#ill likely lean more into his serious yet sly cunning side that we see at the beginning of the Metal Sonic arc

[theramblingsofadork]

Oh boy—

Tomorrow I think I’ll unleash a small snippet of the guilty pleasure that is my AU of Starline having actually had friends (and maybe something more) once.

I am going to die of cringe, but I made this blog specifically so I could talk about it, and I want my stupid platypus man to just be happy for a single moment gosh dangit!! So whatever. XD

[ditch-witches]

Silhouette (Dean Charles-Chapman x reader)

request: Dean x Kiwi by Harry Styles (idek if this is okay im sorry)

warnings: smoking, drinking, weird au, some adult themes

word count: ~3000 (IM SORRY)

a/n: hey guys! since I’m now on break, I’m going to try and get back to writing. let me know what you think (literally even if it’s like ‘lol this sux’) and---as always---our inbox is open and we love to hear from you. happy reading! ♡

𝓓𝓮𝓪𝓷 𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓹𝓹𝓮𝓭 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓶𝓵𝔂 𝓵𝓲𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓻; the buzz of his surroundings vibrating through his bones with the slight nervousness he yielded. His heart skipped a few beats, his mouth drying as he shed his jacket and ran his fingers into his hair. The smoky atmosphere was cut by the strong scent of Acqua di Parma and sweat as he was drawn further into the gentlemen’s club via the deep wine-colored curtains twisting this way and that to cover the bare walls beneath. The accents of gold lights barely illuminated certain corners of the large room, sending a small rush of claustrophobia pulsing through his veins. Girls of various silhouettes seemed to sway between the tables, tending to the desires of sundry men gathered around tables and stationed in lavish, velvet chairs. 

He felt out of place, to say the least. The only time he had ever found himself in such a setting usually occurred when his garrulous boss and his group of kiss-asses wanted to slip away from their loyalties of marriage for a dirty tango with a nameless courtesan. They often disguised these faults of character as “letting off steam after a biting week.” By a simple survey of the room, Dean recognized several of the men from the last times he was dragged to the underground business. Appalling. 

“Chapman!” A husky voice beckoned Dean from one of the prominent tables. His eyes drifted towards the noise after his feet had already begun to carry him away. The man who’d called to him was one of the heirs of the company Dean worked for; a capricious bastard who could and would liquidate Dean’s position at the drop of a hat. He was pinned to his seat beneath a woman no older than Dean yet the years against the outside world painted her face, twisting into the lines framing her eyes and mouth. The Heir held onto the woman a bit tighter as he flung his hand in the air almost like he was trying to wave down Dean in the middle of the Colosseum. 

Dean nodded in acknowledgment and gestured towards the bar, hoping to kill enough time and gain a bit of patience before having to withstand the course of a few hours with the group of heinous Yale alumni. He slumped onto one of the bar stools, pushing his fingers against his temple and mumbling a drink order to the suave bartender. Dean was no prude, but the thought of paying for women to throw themselves at his colleagues seemed like a waste of money. 

She worked her way through a cheap pack of cigarettes / Hard liquor mixed with a bit of intellect.

As a tumbler of copper-colored courage was set in front of him, Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, glaring at the glass as if it were containing everything distasteful about the position he was seemingly cemented into. Raising the crystal schooner to his lips, his eyes drifted towards the end of the bar as an ick of being watched by smoldering eyes slithered up each of his vertebrae. The dark shade of your lipstick seemed to be cut from the same fabric as the curtains; the hue pressing around the thin paper of the cigarette you were drawing from. The slender elegant swirls of smoke dancing around you gave your appearance an almost ghost-like aura as your eyes analyzed Dean. The corner of your mouth drew up in a small smirk as he tugged his eyes away from you. Dean knew not to let himself look frigid and square under your gaze, plucking as much courage as he could from the depths of his being to ease his mannerisms and seem unbothered. 

And all the boys, they were saying they were into it / Such a pretty face, on a pretty neck.

You seemed familiar to him in a way he couldn’t place, yet as his eyes lifted once more they fell onto the Heir who smoothed his hair back into place, a mission in his eyes like you were an untouched civilization waiting to be colonized. His lasering stare glued to you as he fastened his jacket button and straightened his pant legs. You lazily took another drag from your cigarette, brushing away the slight smear of your lipstick with your pinky and blowing your spiraling clouds directly towards the Heir as he bluntly approached the vacant seat beside you. The acrid expression in your eyes only seemed to beckon him further into your personal space as he leaned towards your ear to whisper a leerish bribe. You tilted your head away from him as his breath fanned over your neck, your eyes kindling a fire deep within Dean as he watched the man practically drape himself over your shoulder. 

The Heir leaned back from you faintly to dig into one of his suit jacket pockets for a fold of money. Your eyes fluttered to the bar in front of you, the ice in your drink decomposing like a forgotten animal as the Heir pressed towards your ear with a brutish attempt at holding your attention. 

She’s driving me crazy, but I’m into it… / It’s getting crazy, I think I’m losing it. 

Dean scorned himself for staring, yet he couldn’t bring himself to jerk his gaze away from you. Your sultry eyes knew what the Heir’s actions and your subtle reactions were doing to Dean as his cheeks warmed with each trailing glance and wordless comment. The air seemed to grow thicker as Dean took another drink, watching the small conversation pass between you and the Heir.

When she’s alone, she goes home to a cactus / In a black dress, she’s such an actress.

It only just hit him that you were one of the popular performers. The Heir had been a regular of yours, something Dean had only mildly been attentive to in his previous visits. You had been the one he had talked about during business dinners, trying to persuade Dean into becoming a regular at the club. You were the one he visited during the “droughts” with his wife. You were the other woman. Dean shook his head in mild disbelief as an almost venomous ache settled in his bones at the realization of just what kind of game he could be getting into with you. 

The Heir settled a hand on the back of your neck, the first graze of his skin against yours under Dean’s scorning eye. You wet your lips, flashing your sights back towards Dean as if commanding him to watch. You held an almost debonair attitude towards the Heir; humoring the snobbish brat like he was a toddler too easily upset with not getting his way. Your graceful figure withdrew from under his grasp, sending a few parting words to the Heir before you vanished from Dean’s peripheral. Dean struggled to finish his drink, knowing he would have to face his colleagues after nearly falling into your maniacal web. 

She sits beside me like a silhouette. 

Dean tilted the glass around its base, your eyes still scorched into the depths of his consciousness. The way you disappeared forced the thought to cross Dean’s mind that maybe you were just a figment of his imagination. He could almost picture the shape of your figure as the Heir twisted his ownership and title around you like a thick, suffocating bow as heavy as the draping curtains. Dean gestured for a top off on his drink, his mind wandering to where you were now, and god-forbid if you were at the mercy of the Heir once again. He scoffed to himself, cursing at how late it must be if he were catching a fit like this over a lady of the night. 

And in an instant, it was as if he had manifested your apparition as you settled into the seat beside him. “Stinger please, Joe,” you hummed, sending a small grin to the bartender and crossing your legs. Dean smirked to himself as you nonchalantly popped open your compact mirror and touched up your lipstick, your leg in danger of grazing his own. He gnawed on his bottom lip, searching for the correct string of words to figure out how cautious he had to be around you. 

He side-eyed you, your features more stunning at close contact than from a distance. He was nearly surprised you hadn’t looked as… tired… as the other woman that had been entertaining the Heir earlier in the night. “Did you take the money?” He asked you, a sharp inhale of pride stinging his lungs as he gave into his curiosity. He noticed your sly smile at his words, hating the way you nearly coaxed his thoughts from the tip of his tongue. He took another sip of his drink, pretending it was a struggle for him to make eye contact with you. 

You seemed to chew on your response, the suspense killing Dean as he hung on a line for you. “No, I told him that he got me pregnant,” you quipped lightly, your words reaching out to backhand Dean. It felt like too much information for him but the way you confidently muttered your response had him wondering whether or not you were serious. “He left to phone his wife. I have a feeling I won’t be seeing him for a while,” you continued, a smile threatening to break past your lips. 

Dean perked an eyebrow at the knots in the wood grain beneath his hands, forcing himself to swallow. “What are you gonna do then?” He chided himself for pursuing the topic even further when the thought of it (you and the Heir) made him ill. He stroked his chin, feeling your eyes dance to him. You were close enough that he could smell the mint in your drink. He could swim in the aroma of your delicate perfume and biting liquid. Your voice was a lulling tone he wanted to live in his ears forever.

You wet your lips slowly. “Celebrate, no?” This time Dean did look at you, nearly falling into a trance at the realization that your eyes were more brilliant and cunning than he had remembered. Your gaze jumped from his own eyes to his lips and then back, making him want to slink away from your observance of him. On the flip side, he wanted to pass your inspection. He wanted you. Your voice dropped into a quieter octave, leaning towards Dean faintly, “Men are so easy to break. Tell one white lie and they run for the hills.” You sent him a sneering grin, making him roll his eyes playfully. He watched your fingers as you popped open your cigarette case, striking your lighter and inhaling deeply. The swiftness of your movements sent his thoughts to dark places. “Who are you? I’ve seen you in here a few times but you never leave with any of the girls.” 

Dean chuckled slightly, “I work with your baby daddy at the firm.” Your face flushed with mock realization. Dean turned back to his glass, his facade of confidence adherently fading under the close proximity to you. You were so intoxicating to him, it reminded him of the first time he had dabbled with absinthe in his early college years. You were probably just as dangerous. 

And now she’s all over me, it’s like I paid for it. 

You turned in your seat, facing the floor as you leaned against the bar and closed in on Dean. He knew what you were doing and didn’t dare object to your actions. “Why don’t you ever pay for one of the girls?” You asked, prying over eggshells as Dean fought not to smile. 

“Doesn’t do it for me,” he answered after a moment's hesitation. Your eyebrow perked at him as if to call his bluff, your interest inflating his ego. He would never admit it, but despite his calm exterior, his heart was beating at an ungodly rate. He swore if consumption didn’t kill him, you definitely would. He struggled to completely withstand the pressure of what he was about to challenge. “I’d rather not mix business and pleasure.”

You smirked slightly, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth. “Prove it,” you cooed, reaching into your clutch and flashing a key before Dean’s eyes before you settled it on the table in front of him. He chewed the inside of his cheek, watching as you walked away towards the stairs on the opposite wall of the bar. Dean's mouth grew dry, yet his ego inflated at the fact that he could mumble a few words and an attractive woman such as yourself would be beckoning him to bed. 

It’s like I paid for it...

I’m gonna pay for this.

The music from the parlor drew quiet as Dean climbed the stairs, furthering into the dimly lit hallways with the numbers of your room repeating in his mind. It was almost slow motion as his mind raced with what he could do to you, and more importantly, what you could do to him.