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freedomfireflies · 11 months

Text

Knockout*

Summary: The one where Harry is a handsome stranger who always comes to your diner covered in bruises.

Word Count: 9.4k (jeepers, sorry!)

Content Warning: 18+, smut, slight exhibitionism, very brief violence

Your stranger is here.

He’s sitting in his favorite booth, fifth one down from the first row, directly next to the window.

He’s got his usual hoodie pulled over his head, obscuring any view of his face. His clothes are dark and seem to cover nearly every inch of his skin. His knuckles are wrapped in white gauze, but are stained with streaks of red.

And he’s looking down. Staring at the menu on the table as though he doesn’t order the exact same thing every time.

A cup of coffee – black – and a slice of pie.

He’s like clockwork. He comes in exactly five minutes after midnight, takes a seat in his booth, and orders his usual.

Then, he pays his bill, and he leaves.

You’ve grown used to him. Comfortable with the idea of his face and his voice and the strange, but unsettling presence he brings with him.

You find that it’s more unnerving when he’s not here than when he is.

“Hi, Cherry.”

Your stranger’s voice cuts through the quiet diner and forces your attention from the mug of coffee you’re pouring.

You glance up, finally able to see his face now that he’s lifted his head. His skin is littered with deep cuts and vicious scratches. There’s a bruise just by his eye that’s dissolving into an unsettling shade of purple and his bottom lip is split down the middle.

Even still, he’s smiling. A gentle upturn that looks almost painful given the cracked fibers and dried blood.

“Hi,” you reply softly, feeling your heart race beneath your chest as his eyes find yours. “Would you like your usual?”

Somehow, his grin gets a bit brighter. As though he’s touched by the question. “Of course,” he answers calmly, in a voice you imagine you’d recognize anywhere. It’s deep and sultry, but it crackles like lightning. Sensual in a way you can’t exactly explain. “What have you made tonight?”

“Chocolate,” you tell him, glancing back toward the counter where the pies are displayed. “With extra whipped cream.”

“Mm.” His hum is playful, and it matches the glint in his eye. “How much extra?”

“As much as you want.”

He laughs, and you swear fairies are born. “Then I will have a slice of your chocolate pie, with as much whipped cream as you’ll allow.”

You feel your cheeks warm as you nod and turn on your heel to grab his order. Setting the coffee pot down before grabbing a small plate.

Once it’s ready, you return, sliding it across the table beside his mug. “Is that all?”

“No,” he says simply, gesturing now toward the seat across from him.

And just like every other time, you feel your pulse jump. “I’m…I need to get back—”

“You don’t need to go anywhere,” he interrupts with a wry grin. “Please?”

Your lips roll into your mouth, and your heart lands in your throat. Your stranger has always been good at getting you to do what he’d like, and it seems tonight is no different.

So, with a sigh, you glance back toward the kitchen. Checking to make sure you aren’t needed too direly before you slip off your apron and slide into the booth.

“There,” he hums, placing his arms on the table to learn forward. “S’much better, hm?”

And you can’t help but smile as you nod and glance toward your cuticles. Avoiding that vivid green that always seems to send your stomach into a frenzy.

“How are you?” he asks next, and his voice is soft, as if attempting to draw your attention back.

Braving a glance, you lift your head, and meet his eye. “I’m all right. How are you?”

“Good. Better now.”

The flirtatious remark sends a rush of heat to your cheeks. But you don’t respond, instead reaching out your hand toward his. Allowing your fingers to dance along the gauze that’s wrapped around his knuckles.

“It’s bad again,” you whisper, and you feel him study you.

There’s a gentle pause. And then, “Not by much. It’s been worse.”

You suck in a quiet breath and hold it deep within your lungs. Turning his arm around in order to inspect the wounds painted near his wrist. “You promised.”

Even without seeing the full of his face, you catch his expression fall.

“I know, Cherry,” he murmurs. “And I’m trying, I promise. S’just…not that easy.”

Your throat constricts, growing dry from the implication. “I know.”

It’s almost inaudible, but your stranger still hears it, and he sighs as he slips his fingers between yours. Pulling your focus back to him.

“You know you don’t have to worry about me,” he says, squeezing your palm as if to cement the point. “M’gonna be okay.”

“Are you?”

He looks gutted. Ashamed of your disappointment. “It’s just something that I have to do.”

“Why?”

He considers this before shaking his head once. “I don’t know.”

It’s the same answer every time. You ask him who does this to him. Why he does this to himself. Where he goes, why he keeps going back.

But he never offers anything concrete. Just enough to keep you hoping.

He leans closer. Desperate to make you understand. “I’m gonna be all right, Cherry. I promised, didn’t I?”

“But this isn’t ‘all right,’” you argue quietly, once again studying his scars. “You hurt yourself. Or you let somebody else hurt you. And I don’t know why.”

He takes in a breath before setting it free. “I don’t know why, either. But it’s not forever. And I promised you I would be okay. So, I will be.”

You release him and pull yourself from his grasp. Creating a physical distance much like his emotional one.

“I have to be,” he adds, and that charming smirk reappears. Popping a dimple from his cheek. “I’d miss your pies too much.”

Even if your insides have twisted, you can’t help but laugh. “I suppose they’d miss you, too.”

“Good, I would hope. Might be my second-favorite sweet thing here. Only after you.”

Again, his coy remark leaves you entranced. Hands gathering on your lap as you look out through the large window beside you. “You’re quite forward tonight.”

“M’forward every night. You just don’t notice.”

“Is that right?”

“It is. Can’t really help myself, Cherry.”

The familiar nickname feels like home. It was coined after the first night he’d come in. He’d sat in your section – this very booth – and made small talk while you served him.

He asked for your recommendation, and you suggested one of the desserts. The pies were your specialty, and you made a new one every evening. He seemed charmed by this and ordered two slices.

That night was cherry. He ate every bite between sips of his coffee and compliments to you. Leaving nothing but crumbs once you came to collect his plate.

He told you he loved cherry pie. It was his absolute favorite. But he’d never had a pie as good as yours.

And from that night on, you became his Cherry.

He never asked for your real name, and you never offered. You supposed this was intentional. A way to protect you from whatever life he led outside the diner doors.

And in the few weeks he’s been coming back for yet another slice of your pie, you’ve learned only three things about him:

He always pays with big bills.

He drives a vintage, black ’69 Mustang.

And his name is Harry.

Anything past that you suppose isn’t yours to know. Yet despite that, you feel drawn to your stranger. Even if he only seems to exist after midnight.

“You weren’t supposed to be working tonight,” he says, calling your attention back.

You glance away from the window just in time to see his frown. “Joshua asked me to cover a few of his shifts,” you explain. “I’ll be here through the weekend.”

“You covered him last week,” he reminds you, with just a touch of disapproval. “And a few weekends before that.”

Your stranger is right, but you merely lift a shoulder and let it fall. “I don’t mind. The extra money is nice, and the night shift is always quiet.”

“Not always,” he retorts, and you notice the pull of his eyebrows. “Not everybody is as kind as you, Cher. Not in this part of town. Or this late.”

You can’t help but smile at his need to shelter you. “I know. But Owen is here, and he makes sure to check on me from time to time.”

However, Harry’s expression seems to settle into something hard and unnerved. “And what if he gets distracted? What if he doesn’t see some loser trying to grab for you? Or talk to you? Or take advantage of you?”

His voice is rising, a gentle but obvious crescendo that turns the heads of the few patrons scattered about the diner.

You reach for his hand once more, squeezing it hard to implore him to listen. “Then I will use my extensive training as a waitress and kick their ass.”

You can tell he doesn’t want to, but he smiles. Brushing his thumb along your wrist before looking down. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

“I know,” you whisper, dipping down in order to find his eye. “But I’m not the one who needs protecting.”

The air is charged with a sort of tension you can’t explain. He feels so close and yet so very far away. Your heart aches for your stranger, and for his scars that never heal.

“Hey,” calls a loud voice, ringing through the small diner until you and Harry both turn. You find a man sitting near the counter, wearing a camouflage baseball hat and flannel shirt. His beard is long and scruffy, and his expression is wildly annoyed. “Do you fucking work here or not? Been waiting on a refill for ten goddamn minutes.”

Feeling rather embarrassed of the way you’ve neglected the other customers and deserted your post, you quickly slide out of the booth and stand. Cheeks warm and heart racing. “Yes, of course. I’m so sorry, sir.”

You rush to check on the coffee pot near the counter, making sure that it’s hot and fresh before you approach. Then, you tip the spout into his mug, and refill his drink that’s already three-fourths of the way full.

You can see Harry watching you from his spot. A similarly irritated look behind his eye as he studies the man sitting before you.

Once the coffee has been refilled, you nod an apology, and begin to retreat.

“Not so fast,” the customer grumbles, clearing his throat as he straightens up. Forcing you to hesitate. “I want my check. And a slice of pie on the house. For my troubles.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you nod again. The Starlight Diner doesn’t exactly offer free pastries, and anything that a staff member has to comp comes out of the employee’s paycheck.

Granted, one slice won’t set you back too far, but the shame will. The idea that you left a customer waiting while you chatted with a man you hardly know. It’s unprofessional and not at all how you’d like to be perceived in the workplace. As a mindless girl who merely doddles her day away. Fawning over handsome strangers and daydreaming about a life she can’t have.

“Absolutely,” you tell him, rushing to grab him a fresh piece just as Harry begins to stand from the booth. “Will that be all?”

“Don’t be stingy with the whipped cream,” he instructs. “In fact, I’d like to see you put it on in front of me. So I can make sure you aren’t trying to fuck me over.”

The blood drains from your face. You feel humiliated under the warm hue of lights strung up around the restaurant. Grabbing the can of whipped topping in a desperate attempt to please and end the interaction all together.

“Why don’t you watch your fucking tone,” Harry grits, approaching the man from his left.

But the customer merely scoffs, refusing to offer him even a disinterested glance. “Yeah, and why don’t you mind your own business?”

Suddenly, Harry’s hand smacks down onto the counter beside him, inches from his plate while the coffee inside his mug trembles.

You can’t help but jump, arm recoiling away from the pie while the entire diner grows quiet. Everybody’s attention has turned to your stranger. Watching him closely as he leans forward, and dips down to catch the man’s eye.

“Wasn’t a question,” he murmurs darkly. “You watch your fucking tone when you speak to her. Or I’ll watch it for you.”

And you can tell the older gentleman is a bit off-put by Harry’s distressing demeanor. Yet he remains rather calm, clearing his throat again before leaning back. “And what are you gonna do about it, cupcake?”

Harry’s head cocks to the side. “Would you like me to show you?”

“Harry,” you whisper, just loud enough to force his eyes to yours. “It’s okay. It’s fine.”

“Yeah, she’s fine, buttercup,” the customer snorts, spinning around to face you once more. “Now let’s go, princess. I don’t have all fucking night.”

His fingers snap together before he points toward the pie. Instructing you to continue applying the fluffy cream until you hesitantly continue.

The whipped desert sprays out of the can in a steady stream, piling higher and higher atop the pie until it begins to spill over onto the side.

Yet he doesn’t stop you. He simply nods and mutters for you to keep going. To fill the plate until he’s satisfied.

And you know exactly why he’s doing it. Not to satiate a sweet tooth but to demean you. To force you under his cruel, sadistic stare until you fold like a house of cards.

Your stranger fumes from his place a few feet away. You can tell he’s desperate to intervene, but he obeys your look of frantic insistence. Remaining quiet while you oblige the customer’s request.

Soon, the can runs out. The last few drops spewing from the nozzle until you’re left with nothing but air and an empty bottle.

With a hitch in your breath, you begin to withdraw your hand. He’ll have to drop this degradation act now, and you hope that he only demands the rest of his check before going about his night.

However, before you can fully retract your arm, a collection of grimy fingers dart out and curl around your wrist. Keeping you in place while the man’s eyes narrow and he hisses, “Did I say you could stop?”

But the moment his palm touches your skin, Harry is stepping forward, grabbing a fistful of his collar, and hoisting him from his seat. Then, he shoves him back against the tile wall just behind him, the connection so forceful, it knocks the gentleman’s hat askew.

The other customers, including yourself, gasp from the sudden act of violence. Watching as Harry steps up to him and sneers in his face with the vilest look of disdain you imagine you’ve ever seen.

“Don’t ever…” he seethes through deep, even breaths, “…put your fucking hands on her…again.”

And he’s terrifying. So utterly terrifying, with his busted knuckles, his cracked lip, and his bruised jaw. It’s clear he’s a threat, and the man he’s holding goes deathly pale as Harry keeps him trapped against the wall.

All he can do is nod his understanding, choosing to end the fight before it can begin while Harry – after a very long moment – finally lets him go and allows him to flee from the diner.

There’s a stillness in the café that makes your heart race. The few regulars that are left watching on with a mixture of sympathy and embarrassment. It’s not until Harry shoots them their own venomous glare that they quickly turn away and continue on with their meals.

You slump into the counter, letting the can drop to your side while the sound of a door flinging open echoes from somewhere behind you.

“The hell…is going on?” Owen calls, exiting the kitchen in order to get a better look around. He finds you first, raking his stare up and down your frame before looking to Harry. “What happened?”

“You fucking left her out here, alone,” Harry barks. “That’s what fucking happened.”

Owen’s eyebrows raise as he moves his attention to you. But you quickly side-step into Harry’s path, attempting to end another confrontation before it can begin.

“Just…a customer,” you finally answer softly, reaching for the plate in order to clear your regret away. “It’s fine. He left.”

Your boss nods once. “But he paid first, yes?”

Again, your heart sinks into your toes. Lashes fluttering when you realize his bill will be coming out of your paycheck. “He…um, no, he…he left before I could collect it—”

“Darling,” Owen sighs, and it’s heavy with disappointment, “what did we talk about?”

“I…I know. I’ll…I’ll pay for it—"

Harry’s palm suddenly smacks down onto the counter for a second time this evening. Yet now, there’s a wad of cash beneath his hand. From the looks of it, well over a hundred dollars.

“This will cover it,” he mumbles, turning his unforgiving stare to your boss. “And it’ll cover the rest of her shift, too. She’s done.”

With that, his fingers are wrapping around your upper arm before you can even wrap your head around his offering. Blinking wildly while Owen glances from the cash to you in an effort to piece together Harry’s instruction.

But your stranger leaves you no room for questioning or bargaining. He’s pulling you out the diner door and into the dark parking lot before you can even bid your boss goodbye.

He strides between the cars before hooking a left around the building. Leading you toward the back alleyway where he normally keeps his car, the wet pavement squeaking beneath his sneakers.

And during this fervent stalking, his fingers slide down from your upper arm and into your hand. Grasping it tightly as if to make sure he won’t lose you.

Perhaps a part of you would like to feel miffed or ashamed of what just took place, but you can’t seem to fault him for his reaction. He’s always been nothing but kind to you – even if he doesn’t always lend that kindness to others. Expressing his desire to protect you, even if he doesn’t know you.

You wonder if this need to defend is part of the reason why you’ve only ever seen him covered in scars and bruises. If he comes to the diner in the dead of night in order to watch over you. Like a guardian angel or vigilante.

Right now, however, he disappears into the shadows, gently pulling you along with him until you see his car only a few feet away. He releases you at the same time that he releases a heavy sigh, running a hand through his dark curls as his hood is pushed down.

“Harry…” you begin quietly, tentative of startling him.

“I’m sorry,” he says before you can even finish. “M’sorry, I lost my temper. I know.”

You watch the way he turns away from you. Bracing himself against the hood of the Mustang while dropping his head in what you only assume is remorse.

And your heart aches for him. For the gentleman that lives beneath the outlaw. “Harry,” you whisper again, stepping closer in order run your fingers down his back. Feeling the way his muscles tense before melting beneath your touch. “I’m not mad, I promise.”

“I know you don’t like it when I interfere,” he mumbles, and it’s almost swept away by the cold, early morning air. “But he fucking touched you, and I—”

“I know,” you interrupt tenderly. “I know, and I’m not mad. I’m glad you did it. I’m glad you were here.”

He hesitates, face turning toward his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You allow your chest to meet his spine. “Always feel safer with you.”

He exhales deeply, releasing something heavy before he’s turning around, and reaching for your cheeks. The soft, stained gauze slides against your skin, and his touch is firm. Keeping you in his embrace while he gazes at you warmly.

“Are you all right, Cherry?” he asks now, thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes. “Did he hurt you?”

Your head shakes. “No. Scared me a little, but I’m okay.”

It’s clear he doesn’t like this, that familiar frown reforming as he holds you a bit tighter. “He never should have spoken to you like that. Much less put his fucking hands on you—”

“I know, but it’s okay,” you interject again, hoping to ease his stress. “I’m okay because you were here.”

And this is the only thing that seems to calm him. That familiar smile of his the perfect remedy for such a strange night. You don’t want to tell him how often this happens. Especially during the later shift. But that’s what you get for working at a 24-hour diner, and you’re starting to think this is merely part of the job.

And truth be told…you think he already knows.

His forehead meets yours, and you can’t help but grin yourself. Grateful for the comfort he provides – stranger or not.

“Speaking of which…why are you here?” you ask gingerly. “I thought you didn’t come in on my days off?”

“I don’t. But…I saw your car.”

“Oh…how?”

His smirk transforms into something coy. “I was driving by.”

“Oh, really?” you tease. “On purpose?”

The smile slips now, a more reverent look in his eye as he nods. “I like to check on you. Make sure you’re okay.”

And maybe in any other universe, this would strike you as odd. Perhaps even unsettling or disconcerting.

But even if you don’t know him, you know him. You know his intentions have only ever been pure, and even without having much more than his name, he has always made you feel safe.

You choose to believe in him. In the goodness of your stranger and the care he provides. Inside and out.

“You do?” you murmur, allowing your hands to rest on his chest. “How often?”

A beat. Then, “…every night.”

The alley grows quiet. Scattered streetlamps reflect off the pools of water that are sprinkled across the cement, warming the dark night with their sepia-toned beams.

And you stand there, just you and him, while the weight of the world seems to rest on his shoulders.

But instead of chastising him or asking any further questions, you push yourself up onto your tiptoes…and kiss him.

It’s not the first kiss you’ve shared, and you know, undoubtedly, that it won’t be your last. Your stranger has been stealing your kisses for weeks now.

And you suppose stealing isn’t exactly a fair comparison. After all, you’ve nearly pleaded with him to kiss you every time he’s come in.

Not that there’s much need for begging when he’s so willing to offer them to you. Sneaking you away the moment your shift is through. Chasing you through the parking lot…pulling you into the backseat of his car.

It makes you giddy. You feel like a schoolgirl with a crush on the handsome senior. Slipping into the shadows where he waits. Letting him hold you, kiss you, touch you.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t know more than his name or what he does behind closed doors. You choose to share these special – albeit somewhat scandalous – moments with the mysterious gentleman in booth 505.

“My sweet girl,” he breathes against your lips. The wonderfully delicious nickname melting on your tongue. “Missed you.”

You want to remind him that it’s only been about two days, but you can’t. Because you missed him, too.

“And m’so sorry,” he says next, trailing his quick but fervent kisses down your neck. “So fucking sorry for being so bad. Never wanna scare you or make you anxious.”

A soft, delicate noise bleeds from your throat, and you cling to his much stronger frame as though you’re afraid you’ll simply disappear without him.

“Wanna make it up to you,” he whispers. “Will you let me, Cherry? Let me be good again?”

You nod, needing him to keep himself as close to you as he’ll allow. You want to settle him in your lungs, keep him snug inside in your chest. Against your heart.

And a large part of you just wants to keep him…always.

“Let me make it better,” he says, hands dropping to your hips in order to push you toward his car. Placing you against the door in order to trap you and deepen his kiss. “Let me be good, sweet girl. Be good for you.”

And he’s always good. Good to you, good for you. It doesn’t matter how he is with everybody else.

“Please?” he asks again, leaning back just far enough to catch your eye. “Will you let me?”

He wants your explicit consent. Wants you to say the words before he continues, and you appreciate this stricter habit.

“Yes,” you manage to answer, exhaling the word with the little strength you still possess. “Yes, please—”

He takes your hand before you can finish, guiding you over toward the backseat before swinging the door open and stepping aside.

“Lay down, baby,” he mumbles gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your head while guiding you in. “On your back, okay? Want you comfy.”

You do as instructed, dipping down into the vehicle before settling into the soft, leather seat. Flipping over until you can find a position you like.

Harry is quick to follow, landing between your thighs before pulling the door shut. You both maneuver until he can hover his body above yours, keeping you beneath him as he runs a palm up the side of your leg.

His warm hand feels good against your bare skin, the dress you’re required to wear as part of your waitressing uniform bunching just at the top of your knees from the new position. But it’s like ecstasy, heating up your goose bumped skin from the nippy air outside.

“How’s this, hm?” He squeezes your hip. “You all right, Cher?”

You rest your head against the door and nod, fingers already itching to reach for him again. “Yes, I’m okay.”

“Promise?”

“Mhm. Promise.”

The side of his mouth curls up, and it makes your stomach flutter. “Good girl. Gonna go slow, okay? Earn my forgiveness.”

He continues the lazy strokes to your thigh, falling all the way down to your ankle before going back up. It is slow, and it almost drives you mad. Because he knows what you want. And he knows just how badly you want it.

Things with Harry never go further than you. Something you’re almost tempted to find odd, but he’s a giver. That was made clear from the first time. He derives more pleasure out of your orgasms than he apparently does his own. He only ever wants to touch you, taste you, feel you. It’s never about him.

You often wonder if there’s a deeper reason for this. If he’s denying himself release on purpose or if he’s merely terrified of getting close. And occasionally you wonder if he simply just doesn’t want to fuck you, but something tells you that’s not the case.

Maybe one day you’ll be brave enough to ask.

Tonight, however, it seems he’s still determined to put the attention on you. Long fingers gently scratching at your leg until you shiver. It makes him grin.

“Can I see you, baby?” he asks softly, letting his eyes trail beneath the hem of your dress. “See how pretty you are?”

Again, you can only whine pitifully as you motion your head up and down quickly. Wanting to succumb to his strong touch. Only feeling grounded if he’s there to hold you.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he breathes, using his scarred hands to push your outfit up a bit higher. Revealing your quivering stomach and the delicate pair of panties around your hips.

They’re nothing special. In fact, you imagine they’re rather embarrassing. A simple, tan fabric that does absolutely nothing to make your pussy look more desirable.

Perhaps it’s a little silly, but you like to look nice for him. On the nights you know he might be coming to see you (which has been every night you’ve worked since you met), you tend to pick prettier pairs.

Some with lace, some with little bows. Sweeter colors, sexier colors. Anything that might make him smile.

But you hadn’t anticipated seeing him tonight, and now, you almost want to shy away. Lashes fluttering as you look up toward the roof of his car.

But he doesn’t seem to notice. Nor does he seem to care about the color around your waist, his eyes growing wide as his attention glues to the mesmeric sight before him. Pink, bruised lips parting with wonder while he moves closer.

“Cherry,” he exhales, the feel of his breath sweeping against your bent knee, “missed you so much. Been forever, hm?”

You nod again, braving another glance just in time to see his hand lower. And then you feel him. Feel his thumb pressing gently into the front of your underwear, just above where your clit lies.

Your entire body seems to spark to life like the flicker of a flame. And you gasp, subtly bucking up into his touch in search of more. In search of him.

He smiles. “S’it feel good, honey?”

You let out a soft breath, chest nearly caving in as you whisper, “Harry…”

He looks up, eyes flicking to yours as that coy smirk grows. “What, baby? You okay?”

Of course you’re okay. He knows you’re okay, but you’ve noticed he likes to hear you say it. He likes to know he’s making it better for you. That he’s helping, that he’s doing good.

When you don’t answer, he returns to your pussy, fingers strumming up and down your covered cunt like he’s playing an instrument. Tuning your body to his needs.

“Can I touch you?” he asks now, dipping down to nudge his nose beneath your jaw. Pressing a soft kiss to your throat. “Wanna touch you…be good for you, Cher. Was so bad…just wanna make it better.”

He’s attempting to atone for what he did in the diner. To apologize, offer his remorse.

And even if you know he has nothing to apologize for, you can’t find it in you to deny him. Reaching up to tangle your fingers in his curls as you tug him closer. Kissing him fiercely.

He’s hard on himself. You know he is. You don’t know why. You don’t know what the cause is. But you can see the repercussions. They’re painted all over his body, and he wears them proudly.

He curses against your mouth, and you’re reminded then of his busted lip. Instantly pulling away while you mumble an apologetic, “I’m sorry. I forgot—”

“No,” he nearly groans, slipping his other hand around the back of your neck to keep you close. “No, it’s okay. I don’t mind, I promise. I like it.”

His kisses become hard again. Anxious, desperate, and rushed. As though he needs you in order to survive. His nose knocking into yours from the way he readjusts himself. Wanting to take you deeper, really taste you.

You’ve never been so happy in your life.

He only pulls away in order to slip your panties down your thighs, pushing them to your ankles until he can really see you.

His entire expression softens the moment his eyes find you. Filled with a certain kind of hope and indulgence as he gazes at you almost tenderly. Unable to resist reaching out and letting his finger brush down your folds.

You make another noise, but he doesn’t notice this one. Too content to be touching you. Feeling you. Spreading you open just to watch you drip.

“So fucking good to me,” he murmurs. “You know that, sweet girl? So perfect for me. Exactly what I need and far more than I deserve.”

You aren’t sure what he means, but the implication makes you frown. Pulling on his hair a bit harder while he moves to your clit and begins to press down.

The pressure of his thumb against the more sensitive nerves leaves you breathless. Squirming beneath him from the rush of pleasure that only serves in making you needier.

“Always so warm,” he muses quietly. Almost as if to himself. “So soft. So sweet. Can’t ever get enough of you.”

It makes your head spin the way he seems to adore you. The way he talks about your body as if he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to behold it. To feel it, to get to indulge in it. Worshiping you like you’re his religion.

He begins to rub your clit in slow, teasing circles. Kissing you once more in order to taste your whines and feed off your desperation. Wet noises fill the car. Not just from your pussy, but from his frantic kisses that echo between the foggy windows.

It makes you shiver, loving the way he nips at your bottom lip just to leave you restless. The way he whispers your nickname before moving to your neck, pulling your skin between his teeth and smoothing over the mark with his tongue.

He goes faster. Chasing after your whimpers and the way you arch your body into his. Loving how excitable you get from only a few flicks of his thumb across your sensitive clit.

Then, he slows down. Exhaling a heavy breath as if bracing himself to edge you. Like it hurts him more than it hurts you.

And you mewl pitifully as you cling to his broader frame and tug him down into your arms. “Harry—”

“I know,” he coos, and it’s gentle the way he speaks. Sympathetic almost. “I know, sweet girl. But m’not done with you yet. Just wanna keep you a little longer. Is that okay?”

You bury your face in his neck and make another noise. Something akin to his name that gets lost in the way he curses.

“It’s okay,” he tries again, allowing you to use his body like a lifeline. “I’ve got you, baby. All right? M’right here, I’ve got you.”

He proves this by resuming his sweet torture. Circling the nerves a time or two more before moving down. Smoothing through your folds and lowering toward the pooling of arousal that waits for him.

You hear him hum. “So precious. S’this all for me, then? Mine to play with? Mine to taste?”

You whine, “Yes, yes, yes,” as quickly as your mouth will permit, and he chuckles.

The tip of his finger dips inside, presumably to collect everything you have to offer him before he’s lifting it toward his lips.

And you settle back against the door to watch. Enchanted by the way he places you on his tongue and sucks. His lashes fluttering and cheeks flushing from the taste.

You don’t imagine you’ll ever get used to watching him do that. After all, you’ve never been particularly…unbothered by the idea of somebody tasting you. Not even with past partners. You get too caught up in your own head. Worried about the taste, the feel, the smell.

Truth be told, most of the men you’ve been with before were never interested in you. They wanted what you could give them. And then they wanted out.

By all accounts, Harry is nothing like anyone else you’ve ever known. Not just because of the mystery that follows his persona, but because of his endless attention to you. To what you need, what makes you feel good.

He devotes every second to making you feel like you’re God’s gift to Earth. A gift to him. Praising you for simply existing. Indulging in your taste as though you're the sweetest dessert he’s ever had.

Like now, while a deep moan reverberates from the depths of his chest. Filling the car and your ears like music, making your thighs clench around his hips.

“S’why I call you my sweet girl, you know that?” he murmurs, sucking on his fingers until you’re sure there’s nothing left. And even then some. “So fucking sweet for me. Can’t ever get enough. Gonna get me addicted, baby. Might already have.”

The moment he takes his hand back out, you’re lifting up, and pressing your mouth to his. And you don’t even care if you can taste yourself on his tongue because all you really taste is him.

But the mixture of him, and you, and the slight tang of blood from the busted fibers of his lip is euphoric. Strange but lovely in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

He seems to understand this despondency, growing a bit more frantic in his need to please. No longer focused on edging as he drops his fingers back to your cunt while his other hand moves for the buttons on your chest.

He pops them free one by one until your equally plain bra is revealed to him. But again, he doesn’t take notice of such things. Instead swallowing thickly at the sight of your breasts that swell behind the cups.

He kisses you again. And again, and again. Then he moves to your cheek and down your neck. Trailing his tongue toward your collarbone and along your sternum.

You feel restless. Waiting for something – for him. You already know how magical his touch is. You already know the kind of pleasure he provides, and it nearly drives you mad to simply sit in anticipation. Stuck on his time.

Eventually he reaches your chest, lips moving for the curve of your tit before he’s making another noise and sucking into the tender flesh. Nipping at it, pulling it between hungry teeth. Smoothing over the marks with the warmth of his mouth while you reel.

Your hands disappear back into his hair. Stroking the curls almost fondly, nails lightly scratching at his scalp.

He’s always seemed to enjoy this. Instructing that you pull on him as hard as you’d like. That you tug and scratch. That you use him to inflict your pain and your pleasure. That you think of him first and foremost.

Now is no different. He nuzzles himself further into your breasts while simultaneously sighing with contentment at the way your hand feels against his head. The way you keep him close to your heart.

You’d keep him forever if you could.

You hardly even notice the way his finger has slipped inside. The way it strokes your delicate walls that flutter from the intrusion, tensing before relaxing in order to allow him in.

“There,” he whispers, pleased with the way your body obeys him. “S’okay. Gonna make it better. I promise.”

And you know he will.

“So tight today, baby,” he says, leaving another kiss to the swell of your chest. Open-mouthed and messy. “Has it been that long?”

You don’t know. You can’t remember the last time he touched you, although you’re almost sure it hasn’t been more than a week. The two of you have become rather insatiable for each other. Chasing after a kind of release you only seem to find within the hands of the other.

Those beautiful green eyes flitter up to yours, studying you closely. Benevolently. “Have you not been taking care of yourself, sweet girl?”

You take a moment to consider what he means before you feel your cheeks warm. Offering him nothing more than a quick shake of your head.

He frowns, brows pulling together. “Why not, hm? Thought you promised you’d try for me. Help make things better when I’m not around.”

You shrug, growing a touch embarrassed. “I know, but…it’s not the same. Don’t like it.”

“Is that right?”

Another shake. “Get bored.”

“Bored,’ he repeats, and there’s a certain glint in his eye. But instead of disappointed, he seems empathetic. “Cause it’s not the same, yeah? Your fingers too small?”

Now you nod, making a noise of agreement.

He nods along with you, beginning to smirk. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Bet it’s just so frustrating, isn’t it? Trying to find all your sweet, little spots, but just not quite being able to reach?”

You cling to him as he stretches you a bit further. Doing everything you can’t do for yourself. Effortlessly curling his finger into that one spot until you begin to shake.

“Just like that, hm?” he mumbles, pressing another kiss to your collarbone. “S’that what you can’t find, baby? S’that what’s so achy?”

And it is. It’s so infuriatingly sore that it almost makes you cry. Wishing you could chase after that feeling until your heart gives out.

“I bet.” More kisses to your chest. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it, okay? Make it all better again.”

“Please?” you whimper, nails scratching down his broad back. Attempting to pull him closer.

“Mhm.” He leans forward and brings his lips to yours now. His kiss quick but full of promise. “Always gonna take care of you.”

He begins to thrust the longer digit in and out. Slow enough to work you up but fast enough to leave you wanting more. Coaxing the muscles open before bringing a second finger into play.

The sounds of your wetness being pushed and pulled by his hand are sinful. Sending a chill down your spine and directly into your cunt.

You moan when you feel them, writhing a bit beneath his body until he has to press his leg into yours to keep you still.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he mumbles. Leaving another kiss below your jaw. “Know you can take it, baby. You always do. Don’t you?”

And even if that’s true, you aren’t opposed to the slight sting. Instead invigorated by it and the way he uses great care with you. Wanting to make sure you’re all right so he can please you the way he wants.

Yet somehow, it’s still not enough. Even with the way he curls, and pumps, and thrusts those beautiful digits into your pussy, you feel empty. Barely scratching the surface of that itch as he presses his chest to yours to calm you.

Your noises are becoming more pathetic. Your entire being heaving with the weight of promised pleasure in a way you can’t seem to understand.

His thumb presses into your clit every few minutes, attempting to guide you closer to your release, and it works. The combination making your stomach coil until you nearly see stars. Every cell in your body tightening.

“You close, Cherry?” His free hand moves for your face. Palm pressing into your jaw as the bandage on his knuckles sweeps across your cheek. “Hm? You gonna cum for me?”

And you are. You are, you are. You can almost taste it. Can feel it bubbling up from between your thighs, ready to unravel like the seams on your favorite sweater.

“Yes,” you gasp, arching from the leather seat. “Yes, please…please don’t stop. Please—”

“Won’t stop,” he promises in a soothing tone, lips ghosting atop yours. “Never stop, I promise. M’gonna be right here until you do, okay? Go ahead. I’ve got you.”

And this is all you need. It happens suddenly and yet far too slowly. Pulling you apart from the inside out.

You moan so loud, your chest shakes. Eyes rolling back and nails scratching down his spine as it hits you.

Instantly, he moves his hand from your jaw to your lips. Palm pressing hard against your mouth in order to silence you as he whispers, “Shh, baby. Gotta be quiet for me, okay? It’s okay, you’re all right. Just let go—"

And you do. Allow your body to deplete itself of all energy as he works you through every goddamn second. Dragging it out as far as it’ll go. Increasing the speed of his flicks and thrusts. Pumping your orgasm out of you until it sits in his waiting hand.

“Good,” he breathes before finally removing his hand in order to kiss you quickly. Fingers squeezing the back of your neck as he brings you closer. “So fucking good, there you go. S’okay. Keep going, come on.”

And it’s so good, so wonderful. You feel like you’re floating, high up into the clouds. You decide then that he must be an angel, carrying you in his wings and setting you on a sunset.

But you’re still squirming, seemingly discontented, and he notices far too easily. “You okay, Cher?”

“More,” you whisper faintly. “More…please…”

“More,” he echoes. “My sweet girl wants more. More what, hm? What do you need?”

“More,” is all you say. Once again wiggling your hips down as if to sink his fingers in further. “More, Harry, please.”

“Oh. You want another one. Is that it?”

You nod silently, too strung-out to think in coherent sentences.

He chuckles again, kissing your other cheek before pinching your chin. “All right. Give you as many as you want, baby.”

Feeling incredibly grateful, you allow your trembling limbs to fall slack. Once again settling beneath him as he works to get you to your second.

But even as he resumes the languid but practiced thrusts of his fingers, you feel unsatiated. Eager for something else, but you aren’t sure what.

He realizes before you do. “S’not enough, is it?” he coos. “Need something bigger, don’t you?”

That’s what it is, and you nod eagerly as your nails scratch down the sleeves of his hoodie.

“Think you can take something bigger? Think you can take another finger, baby?”

Another nod. Faster, more fervent. Eyes pleading with him to give you anything he has to offer.

He obliges this, glancing down before lining his fingers up, and slowly slipping all three inside.

This stretch is a bit more prominent. He’s deliberately gentle, never giving you more than he assumes you can handle.

And he watches you closely. Searching for any grimaces or winces of discomfort.

When he finds none, he seems relieved, kissing up from your chest to your throat once more. “Good girl. There you go.”

You begin to writhe a little more ardently until he has to bring his other hand to your knee in order to press it down into the seat. Keeping you spread and still until you settle.

“Easy,” he coos gently, placing some of his weight onto your thigh. “Gonna have to be good, baby, and relax for me. Let me make you feel good, okay?”

You want to obey. You do, really. But the overstimulation and sensitivity from your first orgasm is almost too much. Making you choke on the heated air until you can hardly breathe.

“Like it when I take care of you, don’t you?” he asks you now. Licking a stripe along your jaw. “Like it when I steal you away from them?”

He’s right, you do. Perhaps you shouldn’t, but there’s something about the way he makes you feel as though you deserve more than this. As though you’re meant for more than the diner. He makes you feel invincible.

“Maybe one day I’ll take you away,” he decides. “Fucking take you from them and make you mine. Forever. For always.”

And you decide you like the sound of that.

Another moment of his strenuous torture passes before he leans back to watch. And you notice something in his face. Utter fascination and lust over the way your body bends to his will. Over the way it stretches around his fingers, the way he pulls it open.

He releases a deep, coarse groan through clenched teeth. Fixated on the way his fingers disappear into your pussy. “Taking me so well, baby. Know you’d take my cock, too, wouldn’t you?”

You whimper miserably, undone by the thought. You can’t deny that you’ve wondered what he’d feel like. All of him, stretching you open. Fucking into you while leaving you a panting mess.

You often imagine what he’s like in bed. In an actual bed and not in the backseat of his car or yours. What he might be like when he’s truly lost himself to the pleasure. Guiding his hips to yours, bending you into a hundred and one positions meant just for his indulgence.

You wonder if he’d be just as careful as he is now. Just as devoted to you. If he’d be hard and fast or soft and slow. If he has dirty kinks, secret fantasies. If he likes the lights on or off. If he likes the bed or if he likes it up against the wall.

You hope one day you get to find out.

“Think you would, yeah?” he continues, sliding his digits all the way to the knuckle. The fibers of the gauze brushing against your clit. “Know you would. Be so good for me. This sweet little pussy would treat me so well, wouldn’t it?”

You nod quickly, pouting at him anxiously.

“I know,” he tuts, finally leaning back over to kiss you again. “Know you’d be such a good girl for me. Let me work you open until you could fit me…let me stretch you just right.”

You reach out for his wrist in search of something to squeeze, and it makes him chuckle. Teeth sinking into your bottom lip until you moan.

“Might take a while,” he muses. “Might take hours. Days. I’ll have to just keep you in my bed until you can fit me, hm?”

He attempts to pull away, but you chase after him. Looping an arm around his neck in order to yank him back to you.

His smirk feels good against your lips. “M’not going anywhere, sweet girl. Just like to watch you. Bet it’d be fun to watch you take my cock, wouldn’t it? Watch it sink right into this tight little hole.”

He’s evil. Absolutely sadistic and it makes you groan against his tongue until he has to soothe you.

“I know, baby. One day,” he breathes. “I promise. M’gonna take you away and do it right. Make it worth it.”

The thrusting of his fingers becomes more poignant. Enough to drive a plethora of desperate moans from your chest as he nuzzles his nose below your jaw and simply breathes.

“Gonna worship you. Give you everything you deserve.” He sucks in a quiet inhale before dancing his lips along your throat. “Have you sit on my face until I can’t breathe.”

The image has your eyes rolling back. Even if you aren’t sure you’d ever feel comfortable doing so, you’re enamored by the idea. Of the thought of him holding onto your thighs, pressing you down to his mouth. Completely controlling you.

“Can never breathe when I’m with you, anyway,” he whispers, and you almost don’t catch it. You wonder if you were meant to. “M’gonna do it right, sweet girl. I promise.”

And this is the vow that pulls you through to the other side. Large digits curling up into that one spot that makes your legs shake and you’re falling apart for the second time.

But he still doesn’t stop. Stroking, pressing, pumping even after the tears have begun to slip from your eye.

“Keep going, there you go. Does it feel good? Feel so good, cumming all over my hand?”

And it does, but you can’t exactly answer. Can’t seem to do anything but cry out as you ride the wave and his fingers as though your life depends on it.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs gently, raising up to kiss you once more. Swallowing your pitiful mewling. “So fucking good, baby. M’so proud of you. Took me so well. So beautiful when you cum, Cherry, you know that? Could watch you forever.”

The sentiment makes your entire body grow warm. You’ve always wondered what you might look like when you orgasm, and truth be told, you imagine it’s not very pretty.

But to hear him say it now – so earnestly – makes your stomach wrench. Nails curling into the seat below as you lift off the leather and knock your chest into his.

He holds you as tight as he can before slowly pulling his fingers out. Relieving you from the overstimulation before putting you back in his mouth. Sucking until a string of saliva drips down his into the gauze on his knuckles. Painting it a much prettier picture than the red has.

After swelling every drop of you with a lewd groan, he finally pulls his hand out, and takes you into his arms. Kissing you through the remnants of the blissful rush.

“So good,” he says again, face burying back into your neck while stroking your thigh with his soaked fingers. “Always make me so proud.”

Your limbs tangle with his as you both slouch into the backseat. Allowing your heart beats to synchronize into one, steady rhythm.

And once they have, you begin to grin. “Harry?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.”

He exhales a soft laugh before leaning back onto his knees to get a good look at you. “What for, sweet girl?”

“Just for…this, I suppose,” you mumble shyly. “For all of it. Tonight. Standing up for me and…you know, this part.”

His chuckle becomes a bit more smug. “Are you thanking me for making you cum?”

“I’m…trying. I think.”

“Hm.” His grin is playful and so damn charming as he dips back down to hover his lips near yours. “Don’t have to thank me, Cherry. Believe me. It’s my pleasure.”

His teasing remark makes you giggle, and you kiss him hard before he has the chance to leave you again.

You kiss for a while. A long while. Until you can hardly breathe, your muscles beginning to ache and your eyelids beginning to grow heavy from the lack of sleep in this early morning hour.

It’s not until you actually yawn that Harry finally remembers to pull himself away and reach for the panties around your ankles. “Shit, it’s late, isn’t it? Know I’ve kept you longer than I should have.”

With a quick shake of your head, you push up onto your elbows. “No. I’m fine, I promise. Just…cumming makes me sleepy, I guess. And you’re so warm. It’s nice.”

This makes him smile again, and that dimple of his makes your heart ache. “You know I’d keep you in this car until the sun came up if I could.”

“I know.” Your fingers outstretch for his hoodie, tangling into the material on his stomach while he guides your underwear back up around your hips. “Maybe one day, yeah?”

His expression softens, and you almost swear you see a flash of sadness behind that sage green. “Yeah. Maybe.”

It’s quiet as you rebutton your dress and pull the hem back down. And even quieter as Harry opens the door and slips out of the car, extending his hand toward you in order to help you out as well.

But once you’ve straightened up and turned to face him, you see that something has changed. A look of longing that hadn’t been there before etched between those scarred features.

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye and then down to your lips. Tracing the lines and dips before he sighs and cradles your cheek in his palm. “Are you gonna be all right?”

You place your hand over his and squeeze. “Are you?”

Another deep breath. Heavier and more forlorn. “You know I’ll try.”

“Promise?”

His forehead meets yours, and you both still. “I promise.”

And you choose to believe him.

You say goodbye, and regretfully let him go. Shaky legs carrying you back to your car as his eyes follow you all the way. Making sure you get there safely before you take off down the road and leave him behind.

A few nights later, you’re back for your next shift. And truth be told, you’re almost excited. Because having to go so long without him feels like a form of punishment. Like your days aren’t nearly as bright without him. And neither are your nights.

You can’t help but count the seconds as you go about your evening. Unable to distract yourself with the pastries no matter how hard you try. Thoughts drifting back to those chocolate curls and that devilish smile.

When midnight strikes, you feel relieved. Releasing a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding as you grab your notepad and slip out of the kitchen. Ready to greet him in his favorite booth.

But the moment you slip past the door, you find that the diner is empty. Not a single customer to greet you as you scan the floor in search of that familiar face. Even a glimpse of his shoes or the sound of his voice.

But the booth is empty, the diner is quiet, and it’s 12:06.

Your stranger isn’t here.

I know not too much has happened yet but we are building up to tons more smut and plot and angst and fluff, I swear!! 😭💞

Next Part:

~ Whiplash*

~ Main Masterlist

~ Blurb Masterlist

Amazing divider by @firefly-graphics! 💞

Taglist: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @keepdrivingkisses @swiftmendeshoran @tiredinwinter @straightontilmornin @justlemmeadoreyou @harrysdaydreams @tiaamberxx @peterparker1sgf @myfavfanficsever @littlenatilda @vamprry @fdl305 @tchalametishot @ssaama @indierockgirrl @likeapplejuicenpeach @vane28282 @lukesaprince @closureesny @lc-fics @0nlythrowharrybeaux @hannahdressedasabanana @lovebittenbyevans @caynonmoondreams @amberbambridge

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pomefioredove · 2 months

Note

hello hello! i see that the headcanon requests are open, so i have arrived 🐺🐺 i'd like to request the housewardens + chenya, neige and ortho with a reader that's mute! i feel like this would be an interesting thing to go off of. feel free to write it as something reader gained after a certain event, or as an illness that they were born with. platonic would be great, but i think romantic would be absolutely adorable too (minus ortho obviously) so go wild, do whatever you want >:) if this is fine for you to write of course!! love your writing, youre my favourite blog on tumblr hehe (runs away)

thank you so much!! and ofc ofc. I'm writing this based off my own experiences with being semiverbal so if I get something wrong,,, that's on me 😔

summary: nonspeaking reader type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, che'nya, leona, azul, kalim, vil, neige, idia, ortho (platonic), malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

I think Riddle is more adaptive than others give him credit for

it's not like there's any rule about not speaking

(and if there was, he would make an exception for you. he's not completely unreasonable)

I can see him learning sign language with you

and if that's not your thing, he'll figure something else out

he's a fast learner, after all

and he wants to make you comfortable, too. not that he'd ever outright admit it...

(obvious favoritism)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Che'nya is always quick on his feet

or... on air?

anyway

that means that he isn't one to let the absence of conversation stop him from his usual mischief

and he does love charades...

it's almost like he can read your thoughts. or your... hands? expressions?

whenever someone is giving you a hard time, they miiight just end up talking back to a floating head

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona actually never really... brings it up

before he had the full story, he just figured you were shy around him

(which went straight to his head, of course)

so he was already used to it when he found out it's not something you can control

and... he treats you no different for it

he knows you're not stupid or rude just because you're not yapping all the time

and if anyone else gave you a hard time about it... they'd be answering to him

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

no worries with Azul

I mean, the guy can really do it all

sign language, pen and paper, text-to-speech, body language...

he's rather adaptable, and, trust me, being unable or unwilling to speak won't stop him

the offer to give you the voice of a beautiful singer is still on the table... but he can't blame you for not taking the deal

of course

in the meantime, you can come to him for anything and he'll help you out

on the house <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Kalim's heart is in the right place

is he disappointed you won't be able to talk and sing and cheer with him? a little

you're used to the disappointment, unfortunately

but he doesn't give up so easily

or... at all

no singing? he's handing you an instrument

no talking? no problem, he knows you're still listening!

no hummin, shouting, cheering? he can make enough noise for the both of you

he makes sure you're included in everything

very sweet

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Vil has high expectations, but he isn't unreasonable

if you can't talk, you can't talk, and that's final

that doesn't excuse you from everything else in his strict regimen, though

what may be a weakness to others is a strength to him

you can improve yourself tenfold by focusing on what you can do rather than what you can't

writing, dancing, music...

however you choose to express yourself, he's very supportive

much like Kalim, he includes you in every conversation, every decision, every yes/no question

he's pretty great

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Neige! Neige is a sweetie

I like to think of Neige as someone who's actually quite timid in person, despite his career

it's probably your quietness that draws him to you in the first place

he is so very supportive

he's the kind of introvert to suddenly become extroverted when someone needs help

"excuse me, they asked for no pickles" type of guy

he'll hold your hand through everything if you need it, and remain by your side if you don't

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ortho and Idia are probably the best people to have on your side

Idia just feels so much more... comfortable around you, since he struggles with speaking, himself

he'll let you use his tablet if you need it to speak

...and then he'll get you one of your own, so he doesn't have a heart attack when you accidentally switch tabs

he'll even program a custom voice or two for you

Ortho is a walking translator for you

with a database full of information on body language and expression, he can determine your emotional state in a single glance

he's happy to help in any way he can, of course!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

at some point, Malleus needs a shirt that says "#1 Prefect Defender"

you haven't said a single word to him but if anything happened to you he would curse everyone in this room and then himself

(he means well, I promise)

he's never minded, nor questioned your silence

certain fae communicate through lights or movement rather than sound, so it isn't even anything strange to him

you fit right in at Diasomnia

and you're welcome to stay here for as long as you please

(hint hint)

#twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #queued #riddle rosehearts x reader #leona kingscholar x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #idia shroud x reader #malleus draconia x reader #che'nya x reader #neige leblanche x reader

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heartfeltcherie · 5 months

Note

Lucifer x shy Baker reader

very first lucifer story and i can’t tell if i like it or hate it lol but i hope u guys enjoy it!! :)

☾. °. ࿐ ` , •

sugar. butter. flour.

that’s how most of your days went — baking pastries in one of hell’s finest bakeries, serving regular, everyday sinners, to the fanciest overlords of hell. it was tiring work, starting everything from scratch each and every morning and making sure every bite would be the freshest it could be.

you, yourself, weren’t an overlord — just a normal city goer on the streets of pentagram city, doing your job to make a living. even in hell you’re expected to pay rent; but i guess that’s why it’s called hell.

the door chimes, signalling a customer entering your quiet little bakery that smelled of strawberries and sweetness.

“hello, darling” and there he was — lucifer morningstar, the king of hell, himself. you look up from where you were putting the last of your pies in the display case, your cheeks becoming as red as the strawberries you cut up earlier. “oh, your majesty! hello!” you make your way to the front counter, hoping he doesn’t realize how flustered he makes you merely by his own presence.

oh, he absolutely notices. and it feeds his ego tenfold.

he rests his elbow on the counter, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

“i believe i ordered a dozen of your finest cupcakes. shaped like ducks, to be more precise” you chuckle to yourself — who knew the king of hell would get so much enjoyment out of rubber ducks? “let me go get those for you, your majesty”

“oh, dear, there’s no need for formalities. lucifer’s just fine. especially since i’m in here oh-so often” he looks at you with half lidded eyes, raising his eyebrows at you. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you when he speaks in that tone.

you try not to stumble over your own two feet as you get the fancy pink box that has a clear lid, perfectly displaying his highness’s order. you can feel yourself trying not to shake with nerves because satan, he’s so beautiful. “i’m beginning to think you come in here for more than just the sweets i bake” you place the box with fragile goods down in front of him on the counter. lucifer chuckles at your statement, drawing small circles with his pointer finger on your counter. “oh, really? and what makes you say that, hm?”

“i-i don’t know… maybe it’s just an observation, but you come here more than the regulars. and when you do, you usually strike up a conversation with me for hours on end until i have to tell you we’re closed” you chuckle shyly, recalling the countless times lucifer has come in just to talk to you, or give you so many compliments that turn you into a blushing mess.

you don’t understand why he has specific interest in you; he barely knows you, and you him. only in the fairytales in your mind are happily holding hands together.

“oh! haha! that!” he looks nervous, fiddling with his jacket lapels and wiping none existent dirt off his sleeves, not realizing how many times he’s come in just to see you. but he can’t help it, he’s craving the sweetness you give off of lavender and daydreams that it spins him poetic; and he hopes that maybe one day you’ll let him have a taste (you will). “i suppose you just have a way of… drawing me in, i-i guess”

“i just work here, lucifer… you don’t even know me”

“well then, perhaps we should change that then, don’t you think?” you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, tilting your head like a small puppy. lucifer’s heart nearly beats out of his chest. “what do you mean?”

“i meaaan… come by! a-and share some cupcakes with me! and we can also have tea! or chocolate milk! we don’t even have to have the cupcakes! i can get something made for us! michelin-tasting menu, free à la carte!”

you giggle at his excitement and lucifer swears he could listen to that sound for the rest of eternity.

“i-i get off work at five?” you ask with a shy smile, pink dusting your cheeks at the thought of a date with the man you’ve been crushing on for so long. “then i shall see you then, my dear” he kisses the back of your hand with a gentleness that leaves your head spinning as he picks up the box of duck-shaped cupcakes and walks out of your bakery.

please reblog/comment if you enjoyed my work, it��s greatly appreciated ♡

#❥ lexi’s daydreams #lucifer morningstar #lucifer morningstar x you #lucifer morningstar fanfiction #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer morningstar imagine #hazbin hotel #lucifer hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fluff #hazbin hotel imagine #hazbin hotel fanfiction

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jellazticious · 8 months

Text

bing bong bootleg SS au

very long ramble under the C

stuff are subjected to change

The working title isn't solidified but I'm leaning on either Candy Castle or Pastry Castle

Tho I think I'm gonna go for pastry cuz it has the same amount of letters as castle much like pizza and tower have the same number too

The tower is a gingerbread castle. According to a friend of mine (It's Beefy, it's always Beefy go follow him) that Hispanics love their bakeries and yeah, I guess that makes sense. Not only do I have a theme based on the protag's culture but also the theme gets narrowed down to just baked sweets. Candy in general is too broad, I would die figuring out how to put every kind of sweet in it, and if I did it's gonna be really cluttered hooboy

Noise is called Theo because that's Peppino's name formula. Peppino is a nickname for Giuseppe so I thought I'd give Noise's swap a nickname to Theodore as the main name

Hazel Nutt is pretty self explanatory cuz Noisette means hazelnut in French

Their outfits are pretty simple to mirror Peppino and Gustavo's with just coloured shirts and aprons

Hazel doesn't get a mount because she would have Theo's prototype rocket skates. Just like Gus, she would have different stages of getting used to the skates per floor. First she gets blasted from end to end cuz she can't control the thrust. Second, she manages to turn it off but she's trying to keep balance on it. Third, she catches her breath now that she could stand still without moving or slipping. Next she would make a card castle, in reference to the very castle they're inside. and lastly she'd be holding a box of sweets without giving a shit about the scary floor.

To parallel the og Noisette, Hazel would smile bigger when Theo faces her direction.

Hazel is also Theo's delivery gal to match and switch with how Peppino WAS Gustavo's delivery guy

The "kick the rat" function would be Hazel swinging one of the skates and the cops grabbing Brick would instead hold a weapon detector that also functions as a magnet

Unlike Peppino, Theo is more aggressive than anxious. Imagine an injured cat defending itself from what it thinks is a threat

the name of Pizzaface's swap is Pieface for obvious reasons 😭

but HEAR ME OUT

both pizzaface and pieface are used as insults. pizza face is used for people with so much acne and pie face is used for someone with a flat face or dull expression. It isn't just a pun on what food the characters are made of. Pieface is also a reference to the trope where people headshot other people with pies. With the mech floating towards the protag, it would look like a pie is being thrown and targeted at Theo

Honestly drawing what food makes his face is so fun. Did you know that before the croissant smile it was supposed to be syrup shaped to a smile? The nose was a long whip of cream before turning into a cut strawberry for the mustache effect

Pizzahead's candy version would be called Gingerhead because of how ridiculous it sounds.

Gingerhead is based on Willy Wonka much like how Pizzahead is based on Ronald McDonald which is why he has more of a showman look than a clown look

okay side note, it just occured to me how ironic PH being based on Ronald is considering McDo's isn't a pizza place

actually Wonka doesn't even sell cakes and shit so, I guess it's fair game

Theo has the nickname Muffinman to reference the rhyme. but this time, it's the gingerbreadman chasing the baker

Next up is Mr S, who would be Peppino but he becomes rich. Mr S is the stage name he uses. He is a known celebrity much as Noise is but he is more of a boxer than a host. Like Dwayne Johnson or something. His name is partially a reference to ResEvil's Mr X, another absolute unit of a guy

also the reason why he doesn't wear a shirt. He's committing to the bit. If he needs to cover himself when he isn't playing a role, then there's his robe. He doesn't take out his mask most of the time tho

Mr S's mask is based on the Chef Raider design but also part of the scrapped superhero design much like Pizzano. Actually speaking of Pizzano, S is characterized so similarly to him cuz Pizzano is the only SS character who was actually written well to my standards. To be fair we've seen too much of Peppino to flunk characterizing him sksksk

Since this is Peppino that Mr S is based on, he's not as tech savvy or as self centered as Noise so he doesn't have robots that look like himself. Instead he has ants for a crew

the ants swap the place of rats. the rats in PT reference the new york pizza rat while ants just generally eat your food especially if it's sweet when left alone for five minutes

the ants come from Mr G, who would be Gustavo's swap with Noisette. He's Mr S's lawyer. at the end of S's bossfight, G would snatch him away with Click (the ant) because S would make a foul and embarrassing move on live camera

I can't seperate Gustavo and Brick so Click stays with Mr G instead of assisting Hazel

inside what would be Noisette cafe, instead of Mr G and Click being behind the counter, they would be sitting as customers next to Caraman. the barista isn't seen anywhere

Honestly when I'm writing everyone, my logic of swapping them isn't "make them switch places AND personalities" but more of "write every single one of them with the og personality because giving them a different lifestyle/role would drastically change their motives and how they behave"

I'm practically just swapping each character's place of birth

I mentioned this because it's kinda funny with Noisette and Gus since they play the exact same role of assisting Peppino/Noise so swapping them won't change much in how they act. They also have the same cheery and welcoming personality by default so Hazel and Mr G would act REALLY similar to their og

The only difference is that Gustavo can be threatening whenever Peppino fucks up. It fits right in with being a lawyer for the same goon

Now we got Mel Caraman who would become this au's Vigi. Lemme just say off the bat that Caraman is just as delusional as Vigi. He gets hired as a guard for floor 2 and took it way too seriously that he thinks he's some sort of sentinel. Hired as a guard but thinks he's an ancient guardian or something

his name vaguely references James Bond because you also VAGUELY get "caramel" out of "Caraman, Mel Caraman"

Caraman is a caramel apple but he's half glazed to form an eyemask. he's also got a stick poking out his head that stretches his chorro hat. the big hat makes him look cooler anyways. Bro I was so ready to settle for a shitty wild west mayor hat and I owe Beefy one for suggesting a new hat. I was gonna make him look like Doug Dimmadome with the short brimmed tall hat😭😭😭

but yeah Caraman doesn't have the same dignity as Vigi does. He can fight crime decently on normal circumstances and badass when he's full serious. But like day in day out he's so obnoxious about looking for crime that people get tired of him nor would they take him seriously

he would also be mistaken for a pepper

Next to last, Cam M. Bert or just Bert who would take place of Pepperman. he's an artist who appreciates the world instead of himself, a freelancer also. There was only a bossfight because he was coincidentally commissioned to make a mural for the castle the same time Theo busts in. He didn't like how Theo ruined some of his works with his rush to open the door

Bert is a cream cheese instead of a cheese slime. his beret is actually a little cherry to distinguish him from the other creams.

Bert is really chill and humble, He's like Bob Ross, whenever he can, he'd try to talk about how every beauty in the world should be immortalized through a canvas

In parallel to Vigi's delusion of thinking he's a human, Bert thinks he's actually a living painting (which is completely possible for someone to be in the PT world since Pepperman was able to do it with his own art)

instead of a :{ face that Vigilante has, Bert has a :3 face

the naming formula is taken directly from Vigi

Vig E. Lantte

Cam M. Bert

There is a type of sweet cheese that's really creamy called camembert which his name is a direct reference from. Here is a picture of a camembert since it's hella cute

Camembert cheese was also suggested by Beefy, brother thank you for not allowing me to name this cunt Creamlad

Mr Lardo would be in place of Mr Stick but his motive is that he's collecting Theo's money on BEHALF of Mr Stick. They're probably the only ones who completely stay intact because there's not much canon info of Stick WITHIN the game itself I also feel he's a crossover character from his own "series" with how long McPig has him prior to PT so I just swap the character who makes the "cameo"

The toppins are still called toppins because they'd be used to decorate a cake or pie. They would be

Strawberry - Mushroom

Cream - Cheese

Cookie - Tomato

Icing (in a piping bag) - Sausage

actually I dont know yet for the pineapple but I'll get to it. I've only been figuring out this au since four days ago....

Lastly (of the characters), the Faker in this would be mechanical to match the original Noise's familiarity in robots

Fake Theo (temp name) would be engineered to be "Theo but way better" while actually being succesful with it. Faker would also sort of look like a mini figure of a ballerina. Referencing The Nutcracker

Opposite to Fake Peppino, Fake Theo is more graceful than terrifying but it's so uncanny how unnaturally pretty it is

and now some misc stuff

Title of the final level is When The Cookie Crumbles

the pepper pizza will be replaced with an extremely sweet pie and the immunity is caused by the sugar rush from it

Pizza Time is called Crunch Time

Pillar John would be a giant graham cracker since the walls are made of cookies instead of bricks. Gerome however, is a solidified bar of brownies. like a shittily made brownie that it just turned into a construction brick

Snotty is a pure white cream cheese and that's cuz he's actually made of glue. His name is Sticky

Pigs would either be bears or rabbits with how many times those two animals represented sweets

I'm gonna be clear with everyone here. I literally made this au cuz I'm going insane trying to make swap stuff with Pascal/Stefano when the au itself is so empty. sure it's colourful but it's so empty like I can't draw SS characters outside of poses

I tried like doing fanon modifications as I always do then there's so much I "modified" that at this point it's not Sugary Spire anymore. Just straight up a completely different au. The only similarity is that it's a swap au with sweets

it is what it is yknow. this is my life now. I said fuck it and went with the flow and boom, new personal au that I poured too much into

basically I blame Pascal for this

#Pizza Tower #tagging them as their og until I solidify the au #Pizzaface #Pizzahead #The Noise #Peppino Spaghetti #Noisette #The Vigilante #Pepperman #Gustavo and Brick #i drew this #Cookie Castle

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starbleye · 8 months

Text

sculpted

Megumi has always been good with his hands, just not his emotions. Until now. (cw: smut; wc: 2200)

Megumi knew his hands like the back of, well, his hands. Art had always been a part of him from a very young age. Finger paints turned into oils on canvas, sidewalk chalk became charcoal sketches. Most importantly, mud pies turned into clay sculptures. If there was one form of art that Megumi was drawn to most, it was pottery.

The minute he came into contact with those dollar store modeling clay kits, he knew he wanted to hold on to it for the rest of his life. He dedicated years of his life, starting with throwing together simple shapes and dishes manipulated by hand. As time went on, his hands became more dexterous in fashioning the clay to match his vision. Delicate yet firm touches to the clay allowed Megumi to craft his imagination into the tangible world. He dedicated himself to his art, he worshiped his talent.

Until you came along.

Unwavering, unshakeable Megumi was rocked when you first entered his life. For the longest time, he believed he was content with his solitude, abhorrent to unnecessary connections that could only bring him pain. He only trusted the porcelain of his heart to be held in his own hands, yet he craved for your soft arms to carry the weight of his fragility.

You were always the source of light in a room from the way you carried yourself. You were sound with who you were and rooted in where you stood, drawing the energy towards yourself with a subtle hand. You lifted Megumi out of his self-induced confinement, but you never pushed or shoved him more than he could take. He could never understand how a person like you could even stand to be around a person like himself; cold, apathetic, protected.

Yet you never looked at him in pity. Instead you saw Megumi as a young kid who was thrust into a life he wasn't ready for and commended his attempts to open up, as small as they were.

But Megumi knew he stood no chance at having you. His desire to have you all to himself was one sided, but he would rather wallow in his craving to have you in his arms rather than scare you away with his feelings.

"How long have you been throwing that?" you asked, shaking Megumi from his thoughts. He looked up at your curious eyes before looking back at the clay on his wheel, smooth as can be. Not as smooth as her skin, he thought to himself.

"Long enough, I guess," he replied, solemnly. The only reason Megumi was in the studio today was to get his mind off you and the date that you were supposed to be on. As fate would have it, your date stood you up and Megumi's studio was the first place you turned to in order to let it all out.

He sat in silence at the wheel, twisting and contorting some sort of vase that widened and narrowed to his heart's desire. All the while, you ranted about your latest trials in love, condemning each and every man Megumi knew wasn't good enough for you. "That's the last time I ever go on a blind date," you finally sighed, relaxing your weight against a table.

He continued to sit silently, overflowing with the urge to hold you tenderly and prove himself better than any other person who dared look in your direction. "Do you have anything to say?" you asked, fishing for any advice or consolation from your dear friend.

"I need to wash my hands," was all Megumi said as he slammed a fist into the misshapen vase out of frustration. Wordlessly, he got up and headed to the sink, tryin oh so hard not to focus on the perfect pout you gave him. How he wanted to run his fingers against your soft lips, to let his own lips memorize the feeling and taste of them. Shaking his head to rid himself of such thoughts, Megumi did his best to thoroughly scrub the clay out of his hands. All the while, a sudden fire lit inside his core, spreading through the rest of his body despite his attempts to quell it.

He turned back around to find you observing the sculptures on his shelf. One had caught your eye; the bust Megumi had created to resemble his mother. Lithely, he slipped behind your frame, maintaining a friendly distance but close enough for either you or himself to close it.

You sensed his presence behind you and, without turning around, said, "This is beautiful, is that your mother?" He nodded. "Makes sense, you have her eyes..." you trailed off, suddenly feeling Megumi become dangerously close. Risking it, you turned around to come face to face with those blue eyes, clouded with an emotion you had never seen before.

Megumi's throat dried up as he attempted to rasp out your name. "Please..." was the last thing he could muster before he closed the gap, hovering his lips inches from yours. He could feel the warmth radiating off your cheeks as he waited for you to reciprocate.

A second passed as you tried not to reel from the shock, but your body moved before your mind could understand as your hands intertwined into his obsidian hair.

A noise escaped Megumi's mouth as years of pining escaped his body in that kiss. Tenderly, he felt your soft lips moving against his, tasting faintly of cherries. His own hands moved from his sides to the space between your hip and waist, fitting perfectly.

Mindful of the delicate pottery behind you, Megumi began to guide your body towards the closest and cleanest table. Not once did he take his lips off yours, only opening his eyes briefly to make sure no one would get hurt. When your body hit the edge of the table, you let out a small gasp as Megumi's strong hands lifted you up effortlessly.

Still, his eyes remained forcefully closed. "Megumi, look at me," you said, pulling away from the kiss.

"I can't, I'm dreaming," he murmured, tilting his head down to stop anything from breaking this fantasy come true.

A hearty giggle came from your chest as your hand cupped his chin, then his cheeks, before gently coaxing his eyes to open. "You aren't dreaming," you assured him, leaning in again and leaving a trail of kisses across his jaw to his neck. His core was close to yours and you both could tell the other was definitely real.

Your own throat started to feel dry in a way you had never experienced before and your hands trailed to the hem of your shirt. "Is this okay?" you asked, starting to wrap your legs around Megumi's waist.

A look of desperation crossed Megumi's face as he let out a hastened "yes" and brought his hands under your shirt as you began to lift it up. Never had you heard a man moan as tenderly as he had when his eyes fell on your breasts.

And never had Megumi felt or seen skin as beautiful and real as yours. With a careful hand, his fingers traced the span of your abdomen, taking in the full sight of you. "Oh, god. I'm touching an angel," he breathed out. He continued his hands upward to your bra, unhooking it skillfully and immediately laying his hands on your nipples.

With skillful digits, he rolled the flesh of your breasts as if he were shaping clay. Megumi was already committing the feeling to memory so he could use it when he was alone. "More," you let out quietly, not entirely embarrassed but definitely flustered at being held so well by your best friend.

Abiding by your orders, Megumi tilted his head towards one of your nipples and used his tongue to stimulate them, causing a satisfied groan to release from your chest. You had already started moving yourself against him, so Megumi moved his hands to your hips to start a rhythm. He also began to roll his hips against yours to increase the feeling.

Still, he needed more. Looking at you with an approving gaze, you nodded as Megumi began to undo the button and zipper of your pants and quickly discarded them. "You're so wet," he said in almost a question, amazed that his touch caused you to react in such a way. His hand made a path to your core, pushing aside your panties and stopping at your clit to start rubbing it.

Megumi seemed to know how these things worked as he applied firm pressure here and there, changing direction and movement depending on your reaction. He watched your chest heave as you breathed deeply to keep your grounding. Your hands were grasping for anything to keep your head tied to your body. Instinctively, your legs started to close from the attention, but Megumi's powerful hand held your thighs apart as he began to slip a finger into your cunt.

"Megumi!" you cried, the pleasure building. He looked up at you, the cloudy emotion from earlier finally being pinpointed as carnal desire. His finger stroked your insides as if he knew it by heart. Almost instantly, he found the place where you were most sensitive.

For every moan and groan and praise you let out, Megumi responded with the same if not more. You could feel yourself starting to approach your orgasm and you leaned up to hold onto his shoulders, digging your nails into the skin. Megumi could feel you tighten around his fingers and let out a moan, imagining how it would feel to have you tighten and come all over his cock.

Without warning, he sped up his leisurely pace to bring you even closer. You started to cry out his name in warning when he suddenly pulled himself away. At first you were confused as to the abrupt distance, but your confusion was answered as Megumi began to strip himself of his own clothing.

Quickly, you ran to your purse and grabbed the fresh condom you had put there earlier. Megumi hadn't fully taken off his pants or boxers before you pushed him into a nearby chair. He obliged to your taking of control, whimpering when your smooth hands came into contact with his searing cock. You pumped him a couple of times before slipping the condom on, earning a stuttered moan with each pull.

"I need you. So bad, please," Megumi murmured, eyes lilting in your direction. Wasting no time, you slowly began to sink onto his lap, your breath catching in your throat as you stretched around him.

Megumi was not faring too well, hands flying to your hips the minute your cunt enveloped his tip. Trying to practice his self-restraint, he gripped your hips to stop himself from shoving his whole length into you. If he thought clay was his life, you had officially changed that.

You continued to sink onto his length, Megumi noting that your pussy was more malleable than the clay that sat rejected. Finally, you had taken him to the hilt, both of you letting out euphoric moans. "You're so big," you sighed, looking down at where you two were connected.

Megumi couldn't take his eyes off the angel that was now seated on his lap. The sheen that had accumulated on your skin had you basking in an ethereal glow and he could've sworn you sprouted wings that fluttered so delicately. The moment you two connected, he knew he would worship you for eternity and more.

You started rolling your hips, coming off his lap slightly before taking all of him again. You held your bottom lip with your teeth as you started to speed up your pace, increasing the intensity of your rocks as well. "I need to hear you," Megumi said, in between moans. A slew of profanities slipped his lips as you released your bottom lip and a chorus of pleasure spilled from your mouth.

His hands began to wander your body, trailing from your hips to your inner thighs, then up again to your breasts. He moved on to your graceful arms that were wrapped around his shoulders. His hands found their way to your neck and he loosely closed his fingers around your neck, causing you to roll your eyes back.

Overwhelmed and nearing his own orgasm, Megumi wrapped his arms around your back and held you close, starting to thrust upward to meet your own rolls. A white fog began to seep into the back of Megumi's vision as he felt himself get close.

"I'm about to-" you started.

"Me, too," he finished, holding you impossibly tighter as both of your thrusts started to increase intensity. With an incoherent slur of your names, curses, and moans, you both finished simultaneously.

Megumi released broken whimpers as his own seed spilled into the condom and he felt your warmth trail down as well. He held you on his lap, keeping shallow ruts as you both rode out your highs. Your chest was rising intensely as you tried to catch your breath, not bothering to get off. "How long?" you asked.

"Since I met you."

(this is my first time writing in a LONG TIME, i really hope you enjoy and take care of yourselves !!)

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #megumi fushiguro #megumi x reader #megumi smut #jjk smut #aged up au #pottery

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roronoacherries · 9 months

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𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐞 𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐞 | roronoa zoro

913 words

content: fem. latina reader, fluff, post time-skip, zoro watches reader dance and sing while she cleans the sunny.

notes: i miss rbd... yo digo r, tu dices bd, rbd, rbd!

zoro loves to watch you clean. he likes to stay back with you while the others explore a new island, knowing that you like to take advantage of the time alone. he’ll make himself scarce to let you work in peace but he's always there, keeping you company.

sometimes he closes his eyes to rest, enjoying the comfortable silence of the empty ship, hearing only the sound of you humming or singing softly; although most often, all he does is watch. it doesn't really matter to him; so long as he's near you, he's content.

there’s something endearing to him about the way you zone out, moving from one thing to another as if all the chore work came naturally to you.

she’d make a perfect housewife, he thinks to himself, knowing full well that if he ever uttered those words aloud, you and your tiny frame would make sure he hurt (and that thought is only further proof to him that you would be).

he likes it most when you play your loud latin music and sing along to it, almost always sounding terribly though he's convinced if you bothered to try you'd sound like an angel.

you hold the broom like a mic, singing each syllable like you feel it in the depths of your soul and zoro wonders what the hell you could be singing about; he rarely asks anymore, knowing well enough that it'll likely be a feeling you've never actually felt before.

you're dramatic and loud and he's certain that you wouldn't act this foolishly around anyone else. something he couldn't be more thankful for.

"y aquí estoy rendida a tus pies." you drop to your knees in front of him and the swordsman raises a brow, silently wondering how long it'll take you to sweep the room this time.

"y sé que no hay nada que perder..." you stand, stepping closer to him and your hand rests on his cheek and he thinks it might take at least another ten minutes for you to be done.

"pensando en ti," you lean in close, your hand falling into his and all that's left on his mind is that he could kiss you for those next ten minutes instead.

but you pull away before your lips can touch, fingers slipping from his as you sing the next line. "hasta que no me dejes ir."

you sing the chorus as you twirl around the room, picking things up from the floor, your eyes meeting zoro's enough for him to know that this time the song is about a feeling you know.

"no quiero vivir sin tu amor jamás..." you take a seat on his lap, your legs on either side of him and zoro's hands find their place on your waist, deciding not to let you stand up again.

"what're you singing about this time?" he grunts, his thumbs drawing circles into your skin.

"nothing special. just loving you and needing you and never wanting to let you go..." you say, pressing kisses to his face between every few words.

"what was that last line?" zoro questions, somehow knowing that whatever it was, you'd left it out. a part of him thinks he deserves a nice little treat for the spanish he's inadvertently learned from you.

you think about the line for a moment before translating it, "i don't want to live without your love, not ever."

and there's something left hanging in the air when you've said it. a twinkle of uncertainty in your eyes. something left unspoken.

"you won't."

it's the kind of oath that is rooted in regret. the kind that feels certain — set in stone, despite the impossibility of it. like he's promising you the stars and there's nothing you can do but believe him. it's not up to him whether you get to be at his side forever or not, but you believe it when he says you will.

"i missed you a lot." you can't help but say it and it feels pointless to mention, but you can’t put it out of your mind either. those two years taught you what eternity can feel like.

"i know," zoro’s lips brush yours without kissing you. instead, you feel his breath, the warmth coming from his body, and you wish you could get to know a different kind of eternity with him. closing the gap between you and him, you think this is the next best thing — the little taste of eternity on his lips.

"‘m going to love you for a long, long time…"

zoro doesn’t mean for the words to come off as romantic, doesn’t intend for them to make your heartbeat stutter, and you know that as well as you know him but they do regardless. the swordsman doesn’t even realize the sweetness of his blunt sincerity and you couldn’t love him more for it.

“i love you,” you utter the words in a faint whisper, pressing another gentle kiss to his lips before resting your head on his chest and listening to the music still playing. you could sit there in his arms forever, you think, until a familiar rapid beat meets your ears.

"da-ddy yan-keh..."

and zoro doesn’t fight it when you leave the warmth of his arms to dance again. he still has an eternity to hold you and to love you, anyway.

─────────────────────────────

taglist: @zorobraun @maaarshieee @lyriczhou @tinkywinky27 @dimimyth @gaby-chwan @tk6uro @zoros-4th-sword @idiotlittleme @zoronnoa

masterlist | taglist

#୨⎯ sol escribe ☼#zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x reader #one piece x reader #zoro fluff #one piece fluff #everybody say thank u josh andrés rivera for inspiring zoro's last line in this #love him mwah

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ikroah · 9 months

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A girl can get somewhere in spite of stringy hair or even just a bit bowed at the knees if she can show a faultless…personality! —“Personality,” Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers (1946)

It Keeps Right On a-Hurtin’ #26 - Ring-a-Ding-Ding V

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Notes / Original Pencils / Transcript:

Notes:

ohhhhh my god why did i make this script so long my hand hurts this took forever aaaaagh

Welcome to the Lucky 38! This is a script that has remained basically the same for a long time but went through COUNTLESS extremely small rewrites over the course of production just to really nail Mr. House's dialogue. He's a long-winded guy, this whole issue is basically just him doing monologues, and I wanted to make sure it was all interesting and non-repetitive. I think I took out at least three uses of "merely" from the first draft.

One of the biggest production decisions of this issue was whether or not to cut the scene with Agnes and Cass and Victor, which immediately follows the end of the previous issue. The reason to include it was because it very necessarily established the change in location from the Vegas Strip to the Lucky 38 penthouse, which would have been jarring otherwise; the reason to exclude it was that it the issue was already extremely long and I thought opening right on Mr. House would have been more impactful. Ultimately, I did keep it, which was a good decision, but only because of the literally issue-saving idea to convey it as closed-circuit television footage instead of actual panels. Every single attempt at overlaying them with the lead-in to Mr. House was way too busy, but that idea really tied the page together like a nice rug.

And lastly, the framing device of the tarantula and the tarantula hawk was actually an extremely late addition to the comic. I had already finished the first three pages when I thought of it. My problem was that Mr. House's constant monologuing and Agnes' sad expressions got pretty repetitive. I needed something to break the action up while adding thematic heft and artistic variety. I've become a real enthusiast for wasps and tarantulas over the last couple months, so this one really was just a stroke of luck. It took only minimal revisions to make room for the framing device, with the most dramatic change being the complete replacement of the last page (which was originally just a splash page of the Lucky 38 in Vegas; bookending the first and last pages is so much better). So you see, the only reason for weaving a scene into this issue of a skittish desert-wanderer getting paralyzed and dragged toward a certain demise by a predator almost perfectly evolved to destroy it was just that I like bugs a lot. That's the only reason, yep.

Original Pencils:

Due to all of the photo-collage in the final version of the comic, there's a lot of panels and details that I (thankfully!) didn't have to draw myself. Sorry that the pencil isn't blue on the last three pages, I've been on the move for the holidays so they got scanned in grayscale by accident.

I did experiment with drawing the tarantula framing device myself, but ultimately went with the photo-collage method because the artistic juxtaposition actually made it much more readable when interspersed with the proceedings in the Lucky 38.

Transcript:

EXT. DESERT OUTSIDE OF NEW VEGAS. The city glitters in the distance, nestled between the shadows of mountains, with the spire of the LUCKY 38 towering above all else.

In the wilderness, a TARANTULA emerges from its burrow.

EXT. THE NEW VEGAS STRIP. On closed-circuit television monitors, a SECURITRON ROBOT approaches AGNES SANDS and ROSE OF SHARON CASSIDY, saying

VICTOR: Well howdy, partner! Fancy meetin' again here in Vegas!

CASS: What the fuck?

AGNES: Victor?

Unlike the usual police units, VICTOR's robotic "face" is that of a cowboy.

VICTOR: And heck, ya clean up nice! Sure lookin' a lot better now than when I rustled ya outta the bone orchard back in Goodsprings*--

CAP: *As was explained to Agnes way back in IKROAH #2. --Lou

VICTOR: --so how's about ol' Vic skips the rigamarole, huh? 'Fore all my yappin' makes ya want to go back, heh-heh-heh! I'm the welcome wagon, see. I'm to come and collect ya.

CASS: Agnes--

VICTOR: Boss wants t'see you, is what I'm sayin'.

AGNES: Boss?

VICTOR: Only of all of Vegas, friend!

CASS: Agnes.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA crawls beneath the starlight.

VICTOR: So why don't we mosey on over to the Lucky 38? And your good pal can come along, too!

CASS: I need to know what the fuck is going on, right now.

AGNES: I...I don't know.

VICTOR: And y'know, boss ain't ever let a soul inside before, least for not as long as I've been rollin' around on my spurs, so this ain't just an everyday social call, mind...

On the closed-circuit television monitors, VICTOR escorts AGNES and CASS to the entryway of the LUCKY 38.

VICTOR: ...but heck, I reckon ya'll oughta get along like franks on a fire! So come on! Lift's in the lobby here, and up to the top floor--and we can get the formalities out of the way before ya'll get [cut off]

INT. THE LUCKY 38 PENTHOUSE.

AGNES stands awestruck, looking upward, bathed in electronic green light. With horror, she ekes out a single question.

AGNES: ...what are you?

???: A "Hello" would have been preferable, but it'll take more than a crude faux pas to tarnish this moment. Who I am, Agnes--

What AGNES is looking at is a gigantic SUPERCOMPUTER and terminal, flanked by closed-circuit television monitors and guarded on both sides by SECURITRON police units. On the supercomputer's massive screen is the green-lit image of a face. The face

MR. HOUSE: --is ROBERT EDWIN HOUSE. The President, CEO, and sole proprietor of New Vegas--and more to the point, the intended recipient of a long delayed package.

AGNES: Oh, you...you mean the platinum chip?

MR. HOUSE: Correct. It's a...very precious artifact of the old world.

MR. HOUSE: My world, once.

In the back of the room, beyond AGNES, is an oil painting of MR. HOUSE, standing outside in front of what must have been a very large robot.

MR. HOUSE: In that world, I was the founder of RobCo Industries--a titan of innovation. We created a litany of robotic solutions for diverse markets, such as the Securitrons that you see here, and even a line of consumer-grade devices like the wrist-mounted Pip-Boy. But the platinum chip was, more than any other, my design. It was my vision.

MR. HOUSE: But it never left the factory in which it was originally made. Before it could even cool off from its assembly...we had the Great War. An international, thermonuclear bombardment of unimaginable power that annihilated the world in all of two hours.

MR. HOUSE: But not the entire world. Not Vegas. Not my Paradise. From my fortress of the Lucky 38, I saw to that. But as for the rest of the world, and my platinum chip--it took generations.

MR. HOUSE: First for the scarce remnants of humanity to crawl out from under their rocks, and for the world to at least resemble a functioning society again in which to do trade. And then for the work itself--of countless scavengers, treasure-seekers, and the like, all contracted to comb over the wreckage of Sunnyvale. It cost millions of caps, and later, New California dollars. And a not insignificant piece of my pre-war fortune as well. I, quite literally, moved mountains.

MR. HOUSE: I do not believe in providence, Agnes, but I do believe in destiny. How else to explain it? It was pristine when it was found. Neither the bombs nor the passage of time had so much as scuffed its sheen. But still...its value far transcended the mere market price of pure platinum.

MR. HOUSE: Amusingly, despite the discovery, I was still only as close to acquiring the chip as I had been originally in 2077. A final ordeal remained for me: how to ensure the safety of the platinum chip en route to its destination, from Sunnyvale to Vegas, without broadcasting its preciousness to thieves, armies, and raiders--or worse, to heavily armed fetishists for pre-war technology like the Brotherhood of Steel?

MR. HOUSE: Misdirection. Through a network of anonymous liaisons, I contracted the Mojave Express for a batch of deliveries, all superficially similar knick-knacks, to various intermediaries of myself. All but one of the orders were totally worthless decoys. But your identity as the carrier of the one genuine item was somehow compromised, leading to you getting attacked, and to the second disappearance of the chip.

MR. HOUSE: But look around you. Look where you are. You've made it, haven't you?

AGNES, still staring up at the visage of MR. HOUSE on-screen, doesn't respond. She frowns, nervous. The SECURITRONS guarding MR. HOUSE observe her stoically.

MR. HOUSE: Let me clarify: I had nothing to do with Benny's ambush. Heavens no! It goes completely against my interests. It would have been a perfectly quotidian day's work for you if not for his, and I stress, unexpected involvement. The platinum chip...belies its significance. For Benny to have not only discovered its delivery route but possibly enough of that significance to motivate such an act, this constituted a very troubling breach of my security. And I had been looking into it...but in a way, the issue seems to have resolved itself. Hm?

MR. HOUSE: A wild card. Now removed from the deck.

AGNES' gaze sinks to the floor.

MEANWHILE, a small shadow blots out the starlight in the desert outside of Vegas. It flies over the exploring TARANTULA.

AGNES looks back up at MR. HOUSE.

AGNES: I killed him.

HOUSE: So you did. I only wish that we could have spoken before you went rogue on my former protégé: if this story breaks, I can grant you amnesty, but not without controversy. And your infamy as an assassin could make our further arrangements quite difficult.

AGNES: Um...I didn't think there would be more to it than delivering the--

MR. HOUSE: Oh! Of course, of course! My apologies. Two hundred years of anticipation and yet I'm still getting ahead of myself. Well--would you mind? I've been waiting a long time for my mail.

The SECURITRON closest to AGNES wheels forward with its claw outstretched. AGNES reaches her fingers into a pocket beneath the belt of her dress to produce it: the PLATINUM CHIP. She holds it in her hand for a brief moment.

MEANWHILE, the shadow descends; the TARANTULA HAWK engages the TARANTULA.

AGNES relinquishes the PLATINUM CHIP to the SECURITRON.

MR. HOUSE: Thank you--it's a relief to pay for this chip for the final time.

The SECURITRON inserts the PLATINUM CHIP into a slot in MR. HOUSE'S supercomputer, feeding it into the drive with a CLIK.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA is fighting the TARANTULA HAWK.

From behind AGNES, another SECURITRON presents her with a stack of NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC DOLLARS, which she gingerly takes in her hand and looks over.

MR. HOUSE: And I trust that you're satisfied with the agreed-upon compensation from the delivery contract, yes?

AGNES: Yeah, it's...it's fine...I'll be going now. Thanks.

MR. HOUSE: Oh? But you've only just arrived. I insist that you make yourself at home.

SFX: KZZSZZZTTT

The faces on the screens of the SECURITRONS in MR. HOUSE'S penthouse suddenly change from policemen to soldiers. AGNES recoils and tries to step away.

AGNES: H-hey, uh--

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK pierces the underbelly of the TARANTULA with its stinger.

SECURITRONS surround AGNES.

MR. HOUSE: You are the first guest ever through the doors of the Lucky 38, you know. Nobody has so much as checked a coat inside since the war, so this meeting confers you a significant level of privilege...and inevitable celebrity. The people of Vegas have always gossiped, after all. Many have even clawed at the door desperately with dreams of being where you now stand. Surely you can comprehend how this compulsion to leave after such a deliberate and remarkable invitation risks considerable insult--to both myself and my citizenry? And very deliberate this invitation was. Don't you realize: if handing off my package was all for which you were needed, why wouldn't I have just had Victor relieve you of the chip outside? No, no, you see, as necessary as its acquisition was, the chip is ultimately just a key, for unlocking a new frontier...of possibilities.

MR. HOUSE: Possibilities for prosperity, peace, and technological advancement that haven't been seen in two hundred years. Possibilities greater than anything the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion could dream of, let alone achieve, by playing pretend in the clothes of their forebearers and convincing everyone else that it's statecraft. Possibilities--which if they key is turned by human hands--become certainties.

AGNES (a whisper): Are you not human?

MR. HOUSE: Don't let the video screens and computer terminals fool you: I am a living human. No less so than you. I just live with a particular set of, well...handicaps.

AGNES: You said you'd waited hundreds of years to--

MR. HOUSE: One could argue that the world has been waiting hundreds of years for this moment. Waiting for me. For the chip. For the long-dormant doors of the Lucky 38 to finally open, to a single and specially ordained individual: you, Agnes. And there are tremendous things waiting for us, waiting for us to accomplish them, together. I certainly couldn't do them with Benny. What do you say?

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA has become completely paralyzed by the TARANTULA HAWK'S venom. The TARANTULA HAWK seizes its prey.

AGNES: ...no.

MR. HOUSE: I'm sorry--"No?"

AGNES: Yes--I mean, no. No! I don't want to help you! I...

Tears well in AGNES' eye.

AGNES: ...I just want to go back home.

MR. HOUSE: ...I see. Hmm.

MR. HOUSE: How do I put this in a way you'll understand?

MR. HOUSE: The die is cast.

AGNES, crying, looks up at MR. HOUSE again. Fear bulges on her face.

MR. HOUSE: Throughout the long delivery of this chip, several precise plans and fortuitous coincidences have aligned in just such a way as to make you, you specifically at this exact juncture, an irreplaceable asset in the ongoing endeavor of this wounded world's recovery from otherwise hopeless ruin.

MR. HOUSE: Your cooperation going forward is not merely crucial to this endeavor's success, but it's utterly non-negotiable. Should you entertain the moral issue of what's at stake, it's obligatory, even. It's why your refusal comes as such a...genuine surprise. Can't you see?

MR. HOUSE: I'm not a fascist, Agnes--I would never force you. But given the circumstances, I'm entitled, wouldn't you agree, to at least a brief demonstration of my vision? The vision that the platinum chip promises? Victor has surely seen your companion to the presidential suite by now--my other Securitrons can escort you to the basement, where I'm sure you can make a...properly informed decision.

The SECURITRONS close in on AGNES, who screams in protest.

AGNES: No! I said no! I already delivered your chip, I--I killed Benny! I-- I-- ...what do you want with me!?

MR. HOUSE: Haven't you been listening? I want what's best for you--for us. I know it's a lot, but bear with me for one moment longer, and I can assure you--that this is the beginning of something very incredible.

MEANWHILE, the TARANTULA HAWK has dragged the paralyzed TARANTULA back to the entrance of its own burrow.

The TARANTULA HAWK shoves its helpless prey into the hole, and then crawls in after it.

The TARANTULA is not seen again.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #fnv #courier six #rose of sharon cassidy #victor #mr. house #agnes sands #ikroah archive #volume 02 #26

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