aiming for somewhere around the middle of green and blue on the lighter spectrum.

And yea, I’m aware that green and blue are considered exchangeable in some perspectives with how close some of their shades are to each other but officially, I think Laura’s gonna be grouped with the Green Cures.

Cuz of the hair. If Laura’s gonna keep it the same or a similar shade after transforming, that is. The Blues have always had cool-colored hair so putting Laura in with them might disrupt that harmony whereas if you put her with the few Greens there are (including Parfait), she’d fit right in.

I mean, we’ll see but that makes the most sense, doesn’t it?

On another note, I just want to say that I love how they added frills to her arms instead of letting her elbows go bare naked. It definitely makes her look more like a genuine mermaid than if she didn’t have them (remember, half fish doesn’t mean half the body :P).

5) Magical Items

Frankly, I’m tired of seeing the transformation device being a compact again even though one of the main motifs is make-up this season. But at least, as far as Precure compacts goes, the Tropical one is my favorite cuz of how cute and delightfully colorful its toy version looks! So I guess I’m okay with it.

The Heart Rouge Rod, though? ...I dunno. I think it would’ve been fine without that...straw (?) jutting out at the top. It looks weird, doesn’t it look weird? :S

As for the collectible clip-ons, I can live without those for the rest of my life. Yeesh.

Laura’s items, the Aqua Pot and the Ocean Prism Mirror.

Again with the portable, travel-size housing. *sigh* 😩

Alright, I can let this year slide cuz Laura (I’m so soft for her, omg) probably won’t be getting legs for 20 weeks so she’s got to move about on land somehow. But unless they’re really thinking about turning this idea of carrying your apartment around in your bag/pocket/purse into a reality (cuz that would be effin’ awesome), please be more creative with your toys.

On the other hand, I’m much more interested in the Ocean Prism Mirror but from what Kusyami (the Precure merchandise reviews I follow on Youtube) said in his latest vid, this is the ED dance item so don’t know if it’ll actually have an relevance to the story or not. But I did hear him mention it having something to do with the Queen as well and since Laura wishes to become Queen, maybe it’ll be important after all? Maybe it’s her transformation device?

That’d be super cool. Let’s continue the trend of the midseason Cure having a different transformation item than the starters. Honestly, we should alternate every other year or two but we’ve gone three seasons with all of them using the same henshin gimmicks up till HealPre and I just want a break from that.

6) Fin sleeves??

These look so impractical for combat so maybe it’s exclusive to group attacks.

And/or a sort of precursor to the super forms?

*GASP* Does that mean they all eventually turn into mermaids? 🤩

7) Yui finally became Precure!! 😭

lol, it’s all crack from this point on so don’t take it too seriously but man, after Yuni’s deceptive braids, I thought I wasn’t gonna see anything that reminded me of Yui for a while and lo behold, Sango.

kehehehehehe xD;

Though Yui might be closer to Minori in terms of personal interests (fairytales and storybooks).

8) Akira, the actual Onee-chan version

I didn’t think this when I first saw her but once I read “Onee-san” in her profile, there’s no saving you now. Sorry, Asuka. 😅

Also, damn, do her sandals make her feet look big! Compare them to the heels she wears as Flamingo. Are they even the same?! lololol

9) ...this sounds awfully familiar...

Translation:

Tokimeku Tokonatsu! [Exciting/Thrilling Everlasting Summer!] Cure Summer! Kirameku Hoseki! [Sparkling Jewel!] Cure Coral!  Hirameku Fuurutsu! [Flashing Fruit!] Cure Papaya!

Japanese reiteration:

Mallow/Mao: Pink no tokimeki! Lillie: Blue no kirameki! Lana/Suiren: Yellow no kagayaki!

….........

@Toei 

Care to explain yourselves, punks?! 

୧(ʘ ∀ ʘ ╬)

#it is 1:30 AM and im hungry and still have to do work on new year's eve so i'll come back to amuse-rage later #tropical rouge! precure #precure 2021 #cure summer #cure coral #cure papaya #cure flamingo #laura la mer

[ratingtheframe]

Everything Wrong With… Ep 2 - The Devil Wears Prada

Welcome back to Everything Wrong With...the series where dive head first into some of the seemingly okay-ish films and analyse why in fact they do more harm than good in providing us with satiable entertainment. Follow me on instagram @ratingtheframe for more movie related content and without further ado, let's get into this chick flick and see how far we’ve come since 2006.

If you aren’t aware, The Devil Wears Prada is a 2006 “chick flick” originally written as a book by Lauren Weisenburger. I remember seeing The Devil Wears Prada as one of those grown up lady films, for mature women on tampon adverts who had wine on Thursday evenings from M&S and wore heels practically everywhere. My perception of this film and the audience it caters towards has changed dramatically after watching it and it kills me inside to imagine the popularity and praise such a film got back in 2006, an extremely harsh time for women and the perception of beauty standards. 

The world was still getting into the internet, magazines and runways were adjusting to the 2000s and the way that women were viewed in the media was a lot more damaging than today. Former supermodels such as Kate Moss and Cara Delevingne have since come out and talked about their experiences in the modelling industry and how it creates unhealthy stereotypes for women and young girls to abide by. The ‘size 0’ and ‘heroin chic look’ has since been banished from the modelling industry, two expectations that were pretty popular in the late and early 2000s for models. We are witnessing a revolution for the modelling industry as they (very) slowly but surely are beginning to introduce more plus sized, diverse and unfiltered faces for their campaigns. We can breathe easier knowing that the only way is forward for the fashion industry and that very little people will stand for the mid 2000s ideologies that were pumped out to the entire world.

Back to 2006 and one of the year’s most popular films with female audiences; The Devil Wears Prada, starring the likes of Anne Hathaway, Meryl Streep and Emily Blunt. The film follows Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) , a wannabe journalist newly welcomed into New York City and is currently on the hunt for her career. She manages to land a job at Runway Magazine, a large, corporate editorial magazine for women’s fashion run by the one and only Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep), a devious, beautiful and highly successful media personality and editor.

So far so good as we have two tangible and likeable female leads. The opening sequence (one of the most important in any film) had me eye rolling a touch in the way it depicted women of the 2000s and seemingly created the idea that there are two sides to women. 

The five or so minute montage consisted of the various women who are models at Runway, getting ready for their long day of work, right from being undressed to fully made up. This was supposed to be a contrast to how our lead Andy gets ready, barely throwing on any makeup and throwing on whatever she wants whilst heading out the door. When you put the way women choose to be perceived in the world at an opposition, you create this divide between women and further place their worth on how they choose to look. The stereotype of a ‘pick me girl’ arises from this opposition, a girl who actively shames other women for choosing to be more openly feminine in their appearance and actions. The intelligence and respect of women should not be based on how they look when they show up, rather how they BEHAVE when they show up. I just thought this montage was a little unnecessary and if anything, introduced us into a misogynistic world of 2006 really well. One point for accuracy, no points for progression. Everyone gets dressed in the morning and (often) everyone wears underwear, showing this activity on screen didn’t really add much to the film besides the pressures of women to look a certain way. 

Once Andy arrives at the company, she is rudely introduced by Emily (Emily Blunt) Miranda’s current right hand. Now the entire character of Emily is again, another concept to this film that is left better in the 2000s; a mean girl and a VERY mean one at that. This world is already a patriarchal mess for women like Andy and Emily and having women join the bandwagon in showing an oppressive side to those who don’t conform to the female societal norms is non progressive. It was almost as if Emily was an investor into the patriarchy by behaving abhorrently towards her from the way she dressed as opposed to her actual character and qualifications. Please, let's not have women against women based on their desirability in the eyes of the male gaze. Emily has already become a clear victim to her own policies, as her lack of eating is laid bare to us as an entertaining gimmick as opposed to a cause of concern. Last time I checked making fun of eating disorders wasn’t chic. 

Now the argument whether Miranda Priestly is also an investor in the patriarchy is a little clouded. Through her mean spirit and harsh words towards Andy and her appearance, she comes across as someone who is doing more harm than good by joining the patriarchal view of women in the 2000s. I found myself having to bite my tongue a little instead of calling her bitch because that would be letting my internalized misogyny get the best of me. 

Even though Miranda is tough talking and spiteful, I really can’t blame her for it as a character. She is one of the strongest female characters I’ve come across on screen for both her strengths and flaws. Had such a character been placed in a Roman Army or Italian Mob, my views of her would have stayed the same. She is a strong woman with enough versatility and strength to face any situation. The way she asserts her authority in a funny and patronizing way is hard not to fall in love with and any woman who asserts their authority and relishes in their own power is already technically against the patriarchy. Her industry may be patriarchal, however her spirit is not and the things she does in order to keep her status is admirable. I found myself comparing her to the way a man maneuvers the world (again, internalised misogyny, working on it) which in some parts is the reason there should be more Miranda Priestly's in films. Instead of comparing strong women to men, with more strong female leads we’ll start comparing these women to other women. 

Thank god for the zilch, overly graphic sex scenes in this film (maybe cuz the screenplay was written by a woman, but who knows-), however their is one character I’d like to address that rubbed me the wrong way and spoke for a big hole in the modelling/fashion industry that still exists today. Christian Thompson (Simon Baker) is this handsome, 40 summit journalist who meets Andy at a social event for a fashion designer. I admit he was charming in his demeanour but also overtly creepy at points. Andy and Christian bump into each other in Paris where he leads her down a street (his hand on THAT part of the elbow) and kisses Andy without consent, knowing she has a boyfriend. “Oh, it's just a movie” you’re probably thinking, but yet I couldn’t help but cringe at such a thing. Movies are a reflection of our society after all. He kisses her several more times until Andy gives in. If we’re trying to get films to reach audiences and affect them in some way, encouraging consent should be one of those things. Depicting such a madness on screen makes my rolls right to the back of my head and speaks for the entire society behind the modelling and fashion industry; a society run by men who can do what they like with or without consent. Though the wellbeing of Andy wasn’t in imminent danger, I felt Christian Thompson as a character to be a representation of those in the fashion industry who take advantage of women because of their status and so called connections. No more of this please!

Andy has a transformation a little later into the film, a concept that we thought had been left in the patriarchy trash can, but quickly emerged in Debby Ryan’s Insatiable (2018). Lasting only 2 seasons from 2018-19, the Netflix series followed Patty Bladell who gets afforded niceties and respect after she loses weight and becomes a “hot girl”. The show was created by Lauren Guissis based on an article about a (male) Pageant Guru who tells women how they can become pageant queens for a small fee...EW. The fact that such a show got picked up in a day and age that was beginning to open up to body positivity and more inclusivity in the media, the show was insensitive to its current surroundings. 

This same “ugly duckling” transformation isn’t something new or old apparently, with the one in The Devil Wears Prada being one of the least progressive moments of the film. Now that Andy looked like she could work at Runway, somehow she was working a lot better at Runway and was being afforded privileges she didn’t get before her new haircut. Is this the message we want to send out to the world anymore? That in order to get a one up in life, all you need is new clothes and better make up skills? Of course, glo ups can be fun but the purest, healthiest form of a glow up comes from within.

A tiring cliché that “beauty comes from within” but one that makes a lot of sense and something I experienced in my mid teens. Having never experienced male validity or the feeling of desirability, once I began to believe I was beautiful on the outside, others began to notice, because they could read the confidence and self worth I had from my outward energy. An energy that can’t be felt beyond a face tuned Instagram picture. Beauty can be an energy as well as a look and had Andy embraced this more and rejected the passing comments people made at her, it would have taught us that one doesn’t have to conform in order to be respected. On the other hand, I don’t want to shame nor blame her as conforming to societal standards as for most women ,it’s an act of survival, to secure their places in certain spaces, with Andy being no expectation. A sad reality that a woman may have to wear makeup in order to stay in people’s good books, but a choice that should be discussed as opposed to shamed. 

I truly could go on and on about the harmful stereotypes and implications of The Devil Wears Prada and it's sad, yet true similarities to the real fashion industry of today and the mid 2000s. It was and still is cut throat, with many models developing eating disorders, low self esteem issues and even substance abuse due to the mounting pressures of trying to reach perfection. A perfection that doesn’t exist seeing as the fashion and modelling industry alters their version of perfection every single day. I’m glad that by the end of the film Andy ditched Runway in favour of living a more healthy and truthful lifestyle, one that wasn’t swapped in ridiculous pressures and the threat to conform or else leave. Which she did in the end. Miranda isn’t a devil, but a force to be reckoned with in a world that is ready to make her feel lesser than herself because of her gender. I hope to never see such a film like The Devil Wears Prada, ever again, in a world that no longer needs this sort of film to represent the strengths of women. It's best left in 2006 and hopefully you’ve learnt something you’ve never thought about from this in depth analysis. 

#the devil wears prada #meryl streep #anne hathaway #emily blunt #2000s movies #fashion #fashionindustry #badmovies #cinema #feminisim #everyday feminism