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cherry-titz · 6 months

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Hi friends! @1800titz here. This is my contribution to the collaboration, and I’d like to start off by saying that I am so, so, so beyond excited to work with the immensely talented @cherryjuiceblues!! Thank you for working with me Soph :’)

We have loads of goodies planned, and we’d like to kick things off with Mr. Hitchhikerry. (Sidenote: he’s a little late to the party, this WAS supposed to be a spooky piece for Halloween but SHDJDJCJDJD don’t worry about it. Life got in the way a bit, but he’s finally HERE so WOOOO). A little idea based on this reddit post. This one has great big warnings. DARK HARRY. VERY DARK HARRY. With a piece like this, I want to really emphasize: this is purely for entertainment purposes, and there is 0 correlation intended to the real Harry Styles <3 just a spooky faceclaim.

With that disclaimer out of the way, here’s some content warnings: dom/sub themes, choking, (light) spanking, degradation (and praise!) ((some good ol’ LET’S PLAY SIMON SAYS)). THE WOOF WOOF is for humiliation purposes only <3 GREAT BIG WARNING FOR A DISTURBING CONFESSION OF INTENT TO HARM.

Also, I writhe in my seat as I write, wanting to put in lengthy context of prediscussion and safewords and aftercare and everything important I always talk about, BUT. You’ll see. He’s an …interesting character and I tried to keep hitchhikerry true to himself.

PLEASE DON’T HOOK UP WITH STRANGE MEN YOU PICK UP ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. PLEASE DON’T PICK UP STRANGE MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. Enjoy ٩(◕‿◕)۶ (WC is 11K)

She doesn’t do hitchhikers.

Not figuratively, not literally.

Y/N was raised outside of the scope of the seventies, post-Bundy and his hitchhiking antics, and since the evolution of serial-killer lore, she’s never been fond of a stranger hopping into her passenger seat and then cutting her up into itsy-bitsy parts to hang around his back garden like string-lights, or something. An ear there, a palm with crooked fingers there. Morbid stuff.

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, but she doesn’t think about that, hurtling down some back-country road, a poorly lit vale through a field of tall, boundless grass. It’s not the first thought budding behind her skull when she sees his silhouette through the shone of her pearly brights — a blip by the line of tall shrubbery — even a good distance away. And from her distance, he’s just a little blip in a cream, hoodless sweatshirt, feet planted into a bed of patchy grass. Her first sane thought, as she squints through her windshield, has to do with why someone would be out on this road, at this time of night, with no feasible form of transportation, and how. As her Honda nears and passes some fork off, a dirt bend of clearing into the winding field of nature, the man’s hitchhiking, signature thumb morphs into a wave of his arms, and his foot steps out, toying at the edge of the road. It doesn’t quite breach the threshold, but her speedometer decreases enough for her to catch baggy denim, distressed at the knees, and a slow wave of his arms, raised. He doesn’t launch at her car, forlorn, as she passes — thank Christ. But even then, his frame swishes by, out of sight, coated by darkness. She casts her gaze to the rear-view, and the image of him scrubbing over his face with an exasperated palm shrinks in size the further she gets.

The young woman gets about a hundred feet before she nudges the break with her foot to a halt, sighing as the car settles with a subtle lurch. She makes another glance to the rear-view. Now, she can’t see him, not in the shroud of night, but she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and then twists the wheel until the car curves. A tire slips off onto gravel and grass with the U-turn, but she steers herself back onto the road and drives into the same direction she’s just come from.

He looks surprised to see her reverse, form pivoted toward the same headlights that’d just passed him with a crease over his brow bone. Y/N slows and breaks as she nears, absent-mindedly pressing a fingertip over the lock button on her door. TV Girl is still playing quietly from her car speakers when she cracks the window, stopped beside him across the road, and beckons with her chin raised just enough for her cadence to seep through the opening, “Do you need help?”

“Yes, yeah, I—“ the man makes a quick glance towards the side of the road where vehicles would be incoming, a sharp turn of his chin, and then a step towards her parted window as Y/N twists over the volume toggle. “I just— my car broke down,” he raises an arm and points towards the dirt clearing that slips into the field, “I was coming this way, and my phone’s died—“

He pauses, shaking his head down at his converse, his voice a baritone croon with charming, foreign dialect, “I know this is so odd, and you probably don’t want a stranger in your car. But f’you could just order an uber or something, I could give you the cash for it?” the girl watches his ring-clad palm disappear into the front pocket of his denim hastily, only to retrieve a wallet, “—If that’s alright?”

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers.

And still, her pupils rove over the charming stranger, trailing from his soft dark curls, swiping over his lashes as his head ducks, down the slope of his nose, to the cushiony pink of his lips. Irises graze down his neck and catch a white tee under the collar of his cream pull-over, and they brush down his denim, to his battered, white converse. The young woman watches his hand stretch out, cautiously, a wad of neatly folded cash cupped by pads of fingers with short, yellow-lacquered nails.

“No, don’t— …I can give you a ride,” Y/N tells him, her tone soft as her gaze wanders over his frame.

A downward shift plucks at the corner of his plush mouth and his jaw flexes, a hesitant look shaping over his features, “It’s— I couldn’t— s’like a thirty minute drive, and I don’t wanna take you out of the way…”

His large hand is still stretched out toward her, and she admires the cross inked over the back of his hand, on the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Her brows pinch together, and the window whirs as the glass partition sinks. The girl raises her hand and points back with her thumb.

“Are you going in that direction?”

Wordlessly, the attractive stranger nods — a single dip of his chin.

“I’m going that way, too. I can give you a lift.”

Another look of hesitancy flits over the curly-haired stranger’s face, a soft, dubious touch to his facial features. He purses his strawberry mouth.

“If you’re sure.”

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers.

And still, she slips her hand over the unlock button, and the doors click to signal unshuttering as the man culls his wallet and stuffs the cash back in, sticking that back into his jeans. She watches him wind around her car, his gait trailing behind, and her eyes follow his side profile, bathed in the red of the brake lights, through the rear-view. The passenger door slips open. She rolls her window the rest of the way up.

“Thank you,” the man tells her in his low baritone, raking fingers through his curls as he slides into the seat beside her and shuts the door.

He smells heady and fresh — expensive. But it’s not overpowering, by any means. A blend of tantalizing notes; cologne blotted in increments that mesh well with his natural musk. The pleasant scent is the first thing she notices when he climbs into her vehicle. The second is the sculpt of his side profile — lengthy lashes over the crest of his cheekbones, his nose, a plush, pink mouth, a stray curl splayed over his forehead. He’s a little older than her, at least by a handful of years; there’s this innate, aged quality to him, and she can witness it in the shape of his features, in the soft dusting of stubble over his jawline. Y/N catches glimpses of his side profile discretely as the music track shifts, eyeing the bob of his Adam's apple as he cranes his neck back against the headrest. The screen over the center console reads 1:02 AM.

“Long night?”

It’s a shit attempt at small talk, but the young woman turns the wheel in her palms, hopeful that the man is interested in something more than an awkward silence, sparsely filled with the mellow keys of electronic-indie leaking from the speakers. She heard him expel a breath more than she sees it in her peripherals, and as the car embarks on another U-turn, he tells her, with laughter suffusing his cadence, “Yeah. Yeah, s’been a long night.”

She does make out that he pivots a bit towards her, and his tone is earnest when he says, “But it’d be a little longer without you, I think. Thank you, again. Feels like I can’t say it enough.”

Her mouth quirks softly. The young woman keeps a haphazard left hand on the wheel, vision bouncing from the poorly illuminated road ahead and the phone in the cupholder. The LED display lights alive as she swipes her thumb over the lockscreen and toggles onto the maps app, cueing him by nudging the electronic in his direction.

“Um. If you could just type in the directions— I’m sort of shit in these parts, to be honest.”

She casts a brief gaze toward him and sees a soft divot pinch into his cheek as the corners of his mouth crook up. His fingertips, warm and rough — calloused — brush over the back of her hand with the handoff, and then his thumbs are working over the screen before an address and a winding blue line of directions with an eta of thirty-four minutes teems the screen.

“Hi, by the way,” the man says in his honey-smooth cadence, “My name’s Harry.”

“Hi,” Y/N grins, shooting a bashful glance into the attractive stranger — Harry’s — direction, before fixing her irises up ahead. “I’m Y/N.”

“Y/N,” the man parrots — God. She could listen to him drone on about the most monotonous topics in that voice. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses that same timbre again to say, “S’a pretty name.” And she has to ignore the flurry of butterflies that swarm her innards at the entirely innocuous compliment and the heat that suffuses her cheeks. “Are you from around here?”

“Ish. Sort of,” she slows at a curve through the field. Her brows pinch, “I mean, I’ve lived here for a bit now, but I moved from Oregon.”

“Oregon? That’s sick. Any particular motive?”

Y/N lifts a subtle shoulder, because there isn’t. She pauses before she answers. “Dunno. Just needed a change of scenery.”

Harry twists the ring over his pinky and nods down at the motion, lips pursed with intrigue, “Adventurous.”

The young woman’s mouth crooks, because he’s, evidently, from the opposite hemisphere.

“That’s admirable,” the man motions with his chin.

Her mouth is still smiley when she rounds another curve, in the opposite direction, and mirrors his dialogue, “What about you? Any motive?”

“My motive?” his inflection is cheeky and playful, “You don’t think I’m a native?”

The girl makes a wry sound of amusement; an obvious inclination of disagreement. The handsome man grins, all raspberry-tinted lips and friendly teeth. “Just …visited, and never wanted to leave,” he declares with little expansion on the topic. Simple, short, sufficing.

There’s a little moment of lull between them when she straightens the car out and the track slips into the chorus.

Harry shifts in the passenger seat and asks, in that same deep timbre she could sink into and drown in, “Where are you headed from?”

Where is she headed from? Y/N blinks at the road ahead, digits flexing over the steering wheel. Truth be told, it’s a late hour to be out and about, especially in this deserted neck of the woods. Every cozy little farmhouse in these plains, distant beyond the fields of grass, has lights off. No other car passes.

“I was on a …date,” the young woman tells him.

Harry nods and swivels in his seat to face her a bit. “Good date?”

Y/N pauses, the fragments of the story rolling around behind her skull. And truth be told, …it wasn’t a very good date. But it wasn’t a date to begin with. In all honesty, she’s not about to tell this attractive stranger that she’d driven forty minutes for a routine hook-up with an old tinder match, only to be stood up outside his door.

He was a character whose path happened to cross with hers for purely carnal purposes, and their flings were like rolls through seasons, rendezvous blotted into her timeline where either had a smidge to make room. She’s not going to talk about that. It’s piteous, basically. The young woman doesn’t risk side-eyeing him. This man seems like he’s well off in that department, and she doesn’t want to discuss her shit intimate life and the way that Cody decided, last minute, that he was more interested in going out for miller lites with his buddies than entertaining the idea of sleeping with her.

He didn’t even have that impressive of dick game anyways — that’s the brutal candor. It wasn’t that he had this particular lack of satisfaction guarantee, but the sex was okay. It didn’t tick all the boxes or leave her fulfilled, not in the real sense, but it was sex, and it was decent. Maybe the most brutal part is the way she’d driven all the way to see him, even knowing that the sex wasn’t going to be top notch.

Apparently, her silence stretches too long, and the pause gives away the answer she mulls tactics over hiding.

“Bad date,” the girl hears from beside her — it’s in this thoughtful sort of way, like Harry’s slotting puzzle pieces together in the lull.

Y/N shifts her fingers over the wheel, the sound of skin sliding over leather meshing with the starting notes of a Cage the Elephant track. Her thumb toggles over a button on the wheel. She skips it.

“No,” the girl responds, eventually, but she doesn’t even sound fully convincing to her own ears. There’s this high note to her cadence, and she hears it in her own waver of honesty. She wants to cringe up, a little, at the sound. “Not …bad. Just. Well, you know. What about you?”

For the first time since she’d gotten back onto the road, Y/N casts her gaze to him. A glimpse, a twist of her chin, enough to take in his side-profile for a smidge of a second, more in a way to incite switching the topic and pivoting the point of conversation than the inconspicuous stare she’d made appreciating his features. The corner of his plush mouth curves up, and he makes a little sound; a puff of air through his nostrils like he’s bridling mirth.

“Was my date bad?” Harry says, in this playful sort of way. Like he’s teasing her.

“No— your— whatever you—”

Y/N huffs. She rolls her shoulders back against the seat, a heat teeming over her cheeks. Why was she so nervous? Why did he make her so nervous? Harry makes another sound of amusement, the cushion of his lips unsealing to display straight white teeth.

“I was at a friend’s,” Harry expands, opting to stop drawing out the teasing, enough for Y/N’s shoulders (that’d grown rigid) to relax a little against the seat. “Was actually having a good night, believe it or not. And then, you know.”

Unfortunately, she does know. He’s sitting in her car, after all.

“Do you know what went wrong with it?” she ponders.

“Well,” Harry the pads of his fingers over the door, and it takes every fiber in her not to sneak a glance at the motion, not to admire the yellow polish, washed with darkness, dim in the car, “the check engine light was on for a bit, to be honest. But— no,” the man pauses with a little simper, shooting her a glance, “Cars aren’t my specialty.”

They talk about loads of things — she learns all about his friends and the sort of outing they’d had (game night it’d been, Uno, and he’d beckoned her opinion on a debate that’d arisen — whether a draw four could be stacked onto a draw two). That had spawned another conversation on card games —

(“Is it like Go Fish, then?”

“No,” she snorts, “not at all.”

“Not at all?”

“There’s a board and it’s— more complicated.”

“There’s a board,” Harry parrots, shifting with his elbow brace on the center console like an armrest, “And it’s just, like. Cards, like, in a deck of cards?”

“You’ve never played cribbage?” Y/N repeats in disbelief.)

She learns about his job, and his cat, and his collection of vintage vinyls. He’s amiable, and he answers every question she directs his way with this smooth sort of charm. He’s easy to talk to, and the span of the drive cuts shorter and shorter through intriguing conversation. But she leads the way for the majority of the inquiries.

It’s not until they’re at the halfway mark before he asks his own, rather than redirecting one of hers.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry drums his fingertips over the plush of his mouth, and Y/N struggles to fix her eyes back onto the road once she’s spared him a glance.

It takes her a second to hum out an agreement, too.

“It was a bad date, wasn’t it?”

The girl expels a breath and drums her fingers over the wheel, casting her gaze onto the screen of directions.

“It wasn’t even a date,” she confesses, “he was like—“ she blinks, lashes fluttering as exasperation at the reminder leaks through, “A tinder hook up, and we didn’t even end up hooking up.”

Before he can interject, Y/N tacks on, begrudged, “He wanted to hit the bars with his posse of Mag-con wannabes, instead.”

And then there’s this sort of pause that has Y/N thinking that maybe she’s overshared. The man with the sun-polished nails isn’t an old friend she’s having a gab with, catching up on the phone — he’s a stray man she’s plucked up off some deserted road, and if he judged her for her choices, it’d kind of be justified. Namely, the one where she’d driven out in the middle of the night for impromptu cock.

And anyways, this all feels a bit surreal — the beginnings of a therapy session with a stranger who’d hopped into her sedan for a lift, filling the void of a psychologist in a great, big leather armchair.

Except Harry sounds earnestly disbelieving when he says, “You’re kidding.”

She purses her mouth and readjusts her fingers over the steering wheel. “He sort of …canceled when I was already at his door? Forgot to text me that the plans changed. That’s what he said.”

“What a dickhead.”

“Mm,” Y/N hums.

“He’s a moron for passing up the opportunity,” Harry tells her. It’s not in an awkward way, or anything creepy, either. He’s got this air to him, she finds — an ability to make a comment like with effortless delivery of charm. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, only risking her a brief glance that she catches in her peripherals. She still side-eyes him from her seat in surprise, the edges of her mouth curling up bashfully.

“M’serious,” Harry says, dimples pinching into place beside the upturned-curl of his plush mouth.

And the thing is, Harry is so friendly. He’s kind, and interesting, and despite the way Y/N had assumed allowing for his presence in her car would be the world’s greatest chore, she’s pleased to be in his company.

That’s why she lifts a wry shoulder and tells him, “The sex was bad anyways.”

The man’s face pivots to face her, then. “Yeah?” he coaxes for expansion in his molasses-slow croon of a timbre.

“It was just a little boring.”

“Boring?”

“Not— maybe not boring. Just, you know. There was nothing…” Y/N drums digits over the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”

The man beside her clears his throat.

“Was he a missionary in the dark type of bloke, then?”

“Yes,” she responds, almost instantly. Because missionary in the dark is, perhaps, the best way to describe Cody’s sexual nature. Down to the T, practically. She can’t fathom how many times she’d lay there, hoping he’d switch up into something different, something where his hands weren’t resting shallowly on the bed sheets beside her shoulders, something where his face wasn’t tucked into the crook of her neck, his mouth biting back everything but soft hisses of air as his hips rocked at an mediocrely slow pace.

Harry’s mouth quirks.

“But not even that, it’s like. He wasn’t bad at foreplay, or anything. It wasn’t the best. But, you know. It was all sort of… plain.”

The young woman pauses before she continues with an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug, “And there’s nothing wrong with plain. It gets the job done, and, you know. That’s what some people like.”

There’s a shift in energy, from there. It’s subtle, but Y/N can feel it, and she wonders whether the morph is a one-sided experience. It happens with the honesty of the context, with the way she swears jade winds over her figure from beside, with the rasp of his voice beckoning something playful.

“But that’s not what you like.”

Y/N takes a second to answer. “No.”

“What do you like?”

Maybe that phrase is where it hits her. Where she recognizes that the subtle shift in energy is not one-sided. Not by any means.

Y/N risks a haphazard glance into his direction.

“Not …that,” the girl laughs. It’s a nervous, giggly kind of sound, but it’s not because of him.

It’s different now, she thinks. He’d been so timid at first — all bashful gazes through lashes glimmering under the beam of headlights, hesitancy shaping his features. Friendly dialogue — alluring, but curt in anything beyond friendly. This is different. This is blunt and forward. This is his eyes raking over her, this is his tongue swiping out over the plush of his pink mouth, this is his dimples peeking as the corners edge up.

“What do you like?” Harry asks again, a note of flirty, lighthearted amusement to his smooth cadence.

Y/N sighs, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “I don’t know. Oh my God. Why are you interrogating me?”

Harry laughs. His brows rise, and he tips his chin down so the green sparkles at her. “You don’t know what you like?”

“I don’t know,” she huffs, good natured. And then she gives. “Something… rough. Something exciting. I don’t know, pull my hair, make it hurt a little. Don’t… lay there in the dark and…” her speech morphs into giggles, “Groan into my ear about how tight I am while I’m laying there like a dead fish.”

Y/N doesn’t know how she ends up pulled over in some deserted parking lot. She doesn’t know how her headlights end up off, how the stranger’s hands sew into her hair, how his lips mesh softly with hers, hungrily. Well. She does know, but she doesn’t care about the details in between. Because he’s hot, and he tastes of mint, and the tips of his fingers press into her scalp and tug a little when they brush through, when he slips a palm over the nape of her neck through the work of his cushiony mouth. It’s thrilling, and it’s sexy, and it’s dangerous, she thinks, but that thought becomes clouded and pushed back to the dells of her mind.

“Such a pretty little thing,” Harry murmurs when they disconnect, fingers splaying over her cheeks. Her heart hammers in her chest, and his irises trail after the motion of his thumb, bumpily dragging over the side of her lips, all the way to her cupid's bow. That same pad of his thumb pauses and tugs, drawing her bottom lip down to show the slightly parted seal of her teeth.

And then he’s taking his thumb away and nudging the tips of his index and middle finger, coaxing, “Open your mouth, open your mouth.”

The pads of his digits meet the tip of her tongue and prod in, brushing over her taste buds, until he’s tapping onto the center of the muscle and crooning, “Stick it out. Tongue out for me.”

A little hum escapes her, plucking at her vocal chords when she complies, only for him to trace further with his fingertips and nudge until he strokes the back. He holds them there and makes a little motion with his chin and a soft tut when her irises stay pinned on him, glazing with a sheen of watery protest at the depth of the intrusion.

“Ah— don’t you gag,” he tells her softly, every syllable of every word coated with these notes of dominance that almost seem …innate — like the headspace is a pair of shoes for him to slip into with ease.

It’s filthy, it’s so filthy — this stranger’s fingers in her mouth, this man she’s never seen a day in her life, a complete, nameless stranger, not even an hour prior, prodding into the warm wetness behind her lips. And her, following his aimless direction, just to please him. She doesn’t gag through the way his fingers crook, her tongue twitching and her throat bobbing, her sight growing blurry with the coating of sheen. It’s worth it, immensely, when Harry hisses out a soft curse and groans softly, his brows pinched.

It’s worth it when he takes his fingers away, and Y/N’s jaw is coated with her drool, when her tongue is still out, when Harry says, in this soft, strained voice, like it’s praise, “Christ, you’re a filthy thing.”

She finds that this impromptu rendezvous sort of gives her whiplash. She’s parked in some empty parking lot with her lights off, and an alluring stranger’s just untucked his fingers from her mouth. Maybe someone would deem this a new low — having a shag with some hitchhiker she’s scooped off the side of a back-country road. But he’s eyeing her like she’s prey, and he rolls from one action like pages flitting and flipping in a book, and every detail keeps her on her toes. She can’t keep up. Y/N pants wetly, like she’s not sure whether to slip her tongue back into her strawberry mouth, because she’s not.

Not until he swipes another thumb over the tip of the lax, twitching muscle and beckons, like he’s a little amused, “Aren’t you?”

Slowly, her tongue retreats, and that’s when his hand slips and cups over her throat, and that’s—

Her pulse thunders like it’s straining to beat out from below her skin, and Harry adjusts his grip, that same, wet thumb drawing short, slow lines over the point like he wants to test the race of her heart, like he wants to know that the pattern has skyrocketed since his palm has made homage over her windpipe. The man hums, pupils trailing and lingering slowly.

“Tell me—“ Y/N shifts in her seat, spine straightening out against the cushion, and something wracks down every individual knob when his blown gaze pins her the same way his palm pins over her neck, “Tell me you’re my filthy plaything.”

The press of his hand isn’t harsh by any extent, not until she parts her lips to answer — that’s when he nudges a little firmer. A little harder. He cocks his head at her in this condescending way — like her stifled sound of surprise entertains him, like the subtle, almost unnoticeable jolt of her eyelids, widening, pleases him. Judging by the slight quirk at the edges of Harry’s plush mouth, it does.

Her tummy coils with unanticipated desire. This feels almost scary. This feels like traipsing over a rope, like teetering over dangerous territory, and the sudden spike of adrenaline only has her thighs clenching together harder. Because this is sweet Harry, the friendly hitchhiker, in his cream sweater with his nice smile, and his charming dimples, and his loose, clean curls, with his warm palm cupped over her throat and the pad of his thumb digging into her pulse. He looks fucking hungry.

“I’m—“ her statement’s muzzled by the press of his hand, an increase in only a slight increment. It’s enough to wrest a garbled sound from the back of her throat. He tips his head.

“What’s that?”

“I’m your…” she pauses when he presses harder, again, and this time’s enough to have her feeling lightheaded, her bleary eyes wandering over his face and every muscle of her face battling the light flutter of her lashes. She thinks a dimple peeks from his cheek. Harry lets up.

Y/N siphons breaths like her lungs have been deprived for ages, and not just partly for the timespan of a short fifteen seconds. Still, his palm is glued over the front of her neck — just there. His thumb strokes over her pulse gently.

“I’m your …filthy plaything,” the young woman confesses in this pathetic little voice that’d have her ashamed in every other setting. But in this one, it doesn’t.

Arousal creeps through every fiber of being, instead, crawling through her arteries and settling into her veins like a twisted, dark goo. It thrums through her and sinks through to the trench of her tummy, frothing as chills teem down her back. He’s got this glint in his eye, like a dance around a bonfire in the deep of the night — but it’s just a stray street light that casts its shone as a spotlight when he ducks forward a tad, just enough for it to. When he tips forward, his gaze growing half-lidded, lower and lower the closer he gets, it feels like he starts to siphon every breath from her own mouth as his cushiony lips ghost over her cupid’s bow. Even for the smidge of the second it takes for their mouths to mesh again, it feels like the movement is in ultra slow motion.

The mold of their mouths together, this time, feels a lot less like she’s got her hands on the wheel — the first time had been almost testing, sweet — something soft that’d shifted into something headier, something firmer. This feels like something he guides, something he takes the clear lead in, from the pace of his hungry lips to the exploratory nudge of his tongue against the seam of her own mouth. Her fingers flex over the center console aimlessly, palm straying, and fingertips catching on a part of his cotton sweatshirt. They twist into the fabric softly when Harry’s tongue strokes over her own. A hand settles onto her thigh. It’s not her own.

“Get in the backseat,” he hums into her open mouth, squeezing over her flesh when she doesn’t immediately comply. He’s got this way of dulling her reflexes, crumbling the semblance of her mind to mush, and Y/N is convinced it has more to do with his touch than it has with the time of night, despite the way exhaustion wears at her tired muscles. “Get in the fuckin’ backseat.”

When her arms strays and she reaches for the door handle, though, he squeezes at her thigh again, and hums out a displeased note of disagreement. “Not like that.”

Bemused, Y/N shifts in her seat. A glint of something playful glows in the jade when Harry tells her, “You can find another way, can’t you, pet? Go on.”

Y/N sits in confused silence for all of three seconds before the man sits back a tad and cocks his head, irises flashing towards the backseat with a playful, little grin quirking at his lips. Like he’s suggesting.

It takes her longer than three seconds to clamber into the back from the driver’s seat, through the slot over the center console, but it satisfies Harry, evidently, judging by the way he palms over the globes of her backside through her stretchy mini-skirt. It’s not very graceful, and if she was less aroused she’d probably find it in her somewhere to be a bit embarrassed, but. She doesn’t. She wriggles over the cushion, instead, settling back.

Harry has smarter ideas. He toggles the gear on the side of the passenger seat and sets the whole top of it back, like a makeshift day-bed, and scoots into the back of the sedan through the opening. And there’s not much leg room — not for the two of them, not with the whole back of the seat splayed — and there’s not much room for their heads, either, but they manage to squeeze back, and he’s gripping onto her shoulders and twisting her on his own whim before the young woman has a chance to shift around, herself.

“Get—“ the way Harry manhandles her with a grip on her hips, (once he’s got her slumped, at least somewhat) — with ease, like he’s flipping a page in a book rather than rearranging her whole position in the cramped space of a sedan backseat — that lights something fiery in the pit of her belly. “Hands and knees, baby,” Harry tells her, grunting softly while her limbs scrabble over the pleather. He pulls her back into him, by the hips as she’s physically molded into it, parroting, quieter, “hands and knees.”

“Itsy bitsy skirt… so easy to just—” Harry hums, this sort of mischief to his cadence — and it becomes blatantly obvious, the reason for it, when his digits creep under, from behind, and his colossal palms hitch it up, “Oops.”

She’s wearing tights under it. They’re not the fleece-lined kind, despite the bite of chill in the air outside, but they are there, and Harry spans the pads of his fingers over the barrier like he doesn’t have plans to discard them the practical way.

He doesn’t. The man stripes a fingertip down her core, from behind, over the fabric and the faint hue of cheeky purple that peeks through, and makes this devious sound of mirth when her whole body twitches. And then he draws the same fingertip back up, in the same line, and nudges a bit.

“What am I gonna do with you?” Harry coos. The third, slow drag has her arching her hips back. “Hm? What am I gonna do?” He takes almost a thoughtful second, tongue peeking out to swipe out over the cushion of his pink bottom lip, before Harry splays his palms over her bum, “Pretty girl… pretty arse…”

And it’s so calm — he’s so calm, so casual, so nonchalant — Y/N doesn’t even sense it coming until he sighs, and then he’s digging the tips of his digits into the nylon, stretching it from her core, and just tearing. Casually. Nonchalantly. The sound of fabric ripping apart coaxes her jaw to slip open, and her pupils stick to the inside of the door, unblinking, as he just tears, and tears, and tears.

And she’s not even upset, is the thing. She’s not irritated that this stranger’s just torn the crotch of her tights apart — she can’t be, not when he hums devilishly and strokes over her core, a layer closer. Maybe that’s pitiful. Maybe that’s sad, that she’s so fucking horny that she doesn’t care that her tights have been split open with no prior discourse on the topic, but this direction of impulse — the way she’s not even able to try and guess his next move, it kindles something hot and hungry.

And if she ever has Cody to thank for anything, Y/N thinks maybe it’d be that he’d inspired her to shave and slip on a pair of decently attractive underthings.

“These are pretty, too,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the crotch of the thong, just over one side. The young woman gives this dreamy little sigh and arches back up into him further. “What d’you want, sweetheart? Want me to give some attention …here—“

Her spine jolts when he nudges the pad of his index right up against her clit, lightly, over the purple fabric, “Maybe? Is that it? Eager girl.”

He draws a featherlight circle over it, and then another, and another until her thighs are trembling. The tip of his digit taps. She nudges back, and he takes it away altogether. An amused sound slips from his mouth.

“Say please,” Harry demands.

Y/N jumps as his fingertips trail to her inner thigh, crooking and tickling in the line they draw.

“Please.”

Again, he makes a disapproving tut, and Y/N rolls her cheek onto on a forearm, tucked over the seat.

His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and his fingertips drift up and down the back of her thigh, drawing closer and closer where she needs him most with every lap. Each word is covered with notes of firm dominance. “Not like that. Like you mean it — like you’re pleading.”

Y/N mulls over the words, her heart thundering.

“How d’you beg?”

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but then when they do, she croons out, softer, more desperate, “Please.”

There’s a soft sound of a breath being expelled, the seat crinkling quietly as, she assumes, Harry sits back on his haunches, head ducked. Like it’s not good enough. Her tongue traces out over her lips and she beckons, “Please, please,” each plea prompting a spiral of unfamiliar humiliation — glazed with arousal — to unfurl.

“Please, please, please—“ each word emphasized with a rock back of her hips. And finally, he touches her.

His palm cradles a cheek, and he doesn’t sound even slightly impressed. Instead, his voice comes out exasperated when he tells her, “That’s not convincing. You’re desperate. You want something — you need it, you’re pleading.”

“Please— please—“

“Louder,” he scoffs, “Beg. Beg.”

“Please,” she tries, desperation creasing her voice strained on the syllable, and Harry drags fingertips, airy, across her inner thigh, from bottom to top. “Please, please, please—“

And finally, something clicks. Something slots together, at some point, when she ditches the inhibitions and her cadence starts to border on a delirious sort of desperation. Finally, something works.

“That’s better,” Harry says softly, swiping his thumb over her clit, “Much better.”

She doesn’t pick up on that, though, and she’s still begging, pleading, quietly. Quieter, quieter, quieter — the words growing more sparse the longer he spends time honing on her clit, the firmer his touch becomes.

“Good girl,” Harry coos, his fingertips latching up under the hem at the crotch of her panties, before he tugs, “Good girl. You ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you. S’that easy.”

He slips a thumb against her gushing entrance and drags it down, tracing careful shapes over the bud of nerves, before he tugs down on the hood and emphasizes on the new exposure by reigniting the touch with the thumb on his opposite hand. Two hand task — very dedicated.

“S’this all for me?” the man teases, pinching her clit, lightly, between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index. He sounds a little self-satisfied when he declares, quietly, “I’m flattered.”

Her lips part as a silent, breathy moan wrests from the back of her throat. It happens when the pad of his long middle digit prods at her entrance and nudges in. The thumb on his other hand sweeps, side to side, over where she’d most sensitive, and he stuffs into her further. And they are lengthy — his fingers. She’d seen them drumming over the center console, and smush over the raspberry tint of his lips, felt them coat her tongue, and felt them press against her throat. They can reach further than her own, crooking against her spongy walls, curling when he adds a second before straightening out and scissoring for the stretch.

“Christ, you’re gushing,” Harry says, and as if on cue, the pornographic squelch of his fingers working crowds the cramped space, “Jesus— d’you hear that?”

Y/N buries her face in her arms to muzzle the little sounds of bliss that he pries from her mouth. It’s not until he’s proper fucking into her with his digits, the pad of his thumb dragging tight, little circles over her clit, that those sounds escape her. And when they start, they pour in a flood. Because he works so expertly, so deftly — from the pace, to the angle, to the way he hones on her clit with his other hand, and the filthy dialogue he spews in his honey-smooth baritone. It’s everything, everything, and it prompts the coil in her belly to circle and squeeze, tighter, tighter — a telltale prior to its inevitable snap. She clenches over his fingers helplessly.

But then he just— stops.

The nudge of his digits skirts to a stand-still within her, and his thumb stops drawing circles, and Y/N just squeezes over him like a silent plea. He makes this sound — this mirthy, deviously pleased hum, like her displeasure at his pause amuses him. It’s pure sadism.

It’s not until she rocks her hips a bit, a shallow, desperate kind of back and forth, that the amusement seems to slip from his tone.

“Don’t—“ Harry tuts sharply, taking his thumb off her clit altogether to grip at her hip harshly, “Stay still. Naughty, little minx.”

And she does. She stays still when his voice gets hard like that. There’s a bit of quiet between his snap and the subtle freeze-up of her rocking. Soft breaths sew through the lull, but then he talks again, his tone a little nicer.

“We’re gonna play a little game, yeah?”

That’s …intriguing. Y/N shifts over the cushion. His grasp over her hip has softened considerably, but there’s still this humiliating heat that swarms her face at the fact that the crotch of her panties is still tucked against her skin, that everything’s out in the open, that Harry’s practically ogling in lieu of touching her.

“It’s a bit like Simon Says. Except, when you play Simon Says, you hesitate a little, right?”

The man’s thumb presses back to her clit, and she buries her face in her folded arms.

“And I don’t want you to hesitate. I’ll tell you something to do, and—“

His fingers sink into her, and her shoulders grow tense from the bliss. Y/N muzzles her groan.

“You’ll do it. Sounds easy enough?”

It does. It’s easy enough instructions, and when Harry pats at the same hip he’d been clutching over and beckons, “Hands back here,” Y/N obliges easily enough.

Her cheek presses to the cushion, cool against the warmth teeming beneath her skin, and she lets him manhandle and move her splayed fingers to his liking, arms stretched behind.

“That’s good,” Harry croons in his low timbre, the warm, lewd praise of it drawing chills up the nape of her neck, “Now spread a bit for me.”

Y/N does that, too. Her finger pads nudge and press into her flesh, coated with the tights, and her digits crook as the tips dig in to splay — to follow his direction, to please him. And it’s shameful, a pinch in her shoulders as her arms reach back, fingers twitchy, imprinting into her own backside with little divots as she opens herself up for him to do nothing. But his satisfied little hum sends an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment spiraling through her veins. The way his warm palm rests on and pets over the back of her thigh along with it feeds something new and starving.

“Good girl. There you go. See? S’easy.”

Y/N makes a little sound into the seat, and her fingers flex as Harry pumps his own digits, a steady rhythm of in and out, paired with a hum from him that sounds absolutely pornographic.

“Such a good girl,” the man tells her, fingers crooking, but the praise isn’t enough to muffle the bemusement that wracks her when he says in this devious hush, “Let’s try another. Bark.”

Bark.

It takes a second for the command to register past the immediate threshold of the pleasure curling in her belly as he strokes at her spongy walls. And when it does click together, his word settling past the membrane of bliss, her initial thought is that she’s definitely misheard him. Because that’s …sort of a ludicrous request. The young woman sounds strewn between groggy and muzzled when she cranes her neck a bit over the cushion and beckons with a confused hum.

“Bark,” Harry repeats, “like a dog.” Simple and nonchalant.

Bark like a dog. She’s midway through creased brows, a strained raise of her head, and a baffled what, before the man stills his fingers and takes a grip over her wrist, sliding her hand away.

And then he smacks her, hard, with his palm on one side, in the same place where her digits had dug in to spread herself open.

It’s loud, and it stings, and it sends a shockwave through her nervous system, strong enough to have everything buzzing on alert as her forehead pastes to the seat and the parted gap of her mouth struggles to mute a gasp. Maybe the most surprising part is that the hurt feels good, that the sting morphs into something else as it fizzles and ebs, that the hammer of her heart spikes this famished, unfamiliar arousal coursing through her when he doesn’t even bother stroking over the bruised skin. It’s definitely hard enough to leave a ruddy mark under the tights, and Y/N blinks down at the faux leather, wordless and a little gobsmacked.

And then Harry sighs in this way that’s so …disappointed. And the calmness of his inflection, grouped with the irony of the harsh hit… that has a chill climbing up her spine.

“That’s not how you play the game, pet.”

He says it in this eerily nonchalant note of disdain, like he’s not just casually tattooed the shape of his hand onto her backside with a blow. Like he expected better. Like it’s a little mishap they’ll gloss over. She doesn’t even realize she’s still got a vice clamped over his fingers until he shifts the digits in her, coaxing her core to flutter around him. Harry sighs again.

“Did you forget the rules, baby?” he asks, cadence soft and basked in condescension. The man strokes over the heated skin, the same spot where Y/N is sure a subtle welt has peaked to the surface below the thin veil of the sheer tights, “I tell you to do something and you do it, right?”

Her knees are starting to ache a little, a soreness settling into the joints, but she doesn’t even mind it when his fingers pump again, slowly.

“That’s how the game goes. Right? I need an answer.”

She makes a soft sound. A little sound that’s not protest. A little sound that’s not outright agreement. It’s a whimper into a void, but everything about him and his touch lights something alive in her. And she wants more. She’s dizzy off of it when she manages out a breathless, “Yes.” It’s a short word that comes out in a breath, like she’d been holding the air in her lungs.

Maybe that’s why she’s dizzy.

“Are we on the same page? Let’s try again, then. Bark.”

Y/N shifts over the seat. The hand he’d moved has splayed helplessly to her side, and the fingers curl and uncurl as the weight of the suggestion hits her. Because that’s— it’s humiliating. It’s demeaning, and it’s strange, and the fact that he demands it has the tips of a fire licking up at her insides. The young woman makes an uncharacteristically pathetic noise.

Harry sighs.

The split second of hesitation is enough, apparently, for another slap, just as hard, in the same spot. It has her rocking forward and clenching over his digits again. Harry’s quick to correct her posture with a hand on her hip, guiding her back in a way that lacks gentleness.

“I said, bark.”

This time his voice is harder. Meaner. Y/N gives.

She gives because the tips of his fingers prod at this heavenly spot inside her, because her skin smarts in a way that has her practically drooling, because she’s dizzy, and hungry, and desperate. Her thighs are quivering when she gets out a half-hearted woof, her lips shaping over the word like the task is a chore to get out.

“Better—“ another slap, aimed lower onto the back of her thigh, has her hips jutting and the straight line of her spine twisting up, “—but not what I’m looking for. Try again.”

She doesn’t even aim to please, is the thing, when her yelp overlaps with another smack. But it morphs into something surprised and deliciously pained, and evidently, it’s enough, judging by the way his touch smooths over the stinging skin.

“Oh, baby,” Harry tells her, his fingers stroking like he’s smudging the pink-tinge of bruising, “That’s pathetic.”

And it dawns on her then, that there’s no winning with this game. When he tuts and tells her, absolutely patronizingly, “So desperate for it, she’s barking like a stray.”

It dawns on her that she doesn’t want to win. She doesn’t care, because his filthy dialogue, as demeaning as it is, just draws her wetter and closer. As if to highlight on it, Harry crooks his fingers and tacks on, “You’re leaking all over the seats, pet.”

And she is, she’s sure. It’s a dirty game he plays, and she loves every part of it and more. It has her writhing when he draws circles over her clit, it has her aching for more when he guides her hand back to her backside with a squeeze and a wordless coax to keep spreading.

“Gonna let me fuck you?” Harry pulls the digits out, dirtying what’s left of her tights and smearing sticky wetness over the back of her thigh, “Hm? Gonna let me—“ his belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and then comes the soft sound of a zipper, its teeth unlatching, “—fill you up?”

“Glovebox,” Y/N mumbles, hips shifting back when he pets at her thigh.

His pupils flit, sticking to the back of her head, before they jump back down to his handiwork. Harry’s tone sounds absent-minded and mirthy when he asks, “What’s that?”

“There’s condoms in the glovebox,” she expands, a little louder than her prior murmur, bracing on her forearms to cast her gaze back at him over her shoulder.

And he looks rugged in this boyish, youthful way, then, is the thing. The corner of his mouth jolts, lopsided, and a stray tendril has flopped over his forehead. His hands are on the undone buckle of his belt, and his fly’s down, and he sounds absolutely amused when he says, “Are there?”

There are.

“You’ve prepared for this, then, have you?” Harry sets a palm onto her hip, squeezing as a dimple pinches into his cheek, “Condoms in your glovebox …like a proper dirty whore?”

Coyly, she blinks, cheek nuzzled to the seat, and she watches him stretch his arm out for the glovebox as he knees away.

“I’m always prepared,” Y/N settles on, softly.

The glovebox slips open. There’s rummaging — his torso turns to face it entirely, and then he gleans a shining, golden little packet, tucked between the pads of his digits. The young woman wriggles her hips. There’s this glint of fiery …something. Something playful, something lewd, something hungry in the jade, when he clambers back over, steadying himself with a palm on her tailbone. It coaxes her spine into a pretty, sharper arch.

“You do this a lot, do you?” Harry teases, “Pick up strange men, let them fuck you?”

She hums in agreement as the man takes the little gold square, snug between his teeth, fingers working quickly, pushing buttons through slots and tugging his cock out.

“Maybe I do.”

He tears at the wrapper with his teeth. She knows, because his next words come out a little muffled.

“Is that right?”

It’s not. It’s so out of the norm, so far from the usual, but Y/N would be a masochist to string out the arousal that’d built between her thighs in lieu of letting Harry span his palms over the globes of her ass in the backseat. Harry, with his cheeky smile and his sunshine, short-trimmed nails. Harry, with his denim-tethered bulge dragging over the back of her thigh and his filthy tongue shaping crude dialogue.

She doesn’t see him as he tuts from behind, but she can picture it; his palm cupped over the base of his shaft as he rolls the condom over and then presses the tip against her teasingly.

“Wanted to be fucked like a dirty whore, is that it?”

Her “yes” stretches and ebs and splinters into a whispery hiss when Harry nudges forward and stretches her out. And then he’s beckoning for her hands, one hand splayed over her hip and the opposite coaxing at her shoulder, tugging and jolting in gentle nudges, mouth shaping over firm, “Hands, hands, give me your hands — behind your back— that’s— just like that.”

Barred from scratching at the seats with his firm, warm grip binding the joints hostage, Y/N presses her cheek to the cushion. She slumps into his willpower, gives into him, the smush of her face sweaty on the cushion, jolting with every rock forward. The young woman clenches over him helplessly. Soft sounds slip past her lips, pried out by the nudges of his hips, over and over, again and again. Her fingers stiffen and flex, and the arch in her spine shifts when the head of his cock bumps that delicious ridge so deep in her — and it’s like Harry senses it, the way her entire body grows taut like a string. He goes at that too, prodding, again and again, until a whine plucks at her vocal chords. Every shallow jolt of his hips sends waves of paralyzing bliss licking over her insides. Every nudge forward has her slumping more. And when he talks, Y/N barely registers it over the rush of blood in her own head.

There’s been little things that fall from his mouth — soft curses and hisses as he slides in, hums and groans when he bottoms out, readjusting his grasp over her wrists. Words, though — now he’s saying words. They’re still in that gentle baritone, this sort of luring croon.

“Come on, baby. Come on — got a stranger’s cock in your pretty, little pussy—“ Harry’s voice catches on a strained note as he pulls out—

…A sigh as he rocks back in, “—and …you’re not gonna struggle?”

A warmth stems from his grasp, behind her back, and as if on reflex, her digits crook and flex. The danger of the words don’t even register. Because, yeah, he’s right. She’s got a stranger holding her restrained, rocking up against her, and all that peaks in her at the filthy dialogue is a bud of deranged arousal. She doesn’t shoulder forward though, doesn’t try to pull her hands apart, doesn’t sag forward, not even a little, too concerned that even a minute shift will alter the delicious intensity of the angle.

“Not even a little bit?” Harry tuts, grinding forward, one more time, slow, and then he squeezes over her wrists hard and picks up in pace. Just until he settles into a hard tempo of short, deep thrusts, and her shoulders are aching from the way he pulls her arms back.

His words blanket her with this patronizing sort of humiliation — the kind that has her spongy walls pulsing over his length and chills erupting from the nape of her neck to the creases between her shoulder blades. “You make it so easy.”

So easy for a stranger to fuck her — so easy, pulling over in some desolate parking lot. So easy, letting him wrap a palm over her throat and stick his fingers past her lips. So easy, following his every command for the reward of his hips pummeling against her own.

And it’s easy to get close with the way he works into her, tip bumping into a spot that sends waves of pleasure coursing through every millimeter of her nervous system. The kind that has every muscle stiffening to stone until the wave ebs. It’s so easy to lurch higher and higher, closer and closer, when his touch digs into her joints, rendering her helpless to his crude affections. When strained grunts and sordid words fall from his mouth, when his other hand slips from her hip and knots into the hair, at the roots, on the back of her scalp, only smushing her cheek into the seat with more pressure.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, the pace of his thrusts stuttering as he picks up the tempo into something merciless, his digits flexing into her hair and his body weight sagging onto her frame.

Every time his balls slap against her clit, teasing where she wants that attention the most, she feels the spring draw tighter, lips smushed to and gaping against the seat. And then he readjusts his grip, lets one of her hands free while he keeps the other pinned, and he coaxes, “Touch your pretty clit, baby. Make yourself cum all over my cock.”

Y/N makes it to the crest before he does. It’s her fingertips sloppily winding loose shapes over the bud of nerves, it’s his cock hammering down into her, it’s the pinch in her shoulder, and the way Harry’s grip grows harsher over the hand he still has pinned, the closer he gets himself. The way his digits are still flexed at the roots of her scalp, the way his moans and curses are garbled with pleasure with each pump. The way her helpless fluttering, when she tips over the peak, draws this long, sordid groan from him as he cranes his neck back. And then he slows, ducking his chin to watch below through slow thrusts.

“Dirty girl, cumming all over a stranger’s cock,” Harry swipes with a thumb where the mesh, toying at the seam of her hole when he goes deeper, again, slow.

And then his grip on her wrist gets hard again as his fingers flex, and he holds onto her hip and guides her in a steady-paced, back and forth bounce over cock. He chases his own releases, every motion rough, and full of control, and so brimmed with this unfamiliar hunger. She’s mush by the time his head tips back, and he gushes ribbon after ribbon into the condom. She’s mush when his grasp over her wrist grows lax, when he knees back clumsily on his knees, when he discards the condom, wrapping it into the confines of its wrapper, when he fixes her purple panties back over her crotch and strokes over the back of her thigh with an amused huff.

“Alright?” Y/N vaguely hears Harry say from behind when she doesn’t instantly sit up, his voice bordering on amused.

That’s. Yeah, Y/N thinks. She’s great. There’s still this rush of blood in her ears, and an ache in her joints that interweaves with the soreness of her muscles, but it’s all in such a good way. She makes a barely coherent hum of agreement and rolls her shoulder forward, planting her palms onto the seat to sit up and glance at the time over the display in the front of the car. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and it hits her then, that she’s so tired. She’s so tired, she feels like every piece of her energy had been strewn up and pulled tight on a rope, and now it’s all wasted away.

Harry gets it. Or he seems to, at least. Sleep beckons her with a whispery croon and a soft touch. The corners of his mouth crook up, and he pats at her hip.

“Hop up, pet. D’you want me to drive the rest of the way? S’just a little bit, now.”

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. She doesn’t let strangers into her car in the middle of the night from some empty road, she doesn’t fuck them in the backseat, and she certainly doesn’t let strange men drive her car to some unfamiliar location, only lacking being undisclosed from its visible street name on the GPS. Y/N doesn’t do any of that. But she nods weakly and lets their roles flip. She’s mid-raising the back of the passenger seat by the time Harry jogs around to the driver’s seat and slips in.

In the rear-view, her reflection greets with her unshed tears and bloodshot eyes, mascara smudged below. He turns to face her and strokes a hand down her thigh. He picks the same hand up and sets it onto the gear-shift. Switches to reverse.

The first thing he says from the front of the car, strawberry mouth quirking as his eyes direct to the back-up camera, is, “I’m sorry about your tights. I hope that was alright.”

When they pull up to the motel, Y/N doesn’t ask questions. There’s only been a span of, maybe, ten minutes passed between the parking lot and their final stop of the night before Harry pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car off.

He tells her, “This is my stop.”

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, and exhaustion wracks at every sinew of muscle in her body. She half-expects him to wordlessly hop out of the car. He doesn’t. The man fixes her with a smile, and says, “Could I get your number, maybe?”

It’s not an odd request by any means, but if she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d ask more questions. Her pupils would wend over the shoddy motel sign, and the shit cars parked beside them, and she’d wonder what the hell they were doing parked in front of some abandoned-looking motel. She’d ask why this was his stop, and not a home. Instead, she pulls a napkin from her glovebox and digs for a pen. She scribbles her digits and hands them off. In the brush of the cool air, from the night, when she clambers out to swap spots with him, she wraps her arms about herself. When she takes a seat into the driver’s side, she expects him to walk away. He doesn’t do that either. Instead, she rolls her window down when he beckons, and Harry leans onto the car and tells her, “Get home alright, yeah?”

It’s a miracle when she hobbles up the steps of her apartment complex, when she pries open the front door and crashes into her sheets. The blankets envelop her like a warm hug, and she doesn’t even bother pulling off her tights.

It’s a week before she gets a phone call. There’s no texts, and the morning after, when she’s greeted with radio-silence, she thinks that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing.

Her tights, ripped at the crotch, prove otherwise.

She’s in bed, days later, when her screen lights up with a call. It’s an unfamiliar number, and curiosity peaks before she swipes over the answer toggle.

“Hello?”

A gap of silence, a breath, and a familiar, smooth baritone on the other end of the line.

“Y/N.”

There’s a little sound of the bedsheets stirring as she freezes up. He’s caught her off guard. A little laugh plucks at his vocal chords, tinny on the other end of the line, like he’s amused by the stretch of lull. Her lips part, the corners of her mouth inching up as she hears a sigh from him that seeps in all the way to her eardrum. But she doesn’t have time to contemplate what to say or how to say it, because he doesn’t let her get a word in before he’s talking again.

And his next words are not a playful jest at her lack of response, or anything friendly, really. In fact, the confession, said so nonchalantly, causes chills to erupt down her arms.

“I was going to kill you that night.”

The chills aren’t the initial reaction. The initial reflex is the crook of her mouth to morph bemused, the pinch between her eyebrows, and this sullen feeling of dread that twists up in her stomach. A laugh bubbles in her chest, because, what the fuck?

But then he keeps talking.

“Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down,” the voice on the other end sighs, and it’s got this sort of …reminiscent quality to it. Like he’s tracing the steps of the night back to its starting point. Reliving it when he tells her, “It’s such a thrill, you know. Taking that from someone. So intimate.”

The young woman doesn’t make any sounds, kind of appalled by the sick joke. Because it is sick, it’s disturbing, and it’s a twisted way, at the least, to strike up a conversation if he’s …looking to do what they did again. This isn’t the Harry she’d met on that night. This isn’t the same one who’d worn the cream sweatshirt, and talked all friendly with this smooth, wholesome charm — this wasn’t the man she’d let into her car, this wasn’t the man she’d let do all those filthy things to her, in the backseat of her sedan. This doesn’t feel like the same man at all, and she wishes she’d been aware of the sick sense of humor to his character before she’d let him …violate her. Y/N’s just about to budge in with a disgusted comment, tell him off for calling her so late at night to mess with her, but he beats her to the edge of the gap, yet again.

Except this time, he sounds sort of frustrated, and the phrase comes out like a scolding, the tone of his cadence firm and irate. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to talk to strangers? …Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men on the side of the road? S’just …bloody stupid.”

He laughs. It’s this soft sort of chortle she’d been so charmed by that night — it’s identical, except then, it was this sweet sound full of wholesome mirth. Now, it feels cold. Odd and detached. Surreal.

“But you… you made it so easy,” Y/N listens to every word that comes through the line, hanging onto every syllable of the empty threat as dread churns her stomach. His words from that night crowd behind her skull. You make it so easy. “So friendly, so sweet. Just wanted to chat on and on. I was going to kill you, and you wanted to have a shag—”

Harry tuts. Her heart hammers behind her ribcage, and she only realizes that her breathing has slowed and that her grip on the smartphone’s grown white-knuckled when it shakes against her cheek. She’d let him drive her car. She’d let him get into her car, she’d let him lure her into pit-stopping in a deserted parking lot, she’d locked the doors, and dimmed the lights, and let him open her up with his fingers and his cock. And then she’d let him drive her car, and take down her number. There’s a moment of mortifying silence.

Harry sounds deadly serious when he tells her, “Don’t you ever pick up another hitchhiker.”

The line goes dead.

Y/N calls back. The number she reaches belongs to a payphone, unanswered.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles halloween #dom harry styles x sub reader #harry styles one shot #dark harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles writing

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unreleasedwrites · 4 months

Note

Love your writing!!! Could I request a fluff scenario with jake kim? Thank uu💕💕

Baking Shenanigans

“F’me?”

summary: You and your boyfriend are spending the weekend at your place. When you two were suddenly craving for something sweet, so you guys make the choice to try baking a strawberry shortcake using a highly reviewed recipe you guys found on the internet. Surprisingly, it went as you two hoped and tasted delicious.

character(s) included: Jake Kim x fem!reader

cw: fluff, cheesy pickup lines, teasing, flirting, idk much abt baking I just googled a recipe and the storyline follows the steps, jake is tall therefore you guys have a height difference, mentions of knives but its just for slicing strawberries, blushing/getting flustered, jake and reader are in an established and healthy relationship, nicknames or petnames like babe, kissing, waist holding, sLIGHTly just SLIGHTly suggestive at the end but not really so dw, there may be a few typos or grammatical errors so mb about that i didnt read too thoroughly

unwrapped on: Wednesday Morning, December 20 2023

wrapped up on: Wednesday Night, December 20 2023

published on: Thursday Noon, December 21 2023 (at around 12 PM)

“While you’re cutting up the strawberries, I’ll go ahead and preheat the oven!” You stated. “Oh- And I’ll also get our ingredients for the dough and some other materials we’ll need.” You added.

“Got it, shortcake.” Jake replied.

“Hey.. Just because were baking a strawberry shortcake, it doesn’t mean you should take the opportunity to give me a new nickname!”

He laughed in response as he swiftly sliced the fresh strawberries.

“You’re a natural in using knives, I thought you were more of a close combat kinda guy.” You mesmerized his hands slicing through each strawberry smoothly, glancing at the tattoos that trailed his arms.

“Well- I am, and I never really use knives. I rarely cook and it’s not my style to just stab my way through a serious match.” He shrugged.

You went ahead and got the different materials you guys needed to make the strawberry shortcake. You then took a stroll through the kitchen, from cabinet to fridge, to collect the various ingredients you’d be using according to the recipe you guys are following.

“Alright-y! I’ve got everything we were missing.”

“You’re the only one i’m ever missing,” he said as he turned towards your flustered face.

“Oh shut up, I’m right here. I always have been, and I always will be.” You replied as you got on your tippy toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek then added, “Look at how the tables have turned.. You’re the one who’s fluster-” You added before he cut you off and kissed you on your lips for a good 5 or so seconds, which made you even more flustered than you already were beforehand.

“Well would you look at that! Little miss’ no longer flustered has her cheeks as red as these strawberries,” He teased as he brought one down to your lips and fed you it. “Hmph,” was all you said in return because you knew you wouldn’t be able to top that. Which in the end, only made him chuckle.

You guys started to open the ingredients and put what’s required in the bowl you put out for the dough. Once you guys finished doing so, you mixed the dough mixture and proceeded to knead it for about a minute— which your boyfriend was the one to do so since he’s really strong anyway and wouldn’t struggle one bit. After lightly coating it in some flour, he rolled the dough into the specific thickness that was instructed and stated on the said recipe.

“Now that we’ve finished rolling the dough, we now need the biscuit cutter!” You said joyfully as you looked up at your boyfriend.

“Right! I’ll go get that for us.” He paused as he opened your cabinet with all of your tools for baking and cooking. “..What exactly does that look like..?” He added.

You laughed and walked to his side to assist, “It’s that one, silly.”

“I knew that! ..Obviously, I just wanted to see if you did too.” He laughed and so did you.

Once you guys had cut your dough into two thick circles, you went on to quickly melt some butter while your boyfriend was lining up a baking sheet for your guys’ tray. After only a few seconds, you took the butter out and greased up the baking sheet using your good ol’ brush. Once Jake placed the dough onto the tray with the greased up baking sheet, you brushed them up with some of the remaining melted butter in your bowl.

“I think its time!” You announced.

“..For you to give me a kiss?” He teased.

“Uh-uh babe. My lips are locked, but maybe later— If you can crack the code, that is. But for now, lets place these in the oven for about 12 minutes.”

“Awh,” he pouted and gave you his best puppy eyed look (although he doesnt even have to try), “Cmonn~ I promise I’ll control myself and I wont smother you in kisses like last week, pretty please” He pleaded, “with a lil’ strawberry on top?”

“Hmm..”

“Pleaseeee”

“Alright Alright!” You finally gave in as you put the tray into the oven, right after you set it to the instructed temperature and time.

Before you could even give him the go, he already grabbed onto your waist, clinging onto your body like a koala with its favorite tree. He started planting kisses all over your head and neck, down to your collarbone and shoulders— which were out in the open since you were wearing a very loose off shoulder top along with shorts.

“Babe-! You promised you’d control yourself!” You tried to speak out, but it was slightly muffled since he was too busy kissing you all over, especially in places he knew you were ticklish in— which caused you to keep laughing, ultimately forgetting you were trying to stop him in the first place from getting away with his little acts.

Twelve minutes finally passed by and you two heard a ding, signaling it was ready. So you guys made your way to the kitchen and you took out some mittens and grabbed the tray from the oven.

“Ta-da! They aren’t raw and they aren’t burnt at all! Its perfect!”

“I never doubted us for a second!” Jake spoke sarcastically.

“Well when you say it like that, I dont believe you one bit..”

“All we need now is the cream, I’ll place everything in the bowl and I’ll also mix it, could you prepare the strawberries and grab a plate with utensils so we could plate it right after?” Your boyfriend said as he looked at you with his wholesome smile you can’t get enough of.

“Will do!”

So then Jake got the remaining ingredients for the cream and made the mixture altogether, while you got the plate and a fork right after you prepared the strawberries your boyfriend was slicing earlier.

“I’ve got the spatula (for baking) here, so let’s place the cream.”

“While you do that, I’ll place the strawberries in the lathered cream,” you replied.

After finishing up the cream with strawberries on the second layer, which is also the last, you topped it off with some tiny bits of strawberries while you snacked on the remaining ones.

“We’ve finally finished!”

Jake grabbed a knife from the utensils drawer and took the fork you placed on the counter beforehand, he then sliced through the cake. “Say Ahhh~” Your boyfriend said as he lifted it up towards your lips.

“Ahhh” You opened your mouth and your boyfriend fed you the slice of cake, “How is it, babe?” He asked as you chewed your food.

You nodded in approval in a positive look, and once you finished the food in your mouth— you replied, “It’s the perfect amount of sweet! It’s not overly sweet but it isn’t missing any flavor either, here- you try!” You sliced through the cake and placed it on the fork you two were sharing, “Say Ahhh~”

“F’me?” Your boyfriend said with a hint of rasp in his voice,

“Yes sir~” You replied and brought the fork up to his lips.

“Ahhh~” Your boyfriend opened his mouth after he chuckled in amusement from watching your precious reaction to cake.

Your boyfriend smiled in approval and gave you a thumbs up. You then took some of the icing/cream on top using the fork and ate it. You hummed and your boyfriend said, “You’ve got a lil something, babe.” You turned up and looked at him with a confused look and mumbled a little “Hm?” in response.

“Here let me get that for you,” He then grabbed your waist and pulled you in for a kiss, all the while you still had a bunch of the icing in your mouth, which he started to help you with. You got insanely flustered, again. Despite this being such a regular occurrence, you’re always so flustered whenever it happens.

“So did I even have a little something? Or was that just my jake’s little excuse?”

“Believe it or not, you actually did have some icing on the side of your lips, which I cleaned up! So, your welcome~” He said with a smirk.

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say.” You scoffed.

“How about we go watch a movie, What do you say? Your boyfriend suggested.

“What movie?”

“How about this romantic movie I heard about last week?”

“Of course its romance again, huh?” You scoffed sarcastically.

“What can I say? I am a sucker for romance after all.”

notes: I HAVE BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG AND I AM SO SORRY😭 Its not like I just forgot about what I was doing here, I just got really busy with school and all the exams and everything.. I’m so sorry for disappearing out of the blue, but I have been going back and fourth in the works in my drafts, because I have been trying to finish some one’s request but it just keeps going NOWHERE. and I have literally restarted twice when I was already halfway because I really wasn’t happy with how it was going and i am struggling to get it done 💀 I hope this is good and since the pattern of my posts are fic-drabble-fic-drabble-fic-drabble/answering an ask-and this fic, I will be start working on a drabble of multiple lookism characters, im not yet sure what scenario I’ll be doing but yeah.. and to the anon who made the request about Gun, im really trying to work on it im so sorry its been almost 3 months.. 😭😭 ALSO, TO THE ANON WHO REQUESTED THIS, im sorry it took so long as well and since you just said a fluff scenario, I figured i’d go ahead with my idea to make my post about baking shenanigans a series, so yall can request a character for that

- With or without proper credits, please don't try to steal or claim any of my works as your own

I genuinely appreciate opinions, feedback, likes, and reblogs

Once again, I hope this isn't too bad for all of you that likes Jake or lookism, and I'll be doing more characters in lookism 🫶🫶

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marigolddove · 11 months

Text

Love Begins With Murder, Believe it or Not.

Part 3

Request by: @yandere-dark-cupid

I stayed up until 3 am writing this, passed out and then woke up at 6 am to finish it lol. It's okay though I'm not tired, I'm just happy to be writing. I hope you all enjoy this part there will definitely be another part which will probably be the final for a while. I'll probably try and leave this story with a not-so-official ending because I might make one-shots based around this in the future.

Also I'm getting a new job soon so that might cut into my writing a bit but I'm going to keep writing no matter what I'm so grateful for Welcome Home and all it's characters and all my fellow fanfic writers and artists out there making more and more content for this fandom. You guys are all awesome and Welcome Home is officially my comfort Fandom, without it I might've never wrote anything ever again. So thank you to @partycoffin, and all of the AU creators, you're all truly wonderful people.

Warnings: Cussing, mentions of torture and violence, anger issues.

@elegantkidfansoul, @sunkyss, @all-things-fandomstuck, @sailorsimp13, @cricketsjunk

💀♥️💀

Wally couldn't believe he didn't have one single vase in his apartment, not one! He had been so certain he'd had flowers before, surely he'd had…he was a lover of beauty and nature, so it was extremely frustrating when he couldn't find his—imaginary—vase.

He could've let it go there, just put the bouquet in a tall glass or leave them out to dry and get a vase tomorrow, but to be honest he was procrastinating when he suddenly decided he needed a vase before his nap; he knew of a flower shop fifteen minutes away on a strip he was well familiar with—he often got lunch or dinner from a nextdoor diner, well he did before he hit this depression.

That's what all this is about, after all. Depression.

He lost the desire, the drive, to style his hair, paint, draw, talk to his friends and employees, he doesn't even make eye-contact like he used to; and now to top it all off, he realizes, there's absolutely no life in his apartment. Even his old paintings feel soulless, hollow, because they don't fill him with the emotions he once held as he crafted them.

When the depression set in, he couldn't be sure, it had been a gradual change; but it was one he hadn't noticed until now, he hadn't wanted to think about it.

He feels his face flush in embarrassment as he thinks of his neglect of himself and his home as he drives to the shop, the sky turning orange and blue behind the many buildings surrounding him.

As he kept his eyes trained on the still bustling road ahead, he could only hope he would make it in time so this uncoordinated trip wouldn't be a complete waste.

—————————

With traffic being convinently merciful to him this early in the evening time, he is soon racing to the shops entrance door, bouquet delicately cradled by his left arm; completely missing the 'open' sign flipping to 'closed' as his unoccupied hand grasps the door handle and turns.

As he pushes into the building he is shocked to find an employee standing right at the entrance, hand quickly retracting from the door as they lock eyes with him, seemingly just as shocked by his sudden entrance.

The bell above the door chimes.

For Mr. Darling, renowned local kingpin, ruthless 'family' man, time seemed to slow for a moment, just a moment. It was almost as if the chiming of the bell had put him into a trance, or maybe it was just you.

There you stand, (h/c) hair fluttering from the sudden rush of wind that came from him opening the door, staring right at him; your work uniform fitting you quite nicely, especially with your own accessories that added a unique personal touch, not to mention the smell—which was most definitely the shop, but there is no doubt in his mind that you smell any different—sweet and floral.

You're the first to speak, voice a bit nervous at his stare, "O-Oh! Hello, we–ah, I, was just about to close up shop." You move the hand that had been reaching for the door handle to fiddle with a ring on your opposite pinky finger, a sign of anxiety.

Realizing how he must look, a bit wild from the wind whipping his already disheveled hair around with tired eyes, his ears and cheeks grew a little hot, but he clears his throat into his hand as he tries to recover from his sudden and silly attraction.

"I apologize, I didn't mean to just barge in here, but…" he shrugs the arm cradling the bouquet, "I'm looking for a vase, this shop was the only place I could think to find one and it wasn't a far drive…I thought I had a vase, but I was wrong." He explains ratherly lamely, his usual suave and calm demeanor shattered by his growing embarrassment at his current mental and physical state. This was a mistake, he should've just waited for the morning or let the flowers dry out, he should be sleeping right now.

Like an angel you smile at him, so bright and warm it almost feels like the sun is beaming at him, "That's alright! I don't mind a bit, sir, follow me I have some you can choose from in the back." You move to allow him full access and then make your way to what looks to be a storage closet at the back of the shop.

He follows without a word, eyes glued to your figure as you seem to glide to the back, your feet making little to no noise as you move.

The door to the storage closet is open with chalk board sign leaning against the wall next to the door frame, 'small vase $10, medium $15, large $25 ALL HAND MADE!!'.

"You make your own vases?" Wally asks, impressed even before seeing the quality of your work.

You flush as you glance at the sign and then gesture to the closet, signaling him to take a look at your stock, "Yeah, it's a new thing I started doing…I've always been into crafts and stuff like that and working with clay seemed really fun and challenging, so…." He notices your words grow softer, seemingly embarrassed.

Well he can certainly tell you're a beginner, many of the pieces seem a bit lop sided or misshapen, but some are charming due to their faults. Something art had taught him early on is to love imperfections just as much as perfections.

"They're charming." He says, and it's the truth, hearing the honesty in his tone makes you turn a bit more red as you smile gratefully at him.

"Which would you recommend for this bouquet?" He asks, he already has an idea of which vase he'd pick but he wants to hear your opinion.

You eyeball the bouquet, a knowing look sparkling in your (e/c) eyes, and look to the assortment of pottery, "hmm".

Your eyes land on a particularly unique piece on the bottom shelf, it's wide and a bit overly round at the bottom and it narrows a bit more dramatically than you intended at the top, it was also colorful, painted with vertical rainbow stripes that had come out very pastel when you had originally wanted a very bold rainbow color. Overall it had been a bit of a flop, but at the same time it has become one of your favorite pieces and it was a tragedy it had never been used. Whether it looked good with this particular bouquet didn't really matter, to be honest it didn't compliment the bouquet at all, but it deserves a home.

Following your gaze, Wally examines the piece you're staring at so intensely.

"Is that the one?" It certainly wasn't the one he was going to pick, but the way you stared at it with such sentiment made his heart leap. Oh how he missed the days when he would look at his own art with such a nostalgic and sentimental gaze.

"I don't know…it's a little ugly, to be honest…it doesn't really go with the flowers."

"I can always get more flowers." He responds smoothly, catching even himself off guard.

The two of you lock eyes again and he wishes he had examined himself before coming here, so he could know how you see him. He's certain he looks like a mess, and not a hot one.

You seem taken back by his response, but recover quickly to smile, "Yeah, I guess you can. This is a flower shop after all." You glance down at his bouquet again, "you wouldn't happen to know someone named Julie, would you?"

He knew you would recognize the tag and the flower combination, so your question didn't phase him, "Yes, actually. I'm sorry I couldn't come in for the flowers myself, at the time I was…busy."

"Ah, no need to apologize, worrying about a funeral is tough even when you weren't close to the person who died. I'm sorry for being a bit nosey."

"I don't think you're being nosey at all," he ignores the bit about the funeral, not wanting to really lie, but still omitting the truth, "these flowers you picked are really very lovely, I almost want to keep them for myself." He absolutely intends on keeping them for himself.

Your smile turns a bit bashful, "Oh, well thank you. It's nice to know I got it right." Turning back to the shelves of pottery, you crouch to the one you had been staring at, "So is this the one you'd like? Or did you have your eye on another?"

"I'll take that one and these two as well." He gestures his free hand to two other pieces, one being a bit plain and lumpy, the other a bit more colorful; the base color being yellow with red and blue swirls.

"Three?" You ask, a bit surprised.

He grins at you, and unknown to him your heart flutters, "This way I have an excuse to come back, I'm going to need flowers for them, right?" It's been a while since he's tried flirting, but by the way your entire face seems to light up and flush he's certain it's been effective.

"R-Right," you grab two of the vases as he grabs one, "that's three medium sized pots so it'll be $45 dollars." The two of you make your way to the check out counter and place the three pots delicately, "I'll go ahead and wrap these for you." As he grabs the money out of his wallet, you rummage through the work table and pull out a bundle of plain wrapping paper. Carefully, you wrap each individual piece in a thick protective layer of paper, then delicately place the three into an oversized grocery bag, adding more wads of paper between each piece.

Wally lays the money down onto the counter, slipping an extra $5 bill as a tip, as you place the finishing touches on the bag of fragiles. When you're pleased with your work, you hand him the bag with a wide grin, collecting the cash; before you can finish counting Wally tips his head to you.

"You have a good night, doll, stay safe." Without another word he exits the shop, you call after him about his change but he doesn't respond. Upon examining the extra $5 bill closer you notice a series of numbers written on it, when had he done that?

It doesn't take a genius to know that he's written a cell phone number on the bill, despite his somewhat messy appearance your stomach feels as though it's infested with butterflies at the idea that he might have been interested in you. He certainly had flirted with you a little bit, but that didn't have to mean anything, but leaving his number? That means something.

He did say he would need to come back for more flowers, you smile at the thought, carefully folding the bill and tucking it into your pants pocket. You begin to close shop again, this time with no interruptions.

—————————

Julie should've told him he looked this awful, he thought to himself as he examined his reflection in the rear view mirror. No, no, no this won't do! Horror pierced it's way into his heart as he also realized that this is how he had looked during your entire interaction. He had flirted like this…left his number looking like this.

A part of him wanted to storm back into the shop and explain that this isn't him, just something he's been dealing with, tell you that he's not some pathetic, greasy nobody like he knew you must've thought he was.

He's Wally fucking Darling, he kills whoever he wants, whenever he wants, sells what he deems profitable no matter how morally gray and takes whatever he pleases. The people that surround him know to not only fear him but to adore him.

In his sudden shock and growing fury he almost, nearly, throws the bag of pottery to the floor of his passenger side; but he doesn't, of course, he's much too collected to just fly off the handle and break things—he most certainly is not, just two weeks before he broke that not-so imaginary vase he knew he had, it had been in a fit of frustration towards Howdy for failing a trade agreement; Wally didn't remember it now, but that day he had taken his only vase and chucked it at Howdy's much higher head. He had missed entirely, and now he's forgotten the whole ordeal.

Thankfully there's even less traffic, somehow, on the way back, which keeps his temper low but bubbling gently to the surface. A rolling boil was sure to start.

When he arrived back to his apartment, he placed the pots onto his sofa along with the bouquet, so delicate compared to the war of emotions he held inside.

Remember: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6—

He enters his massive, stunning bathroom and makes a b-line for the mirrors, he needs a better look at the damage his neglect has done.

If looks could kill one look would make the mirrors shatter, this isn't who he is. He feels like an imposter in his own body when he looks at himself, hair greasy and wild—no longer slicked back due to the wind, he doesn't even like slicking back his hair, it isn't his style! Then there's the grotesque bags under his eyes, when had they become so dark and puffy? How hadn't he noticed sooner? The rage was building now.

7, 8, 9—

Why was his skin so dull an–and sallow?!

Suddenly the sound of his marble counter top cracking triggers a roar of emotion to overwhelm him, he doesn't even register he's injured himself by slamming a fist down onto the marble. The emotions are so raw, so heavy, he doesn't even realize he's out of the bathroom now; doesn't hear the carnage he's creating or his own howls and shouts of incoherent anger and frustration.

When and how did he become so pathetic? How long had the others just sat idly by watching him grow weaker and uglier. His anger blinds him to the memories of when they had tried, all of them had; even Howdy, who wasn't the biggest fan of Wally to begin with, had tried.

The shrill ringing of his telephone snaps him back to reality, in his now bloodied and bruising hands he grips a broken frame that holds–held one of his own designs. His breathing is heavy and his head is swimming, wasn't he just in the bathroom a moment ago?

He drops the frame and stumbles to the phone, wincing at the loudness of it, he doesn't even take a moment to collect himself before answering.

"What do you wa–"

"Hello!" Your soft, sweet voice timidly interrupts his rude greeting.

Suddenly his stomach dips and his heart flips, he really hopes you hadn't heard him.

"Uh-uhm, it seems like I've caught you at a bad time, ha ha. I'm sorry about that, sir." You had heard his sour attitude, fuck.

"No, no," he corrects hastily, not wanting you to hang up, "I'm sorry, I just…I just injured myself getting to the phone." The lie feels bitter, like bile rising in his throat, fuck why did he lie?

"Oh," is your meek response, then a pause, "Well…I'm sorry for calling you so soon…and it's a bit late too, ah, this is so silly I'm really sorry."

He's about to reassure you he doesn't mind in the slightest, and it's the truth, but you continue quickly.

"It's just that I didn't ever give you my name, a-and I never got yours. Also I wanted to give you my number as well, that way I don't have to do all the calling myself, you see." Your stuttering is cute, but your sickeningly sweet reason for calling him has him swooning most of all.

"I see, well," he straightens himself, confidence filling him once more, "My name is Wally, Wally Darling, and you are..?"

"Y/N, Y/N L/N."

"That's a lovely name for such an enchanting flower like yourself, Y/N." He purrs, his turmoil and self-esteem issues quickly forgotten by this new cocktail of emotions, suddenly he's like a giddy teenage boy; twirling the phone cord between his fingers, a toothy smirk growing on his face and he imagines you blushing like you did in the shop.

"Your name is really cute too," you reply, you sound embarrassed but you're definitely smiling.

"Thank you," he grabs the note pad and pen he keeps by his landline, "Now then, what's your number?"

"O-Oh, right!" You quickly tell him your number and he repeats it back to you, once he's gotten it correct he smiles, gently placing his pen back down onto the table.

Sighing, "I must say, I'm glad you called." He admits.

"Oh?"

He hums, "Yes, when I got to my car I realized how I must have appeared to you. I typically take better care of myself, but, well, recently I've 'let myself go'." His tone remains light, almost dreamy as he speaks to you, even though on the inside he can feel the suffocating emotions from before bubbling up again.

"I just thought you were having an off day, you're actually very handsome." The way you say it, like its a fact he should already know, makes his face warm. Those emotions dying quickly before they can rise again, for a complete stranger you seem to have a powerful hold over him, you're able to make him feel nervous and excited.

It's pleasant.

"Well," you start, "It's getting late, I'm sure we both have things to do before nighttime."

He glances at the mess he made during his episode, as much as he wanted to disagree he knew he needed to clean up. He wouldn't live in this embarrassment any longer.

"Yes, thank you again for calling me, Y/N. I hope you have a good night."

"You too."

"Stay safe." He hears the receiver cut off on your end, he sighs into the now quiet and lonely air. He's grateful for your ability to distract him, he would've caused more damage to not only his home but to himself had you not called.

Wally looks around at the carnage he caused, grateful he didn't damage his newly aquired pottery and flowers. It's time to fix this.

—————————

When Barnaby returns to the building he's immediately greeted by Frank, with a disgruntled Eddie in tow. He had taken a bit longer than he would've liked with the rat, but the boss told him to really work on the guy, and he wanted to be sure the body couldn't be found and linked back to them. He's very thorough.

So he's a bit tired when he's approached by Frank, their face intense.

"Something's wrong with Wally."

Immediately dread fills Barnaby, worried something happened while he was gone, "What happened?"

"We heard him screaming and loud noises, like things being broken, upstairs."

"And neither of you thought to check on him?!" He barks, immediately heading for the elevator.

"It wasn't like the sound of struggling, I know what a struggle sounds like. He's probably just having a fit, like usual now-a-days, and I don't want myself or Frank to be caught in the cross fire." Eddie replies, his tone indifferent.

Frank sighs, following close behind Barnaby, "I wanted to go up and see him, but after what happened with Howdy–"

"I know." Barnaby cuts him off. A vase hadn't been the only thing Wally had thrown at Howdy the last time he became like this, and the vase hadn't landed anyway; but a paper weight had, and so did his punches. Despite not liking him, Howdy had stood there and taken it, claiming the boss "needed that more than anyone knew".

Barnaby wishes it had been him, not Howdy. He didn't want Wally to hurt him, but he's his best friend and he wants to be the one that's there for him at his absolute lowest, as well as his highest. It feels like recently he's missing all of the moments that are crucial for helping his first friend.

"Thank you for letting me know, I'll go see him alone now. You two get back to…whatever you were doing, have a good night." Frank looks like they're about to respond but the elevator doors close, effectively cutting them off.

Barnaby sighs into the silence of the elevator, readying himself for what's to come when he reaches Wally's penthouse.

He's surprised when he arrives and the room is filled with gentle music coming from the Gramophone—the record player—across the spacious living area; someone's singing in the bathroom, he soon realizes it's Wally singing and he's even more stunned. Wally hasn't sung a song in all the time he's known him, claiming he couldn't carry a tune.

To Barnaby, he sounds like a professional, smooth and suave. It almost feels like he's intruding, but the mess of the room makes him stay. Wally seems to have started cleaning up his mess, which is a nice change of pace. Typically Julie would come in and clean for him after hearing he'd had an episode, saying he deserves a clean safe space, even if he's the one trashing the place.

Barnaby moves to relax on the sofa, careful to avoid the bag Wally had left. He sits and waits a while, enjoying the soft melody and the surprisingly relaxing aura that the chaotic room held. He finds himself humming along with Wally, not knowing the words of his song.

When he hears his friend's singing end and the water shut off his posture straightens and becomes a little tense; worried how his little buddy might react at his sudden intrusion.

To his surprise, Wally exits the bathroom in a plush bathrobe, hair expertly wrapped in a towel atop his head as he continues humming a tune; and when he catches sight of Barnaby he's shocked but smiles.

"Ah, you're back. I did wonder if you would come and see me again today, I'm glad you're back safe." He moves closer to the sofa, bare feet padding against the hard wood floors, "Sorry for the mess, I got a bit carried away again today. I'm also sorry if I've been short with you today."

"There's no need to apologize, Boss. I'm just glad you're looking better."

"I do look better don't I? It's amazing what a shower and a quick skin care routine can do to a man." He says as he rummages through the grocery bag on the couch, pulling out three bulky items wrapped in paper.

He sits next to Barnaby and unwraps them, the record now fading into a new melody. Wally places three…interesting vases on the low table in front of them. His smile seems brighter as he looks at them.

"You starting a collection?" Barnaby jokes.

Wally hums, "I'm considering it."

"I told Julie to buy flowers for the…rat's lady friend, I intended on sending her a message with them, only to find out she herself is a rat. So I decided I'd keep the flowers for myself, they're quite pretty." He explained, his voice soft.

"But what's with the pottery?"

Wally laughs, "Well pretty flowers need equally pretty vases, my friend." Barnaby wasn't sure he would call them pretty, but he wasn't an artist so what would he know?

"Why'd ya get three though?"

"You're awfully inquisitive today, aren't you?" For a moment Barnaby worries he's stepped too far, but Wally's tone sounds mostly teasing and light hearted, "I bought three because I couldn't just pick one that I liked; besides, my home could use more art."

"Yeah, sure. It's just nice to see you smiling and, uh, getting out there." He admits awkwardly, his smaller friend looking up at him with a wide grin, it seems genuine compared to his usual facade.

"It has been nice, today hasn't been perfect, but it's been nice." Wally rises from the sofa, grabbing the plain, lumpy vase and the bouquet as he moves to the kitchen.

Carefully, he fills the vase with the recommended amount of water and retrieves a bit of lemon juice he's had sitting in his fridge for a month now—it's been longer than a month, he just doesn't know that—he adds a few drops to the tap water before arranging the flowers inside the vase.

He carries the vase filled with flowers back to Barnaby and places them at the center of the low table, adjusting it's position on the table until he deems it perfect.

Wally sighs as he relaxes back onto the couch next to his much larger friend, "Now all I need is more flowers to fill the other two, perhaps I'll make paintings of them as well, they're inspiring me already." He didn't say what else might be inspiring him, but in his mind an image of you formed. Maybe he would sketch you as well.

Barnaby raised a brow at him, even though he wouldn't see it, and smiled, "Hey, I'm glad you're wanting to paint again little buddy, after what happened earlier I thought you might be giving up for good."

Mentioning their time together earlier that day seemed to sour Wally's mood a bit, "Yeah, well, torture and death aren't always the best motivation I've realized."

At his sudden tone change, Barnaby scrambles to get him back to his pleasant mood, "So where'd ya get the pottery? Any place I might know?"

This seems to work as a twinkle appears in his eyes once again and he turns to fully face Barnaby, a soft and genuine smile gracing his features.

"You might, Eddie talks about it all the time it would seem, everyone knew about it but me, ha ha." He continued, "Well, actually, I knew of the flower shop but I had never gone in before, until today. You might know it, it's (S/N), over on 9th Street."

Barnaby contemplates the location a moment, he can't say that he does recall a flower shop there, "It's not ringing any bells, but whats so special about it, you seem very…happy and I'm not so sure it's about a flower shop."

Wally's eyes widen and pink dusts across his cheeks, something Barnaby isn't sure he's ever seen happen to his friend before, "Well, I suppose it's about more than a shop, yes," then he stubbornly adds, "Although the flowers do make me happy."

Barnaby motions for him to continue, Wally sighs and while it sounds like frustration he still has a grin on his face.

That's when Barnaby learns about you, although he's certain he might have heard of you before through Eddie Dear, but he knows Eddie never talked about you so dreamily.

This is also when Barnaby learns that his best friend might have experienced love at first sight.

#welcome home #wally darling #wally darling x reader #eddie x frank #Mafia! AU #mafia!Wally Darling #wally has some personal issues #this is gonna be cheesy #its love at first sight #deal with it #barnaby beagle

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athanasius-symposium-of-writings · 3 months

Note

About that smut line

What do you think about "we're going to fuck right here? what if someone sees us?" and "you're such a fucking tease, you know that?" for Luca? Like he so busy with his invention so we decided to tease him "a bit".

Luca is a monsterfucker send tweet. This is my first time writing him f if not tht good ;w;

Rated Mature | Warnings: monster reader

Send a line

Now all the survivors have the same styled rooms, same furniture, and various clothes for all of them to wear-- Aside from the special clothing Lady Nightingale would have them wear for anyone can guess her amusement. However, the room you are contained in is massive, full of wires, computers, and other marvelous things Luca has never seen before.

You float around your tank, a giant ball with often purple mist within to keep you in a state of calm. You supposedly are a new survivor, a creature to level the playing field when it comes to dealing with those of the divine like Dream Witch or Feaster, or as you told Luca: you want to annoy them for a bit.

He can never single out your face while you are in the glass ball, you have no physical form constructed and seem unable to make up your mind on an appearance.

“Luca, imagine me.” You told him as he worked, and studied the tech used to keep you contained and translate your words. “What do you see when you hear my voice?” He shivers when he feels your presence touching his mind, it is strange for when he feels you within he feels stable. “You need to focus, dear one.”

The longer he spends time with you, the more he finds you show, or attempt to show attraction. After months of studying his fragile fragmented mind, there are others you have poked your way it but Priestess told you that is invasive.

“Let me out.” You are gentle, nervous, “I shall dawn the skin you see me as.” The ball is opened once the gas has been filtered out, and you hiss in discomfort then relax as you link your mind to Luca to keep yourself in this reality. You have tried to explain this to both Priestess and Luca but it is a bit too complex for mortal minds to comprehend. “Wait!” He places a set of clothes he had found in his room one day. They are not in his size but they match the way he imagined your human form. “Put these on.”

“Is not nudity ideal for your kind?” Shifting your body from the mass of darkness and light.

“Well, nudity is called for when it is for bathing or well…”

“Coupling. Though you have worn clothes during this.”

“(Name), I said don’t peek into those!”

“My apologies, Luca.” The mist of your form fills the clothes lifting them before your human body is made in an instant. You blink, turning your head to look around, “Fascinating.” Examining yourself in the reflection of the containment ball. “You humans have very creative minds.”

Not many are used to seeing you outside of a match, and no one is used to being a human. It unsettles most who are not open-minded. You use it often once permitted by the Lady of the Manor. You find humans naturally make connections when in extreme circumstances or cut themselves off in order to protect themselves. Most are friendly but some are not ideal for bonding with.

You also learned sex can advance a connection when both are in agreement.

“We're going to fuck right here!?” Your room is not ideal, it is open for any to enter, “What if someone sees us?” He is being polite to you yet you have seen this man indulge in vices of the flesh in many of places.

“Then they may watch,” Deadpan as you sit on his lap, “Or join in if they need release as well.”

“Fuck.” That is hot in a lot of ways, “You're such a tease, you know that?” There is no way you do not understand what you are doing.

“I am aware.”

#idv luca #luca balsa #luca balsa x reader #luca balsa x you #reader insert #idv #anon ask #identity v x reader #identity v #identity v prisoner #idv prisoner #idv x you #idv x reader

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cloudwhisper23 · 1 month

Text

We're moving right along, fam! Happy Grumbo Month! Thanks again to @grow-bettah for the prompts! (Had a bit of difficulty with this one, but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway!)

Day 8: Matching

Scar needed to borrow a suit. To look professional, he told Mumbo. He needed to look good, and since he and Mumbo were the same height, Mumbo was the best option to ask for help.

Mumbo was the best option to ask for help, honestly. He was very accustomed to wearing his suit, so it was only natural that Scar turned to him. Except, Scar wanted to borrow a suit. And Mumbo only had one.

He told Scar the issue, and Scar said it was no problem. Mumbo could borrow his clothes for a day.

So now, Mumbo was sitting on the floor holding his knees as Scar showed him different options. He was uncomfortable with all of them so far.

“Not to rag on your fashion sense, mate, but-“

“Do not finish that sentence, Mumbo.”

“Right.” Mumbo slouched, letting his legs finally stretch in front of him. “Do you have anything less over-the-top?”

“I do. I just figured that since your whole thing is…” Scar gestured at Mumbo. “Well, you’re always in the suit! I thought you’d want something fashionable.”

“Fashionable and over-the-top are not always the same thing, mate. But I think the word you meant was formal. And it’s not that I can’t be casual. I just like the suit better.”

“Okay. I know that, which is why I was trying to match to that.”

Mumbo shook his head. “It’s not quite the same thing.”

“So you want to try something more casual?”

“I may as well give it a shot,” Mumbo replied. “But don’t forget, Scar. I will need the suit back. I have a very important meeting tomorrow.”

“Yes, you need to be all professional for when you meet Grian. I know, I know.” Scar pulled out a green sweater. “How’s this?”

“Better.” Mumbo felt his shoulders sag with relief. “That will work, Scar.”

Later that day, Scar waited for Mumbo to return before giving him some bad news. “So, the meeting went poorly.”

“Okay.” Mumbo shifted slightly in the sweater. “Why are you wearing different clothes?”

Scar winced. “Well, when some people consider something to be terrible, they throw things. Things that make a mess and stain.”

“Oh, Scar!” Mumbo exclaimed. “What have you done?”

“I didn’t mean to, Mumbo! I’m sorry!”

“Now what am I supposed to wear tomorrow?” Mumbo buried his face in his hands. “I was meant to be making a good impression.”

“Well, I’ve done some research on this Grian guy, and I think a sweater would do just fine. That’s what he typically wears anyway.”

“I can’t just come in and steal the man’s style, Scar.”

“Well, it’s not stealing if it’s temporary. Besides, he’d probably see you as a fan, not a usurper. You already have the whole look with the mustache and the suit and everything. And he probably knows that too. It would be flattering!”

Mumbo sighed. “Fine then. What kind of sweater would you have me wear?”

Scar brightened. “I have just the one.”

Grian wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that Mumbo Jumbo was running late. Honestly, he thought the time and location he’d sent had been clear enough. Apparently not.

The judges didn’t seem to mind that Grian’s competition was running late, but then again, Grian was used to this sort of thing. Maybe they’d try and start right when Mumbo Jumbo got here. It certainly seemed like something they would do.

His fingers twitched toward the Creative inventory. Grian was too on edge, and they needed to get started. Buildswap wasn’t the only thing Grian needed to work on today. Where is he?

Just when Grian was preparing to call it, Mumbo appeared next to him, blabbing apologies. Grian cut him off immediately. “Where have you been?”

“Fashion emergency?” Mumbo scratched his neck.

“You were panicking about what to wear? Mumbo Jumbo, this is a build battle. Who cares what you’re wearing? The judges certainly don’t.” Grian shook his head, finally looking at the other man. “And-“

He fell silent, even as the judges grinned at each other. Grian blinked, expecting the red sweater to change into something else. Literally anything other than what it was.

“I had to borrow some clothes-” Mumbo started.

“We match,” Grian cut him off again.

There was another painful pause. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just get started.”

Mumbo nodded weakly, and the rest of the competition passed without incident. The conversation between them was somewhat stilted, but at the very least, the judges were able to help Grian warm up. This certainly was the man’s element, Mumbo noticed.

When Grian gave him a contact card to plan another session, Mumbo was just grateful that he was getting another chance. He hadn’t completely messed things up with Grian, at least. The man was willing to work with him again! That was something, right?

For the next Buildswap, Mumbo was ready. He’d gotten his suit cleaned, and the familiar material made him feel much more comfortable. He wasn’t even late this time!

Grian was noticeably absent though.

The two judges from last time didn’t seem too bothered by it, having their own discussion off to the side.

A tug at his sleeve made Mumbo jolt. “Something wrong?” Grian asked innocently.

“You weren’t here a moment ago.” Mumbo relaxed.

“Nah, I’ve been here the whole time. Invisibility just wore off.” Grian smiled cheekily. “Like my outfit?”

Mumbo glanced down at him. “What on earth…?”

Grian had an ill-fitting suit that mirrored Mumbo’s own suit, black with a red tie. “I guess we match again.” His smile widened. “What a strange coincidence.”

“That was an accident!”

“How do you know this wasn’t an accident?”

“The suit doesn’t even fit you,” Mumbo pointed out.

“Neither did the sweater. It seemed a bit tight on you,” Grian shot back, still smiling.

Mumbo’s eyebrows furrowed, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. He was grateful that was the moment when the judges decided to nudge them into starting.

He wasn’t sure what to think of the implications that Grian might’ve been checking him out.

#grumbo month #grumbo #hermitshipping #grian #mumbo #cloud writes

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slugtranslation-hypmic · 5 months

Note

Haiiiii ^_^ can you translate Rivals! from the block party album? pretty please with CHEESE 🧀

Sure. Under a cut for length.

This one just seems to be goofy vibes and doesn't have as much imagery or anything requiring reworking as the last three requested songs. As a result, the translation is pretty darn literal. No attention paid to rhyming, line length, or rhythm.

Don't let screwing up or getting screwed over get you down! Action plz For everyone born under an unlucky star: Passion plz We're constantly flipping out over where we went wrong. 1, 2, 3! Turn it up, yo! Action plz I feel like I'm pulling a blunder, shooting craps and betting on big 6 [1] at the last second. Don't stop the game! Oh please, can't I get some fiction plz? [2] To hit the button to go back and redo everything. Just you wait; I'll destroy the current reality! Aren't you about to go off the rails? Aren't you about to fall off the tightrope act? Take it easy, baby, now. Take it easy, baby, now. [3] And screw it! Let's play it fast and loose! Let's gooo!

Don't let screwing up or getting screwed over get you down! Action plz For everyone born under an unlucky star: Passion plz We're constantly committed to flipping out over where we went wrong. We say, "Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!" Go, go, go, go! UGH. Time to bolt down the meal I paid for with my overtime. Hm? My cellphone's ringing off the hook. Slapping down hardcore rhymes on my time card, Participating in another joint effort so we can all clock out with a bang. 1, 2, 3. Yup, let's all line up. 2, 2, 3. And march in step. We take our lyrics very seriously, and we're strongly committed to providing you with a great singing experience! [4] My eyes can tell, tell, tell what it takes to win. [5] The one and only guy to cross the most ridiculous lines, living on nothing but adrenaline, taking each day as it comes and winning! Yeah, take it easy, baby, now. Take it easy, baby, now. And screw it! Let's play it fast and loose! Let's gooo!

Don't let screwing up or getting screwed over get you down! Action plz For everyone born under an unlucky star: Passion plz Everyone's gotta struggle and put in the hard work, even the folks you're sick and tired of. We say, "Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!" Go, go, go, go! I bet all my chips right from moment one. It's all or nothing. It's the uprising of the corporate drones. Don't mess with guys who've got nothing to lose. There's no doubt about it; we're gonna burn out sooner or later. That's just our fate. Poor us! Dead or Alive in da house Crazy DOPPO in da house Yeah, yeah, high, high, let's gooo! [6]

Don't let screwing up or getting screwed over get you down! Action plz For everyone born under an unlucky star: Passion plz Wishing you all the luck--or, well, as lucky as you can ever be. Someday we'll laugh over this together, but until then we're Rivals! Rivals!

[1] Craps big 6

[2] This part's written in English, but I assume he means "fiction" in the sense of 空想 or 絵空事--something he wants that's too good to be real. In this case, it's a button he can hit to go back and redo everything.

[3] If I am correctly assuming what they're trying to say, this is more naturally worded as "Now, take it easy, baby." [4] Admittedly, this part's not very literal haha. I was having difficulty with the tone otherwise. Like a lot of Doppo's raps, it's written in a style reminiscent of business language. I drew inspiration for this bit of PR BS from some real life companies in a BBC article. [5] This (勝ち線, kachisen, lit. "victory line") is a pun on 勝ち戦 (kachisen, a fight someone wins). Dice then uses this to perform a piece of wordplay on the phrase "一線を越える/cross the line" which, unlike its English counterpart, can carry a connotation of breaking an established norm in a good way. (Hence the Cross a Line song--ie, breaking the norms by going above and beyond in new, revolutionary ways)

[6] Partially a pun on how はい (yeah) 灰 (lit. ash, part of the line I translated as "burn out") and English "high" all sound similar and partially evoking a sense of high energy.

#hypmic translations

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cerame · 8 months

Text

Artisan’s and Archer’s designs

So a little bit ago, I got a compliment on the two designs of Echoes of Courage I'm proudest of. I do love all these characters, but these two took a bit more creativity on my part, so I'm going to explain them because I am a sucker for design. I will try to remember as many of my own details as I can, but no promises.

Let's explain Archer first.

Behold, the most recent Link! Breath of the Wild took a departure from the classic green, so I kept with that and made his tunic the main splotch of color on him. The browns and monotone colors are subdued in comparison so that the blue can have the spotlight.

In regards to the tunic itself, botw and totk both have significant influence from traditional Japanese culture, as seen with the sheikah taking on a more japanese fashion sense and the dragons being eastern instead of european shaped, so I kept that with the design of his shirt. His tunic was originally the shape it was in botw, but after the calamity, it sustained such damage that Impa was only able to save some parts of the tunic. Using those parts, she repaired it as best she could, but Archer took a liking to Kakariko fashion anyway, so he's perfectly happy with it. In addition, with the looser fashion of the ancient clothes, I changed his belt to a more ribbony shape.

Thinking about how his shirt might have worked during botw. Perhaps he wore it as a haori, or maybe it was damaged, of a shorter cut, etc. and his Zelda made him the current one. Nothing is concrete about that yet, and I think it would be neat if it was different than it is post-totk.

The turtleneck and the leather armor from the new tunic in totk is incredibly charming to me, so I naturally had to keep it, but in order to show it off practically over the tunic I'd decided on, his sleeve got pulled down. I also designed him before totk came out but after the first trailer came out, and from the trailers, we could all tell that something was going to happen to his arm. I had no idea what purpose it would serve or how Link would end up by the end of the game, so I kept his arm covered up but outside his shirt. Turned out to be a good call.

As for his hair, I loved seeing his hair down so often in totk. It feels all free and wild and soft, so I kept it, except it felt a bit impractical to have it hanging all around him like that, so I did a half-bun. He gets to keep his hair down while tying it out of his face. This also lends itself further to eastern style inspiration.

A note on the smaller details: he does wear his amber earrings, and he's got scars across his body.

Now, we have Artisan.

It was a bit more difficult to figure out Artisan at first. I took inspiration from as many links meet aus as I could find, but everything for him is so varied, and while it's fun, it does make it difficult to nail down what does work. Unlike with Archer, I had no real direction in the beginning, so I searched for what made him unique as a Link. I also went back to the original ideas of character design, the most prominent being outlines and silhouettes. I'm still a bit iffy on his silhouette, but overall, he works.

First, the albw aspects: His bracelet from Ravio went inactive after the rifts between Lorule and Hyrule closed, but he still wears it. It's becoming comforting to him. As for the clasp on his cloak, it is absolutely the two triforces, and he got it custom-made in Hytopia. His pegasus boots are also from albw, and since Collector and Forge both had their unique pegasus boots, I had to come up with something just as striking for Artisan..... and then, I looked upon none other than the Zelda cartoon of olde, and I decided that Artisan would absolutely wear over-knee boots. So that's what he got.

Now, his triforce heroes parts. I know the green one is player one and all that jazz, but I wanted to see if I could do something not-green, just like Archer or even Piper. The sword suit in the costume catalogue stood out, and not just because the red link is wearing it in the official art. It's more tame than most other choices, and it's casually royal, which is a strange flavor of style, but I discovered after significant experimentation that when you pair it (or the idea of it) with poofy bardic sleeves (yellow, courtesy of albw's blue tunic) and gloves, it takes on an almost roguish look while maintaining the fancier feel. Also, when I lined him up next to Collector and Scout, I found that their colors together were red, blue, then green, and I couldn't not keep him blue after realizing that.

Notes: his cloak is still a bit weird to me, but I've gotten too used to it. Hytopia pushes the boundaries of fashion anyhow, so he can do whatever he likes. His hair is dyed because that's just fun, and it's braided because everyone else in this AU has short hair or a ponytail, and I wanted him to feel more well-groomed than everyone else. He gets to take care of it, and he has gotten hair care advice from Princess Styla. I didn't originally intend for this effect, but the pale outlines of white and gold on his clothing really make his outline pop. The consecutive dark colors of his tunic, pants, and boots would not work without those lines. His eyes are, in fact, purple! Ravio, in turn, has green eyes. I did doubt the choice of yellow sleeves at first, since it's not exactly the secondary color of my choice, but I went with it, and I was pleasantly surprised to see it work so well. Perhaps it was the yellow of his hair and the golden accents, but I am very pleased with it. He only comes a century or so after Collector, so I had to pick a tunic shape that could hold similarities between the two of them, which is why the collar of their outer layer is the same for both of them.

Archive

#my art #loz au #legend of zelda #links meet au #echoes of courage #EoC Artisan #EoC Archer

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devoted-domme · 2 months

Note

How did you know your into being dominant ? Anything particular you like in a sub ?

So, this became a bit longer than I had anticipated, so my reply to both questions will be under a cut!

For your first question: Honestly, I think I have known from a very young age, even before puberty.

I’ve always felt drawn to stories about deep, meaningful relationships based on some sort of power imbalance and extreme devotion, like servants and knights who would do anything for their master or king. Basically, any character who was naturally submissive towards an authority figure and who was deeply devoted to them.

Scenes in which someone knelt in front of their master were my favourites and I’d re-read them over and over again. It wasn’t sexually motivated since I was too young for that, and yet something about these types of scenes always made my heart race.

Then during puberty, I discovered that I was attracted to both men and women but I don’t enjoy being penetrated and never liked the expectations that society held for women in straight relationships. I never wanted to be the object of someone’s desires, I wanted to be the active party who has agency and be the person who leads and initiates. I never liked the thought of me lying there and having someone else shower me with affection, I wanted to be the person in control and do these things to someone else and make sure they feel good.

Because of this, I thought I was fully lesbian for a long time, even though I do find men attractive. But I never thought it would be possible to be a man without all of the associated gender roles and the way straight sex was framed in general was such a turn-off, with the language people use and all the gendered expectations.

I only ever dated women because it was easier to escape those expectations and easier to explain what being a stone top means. I never believed men would be interested in getting penetrated and being submissive so I stuck to female partners who enjoyed it.

And of course, I’m not saying you can’t be dominant and enjoy being penetrated, it’s just something that I personally don’t want and it’s really hard to escape that expectation if you try dating in straight circles.

Seeking out online spaces for femdom (and in particular, Tumblr as it tends to be less focused on straight relationships and rigid gender roles, in general) really helped me strengthen my own understanding of my sexuality.

Now, onto your second question:

Truthfully, I am very picky when it comes to choosing a sub since I’m not really interested in just casual play so my sub would also be my romantic partner (I’m not talking about answering a spicy ask/message here and there, I’m very open to that, just anything beyond that is purely reserved for my romantic partner).

Generally, I would be looking for a “naturally submissive” sub, not just someone who is into it as a kink. That doesn’t mean I’m looking for a 24/7 type of deal at all, I just mean that I want a sub who is just that – submissive. They want me to actually be in charge in the bedroom and are happy to do what I want to do instead of only wanting a “kink dispenser” who caters to their every wish.

It’s a bit ironic, considering that my preferred domming style is very focused on the sub and their pleasure but at the same time I don’t want to be told what to do. It’s fine to give suggestions, they should absolutely have kinks they love and firm limits they don’t want to cross but it gets annoying when I feel like they want to “direct” the scene.

It’s also very important to me that my sub sees me as an actual real-life human being who is flawed, just like everyone else. I’m not some mysterious goddess who is always “on” and in domme mode 24/7. I’m often quite dorky and awkward and they need to be able to understand that and understand that real life isn’t fantasy and people don’t behave like they do in whatever pornography they have seen or erotica they have read.

I need to get the impression that I actually matter to them as a person, beyond the utility I can offer to them (and of course, I will do them the same courtesy!).

Needless to say, the same things apply here as in any other relationship: good communication, the willingness to listen and speak up if there are problems, mutual respect (especially with regards to boundaries) and trust, willingness to compromise, a strong sense of self and independence, loyalty, empathy, dependability, an overall emotional connection and so on.

(And of course, what I have listed here are things that I would also strive to give back in return in a relationship!)

Naturally, we should also have compatible kinks and a similar idea of what our D/s dynamic should look like and my sub should have a strong idea of their limits (saying they have “no limits” is a red flag, for sure!). I need to be able to trust them to actually use their safeword if they need to (just as they need to trust me to also then stop the scene if they do and not be mad at them for using their safeword).

Having standards is also a green flag – if I get the impression that they are actually picky about who gets to dom(me) them it already helps to make me feel more at ease and like I’m actually being treated like a person instead of just their kink wish fulfillment.

Of course, like anyone else, physical attraction plays a strong role in who I want to date/take as a sub, but I am attracted to a lot of different "types" and I do think how someone carries themselves and their general mannerisms and personality play a huge role in my attraction to them as well.

Also, I think as someone whose love language is Acts of Service and who enjoys taking care of my partners, it’s easy to attract subs who genuinely believe I can/will “fix” them when the truth is: no one can fix you but yourself. Of course, it is always easier to improve yourself when you have the support of someone else but the drive to change needs to come from within.

So, I need my sub to be an actual adult, capable of living their day-to-day life. That doesn’t mean they’re not allowed to struggle with things (I do as well), just that they need to be overall mature and independent.

Now, I do think it's fun to give subs incentives to improve their lives, to give them little tasks and rewards and I think it can be a good way to help them keep good habits, but this only really works to a small extent and they still need to be motivated to change by themselves.

Additionally, a potential sub would need to not be into any kinks that are misogynistic, homophobic or racist like s/issies and c/uckolding (it shouldn't be degrading to be penetrated or to wear feminine clothing or to have sex with black men, unless you actually believe being a woman or being black or gay is inherently more degrading than being a white straight man).

For male subs, they need to be feminist allies and be actively working on undoing toxic masculinity and be respectful to women in general, not just the ones they’re attracted to and not just for however long they need to get into a woman’s pants. I think a lot of male subs think just because they’re “submissive” they’re somehow above misogyny when truthfully, I have experienced more sexism from male subs than I have from any of the regular blokes in my life.

In terms of overall personality, I’m hugely attracted to people who are just genuinely good people – kind and helpful. I adore gentle people and even those who are a bit shy. I don’t need someone to be the smartest person or the most confident or the funniest, just try to be the kindest version of yourself you can be.

I think that’s all! Sorry for the long rambling response but I really enjoyed getting all my thoughts out. I hope some of this is still useful to you (or anyone else who happens to be reading this!).

#bd/sm discussion #bd/sm kink #fdom #gentle fdom #gentle femdxm #wlw bd/sm #female dom #gentle dom #mine #ask

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writingwhimsey · 2 months

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Married to the Enemy- Shingen Ch. 7

Chapter 7

After getting myself calmed down, Shingen and I headed to the banquet which was being held in the main hall. My cheeks were still a little red…but well I hadn’t been expecting Shingen to kiss the top of my head like that! It had been such a sweet and affectionate gesture. Noy to mention, he kept my hand in his as we walked towards the banquet.

“I hope you are looking forward to this banquet tonight, Ava.” Shingen said.

I smiled at him, hoping the pink on my cheeks was enough to pass as just being a healthy amount of color. “I am. I always had fun at the banquets in Azuchi.”

“I will see to it you have even more fun.” Shingen replied, smiling warmly.

We soon reached the door to the main hall and Shingen was sliding it open. When we walked in, I was a bit surprised. At Azuchi the banquets, while casual still held a bit of a formal air about them. Everyone had their spots, sitting by rank…pretty much how they sat for war councils. Here everyone was in little pockets of loose groups and there appeared to be no rhyme or reason to it. Everyone seemed to sit where they wanted to.

“We don’t have any kind of formality here, whatsoever.” Shingen said, as if reading my thoughts from my face.

I smiled. “I can see that…I like that.”

Shingen led me around the room, introducing me to a few more of his vassals that were scattered about the room. They were all rather friendly and polite. We soon came to a spot where Kenshin, Sasuke, Kanetsugu, Yukimura, Saki, and Sasuke were seated along with another man I had yet to meet.

The man I had yet to meet, smiled at me as we sat down. He had dark hair which was in a ponytail hanging over his shoulder and a beauty mark under his chin. He had a rather relaxed and yet ethereal air about him.

“Ava, I want you to meet my cousin, Yoshimoto.” Shingen introduced us. “Yoshimoto, this is my wife Ava.”

Yoshimoto smiled at me as he looked me up and down. “What a lovely kimono. Truly a work of art.”

I felt my cheeks flushing. Though I know he was complimenting my clothes…it was still the way he was looking at me…and well I was wearing the kimono. “Thank you.”

“See, aren’t you glad I told you to wear that kimono, Ava?” Saki teased me.

“Did you style her hair as well?” Yoshimoto asked. “It’s simple yet elegant and compliments her face very well.”

It was Saki’s turn to blush now. “I did. I also did her makeup.”

“You did such a lovely job.” Yoshimoto praised. “You did well bringing out her natural beuaty.”

Saki giggled and blushed. “Well, thank you, my lord.”

Yukimura was rolling his eyes. “I don’t know why you two are getting so giggly and blushy over his dumb comments.”

Saki turned to Yukimura with a frown. “Because it’s nice to hear nice things from people.” She answered. “How can you be so dense?”

Kenshin sat looking bored as he downed a cup of sake. “I knew bringing women into this castle would be a bad idea.” He said.

“I think they bring a breath of fresh air into the castle. It has always needed a woman’s touch around here.” Shingen said.

“Surely there are maids and others around the castle.” I replied.

“Yes, but they leave me alone.” Kenshin said. “They do their jobs and stay out of my way.”

“Don’t let Kenshin’s sour disposition bother you.” Shingen assured me. “He’ll be better once he’s had more sake.”

“Don’t forget his pickled plums.” Sasuke added.

Soon trays of food were being set before us. Shingen’s was piled high with sweets. I had a few sweets on my tray, but had several other dishes as well. “This smells and looks delicious.” I said. “I still don’t understand how you can eat so many sweets, Shingen. If I ate that many my stomach would be killing me.”

“I just really enjoy my favorite things.” Shingen replied with a shrug.

“Your wife is right though.” Yukimura spoke up. “It wouldn’t kill you to eat more like she does. You know, like normal people.”

“I guess I could cut back.” Shingen said, lifting a hand and stroking his chin in thought. Then a puckish grin came across his face as he turned those gray eyes to me. “You will help me with that, won’t you Ava?”

“I mean, if you’re wanting me to help you, I guess I can.” I replied. “Though I’m not sure exactly what I can do to help.”

Shingen grinned at me. He was then taking my hand in one of his, while using his other to push his tray away towards Yukimura. “Here, Yuki take this away from me.”

Yukimura eyed his lord skeptically, but did as Shingen requested. He was then bringing him a tray that had a more balanced plate on it.

I looked at mine and Shingen’s joined hands, wondering just what he was up to. “Shingen…”

Shingen looked at me, his eyes warm and an easy smile on his face. “Yes, Ava?”

“What exactly is your plan?” I asked, looking pointedly at our joined hands.

“You’ll see.” Shingen replied. He was then taking a bite of his food, seemingly enjoying it, but he also made a face. “It’s good, but I really do need something sweet to balance it out.” He was then bringing my hand up to place a kiss on the back.

I felt a spark where his warm lips touched my skin and a pleasant tingling sensation worked its way up my arm. “O-oh…wait…am I…now your something sweet?”

Shingen grinned at me. “Beautiful and brilliant.” He said. “Yes, in order to cut back on how many sweets I eat, I’ll just have to steal a kiss every time a craving hits me.”

“Ugh, I should have known he’d do something like this.” Yukimura grumbled. He was then pushing the tray of sweets back towards Shingen. “Here! I’d rather see you eat too many sweets than flirting with your wife.”

Saki was smacking Yukimura on the shoulder. “Oh let them flirt.” She said.

“Them? I don’t see Ava doing anything other than turning into a tomato.” Yukimura countered.

This only made me turn even redder. And while Shingen had accepted his tray, he hadn’t let go of my hand…not that I was complaining. With my free hand, I reached for my sake cup, taking a sip trying to hide my embarrassment.

“I think we should find something else to talk about.” Sasuke said.

“Yes before I get bored and kill all of you.” Kenshin declared.

“Lord Kenshin…” Sasuke said.

“I don’t blame our lord.” Kanetsugu said, refilling Kenshin’s cup.

We all chatted for a while longer, there was more teasing and joking that went on as the banquet went on. I found myself drinking a bit more of my sake than I normally would have…purely out of embarrassment. Shingen continued to hold my hand throughout the banquet, bringing it to his lips every so often and not touching his tray of sweets.

After a while Shingen leaned in to whisper in my ear. “Would you like to get some fresh air, Ava?” He asked, the fingertips of his free hand brushing against my flushed cheeks…which were from a combination of the alcohol and the intoxicating presence that was Shingen.

A pleasant shiver ran down my spine, but I nodded. “Y-yes…”

Shingen turned to everyone else. “We’re going to step out for a bit and get some air. We’ll see you all later.” He said before standing up and then offering me his hand.

I placed my hand in his and allowed him to help me up. I had more to drink than I thought as I was unsteady on my feet. I could feel myself teetering and that was when I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist.

“Don’t worry I’ve got you.” Shingen said to me as he steadied me. Once he was sure I was secure, we started to walk away, his arm still around me.

We made our way outside and were soon standing in a lovely garden. The cool night air was a blessing on my heated cheeks. Shingen led me to a bench that was beside a reflecting pond and helped me to sit down before taking the seat beside me.

I took in a deep breath of the night air. “It is a beautiful night.” I said as I looked around the garden.

“It is.” Shingen agreed. “Thank you for agreeing to come out here with me.”

“Do you like the garden?” I asked.

“It is a pleasant place to be.” Shingen agreed. “But…also I was just being a bit selfish.”

“How so?” I asked, my brow furrowing in confusion.

Shingen smiled as he lifted a hand to caress my cheek. “Because I enjoy seeing this adorable look on your face, but I am not fond of sharing it with anyone else.”

I felt my breath catch at his words. I could tell by the light in his gray eyes that he was completely sincere right now. “And here I thought you…were just trying to be considerate of me.” I teased after a moment.

Shingen chuckled. “Well, there is that too. I thought you could use some fresh air.”

I smiled at him before turning my gaze back to the sky above us, a beautiful crescent moon and a blanket of millions of brilliant stars illuminating the night sky. We sat there in companionable silence for a few moments, both of us just enjoying the night together. Though of course, now was a perfect time to get to know more about Shingen.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve already spoken with Kenshin and the castle seamstresses. They are all in agreement that you would be a welcome addition. I can introduce you tomorrow.” Shingen said before I had the chance to ask him anything.

“Oh, I would love that!” I said, an excited smile on my face. “Thank you, Shingen!”

“Anything to see that beautiful smile.” Shingen replied. “Perhaps after that we can go out on the town. I’ll show you around and if there are any sewing notions you need, we can get them.”

“Oh, we don’t have to do the shopping…but going out does sound nice.” I replied. “I believe you did mention some bakeries and good tea houses here when we had our first date.”

Shingen grinned. “We could indeed visit some of those.” He agreed. “But if we walk around the shops and you see something you need we can still get it.”

I giggled. “I don’t think I should need anything, but I don’t mind walking around town with you.”

“I am happy that my lovely wife is so willing to spend time with me.” Shingen said, smiling at me.

“Well…you are pleasant company.” I replied. I was starting to feel nice and warm and fuzzy…a bit sleepy from the sake I had consumed and some of my defenses were down more than they normally would be. I ended up leaning my head against Shingen’s shoulder…very firm and broad shoulder.

“Are you getting tired, Ava?” Shingen asked, his velvety voice warm.

“Mmm…maybe a little.” I answered. “But…I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”

“Alright.” Shingen replied, moving so that his arm was around me and my head was on his chest as I rested against his side.

“You know…I was really nervous before our wedding.” I said, the alcohol pulling my honest thoughts from me. “I…I was scared of what you might be like. I mean…a man doesn’t get known as a tiger for being cuddly and all.”

Shingen chuckled lightly, but nodded. “I can see how that would be scary.” He said. “How do you feel now?”

“I feel…like I got lucky with you.” I answered. “You’re kind and warm…very warm.” I was nestling into his side further now, enjoying the warmth of his body. “Letting things go at a pace I’m comfortable with and…making sure I can still work…it’s nice.”

“I am glad that I was able to dispel your fears then.” Shingen said, his voice sincere.

“What about you?” I asked. “What were you thinking…before we got married? Were…were you curious about me or concerned?”

“I would think you could tell I was curious.” Shingen answered with a chuckle.

“Hmm, you did intentionally run into me the day before.” I replied. “What were you thinking about me…after that run in?”

“That I was a lucky man to get to marry such a beautiful woman.” Shingen answered. “And perhaps I did some more looking into you before that even.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning my head to look up at Shingen.

“I asked Yukimura and Sasuke about you, since I knew they were your friends.” Shingen answered. “And I did ask around Azuchi about you. Everyone was quite taken with their kind princess. Not one person had a bad thing to say about you.”

I felt my cheeks heating up. “Oh…”

“And so once again, I was happy to learn I was a lucky man.” Shingen said once again.

“Now you’re just making me blush…” I said, looking away abashed.

We sat there for a while longer, looking up at the moon and enjoying the silence. I could feel myself relaxing further into Shingen. “I think you might be ready for bed, Ava.” Shingen said.

“Mmm…I think you might…be right.” I replied around a yawn.

Shingen helped me to my feet once again and then walked me back to my room. We were soon standing outside my door. “Have pleasant dreams, Ava.” Shingen said, bringing both of my hands up to his lips and placing a kiss on each hand.

I felt a warm tingly sensation flowing from my hands and up my arms at the touch of his lips. As I looked into his eyes, I was overcome by a strong desire. Shingen was constantly showing me affection…I had the urge to show him some as well. He had shown me so much tonight.

“I had fun tonight and I look forward to our day tomorrow.” I said and quickly leaned close, stretching up to place a kiss on his cheek. “Goodnight, Shingen.”

Shingen’s gray eyes went wide, but a slow smile spread across those handsome lips. “Goodnight, Ava.” He replied, leaning in to kiss my forehead.

I felt tingly down to my toes and a giddy smile worked its way across my face as I turned to walk into my room. I had been extra sleepy…but now I felt that I might have a harder time getting to sleep than I thought.

Shingen…

Shingen walked back to his own room after escorting Ava to hers, a smile on his face. His cheek felt tingly where she had kissed him. It had been so cute and so sweet…and his response to kiss her forehead had been a sincere reaction.

“I hadn’t been expecting that.” He murmured, his hand going to rest on his cheek, as if he could hold the warmth of her lips there. “I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.”

#ikesen shingen #ikemen sengoku shingen #shingen takeda #ikesen #ikemen sengoku #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #arranged marriage #au #fanfic #fanfiction #ikemen series #otome boys #cybird

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queenimmadolla · 2 years

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Out of Touch In Harmony

SUMMARY: in which Eddie and his arch-nemesis smoke a couple of joints and talk about how much they (don't) hate each other. then proceed to suck face. WARNINGS: A whole lot of banter and misunderstandings. some fluff with a liddlebito spice. NOTE: the random thought that turned into +4k words. i tried to leave the timeline vast enough for drabbles and other stuff in case this becomes a series or something. i was also high the entire time I wrote this, and seeing as how I just finished like 5 mins ago, there are definitely gonna be mistakes because i am still indeed trippin. i'll fix it later though. also don't steal my shit i guess.

masterlist

You could feel the tension sloshing throughout the classroom, threatening to burst through the door and flood the halls.

English class with Ms. O’Donnell wouldn’t be considered entertaining to literally anyone in the entire world and truthfully it’s neither the subject nor the teacher (she’s too fucking expired to be as much of an old crone as she is) that keeps a smug smirk plastered on your face.

It’s the dumb ass super senior two rows back, one seat over.

You weren’t like the others. No, you hadn’t judged Eddie Munson based on reputation only. To you, he had the chance to prove he wasn’t a freak or a loser. And that’s were you went wrong. Unfortunately, that stupid little crush you had on him in the fourth grade when he was the only one to compliment your (admittedly) atrocious hair cut (which you still gave your mom a hard time about to this very day) clouded your judgement. He was two grades ahead of you, and your little self had been heartbroken when he moved onto high school, while you stayed in middle school.

You were completely fucking flabbergasted when you finally followed and saw he began to develop the sense of style he had currently, shit, you hadn’t even thought it was weird. It was hot and most certainly an awakening. You were meant for a different crowd, though. Joined Cheer as a freshman, and quietly pined for him. Then you found out he had a crush on Chrissy Cunningham sophomore year, so naturally you hated him.

That bitch Erin hadn’t been able to shut the hell up about it in the locker room. And Chrissy, the endearing little chick, found it cute. Not cute enough to date him, thank god, but cute nonetheless. Plus, you didn’t like how he ripped on other people’s interests just because some (okay, most, but not all!) didn’t like his. It hadn’t been too big of a deal until it had been your table that was the focus of one of his Public Lunch Announcements. You’d been so embarrassed, especially after seeing the way he smirked as he soaked the sudden emotion up, proud of the fact that he’d humiliated you.

You didn’t join the of hierarchy of popularity though until senior year. Freshman year was spent pining (and then hating) in quiet after him and being plain, sophomore year was spent more or less the same except your body proportions didn’t match your face, junior year you were almost there and losing the meek-ness that anchored you down from ever reaching confidence. You’d managed to squeeze Volleyball and Softball into your schedule. You’d also easily managed to maintain straight A’s (we don’t talk about how you’ve barely made it to Algebra 2 and that math is the subject you had to actively sweat your vagina off studying to pass) which pleases the parent (ensuring a bit more freedom), and then your cheer coach Connie announced that you and Judy would be taking over as Co-Captains since Alizae and Carmen graduated. Of course, Chrissy managed to become the most popular girl in school, but you still managed to obtain a validating amount of respect, and everyone says 'hi' to you first now.

Except Eddie. No, you two hadn't acknowledged each other’s existence except in instances to cause the other as much public embarrassment as they could in a single sitting.

You still maintained the latest victory after sticking some gum to the beginnings of a stream of toilet paper and managing to smush it against his dirty reeboks under the guise of kicking his shoe in class. He’d made it to his next class before he noticed what the looks were about. People usually had the decency to save the laughter for lunch, he should’ve caught on sooner.

He had failed senior year. Twice. Another thing you liked to use against him when you two got particularly nasty with each other.

It was a genuine hateship, one that had never managed to meet this amount of tension until this particular class. While you’d had the Senior Citizen for other classes before, the teachers mostly lectured. O’Donnell asked questions. Which gave you so many chances to embarrass him in front of the whole class by correcting his dumbass answers with as much snark as you could.

This time he couldn’t provide an example of a hyperbole and you’d offered up the solution. Sure, it was in relation to his embarrassing life and everyone laughed, but he hadn’t appreciated it.

You could feel the heat of his stare the rest of the class, but by the time lunch had ended, you’d forgotten about each other’s existence. He’d gone off to do stuff for hellfire and probably sell or whatever else it is he does, and you went to cheer.

Practice had ended earlier than normal when coach Connie hurt her hip and started crying over losing her youth. Sensing the oncoming breakdown, the team had encouraged her to just call it a night, which is how you found yourself on the wooden bench some ways into the woods behind the school.

With your schedule, you didn’t get as much downtime as you’d like this early in the day. Very disheartening, considering the sun was about an hour from sunset. So you’d thought you might just give yourself some time to yourself rather than go spend it with your friends. Besides, you had a nice joint to keep you company and your walkman.

You were about halfway done with the joint and you lowered your headset to swap out the tape when you heard a branch snap behind and nearly had a heart attack, twisting around to actually find someone sitting behind you.

You gasped, a hand rushing up in attempt to calm the organ through your clothes somehow, relief flooding you when you realized it was just Eddie.

He had that stupid smirk plastered on his face, probably got a thrill from scaring you. “Hey-,” it only widens as you settle enough to relax in a huff. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you, spitfire.” There’s nothing nice about it.

It’s definitely the weed allowing you to be this cordial, because you find yourself saying, “It’s fine. Never thought I’d be happy to see your face. You, as opposed to like Jason Voorhees or some other killer.”

Eddie squints at you, slight disbelief on his face before it morphs into something resembling realization as he gives the air a good sniff, the corners of his lips twitching.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” He pushes himself dramatically back from the table, taking a few steps back all the while his expression takes on mock shock. “Spitfire…Spitfire, are you high?”

You can’t help the slow smile that you find your lips pulling up into, you give a pathetic attempt at hiding it before you give in. “Yeah. Uh, I am. Why is that surprising, you seem shocked.”

He stares at you, grin softening while he tongues his canine. You realize, thanks to your delayed sense of any self preservation, that his gaze is focused on you. Like hyper focused on you. Oh, shit. He had you when you were unable to defend yourself from an insult.

Then he just chuckles, gaze flickering to the ground and then back to you as he flicks his wrists before crossing his arms over his chest. “Nah, I just guess I never entertained the idea that you might smoke. Anything other than a cigar, anyways.”

You wince, but giggle knowing he’s referring to your projected air of sophistication compared to his. “Don’t even put that thought in my head, just the thought of a cigar tastes terrible to me.”

He laughs along with you, slowly making his way closer. “No cigars, noted."

You’re feeling relaxed, plus you know no one is around so you decided to offer a moment of truce. “Would you care for a temporary olive branch? Olive joint?”

Eddie scoffs and mumbles, “Would I care for a…” But he trails off, gaze feeling heavier as the those stupid big beautiful eyes stare at you. You can feel yourself beginning to react, how every single one of your nerves seem to be coming slowly back to life. Why did you feel like something was happening? “Yeah. Yeah, I’d care for an olive joint.” He closes the distance between you two, keeping an arms length away (his arm).

You had no idea touching fingers could feel as good as it does when his brush yours as they take the joint. You glance up at him to find him still watching you, then he moves to sit on the bench next to you, elbows leaned back against the table as he wraps his surprisingly plump for a dude’s lips around the filter and inhales. He exhales slow, the smoke wafting around you two, and pulls it away to eye it. “You make this?”

“Yup.”

“Nice craftsmanship.” It sounds genuine, which pleases you again for that mystery reason,

“Thanks, I spent an hour on it.”

He lets out a low whistle, looking thoroughly amused from you to the joint. “If you’re trying to impress me, spitfire, consider it a job well done. You craft instead of roll, so I’m guessing you don’t get to smoke often?”

You rest your elbows on before answering. “No, I smoke pretty often.”

“So then you don’t smoke often and get to enjoy it?”

“That’s right.”

“Pity.”

You spend the next 15 minutes passing it back and forth before it’s done. Eddie tosses it and rubs it into the dirt with his shoe before producing another one from seemingly nowhere. “Guess it’s my turn to extend the olive joint.”

It’s stupid, but you grin wide, trying to ignore the way his stare keeps flickering back over to you while he takes the first hit.

You take that moment to really look at him. How pretty his hair was, your fingers twitched, just itching to play with the waves. You wonder how soft it would feel, twirling around your fingers, would it be easy to run your hands through? How would it feel like, pressed up against your neck, or with thebottom half framing your face if he was on top? And those eyes, should be illegal for a man with a smile like his to also have eyes that beautiful. So intense, but so telling. That’s how you could always tell when you managed to push his buttons. Those eyes wouldn’t let him hide a thing.

Jesus. So much for being over Eddie Munson. The attraction you had nail gunned to the back of your head all those years ago came back much faster than you’d been able to learn how to ignore it.

You hoped like hell it was just the weed.

You couldn’t sit in silence anymore. “Why didn’t you try?” You ask, taking the joint as he offers it.

Eddie sort of gets this far off look in his eyes, and you know he’s aware of what you’re talking about, trying to decide if he’s going to play dumb or answer your question. It almost surprises you, “First time, I guess I was rebelling or some shit like that. Just didn’t care all that much, wasn’t too big of a deal for me. Second time, I got a little too comfortable. Thought I knew enough shit to scrape away with the bare minimum, but Ms. O’Donnell changing her final was a move I failed to anticipate.”

“Didn’t roll high enough to survive, huh?”

You noticed how he suddenly went stiff, turning to you slowly. “What did you just say?”

Oh, god. You were trying not to break the peace by saying something nice and relative to his interests but you’d probably fucked it up. Was that not how it worked?

“Isn’t that a thing?” He just stares at you, leaving your panic to heighten slightly and you flounder. “In D&D? Dungeons and Dragons? The game you play?”

He finally put you out of your misery, lips curling up into the biggest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. God, he’s so cute. “Yes, it’s a thing. In D&D. Dungeons and Dragons. The game I play.”

You let out a sigh of relief, ignoring his chuckles. “God, Eddie. You almost ruined my high!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t expect you to know any terminology, let alone use it accurately.” You go back to sitting side by side.

“Good, that’s what you get for judging people.” You pulled your cardigan a little tighter around you and you dropped the stub to the ground. The sun was dipping low, barely visible behind the tree line.

“Now, wait just a minute. You’re trying to tell me not to judge anyone?” He sounded incredulous and you did not appreciate that.

“Are you implying I’m judgmental?” Your arms crossed just under your chest, and you caught the quick glance down he made. He seemed embarrassed about it.

“Implying? No. Stating? Yes.” Your mouth drops open in shock, and he continues. “C’mon, I know the score, Spitfire. I don’t exactly meet the criteria for normal or Christian around here. You took one look at me, and knew I was a bad apple.”

The Christian comment has you biting back a smile. “I did no such thing. I remember you from long before you were even a headbanger. Back when you could strike a match on that head of yours.”

He stands up at that, pacing a little in front of you before facing you with that shy look on his face and his arms crossed. “You remember me?”

Did he remember you?

“Yeah,” You don’t even bother to hold off with some teasing. “Yeah, how could I forget the first boy who ever lied to me to spare my feelings?”

His smile is so soft now, and it’s making that feeling in your stomach long for him again. “I really did like your haircut.”

You squint, slightly suspicious but he said it so softly. “You’re lying.”

He shakes his head, brown waves framing his face. “No. I thought you looked cool.”

You don’t know what to do with that. Fourth grade you would have fainted. “Huh. Guess it’s my turn to be surprised.”

It’s quiet for a few beats.

“Sooo, is there a reason why you decided you were gonna be a bitch to me in a high school?” He’s smiling when he says it, so you know he’s still being playful.

“You had it coming! I never thought you were a freak, or any weirder than any other teenage boy finding out who he is, anyways. I actually…” Why does it feel like you’re offering the villain in your life a huge chance to kill you? “…kind of admired you. Despite how hard everyone ragged on you, you just never conformed. And you didn’t just take their shit either, you gave it back.” Then you think about that day in the cafeteria, when you’d been on the other end of that.

“Sometimes, to people who don’t necessarily deserve it, too. Like my Sophomore year, when you told the whole school to take a good look at us because they were witnessing overachievers who would amount to nothing but a couple of retail salesmen in the making. Future Failures of America.” You avoid looking at him as you stare down at the pitiful little nub of a joint on the damp dirt.

If you were looking at him, you’d see him wince, a hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Senior Year number one. Rebel who doesn’t care about anything phase. Always finds a way to continuously come back and kick me in the ass.”

Yeah, it hurts but some part of you, the embarrassed part probably, found it silly that you’d hung on to that grudge for this long.

“The part that really bugs me is how I’m pretty sure you were right.” You don’t see the way his face contorts into a deep frown. “I’m an overachiever, I get the good grades, I play sports, I cheer, and I’ll be happy to do the college thing, but then what? I get an overpriced degree for what? I have no drive to do anything. I don’t want some boring job, I don’t want to be trapped in a nine to five, I don’t want to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or have any big career goals. It’s sounds nice at first, but the amount of depression that comes with realizing your life is just something you’re good at and not something you love is not for me. I just want to be happy.” Because that’s definitely not what you’re experiencing right now. No, that’s an existential crisis for you later. Not you now.

There’s no sadness in your voice, why would there be? You’re just stating facts.

“That doesn’t make you a failure,” He’s crowding closer to you, pulling off his jacket and denim vest to place over your lap. You hadn’t even noticed you were shivering, the thigh highs and leg warmers not enough to keep you warm. “That just makes you human. You don’t have to have your whole life planned out. Plenty of people don’t and stumble onto their thing. Like Ozzy. He dropped out, went through a ton of jobs, and found his calling. I don’t think he was necessarily searching for it, but he found it. One of the world’s greatest fucking rockstars. Wouldn’t have happened if he tried to plan his life out.”

“Or if he hadn’t been traumatized.”

“That, too. The point is, you’re doing just fine. Better than fine actually. Better than anyone else in this shitty town.”

You finally raise you gaze to meet his and the warmth in his eyes nearly takes your breath away.

You don’t know what to say, you’re on good terms with the former bane of your school hour existence. You give him a small smile. “Thanks, Eddie.”

“You’re welcome. Hey—I have a question.”

“I might have an answer.”

“Where do you get your weed?”

“From you.” You squirm a little, unable to stop yourself from giving up your secrets.

You know he thinks you’re lying because he’s doing some hardcore scrutinizing, but the small smile stays on his face, “Pretty sure I’d remember selling to you of all people, Sweetheart.” You’re pretty sure that up until your truce, he wouldn’t have sold you anything other than oregano. The glint in his eyes confirms it.

“It’s your stuff. Judy tells me when she’s gonna meet up with you to buy, I give her money, tell her what I want, and you unknowingly sell it to me. It’s not that complex of a plan.”

He groans, leaning forward to hunch over and rest his palms against the table. “You are breaking all the rules, Spitfire! All. The. Fucking. Rules.”

“I wasn’t about to go to Reefer Rick. I don’t think Rick is even his name. These rules I don’t know about suck, Eddie. Which ones did I even break?” You’re curious now, body very much so aware of how close he is.

You can smell his shampoo, and it pleases you that it’s a surprisingly sweet scent.

“You,” He begins, shoulders shagging like he’s giving into defeat, despite his coy smile, “were not supposed to be so damn cool. You’re not supposed to be sweet either, or even prettier up close. Pisses me off!” He’s grinning like mad at you now, and you’re beaming right back at him even though you’re not entirely sure what’s going on because you had to have imagined him calling you pretty.

“And you’re so fucking witty, too. Fuck, like in English today. What’d you say?” He says rather than asks, and you realize he knows exactly what you said. Memorized it, probably, because he quotes you from earlier except in a nasally, high pitched voice that doesn’t sound at all like you.

“‘You being able to graduate will suffice.’” And you don’t flood with shame, the opposite actually. You warm up inside because something about the grin on his face and the way he’s beaming makes you feel like that had somehow been the right thing to say. “That was so fucking hot. It made me mad.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, tongue peaking out to play with the left corner of your lips. “Wow. Is that all my carefully planned verbal sparring was to you? Foreplay?”

He laughs low, pushing himself up again, this time he moves to linger directly in front of where you sit, but he doesn’t make a move.

Were you missing something?

Was he? Maybe you misread his signs.

Or maybe you didn’t make yourself clear.

“You know, I used to kick myself in the ass in elementary school. I got held back in the third grade for not wanting to shake anyone’s hand, which meant you were two whole grades ahead of me, instead of the much more attainable one. I was gutted when I realized I wasn’t gonna be able to go out of my way to see glimpses of you anymore after your eight grade promotion. Then I got to high school and you got really hot, and I got my glimpses back, but you just had to go and like Chrissy—“

“Chrissy? I didn’t like Chrissy like that.” He interrupts you, making your heartbeat pound in your ears. It was one thing to be brave enough to vomit the truth like you were but now you were gonna have to try and make sense of the word vomit, to a guy you know is very aware that you just admitted your attraction to.

“Erin Miller said she overheard a couple of the guys on the football team giving you a hard time about making eyes at a cheerleader you were interested in. ‘Said it was Chrissy.”

“They said it was Chrissy. You were her partner during that little cheer thing you did at the homecoming pep rally. And you had on an eyepatch.” You remembered that, it was when you started trying your hand at softball. You’d gone to the batting cages the weekend before homecoming and came back home with a black eye that stuck around for a little longer than a month. “They were a little right though, I was definitely making eyes at a cheerleader, just got the wrong one down.”

“Oh. I guess we’re both victims of vast misunderstanding.”

“Guess so.”

He leans down and you lean up to smash your lips together, mouth immediately opening to welcome his tongue when it seeks yours out.

Eddie groans, one hand moving to hold the back of your head and the other moving to rest against your side as he pulls you to the edge of the picnic bench, licking any uncertainty remaining right off your tongue. It’s messy and urgent, but so satisfying given that it’s been years in the making.

He uses his hold on your head to angle the kiss deeper, there’s no doubt he’s in control. You nip at his bottom lip, causing him to gasp and creating a chance for you to explore his mouth instead.

He tastes mostly like weed, but there’s a hint of something underneath that must be Eddie, and you’re desperate to get a better taste.

Eddie’s moan is absolutely obscene as your tongue rolls over his, his grip on your side loosens so he can move his jacket out of the way and slide his hand down to rest on your thigh. The warmth of his hand on your skin makes you feel intoxicated (even more so) and he gives your thigh a good squeeze before tugging it just over his hip. You can feel him hard, and warm pressed up against your covered core. The bulge prodding at you is larger than you would have allowed yourself to expect from him, it’ll be a stretch for sure. Your terry ring shorts make it easy for his jeans to provide some much needed friction.

“Fuck.” He hisses, breaking the kiss when you grind your hips forward. “Fuck, I really—I want to—“

You can’t help but pout, lips swollen from the thorough job he’d done. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ coming on?”

He leans forward to give you another kiss, this one is sweet but just as passionate. “But, you’re still high. If this is gonna happen, I need it to happen when you’re sober. I need to know you want to do this, You’re just so fucking beautiful and you look so hot in these shorts, and the thigh highs…” He grits out, fingers snaking under them to rest against the warm skin of your thigh, just for a moment, before his hand is retreating. “It’s like all my little fantasies, dirty and not, are coming true. I couldn’t resist. What kind of satanic witchcraft is this?”

You laugh as he presses a long kiss to your forehead, before forcing himself to give you room to hop down. “Just a little something the women in my family have been passing down since Salem. Old recipe, if you will.”

He watches you, smirking before he pulls you into him again. “You’re making it really hard to to be platonic here. You’re not supposed to have a sense of humor, either.”

“Well, you’re not supposed to be charming. You’re failing to live up to your reputation, not even half as scary as you try to look.” You retort, not eager to leave the warmth of his embrace.

He pulls back to look down at you, intrigued with your statement. “Sweetheart, you thought I was scary?”

“As scary as you thought I was.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to terrify you like that.” It has the desired effect, you laugh and playfully slap his shoulder.

“Shut up!” Despite the return of your affections for him, the sky is darkening significantly, and your dad is gonna have a heart attack if you’re not home by the time he leaves for his night shift. So, you reluctantly step away, his hands falling back to his sides as you shove your things into your bag.

“I gotta go.”

“I figured as much. Did you drive to school?” He knows you did, he just wants to be able to cover all possible grounds in an attempt to get a couple more minutes with you. He doesn’t care if you’re not gonna fuck.

You feel guilty, completely stupid. You should’ve just made the 45 minute walk to school instead of the 10 minute drive. Selfish. “I did.”

“Damn.”

“What were you doing here, anyways?”

“I’m supposed to meet someone around─” He glances down at his watch. “Now.”

You scoff, but you can feel your cheeks tingle. “And you were still gonna offer to drive me home?”

He shrugs his shoulders, looking irresistible in that hellfire shirt. “I’ve got my priorities straight this time. ‘86, baby. I know what I want.”

And the smoldering look he’s giving you has your kneecaps rattling, you gotta go before you risk it all. “Looks like I was wrong, you’re definitely no hyperbole.”

He lets out a loud laugh as you walk backwards, stomach still warm with affection for the super senior.

“See you around, Eddie.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

You can still feel his eyes on you as you make your way out of the woods, wondering if you’re gonna need to find a new arch-enemy or not.

#eddie munson x reader #Eddie munson #stranger things #Joseph quinn #Joe quinn #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #stranger things s4 #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things smut #stranger things fluff

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jimblejamblewritings · 2 years

Text

heart has his heart | part 4.

Summary: (Y/N) Heart is chosen alongside her friends to attend Auradon Prep. Of course her friend Mal’s mom, Maleficent, has a much more sinister plan than the kids just attending Auradon. Will they be able to pull of stealing the wand or will (Y/N) find herself liking Auradon a bit too much?

Pairing: Ben x reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: none

Previous Part | (Series Masterlist)

You turned over on your bed so you were laying on your back, your head hanging off the edge. Moetini walked in.

“What up with you?”

“Am I crazy?”

“What?”

“If I just cut my hair and dyed it white? Would I be crazy?”

“Aren’t you the same one with a mom that screams about painting white roses red?”

You sat up. “Why does everyone only remember the crazy bits?”

You got up and grabbed the pair of scissors on your desk. Moetini looked on in shock.

“Oh, okay. We were serious about this?”

“I just, I want a new look. I’ve always done my hair like this on the Isle. I just want something different.” What you wanted to say was something not so Isle.

“Isn’t your hair already dyed and styled, just wear it naturally. That’d be different.”

Moetini wasn’t wrong. Your hair was naturally red but you always had it dyed by Dizzy.

“Nope, I’m doing this.”

“Are we sure… annnd we’re sure.”

You had already taken the scissors to your head and made a cut. It was too late to turn back now. You were getting a pixie cut and when it was done, you’d go across the way so Mal could make it white. After you came back from Mal’s room you looked in the mirror.

“Holy shit, Moetini. What did I do? Why’d you let me do that?!”

“Hey, girl, I tried to reason with you. I think it looks hot.”

“Yeah I am kinda hot aren’t I?”

Moetini rolled her eyes. “And there is the obnoxiously confident (Y/N) Heart. Glad to see you back, how did that five second vacation feel? You know, in Insecureland with the rest of us mortals.”

“Mmm, not great. Don’t think I’ll be taking another trip back.”

“You are insufferable sometimes, you know that right?”

~~~~~~~~~

Belle’s greenhouse was absolutely stunning. It was the first time you’d been out since cutting your hair. You kind of welcomed the coolness that a lack of long hair provided. Belle was already out into the main garden, one of the palace staff informed you.

“Hello?” you called out. You didn’t want to scare Belle by just appearing on her.

“Hey, (Y/N). Mom! (Y/N)’s here… woah.”

Ben was walking up from deep in the garden when he stopped. You subconsciously reached for a strand of air that was no longer there. Right. No one but Mal, Evie, and Moetini had seen the new hair.

“Hi.”

“Hi. Wow, new hair?”

“Yeah. Did it myself, with Mal’s help for the color.”

“It’s cool. Really works for you.”

“Thanks…” You ran a hand through your hair and then reached for the thorn strippers in your back pocket. “I brought my own tools.”

“Right, gardening. The roses are this way.”

You followed Ben towards the center of the garden where Belle was at work. She got up and wiped the dirt off of her hands before giving you a hug.

“You must be (Y/N).”

“Yes I am, Queen Belle.”

“Oh, just Belle is fine.”

“Trust me mom, titles are important to her.”

You rolled your eyes at Ben. “It’s how I was raised loser. I mean, Prince Loser. Can’t forget my titles.”

“Sure can’t Princess Rotten.”

“To the core.”

Ben laughed before grabbing his own tools and tending to the garden. Belle came back a while later with some refreshments.

“So your last name is Heart?”

You went on to explain your name to Belle the same way you did to Ben the first day you met. As well as other stuff about Wonderland.

“You sure know a lot about the place.”

“Mom and Dad had me read every book about Wonderland we could get our hands on. I think they hoped we could go back one day. I could probably walk through the whole place blindfolded and know exactly where to go to get to the Valley of Hearts.”

Ben and Belle got quiet. You felt it grow awkward all of a sudden. “So, is it cool if I could take a few of the roses back. I’m thinking of a bouquet for me and Moetini’s room.”

“Of course, dear. Take as many as you like.”

“Careful mom, she might take you seriously on that.”

“I’m not the one with the diamond credit card, that was your fault. Are you gonna help me with the roses or not?”

“Are you going to be okay with some white ones?” Ben joked.

“I swear you guys are asking for that beheading myth to come true.”

Ben helped you fill two baskets with roses. He carried one while you carried the other. You hugged Belle, thanking her once again for letting you tend to roses, before you and Ben headed back to campus. One of the roses fell out your basket. Ben picked it up and placed it behind your ear.

“You could’ve just put it in the basket… why are you looking at me like that?”

“You know…” you could see the evil smile forming on his face as his next words came out. “Most girls look pretty with flowers behind their ears… I just don’t see it.”

He laughed as you hit him with a rose repeatedly. You tucked the same rose you beat him with behind his ear. “Now we can be ugly stepsisters together.”

“I’m clearly the better looking ugly stepsister.”

“In your dreams. We both know I’m the better looking one of this pair. I even rock this haircut better than you.”

The bell rang as you two stepped up onto campus. “Shit, we’re about to be late. Come on Beastie Boy, let’s go.”

“The roses?”

“We’re taking them with us.”

“To class?”

“Yep. We don’t have time.”

The two of you strolled into class, quietly, but the teacher was nowhere to be seen. Ben slid into his seat next to Audrey, who didn’t look too happy to see you two walk in together. And you sat in between Evie and Mal, who both looked at you questioningly. Ben turned around and smiled at you, neither of you were caught.

“Prince Benjamin? Miss (Y/N)? Would you care to tell us why you were both late.”

You watched Ben’s mouth tight-line. Busted anyway. You took your rose basket and brought it to the front of the room.

“We were working on an Auradon Prep project and got a bit sidetracked. We thought all the faculty could use some reminders that the students here appreciate them. Here is a rose for you, white or red?”

“Oh, um. Red. That is very thoughtful of you two. Let’s just not make a habit of being late.”

“Yes, sir.” Ben spoke up from his seat.

You whacked Ben with a rose as you made your way back, now you had to give roses to the whole faculty. When the teacher turned around, he threw a rose from his basket at your face.

“I brought us flowers.” You set down your pitiful basket of only three white roses and four red roses on Moetini’s desk. “There were more.”

“So I heard. Nice lie. We’ll just use these two. That’s not enough for a nice bouquet.”

Moetini took two of the white roses. She put each in a small separate vase and set them on your windowsill, one near her side and one near yours.

“You might as well hand out the others.”

You went across the way and gave your gang a red rose each, threatening them that if they let the roses die before at least three days you would kill them. No one took your threat seriously but Mal assured you they would try their best to not kill the flowers. That just left one white rose.

You knocked on Ben’s door and waited for him to open.

“The bouquet was gonna look stupid.”

“I could’ve told you that. You were the one that came up with the lie and gave all the flowers away.”

“Well, you could’ve helped me.”

“You seemed like you had it covered.”

You gave Ben the most deadpan serious face you could. “Well, this one is for you. We had one left and since I guess you contributed to getting me roses…”

“You guess I contributed?” Ben leaned against the door frame. “I believe it is my garden.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s Belle’s garden.”

“My mother.”

“You want the stupid rose or not?”

Ben took it and placed it behind his ear. “Are you gonna admit that I’m the hotter stepsister, now?”

“Goodbye, Benjamin. I will see you tomorrow,” you said as you pushed him into his room a little.

“Admit it!” he yelled as you walked off.

“You wish.” You laughed as you walked off and headed back to your floor.

(Part 5)...

#ben florian x reader #ben descendants #descendants fic

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the1975attheirverybest · 8 months

Note

Hello I wanted to talk to you about something. Would like to hear your opinion on it because I really respect it. So on Twitter Trumanblack was trening lately and I saw people being mad that truman Black came back.

Here's couple of tweets, to show you the perspective:

,He is escaping the reality through this character. Being sincere and open is the way to live life not hiding behing fictional characters. He needs to grow up and realize where his priorities are.

Ofc, we do not know him. His choice, his life.

what the fuck happened matty. I don't understand what you're doing right now. should have left Truman in the trash. I don't get it.

This. It seems he was used to dealing with difficult emotions through avoiding them in stage character (he admitted to this in an interview recently) & he wanted to ditch the character & embrace the emotions/be sincere things maybe got too raw & real so he is back in charakter

I'm sorry this message is so long. I'm just thinking about it all. Do you think 'matty' is gone and he will be acting and all that in the upcoming tour? Cause I wouldnt like it and it won't be good for him too :/

Again sorry this is so long

No, I mean, this is an interesting topic that I think we should 100% get into to "warm up" for the tour. I bet we'll have even more to say once we start getting content from the first new shows in September. (omg not too far away now aaaahhhh), so everyone feel free to chime in, but basically, here is how I think about it ( this is probs gonna be long. apologies in advance. im gonna add a "keep reading" so i dont destroy y'all feeds).

The first thing we need to remember is that Matty's "Truman Black" persona pre-dates the ATVB tour. He's always been "Truman Black." He's always been a jokester, a meme lord, a bit chaotic, a bit sexy, a pastiche or caricature of himself.

The question, then, is why? Why does he do this?

For several reasons. And he's been nothing but honest with us about them.

From as early on as 23 years old, when ST first started blowing up and the boys cultivated a following, Matty became acutely aware of the spotlight and the way that fans idealized and idolized him. Sexually desired him, saw him as this rockstar figure. And it made him uncomfortable because, well, no real human being could live up to such a fantasy, right? That's really what the song "Love Me" is about. He experienced this during album 1 and instantly wrote about it for album 2. like thats how strongly he felt it. He's more eloquent about it than I can ever be, so I'm going to link you to his explanation of "Love Me."

so, as he's pointing out in his explanation, he plays this kinda ridiculous character to "subvert" expectations. right? even in the mv, he has cardboard cut outs of sex symbols and heart throbs like Harry Styles etc. and he takes his shirt off and stands next to them and makes out with them and all that. Usually, the normal rockstar-fan relationship is that we project our fantasy upon the rockstar and the rockstar accepts it obligingly. But Matty's going "well this is really kinda silly, and it makes me feel sooo disconnected from myself if i turn into this person everyone thinks i am, so what am i gonna do? oh I'll just lean into the silliness." so if he can't do the "fake authenticity" of the cliched rockstar, hes gonna do a very authentic fakeness of being loud, and silly goofy funny messy larger than life, etc.

He explains it here (I've cued it up to the right moment in the video). He's right, if you're a stranger and you know nothing about him and you see him behaving in a Truman-black-esque way, you'd think "wow what an arrogant piece of shit this dude is." BUT if you realize that he's like "i KNOW that you all think of me this way. And YOU (the fans) know that I know that you think that way." we become in on the joke.

You know what im gonna say here. Postmodernism. LMAO. No, but for real. Postmodern art naturally has this "meta" habit. It's art that knows itself as art. It's aware that it's not real. Like movies that are constantly referring to themselves as movies. breaking the experience of illusion for you by constantly reminding you that what you are watching has been filmed and edited. it's not real life. Thats what Matty does with the "rockstar persona" constantly reminding you "it's not real. im just a character made up in all our heads. I'm actually a normal human being but my job is kinda fuckin mental."

So, I think those 4 points, from VERRRYYY early in Matty's career are the genesis of Truman Black. Thats what "Truman Black" is based on.

You could ask, well, if Matty has been this way from the very beginning how come it's such a problem now? how come this whole thing is a new issue??

I think its the perfect storm of this year.

The ATVB show was designed to push the blurry lines between Matty Healy/ Truman Black to their very limits cuz they added extra layers of meta-theatricality to an already meta situation haha. He plays himself in the couch scene, and the raw meat scene, but he's also kind of playing a symbolic version of himself that's supposed to apply to a lot of straight men, but then the show is also about the lines between his personal and his public lives.

Then he goes and does the Truman Black rockstar shit in the second half of the show. So, the tour really could've been called "Matty Healy: At His Very Truman Black-esque" and it would have been accurate. Like he took this concept and stretched it to see how far it could take him.

Then of course you have the podcast thing, the taylor swift thing, the twitter cancelation cycles, etc etc etc.

There were so many new eyes on him. and so much out of context (remember, meta-theatricality needs context. needs the audience to be in on the joke. we have to know 'oh hes making fun of himself being a rockstar') cuz if we don't have the context he really comes off as a guy who's in love with himself and his rockstar status haha.

Now that alllll of this background is out of the way, lets discuss the questions that you've brought up.

Is he Matty or is he Truman Black?

I think lots of people didn't notice that when he threw out the lab coat that was labeled "truman black" in the video, he wasn't serious. he instantly starts doing the robot dance, flipping the camera off with his finger, acting disruptive by riding the trolley thingy. All Truman Black behavior: mischief, breaking rules, etc. so it was a "meta" joke. he tossed the character then acted like the character. a contradiction. ironic. Truman Black's never been gone! he and Matty are intertwined necessarily. you can't separate one from the other.

Is he gonna be acting at all in S...ATVB?

Yes. He will. He's working with Brad Troemel whose sense of humor is very close to Matty's and who loves irony and postmodernism.

Does he use Truman Black to "hide from difficult situations" or to "run from his emotions" or whatever that tweet was saying? no. He uses it to deliver social critique. About masculinity being ridiculous, about our relationship to artists and the fantasy of perfection in Rockstar cliches, about performative wokeness.

Those are the very same beliefs that Matty Healy believes in. hes always criticizing these things in interviews and speeches and stuff. So, no, hes not hiding behind the character to disassociate he IS the same guy, just a slightly less dramatized and exaggerated version.Thats why he doesn't completely turn it on or off at any time. Thats why it's not that he was willing to stop it for a relationship and then start it again when it didn't work out. Thats not how Matty operates at allll.

He didn't throw out his belief that performative wokeness is harmful and stupid, he didn't throw out his belief that leftist masculinity is confusing, he didn't change who he is at his very core just to be mr nice guy, or to be sincere, or to get his dick sucked off by Taylor Swift, or whatever these people think is the reason. He's always been this way; he very likely will always be this way. Thats just how he makes art and how he thinks about the world.

He's always BEEN open to embracing emotions and being sincere. "I love you, don't you mind?" "we're only human we're just like you man" "I'll quote on the road like a twat," "im petrified of being alone, its pathetic," "im just pissed off because you pied me off after your show," "you pick a fight and i'll define it" "i said its cool i was messing but its true," "pretend that i know what it is (i wasn't listening)" "sorry that I quite like seeing myself on the news. im sorry that im someone that i wish i could change, but ive always been the same."

would an emotionally stunted anti-sincerity guy write ANY OF THESE LYRICS? idk, you tell me.

#matty healy #truman black

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fiction-box · 2 years

Note

Hello hello! Here is my Claude request again:

Reader has always wanted to fly but never had access to a pegasus/wyvern until coming to Garreg Mach. Claude, of course, offers to give reader a ride on his wyvern to help fulfill this childhood dream of theirs (and as an excuse to hold them close- *cough* uh no you didn't hear anything this is for safety purposes only)

Feel free to use the same reader from my first Claude request! Plus reader is a little nervous about heights so they're definitely gonna be holding on to the nearest thing for dear life lol (also idk if this detail will matter but reader is very much an animal lover and will certainly be cooing over Claude's wyvern like they do with all the monestary's cats and dogs hehe)

Thank you again in advance!!

I got your other note, too. I'm glad you like my style! Of course, there are things I must attend to outside of this blog, but it always puts a smile on my face to get a request during my day. I'm a bit of a dreamer (though that doesn't mean my head is in the clouds), so these things tend to fuel my imagination. Then, I'm able to put them into stories effectively before sharing the result with you all! How lucky I am to have such a gift.

On that note, I believe someone needs to bash me over the head with a stick because once again, I did not entirely listen to your request. I somehow turned "a little nervous about heights" into a full blown fear of them. Forgive me. Naturally, before I noticed that I messed up, I managed to write over half the fic.

(Also, thanks for coming in clutch with that resend! I was devastated when I accidentally deleted it!)

Let me know what you think! Requests are open to all!

The story will be continued under the cut.

“Uh oh. Looks like someone’s developed a crush on my wyvern. Should I introduce you two?”

Standing at the entrance to the stables, you turned around at his sudden appearance. Your flustered reaction to his words turned to laughter once you realized what he meant, “Could you really? That would be great! Oh, but what should I say? How should I act?”

It appeared that Claude couldn’t fight his smile at your antics, “Just be yourself! Fate will work itself out.”

“Careful, the Goddess might get mad at you for that one.”

Easily, the two of you fell into a good mood as he led you to his wyvern.

“So is it friendly, or will it bite my hand off?”

“I’d imagine you’re a familiar face,” Claude reached forward to pet it, himself, “so you’ll be fine. Besides, you’re here with me. Pretty sure you’re safe as long as you don’t suddenly attack me.”

“Ah, well. There go my plans for the day,” you remarked, slowly stretching your arm out for the beast to inspect.

It sniffed you once, twice, then leaned forward into your hand. Its scales were rough, but so long as you stroked in the right direction, it was comfortable.

The wyvern seemed to have more of a preference, though. The more affection you gave it, the more noise it made. Soon enough, it began trying to get closer to you, though the chains attaching its harness to the wall wouldn’t permit it to go far.

“Oh my- you are adorable!” you cooed.

“Careful. This one’s special,” Claude commented. “I’m not a fan of the idea that we might draw an audience, what with all the noise you two are making.”

You took your attention away from the creature as he did his best to silence its movements. From your many visits to the castle of Duke Riegan when you were younger, you came to recognize this wyvern as belonging to Claude. If he didn’t want it to have a crowd, he probably had a good reason.

Originally, you two had been sent here on stable duty. However, you highly doubted that your teacher would suddenly classify this as an acceptable way to spend your time.

“I suppose you have a point,” you frowned. “It’s just…I have never actually seen one of these up close. It’s always been a dream of mine to fly at least once, but…”

“What’s been stopping you?”

I’m afraid of heights. “Quite a few things, actually. There aren’t exactly a surplus of wyverns and pegasi in the area I’m from, and my family is quite stubborn about not needing them. That means my teachers have firm instructions not to let me ride one, so I haven’t had the opportunity to learn how.”

“That’s it? Well, I sure don’t see any teachers around here. And would you look at that? There’s a wyvern about ten feet in front of your face.”

You didn’t smile, “I don’t know…”

I can’t do it. I’m too scared.

“If you want, I can take you flying,” he offered. “I happen to know for a fact that today’s skywatch is made up entirely of students. Nobody will recognize you, and if they do, there’s no way they could possibly know about your little ‘obligation’.”

“Maybe, but…” you eyed the wyvern.

He paused, waiting for the rest of your sentence. It didn’t take him too long to figure out the end wasn’t coming.

“Is there some other reason?”

Really, you didn’t want him to know. It was embarrassing enough when you were the only one that knew about it, you didn’t need your best friend figuring it out and teasing you about it.

“I…”

“Oh, I see,” Claude picked up, ever the vigilant one between you two. “You’re afraid.”

Unable to find the words, you settled for a nod.

“Come on, what’s so scary? Worried about what your family might think if you went behind their backs?”

He received a look from you, “After everything you’ve talked me into doing these past few years? I doubt you and I will start getting caught now.”

“Okay…and I know you aren’t scared of my wyvern after how friendly you two were a moment ago.”

You laughed, “No, of course not!”

“Well?”

He was only trying to help, you reasoned. Besides, he already knew you were afraid. Telling him why couldn’t be so bad, right?

“...I’m nervous about being so high up without anything to keep me safe. No ties, no railing…”

In truth, you had always been somewhat thankful that your parents had forbidden you from riding the animals. It meant you never would have to reveal your fear, and your teachers couldn’t force you to face it.

Yet here you were, spoilt for choice, and you were freezing up. You still yearned to fly, but by no means did that translate to you wanting to face your fear.

“...I don’t know…” you repeated, softer.

You could feel Claude stare at you for a moment, “It’s not like you’ll be on your own. You’ve got me here with you, and I promise not to let you fall. I can hang onto you the whole time, if you want. Plus, you can always hold the horn of the saddle to feel more secure.”

It didn’t sound so bad when he put it that way…

“I swear, you won’t have to do anything other than sit. I can handle the rest by myself.”

“Have you ever fallen off?”

“Not that I can remember,” he joked, “but trust me, I won’t let that happen to you.”

How old was he now, eighteen? You were well aware of how many years of experience Claude had with wyvern riding. The leader of the Golden Deer was offering to help you achieve your own small dream, but it was strange.

The existence of this wyvern was not known to many, and Claude had never even mentioned owning one to the professor. You wondered how many students were aware he actually knew how to fly.

Well, if this was your one chance, you were taking it. The details could be sorted out later. Once you were in the air, you would have no other choice than to face your fear, right?

No, that was a horrible line of reasoning.

Just shut up and get on the wyvern.

With false confidence, you let him lead the way to the wyvern’s saddle. He went up first, then extended a hand in order to help you up.

“There you go. Now, put your left foot on that loop and step on it. Keep holding my hand so you don’t lose your balance.”

You followed his instructions easily enough until he was able to wrap an arm around your waist and pull you up. Seating yourself as comfortably as you could, you moved your hands to hold the saddle’s horn. Claude kept his left arm at its place around your waist.

“Alright, you ready?” he asked, pulling a key out of his pocket. The brunet undid the chains binding the saddle to the wall and let them fall to the ground.

Really, how bad could it be?

“Yes. Go ahead.”

He guided the wyvern out of the stables through the gate you left open when you entered. Then, with a few movements of his right arm that you didn’t get to see, you felt yourself leave the ground.

Immediately, your eyes shut and your grip tightened.

Maybe you weren’t ready, yet. This felt similar to signing a contract without reading it first. If your eyes remained closed, though, you could remain calm. That way, you wouldn’t realize what was happening until you opened your eyes at the peak of your little flight. You were sure it wouldn’t be so bad by then.

But when the time finally came, and Claude informed you that you weren’t going to fly any higher, your eyes did not open.

Somehow, from behind you, he managed to pick up on this.

“What’s the point of doing this if your eyes are shut? We may as well have just gone outside on a windy day and put you on a rock,” he teased.

“I’m trying, I just…”

“Seriously, if you don’t open your eyes, you’ll get all disoriented and pass out. Then I’ll have to fly back without dropping you, take you to Manuela, and explain everything in a way that doesn’t send one of us home or get my wyvern banned.”

Sad as the second part was, your mind was gripped in fear at the thought of the first, “What? That can’t be true!”

“Hey, I’ve seen more than a few wyvern riders fly into caves without their helmets attached properly and come back out limp on their mounts!” he shouted over the wind, “Something about the harsh breeze going past your ears and your eyes not understanding why.”

He must have been lying to you, right? There was no way such a ridiculous story could be true.

“Look, whether you open your eyes or not is up to you. All I’m saying is that if you don’t, I’m turning back to the stables. I don’t need your parents or any teachers spreading rumors that the future Duke Riegan made some noble’s daughter pass out on his wyvern.”

Yeah, that did sound pretty bad.

“Alright, I’ll do it. Just give me a moment.”

You didn’t feel safe enough on the wyvern; that was your chief complaint. Sure, Claude’s arm acted as a safety harness, but you still felt the need to grip the horn of the wyvern’s saddle. If you could just cover your eyes with your hands, you knew you could muster the courage to open your eyes. Then, it would only be a matter of spreading your fingers open to peek through the gaps until finally, you could pull your hands away.

But how were you meant to achieve all that when you barely felt safe now?

Then it hit you. Of course the answer was right in front of you (or, behind you, rather.)! Did you not just refer to Claude in your thoughts as a safety harness?

“Alright, I’ve got a plan. For this to work, though, I’ll need to release the saddle.”

“Sure. Whenever you’re ready.”

“No, that’s…” that was a terrible explanation on your part, “That’s the thing. I feel as though I might fall off if I do. Could you just…tighten your hold on me to make up for my own lack of grip? At least that way, I can trick my mind into thinking I’m attached to something.”

The literal second you stopped talking, you wanted to slap your palm against your forehead. What did you just ask Claude to do? And so casually, too. It didn’t help that you had no backup plan; everything was riding on how he chose to answer your question.

But before you could process what that really meant, you felt him shifting behind you. Your back was moved into his chest as the pressure around your waist increased.

“How’s this?”

“Perfect.” you said lamely, attempting to play it off.

And then all of a sudden, fear engulfed you as you realized you would actually have to do this task you thought up in your head.

Uncomfortable with entirely free-handing it, you lifted one hand to cover your eyes as the other braced itself on Claude’s arm for support.

This can work. I can do this!

You opened your eyes within the darkness of your hand, then you slowly began to fan it out and peer through the gaps. Through them, you could see just how high up you were.

At once, you closed your hand and shut your eyes. It was too much. Instinctively, your body tried to back away only to be met with Claude’s chest. You stopped at the resistance, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, and started to shake.

You were trapped in the sky. There was nowhere for you to retreat. Your breathing was out of control, you were out of control…you couldn’t control anything up here! What were you thinki-

“I’m right here with you,” Claude spoke into your ear. “Take it easy. You’re alright.”

“I can’t. I can’t do it.”

He kept his tone calm, “Sure you can. The only thing stopping you is your fear, remember? So, what part of this are you so afraid of?”

“When I look at it...when I think about it…I’m afraid I might fall off.”

“But I’m here, aren’t I? Move all you’d like, but I’m not going to let you go unless you ask me to. And even if you do fall, I’m right here to catch you.”

“Right.” He was persuasive when he wanted to be, you gave him that. You wanted to believe him, and so you allowed his words to bring you into a state of ease.

“What else?”

What else was there, really? Thinking back, you never had an issue looking out at the view from the top balcony of your manor, so long as you stayed away from the rail. So maybe heights weren’t the issue.

“I think that’s it. I’m not afraid of heights, I’m afraid of falling.”

“Well, you aren’t falling right now, are you? In this moment, you’re not facing any of your fears.”

That was…true, wasn’t it? You truly wanted to see the view from up here; you weren’t afraid of the sight by any means.

“So open your eyes. It’d be a waste, otherwise.”

You followed his instructions, opening your eyes from behind the darkness of your own hand. Gently, you felt Claude’s own hand brush against your own, slowly pulling it away. If he was waiting for some form of protest, you didn’t give him any.

It wasn’t a beautiful sight, really. It was predictable; exactly what you would have guessed the monastery grounds looked like from the sky.

Even so, you felt accomplished. The feeling made the whole experience that much better.

“How anticlimactic,” you commented. Well, at least you wouldn’t have to go through this episode in a place where it mattered, like on a battlefield.

Claude laughed so hard that he almost did fall off the wyvern (which meant he almost pulled you with him!). You wouldn’t let him hear the end of it, lecturing and insulting him the whole journey to the ground for “almost killing you”, “endangering your life”, and of course, for how “terrible of a friend” he was.

He settled for doing the majority of the stable work to make it up to you.

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