#the last drawing of beach bear is a bit old | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mxvladdy · 3 years

Note

Hi! just finished reading your Tumblr request on AO3 and I just looooove your writing ;; if it's not a problem I wanted to ask how you imagine that Lucifer, Mammon and Beel would react to a MC who is usually very quiet and not very expressive, impossible to embarrass or make nervous, to suddenly, one day manage to make her blush for the first time (Also, English is not my first language, so I hope this is okey) I wish you a lovely week ❤

A/N: This is adorable! Sorry for the slow turn around, I hope you enjoy!❤

Lucifer

Stoicism is something he normally finds very attractive in a woman. To be able to keep such a level of calm outlook during even times that might even shake him. He loves the idea of a power couple, and the way you hold yourself. You definitely make one.

It does grate him that he can’t fluster you like you do him, especially during your time together in private. He tries multiple ways to even just draw some color to your cheeks. Flowers in the classroom, hand written invitations to private dining establishments and venues, he even went to the human realm just to find some kind of familiar comfort to give to you. You love them all he knows but he wants, craves to see an uninhibited reaction from you. He’ll get it one day, his pride depends on it at this point.

Luck graces him one evening after a hellish work day. A fight in the school yard leading to property damage he had to do extra paper work for. The only saving grace of that was it wasn’t one of his brothers, this time. Only followed soon after by a report of yet another racket engineered by Mammon. Then, to top off a horrible day one of Belphie and Satan’s little “pranks” blew up half his office.

All his loose or unprotected paperwork, gone. Nothing but smoldering bits of ash. He was now more than ever thankful to have you by his side. Before he could get his hands on the two you stepped in shooing him away to deal with the other fires that needed to be put out while you handled his office.

Things got done, in record time for once. He was able to rewrite his notes for the next council meeting, but at the cost of your weekday dinner together. A pity, but he knew you understood. Trudging up to his room he looked forward to perhaps a few hours of sleep before the next crisis struck. Then he found you.

He chuckles to himself quietly leaning against his door frame. You had beaten him to his favorite resting roost. You sat on his favorite armchair, rolled up tight in his comforter. All he could see was a tuft of hair and the very tip of your nose. Beautiful as always, but he wanted to rest. Well-two birds, one stone and all…

He scoops you up envious of how deeply you could slumber and places you on his lap. Kicking off his shoes he sighs blissfully before resting his head back on worn leather.

Mini fic

You didn’t expect to see Lucifer tonight. Today has been the absolute definition of a shit show, on nights like these it wasn’t uncommon for you not to see him at all. You would normally place your bets on him being unconscious at his desk. Though, he couldn’t really do that tonight. You pat yourself on the back mentally knowing that he would be pleased with the work you and the brothers did cleaning up his office. While you couldn’t get them to apologize to Lucifer you at least got them to clean up what was salvageable in his study.

After a few hours of cleaning his office was back in working order and your feet were screaming for a break. Bidding the two miscreants farewell and making them promise to hold off on the pranks for at least a week you let your body lead you to Lucifer’s room. The room was how you left it that morning. Your slippers next to his by the door and your robe tossed haphazardly on his linen sheets. You make a beeline for the only piece of furniture Lucifer loved dearly. How many nights had you snuck in only to see him melting into the old chain. His long legs sprawled out and tangled in his foot rest, while his body sinks into the imprints he has left from years of use like a lover's embrace.

Yanking the thin comforter from his bed you curl into the divots with a yawn. Before you know it your eyes close and the crackling of the fireplace lulls you to sleep. You awake with a jolt, confused and disoriented for a moment before your sleepy brain catches up. You fell asleep alone on the soft leather but woke to something unyielding beneath you now.

Lucifer sits underneath you snoring softly. His arms rest around your blanketed body. His head tilts down over you, his nose tickling your hairline. Like always he sports a mild look of annoyance. His lips were drawn in a scowl, brows crinkling in displease. You could tell his jaw was tense even while he slept.

Freeing your arms from your cocoon you reach up from him moving to cup his twitching jaw. With practiced ease you began to message the pin joints. You smile to yourself moving down to his tense neck and shoulders. This had become a nightly ritual for you when you shared a bed. When you knew he was asleep you would start trying to work away some of his tension from the previous day. You swear in the morning that he looks better on the nights you get the chance to.

This was your little secret though. You couldn’t bear the thought of him knowing you did this. Not that you thought he would disapprove. Lucifer appreciated acts of service, but just the thought of him knowing made your whole body heat in a flush. You push the thoughts away focusing instead on the extremely tight muscles underneath his brow line. It amazed you that he didn’t have any wrinkles after all this.

So engrossed in your perusal of his features you didn’t notice him stirring till his warm palm traps your hand to his cheek. Before you realize it his lips push a firm kiss into the flesh of your palm. Scarlet eyes meet yours crinkling around the edges. They were warm and radiant. “You’re blushing.” His voice was deep and husky from what little sleep he got.

“What?” You stammer.

Lucifer leans in tapping his forehead on yours. He studies your wide eyes and pink face for a moment before cracking a smug grin. “I’ve never seen you flustered before. Your blush looks good on you.”

“You caught me off guard.” He nods, kissing the tip of your nose tenderly taking impish glee in your squirming.

“Good-I will strive to do so more often. I wish to see you as undone as you make me.”

Mammon

Stoic MC? Rare pair? Rare pair. Mammon wears his heart on his sleeve. Nothing about him is slick. From week one everyone knew he had it bad for you. He is so open with his affections whether he likes it or not. Unlike you.

Honestly, how were you always so controlled. Ain’t the dame supposed to be all blushy and giggly too? It-it makes him think he isn’t doing something right. Is he not treating you right? Were you unhappy?

So he goes to do what he does best. Scheme. There has to be someway to crack that stoic disposition of yours. He gets clingy-well clingier now. He starts springing random vacations on you. Expect to skip class whenever he thinks he won’t get skinned alive for it.

He’ll take you anywhere all his internet research tells him to. Black sand beaches, crowded boardwalks to see the lights, deserted hiking trails late in the evening to watch the fireflies. He is sure it will work. But nope, nada. You love every moment of it and show him with a soul searing kiss and sweet words of praise. But damn you if you aren’t always so cool about it.

He is about to throw in the towel when he finally gets what he wants. At work no less. It was completely by accident but he isn’t one to complain. Perhaps he should go to work more often.

Mini Fic

“Pucker up!” Mammon’s make-up artist orders, squeezing his cheeks between her thumb and forefinger. “And for Diavolo’s sake put your phone down.”

“Shove off Cazzin.” Mammon sputters around the sour tasting lip stain and plumper. His eyes still glued to his screen. His freshly done nails swiping at picture after picture of fancy hotels and spas. Just thinking about taking you a private spring got his blood boiling in the best ways.

“Woooow.” Cazz whistles through her fangs looking at his screen. “Who is the lucky lady you are trying to impress this time?

“Mammon bristles, shooting her a murderous glance. The smaller demon blanches, purple skin turning ashy with fear. Her eyes drop to the floor immediately in submission, a sincere apology falling from her lips. “My girlfriend.” He says finally after cooling down. “I’m-I’m trying to impress her or something.”

“Well, pretty sure with a price tag like that anyone would be impressed.” Mammon only grunts barely glancing at the excessive amount of zeros on the page. Any other girl he knew would be a blushing mess after getting a gift like this. Hells, even Cazz was eyeing the site with open envy and excitement. Yet, this wasn’t the first time he had done something like this with you. Every time he did all he got was a blisteringly radiant smile and kisses that probably could send him back to heaven if he didn’t have a life long ban there. Not that that was a bad thing...but he just wanted more.

“You would think so…” He trails off clicking his phone off to focus on the rest of his routine. No sooner had his hair and make-up artist finished then his director was stomping and shouting down the hall for him to get his ass on set. Grimacing Mammon slides off his seat stretching to spare himself a few more seconds of peace. He stops at the door taking one last look at his get up for this shoot.

Damn, he looks good. It was time for a new spring collection, but more importantly, his most popular season. The light spring colors always brought out his best features. The pastel cotton shirt they “fashionably” threw him in hung casually around his frame. Buttons “tastefully” undone to show the smooth planes of his freely waxed and oiled skin. The linen board shorts and finishing touch of leather sandals gave him the perfect beach vibe. At top dollar mind you.

Hmmm-perhaps he could borrow this outfit for your next beach outing.

Unable to tone out his bosses shouting anymore Mammon makes his way to set. He thinks hard on what else he can go or take you to impress you, ignoring the poking and prodding of his camera men and set designers. His partners today, two incubus twins stood sourly next to him. They had been at this for hours and even he was ready for a break from the sweltering heat of the lights.

“Alright! Alright!” The director broke an hour later tired of the twins whining. He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. “We’ll break for an hour for lunch- lost the light as is.” He huffs stumping off for a smoke break.

“Finally,” Mammon sighs from his pose on the ground. “Think I got sand in my ass.” He gets up from the ground grimacing as he tries to brush the grit off his legs. “Shit starts to burn when they get hot.” One of the twins nods looking down at their own arms. Tiny burn marks showing on their fair skin, they will heal by the time the shoot resumes, doesn’t mean they will be happy about it.

“Want to grab lunch?” The twins ask tossing him a towel to blot at his sweating brow. “New food truck is coming in today.” Mammon shakes his head. You had packed him something to eat this morning and he kind of wanted to enjoy it in peace for once.

Waving the two off he hurries back to his room already salivating at whatever tasty food you got him. Halfway to the door he stops, the fine hairs on his neck standing up. Someone was in his dressing room. Devil’s please don’t let it be another rabid fan. He pleads before creeping forward to check. Whoever it was left the door ajar, peaking in he stares enraptured.

When did you get here? It wasn’t abnormal for you to just drop by while he was working, but you usually waited for him on set behind the cameras. You sit humming to yourself reading something on your lap, feet kicking out innocently while you wait for him. Flipping a page he gets a glimpse of what you’re reading. His feathers ruffle in satisfaction. He had plans on showing you these shots before their release date. They still needed approval from his director but he knew they were great. You flip through shot after shot humming or nodding at some. One shot makes you stop fully, eyes growing wide.

Mammon snorts to himself, knowing exactly which photo you stopped on. The next issue was focusing on “Elegance in the work space”, whatever that means. His designer for the projects went a little overboard with the cuts and designs of the business suites he was to model. The sketches and drafts she had thrust at him had made his head spin. They were all amazing in his opinion, but one had been killer, everyone had agreed on that. If he didn’t know any better he was certain that it would put him on the cover. By the way you were looking at it, he was hoping it would.

That suit really complimented all of his features. It was form fitting accenting his slim waist but hid the slight sloping of his shoulders. The gold of the threading of his vest was done up in soft floral patterns that popped against the dark navy blue of the suit's fabric. The dark blue really brought out the lightness of his eyes. The look was topped off with a bright yellow silk pocket square, polished leather wingtips and gold cufflinks. He was about to interrupt you when he saw it, that one thing he wanted more than anything.

The pink starts at your ears swiping across the bridge of your nose before blooming on your round cheeks. It was breathtaking. Thinking he was being sneaky, Mammon whips out his phone for a quick picture, no one would believe him unless he had solid evidence. But the flash gives him away.

“Mammon!” You jump caught, hands flying to cover your warm face.

“Oi! None of that!” Mammon moves quickly snatching your hands away from your face beaming. “I’ve been waiting for ages to see this face on ya, an’ all it took was a picture of me?”

“You- you clean up really nicely, Mammon.” His hearts flutter at your soft admission.

“Huh,” Mammon scratches his neck, feeling his own blush coming forth. “Well- I mean I could do that more often, so long as you keep looking at me like this when I do.” He picks up the stack of photos from the floor where you dropped them in surprise. “Ya know- I still got that suit.”

Your face turns molten- oh he was going to have a field day with this.

Beelzebub

Doesn’t even notice at first. He is kind of the same way with expressing himself too- unless food is involved. So if you are content then he is content, so who cares if you don’t show it on your face?

Well- he didn’t care, until Belphie brought it up. His twin didn’t mean anything by it; he knew that, but it made him wonder. He trusts you when you say you are happy, you have no reason to lie to him. But date nights, game nights, and family dinners you were always so impassive.

It makes him wonder, not enough to ask you though. Truthfully, he is a little embarrassed that he can’t read you as you do him. He won’t force it like his brothers might. He is patient and hopes one day it will just come naturally like it does for him around you.

Mini Fic

Beel watches you over his lunch. You two were silent as you ate, but that was to be expected on days like these. The school cafe was packed with students all jockeying to get a place in line for today’s special. He had gotten there early for the both of you to gap a few of the specials and sides before they were gone. “Are you ok?” He puts his fork down leaning in close to speak to you across the small table. It creaks dangerously under the weight of his elbows on it. You look up from your tea mug. He smiles at your perpetually mild expression, your eyes were hard but your lips and brows were relaxed giving away nothing.

“Of course.” You smile up at him, face smooth and controlled. “Just excited about tonight.”

Hmph, could have fooled him. Beel leans back, studying you intently. He hopes you were as excited as he was for tonight. A new arcade had opened on the edge of town last week and he thought it would be a great date night for the two of you. He had expressed to you on several occasions how he was looking forward to the roller rink and the hoop games. You seemed eager, giving him a closed lip grin every time he brought it up. “Me too.” Beel says finally turning back to his food. “Think we will win any prizes?”

You snort dismissively. “Us? The dream team? I would be surprised if we didn’t win something. Have you seen the plushies?” You pull out your phone and show him their Devilgram. “I want to try and get the hydra one…” You prattle on and scroll through all the cute prizes on their site. He nods along taking a mental note of all the ones that you pointed at, determined to get each and every one for you.

School goes by quickly, far too quickly for him. Each tick of the clock caught him by surprise, jacking his nerves up more and more. It wasn’t like it was his first date with you, but it never stopped the butterflies from starting in his stomach. After school he changes quickly and waits for you by your bedroom door. He fiddles with the zipper of his jacket until you finally open your door.

“Ready?” The smile you throw up at him is breathtaking. “Hope you don’t mind my get up. You mentioned a roller ring so I figured something sporty and functional would be appropriate.” You kick out a leg waving a hand over your bright sport leggings.

Beel chuckles offering you his large hand. “You look adorable as always.”

Being with you was as easy as breathing to him now. After all your time together in the house getting to know you you became one of his closest friends, even before you started dating. You shared many of his interests and wasn’t afraid to argue your point if you saw fit. You fill the train ride to the arcade with idle chatter, goofy selfies to send to his siblings, and annoying the other passengers with your ill-contained chuckles.

The place itself was packed but well spread out to handle the massive throngs of demons and beasts coming for drinks and a good time. “Come on!” You shout over the other very drunk and very loud customers tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s get some coins and find an empty station.” He lets you lead. You take full advantage of his impressive frame to part the crowds around you as you hunt for a free spot. “See anything?”

Beel peers over the heads of most of the demons and looks out. In the far corner sat a few jump rope games that were free. “Stay close.” He murmurs in your ear wrapping a protective arm your shoulders so you wouldn’t be swept away in the flow of the crowd. The games were...hard. Mentally Beel kicks himself. Of course an arcade in the Devildom wouldn’t be geared for humans. They were built for demons' fast reflexes and inhuman strength. You were a good sport about it though, cheering him on when the games began to move too fast for your senses. If a game broke in his zeal to get you tickets, well you were both fast walkers.

“Think we have enough?” Beelzebub asks hours later around a popsicle. His jacket pockets bulge with multicolored tickets screaming to be spent.

You hum around a scoop of ice cream. “Possibly-” Your eyes flick to the prize booth. “And extra, you want a plushie too?” He shrugs. No doubt the moment it got into his room Belphie will steal it to add to his horde.

You end up getting your stuffed hydra and a giant fuzzy minotaur to keep it “company”. You clutch them close to your chest, seemingly happy with your bounties. After that you spend a bit at the roller ring before you finally had to call it a night. Exhausted you lag behind Beel as you make your way back to the train station, feet dragging with each step.

Wordlessly, Beel stops just in front of you. “Here,” He squats, offering you his back, arms stretched out behind him. “I can take us the rest of the way to the stop.” He feels you hesitate for a moment before climbing on to his back.

“Thank you.” He thinks nothing of how soft your voice was, just barely a tickle at the base of his neck. Beel treks one once you are secure, stuffing his hands in his pockets to lock you in place. The rest of the walk was quiet but he didn’t mind it, your warm body and soft breathing in his ear was a comfort.

He stops at the benches with a few minutes to spare before your train. “We are here. Do you want-” He gasps quietly, cutting himself off before he could accidentally wake you. You sleep on unperturbed by his voice. Your hold on around his neck was tight, your head buried in his neck.

It seems only when you're sleeping do you let your guard down. A blush sweeps across your face, your lips pulled up into a serene smile. You looked-happy. Happy in a way he never saw before. He won’t say anything about it, he decides. He’ll cherish this tiny expression all the same. Perhaps one day he’ll see when you're awake too.

#Request #om beelzebub #om lucifer #om mammon #im slowly cranking them out!!!#obey me shall we date

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn’t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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thatcartoonnetworkblog · 3 years

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Cartoon Network Hotel Review

WHAT TIME IS IT????

If you don’t find yourself screaming this when you get here, even just in your head, then you’re in the wrong place.

But after a nice drive through Amish Country, the Cartoon Network Hotel is nice and visible right outside of Dutch Wonderland. Coming in, you see images of some of your favorite characters, right before Finn and Jake welcome you at the front.

Granted, it looks like I came off season- with fall and school just starting, Dutch Wonderland is only open on the weekends, and the hotel wasn’t exactly packed from what I can see. Which made for a good time for the indoor pool to be under renovation, so I sadly didn’t get to check that out. But hey, the outdoor pool was running just fine, although it was mostly empty, just myself and a family.

I didn’t take any pictures of the pool, since I didn’t have my phone (but a couple of Ice King’s penguins are playing life guard duty, alongside a pretty cute girl), but I did snap a photo of the Powerpuff sprinklers! They look pretty cool, right?

But that’s jumping ahead. Anyway, as mentioned, today it didn’t seem so busy, so despite arriving a couple of hours before 4 PM check-in, I was able to get a room right away. It must have been busy enough that I didn’t get the Gumball room I asked for, but instead I got my second choice, Steven Universe.

But I mean, look at this. I can’t complain. I was just thinking that I wanted the SU room instead, anyway.

The rooms are themed to one of six shows/franchises, the other four being Powerpuff Girls, Ben 10, Adventure Time and We Bare Bears. The former two seem to be primarily inspired by their recent series however, not their classics, so your mileage will vary there. I asked a receptionist which show tends to be the most popular choice, and she says that it rotates. Apparently PPG does get picked often by those who grew up with it, which makes sense, although those aren’t my Powerpuff Girls.

So, some things of note- there are four exclusive channels to the Hotel. Gumball and Teen Titans Go get their own 24/7 channels, which seems redundant since they’re basically all CN shows anyway. But they also have a FanFavs channel, which shows various episodes from various series, and New Shows, which I’m not sure if it shows currently unaired episodes or not. I couldn’t get that one active for long, but I did see part of a Victor & Valentino episode. I did have FanFavs on a bit as background noise, and they seem to mostly show:

Adventure Time

Regular Show

Steven Universe

Ben 10 (2016)

Mao Mao

Thundercats Roar (seriously...)

It seems like they mostly rotate from those shows, but I’d like to believe there’s more. Griz is on the cover bar for it when you connect to wifi, and you’d think they’d also show at least the 2016 PPG show as well, as that’s all over the resort.

They also do showings of cartoons in the kitchen at 3 and 9 PM, as the kitchen is closed during those times. My flight was very early, so I missed the 9 showing, as well as the Summer Camp Island-inspired bonfire that happened before, but I caught the 3 o’clock cartoons. They played episodes of Craig of the Creek, Total Dramarama, Teen Titans Go, and Gumball. Pretty cool, although these are basically the only four shows the channel plays anyway, The intro they use for the screenings shows clips from classic Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry, and Scooby-Doo cartoons, but none of those were shown today. Maybe they’ll throw one in at another time? Probably not Scooby... or maybe just a movie, since they apparently play movies as well sometimes.

I didn’t stick around for most of the TDR cartoon though, as I was participating in the Craig of the Creek scavenger hunt. They hunt various CN characters around the lobby vicinity, and you try to find them in the right spot.

This is what you get if you win- a COTC pin and a Hershey bar. But hey, you can’t argue with results, and this is about it for Craig merch.

The gift shop almost exclusively focuses on the six shows with featured rooms, and a lot of merch isn’t exclusive. I did get a couple of things though.

The beach towel is based on the designs you see all over the hotel and has a couple of series not otherwise represented in terms of merch, like OK KO, Summer Camp Island, and the aforementioned COTC. Oh, and Clarence! Almost missed him in the bottom.

I got the stickers because there are more COTC characters, and again, the designs are nice. The SU pin was cool, and if there was a similar one for AT or Gumball, I would have got that as well. And I got the Anais keychain because Gumball merch is strangely rare despite its popularity, especially for her. There were also some pencils, notebooks, a couple of T-shirts and a hoodie. I almost got some pencils.

There’s also an arcade and an activity center, but those do seem mostly for kids, plus you have to pay for most of the crafts. I think the coloring is free at least, and there are a couple of nods to classic shows I found that I’ll share on another post.

Just as there are some nods to classics around the place, primarily the elevator and kitchen, but the people who want to see Dexter and Johnny and the Eds aren’t the target audience for this resort. Which is unfortunate, but the thing is, besides the fact that we’re getting old and today’s kids need their own shows, Cartoon Network has become a big deal internationally over the past decade, moreso than during their supposed heyday in the late 90′s-early 00′s. The six shows featured aren’t just picked for being the most popular, they’re all big draws overseas. We Bare Bears sells a LOT of merch in Asia and parts of Europe, even if it doesn’t seem that big of a draw stateside. Hopefully they can make this a tourist spot.

That said, I do hope that they consistently update things in the years to come. Part of the problem with the Nickelodeon Hotel over in Orlando was how stuck it was in the mid-2000′s. Sure, SpongeBob has remained a big draw over the years since, but when I visited the place around 2010 (didn’t stay, but took a tour), it was apparent that if your kids weren’t big fans of Rugrats or Jimmy Neutron, and they probably weren’t around that place until its last days, there wasn’t much reason to stay over.

I do think that Craig deserves his own themed room, and it may be time to swap out Powerpuff for it. Let’s admit that the 2016 reboot was a failure and move on. Or maybe just double down and replace the reboot designs with their classic look.

But hey, my final thoughts on the Cartoon Network Hotel? I had a lot of fun, and got the best sleep I had in ages. I’m not sure if I’d go again, though. At least unless it changes things up a little. Part of the thing is that this is really for the kids who love today’s new shows. And I do really love three of the six shows heavily featured here- four if you count the original Powerpuff. But I’m just not the right age for this place.

If you love any of these shows and/or Cartoon Network’s brand as a whole, I recommend checking this place out, but only if you’re near the area. Don’t make it a pilgrimage. Unless you have enough friends to make grouping up on the Steven Universe Dream Suite worth it.

That said, look at these Bear macrons. So damn cute, and tasty, too!

#my ramblings #cartoon network #cartoon network hotel

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razieltwelve · 3 years

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The Sound of Thunder (Spoilers)

This post contains spoilers for the future direction of The Sound of Thunder. If you do not want to read spoilers, stop here.

The Sound of Thunder is basically inspired by Silence of the Lambs with Lightning playing the role of Hannibal Lecter and Fang stepping into the shoes of Agent Clarice Starling.

The story opens with Fang be sent to interview Lightning in a secure facility. Amodar wants to get her insight into a case since someone has begun to commit murders that are eerily similar to those committed by Lightning. The critical difference is that while Lightning killed sister, she often focused her ire on the younger sister whereas the present murders seem to show greater anger toward the older sister.

Lightning’s sister, Serah, is currently in protective custody, her whereabouts unknown.

After a brief conversation, Lightning taunts Fang but takes an interests in her, revealing the differences between her murders and the present murders.

That’s where the first chapter finishes.

The basic idea of the story is fairly simple. Fang is going to try to put together the clues to identify the murderer while bodies continue to pile up.

Things get increasingly tense when Yuna and Rikku are abducted. Yuna’s father is a powerful politician, and he demands that something be done. What disturbs Amodar and Fang is that the two aren’t actually sisters. However, when asked about this, Lightning tells Fang that it isn’t necessarily the blood relationship that matters, so much as the bond between the two. After all, she didn’t just target any old pair of sisters. Lightning always went after the sisters that were the closest.

It is during this time that Serah Farron apparently disappears from police custody. After consulting with the witness protection program, Fang discovers that the murders have occurred in areas not far from Serah. She believes that Lightning’s ‘admirer’ is trying to finish what Lightning started by killing Serah.

Lightning just laughs when she’s told this, telling Fang that her ‘admirer’ would never be so crass as to take what’s hers, not if they know what’s good for them. Fang points out that Lightning is stuck behind bars, but Lightning merely smiles and tells Fang that she’ll be out soon enough.

Fang begins to believe that Lightning knows exactly who the killer is. This belief is further bolstered when forensic analysis shows that the weapon and style used to kill the latest victims is archetypical of the veterans from Lightning’s old unit in the military. Many of them simply vanished off the face of the earth after the war, and still others were lost in the conflict but never confirmed dead.

With the days passing and Braska (Yuna’s father) growing more desperate, he decides to use his political clout to force a meeting with Lightning. Lightning was a former soldier, someone who loved the outdoors and a good bit of exercise. These days, she’s cooped up in one of the most secure cells in the world.

His offer is simple. If she can give information that allows them to save his daughter and Rikku, he will have her transferred to a new cell on a deserted island. She will still be confined, and the island itself is so isolated that escape would be meaningless, but she will get more time outdoors, and a cell that allows her to do some indoor exercise.

Amodar urges Braska to reconsider, but Braska is adamant. It is at this point that Fang’s sister, Vanille, disappears. Fang is horrified, especially when a cryptic message left at the scene suggests that the one responsible is indeed the killer. She seeks out Lightning’s advice, only to find that Lightning has already been transferred as is being held in another secure location.

Dr Jihl Nabaat tells Fang that she should hurry. As Lightning’s former warden, she protested the move, but was overruled. She doesn’t think that Lightning’s new minders will be able to hold her. They don’t know what they’re dealing with.

Fang hurries to the location where Lightning is being held.

Meanwhile, Lightning is being wonderfully civil. She has passed on information to Amodar indicating that the killer is a former colleague, someone who grew up in a broken home, someone who grew to blame someone in his life that he viewed as something between a sister and a lover for his ills. During their time on the front, they came to understand one another and she learned that he planned to enact his own bloody vengeance on the world.

His name? Caius Ballad.

During a seemingly uneventful dinner, Lightning begins her escape. Faking a seizure, she lures the inexperienced guards close enough for her to kill them and take the keys. She then takes their weapons and sounds the alarm. As the backup team rushes to her ‘cell’, Lightning begins to systematically hunt them down, wiping out the entire team. She does this by wounding some of the members to lure out the others and erode team discipline while using the bodies of the guards she killed as props to draw attention at critical moments.

Rather than attempt to escape through the front door, Lightning instead takes advantage of the building’s geography to escape first to the roof and then over to a nearby building where she kills someone else, takes their clothes, and disguises herself using a hat to hide her hair. She even changes her gait and simply walks out of the building as reinforcements rush into the original building.

Fang arrives on the scene shortly after, and Lightning actually stays to watch her. When Fang somehow manages to trace Lightning’s steps via intuition and cunning, Lightning ambushes her. Rather than killing her, Lightning knocks her unconscious, but not before leaving her with a few clues.

When Fang regains consciousness, she tells Amodar what she has learned, and she finds out that Caius Ballad isn’t really the one responsible. Instead, when they track him down, they find out that he’s been dead for years. In fact, it looks a lot like Lightning killed him herself. The isolated cabin he was in was also rigged with a trap that killed most of the team sent to apprehend him.

Following Lightning’s tip to investigate the ‘chains of the past’, Fang delves into Lightning’s history. She discovers evidence that after Lightning’s parents died, she and Serah became abnormally close. At this time, they were badly let down by the system. They lost their house. They had to resort to begging to survive, and Lightning ended up joining a gang to make ends meet. It was during this period that Lightning’s kills were believed to have begun. This relationship only deepened until Serah met Snow Villiers. This enraged Lightning who saw it as a betrayal.

Lightning went to war only to return and find that Serah and Snow were going to get married. It was around that time that Lightning’s killings began to ramp up. Fang believes that Lightning saw Serah marrying Snow as the last piece of her family abandoning her and leaving her all alone. It was notable that in the car accident in which Lightning’s parents died, Lightning never lost consciousness whereas Serah did. Lightning spent three days in that ravine trapped next to the dead bodies of her parents trying to get out of the wreck and save her sister. The other driver would escape charges due to political connections but would later be killed during a robbery gone wrong.

Snow would later be killed in a car accident, but the more Fang investigated the matter, the more certain she grew that it wasn’t an accident at all. That was when Lightning’s killings took on an even more gruesome style, culminating in the hideously awful murder scene where Lightning forgot to cover her tracks. Some of her hair was found on the scene, along with fingerprints. This was how Lightning was caught.

But something about the old case files bothers her. Looking more closely at the wounds on that last, pivotal set of murders, Fang notices that the older sister was actually harmed more than the younger one - something closer to the current murders. Moreover, the knife work isn’t quite as expert as in Lightning’s older murders.

She doesn’t know quite what to make of it, but as she delves into the archives containing Lightning’s old records, she finds a note about a location very dear to Lightning: an old beach house in Bodhum. It was never hers, but her family used to walk past it every day. Fang has a hunch, and she follows it to the beach house.

There, she discovers that although it should be abandoned, there are signs that it has been lived in recently. Preparing herself, she makes her way inside. She finds Yuna and Rikku huddled together in a dark pit. She tries to call it in, but there is a jamming device in place. She is about to leave and call for reinforcements when she spots a familiar bit of clothing nearby. It belongs to Vanille.

Fang can’t bear to leave. She presses onward and finds Vanille unconscious and strapped to a chair. However, before she can leave, she is ambushed and knocked unconscious herself. When she wakes up, she finds herself staring into the face of Serah Farron.

Suddenly, it all clicks in Fang’s mind.

Lightning was never the sole killer. She and Serah had been killing people together, right from the start, most likely beginning with the driver who crashed into their car and killed their parents. The reason they’ve been killing sisters is because they don’t very highly of them. They see them as not being close enough, of not caring about each other the way Serah and Lightning do. In fact, Fang remembers that as close as the murdered sisters generally were, there were always rumours of friction and occasional arguments - imperfections in Lightning and Serah’s eyes. After all, alone and with none one else to turn to, Lightning and Serah always had each other. How could they respect people who couldn’t even manage that?

When Fang tells Serah this, the other woman is impressed.

Fang also explains her suspicions about what happened later. Snow’s accident wasn’t an accident. Lightning sabotaged his car. Serah says that is exactly what happened, and she framed Lightning for the last murder to get her arrested and killed. However, Lightning surrendered and avoided being killed, and she was then put out of Serah’s reach for revenge since she genuinely loved Snow.

Her plan was to then commit more murders knowing that Lightning would be drawn out. This succeeded, and she went after Vanille to get to Fang since she thought Lightning found Fang intriguing, and Lightning hates it when people mess with her stuff.

Sure enough, Serah is still talking when Lightning arrives.

The two sister square off. In the midst of their battle, Fang manages to free herself and Vanille, and they run for it, saving Yuna and Rikku along the way. The beach house is destroyed in an explosion when Serah, who starts losing, detonates a trap she’d set beforehand.

This spells the end of the two sisters.

Or so Fang thought.

A few months later, having received a commendation for her efforts, Fang gets a letter. It’s from Lightning. She thanks Fang for a most interesting adventure, especially the chance to reunite with her sister. Fang doesn’t have to worry. Lightning has other scores to settle and other people to kill, and she wants to see how far Fang can go.

A few days later another letter arrives.

It’s from Serah. In her words, she tells Fang that the world failed her and Lightning. They spent years afraid, wondering what new horror the next day would bring in. She talks about how often Lightning came back home bruised and beaten from her work with the gang, and how often Serah had to steal and lie to get essentials. She tells Fang that she and Lightning are going to settle their score one day. She hasn’t forgiven Lightning for Snow, and she probably never will, but she has other people to go after first.

A few days later, two sets of murders begin. They’re no longer targeting sisters, but Fang knows who is responsible. She joins the special team Amodar is putting together to catch the two sisters.

X X X

Author’s Notes

So, yeah, there is an unedited stream of consciousness of the ideas I had regarding where the story would go. Obviously, it’s very rough, but this was the ‘skeleton’ of what I thought might happen. Had I written it in full, I would have fleshed it out and tinkered with it a lot.

#final fantasy xiii #fanfiction #the sound of thunder

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dclsbaby · 3 years

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mykonos-crossed lovers (part i) 🦋

🎶 playlist for part i

prologue

part ii

part iii

part iv

Summary: When you drunkenly book a girls trip to a tropical Greek island to help mend your broken heart, you would never for a second think it will take you exactly to where he is. Him. A tale of the right person at the wrong time, an overused cliché made into plots of movies you never thought would live through in your reality. Two people, still madly in love with each other, hearts still broken, suppressed by the alcohol and distractions consumed on this trip. Will they let their egos get in the way, protect what’s left of their already broken hearts, or will let their hearts speak?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: angst?

Author’s Note: hi everyone, thank you so so much for the responses to the prologue! I am so overwhelmed and did not expect to receive so much kindness it makes me wanna cry hahaha 🥺 thank you a thousand times over! and if this is your first time getting to know the fic, I highly suggest you read the prologue before diving into part 1! This chapter is sort of a filler chapter (I know it has 2.6k words lol), it shows how (y/n) have been doing since the break up & how the trip came about, I hope it’ll make sense once you read it 🤍 thanks for reading x

Gif:

It’s been months since you last spoke to him. Him. The thought of him still hurts. The idea of him existing without you, hurts. As much as you try to fight it, you still remember him like the back of your hand. You could draw on paper the contours of his face by memory, by instinct, like remembering your way home. He was a love you have never experienced before. Something about his magnetism seemed impossible to resist.

You and Dominic broke up nearly half a year ago. Your hopes of an amicable breakup were destroyed by him. His confusion, his anger, his frustration made it impossible for you two to stay friends. He couldn’t even begin to imagine being just a friend to you when his entire heart belongs to you. He called you selfish for leaving, he called you stubborn for having your mind made up without letting him put up a fight when he was ready to battle anyone, even you, to save your relationship.

The first few months were difficult, but the first few weeks were excruciating. You barely ate, as the numbing in the pit of your stomach constantly made you nauseous that your body couldn’t digest anything you ate. You couldn’t bring yourself to shower and get dressed, and spent days laying in bed, wallowing in sadness. Overtime, you just learn to live with the pain.

Since then, you’ve had good days, and slowly but surely stopped faking smiles and replaced them with genuine ones. But your bad days felt like hell, with your mind often teasing you with memories of him that you’ve suppressed enough to compartmentalise, then it comes back to you all at once, and consumes your entire soul. The pain is suffocating, like being crush by tidal waves, leaving you no time to run for shore, the waters dragging you, pulling you in many directions. All you could do was be still, stay paralysed, and pray that it goes away. That’s what remembering him felt like.

Then on other days, you often wonder how you were able to manage all this, with the pain still fresh whenever you think about it, but I guess we’re all guilty of pushing our feelings to the side and pretending that everything’s alright, when it’s the opposite. You’re still alive, despite it all. But you want to live, not just survive.

The truth is, you did not leave because you fell out of love. In fact, you were too in love—it’s a crime. He was your entire life. Days were spent waiting for him to come home from training and matches. Missing him during away games. Your entire happiness depended on him, and that terrified you. You weren’t happy with yourself either, and expected more out of your life. The burden of having a prosperous career, a stable income, a life for yourself that you loved, becoming too heavy to bear. You had all these dreams and goals set for yourself that you never got to actualise so you could be by his side. Your love for him was insurmountable, that you couldn’t accommodate anything for yourself. No matter how hard you tried, you will always put him first. It was natural. Even though he never asked for all your attention, you couldn't simply choose between yourself or him, because you would always choose him. Over and over.

So you did what you had to do, break your own heart, and his, to love yourself.

Since your breakup, you finally moved out of your friend’s place and got yourself a nice two-bedroom flat at the city centre with a stunning view of the city. You landed yourself a job as a junior editor for British Vogue that demands commuting to London several days a week. As you thrive in difficult situations, the breakup forced you to submerge yourself in work, mainly to avoid the pain, but it propelled you to get to where you are.

Trying to get over someone who is in the public eye was a different battle. It seemed as though everywhere you went, he’s there. You see him on billboards, TV screens, his face painted on murals, quickly becoming a tourist site. Occasionally, you would watch his games out of habit, and listen to the prideful Evertonian crowd chant his name. You witnessed his first England senior team debut, and tuned in to England v. Wales on the TV for old time’s sake. You watched him score his first senior England goal behind a screen. Your eyes welled at sight of him living his dream, poaching the ball into the net, scoring the first goal of the game, making his country and family proud. You feel the rush of adrenaline he felt as he ran to his teammates and celebrated. You can’t help but share this sense of pride, as you’ve watched firsthand how hard he has worked to get to where he is.

But on days where he isn’t on your mind, you do not want to be reminded of him. It’s difficult to cope when you encounter pieces of him that takes you back to the worst day of your life, and his.

Like last night, for instance. You had been scrolling on your social media when it was brought to your attention that a magazine had published an issue with your ex on the front cover, spotted on a night out with a blonde you don’t personally know but you could’ve sworn you’ve seen before. Perhaps another one of those so-called “influencers”, you thought to yourself. You know that you have no right to feel jealous or upset, as you broke up with him and this was bound to happen, but selfishly, a part of you had hoped that he wouldn’t find anyone else, or at least not before you did. You’re frustrated at yourself for letting him have this effect on you even months after your break up.

Succumbing to your bad habits, you give in to your impulses and pop open a bottle of red wine to calm your growing anxiety. Two glasses of wine, a takeout, and a season of Gossip Girl later, you find yourself slightly drunk, nerves calmed, and a little drowsy so you quickly change into your satin pyjamas and tuck yourself in bed.

You decide to turn on the TV for some background noise and quickly close your eyes. By some twist of fate, you hear a painfully familiar voice giving his thoughts at the end of a game he’s won. The sheer volume of his voice on the TV causes a sharp pain in your chest as you scramble to reach for your remote in the dark, with your eyes half opened. and change it to anything but a sports channel. That’s it, you thought to yourself. I need to get the fuck away.

Still drunk and not entirely aware of what you’re doing, you reach for your laptop on the nightstand. The brightness made your eyes squint a little bit, but you managed to type out a link and open a travel booking site, and scroll through different pictures of tropical islands you’re longing to get to. Anywhere but here, you thought. You selected options that you thought looked the blue-est, the most expensive, a party town, and had the most five star restaurants.

By the end of it you have booked a return flight to Mykonos for 5 people where you will be staying at a grand, luxurious 5-bedroom villa located at the party central of the island. You couldn’t be bothered to check how much it cost you. All sense of ration gets thrown out the window when you mix heartbreak with alcohol. When you told your friends of what you had just done, it was safe to say that they were surprised but absolutely ecstatic that you have booked a much needed getaway with the girls. With a three-day notice, you all quickly scramble through your closet and go on an online shopping spree to pick out your outfits for the holiday.

***

Days later, you find yourself landing on Mykonos island on a sunny afternoon.

“I can’t believe you’ve managed to pull all this off within days,” your friend says as you all walk through the pebbled entry way of your villa, and open the door. “Holy fucking shit,” another friend says in awe of the sight. The villa was filled with white interior, bright lights, wooden tables that give off beach vibes, and an infinity pool where you could swim as you watch the sunset, with a view of the blue sea. With 5 bedrooms to choose from, your friends collectively decided that you should take the master that had direct access to the pool, which you happily accepted but it wouldn’t matter anyway, as you’ll all probably stay in one room.

Once you’ve unpacked, you pull out your white cardigan and make your way out the terrace to catch a view of the sunset and have a moment by yourself. You take a deep breath of the fresh air with a hint of sea breeze as you try to take in the stunning view of the island. You are filled with gratitude as you bear witness to something so beautiful as you watch the sun sink into the blue Aegean Sea. Despite the peacefulness exuded by the view, your heart can’t help but feel Dom. You remember when he had brought up wanting to spend this exact summer in Mykonos with you, but life had other plans.

***flashback***

Dom was laying in bed with his laptop screen on his chest, an arm to support his head as he scrolled through the travel booking site. He had been looking through different options, but he has his mind set on a lovely town in Greece, Dubai’s overrated after all, he thought.

“Me, you, blue skies, tanned skin, bike rides around town, what do you think love?” asked Dom. “Where’s this?” you ask, moving closer to him as he shows you his laptop screen. “Mykonos. It’s not too far away, I’ll have enough time to rest before pre-season starts,” he replies. “That sounds like a plan,” you smile at him. “But we’ll book it closer to the summer, yeah? In case anything comes up,” you said as you plant a kiss on his cheek. He nods as he bookmarks the site and drifts off to sleep with you shortly after.

Unbeknownst to you, later that night he quietly opened his laptop and quickly booked the trip for you two as a surprise. Anything that will come in the way will just have to be compromised. He was adamant to make sure he gives you the best summer of your life, it is what you deserve after all, he thought.

***

You had forgotten about your conversation with Dom until you stood on the island. Your thoughts were interrupted by your friend’s footsteps. “Hey, you okay babe? You’ve been out here for a while,” she asks with concerned eyes. “I’m alright,” you said. “Or I will be,” you add, giving your friend a forced smile. Your friend wraps her arm around your shoulders as you two make it back inside to have an early and quiet night with the girls, exhausted from all the travel.

***

The next day you woke up a little late, with only several hours to tan before having to get ready for your dinner reservation at one of Mykonos’s famous restaurants that looks over the sea. A little frustrated at yourself for sleeping in, you went to the bathroom to wash your face, put on some light makeup, and change into your swimwear.

You join your friends who are sprawled on the sunbeds. “So, where is this place again?” you asked your friend who booked the dinner. “A restaurant by the sea located at party central babe. Everybody, I mean everybody goes here. They’ve got the best food and music,” she replies. “Think of Mamma Mia 1,” another friend chimes in. Your eyes widen at the imagery. “Better have some great alcohol too, I’m desperate for some,” you laugh. “That’s my girl,” your friend says.

***

By the late afternoon you and the girls are getting ready for dinner. Makeup bags and its contents sprawled on the floor, you had to tiptoe around makeup products and brushes, careful not to step on them. After long deliberation, you decided to dress up in co-ord that hugs your figure and fits you like a glove, paired with your favourite heels, settling for an elegant yet fun look. You decide to keep your hair down and put on some natural makeup to balance out the bold colour. After about 30 minutes of taking pictures of each other and some group photos, you finally made it out the door.

The location was spectacular. The ambience was complemented with bright lights to lighten the dim Mykonos sky that has turned a shade of dark blue, almost purple. The food was divine, a little overpriced for your liking, but it was worth it. The restaurant turns into a nightclub close to midnight, and you and your girls were eager to start your first round of drinks. Fruity drinks were passed around, made with fruits freshly picked from the gardens. Watermelon margarita was your drink of choice, partly sweet, partly sour, and just enough tequila as your first drink of the trip.

The restaurant was packed, you could’ve sworn you had seen a star of a Spanish series you’ve just finished watching on Netflix. The guests were well dressed, many had bravely eccentric taste, mixing patterns and sparkly jewellery, paired with funky footwear to add some flair. In Mykonos, you will not encounter the same judgment as you would walking down the streets back home.

Your friends stood up to dance the second the alcohol kicked in. You took your time, savouring your drink, wanting the night to last. You smile at the sight of your happy friends, so full of life, not giving a single care in the world. As you’re sitting there, observing people, you suddenly feel your chest get heavy. It’s hard to put into words what this feeling is like, but it pushes you to shut down in social settings, overwhelmed by strangers and loud music that makes your ears ring. It is a feeling of unexplained anxiety, where you need a second to correct your breathing, and calm yourself down. Not now, you thought, not here. You often feel these random bouts of emptiness since you left Dom. You try to push the discomfort away, and think of anything else but him. You stood up and walked to the edge of the restaurant by the white border wall to get some fresh air, and take in the view of calm waves under the night sky to collect some peace of mind.

You place your elbows on top of the border, and rest your head on the palms of your hands. A bystander would think that you’re a scene from a movie, a damsel in distress, longing for her love interest. But this was no movie, no fairytale, no knight in shining armour to protect you, no lover to sweep you off your feet.

Or so you thought.

Your focus on the sounds of splashing waves was interrupted by familiar footsteps, getting louder and louder as it creeps its way closer to you. The scent of the sea began to mix with an all too familiar scent of tobacco vanilla. Only one person came to mind. It can’t be, you thought.

“(Y/N)?,” his voice breaks.

It’s him.

#dominic calvert lewin #dominic calvert lewin imagine #dominic calvert lewin imagines #mclfic

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snowbellewells · 3 years

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Self-Promo Sunday: “A Cottage by the Sea”

Good news, shipmates!! There’s a reason I am promo-ing this fic this Sunday. I finally have a new (and rather lengthy) update for this long neglected fic ready to go tomorrow. It’s been such a while though that I felt like I should tease it a bit and put the story back in peoples’ memories - as well as post easy links to the previous chapters. To those who have been waiting, I am truly sorry. After this, there should only be one more part, more of an epilogue really, so you shouldn’t have too much more waiting in store...

(Also always, a HUGE thank you to @searchingwardrobes for the stunning fic cover art! And to @kmomof4 and the @cssns20 for patience as this story stretched out so long, and for the reblogs and recognition.)

Summary: Princess Emma has always been drawn to the shores of Misthaven, where the sea meets the sand near her parents’ castle. When an unknown boy washes up on the beach, with eyes as fathomless and blue as the waters that brought him to her, he soon becomes Emma’s best friend, her partner in crime, and her other half. But the tides give and the tides take away, and as her blue-eyed boy sails in her father’s navy and risks all in defense of those who made him family, unexpected danger and challenge will try to tear them apart, and might well show him just where he came from that day he first appeared to her from the sea…

Previous chapters here on Tumblr: Prologue Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

Previous chapters on AO3: Prologue Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four

And, as promised, a bit of a teaser for the tomorrow’s update... ;)

“...No sooner had Emma been able to swallow hard in a throat suddenly parched with apprehension, her fingers clenched in the material of Killian’s sleeve, above all else determined she wouldn’t let him be taken from her again, when everything around them went horribly, unnaturally still. The waves, the wind, all their surroundings silently seeming to hold their breath before chaos broke loose. For one last moment, she and her lieutenant fixed their eyes on each other; wordlessly swearing to see each other on the other side, whether or not it was within their power to follow through on such a promise. Then he turned to face his sire - if one could truly be made to believe that the monstrous captain towering over them at the prow of the other ship could have had any connection to the true and honorable man Killian had become. Intending to remain at his back, to do whatever she could to help him fight and keep them afloat, Emma straightened her shoulders and stiffened her spine as they waited and watched.

Sound and fury returned to the world around them as the accursed captain reached the very helm of his ship, bringing him fully into view as his low, malevolent chuckle at their show of resolve seemed to set the waves crashing and churning once more. “Oh ho, Killian, you’ve brought your intended to our long-awaited reunion, have you? Not particularly well-advised, but she is a pretty wench. I supposed I can see why you’d be loath to leave her behind.”

Killian’s frown deepend, the muscle in his jaw working as he bit down on his anger. Those eyes that she usually likened to the brilliance of a summer sky or the blue of his beloved ocean were instead lit with the pale fire of the hottest of flames at Davy’s callous words. “Hardly,” he clipped in a low growl. “I had no intention of meeting you at all. And I’ll not have you getting anywhere near Emma.”

“Is that so?” Davy snarled, his own temper seeming to erupt at his offspring’s defiance. “We’ll just see about that!”

The waves their little boat floated upon suddenly seemed propelled forward, rising on a towering crest of water as if drawn to Davy’s hand. Skilled a sailor as Killian was, there was no steering them anywhere else when the very elements were turned against them. The air seemed to quiver just as Emma found herself doing, as they came face-to-face with the accursed being. The boards of the vessel beneath their feet groaned and creaked as the frothing sea bearing it seemed ready to dash it to kindling. The air whistled and howled, whipping her hair against her face until she was nearly blinded. And yet, she saw the horrifying shade who faced them, the dark cloud of obsession clouding eyes which might once have been clear and striking as the sons he claimed as his own. He stood taller than the average man, seeming even larger with the wild hair and wide-brimmed, ostentatiously old-fashioned hat atop his head. All his dress was from a more ornate and bygone age, and yet looked gone to ruin rather than impressive; almost mildewed, or perhaps it was a growth of some sort of moss or coral upon his apparel after so long within the sea. Beyond the visible appearance however, the aura of evil power practically radiated from his being, and Emma felt herself draw back before even realizing she had done so.

Pleased with the nightmare impression he never failed to make, Davy Jones chortled in maniacal glee. “Oh yes, I see you there, Princess. Try not to fret overmuch. No matter how brave, they always cower before me in the end.”

She wanted to contradict his words, to call back that Killian wasn’t afraid and that she believed in him, but Emma found her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth, speechless and unable to react other than to stare, frozen, until with one last murderous crow, Davy cackled, “You’re both in my clutches, and no hope to escape. Look your last on the world above...”

Tagging a few who might be interested... @cssns @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @linda8084 @lfh1226-linda @jrob64 @stahlop @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @winterbaby89 @resident-of-storybrooke @darkcolinodonorgasm @thislassishooked @xsajx @drowned-dreamer @thisonesatellite @shireness-says @aloha-4-ever @ultraluckycatnd

#self promo sunday #cssns20 fic #cs au mc #a cottage by the sea #enchanted forest au ff #lieutenant duckling au #part five teaser

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dustedmagazine · 3 years

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Music for Films, Vol. II: Chick Habit

For good and for ill, Quentin Tarantino’s movies have been strongly associated with postmodern pop culture — particularly by folks whose reactions to the word “postmodern” tend toward pursed lips and school-marmishly wagged fingers. There for a while, reading David Denby on Tarantino was similar to reading Michiko Kakutani on Thomas Pynchon: almost always the same review, the same complaints about characters lacking “psychological depth,” the same handwringing over an ostensible moral insipidness. Truth be told, Tarantino’s pranksome delight with flashy surfaces and stylistic flourishes that are ends in themselves gives tentative credence to some of the caviling. Critics have raised related concerns over the superficiality of Tarantino’s tendency toward stunt casting, especially his resurrections of aging actors relegated to the film industry’s commercial margins: John Travolta, Pam Grier, Robert Forster, David Carradine, Darryl Hannah, Don Johnson and so on. There might be a measure of cynicism in the accompanying cinematic nudging and winking, but it’s also the case that a number of the performances have been terrific.

The writer-director brings a similar sensibility to his sound-tracking choices, demonstrating the cooler-than-thou, deep-catalog knowledge of an obsessive crate-digger. Tarantino thematized that knowledge in his break-through feature, Reservoir Dogs (1992). Throughout the film, the characters tune in to Steven Wright deadpanning as the deejay of “K-Billy’s Super Sounds of the Seventies”; like the characters, the viewer transforms into a listener, treated to such fare as the George Baker Selection’s “Little Green Bag” (1970) and Harry Nilsson’s “Coconut” (1971). As with the above-mentioned actors, Tarantino has sifted pop culture’s castoffs and detritus, unearthing songs and delivering experiences of renewed value — and thereby proving the keenness of his instincts and aesthetic wit. “Listen to (or look at) this!” he seems to say, with his cockeyed, faux-incredulous grin. “Can you believe you were just going to throw this out?” And mostly, it works. If the Blue Swede’s “Hooked on a Feeling” (1974) has become a sort of semi-ironized accompaniment to hipsterish good times, that resonance has a lot more to do with Tim Roth, Harvey Keitel and Co. cruising L.A. in a hulking American sedan than with the Disney Co.’s Guardians of the Galaxy (2014).

In Death Proof (2007), Tarantino’s seventh film and unaccountably his least favorite, soundtrack and screen are both full to bursting with the flotsam and jetsam of “entertainment” conceived as an industry.

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In just the opening minutes, we see outmoded moviehouse announcements, complete with cigarette-burn cue dots; big posters of Brigitte Bardot from Les Bijoutiers du claire de lune (1958) and of Ralph Nelson’s Soldier Blue (1970) bedecking the apartment of Jungle Julia (Sydney Tamiia Poitier); the tee shirt worn by Shanna (Jordan Ladd), which bears the image of Tura Satana; and strutting under all of it are the brassy cadences of Jack Nitzsche’s “The Last Race,” taken from his soundtrack for the teensploitation flick Village of the Giants (1965). Bibs and bobs, bits and pieces of low- and middle-brow cinema are cut up and reconstructed into a fulsome swirl of signs. And there’s an unpleasant edge to it; the cuts are echoed by the action of the camera, which has been busily cleaving the bodies of the women on screen into fragments and parts. First the feet of Arlene (Vanessa Ferlito), propped up on a dashboard; then Julia, all ass and gams; then Arlene’s lower half again, chopped into slices by the stairs she dashes up (“I gotta take the world’s biggest fucking piss!”) and by the close-up that settles on her belly and pelvis, her hand shoved awkwardly into her crotch.

As often happens in Tarantino’s movies, furiously busy meta-discursive play collapses the images’ problematic content under multiple levels of reference and pastiche. The film is one half of Grindhouse (2007), Tarantino’s collaboration with his buddy Robert Rodriguez, an old-fashioned double-feature comprising the men’s love letters to the exploitation cinema of the 1960s and 1970s. In those thousands of movies — mondo, beach-cutie, nudie-cutie, women in prison, early slasher, rape-revenge, biker gang, chop-socky, Spaghetti Western and muscle-car-worship flicks (and we could add more subgenres to the list) — symbolic violence inflicted on women’s bodies was de rigueur, and frequently the principal draw. Tarantino shot Death Proof himself, so he is (more than usually) directly responsible for all the framing and focusing — and he’s far too canny a filmmaker not to know precisely what he’s doing with and to those bodies. The excessive, camera-mediated gashing and trimming is a knowing, perhaps deprecating nod to all that previous, gratuitous T&A. His sound-tracking choice of “The Last Race” metaphorically underscores the point: in Bert I. Gordon’s Village of the Giants, bikini-clad teens find and consume an experimental growth serum, which causes them to expand to massive proportions. Really big boobs, actual acres of ass. Get it?

Of course, all the implied japing and judging is deeply embedded in the film’s matrix of esoteric references and fleeting allusions. You’d have to be very well versed in the history of exploitation cinema to pick up on the indirect homage to Gordon’s goofy movie. But as in Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino doesn’t just gesture, he dramatizes, folding an authoritative geekdom into the action of Death Proof. In the set-up to Death Proof’s notorious car crash scene, Julia is on the phone, instructing one of her fellow deejays to play “Hold Tight!” (1966) by Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich. Don’t recognize the names? “For your information,” Julia snorts, Pete Townsend briefly considered abandoning the Who, and he thought about joining the now-obscure beat band, to make it “Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick, Tich & Pete. And if you ask me, he should have.”

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It’s among the most gruesomely violent sequences in Tarantino’s films (which do not run short on graphic bloodshed), and Julia receives its most spectacular punishment. Those legs and that rump, upon which the camera has lavished so much attention, are torn apart. Her right leg flips, flies and slaps the pavement, a hunk of suddenly flaccid meat. Again, Tarantino proves himself an adept arranger of image, sign and significance. Want to accuse him of fetishizing Julia’s legs? He’ll materialize the move, reducing the limb to a manipulable fragment, and he’ll invest the moment with all of the intrinsic violence of the fetish. He’ll even do you one better — he’ll make that violence visible. Want to watch? You better buckle up and hold tight.

Hold on a second. “Hold Tight”? The soundtrack has passed over from intertextual in-joke to cruel punchline. It doesn’t help that the song is so much fun, and that it’s fun watching the girls groove along to it, just before Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell) obliterates them, again and again and again. The awful insistence of the repetition is another set-up, establishing the film’s narrative logic: the repeated pattern and libidinal charge-and-release of Stuntman Mike’s vehicular predations. It is, indeed, “a sex thing,” as Sheriff Earl McGraw (Michael Parks) informs us in his cartoonish, redneck lawman’s drawl. Soon the sexually charged repetitions pile up: see Abernathy’s (Rosario Dawson) feet hanging out of Kim’s (Tracie Thom) 1972 Mustang, in a visual echo of Arlene’s, and of Julia’s. Then listen to Lee (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) belt out some of Smith’s cover of “Baby It’s You” (1969), which we most recently heard 44 minutes before, as Julia danced ecstatically by the Texas Chili Bar’s jukebox. Then watch Abernathy as she sees Stuntman Mike’s tricked-out ’71 Nova, a vibrating hunk of metallic machismo — just like Arlene saw it, idling menacingly back in Austin, with another snatch of “Baby It’s You” wisping through that moment’s portent.

For a certain kind of viewer, the Nova’s low-slung, growling charms are hard to resist, as is the sleazy snarl of Willy DeVille’s “It’s So Easy” (1980; and we might note that Jack Nitzsche produced a couple of Mink DeVille’s early records, connecting another couple strands in the web) on the Nova’s car stereo. Those prospective pleasures raise the question of just who the film is for. That may seem obvious: the same folks — dudes, mostly — who find pleasure in exploitation movies like Vanishing Point (1971), Satan’s Sadists (1969) or The Big Doll House (1971). But there are a few other things to account for, like how Death Proof repeatedly passes the Bechdel Test, and how long those scenes of conversation among women go on, and on. Most notable is the eight-minute diner scene, a single take featuring Abernathy, Kim, Lee and Zoë (Zoë Bell, doing a cinematic rendition of her fabulous self, an instance of stunt casting that literalizes the “stunt” part). Among other things, the women discuss their careers in film, the merits of gun ownership and Kim and Zoë’s love of (you guessed it) car chase movies like Vanishing Point. One could read that as a liberatory move, a suggestion that cinema of all kinds is open to all comers. All that’s required is a willingness to watch. But watching the diner scene becomes increasing claustrophobic. The camera circles the women’s table incessantly, and on the periphery of the shot, sitting at the diner’s counter, is Stuntman Mike. The circling becomes predatory, the threat seems pervasive.

If you’ve seen the film, you know how that plays out: Zoë and Kim play “ship’s mast” on a white 1970 Dodge Challenger (the Vanishing Point car); Stuntman Mike shows up and terrorizes them mercilessly; but then Abernathy, Zoë and Kim chase him down and beat the living shit out of him, likely fatally. In another sharply conceived cinematic maneuver, Tarantino executes a climactic sequence that inverts the diner scene: the women surround Stuntman Mike, abject and pleading, and punch and kick him as he bounces from one of them to another. The camera zips from vantage to vantage within the circle, deliriously tracking the action. All the jump cuts intensify the violence, and they provide another contrast to the diner’s scene’s silky, unbroken shot. The sounds and the impact of the blows verge on slapstick, and our identification with the women makes it a giddily gross good time.

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So, an inversion seeks to undo repetition. Certainly, Stuntman Mike’s intent to repeat the car-crash-kill-thrill is undone, and predator becomes prey. But, as is inevitable with Tarantino’s cinema, there are complications, other echoes and patterns to suss out. For instance: as the women stride toward the wrecked Nova, while Stuntman Mike pathetically wails, the camera zooms in on their asses. Bad asses? Nice asses? What’s the right nomenclature? To make sure we can put the shot together with Julia’s first appearance in the film, Abernathy has hiked up her skirt, revealing a lot of leg. Repetition reasserts itself. In an exacerbating circumstance, Harvey Weinstein’s grubby fingerprints are smeared onto the film. Rodriguez’s Troublemaker Studios is credited with production of Grindhouse, but Dimension Films, a Weinstein Brothers company, handled distribution.

When the film cuts to its end titles, we hear April March’s “Chick Habit” (1995), with its spot-on lyric: “Hang up the chick habit / Hang it up, daddy / Or you’ll never get another fix.” And so on. Even here, where the girl-power vibe feels strongest (cue Abernathy burying a bootheel in Stuntman Mike’s face), there are echoes, patterns. Note how the striding bassline of “Chick Habit” strongly recalls the pulse beating through Nitzsche’s “The Last Race.” Note that March’s song is a cover, of “Laisse tomber les filles,” originally recorded by yé-yé girl France Gall. The song was penned by Serge Gainsbourg, pop provocateur and notorious womanizer. The two collaborated again, releasing “Les Sucettes,” a tune about a teeny-bopper who really likes sucking on lollipops, when Gall was barely 18; the accompanying scandal nearly torpedoed her career. Gall refused to ever sing another song by Gainsbourg, and disavowed her hits.

Again, that’s all deeply embedded, somewhere in the film’s complicated play of pop irony and double-entendre and the sudden explosions of delight and disgust that intermittently reveal and conceal. Again, you’d have to know your pop history really well to catch up with the complications, and Death Proof moves so fast that there’s always another reference or allusion demanding your attention as the cars growl and the blood spurts. Too many signs to track, too many signals to decipher — that’s the postmodern. But perhaps we have become too glib, assuming that all signs are somehow equivalent. Death Proof insists otherwise. Much has been made of the film’s strange relation to digital filmmaking, of the sort that Rodriguez has made a career out of. Part of Grindhouse’s shtick is its goofball applications of CGI, all the scratches and skips and flaws that the filmmakers lovingly applied. They are digital effects, masquerading as damaged celluloid. Tarantino cut back against that grain, filming as much of the car chase’s maniacal stuntwork in meatspace as he safely could. Purposeful practical filmmaking, for a digitally enhanced cinematic experience, attempting to mimic the ways real film interacts with the physical environment and its manifold histories. Is that clever, or just more cultural clutter?

Amid all the clutter that crowds the characters onscreen, and their conversations in the film’s field of sound, it can be easy to lose track of the distinctions between appearances and the traces of the real bodies that worked to bring Death Proof to life. Which is why Tarantino’s inclusion of Bell is so crucial. She provides another inversion: Instead of masking her individual presence, doing stunts for other actresses in their clothes and hair (for Lucy Lawless in Xena: Warrior Princess, or for Uma Thurman in Tarantino’s Kill Bill films), Bell is herself, doing what she does best, projecting the technical elements of filmmaking — usually meant to bleed seamlessly into illusion — right onto the surface of the screen. And instead of allowing one group of girls to slip into a repeated pattern, bodies easily exchanged for other bodies, Bell’s presence and its implicit insistence on her particularity (who else can move like she does?) breaks up the superficial logic of cinema’s market for the feminine. She disrupts its chick habit. There’s only one woman like her.

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Jonathan Shaw

#music for films #chick habit #jonathan shaw #dusted magazine #death proof #quentin tarantino #reservoir dogs #grindhouse #Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick & Tich

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faunusrights · 3 years

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Citrus Summers (GWS AU)

just had this idea nip into my head... i really wanna do more with menagerie and the scarlatina fam but for now have this lil snapshot of velvet growing up :)

great weiss shark au, weiss's pronouns are she/her, velvet's pronouns are she/they

###

"So, what was your hometown like?"

Velvet's used to Weiss's interest in her life; they come from two radically different ends of some bonkers spectrum of lifestyles, where one end (Velvet's) is radical self-acceptance, anti-cop sentiment, and a Scroll full to bursting with communist memes, whilst the other end (Weiss's) is... well, to be honest, Velvet doesn't like to think about what that end entails, exactly. All she knows is that it was exactly what a young shark Faunus without any clue as to her heritage didn't need. So, Velvet entertains her with stories of growing up in the deserts of Menagerie, of her time running along the trash-strewn beaches of Kuo Kuana, of her years shooting up like a weed under the relentless freckling kisses of the bright and vibrant sun.

Sometimes Velvet can tell she can't quite wrap her head around how different their lives are, yet have somehow ended up on such an intersection as to be able to call each other friends. Velvet just goes with the flow about it all.

"Well, we didn't have a hometown, really," Velvet starts, attention half-drawn to sets of plans scattered about her desk in her dorm. She's got big plans to improve Anesidora's projector and fix the information compression problems; drawing a flat 2D image into a 3D projection has always been a sticking point, but she's nearly got it down to the extent that her wireframe tests very nearly reveal the dents and dings and imperfections that it'd previously ironed out by mistake. Accuracy is key, and she crawls ever closer to a perfect 1-to-1 copy each and every day. It's just really boring work, is all. "We lived outside of the nearest town by a couple of miles, but we went there pretty regularly, so I guess you could call it that."

Weiss hums, letting herself fall back onto Velvet's unmade bed, the handwoven blankets of orange and black brought straight over from the homeland and still gritty with red dirt to prove it. "What's it called?"

"Desert Sands. Very original, I know."

"You know a lot of the people there?"

"Shit, they trade us meat and gas for potatoes and carrots and tomatoes, not to mention almost everyone there immigrated in a group with my grandparents. I know that town like my own family."

"What's your favourite thing there?"

That pulls Velvet up short, and she worries at her bottom lip as she stares as a variety of absolutely godawful equations. Thank the maidens Weiss has given her something meaty to say, because she can't bear the idea of redoing all this horrible maths. "Uh, probably the inn, as everyone else who lives there would say. Can't go wrong with a good old fashioned pint and a few rounds of pool."

"Even as a kid?" Weiss says, and Velvet can hear the raised brow even though she can't quite see it.

"Even as a kid," Velvet agrees. "My mam had a couple of pints and my da flirted with the guys and I'd go out with my siblings to meet our friends and raise a little hell. Not very often, but often enough."

Weiss goes sort of quiet, in a way that Velvet recognises as an intensive processing of what she's just heard. She wonders, briefly, if Weiss can even imagine that sort of freedom after a childhood spent locked in the same old rooms of the same old house--even when it's as big as the Schnee manor--and then pushes that thought away. If Weiss wants to ever get into all that, it'll be in her own time.

"Describe it to me?" Weiss asks in a very little voice after a few seconds, and Velvet nods. She can do that. She remembers those halcyon days like they were yesterday.

###

"Trench, I swear, if you don't repaint those window sills I'm gonna sneak down here and do it myself, asshole."

This was about as typical an entry as Taffeta Scarlatina could ever make, shouldering open the dark wood door into the Desert Sands Inn with a grin on her face and children in tow, Ash bringing up the rear and trying to pretend he couldn't see everyone turn in their seats to look to the new arrivals. It was one of those establishments with a big boxy interior and just a handful of rooms to the side, where the only three doors led into the toilets and the kitchens and the stairwell to the rooms above, and much like everything else on Menagerie, nothing ever matched; the doors had been collected from a variety of sources, the floorboards uneven and scratched and recut, the paint on the walls patchy with mismatched shades and covered with picture frames in some last-ditch attempt to hide it. No two stools matched, no three tables carved by the same hand, but that was the price of the community effort--everything you ever needed, maybe just not in the way you always expected.

"Taffeta," Trench greeted from behind the bar, turning to fetch a pair of glasses without prompting whilst making sure not to jostle the hanging bottles overhead with his great buffalo horns, split like a strange middle parting on the top of his head. "You're welcome to it, to be frank; Cinna doesn't have a clue where she's put the paint, last we saw it."

Taffeta rolled her eyes, letting go of Velvet's hand to pat her between her ears instead, the ten year old quick to laugh and duck away. "I'm sure. Not at all like I said I have some lying around the last three times I was here. You really that scared of scraping all that flaking paint off?"

"Well," Trench said after a moment, leaning under the bar for a second. "I did get some in my eyes last time, and boy, that hurted. You want your usual?"

"Pint of porter for me, and something weak for my pretty boy, lest he forget which way is up," Taffeta agreed, shooting a wink Ash's way and cackling when he blushed. "And some juice boxes for the kids?"

Trench didn't even pause, turning about to fish out a variety of colourful cartons adorned with a collection of cartoon characters, and Taffeta lifted Velvet up to plop her onto one of the few cushioned stools, Chiffon quick to use her older, longer limbs to scramble her own way up. Trench offered the drinks out freely, letting them decide between orange and passionfruit flavours, before noticing the new addition on Ash's hip. "Oh? This the newest Scarlatina?"

Satin--hardly a year old--was clinging to her da's loose shirt, dark eyes looking about in wonder, and Taffeta smiled before reaching over to brush her loose, light hair out of her eyeline. "Sure is. Gettin' real big already, so we thought it was high time to meet the folks around here. She won't be the last, though." At that, Taffeta leant across the bar, dropping her voice low. "Would you believe me if I said Ash is already askin' for the next one?"

"Slander," Ash shot back, face still pink. "I just said four is a rounder number than three."

Trench made a face, glancing pointedly away. "My girl woulda mounted my horns on the wall for that one. We had just the one and she swore off the rest before I could even consider it. Count yourself lucky."

"Cinnamon's a good kid," Ash offered, rearranging Satin to sit a little nicer in his lap. "I think that all worked out in the end."

Taffeta rolled her eyes, watching as Velvet picked the orange juice for herself, leaving the eldest to the passionfruit. "Doesn't that imply we have so many 'cause you don't think just one was good enough? Chiff's a darling, if a bit of a pain in my ass, huh, baby?"

Chiffon ignored them both to instead help Velvet punch the straw into the carton, and Ash grinned. "Just one was perfect, but you told me yourself that you don't think I know when to fold."

"You don't," Trench interjected, pouring out a pint of something dark and bitter enough to linger on the tongue. "When we played poker last year... phew. Thank the maidens it was a couple's night, else you woulda been walking home absolutely stark--"

"--drunk," Taffeta quickly interrupted, glancing towards the kids who stared back with wide eyes. "Been walking home absolutely stark... trashed. Wasted. Uh, Trench, what's on the menu today, whilst it's on my mind?"

As they discussed the menu (Taffeta eager to point out the contributions of the family crops, asking, overly sweetly, and who traded you those lovely chickens? they must have been very generous), Chiffon turned to Ash in her seat, legs swinging freely, bumping into the overly-varnished wood of the bar. "Da? Can me 'n Velv go out and play?"

"Sure can, kiddo," Ash said, though he was quick to grab Chiffon's arm before she could throw herself off the stool with the straw still in her mouth. "Woah, take that out first before you end up swallowing it. You remember the rules?"

Chiffon nodded, face cast all seriously. "Don't go outta town. Be back before dark. If someone tries to bully us, punch 'em in the nose."

"And?" Ash added, drawing his brows together.

Velvet chirped up. "Cops aren't friends!"

At that, Ash broke out into a grin, as bright as Velvet's and twice as toothy. "That's right. You go have fun, and don't eat too many snacks; we're having dinner here before we go home."

Chiffon slid free of her stool, turning about to help Velvet down too, and then the pair scampered towards the door with a harmonised yes da! before pulling it open to the main road outside, the sunlight blisteringly bright, the sky an endless, cloudless blue overhead. The paint on the windowsill peeled off and flecked away, and under their shoes, the ground crunched.

Everything tasted of oranges.

###

Weiss sits silently.

"Did you get back before dark?"

Velvet snorts, sitting back in her chair until it creaks dangerously below. "Just about, though my mam didn't look all that impressed. Still, can't do much about it; we didn't even have, like, landline calls back then, let alone Scrolls and shit."

Weiss laughs to herself, rolling over and tucking her legs up onto Velvet's bed until she's curled atop the blankets, running a thumb over the wool quietly, repetitively. Truth is, they still smell of Menagerie, of home; Velvet could wash it a thousand times, but the earthy scent of hot summers and prickling scrublands sticks like its own aura.

"I'm jealous," Weiss says simply, and then she draws the blankets up to partly cocoon herself, tight across the ribs, loose about the ankles. "Will I... would you show me it, sometime? If I went there?"

It's sweet. Velvet wishes she could travel through time and show it to Weiss from the start; she wishes she could have told her what she would have, in the future. Look, see? This is real. You can have this too. Happiness doesn't only exist for people far away; you get to feel this, too.

"Of course," Velvet says with a smile, instead. "Bold if you to think my parents don't demand they meet every single last one of my friends."

Weiss grins back, all shark-toothed and sharp, and Velvet likes how it looks on her face. It took her team months to eek it out of her more often than every couple of weeks, but now, it's practically daily. "I'm afraid the offer doesn't extend back to you."

"Thanks the maidens," Velvet says, very seriously. "Because if I ever meet your dad, I'm setting his car alight."

#rwby #weiss schnee #velvet scarlatina #gws au #great weiss shark #its one of those tags #my writing #just a lil thing #(taffeta paints the windows as payment for the beer)

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beck-a-leck · 3 years

Note

Kissing prompt! Shamelessly asking for #14 Cliff x Claire! 😌

I live to answer shameless prompts!

Send me a Smooch Prompt and a couple characters for all your self-indulgent needs!

#14 - A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they're finished.

Featuring Cliff and Claire, and just the teeniest bit of angst and sadness to really make the desperation stick.

Cliff packed slowly. He didn't want to leave the inn, didn't want to leave Mineral Town, didn't want to leave his friends, and perhaps most desperately, he didn't want to leave Claire. But there was nothing to be done for it. He had no money. There was no work to be found in town. Doug had already given him as much of a break on rent as he could afford, and Cliff had relied on Claire to feed him for most of a season now. He hated how much he had to rely on the kindness of others, how much he took that he could never pay back. He had become a burden, and he couldn't stand that.

As much as he did not want to leave Mineral Town, a place that had begun to feel more like home in the last year than any place had for such a long time, Cliff had to go. He had to find a job, and there were absolutely none to be found. He'd thought something might have come up last autumn at the winery, Duke had hired him and another guy to be the manual laborers during the harvest, but at the end of it all, Michael had been offered the chance to stay on full time. Michael had gotten along with Duke like a house on fire, they laughed and joked like they were old friends, even though Michael had only rolled into town one one of the last boats of the summer.

Winter was coming to its close, Cliff had spent a year here, and the last six months truly visualizing Mineral Town as home, as the place he would grow old in with the woman he loved. Maybe even one day, have a family again.

But those dreams had dwindled as rapidly as his funds.

This wouldn't be goodbye forever, Cliff and Claire had had a very long discussion about this, about his leaving, and their future together. If he was lucky, he'd find work somewhere else, he could start earning money, and saving money, building skills that he could some day bring back to Mineral Town and then maybe, in a year or two, he could come back.

But... it was a heavy Maybe. Maybe Cliff would never be able to go back to Mineral Town. Maybe his travels for a job took him too far away. Maybe Claire would fall in love with someone else in his absence, someone who could always be here for her, who wouldn't leave.

Cliff shoved the last few items into his bag and zipped it closed. He slung the pack over his shoulder and turned towards the door. His eyes fell on the room's other occupant.

"I'm gonna miss you, man," Gray said, trying and failing to keep the emotion from his voice. "You sure you don't want anyone to go with you down to the pier?"

"No," Cliff said quietly, "That's okay, I'd rather go alone. I've said my goodbyes."

"Yeah, well, you've got one more." Gray offered his hand. Cliff took it, and they shook for a moment, before the two of them, with a wet chuckle, pulled into a hug. "Won't be the same here without you." Gray thumped him on the back before letting go.

Without another word, Cliff hitched his pack up over his shoulders, and walked out of the room he'd called home for the last year. Ann was sweeping the stairs, and she gave him a tight hug as he passed. Down at the bar, Doug shook his hand firmly and sent him off with a "Good luck, son."

It was snowing, and a bitter cold wind was tearing at Mineral Town. Nobody else was out in the streets, or in the square. With every step Cliff took towards the beach, his heart sunk. Claire wouldn't be here. he had specifically asked her to not see him off like this. They'd said their goodbyes last night, and he, quite frankly, wasn't certain he could get on the ferry if she was there with him.

Snow and sand crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the beach to the pier. He perched gingerly on the icy bench and watched the distant shape of the ferry grow closer on the roiling gray sea.

He shivered and pulled his coat tight around him - Claire's Starry night present to him - it was warm and sturdy. He'd get many good years of use out of it. Wearing it was like walking around in her embrace.

The ferry was almost there when another body settled on the bench next to Cliff.

"Hey," Michael said with a slight smile, he was always smiling. No wonder Duke had asked him to stay on at the winery with a sunny attitude like that. "Cold enough, huh?"

"Yeah..." Cliff didn't feel much like talking. And as much as he didn't want to resent Michael, because the man hadn't done anything to him personally, there was a mean corner of him mind that kind of hated the guy for taking his chance to stay in Mineral Town forever.

Michael was carrying a duffel bag, stuffed full, it looked. Cliff nodded towards it, "You taking a trip to the city?"

Michael shrugged. "For starters, yeah. Spend New Year's partying it up, from there, who knows where I'll go. Maybe spend the rest of the winter somewhere warm."

That didn't make any sense.

"But what about your job? The Winery? I know winter is a slow season, but surely Duke and Manna need your help still. They're letting you take a vacation that long?"

"Vacation?" Michael laughed. "Nah, bud, I quit the winery, like a couple days ago. Small town living is quaint and all, and nice for a little while, but I don't want to be in a little backwater hole like this for the rest of my life, you know." He grinned and nudged Cliff. "I mean, you're leaving too for brighter futures and greener pastures, right?"

Cliff's hands curled into fists. he'd never truly disliked Michael before, but right now he really wanted to hit that flippant, smug, carefree grin right off his face. Just to be certain he wasn't having some vivid hallucination, Cliff asked again. "You quit the winery?"

"Yeah." Michael shrugged. "I was gonna wait til after New Year's but honestly I can't even bear the thought of spending the holiday in this tiny town. I doubt there would even be a party, everyone would probably be in bed by nine." He scoffed. "Probably wouldn't even get a New Year's kiss. None of the girls here are even all that cute, and they're so old fashioned. You basically have to propose before they'll even let you hold hands."

Cliff stared at Michael dumbfounded. His mind raced with possibility. Maybe he could go back to the winery and ask for a job, but Duke had already rejected him once this year, what's to say they still won't want him. But he had to try, right? Worst they could say was 'no' and he would just have to catch the ferry tomorrow. Best case - he couldn't even think of the best case scenario in case he jinxed the whole thing. Anything for a chance. that' what he had promised Claire. He would do any job, try anything if it meant coming back to her sooner.

Cliff snapped out of it as the ferry pulled close to the pier, blowing its whistle to call any stragglers to hurry and catch their ride.

Someone was shouting his name. Michael nudged him. “Hey, isn’t that your girlfriend?”

Cliff turned and saw Claire standing on the steps at the top of the beach. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “CLIFF! WAIT!”

“I thought you dumped her,” Michael said with a dint of disdain. “She was certainly mopey about it when I saw her earlier when I was getting my last paycheck.” He scoffed again. “Kinda pathetic, ain’t she? Just a little too desperate, huh?”

Once again, Cliff was seized with the overwhelming urge to deck Michael. But he didn’t. He got to his feet and turned away from Michael and the docking ferry.

“Hey, where’re you going? The boat’s right here. They won’t wait for you.”

“I don’t care. I’ll catch the next one if I have to.” Cliff didn’t spare Michael another thought or a second glance. He took off running towards Claire. She took off running towards him too. The met in the middle of the beach and crashed into each other, throwing their arms around the other and holding on tight.

“Don’t go!” Claire gasped, taking his face in her cold hands. “Don’t go yet. Please. I-I think I found you a job. At the winery.”

“I know. Michael’s leaving.”

A smile broke out over Claire’s lips as she realized, as they both realized, Cliff might not have to leave. There might be a chance for him to stay in town. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go.

She pulled his face towards hers, drawing him into a fierce kiss. Their lips crashed against teeth, but neither pulled away. Cliff kissed her, letting all of the hope bubble up in his chest and drive him desperately forward. Claire let got of his face and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her held her close, as close as possible. He ignored the fear that maybe Duke and Manna still wouldn’t want him, maybe the winery didn’t really need an extra set of hands. Maybe he was just prolonging the inevitable and he would still have to leave Claire.

He held Claire close and kissed her as snow collected in their hair, and their fingers went numb in the cold, until finally, panting slightly for breath they broke the kiss. Cliff rested his forehead against Claire’s, he looked down at their intertwined hands before closing his eyes. In his heart he made a wish, he said a prayer.

I wish… Maybe… Please…

“I should probably go talk to Duke and Manna, huh?”

#replies #ask box games #story of seasons #becky writes things #friends of mineral town #'i'm gonna try practicing romance' i said and then just wrote angst instead #but with that prompt really what other outcome was there?#might clean this up and put it on ao3

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ri-ahhh · 4 years

Text

cake for dessert

Grayson wants a slice of MJ for dessert on a rainy day

4.8k

warnings: badly written smut

A/N: one of the MJ things I promised to upload. It’s storming like crazy here and this is all I want in life rn so I figured this was the one to post.

***

A chilly spring rain has descended over LA out of nowhere, as MJ discovers with surprise when she and her best friend Lainey step out of their final store at The Grove. That Saturday had started off warm and sunny, a perfect weekend day to spend out and about, but the storm rolling in is suddenly derailing her and Lainey’s plans for a chill afternoon at the beach.

“Well, shit,” Lainey remarks, glancing up at the dark clouds looming in the not-so-distant skyline.

“Right?” MJ concurs. She scrunches her nose and watches Lainey pout as they consider what else they might do with their Saturday. With MJ still busy working hard at her new job and, admittedly, being wrapped up in the fading newness of Grayson, she and Lainey haven't had much time to spend together. Especially considering her friend’s own relationship and hectic schedule.

A fat raindrop surprises her by landing on her nose, and both of them giggle as the sudden light sprinkle becomes more steady. They hurry down the walkway to the parking garage until they find MJ’s car, hurrying inside and slamming the doors just in time for the rain to start really coming down.

“Looks like we’re going home, unless you want to fight the LA drivers who have no idea what they're doing in the rain to go to a movie or something,” MJ jokes, selecting her favorite rainy day playlist full of Tame Impala, Bon Iver, Rex Orange County, and the like to serenade them on the way back to her apartment.

Lainey laughs. She’s also from out of state and shares MJ’s anecdotal opinion of the LA natives. “Yeah, as much as I want to stay and cuddle and feed each other takeout, I think for that reason I’m gonna have to head out when we get to your place. It’ll take me an extra hour to get home because of this.”

Now it’s MJ’s turn to playfully but also somewhat seriously jut out her lower lip in an impression of Lainey’s earlier pout. “Who’s gonna dangle pad Thai noodles into my mouth, then?”

“I don’t know, babe. Don’t you have a boyfriend or something now?” Lainey smirks, snatching MJ’s phone from her lap and waving it in her face so her lock screen illuminates, an accidental candid she had captured of said boyfriend with that beautiful smile shining right at her.

“It’s not the same,” whines MJ, entering the rapidly congesting highway. “First of all, he’s busy most of the day. Second, he makes it sexy, whereas you’re just plain cute. I don’t think I’m in the mood to be sexy today.”

That was true, for sure. Her outfit consisted of a pair of black leggings, one of Gray’s t-shirts that hung off her body shapelessly, and a baseball cap to hide the fact that she wore no makeup. Between her stuffy nose from the cold she’s fighting and the lack of sleep from the night before, she couldn’t be bothered that morning to try any harder.

Lainey, who had been listening while checking the visor mirror to see if her mascara had survived the rain, feigns offense. “Wow, bitch, are you saying I’m not sexy?”

“Boo, you’re sooo sexy. Grayson should probably thank you for half of my skills based on your tips over the years, now that I think about it,” MJ grins, causing Lainey to cackle.

Their girl talk continues the rest of the surprisingly short car ride back to MJ’s apartment building. MJ pulls up behind Lainey’s car and hugs her bestie over the console.

“Love you. Text me when you’re home so I know you survived the drive.”

“Will do. Love you, babe.”

MJ makes sure Lainey is in her car before driving into her covered spot. The tiredness had been real before, but the pure exhaustion hit her out of nowhere as her mind processes that she’s now home. She’s suddenly looking forward to nothing more than ordering said takeout, soaking in a too-hot bath, and watching The Hobbit series all afternoon.

She shuts the door to her apartment behind her with a sigh and trudges into her room, tossing her bags on her bed. Desperate to start the second half of her day of relaxation, it takes her all of 30 seconds to strip down and make her way into the bathroom. As the soaking tub fills, she selects a Lush bath bomb and bubble bar from the basket on the counter.

With a last-minute face mask applied, hair piled on top of her head to keep it dry, and New Girl ready to play on her phone, she’s just settling into the water with a light moan when the phone begins buzzing on the ledge of her soaking tub. She dries her hands and smiles when she sees Grayson’s name on the FaceTime call.

“Hi, baby,” she answers once his handsome face fills the screen, scooping some of the foamy bubbles closer to her chest so they fluff out cloud-like from her skin.

Grayson grins and takes a second to admire at her. “Hi, sweetheart. You look so fucking cute.”

MJ rolls her eyes but flushes and smiles appreciatively. “If you say so. How’s filming going?”

He puffs his cheeks and blows out the air slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Good, but it’s been a long day. E and I both decided to call it quits early; we’re both way too strung out on no sleep and anxiety to get much else done, especially now that the weather’s gone to shit.”

“I’m sorry, Bear, I know you both wanted to get everything wrapped tonight,” she laments with him, wishing she could comfort him with a kiss to his plump pink lips. “I’m kind of in the same boat. Lainey and I couldn't go to the beach, and between this cold I have and the fact it’s getting harder and harder to sleep without you, I’m so tired.”

Grayson smiles at her in that way he reserves only for her — soft, crooked, his hazel eyes sparkling in the center and crinkling just the tiniest bit at the corners — especially at the sound of her little pet name for him.

“Can I come over? I’ve been thinking about you all day, but I didn't want to cut into your time with Lainey. I just need to be with you.”

“Yes please,” MJ agrees with a sniffle. “As long as you’re the big spoon while we have a couch day. That’s about all I’m gonna be good for today, I think.”

“Of course,” he grins, getting into his car. “Are you gonna be my little cuddle bug all afternoon, Peach?”

She hears an exasperated ‘oh my God’ in the background and can practically see Ethan’s eye-roll out of frame.

“Yeah,” she coos back to her boyfriend, then, “hi, E.”

“Hi, MJ,” he grunts. As she’s naked underneath the clouds of bubbles, Grayson doesn’t angle the phone towards his brother, but she can still hear his voice. “You know, he’s already a cornball most of the time, but you really bring it out of him in droves, dude.”

Grayson doesn’t even react to Ethan, his gaze fixated instead on MJ through the phone. “Good. I sleep better with you in my arms, too.”

“Ugh,” Ethan complains. “Where are my fucking AirPods?”

She does, indeed, hear rustling, presumably from the older twin, but she chooses to ignore him as well. “Can you pick up Thai or Veggie Grill or something on your way over?”

“Oooh, yeah, either of those sound awesome. I’m starving,” Grayson agrees. “I’ll have to drop E off at home first and hopefully traffic wont be too bad both ways. Be there in an hour?”

“Sounds good. Thank you, baby,” she says quietly with a sweet, content smile.

He winks at her, and his voice drops a couple of notches. “No problem, Peach. As long as you’re my dessert.”

Her body rushes with heat, and not from the temperature of the water she’s soaking in. Before she can answer, Ethan groans louder than ever.

“Oh my God, dude, I fucking heard that! Can you keep your cheesy sex talk at zero while we’re literally right next to each other?” His voice suddenly picks up even louder so she can hear him. “MJ, I can’t believe you still let him fuck you when he says shit like that.”

“He makes up for it with the other things his mouth can do,” she retorts, winking at Grayson. Her giggles join Grayson’s howls of laughter and taunts at his brother, who apparently is very much done with the conversation. “Alright, I love you both. Drive safe, please.”

True to his word, Grayson shows up a little over an hour later with a bag of Veggie Grill in one hand and a Starbucks medicine ball in the other. MJ absolutely despises hot tea, and he knows it, but he also knows she won’t be able to resist the soothing warmth of it — especially considering he took the time and effort to get it for her.

He smiles at the sight of her cocooned in the plush, cozy fabric of her favorite blanket and leans down to give her a quick kiss. He hands her the drink, which she does indeed accept with warm eyes and a soft heart. She takes a sip and lets the hot liquid coat her scratchy throat as he plops down next to her with a sigh and sets the food on her coffee table. Grayson cups her cheeks to draw her in for another kiss — lingering, closed-mouthed pecks this time.

“Hi,” he says, smiling and dropping one to her red-tipped nose for good measure.

“Hi,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from mouth-breathing more and more throughout the afternoon. “Sorry I look so gross. This cold is kicking my ass the later it gets. You’re probably going to catch it.”

“First of all: worth it. Second: are you kidding? This is my favorite MJ,” he assures, peppering little kisses all across her forehead as he draws her in to his chest. Her hair is in the same messy bun from her bath, her glasses are on, and she’s dressed in her old college crewneck sweatshirt, boy-short Calvins, and fuzzy socks… “No one gets to see you like this except me. All fresh-faced and beautiful and undone. All mine.”

“Mmm,” MJ hums, snuggling into him and sniffling. “We’ll see how you feel when I’m snoring like a 300 pound grandpa in a little bit because I can’t breathe out of my nose.”

“Okay, but I don’t see how that’ll be different from any other night.” She draws back and smacks him on the arm playfully, scoffing incredulously. He just barks out a laugh and kisses the frown off her lips before distributing their late lunch between them.

They make comfortable small talk while The Office plays quietly in the background, mixing with the patter of rain on the large windows. A fuzzy warm ball settles in the pit of her stomach that has her feeling almost heady at the simple intimacy of the moment.

MJ finishes first. She takes off her glasses and places them on the coffee table next to her tea so she can curl into a ball and nuzzle into Gray’s shoulder. He kisses the top of her head affectionately and finishes his meal in silence while they watch the antics of Michael Scott and gang for the millionth time. Eventually his empty plate joins hers and he opens his burly arms to gather her in his embrace, lying down and bringing her with him.

Grayson chuckles when she fully climbs on top of him so she’s straddling his hips and hugging him with all of her limbs like a koala would a tree, her nose buried into the five o’clock shadow on his neck. He makes sweeping passes up and down her back. “Needy today, sweetheart?”

“A little,” MJ mumbles, eyelids already feeling heavy, even more so when he fixes the oversized blanket around the both of them. He smells so good, feels so solid and warm, his breath tickling her ear soothingly. They FaceTime every day, but their crazy lives have made it where this is the first time in days that they’ve seen each other in person. “Missed you. We both work too much.”

He lets out a little hum of agreement, sighing when he feels her lips pucker to dot baby kisses on his bronze skin. His hands stroke up and down her back comfortingly. “I missed you, too. E and I should have just one more day of shooting before we’ll be home more to work on editing and stuff with the team.”

“I’ll be in Seattle most of next week for a new client recruit,” she reminds, recognizing the inexplicit invitation. “Otherwise I’d come over and work remote with you.”

“Ugh, that’s right,” Gray laments, sighing. “Kiss me. Please?”

MJ gives him a lazy smile when she feels his fingers tilt her chin up. Their makeout is slow and simple and just what the both need, reconnecting after days and lives apart.

A few minutes go by until MJ groans a little and sits up in his lap with a sigh, a string of saliva connecting their lips before breaking with a snap.

“I can’t breathe laying down like that. Or just out of my nose,” she pouts. One of her hands plays with his hair while the other smooths down his t-shirt over his chest where she had rumpled it by laying on him.

Grayson grips her hips and follows her up, hugging her tightly around the middle with those huge, burly arms. “Since you can’t sleep anyways…” he looks at her, and she cocks an eyebrow, her lips quirking questioningly. “Can I have my dessert now? You can sit up on the couch. And no mouth-to-mouth required.”

MJ chuckles and wraps her arms around his broad shoulders, biting her lip as she considers his request. As much as she wants Grayson in any capacity most of the time, today is one of those days where sex just isn't on the table for her.

That being said, can she really resist that tongue? Those lips?

Before she can answer, he continues. “I know you don’t feel good, so I’ll understand if you just aren't up for anything today. But I’m not expecting you to reciprocate at all. I’ve just been wanting… like, basically needing to eat your pussy all week. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for so days.” He traces her jawline with his nose until his lips reach that little spot right behind the hinge and just below her ear, where he licks and nibbles until her hips start shifting in his lap of their own accord. “Please?”

Well, how the fuck is she going to say no to that?

She can’t, and knows he can sense her giving in when he starts to turn them around so she’s reclined against the back of the couch. Grayson grins while he arranges the blankets and pillows around her to get her as comfy as possible.

She watches him fuss over her with loving eyes, but wants to make sure he really is okay with the arrangement, too. “Are you sure? I don’t want to blue ball you. And I can speak from experience that that rug isn't a fun place to be on your knees for an extended period of time.”

Gray smirks at her and plants one more kiss to her lips before sinking down her body, snatching a couple of stray pillows to cushion his knees. “One problem solved. And don't worry about any chance of blue balls; it’s been way too fucking long since I’ve done this, and I’ll be lucky if I don't cum in my pants before I even get you to your first one.”

“Oh, so I’m in for more than one orgasm today?” MJ smiles back down at him and lifts her hips so he can drag her panties down her toned legs, placing her feet on the edge of the couch so she’s nice and open for him once he had the fabric tossed behind him somewhere. “I’d say that was big talk if I didn't know you could back it up.”

She knows he likes a challenge, and combined with his love for being praised and her bare pussy exposed to him at long last, she feels like she’s got a little bit of an upper hand here.

“Always,” he murmurs.

His lips start at the inside of her knee, working their way up to her inner thigh, across her mound to nuzzle in the little patch of hair she hadn't bothered to trim down between waxes, before trekking down the opposite leg. MJ knows his goal is to build up the anticipation for them both, and he’s succeeding; she can hear his breathing intensify as he tries to take in her scent, and she can feel the wetness beginning to leak out of her without so much as a lick from him.

Finally, he brings his hand up to trace her smooth lower lips, glancing up at her with warm yet lustful eyes as he takes in how his teasing is affecting her. MJ gives it right back, sneaking a hand under her oversized sweatshirt to play with her breast. It drives him absolutely crazy seeing her touch herself, but also not being able to see. If she didn't know any better, she would say sometimes he was more obsessed with her boobs than her actual vagina when they get down.

When his eyes turn dark, she grins and uses her free hand to rake through his hair and pull him towards her pussy while simultaneously pinching her nipple just the way she likes. Grayson growls and turns his attention back where she’s directing him, finally parting her with his middle and index fingers to expose her clit. He places a quick kiss directly to it, causing MJ to gasp and grip his dark locks tighter.

He gives it a more sensual smooch and pulls back to watch more of her juices trickle out of her until he can’t resist really getting to work anymore. His moan vibrates against her when his tongue swipes through the sweet wetness, trailing it to her clit with his mouth and giving the nub a gentle suckle before slipping his tongue back to her entrance. MJ lets out little whimpers of bliss as he makes out with her pussy, his tongue reaching as far inside her as it can, wiggling around and slurping down everything that comes out of her.

She lets him eat her out with no real purpose, thoroughly enjoying the constant stimulus of his lips and teeth and tongue without a driving need to make her cum behind it. Her hands flit between stroking his hair comfortingly, to playing with her breasts, to digging her nails across his clothed shoulders.

“Feels so good,” MJ whispers while she watches him work. Her fingers are combing gently through his hair once again to push the dark strands off of his forehead just in time to see his eyes flit open to meet her own.

“Tastes so good,” Grayson growls back, taking a moment to sit on his haunches and get a thorough look at her spread out for him. Her pussy is swollen and wet, the insides of her thighs bare the faint markings of his teeth, and her face is pure bliss even as she sniffs and coughs a bit. “You okay?”

MJ nods. It’s sweet of him to check, but all she wants now is his face back in her pussy. She bites her lip and one of her heels, still clad in a fuzzy sock, digs into the middle of his broad back to push him in. Grayson smirks darkly and follows her lead, his lips immediately suctioning around her plump little clit.

“Fuck…” MJ moans. Her voice is raspier than usual and, like everything else about her today, goes straight to his dick, which throbs untouched in his grey sweats.

He starts working her over with purpose now, determined to get her to cum in the next 30 seconds. He knows he can do it even if she hadn't started chanting, “like that, like that, don’t fucking stop…”

Her moans reach peak levels, as loud as she can be with her sore throat, and her clit throbs on his tongue. Her back arches off the couch and her hands dive fully in his thick hair now to hold him to her, her heel still pressing against his spine doing the same.

Grayson groans and has to remove one of his hands from her hips to reach into his boxers and squeeze his dick hard enough to stave off his own orgasm. He slips two fingers of his other hand in her dripping pussy to give her something to clench around, which doesn’t help his attempt at not cumming literally in his pants when he feels her walls gripping his digits like a vice.

“Baby…” she whines as he brings her down with little kitten licks on her pulsing clit, her thighs quivering around his head. Grayson hums and nuzzles into that delicate skin until the muscles beneath stop trembling, and the flutters around his middle and ring fingers have ceased. He never takes his eyes off her face — eyes closed, mouth agape, cheeks flushed. Beautiful and dismantled because of him.

Once he feels she (and, frankly, he himself) have calmed just enough to be able to take more, he starts to press and curl the fingers inside her. MJ whines softly as the build picks up again, which turns into shrieking when he wraps his swollen lips around her clit again and sucks the nub sharply into his mouth. Between the sloppy wetness of his mouth and the way he applies pressure just right on her g-spot, it takes all of a minute for her to fall apart again. She marvels, not for the first time, at how fucking good he is at this, how well he knows her body.

‘Always’ is right.

Grayson sits back, removes his hand and mouth from her and growls at the sight before him while he pushes against the backs of her thighs. So much for sitting up, as she’s now practically on her back, but neither of them are complaining or stopping to readjust. She’s perfectly exposed for him, her juices and his saliva coating her skin and dripping down her ass, she’s that wet.

“MJ…”

Her name escaping his lips in that husky voice finally gets her to lazily blink her eyes open until her gaze focuses on him as clearly as she can. He looks sexy as fuck on his knees for her, pupils dilated and the stubbled skin of his chin and jaw covered in shiny wetness.

Grayson’s big hands knead the insides of her thighs until he’s confident he has her full attention. He smoothes his palms to the crooks of her knees, moving her gently until she’s practically folded in half, and without breaking eye contact shifts his head that much further down so he can go to town on her even lower.

MJ gasps and shoots one of her hands to his hair, her first instinct being to push him away, until half a second passes and she’s doing the exact opposite. No one has ever done this for her before, and now she’s wondering how she had gone so long without the sensation of his tongue swiping up her cum from that virtually untouched hole.

If she was in any right state, she would have seen Grayson’s smug, quite literally ass eating smirk at her reaction to his ministrations. He isn’t sure why in their nearly eight months together he had never eaten her ass before; it isn’t the first time he’s done it to a girl. Maybe because he treasures sex with MJ more than anyone in his life before, maybe knowing in his heart that they have a long future of making love ahead of them had caused him to wait. What he does know, is that he’ll never be able to resist doing it again when the desire to rises, especially given her voracious response to it.

“Fuck!” MJ wails when he spreads her even more open with his hand so he can have better access, his tongue rimming and prodding her asshole to perfection while the thumb of his free hand presses upward on the hood of her clit. He knows her so well, can sense she’s too sensitive for direct stimulation there, but the pressure right above the bundle of nerves is exactly what she’s craving without her even realizing it.

But he does, and it feels so good — too good; Grayson’s eyes drop closed as he lets her taste and sounds overcome his senses, and it’s like her pleasure is his as his hand finally begins to jerk himself off. He builds up the speed of his strokes with her increased pace of breath, until she cums for a third time, and his tongue is quickly swiping all the way up her crease, from asshole to clit as he stands to his feet. He leans over her with one hand on the back of the couch and licks the last of her off his lips as he takes in her body to fuel him even more, even as clothed as she still is.

MJ starts to come-to enough to realize what he needs, and lifts her shirt to expose more skin to him. She drinks in the sight of her gorgeous boyfriend towering over her with his sweats and boxer briefs pushed down just enough for his equally beautiful dick to be out while he strokes the head aggressively. He’s about to explode and she knows it, just as attuned to his body’s tells as he is with hers.

His face is hovering just above hers, and she watches his mouth drop and his eyes train on her exposed skin. MJ bites her lip and whines, pulling roughly on her nipples while her eyes flit between his face and his cock. “Cum on my pussy, baby, I want it — want your cum all over me, make it your pussy…”

She’s rambling, but it’s all he needed as a deep, relieved groan escapes him, followed by soft grunts as he shoots all over her, exactly where she told him to and then some. MJ moans quietly and knocks his hand out of the way to finish him off herself, squeezing the last drops of the pearly white from him. The fingers of her other hand collect what she can from her skin to keep it from dripping on the couch, spreading it instead over her swollen lower lips.

His chest still heaves when she looks up at him with a tired smile, which he matches with a laugh when her final stroke makes him flinch. He pushes her hand off his cock and tells her, “Don’t move.”

She obeys, and watches him lean over to grab his phone off the side table, unlocking it and swiping up. “Is this okay?” he asks, motioning with his head. “This is too fucking sexy. Need a memento while you’re out of town.”

MJ giggles and nods, spreading her legs a little more as he goes to town. She does her best to coat her pussy in his cum, her long, glittering manicured nails adding a certain aesthetic to the shots. She even scoops some up and let him capture her sucking it off her middle finger.

Grayson smiles tiredly and kisses her sweetly, the gentleness and simplicity of it a little stark after the pure filth of the last twenty minutes. He tucks himself back in his pants and goes into her bathroom to get a wet rag to clean her up with, chucking it in the washer when he’s done. On his way back over to her, he picks up her long-forgotten panties off the middle of the living room floor with a smirk and hands them to her, plopping next to her and dragging her into his lap once they’re back on her body.

“I’m gonna have to insist on you having dessert every day,” she yawns into his chest with a sniffle. “I didn't know you liked cake so much.”

Grayson laughs and squeezes her tight to him, placing a lingering kiss on her forehead as he confirms to Netflix that, yes, they are indeed still watching. “And Ethan says I’m the cornball.”

“If he only knew.”

#idk if i like this or not #but it is what it is #hope its okay #dolan twins #grayson dolan #ethan dolan #smut #grayson mj

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