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ghstyles · 2 months ago

Text

11:59 PM | H.S

Boyfriendrry | Smut | One shot | Prince hair Harry | Masterlist

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[I'm thinking about taking you into one of those private rooms upstairs.

Pushing that dress up around your waist.

Seeing if those new black panties taste as good as they look. ]

a/n: this one was fun to write. It’s just hot. Enjoy!!

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“Harry? How long do you think you can go without sex?”

Harry's attention is fixed on the TV screen, where some gritty crime drama is playing, one of those shows he claims to watch for the "compelling storytelling," but Y/N suspects he mostly enjoys for the moody cinematography and expensive production design. He's sprawled comfortably on their couch, one arm draped along the back cushions behind her, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles on the coffee table. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sits forgotten between them.

At her unexpected question, his hand pauses midway to his mouth, a piece of popcorn held between his fingers. He turns toward her slowly, one eyebrow arched in amused curiosity, a hint of wariness in his green eyes.

"Sorry, what was that?" he asks, as if he might have misheard her over the sound of the detective on screen delivering his monologue about the darkness inherent in human nature.

Y/N shifts slightly to face him better, tucking one leg underneath her and propping her elbow on the back of the couch. She's wearing one of his old tour t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts, her hair piled back in a bun that's gradually coming undone. There's something deliberately casual in her posture that doesn't quite match the gleam in her eyes.

"I asked how long you think you could go without sex," she repeats, her tone conversational but with an undercurrent of mischief.

Harry studies her face for a moment, clearly trying to determine if this is a trap of some kind or if there's a specific reason for her inquiry. He reaches for the remote and pauses the show, giving her his full attention now.

"Is this a hypothetical question," he asks carefully, "or are you telling me something I should be worried about?"

A small smile plays at the corners of Y/N's mouth.

"Hypothetical," she assures him. "Just curious."

Harry leans back against the cushions, considering the question with more seriousness than she perhaps expected. He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead in that unconscious gesture she's always found endlessly attractive.

"Physically? Probably a while," he finally answers, his voice thoughtful. "Mentally?" A slow, suggestive smile spreads across his face as his eyes travel deliberately down her body and back up again. "About three days before I'd start losing my mind."

He shifts closer to her on the couch, the popcorn bowl now an unwelcome barrier between them.

"Why the sudden interest in my sexual endurance?" he asks, reaching out to twirl a loose strand of her hair around his finger. "Planning to test me or something?"

Y/N shrugs, maintaining her innocent expression despite the way her pulse quickens at his proximity.

"Just thinking about that interview you did last week," she explains. "The one where they asked about your 'self-discipline' and you said you were 'surprisingly good at denying yourself things you want.'"

Harry's eyes narrow slightly as he recalls the interview, a fairly standard press junket for his latest album where the journalist had been fishing for quotes about his fitness regimen and diet.

"Ah," he says, understanding dawning. "And you found that claim...questionable?"

"Not questionable," Y/N corrects him, her fingers absently playing with the hem of her borrowed shirt. "Just...untested. In certain areas."

A dangerous glint appears in Harry's eyes as he moves the popcorn bowl to the coffee table, eliminating the barrier between them. He slides closer until their thighs are touching, his hand coming to rest casually, possessively, on her knee.

"Let me get this straight," he says, his voice dropping to that low, slightly raspy register that never fails to send a shiver down her spine. "You're wondering if I could practice sexual self-restraint for an extended period? If I could deny myself...certain pleasures?"

His fingers trace small, maddening circles on her bare skin just above her knee.

"Something like that," Y/N confirms, fighting to keep her voice steady despite the heat beginning to pool low in her belly at his touch.

Harry's smile turns predatory, dimples appearing in sharp relief against the slight stubble on his cheeks.

"And what brought on this line of questioning?" he asks, his hand sliding up to rest on her thigh, thumb brushing dangerously close to the hem of her shorts. "Academic curiosity? Or did you have something more...practical in mind?"

Y/N tilts her head, enjoying the way his eyes follow the movement, tracking the exposed line of her neck with unmistakable hunger.

"Maybe I was thinking we could make a little wager," she suggests, her tone deliberately light. "Test that famous self-discipline of yours."

Harry's eyebrows shoot up, genuine intrigue replacing some of the playful seduction in his expression.

"A wager?" he repeats, clearly interested. "What kind of stakes are we talking about, love?"

Y/N pretends to consider this, tapping her finger against her chin thoughtfully.

"Well, if you win, if you can go, say, two weeks without sex, then I'll..." she leans forward and whispers something in his ear, something that causes his pupils to dilate noticeably and his hand to tighten on her thigh.

"Jesus," he mutters when she pulls back, swallowing hard. "And if I lose?"

"If you lose," Y/N continues, emboldened by his reaction, "you have to admit publicly, in your next interview, that you have absolutely no self-discipline whatsoever when it comes to certain...appetites."

Harry barks out a laugh, genuinely amused by her suggested terms.

"You want me to tell Rolling Stone or whoever that I can't keep it in my pants?" he asks, shaking his head in disbelief. "My publicist would have a coronary."

"You wouldn't have to be that explicit," Y/N clarifies, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Just say something about how your girlfriend proved your claims of self-restraint were greatly exaggerated."

Harry studies her face, his expression a mixture of amusement, desire, and competitive interest.

"Two weeks, huh?" he muses, his thumb resuming its maddening circles on her thigh. "No sex of any kind?"

"None," Y/N confirms firmly. "No intercourse, no oral, no hands, nothing. Complete abstinence."

Harry's eyes narrow thoughtfully.

"And this starts...?"

"Right now," Y/N declares with a decisive nod.

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face as he considers the challenge. He leans in closer, his breath warm against her ear.

"You realize," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears, "that you're also denying yourself for two weeks. You sure you can handle that, baby?"

There's a note of challenge in his voice that makes Y/N's competitive spirit flare to match his own.

"Oh, I'll be fine," she assures him with perhaps more confidence than she actually feels. "I'm not the one who claimed to have exceptional self-discipline in a national publication."

Harry laughs, the sound rich and warm in the quiet of their living room.

"Alright then," he agrees, extending his hand for a formal shake. "Two weeks, starting now. No sex of any kind."

Y/N takes his hand, but instead of shaking it, Harry uses the grip to pull her forward suddenly, catching her off guard. In one fluid movement, he has her beneath him on the couch, his body pressing hers into the cushions as he captures her mouth in a kiss that is anything but chaste.

His tongue traces the seam of her lips, demanding entry that she grants without hesitation, heat flaring instantly between them. One of his hands tangles in her hair, the other gripping her hip as he deepens the kiss with a thoroughness that leaves her breathless. When he finally pulls back, they're both breathing heavily, and Y/N can feel the hard evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh.

"Just wanted one last taste," he explains with a wicked grin, his voice rough with desire. "To remember what I'm missing."

Before she can respond, he pushes himself up and off her completely, returning to his side of the couch with deliberate casualness, though the flush on his cheeks and the darkness of his eyes betray his affected nonchalance.

He picks up the remote, unpausing the show as if nothing had happened, though his smirk gives him away.

"Two weeks starts now," he announces, reaching for the popcorn bowl again. "Hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, love."

Y/N sits up, adjusting her shirt where it's ridden up to expose a strip of her midriff, trying to regulate her breathing and ignore the persistent throb of arousal his kiss has left her with.

"I think the question is whether you know what you've gotten yourself into," she counters, settling back against the cushions with forced composure.

Harry just smiles, his eyes still on the TV screen, though she can tell he's not really watching.

"Game on, baby," he says quietly, and the simple phrase manages to sound like both a promise and a threat.

Y/N turns her attention back to the show, acutely aware of the two weeks stretching ahead of them and the man beside her who has never been good at denying himself, or her, anything they both want. As challenges go, she's beginning to think this one might be harder than she anticipated...for both of them.

But as Harry's hand finds hers on the couch between them, giving it a gentle squeeze that somehow manages to be both affectionate and suggestive, Y/N can't help but think that win or lose, the next two weeks are going to be very interesting indeed.

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Day 13 finds Y/N in the master bathroom, carefully applying mascara while silently cursing herself for what has become thirteen days of exquisite torture. The bet that had seemed so amusing, so winnable, thirteen days ago has evolved into a test of willpower that's fraying her last nerve.

She caps the mascara tube with more force than necessary, setting it down on the marble countertop with a sharp click. Her reflection stares back at her: hair styled in loose waves, makeup subtle but enhancing, wearing nothing but a matching set of black lace underwear that Harry hasn't seen yet. She's getting ready for a gala they're attending tonight, a high-profile event that will have photographers, industry executives, and other celebrities, the perfect venue for Harry to be on his best behavior.

Which is precisely why she's chosen tonight to wear her most dangerously low-cut dress.

The past thirteen days have been an escalating game of chicken, with both of them finding increasingly creative ways to test the other's resolve without technically breaking the rules of their agreement. No sex of any kind, but as it turns out, there's a vast territory of torment that falls just short of that definition.

Harry started subtly: walking around shirtless more often than usual, "accidentally" brushing against her in the kitchen, letting his gaze linger a beat too long when she emerged from the shower. But by day five, subtlety had been abandoned. He began describing in explicit detail what he planned to do to her when the two weeks were up, his voice dropping to that gravelly register that never fails to make her thighs clench. He'd taken to sitting unnecessarily close during movies, his fingers tracing innocent-seeming patterns on her arm or leg that somehow felt more erotic than a direct touch ever could.

Y/N had retaliated in kind. She wore his favorite shirts to bed, and nothing else. She made inappropriate noises while eating ice cream. She "stretched" in ways that highlighted her flexibility, reminding him of positions they'd enjoyed in the past. Once, she'd even read passages from an erotic novel aloud, claiming she was "just sharing literature" when he'd nearly broken the arm of the sofa gripping it so hard.

But despite her best efforts, Harry has maintained a maddening level of control. Oh, she's gotten to him, the evidence of his arousal has been impossible to miss on multiple occasions, but he hasn't cracked. Hasn't begged. Hasn't suggested they call the whole thing off. Instead, he's matched her provocation for provocation, escalation for escalation, all while maintaining that infuriating smirk that says he knows exactly what game they're playing and he intends to win.

The most frustrating part is that Y/N is starting to think he might.

She's been climbing the walls for days now, hyperaware of his every movement, his scent, the sound of his voice. Last night, she'd actually woken from an explicit dream about him so worked up that she'd seriously considered waking him to concede defeat. Only pride had stopped her, pride and the knowledge that Harry would be impossibly smug about it for months.

The bathroom door opens, startling her from her thoughts, and Harry appears in the doorway. He's already dressed for the gala, looking devastatingly handsome in a bespoke black suit that fits him so perfectly it might as well be painted on. His hair is styled back from his face, several rings adorn his fingers, and he's wearing a subtle cologne that makes Y/N want to bury her face in his neck.

"Almost ready?" he asks, his eyes traveling over her state of undress with deliberate slowness. "Car will be here in twenty."

Y/N turns to face him fully, leaning back against the counter in a pose that emphasizes her lace-clad curves.

"Almost," she confirms, watching his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Just need to put on my dress."

Harry's eyes darken as they linger on the black lace covering her breasts, the matching underwear that sits low on her hips.

"New?" he asks, his voice slightly rougher than it was a moment ago.

Y/N nods, running her fingers along the lace edge of her bra in a gesture that's obviously adjusting but is actually pure provocation.

"Thought I'd treat myself," she says with affected casualness. "Do you like it?"

Harry's jaw tightens visibly, his knuckles whitening where he grips the doorframe.

"It's nice," he manages, the understatement of the century given the heat in his gaze. "Very...appropriate for a charity event."

Y/N laughs softly, pushing off from the counter and moving toward him, toward the bedroom where her dress is laid out on the bed.

"The dress is appropriate," she corrects him, stopping when she's close enough that he can smell her perfume but not quite touching. "This is just for later."

The implication hangs in the air between them: later, when the bet is over, when the two weeks have passed and all restrictions are lifted. Tomorrow marks the end of their agreement, and they both know it.

Harry's eyes never leave hers as he steps aside to let her pass, but not quite far enough that she can avoid brushing against him. The brief contact sends a jolt through Y/N that's almost embarrassing in its intensity.

In the bedroom, her dress waits on the bed: a floor-length black gown with a slit that reaches mid-thigh and a neckline that plunges daringly low. It's elegant enough for the event but designed specifically to drive Harry to distraction.

She's aware of him watching as she steps into it, pulling it up over her hips and adjusting it over her chest. The fabric clings in all the right places, the cut revealing just enough skin to be tantalizing without crossing into inappropriate territory.

"Zip me?" she asks innocently, turning her back to him and gathering her hair to one side.

There's a pause, just long enough for her to wonder if he'll refuse, before she feels him move behind her. His fingers brush the bare skin of her back as he takes hold of the zipper, and Y/N has to bite her lip to suppress a shiver.

Harry pulls the zipper up with deliberate slowness, his knuckles grazing her spine inch by torturous inch. When he reaches the top, his hands settle briefly on her shoulders, warm and solid.

"You look stunning," he murmurs, his breath tickling the sensitive skin just below her ear.

Y/N turns to face him, finding him closer than she expected, close enough that she can see the various shades of green in his irises, the slight dilation of his pupils.

"Thank you," she says, her voice softer than she intended. "So do you."

For a moment, they just stand there, the air between them charged with thirteen days of built-up tension and wanting. Y/N finds herself swaying slightly toward him, drawn by the magnetic pull that's always existed between them but seems exponentially stronger now.

Harry's gaze drops to her lips, and she thinks, hopes, that he might kiss her. It wouldn't break their agreement; kissing wasn't explicitly banned. But before either of them can move, the doorbell chimes downstairs, their driver, right on time.

Harry steps back, clearing his throat and adjusting his jacket.

"We should go," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "Don't want to be late."

Y/N nods, reaching for her clutch on the dresser and taking a moment to compose herself. When she turns back to him, she's wearing a smile that she hopes conceals just how close she was to throwing the entire bet out the window.

"One more day," she reminds him as they head downstairs, her tone deliberately light. "Think you can make it?"

Harry glances at her, a slow smile spreading across his face that's equal parts challenge and promise.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry about making it," he counters, his hand coming to rest on the small of her back as they reach the front door, a touch that's perfectly appropriate but somehow feels like a brand through the thin fabric of her dress. "You've been watching the clock since day ten."

Y/N scoffs, even as she acknowledges the truth of his statement.

"I've been perfectly fine," she lies, stepping outside into the cool evening air. "You're the one who took three cold showers yesterday."

Harry laughs, the sound low and knowing as he guides her toward the waiting car.

"Four, actually," he admits without a trace of embarrassment. "But who's counting?"

As they slide into the backseat of the sleek black car, Y/N is acutely aware of the minimal space between them, of Harry's cologne filling the enclosed space, of the fact that they have an entire evening of public appearances ahead before they can return home.

One more day. Twenty-four more hours. She can do this.

But as Harry's hand finds hers in the darkness of the car, his thumb tracing small circles on her palm in a gesture that's somehow both comforting and maddeningly erotic, Y/N isn't entirely sure which of them is winning anymore, or if either of them is.

What she does know is that tomorrow can't come soon enough.

---

The charity gala is being held at one of London's most prestigious hotels, the grand ballroom transformed into a glittering wonderland of lights, flowers, and champagne. The moment they arrive, they're swept into the social current: photographers calling Harry's name, industry acquaintances stopping to chat, waiters offering flutes of champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres.

Harry is, as always, the consummate professional, charming, attentive, generous with his time and attention. His hand rarely leaves the small of Y/N's back, a possessive touch that both grounds her in the chaos of the event and serves as a constant reminder of the tension simmering between them.

Two hours in, Y/N excuses herself to visit the ladies' room, needing a moment away from the constant press of bodies and the even more distracting presence of Harry at her side. She's just finished touching up her lipstick when her phone buzzes with a text.

It's from Harry: You've been gone for 7 minutes. Starting to think you're avoiding me.

Y/N smiles despite herself, typing back: Just fixing my makeup. Why, missing me already?

His response comes immediately: Always. But especially when you're wearing that dress.

She's about to reply when another text appears: The things I'm thinking about doing to you right now would definitely get me uninvited from future charity events.

Heat blooms in Y/N's cheeks as she reads his words. She knows she should ignore the bait, continuing this line of conversation will only make the evening more torturous for both of them, but she can't resist.

Care to elaborate? she types back, her heart rate accelerating slightly.

There's a pause before his response appears, long enough that she thinks perhaps he's been pulled into another conversation. Then her phone buzzes three times in quick succession:

I'm thinking about taking you into one of those private rooms upstairs.

Pushing that dress up around your waist.

Seeing if those new black panties taste as good as they look.

Y/N inhales sharply, her fingers tightening around her phone. The crude directness of his words, so at odds with the polished, charming persona he's presenting to the gala attendees, sends a jolt of arousal straight through her.

She takes a moment to compose herself before responding: 13 days and 22 hours. Still think you're going to win this bet?

His reply is immediate: I know I am. You're the one who's going to break, baby. I can see it in your eyes every time I touch you.

The confidence in his text both irritates and excites her. Y/N checks her reflection once more, ensuring her composure is intact, before heading back to the ballroom.

She spots Harry immediately, he's always easy to find in a crowd, his height and presence drawing the eye naturally. He's engaged in conversation with an older couple, but his attention shifts the moment she enters his field of vision. Their eyes lock across the room, and the heat in his gaze makes her breath catch.

Y/N makes her way toward him, accepting a fresh glass of champagne from a passing waiter. As she approaches, Harry excuses himself from his conversation and meets her halfway.

"Everything alright?" he asks, his public voice polite and concerned, though his eyes tell a different story.

"Perfect," Y/N assures him, taking a deliberate sip of her champagne. "Just needed a moment."

Harry nods, his hand finding its customary place at the small of her back.

"They're about to start the speeches," he informs her, guiding her toward their assigned table near the front of the room. "Should only be about forty minutes of people thanking other people for giving them money."

Y/N laughs softly at his irreverent summary, allowing him to pull out her chair before he takes his seat beside her. As they settle in for the speeches, his hand drops casually to her knee beneath the table, a touch that could be interpreted as purely affectionate to anyone watching.

But then his fingers begin to trace small, maddening patterns on her skin just above the knee, occasionally venturing to the sensitive area where her thigh meets the edge of the table. It's not high enough to be inappropriate, but it's distracting enough that Y/N finds it difficult to focus on the speaker who has taken the stage.

Two can play at this game, she decides, placing her hand on Harry's thigh in what appears to be a similar gesture of affection. She feels him tense slightly beside her, but he doesn't remove his hand from her knee.

Slowly, deliberately, Y/N allows her fingers to drift higher on his leg, her touch light but insistent. She keeps her expression neutral, her eyes fixed on the stage as if completely absorbed in the speech about fundraising goals and community impact.

Harry shifts in his chair, his own hand tightening slightly on her knee. When she chances a glance at him, his profile is composed, but there's a muscle working in his jaw that betrays his affected calm.

The speeches drag on, becoming a backdrop to their silent battle of wills beneath the pristine white tablecloth. By the time the final speaker concludes to polite applause, Y/N's skin feels too tight, too sensitive, and she's hyperaware of every point of contact between her body and Harry's.

As the formal portion of the evening transitions to dancing and more socializing, Harry leans close to her ear, his voice low enough that only she can hear.

"Enjoying yourself?" he asks, and the double meaning is unmistakable.

"Immensely," Y/N lies, turning her head so that their faces are inches apart. "The speeches were very...inspiring."

Harry's lips quirk in a knowing half-smile.

"Dance with me," he says, and it's not quite a request.

Before she can respond, he's standing and offering his hand, leaving her little choice but to accept or cause a scene. Y/N places her hand in his, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor where other couples are already swaying to the live band's rendition of a classic ballad.

Harry pulls her close, closer than is strictly necessary for a formal event, but not so close that anyone would raise an eyebrow. One hand settles at her waist while the other clasps hers, his thumb stroking rhythmically across her knuckles as they begin to move to the music.

"You've been driving me crazy all night," he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of her ear in a way that sends shivers down her spine. "That dress should be illegal."

"That was rather the point," Y/N admits, her free hand resting on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him through the expensive fabric of his suit. "Is it working?"

Harry's hand tightens fractionally at her waist, drawing her a centimeter closer.

"What do you think?" he counters, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "I've been hard since you walked out of the bathroom at home."

The crude admission, delivered in his smooth, cultured voice while they dance among London's elite, sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N. She misses a step, and Harry uses the momentary stumble as an excuse to steady her, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her more firmly against him.

The evidence of his arousal is unmistakable, and Y/N has to bite her lip to suppress a gasp.

"Thirteen days and counting," Harry reminds her, his voice a low rumble that she feels more than hears over the music. "Think you can last one more?"

It's a challenge, one that pride demands she meet, even as every nerve ending in her body screams for relief.

"I'm not the one making confessions on the dance floor," she points out, striving for a lightness she doesn't feel. "Sounds like you might be the one struggling."

Harry's laugh is soft and knowing against her hair.

"Oh, I'm definitely struggling," he admits freely. "But I'm also definitely going to win."

The song ends before Y/N can formulate a suitably cutting response, and they're forced to separate as the band transitions to a more upbeat number. Harry keeps her hand in his as they move off the dance floor, his thumb still tracing those maddening circles against her skin.

"Drink?" he offers, nodding toward the bar.

Y/N nods, using the moment to try to regain some equilibrium. As they wait for their drinks, she becomes aware of someone calling Harry's name, a record executive, she thinks, though she's met so many industry people over the years that they sometimes blur together.

Harry greets the man warmly, introducing Y/N with his customary courtesy. The conversation quickly turns to music, to Harry's latest album, to potential collaborations and tour dates. It's the kind of networking that's essential at events like these, and Harry handles it with practiced ease, keeping Y/N included in the conversation even as he discusses business.

But even as he talks about production schedules and studio time, his hand never leaves her, resting on her back, brushing her arm, finding her hand. Each touch feels deliberate, designed to keep her in a constant state of awareness, of wanting.

By the time they finally extricate themselves from the conversation, it's approaching midnight, and Y/N is at the end of her patience.

"I think I'm ready to go," she says quietly as they move through the now-thinning crowd. "It's been a long night."

Harry studies her face for a moment, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that makes her wonder if he can read the real reason behind her suggestion.

"Of course," he agrees, already reaching for his phone to text their driver. "We've made our appearance. Done our bit for charity."

The wait for their car feels interminable, filled with polite goodbyes to acquaintances and last-minute conversations that Harry can't gracefully avoid. By the time they finally slide into the backseat of their waiting car, Y/N's nerves are stretched to the breaking point.

The privacy partition is up, separating them from the driver, a small mercy for which Y/N is profoundly grateful as Harry's hand immediately finds her thigh, his fingers tracing the edge of the slit in her dress.

"Thirteen days," he says quietly, his voice rough with want. "Thirteen fucking days of watching you, wanting you, not being able to touch you the way I need to."

His hand slides higher, pushing the fabric of her dress aside to expose more of her leg, his fingers warm against her skin.

"Tomorrow," Y/N reminds him, her voice not as steady as she'd like it to be. "Just one more hour."

Harry's eyes are dark in the dimly lit car, his expression intense as he watches her reaction to his touch.

"One more hour," he repeats, his fingers tracing the edge of her underwear where it sits against her thigh. "Think you can make it that long, baby? Because right now, you look like you're about five seconds from begging me fuck you in the backseat of this car."

The crude words, delivered in his smooth voice, make Y/N's breath catch. She's wet, has been for hours, if she's honest, and the ache between her thighs is almost painful in its intensity.

"I'm not the one who's going to break," she insists, even as she shifts slightly, unconsciously seeking more pressure from his teasing fingers. "I've got excellent self-control."

Harry laughs softly, the sound dark and knowing.

"Is that right?" he challenges, his fingers dipping beneath the lace edge of her underwear, not quite touching where she's aching for him but close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about to come apart just from this."

Y/N swallows hard, fighting against the urge to press herself into his hand, to beg him to touch her properly, bet be damned.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she manages, her voice breathier than she'd prefer. "For me to break first."

"I'd like to make you come," Harry corrects her, his voice dropping to a near-whisper as he leans closer. "I'd like to slide these expensive panties to the side and feel how wet you are for me. I'd like to watch your face when you fall apart around my fingers."

His words paint such a vivid picture that Y/N has to close her eyes briefly, gathering what remains of her willpower.

"Tomorrow," she says again, more firmly this time, placing her hand over his to still his maddening touch. "You've waited this long. What's a few more hours?"

For a moment, she thinks he might ignore her, might continue his delicious torment until she either gives in or pushes him away. But then Harry withdraws his hand, a rueful smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Tomorrow it is," he agrees, though his eyes still burn with unmistakable desire. "But just so we're clear, the moment it hits midnight, all bets are off."

The promise in his voice sends a fresh wave of heat through Y/N, and she finds herself checking the time on her phone: 11:33 PM. Less than thirty minutes until day fourteen officially begins.

The rest of the drive passes in charged silence, both of them acutely aware of the countdown happening in their heads. When they finally arrive home, it's 11:52 PM, eight minutes to go.

Harry helps her from the car, his hand lingering on hers as they make their way to the front door. Inside, the house is quiet, the only sound the soft click of the door closing behind them and the faint ticking of the antique clock in the hallway.

"Drink?" Harry offers, his voice carefully casual as he shrugs out of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.

Y/N shakes her head, kicking off her uncomfortable heels with a sigh of relief.

"I think I'll just head up," she says, equally casual. "It's been a long night."

Harry nods, his eyes never leaving hers as she moves toward the stairs. There's a tension in the air between them, thick enough that she could cut it with a knife, the knowledge that in less than seven minutes, their self-imposed restriction will lift, and all the desire they've been suppressing for two weeks will be free to explode.

"I'll be up in a bit," he says, loosening his tie with deliberate slowness, his eyes dark with promise. "Just going to pour myself a nightcap first."

Harry watches Y/N ascend the stairs with predatory intensity, his fingers pausing mid-motion on his tie as she disappears from view. The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes once, marking the time, 11:55 PM. Five minutes until midnight. Five minutes until their agreement officially expires.

He moves to the bar cart in the living room, pouring a finger of whiskey into a crystal tumbler with deliberate slowness. The amber liquid catches the light as he swirls it, mirroring the heat that's been building inside him for thirteen excruciating days.

Taking a small sip, he savors the burn, letting it match the fire in his veins. From upstairs comes the faint sound of movement, and Harry's imagination fills in the blanks: Y/N removing that torturous dress, her skin finally free from the confines of fabric that has been both concealing and accentuating her body all evening.

He checks his watch again, 11:56 PM.

Loosening his tie further, Harry takes another sip of whiskey before setting the glass down on the marble countertop. He's about to head upstairs when he notices something on the first step, a flash of black against the pale carpet.

It's Y/N's dress, discarded carelessly at the foot of the stairs.

A slow smile spreads across Harry's face as he approaches, picking up the expensive garment and draping it over his arm. Looking up, he discovers more items leading up the staircase like breadcrumbs: one of her earrings on the third step, its partner on the fifth, her clutch purse on the landing.

Harry begins to climb, collecting each item as he goes. The trail continues down the hallway, her bracelet here, her necklace there. By the time he reaches their bedroom door, his arms are full of her belongings, and his blood is running hot with anticipation.

Then he sees it, the final piece of her ensemble, hanging provocatively from the doorknob like a flag of surrender: those black lace panties that have been driving him to distraction since he first glimpsed them in the bathroom hours ago.

Harry checks his watch again, 11:57 PM. Three minutes.

He takes the underwear from the doorknob, the delicate fabric warm from her body and still carrying her scent. For a moment, he simply holds them, his control fraying at the edges as he imagines how she looked wearing them, how she looked taking them off.

With a deep breath, he pushes the bedroom door open.

The sight that greets him nearly stops his heart.

Y/N is stretched across their bed, completely naked except for the black lace bra that matches the panties now clutched in his hand. Her hair spills across the pillows, her eyes dark with desire as they meet his. She's positioned herself deliberately, one leg straight, the other bent slightly at the knee, creating a silhouette that emphasizes the curves of her body in the warm glow of the bedside lamps.

For a long moment, Harry simply stands in the doorway, drinking in the vision before him. Thirteen days of restraint, of torturous near-misses and deliberate teasing, have honed his desire to a razor's edge. She's never looked more beautiful to him than she does right now, waiting for him, wanting him, challenging him with the directness of her gaze.

"You've made quite a mess," he finally says, his voice rough as he gestures to the collection of discarded clothing and jewelry in his arms. He sets everything down on the dresser, careful with her dress but less so with the rest, his attention already returning to her. "Leaving your things all over the house."

Y/N shifts slightly on the bed, the movement causing the light to play across her skin in a way that makes Harry's mouth go dry.

"I was in a hurry," she replies, her voice carrying a hint of breathiness that betrays her affected casualness. "Besides, you found them all, didn't you?"

Harry's lips curve into a smile that's equal parts amusement and hunger as he begins to unbutton his shirt, his movements unhurried despite the urgency thrumming through his veins.

"I did," he confirms, shrugging the shirt from his shoulders to reveal the toned expanse of his tattooed chest and abdomen. "Including these."

He holds up her panties, dangling them from one finger before tossing them aside to join the growing pile of discarded clothing.

"It seemed like the most efficient way to get your attention," Y/N admits, her eyes following the movement of his hands as he unfastens his belt, pulling it through the loops of his trousers with a soft hiss of leather against fabric.

"You've had my attention from the moment I met you," Harry counters, his voice dropping lower as he steps closer to the bed, still in his trousers but bare-chested now, the dim light accentuating the definition of his muscles and the dark lines of his tattoos. "You've had my undivided attention for thirteen days and twenty-three hours."

He checks his watch again, 11:58 PM. Two minutes.

Y/N follows his glance, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"Still counting down?" she asks, sitting up slightly, the movement causing her breasts to shift enticingly beneath the black lace of her bra.

"To the second," Harry confirms, his eyes darkening as they trace over her body. "Two minutes until I can touch you the way I've been dying to for two weeks."

He moves to the edge of the bed, close enough that Y/N can feel the heat radiating from his skin, but he doesn't touch her, not yet. Instead, he stands there, looking down at her with an intensity that makes her breath catch.

"Unless," he continues, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "you want to admit defeat now."

It's a challenge, one last attempt to win their ridiculous bet, but they both know it doesn't really matter anymore. The anticipation has become its own form of foreplay, the countdown adding an edge to their desire that makes the eventual release all the more explosive.

Y/N laughs softly, the sound slightly breathless as she shakes her head.

"One minute and thirty seconds," she counters, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. "I think I can wait."

Harry's smile is slow and deliberate, a promise of what's to come.

"Can you?" he asks, reaching out to trace one finger along the edge of her bra, not quite touching her skin but close enough that she can feel the heat of him. "Because from here, it looks like you're already desperate for it."

Y/N's breath hitches at the near-touch, her body responding to his proximity with a wave of heat that she couldn't suppress if she tried.

"You're one to talk," she retorts, her eyes dropping pointedly to the visible evidence of his arousal straining against his trousers. "You haven't exactly been the picture of restraint yourself."

Harry chuckles, the sound low and dangerous as he moves onto the bed, positioning himself above her without letting their bodies touch, a feat of control that costs him visibly in the tension of his muscles, the tightness of his jaw.

"One minute," he murmurs, his face inches from hers, close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. "One minute until I make you forget your own name."

The crude promise sends a fresh wave of arousal through Y/N, and she has to fight the urge to close the distance between them, to pull him down on top of her and end this torturous game once and for all.

"Big talk," she manages, her voice not quite steady as his eyes bore into hers. "Let's see if you can deliver."

Harry's laugh is soft and knowing.

"Oh, baby," he breathes, his lips brushing against her ear in a touch so light it might be imagined, "I've been planning exactly how I'm going to fuck you for thirteen days straight. Trust me, I'll deliver."

The clock on the nightstand shows 11:59 PM. One minute.

They both watch the seconds tick by, the air between them charged with anticipation so thick it's almost difficult to breathe. Harry remains poised above her, their bodies separated by mere inches of electrically charged space, neither willing to be the first to break.

The digital display changes: 12:00 AM.

For a heartbeat, neither moves, and then Harry's control snaps with an almost audible crack.

His mouth crashes down on hers with bruising intensity, thirteen days of pent-up desire unleashed in a kiss that's more claiming than caress. Y/N responds instantly, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, her body arching up to press against his with desperate need.

"Fucking finally," Harry growls against her lips, his hands everywhere at once, tangling in her hair, cupping her breast through the lace of her bra, sliding down to grip her hip with possessive force. "Do you have any idea what you've been doing to me? Two weeks of watching you, wanting you, not being able to touch you..."

His words dissolve into another kiss, this one deeper, wetter, his tongue sliding against hers in a rhythm that mimics what they both desperately want. Y/N moans into his mouth, her nails digging into his shoulders as she pulls him fully on top of her, reveling in the weight of him, the heat of his skin against hers.

"Show me," she gasps when they break apart for air, her eyes dark with challenge and desire. "Show me exactly what I've been doing to you."

Harry's eyes flash dangerously, his hands moving to the clasp of her bra with practiced efficiency.

"Oh, I plan to," he promises, stripping the lace from her body and tossing it aside, his gaze hungry as it rakes over her newly exposed flesh. "I'm going to show you exactly what happens when you tease me for two fucking weeks straight."

His mouth descends to her breast, taking one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make Y/N cry out, her back arching off the bed. His hand finds her other breast, kneading and pinching with just the right amount of pressure to walk the line between pleasure and pain.

"Harry," she gasps, her hands sliding into his hair, holding him to her as he lavishes attention on her sensitive flesh. "Please, "

"Please what?" he murmurs against her skin, his teeth grazing her nipple in a way that sends sparks shooting down her spine. "Tell me what you want, baby. Tell me what you've been thinking about for the past two weeks."

Y/N is beyond pride now, beyond the teasing game they've been playing. Thirteen days of buildup have left her desperate, aching, wet enough that she can feel it on her thighs.

"Your mouth," she admits, her voice breaking as his hand slides down her stomach, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin that edge closer and closer to where she needs him most. "I want your mouth on me."

Harry's smile is wicked as he raises his head to meet her gaze, his eyes dark with desire and triumph.

"Where exactly do you want my mouth, Y/N?" he asks, deliberately obtuse as his fingers dance along the crease where her thigh meets her hip. "Here? Or here?"

He presses a kiss to her collarbone, then lower, to the valley between her breasts.

"Lower," Y/N breathes, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate need for release after thirteen days of exquisite torture.

Harry continues his downward path, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her sternum, her ribs, the sensitive skin just below her navel. Each touch of his lips sends fresh waves of heat through her body, building the tension to nearly unbearable levels.

"Here?" he asks, his breath hot against her hip bone as he settles between her thighs, his shoulders pushing her legs wider apart.

"Harry," Y/N groans, frustration and need making her voice sharper than intended. "Stop teasing."

His laugh is dark and satisfied against her skin.

"But teasing is what you do best, isn't it?" he counters, his hands gripping her thighs firmly, holding her open for him. "Isn't that what the past two weeks have been about? Seeing how far you could push me before I snapped?"

Before she can formulate a response, he finally, finally, puts his mouth where she's been aching for it, his tongue flat against her center in a long, deliberate stroke that has her crying out, her hips bucking against his hold.

"Fuck," Harry groans against her, the vibration adding another layer to the sensation. "You're so fucking wet. Have you been like this all night? Sitting next to me at that fancy dinner, your pretty pussy dripping while you pretended everything was fine?"

The crude words, delivered in his cultured voice, send another jolt of arousal through Y/N. She's always been affected by his filthy mouth, the contrast between his public persona and the raw, unfiltered way he speaks to her in bed is intoxicating.

"Yes," she admits, beyond shame, beyond anything but honesty as his tongue circles her clit with deliberate pressure. "All night. All week."

Harry hums his approval, the sound reverberating against her most sensitive flesh as he settles into a rhythm designed to drive her mad, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on her clit, occasionally dipping lower to tease at her entrance without ever giving her what she truly needs.

Y/N's hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as she tries to guide him where she wants him most, but Harry resists, maintaining control even as he pleasures her.

"Harry, please," she gasps, her thighs trembling with the effort of staying open for him as the pressure builds to almost unbearable levels. "I need, I need, "

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs against her, his eyes dark with desire as he looks up the length of her body, taking in the flush spreading across her chest, the desperation in her expression. "Tell me."

"Your fingers," Y/N manages, her voice breaking as his tongue flicks against her clit with just enough pressure to make her see stars. "Inside. Please."

Harry's smile is wolfish as he slides one long finger into her, groaning at the way she clenches around him immediately.

"So tight," he murmurs, adding a second finger alongside the first, curling them in a way that makes Y/N's back arch off the bed. "Is this what you wanted? My fingers inside this pretty pussy while I suck on your clit?"

To emphasize his point, he wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking gently as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm inside her.

The dual sensation is overwhelming after so long without release, and Y/N feels herself hurtling toward the edge with embarrassing speed. Her thighs begin to shake, her breathing becoming erratic as the pressure builds to an almost painful intensity.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his voice rough with his own arousal as he watches her come apart beneath him. "Let go, baby. Show me how much you've missed this."

His fingers curl more firmly against that spot inside her that he knows drives her wild, his tongue flicking rapidly against her clit, and Y/N shatters with a cry that might be his name or might be just a wordless sound of release. Her body convulses around his fingers, waves of pleasure washing over her with an intensity that leaves her gasping, her vision momentarily whiting out at the edges.

Harry works her through it, gentling his touch but not stopping completely until her tremors subside and she collapses boneless against the mattress, her chest heaving with exertion.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, pressing one last kiss to her oversensitive flesh before moving up her body, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and barely restrained hunger. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."

Y/N reaches for him with still-trembling hands, pulling him down for a kiss that tastes of herself and desire. She can feel him hard against her thigh, still confined within his trousers but unmistakably ready.

"Your turn," she breathes against his lips, her hands moving between them to unfasten his remaining clothing. "I want to feel you inside me."

Harry groans, helping her push his trousers and underwear down his legs before kicking them off entirely, leaving him finally, gloriously naked against her. The first press of skin against skin is electric, drawing matching gasps from both of them as thirteen days of anticipation culminate in this moment.

"How do you want me?" Y/N asks, her voice husky with lingering pleasure and renewed desire as she wraps her hand around his length, stroking him with deliberate slowness.

Harry's eyes darken at her touch, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.

"Every fucking way imaginable," he growls, capturing her wrist to still her movements before he loses what remains of his control. "But right now, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you come around my cock."

He positions himself between her thighs, the blunt head of his erection pressing against her entrance, teasing but not yet pushing inside. His eyes lock with hers, intense and questioning despite the crude directness of his words, always checking, always making sure she's with him.

"Yes," Y/N breathes, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him closer, urging him on. "Please, Harry, I need you."

It's all the permission he needs. With one smooth thrust, he buries himself inside her, both of them groaning at the sensation of finally, finally being joined after what feels like an eternity of waiting.

"Fuck," Harry gasps, his forehead dropping to rest against hers, his breathing ragged as he fights for control. "You feel so good. So fucking perfect around me."

For a moment, neither moves, both savoring the feeling of completeness, of rightness that comes from being connected this way. Then Y/N shifts her hips slightly, a silent plea for more, and Harry responds with a deep, rolling thrust that makes her gasp.

"Thirteen days," he murmurs against her neck, setting a rhythm that's neither gentle nor rough but somewhere in between, deep, deliberate strokes that hit exactly where she needs them. "Thirteen days of watching you walk around in those little shorts, those tight dresses, knowing I couldn't touch you the way I wanted to."

His pace increases slightly, his hands sliding beneath her to grip her ass, changing the angle in a way that has Y/N seeing stars with every thrust.

"Thirteen days of cold showers and jerking off in the bathroom like a fucking teenager," he continues, his voice rough with exertion and desire. "Thirteen days of imagining this, being inside you, feeling you come apart around me."

Y/N's nails dig into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks in his skin as she meets him thrust for thrust, her body already building toward another peak despite having just come minutes before.

"Show me," she challenges, her voice breaking as he hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her. "Show me what thirteen days of waiting has done to you."

Something in Harry's expression shifts at her words, a final thread of control snapping as he gives in completely to the desire that's been building for two weeks. His thrusts become harder, deeper, more demanding as he pushes her thighs wider apart, angling her hips to take him even deeper.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he growls, his voice barely recognizable with need. "To push me until I couldn't take it anymore. Until I had to have you, had to be inside you, had to make you feel every second of those thirteen fucking days."

Each word is punctuated with a thrust that drives the breath from Y/N's lungs, pleasure building so intensely that she can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. All she can do is hold on, meeting his intensity with her own as they chase release together.

"Tell me you missed this," Harry demands, one hand sliding between them to circle her clit with his thumb, adding another layer to the overwhelming sensations coursing through her. "Tell me you thought about it every day, every night, just like I did."

"I missed it," Y/N gasps, honesty torn from her by pleasure and need. "Missed you, missed this, thought about it constantly, "

Her words dissolve into moans as the combination of his cock inside her and his thumb on her clit pushes her rapidly toward another orgasm, this one building even more intensely than the first.

"That's it," Harry encourages, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own control frays at the edges. "Come for me again, baby. Let me feel you."

His thumb presses more firmly against her clit, circling in time with his thrusts, and Y/N shatters with a cry that might be his name or might be just a primal sound of release. Her inner muscles clench around him in rhythmic pulses, drawing a guttural groan from Harry as he follows her over the edge, his hips jerking erratically as he empties himself inside her.

For long moments afterward, they remain joined, both breathing heavily, bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. Harry's weight is a comforting pressure on top of her, grounding her as the aftershocks of pleasure gradually subside.

Eventually, he rolls to the side, bringing her with him so that she's sprawled across his chest, their legs still tangled together. One of his hands comes up to stroke her hair, the gesture tender in contrast to the intensity of their lovemaking moments before.

"Worth the wait?" he asks after a while, his voice rough but tinged with amusement.

Y/N laughs softly against his skin, pressing a kiss to the tattoo over his heart.

"Definitely," she admits, raising her head to meet his gaze. "Though I'm not sure I'd want to do it again anytime soon."

Harry's smile is slow and satisfied as he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle now that the urgency has passed.

"No?" he teases. "And here I was thinking we could make it a monthly tradition."

Y/N swats at his chest playfully, earning a laugh that rumbles beneath her cheek.

"Absolutely not," she declares firmly. "Two weeks was more than enough abstinence to last me a lifetime."

Harry's expression softens as he looks at her, something warm and tender replacing the heat that had consumed them both minutes earlier.

"Agreed," he murmurs, pulling her closer for a kiss that's gentle but no less passionate for its softness. "Besides, I can think of much more enjoyable ways to spend our time."

His hand slides down her back in a caress that's appreciative rather than demanding, both of them too spent for anything more at the moment but content in the knowledge that they have all the time in the world to explore each other again.

"No more bets," Y/N mumbles against his chest, already feeling the pull of sleep after the emotional and physical intensity of the evening.

Harry chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he pulls the duvet over them both.

"No more bets," he agrees, his voice warm with affection and satisfaction. "At least, not ones that involve keeping my hands off you for any length of time."

Y/N smiles against his skin, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat lull her toward sleep, secure in the knowledge that the torturous two weeks are finally, blessedly over, and that neither of them is likely to suggest anything similar anytime soon.

As for who won the bet? In the end, it hardly seems to matter anymore.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavefanficsever @spinnic

#ghstyles #harry styles fic #harry styles x reader #harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles smut #harry styles writing #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic

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jellysmosh · 10 days ago

Text

More Than Just a Dream

Summary: As an actor, you knew more people would be noticing you after starring in an indie movie that gained some decent popularity. Although, the last thing you expected was to watch your no.1 YouTube crush yap about your performance in their latest video. Title is from Out of My League by Fitz and The Tantrums.

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x GN!Reader

Tags: Fluff, actor!reader, two idiots losing their composure, gender neutral pronouns for reader but more feminine qualities

Word count: 4.7k

Note: Based on this request for celeb!reader, this was my take on it! Happy belated birthday to our special guy! I hope my fellow Spencer-heads enjoy this one. <3

✩

You had been acting for a good majority of your life. Nothing major, local productions, community plays, your school’s drama troupe, extracurricular acting classes, you were even a theatre major in college. It was your passion. You loved diving into a character, exploring their story and becoming a part of a narrative separate to your own. You’d always been a huge fan of escaping into another world.

That’s how you ended up auditioning for and being cast in a small production company’s film as the main character. You were no big name, so when you got the call offering the part, you were ecstatic. It was called Shuttlecock, an offbeat black comedy about a virgin who somehow becomes the owner of a sex shop which they initially thought was a sports supply store. Long story. It was fun and bizarre but had vulnerability and heart. It was the first time you were mesmerised watching back something you had acted in. While you would not necessarily consider this a big break, it was definitely a huge step in your career.

The film did decently well, you tried not to let it get to your head as your best friends showered you with compliments, constantly telling you your “star was rising”. You started to semi-believe them when a few actors you had admired for years followed you back on Instagram. But one account in particular made you freeze in your tracks, sitting up in your bed when you saw the notification.

Smosh started following you.

“Oh my god”, you breathed out, “what?”

You had been a Smosh subscriber for ages. You recalled watching old sketch videos as a young theatre kid, they had definitely influenced you, in your comedic acting skills at least. And now, they followed you back. You resisted the urge to message them, they followed you minutes ago, you needed to play it cool.

✩

It was days later, when you were watching the latest Smosh Games video that you realised why they may have followed you.

“I have no idea”, Shayne put his arms up. Him and Spencer were doing another video where they guessed the movie by the frames.

“I… I think I know this”, Spencer scratched his chin, squinting at the monitor in front of them.

“Of course you do”, Shayne replied, slapping him on the back, “you got this, bud, I’m just here for moral support.”

Spencer was deep in thought, leaning forward. His fingers were resting on the keyboard as he tried to figure out what it was.

You recognised the first frame. It was from Shuttlecock. You felt excitement build inside you. It was a very vague one, a simple shot of one of the sex shop’s walls from the outside.

“I need to make sure”, Spencer said under his breath, skipping to the second frame.

The next one was of you. Well, it was your hand, pointing at something out of shot, fingernails covered in nail polish that was chipping off slightly.

“Yep”, he said with finality, typing the movie title in while Shayne whooped in excitement at him getting the correct answer.

You covered your mouth, scared you might scream with the giddiness that was rising in your chest. You didn’t want to alarm your neighbours in the adjacent apartment.

“What is this movie?” Shayne asked as they flicked through the other frames that would have popped up if they guessed wrong. There were a couple of different cast members and sets, the final one was of you looking at another character incredulously while holding a vibrator at arms length. This made the two of them laugh.

“This indie movie, Shuttlecock”, Spencer replied, “I saw it recently. It’s so good, dude, so funny, and I’m obsessed with the main actor.”

Your heart did a weird jump in your chest, you slapped your hand over it in alarm. Spencer, a.k.a your favourite person at Smosh, was talking about you.

“They played this sort of innocent, but not naive, and really hilarious character who ends up running this weird sex toy shop, it’s hard to explain”, he laughed as Shayne looked around, expression bewildered. “I’m not doing a good job talking about it, I promise it’s so good, we can watch it later.”

Shayne threw his head back in laughter before agreeing.

Spencer pointed at the camera, “if you like funny movies, watch Shuttlecock.”

Then they moved on with the video like it had never happened. You wanted to shriek. If you had more energy, you would have run laps around your room like a dog waiting for a walk. You couldn’t believe he had talked about you, specifically you, in a video. You fumbled with your phone as you opened Instagram, scrolling through all the new follower notifications, your eyes scanned for a specific name.

And there it was.

Spennser started following you.

You had missed the notification since he followed you at the same time a wave of new followers came in. You kicked your legs in excitement. Had he not realised you were already following him? Why hadn’t he messaged you? Should you message him? You reasoned that you weren’t being a creep, and it was normal to want to ask to collaborate with a creative person you were an admirer of. And this had nothing to do with the parasocial crush you had been harbouring for him from your side of the computer screen for the past few years. Nothing at all.

You took a couple breaths to calm yourself down. You could totally message him, hit him with a cute (and flirtatious) ‘heard you were a fan?’ with a wink emoji. You shook your head. No, that was cringey. Maybe a simple ‘hi, love Smosh Games’. No, you were still cringing. You ended up chickening out, thinking too hard about it made you just a little bit nauseous. Maybe you would try again when you were feeling braver.

✩

Bestie: ‘Seriously, DM him. NOW!’

You stared at the text message from your best friend, you felt like there was a hive of bees buzzing in your head, confused, frantic, excited, scared. It was early in the morning and you were getting ready to run off to a meeting when your phone started blowing up. They had sent you a TikTok edit of you using clips from Shuttlecock, which was crazy enough, you had never seen a fan edit of yourself ever. But the part that freaked you out was at the very start of the edit, it kicked off with the clip of Spencer talking about you in the recent Smosh Games video, smiling in that way you had engraved into your brain.

You: ‘I don’t know…’

You messaged back, apprehensive.

Bestie: ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me, you’re like super into this guy. And he just rambled on about how great you were in your movie. This is your chance, TAKE IT!!!’

You wanted to scream again. They were kind of right, but you had a million reasons to be nervous about it.

You: ‘What if he wants nothing to do with me?’

You texted with one hand while the other fiddled with your hair, a nervous habit.

Bestie: ‘You are actually a huge pain in my ass.’

They shot back, making you giggle.

Bestie: ‘Did you see his face? He’d probably click his heels with joy if you DMed him.’

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. They were just glazing you at this point. You couldn’t blame them, gassing you up was part of best friend duties.

The internal battle on whether or not to message Spencer raged on when it was interrupted by a new direct message appearing on your phone screen. You opened it so fast, you didn’t even care that they could see that you read it. As your eyes rapidly read over the message, you felt your heart beat even faster. This was almost as thrilling as when you were first casted in the movie. You read the message again and again and again to make sure you were interpreting it correctly.

Smosh wanted to feature you as a guest in a video.

You returned to your conversation with your friend.

You: ‘I’ll talk to you later, something insane is about to happen.’

You were totally going to be late to your meeting.

✩

After weeks of correspondence and the rapid approach of the event in your calendar named ‘FILMING AT SMOSH HOLY SHIT’, the day had finally come.

You had spoken with the team multiple times about what they wanted you to come and record. You tried your best to keep it professional and mature, you weren’t sure if they realised how big of a fan you were. Essentially, they were filming a Try Not to Laugh video on the Smosh Pit channel for Spencer’s birthday, and they were inviting guests to have a turn making him spit water. Emily Rose had the bright idea of inviting you when she watched him gush about you in the Games video he did with Shayne.

“It’s going to be a surprise”, she had explained to you over a video call. “Some guests he will be anticipating, but a few are going to be extra fun because he has no idea they’re coming. We’re going to save your turn for near the end of the video because he’s going to lose it.”

You chuckled at that, both nervous and excited.

“Are you sure he will?” You were a little unsure. Sure, he followed you on social media, you saw him like your posts, but he only talked about you one time in one video.

“Oh, yes. He will.” Emily Rose practically cackled, “trust me.”

You shrugged. She seemed confident that this was a good idea, and in what world would you ever turn down a chance to film a video with Smosh?

When you went through the whirlwind of arriving at Smosh HQ, meeting people, being whisked away to the area where they were hiding surprise guests, and preparing to appear on camera, you felt like you were walking through a fever dream. The excitement that buzzed in your body from your head to your fingertips was akin only to the feeling right before you stepped out on stage for a performance. In a way, this was the same, but the audience for this performance included Spencer Agnew, which made you sweat from anxiety.

You were a fan of the guy, you thought he was funny and charming and watching videos of him brightened your day. But you had never actually met him, and now you were going to go out there in front of a whole cast and crew and try to make him laugh hard enough to spit water, that was a bit daunting.

You shook out your limbs and tried to relax. This was going to be fun. Emily Rose said so. And so did Courtney and Angela when they saw you, offering you friendly smiles as they nudged each other in sheer enthusiasm. You didn’t expect that many people at Smosh to recognise you, let alone seem super glad you were there. As filming started and people took turns doing their bits, you watched on the monitors behind the partition. You covered your mouth laughing multiple times, not wanting to be too loud on an unfamiliar set. You were having a blast watching Spencer’s beloved castmates, crewmates, friends, and former coworkers attempt to break him, most succeeding.

“No way!” Spencer guffawed loudly after spitting his water. A couple of his former colleagues from ClevverTV surprised him, doing over the top impersonations of some of his most famous Smosh bits.

That was followed by Angela and Amanda doing a bit inspired by the three of them playing Resident Evil 8 together, then it was Chanse reprising his Bit City role as Cunty Spencer but with a Fred Darts twist this time. Everyone moved so naturally and put so much thought into their bits. Emily Rose had told you that you just needed to walk out there and the rest would take care of itself. Whatever that meant. So, you didn’t really have a proper bit ready. That terrified you.

For a split second, you forgot you were actually there, feeling like you were at home watching the latest TNTL video on your computer, and when you snapped out of it, it all felt so surreal again.

You were prompted by the team to get ready. It was your turn next.

You mentally prepared yourself as best you could, drying the bit of perspiration you had collected on your hands on your jeans and attempting to fix your hair. When given the cue, you walked out from behind the partition. As you turned to him, you locked eyes with Spencer and felt a bit embarrassed, offering a small wave.

As soon as Spencer recognised you, which took about one second, he immediately spat out half his water, followed by a gasp, which made him choke on the rest of his water and then he was thumping his own chest as he sputtered, coughing hard. The sudden display of a complete lack of composure made Courtney and Shayne, sitting on either side of him, spit their water as well with surprised amusement. The room erupted with yells and roaring laughter, many of them never having seen Spencer get so red in the face.

Turns out Emily Rose was right. No bits needed.

“You’re Y/N from Shuttlecock”, Spencer simply wheezed out, his eyes were a little watery from choking, but they were wide as he stared at you.

You nodded. “I am”, you replied, smiling at him. “I’m so glad you all spat because I had nothing prepared.” The crew and cast responded with another round of laughs. “Happy birthday”, you leaned in to quietly say.

“Holy shit”, Shayne was cackling, “how did they get you on here?”

“Instagram DM”, you simply replied, shrugging. You looked at the cameras, “it’s just that easy.”

“They’re not a huge blockbuster movie star just yet”, Spencer turned to the room, he held his hands out like he was defending you.

You raised your brows at him, “yet?”

“I have big plans for you”, was his fast response, earning another bunch of laughter from the room, you joining in.

“I’d love to hear them”, you couldn’t help grinning.

The video had to continue, so you scurried away, heart still pounding hard and fast in your chest. You tried to convince yourself it was because you were just nervous from being on camera. You were glad the viewers wouldn’t be able to feel the heat emanating off your body through their screens when they eventually watched this. Filming wrapped not long after your turn, and the mood was so high when they called ‘cut’, that everyone lingered to chat and mingle, the amount of people on set much higher than a usual shoot.

You were finishing up talking to Arasha when the man of the hour approached you. He was finally talking to you, and it wasn’t over Instagram messages, so you felt even less prepared for this moment than you could hope for. You knew you would probably speak with him one-on-one at some point since the moment you received that DM from Smosh, but now that he was standing in front of you, it felt dreamlike, like you weren’t in control of your own body.

He looked a little sheepish as he spoke, “hi”, his voice was loud enough to be heard in the loud room, but still soft.

“Hi”, you echoed back. You had been performing for most of your life, but somehow felt out of your depth just talking to a guy you loved watching on YouTube. “I love watching Smosh Games, by the way. I’m a big fan of your work”, you couldn’t help yourself from blurting out. You cringed at yourself internally, you couldn’t be nonchalant in this moment if you tried.

“I'm a big fan of your work”, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, cheeks slowly reddening, but refusing to break eye contact.

“I’ve only been in one movie, Spencer”, you laughed, feeling a little less anxious to speak to him. He seemed to light up when you said his name, but you were sure you were imagining it.

“Yeah, but I bet you'll be in many more and I'll be a fan of those movies when they happen”, he explained as you felt your neck and face heat up. “Like I said, I have big plans for you.”

You guffawed in a way you were sure was unattractive, but Spencer was smiling at you nonetheless.

“You want to quit Smosh and become my manager?” You joked, nudging him lightly on the arm.

“I’m thinking about it”, his voice was low, you were pretty sure you were the only person in the room that could hear him. There was a quiet lull between you for a second as you stared at each other, smiling like idiots, eye contact magnetic, unable to look away. His grin was bordering on goofy when a familiar brunette practically jumped on him from behind.

“Hey, Spence! Hi, Y/N!” Angela greeted the both of you as Spencer regained his balance and Courtney trailed after Angela, joining the circle.

“We’re all so glad you could make it, Y/N”, Courtney gently rested a hand on your shoulder, “we’re grateful you could take time out of your schedule to come meet a bunch of strangers.”

You shrugged, “I was more than happy to come over. I’ve been watching Smosh for ages, so you guys don’t really feel like complete strangers to me, honestly.”

“Are you for real?” Angela stared at you with wide eyes, “you’re a fan of Smosh?” She leaned into Spencer, mumbling near his ear, “you totally have a shot, bud.”

He practically shoved her away as she giggled, directing her attention back to you. “I’m sorry, but he has not shut up about you since he watched Shuttlecock. You can ask anyone in the office and they’ll agree. He’s obsessed, so I’m just excited for him that you seem to like our content too.”

“Angela”, Spencer’s brow was furrowed, but you could tell he wasn’t mad, just embarrassed. That also made you feel embarrassed in turn, wondering if it was obvious how hot your face was as you thanked them. Your hand gently adjusted your hair as Courtney piped up.

“Yes, obsessed with your movie”, they gave Angela a pointed look that made her shut her mouth and nod along sagely. “He is definitely a big fan. So, you guys must have a lot to talk about. We’ll leave you to it.”

They gave you one last winning smile before basically dragging Angela away.

“Uhh..” Spencer scratched the back of his head, looking back at you, “ignore Angela, she gets post-shoot zoomies and says wild shit.”

You breathed out a laugh, you had calmed down significantly, feeling less like you were about to have a heart attack and more like you were just a little nervous while talking to your YouTube crush.

“I’m really, really happy you liked Shuttlecock”, your voice was barely above a whisper, sincere. You moved slightly closer so he could hear you. Instinctively, your hand gently grazed his forearm, a silent plea for him to see you were being genuine. Your eyes were glued to his again, your heart skipped a beat when he offered you a gentle, almost shy, smile. You felt like the air was especially warm in this corner of the set.

“I can’t believe you’re here”, his voice was quiet again too. He raised his eyebrows, it was as if he was in a daze. You had never seen him like this in any videos. “Angela was kinda right, frankly.”

“About which part?” The rest of the room became a blur to you, the sounds around you were muffled and distant sounding. All you could focus on was the man in front of you, cheeks pink and expression unguarded. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, no amount of stage fright compared to this feeling, like you were perched on a precipice, threatening to tip over and plunge into something unknown.

“That-”, he looked down, hesitating. His arm twitched like he wanted to reach out to you, but he stopped himself. “That I haven’t stopped talking about you since I saw the movie. I am a little obsessed, I guess. Oh man, I sound like such a creep.”

“No”, you quickly stopped him, “you do not sound like a creep. I think I’m the creep here, honestly.”

“How?” His shoulders shook a bit with humour.

“Because”, you took another step closer, probably the last one you could before it was a complete breach of personal space. Plunging into the unknown. “I have been watching you on YouTube for ages. I had to stop myself from screaming out loud when I saw you follow me. You have always made me smile when I’m having a bad day before you even knew me.”

He covered his face, you could tell he was laughing, ears beet red. It felt so good to fluster him like this, it gave you a rush you had to chase.

“I have had this huge YouTuber crush on you”, you continued, watching his face leave his hands to snap up look at you, astonished. “So imagine my surprise when I watch a new video from my favourite channel and my crush is talking about me.”

When you made eye contact with him again, time was suspended. The air was sucked out of your lungs as you took him in. His face was flushed, glasses a tiny bit askew, a couple strands of hair diverging from the rest to dangle down by his eyebrow. You were sure you looked a mess, your face was so, so hot. You adjusted your hair again.

The spell was broken when another staff member called Spencer’s name by the door, yelling something about being behind schedule. As you both looked away from each other, you felt like you had come hurtling back down to earth from floating through space. You hadn’t even realised most of the people that were loitering behind had all left.

“I, uh”, Spencer pointed back towards the door with his thumb, tone reluctant. His expression was still stunned, “I have to go, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry”, you shook your head, pushing down your disappointment. You knew you couldn’t keep him to yourself all day. “Duty calls.”

He remained for a few beats longer, just looking at you. Then the voice sounded again, more frantic this time, prompting him to scamper off, shouting a goodbye to you over his shoulder.

“I’ll message you later, can I message you later?”

“Yeah!” You were almost shouting so he could hear you as he got further away. He wanted to talk with you more, that sent a thrill through your body. “Yeah, you can!”

The last you saw of him was his hand waving as he was ushered out the door. You smiled and waved back, already missing his presence. You spoke with a few more people before you left, Emily Rose walking you to your car.

As you drove home, you were riding the high of a good time at Smosh HQ. You tried to focus on that and not the fact that you told Spencer he was your crush and he did not respond to that confession. In fact, he practically ran away. Pulling into your parking spot at your apartment building, you dropped your head as your car stopped, horn sounding as your head hit the wheel with a ‘thump’.

Focus on the positive, Y/N, you thought to yourself, you got to film at Smosh, that’s fucking amazing. You would have never expected that a year ago, in fact, you-

Your own thoughts were interrupted by your phone dinging multiple times.

You picked it up to check who was sending you so many messages and your heart stuttered in your chest. There were notifications from Spencer.

Spencer: ‘I’m SO SORRY, I had to run, but I wanted to tell you…’

Spencer: ‘I have a huge crush on you too. I honestly can’t stop thinking about you.’

Spencer: ‘I mean I kept talking about you after seeing your movie, but after meeting you irl today…’

Spencer: ‘I feel like I’m going insane, I’m so sorry for spamming you.’

You stared at your phone, your entire body warm, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Before you could reply, another ding from your phone.

Spencer: ‘I don’t normally act like a freak btw, I just don’t want to miss this chance.’

You laughed at his text, you felt like you were the freak here, sitting in your parked car grinning at your phone. You saw the little sign saying he was typing pop up and disappeared a few times before another couple messages came through.

Spencer: ‘You’re so out of my league, I was speechless when you told me about your crush on me earlier.’

Spencer: ‘Y/N. I would absolutely love a chance to take you out to dinner sometime. On a date. What do you say?’

You frantically typed a definite, ‘Y-E-S’, slamming your thumb down on the send button and throwing your phone like it was on fire. This time, you let yourself scream. A high-pitched, victorious one that sounded more like a screech. You saw a cat on a nearby fence jump in surprise and skitter away. You let your head drop down again and kicked your legs around the pedals out of giddiness. Your horn sounded through the car park a second time, covering the sound of your excited yell.

Silly, silly Spencer, you thought, if anything, he was the one who was out of your league.

✩

Tommy, Courtney, and Angela stood huddled together, holding their afternoon coffees and teas, whispering conspiratorially.

“He’s being so weird”, Angela muttered, the others hummed in agreement.

They were all watching Spencer, sitting at his desk and bouncing his knee at a speed nobody has ever bounced their knee before. He was texting someone, they had deduced, fingers flying across the keyboard. They were growing concerned, he was normally way more chill than this, seeing him seemingly write out an essay at record breaking speed was a new concept. His brows were drawn together, serious.

“Did something bad happen?” Concern laced Tommy’s voice, but they all continued to stare.

“No”, Courtney replied slowly, “I think this is his own personal, weird type of excitement.”

“Excitement?” Angela grabbed Courtney’s wrist with her free hand, “Oh my god, what if he’s texting Y/N?”

Courtney gasped at the idea while Tommy shook his head.

“No way, they were just here”, he reasoned, taking a sip of his drink, “he’s not brave enough to message them so soon, right?”

The other two silently stared at each other.

“I dunno”, Courtney’s tone was sing-songy, “they were getting pretty cozy before Y/N left, I actually wouldn’t be surprised if they messaged him.”

Their quiet discussion was interrupted by a ‘bang’ as Spencer abruptly kicked the side of his desk as he scrambled to stand up from his chair. He was staring down at his phone, reading something over and over again before throwing his hands in the air in silent celebration.

“Oh, oh, oh, something’s happening”, Tommy fluttered his hand around in a feverish way.

“Spence!” Courtney threw caution in the wind, calling out to him, “what happened?”

He turned to them in surprise, arms still in the air. A boyish smile broke out across his face, his excitement came off him in waves, everyone in the room feeling it.

“I’ve got a hot date, that’s what happened!” He exclaimed like he couldn’t keep it inside, like he had to tell them or he was going to explode.

“That’s my boy!” Angela cheered, the three of them clapping like he had just won a trophy. “Happy birthday, Spence!”

✩

Note: I hope you guys like this, I changed and rearranged it a bunch of times before I was happy with it lol. Let me know what you think! <3

♡ masterlist

#starsfics #smosh #smosh x reader #smosh fanfiction #spencer agnew #spencer agnew fanfiction #spencer agnew x reader #spencer smosh

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mostlysignssomeportents · 2 years ago

Text

Autoenshittification

Forget F1: the only car race that matters now is the race to turn your car into a digital extraction machine, a high-speed inkjet printer on wheels, stealing your private data as it picks your pocket. Your car’s digital infrastructure is a costly, dangerous nightmare — but for automakers in pursuit of postcapitalist utopia, it’s a dream they can’t give up on.

Your car is stuffed full of microchips, a fact the world came to appreciate after the pandemic struck and auto production ground to a halt due to chip shortages. Of course, that wasn’t the whole story: when the pandemic started, the automakers panicked and canceled their chip orders, only to immediately regret that decision and place new orders.

But it was too late: semiconductor production had taken a serious body-blow, and when Big Car placed its new chip orders, it went to the back of a long, slow-moving line. It was a catastrophic bungle: microchips are so integral to car production that a car is basically a computer network on wheels that you stick your fragile human body into and pray.

The car manufacturers got so desperate for chips that they started buying up washing machines for the microchips in them, extracting the chips and discarding the washing machines like some absurdo-dystopian cyberpunk walnut-shelling machine:

https://www.autoevolution.com/news/desperate-times-companies-buy-washing-machines-just-to-rip-out-the-chips-187033.html

These digital systems are a huge problem for the car companies. They are the underlying cause of a precipitous decline in car quality. From touch-based digital door-locks to networked sensors and cameras, every digital system in your car is a source of endless repair nightmares, costly recalls and cybersecurity vulnerabilities:

https://www.reuters.com/business/autos-transportation/quality-new-vehicles-us-declining-more-tech-use-study-shows-2023-06-22/

What’s more, drivers hate all the digital bullshit, from the janky touchscreens to the shitty, wildly insecure apps. Digital systems are drivers’ most significant point of dissatisfaction with the automakers’ products:

https://www.theverge.com/23801545/car-infotainment-customer-satisifaction-survey-jd-power

Even the automakers sorta-kinda admit that this is a problem. Back in 2020 when Massachusetts was having a Right-to-Repair ballot initiative, Big Car ran these unfuckingbelievable scare ads that basically said, “Your car spies on you so comprehensively that giving anyone else access to its systems will let murderers stalk you to your home and kill you:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/03/rip-david-graeber/#rolling-surveillance-platforms

But even amid all the complaining about cars getting stuck in the Internet of Shit, there’s still not much discussion of why the car-makers are making their products less attractive, less reliable, less safe, and less resilient by stuffing them full of microchips. Are car execs just the latest generation of rubes who’ve been suckered by Silicon Valley bullshit and convinced that apps are a magic path to profitability?

Nope. Car execs are sophisticated businesspeople, and they’re surfing capitalism’s latest — and last — hot trend: dismantling capitalism itself.

Now, leftists have been predicting the death of capitalism since The Communist Manifesto, but even Marx and Engels warned us not to get too frisky: capitalism, they wrote, is endlessly creative, constantly reinventing itself, re-emerging from each crisis in a new form that is perfectly adapted to the post-crisis reality:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/10/31/books/review/a-spectre-haunting-china-mieville.html

But capitalism has finally run out of gas. In his forthcoming book, Techno Feudalism: What Killed Capitalism, Yanis Varoufakis proposes that capitalism has died — but it wasn’t replaced by socialism. Rather, capitalism has given way to feudalism:

https://www.penguin.co.uk/books/451795/technofeudalism-by-varoufakis-yanis/9781847927279

Under capitalism, capital is the prime mover. The people who own and mobilize capital — the capitalists — organize the economy and take the lion’s share of its returns. But it wasn’t always this way: for hundreds of years, European civilization was dominated by rents, not markets.

A “rent” is income that you get from owning something that other people need to produce value. Think of renting out a house you own: not only do you get paid when someone pays you to live there, you also get the benefit of rising property values, which are the result of the work that all the other homeowners, business owners, and residents do to make the neighborhood more valuable.

The first capitalists hated rent. They wanted to replace the “passive income” that landowners got from taxing their serfs’ harvest with active income from enclosing those lands and grazing sheep in order to get wool to feed to the new textile mills. They wanted active income — and lots of it.

Capitalist philosophers railed against rent. The “free market” of Adam Smith wasn’t a market that was free from regulation — it was a market free from rents. The reason Smith railed against monopolists is because he (correctly) understood that once a monopoly emerged, it would become a chokepoint through which a rentier could cream off the profits he considered the capitalist’s due:

https://locusmag.com/2021/03/cory-doctorow-free-markets/

Today, we live in a rentier’s paradise. People don’t aspire to create value — they aspire to capture it. In Survival of the Richest, Doug Rushkoff calls this “going meta”: don’t provide a service, just figure out a way to interpose yourself between the provider and the customer:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/09/13/collapse-porn/#collapse-porn

Don’t drive a cab, create Uber and extract value from every driver and rider. Better still: don’t found Uber, invest in Uber options and extract value from the people who invest in Uber. Even better, invest in derivatives of Uber options and extract value from people extracting value from people investing in Uber, who extract value from drivers and riders. Go meta.

This is your brain on the four-hour-work-week, passive income mind-virus. In Techno Feudalism, Varoufakis deftly describes how the new “Cloud Capital” has created a new generation of rentiers, and how they have become the richest, most powerful people in human history.

Shopping at Amazon is like visiting a bustling city center full of stores — but each of those stores’ owners has to pay the majority of every sale to a feudal landlord, Emperor Jeff Bezos, who also decides which goods they can sell and where they must appear on the shelves. Amazon is full of capitalists, but it is not a capitalist enterprise. It’s a feudal one:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/28/enshittification/#relentless-payola

This is the reason that automakers are willing to enshittify their products so comprehensively: they were one of the first industries to decouple rents from profits. Recall that the reason that Big Car needed billions in bailouts in 2008 is that they’d reinvented themselves as loan-sharks who incidentally made cars, lending money to car-buyers and then “securitizing” the loans so they could be traded in the capital markets.

Even though this strategy brought the car companies to the brink of ruin, it paid off in the long run. The car makers got billions in public money, paid their execs massive bonuses, gave billions to shareholders in buybacks and dividends, smashed their unions, fucked their pensioned workers, and shipped jobs anywhere they could pollute and murder their workforce with impunity.

Car companies are on the forefront of postcapitalism, and they understand that digital is the key to rent-extraction. Remember when BMW announced that it was going to rent you the seatwarmer in your own fucking car?

https://pluralistic.net/2020/07/02/big-river/#beemers

Not to be outdone, Mercedes announced that they were going to rent you your car’s accelerator pedal, charging an extra $1200/year to unlock a fully functional acceleration curve:

https://www.theverge.com/2022/11/23/23474969/mercedes-car-subscription-faster-acceleration-feature-price

This is the urinary tract infection business model: without digitization, all your car’s value flowed in a healthy stream. But once the car-makers add semiconductors, each one of those features comes out in a painful, burning dribble, with every button on that fakakta touchscreen wired directly into your credit-card.

But it’s just for starters. Computers are malleable. The only computer we know how to make is the Turing Complete Von Neumann Machine, which can run every program we know how to write. Once they add networked computers to your car, the Car Lords can endlessly twiddle the knobs on the back end, finding new ways to extract value from you:

https://doctorow.medium.com/twiddler-1b5c9690cce6

That means that your car can track your every movement, and sell your location data to anyone and everyone, from marketers to bounty-hunters looking to collect fees for tracking down people who travel out of state for abortions to cops to foreign spies:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/n7enex/tool-shows-if-car-selling-data-privacy4cars-vehicle-privacy-report

Digitization supercharges financialization. It lets car-makers offer subprime auto-loans to desperate, poor people and then killswitch their cars if they miss a payment:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4U2eDJnwz_s

Subprime lending for cars would be a terrible business without computers, but digitization makes it a great source of feudal rents. Car dealers can originate loans to people with teaser rates that quickly blow up into payments the dealer knows their customer can’t afford. Then they repo the car and sell it to another desperate person, and another, and another:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/07/27/boricua/#looking-for-the-joke-with-a-microscope

Digitization also opens up more exotic options. Some subprime cars have secondary control systems wired into their entertainment system: miss a payment and your car radio flips to full volume and bellows an unstoppable, unmutable stream of threats. Tesla does one better: your car will lock and immobilize itself, then blare its horn and back out of its parking spot when the repo man arrives:

https://tiremeetsroad.com/2021/03/18/tesla-allegedly-remotely-unlocks-model-3-owners-car-uses-smart-summon-to-help-repo-agent/

Digital feudalism hasn’t stopped innovating — it’s just stopped innovating good things. The digital device is an endless source of sadistic novelties, like the cellphones that disable your most-used app the first day you’re late on a payment, then work their way down the other apps you rely on for every day you’re late:

https://restofworld.org/2021/loans-that-hijack-your-phone-are-coming-to-india/

Usurers have always relied on this kind of imaginative intimidation. The loan-shark’s arm-breaker knows you’re never going to get off the hook; his goal is in intimidating you into paying his boss first, liquidating your house and your kid’s college fund and your wedding ring before you default and he throws you off a building.

Thanks to the malleability of computerized systems, digital arm-breakers have an endless array of options they can deploy to motivate you into paying them first, no matter what it costs you:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Car-makers are trailblazers in imaginative rent-extraction. Take VIN-locking: this is the practice of adding cheap microchips to engine components that communicate with the car’s overall network. After a new part is installed in your car, your car’s computer does a complex cryptographic handshake with the part that requires an unlock code provided by an authorized technician. If the code isn’t entered, the car refuses to use that part.

VIN-locking has exploded in popularity. It’s in your iPhone, preventing you from using refurb or third-party replacement parts:

https://doctorow.medium.com/apples-cement-overshoes-329856288d13

It’s in fuckin’ ventilators, which was a nightmare during lockdown as hospital techs nursed their precious ventilators along by swapping parts from dead systems into serviceable ones:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/3azv9b/why-repair-techs-are-hacking-ventilators-with-diy-dongles-from-poland

And of course, it’s in tractors, along with other forms of remote killswitch. Remember that feelgood story about John Deere bricking the looted Ukrainian tractors whose snitch-chips showed they’d been relocated to Russia?

https://doctorow.medium.com/about-those-kill-switched-ukrainian-tractors-bc93f471b9c8

That wasn’t a happy story — it was a cautionary tale. After all, John Deere now controls the majority of the world’s agricultural future, and they’ve boobytrapped those ubiquitous tractors with killswitches that can be activated by anyone who hacks, takes over, or suborns Deere or its dealerships.

Control over repair isn’t limited to gouging customers on parts and service. When a company gets to decide whether your device can be fixed, it can fuck you over in all kinds of ways. Back in 2019, Tim Apple told his shareholders to expect lower revenues because people were opting to fix their phones rather than replace them:

https://www.apple.com/newsroom/2019/01/letter-from-tim-cook-to-apple-investors/

By usurping your right to decide who fixes your phone, Apple gets to decide whether you can fix it, or whether you must replace it. Problem solved — and not just for Apple, but for car makers, tractor makers, ventilator makers and more. Apple leads on this, even ahead of Big Car, pioneering a “recycling” program that sees trade-in phones shredded so they can’t possibly be diverted from an e-waste dump and mined for parts:

https://www.vice.com/en/article/yp73jw/apple-recycling-iphones-macbooks

John Deere isn’t sleeping on this. They’ve come up with a valuable treasure they extract when they win the Right-to-Repair: Deere singles out farmers who complain about its policies and refuses to repair their tractors, stranding them with six-figure, two-ton paperweight:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/31/dealers-choice/#be-a-shame-if-something-were-to-happen-to-it

The repair wars are just a skirmish in a vast, invisible fight that’s been waged for decades: the War On General-Purpose Computing, where tech companies use the law to make it illegal for you to reconfigure your devices so they serve you, rather than their shareholders:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/01/10/lockdown-the-coming-war-on-general-purpose-computing/

The force behind this army is vast and grows larger every day. General purpose computers are antithetical to technofeudalism — all the rents extracted by technofeudalists would go away if others (tinkereres, co-ops, even capitalists!) were allowed to reconfigure our devices so they serve us.

You’ve probably noticed the skirmishes with inkjet printer makers, who can only force you to buy their ink at 20,000% markups if they can stop you from deciding how your printer is configured:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/07/inky-wretches/#epson-salty But we’re also fighting against insulin pump makers, who want to turn people with diabetes into walking inkjet printers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/10/loopers/#hp-ification

And companies that make powered wheelchairs:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/06/08/chair-ish/#r2r

These companies start with people who have the least agency and social power and wreck their lives, then work their way up the privilege gradient, coming for everyone else. It’s called the “shitty technology adoption curve”:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/21/great-taylors-ghost/#solidarity-or-bust

Technofeudalism is the public-private-partnership from hell, emerging from a combination of state and private action. On the one hand, bailing out bankers and big business (rather than workers) after the 2008 crash and the covid lockdown decoupled income from profits. Companies spent billions more than they earned were still wildly profitable, thanks to those public funds.

But there’s also a policy dimension here. Some of those rentiers’ billions were mobilized to both deconstruct antitrust law (allowing bigger and bigger companies and cartels) and to expand “IP” law, turning “IP” into a toolsuite for controlling the conduct of a firm’s competitors, critics and customers:

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is key to understanding the rise of technofeudalism. The same malleability that allows companies to “twiddle” the knobs on their services and keep us on the hook as they reel us in would hypothetically allow us to countertwiddle, seizing the means of computation:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

The thing that stands between you and an alternative app store, an interoperable social media network that you can escape to while continuing to message the friends you left behind, or a car that anyone can fix or unlock features for is IP, not technology. Under capitalism, that technology would already exist, because capitalists have no loyalty to one another and view each other’s margins as their own opportunities.

But under technofeudalism, control comes from rents (owning things), not profits (selling things). The capitalist who wants to participate in your iPhone’s “ecosystem” has to make apps and submit them to Apple, along with 30% of their lifetime revenues — they don’t get to sell you jailbreaking kit that lets you choose their app store.

Rent-seeking technology has a holy grail: control over “ring zero” — the ability to compel you to configure your computer to a feudalist’s specifications, and to verify that you haven’t altered your computer after it came into your possession:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/30/ring-minus-one/#drm-political-economy

For more than two decades, various would-be feudal lords and their court sorcerers have been pitching ways of doing this, of varying degrees of outlandishness.

At core, here’s what they envision: inside your computer, they will nest another computer, one that is designed to run a very simple set of programs, none of which can be altered once it leaves the factory. This computer — either a whole separate chip called a “Trusted Platform Module” or a region of your main processor called a secure enclave — can tally observations about your computer: which operating system, modules and programs it’s running.

Then it can cryptographically “sign” these observations, proving that they were made by a secure chip and not by something you could have modified. Then you can send this signed “attestation” to someone else, who can use it to determine how your computer is configured and thus whether to trust it. This is called “remote attestation.”

There are some cool things you can do with remote attestation: for example, two strangers playing a networked video game together can use attestations to make sure neither is running any cheat modules. Or you could require your cloud computing provider to use attestations that they aren’t stealing your data from the server you’re renting. Or if you suspect that your computer has been infected with malware, you can connect to someone else and send them an attestation that they can use to figure out whether you should trust it.

Today, there’s a cool remote attestation technology called “PrivacyPass” that replaces CAPTCHAs by having you prove to your own device that you are a human. When a server wants to make sure you’re a person, it sends a random number to your device, which signs that number along with its promise that it is acting on behalf of a human being, and sends it back. CAPTCHAs are all kinds of bad — bad for accessibility and privacy — and this is really great.

But the billions that have been thrown at remote attestation over the decades is only incidentally about solving CAPTCHAs or verifying your cloud server. The holy grail here is being able to make sure that you’re not running an ad-blocker. It’s being able to remotely verify that you haven’t disabled the bossware your employer requires. It’s the power to block someone from opening an Office365 doc with LibreOffice. It’s your boss’s ability to ensure that you haven’t modified your messaging client to disable disappearing messages before he sends you an auto-destructing memo ordering you to break the law.

And there’s a new remote attestation technology making the rounds: Google’s Web Environment Integrity, which will leverage Google’s dominance over browsers to allow websites to block users who run ad-blockers:

https://github.com/RupertBenWiser/Web-Environment-Integrity

There’s plenty else WEI can do (it would make detecting ad-fraud much easier), but for every legitimate use, there are a hundred ways this could be abused. It’s a technology purpose-built to allow rent extraction by stripping us of our right to technological self-determination.

Releasing a technology like this into a world where companies are willing to make their products less reliable, less attractive, less safe and less resilient in pursuit of rents is incredibly reckless and shortsighted. You want unauthorized bread? This is how you get Unauthorized Bread:

https://arstechnica.com/gaming/2020/01/unauthorized-bread-a-near-future-tale-of-refugees-and-sinister-iot-appliances/amp/

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this thread to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/07/24/rent-to-pwn/#kitt-is-a-demon

[Image ID: The interior of a luxury car. There is a dagger protruding from the steering wheel. The entertainment console has been replaced by the text 'You wouldn't download a car,' in MPAA scare-ad font. Outside of the windscreen looms the Matrix waterfall effect. Visible in the rear- and side-view mirror is the driver: the figure from Munch's 'Scream.' The screen behind the steering-wheel has been replaced by the menacing red eye of HAL9000 from Stanley Kubrick's '2001: A Space Odyssey.']

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

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pansylair · 6 months ago

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Hi :) do you happen to have any recommendations for documentaries/videos on Neanderthals, or other ancient peoples or ancient art?

(I rly love your work, all the warmth and roots deep in nature)

Hi! Thank you so much!! Unfortunately I don't have any documentary suggestions (via mainstream tv/streaming) as I've yet to find (or remember) one about Neanderthals (and other species) I've enjoyed from past to present. They also often seem to fall into an us vs them narrative which I find exhausting. The latest stuff like Secrets of the Neanderthals had a bold start stating they lived during the Neolithic which was uh???? No?? Personally I found it shallow and don't recall learning anything new. Then Unknown: Cave of Bones regarding Homo naledi sadly jumped to huge claims with no peer reviews (that were all negative to said claims) present. I'm sure people here should have good art documentary suggestions and such, I can't recall any off the top of my head right now. However! Some youtube channels that I love are Stefan Milo, Gutsick Gibbon, History of Humankind, and North 02. In terms of books, not much on me but I own a physical copy of Kindred - Neanderthal Life, Love, Death and Art by Dr. Rebecca Wragg Sykes and it was a wonderful read with tons of information and passion, very moving. Another is Prehistoric Art - the symbolic journey of humankind by Randall White. Lots of writing accompanying the photos but I find it very insightful, and certainly his mentioning that art history is a product of western society and how it impacts non-western cultures and artwork. I also very much appreciate him pointing out the term "venus" in reference to the carved figurines has a racist history connected to Saartjie Bartmann and other South African women and calls to abandon the term, using "statuette" instead. And here's one of my fave pieces from the book! A spear thrower from the Magdalenian culture of Western Europe in what is now France featuring two ibex. :)

Anywho, anyone reading this can certainly feel free to chime in with more recommendations for videos and books!

#ask #paleoanthropology

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fatuismooches · 5 months ago

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Saw a fic from an author who make a harbingers x reader testing lip stick thingy and uhh suddenly have a thought of fragile!reader when one time they're spending time with a segment, had an ABSOLUTELY GENIOUS IDEA,(Reader's words) which is to wear a lipstick and bombard the segment with kisses whenever the segment do something for them. Safe to say that segment was left a little speechless(I imagine it was Alpha who is left speechless and red face bombarded with lipstick stain LMAO) And after that, reader start to do it to every other segments, and that caused a teeny tiny competition between the segments of who gets the most kisses. But at the end of the day, it's of course gonna be prime who got the most kisses (ugh, that man..😣 i love how you write him)

Have a nice day

(x) Although you didn't wear lipstick that much, when Columbina gifted you a pretty shade out of nowhere, you just had to try it out (obviously you had not seen the devious smile on her face). It was too lovely not to show off to the others too! You'd surely distract them from their work when your lips looked this appealing!

Alpha was the first on your list - he was always the sweetest to tease. Needless to say, the first kiss sealed the deal instantly. He acted grumpy at first and didn't meet your eye until he felt residue on his cheek, and upon rubbing the color off of him and realizing what it was, it was already too late. Your arms were in a death lock around him and he was left woozy after you were finished with him. Poor guy. He is also trying to figure out whether to continue working like this with the lovely reminder of your kisses or risk being seen like this.

Beta is more than happy to receive your kisses. He didn't even notice at first because as soon as you came to visit him, he immediately let go and started telling you his latest grief. But when he does notice, he gets up real close and personal and even smudges it a bit - he's just very interested. You also probably stained his white coat a bit from the kissing session. That's okay though! But please also leave a little kiss on one of his robots. It will motivate him whenever he's working.

Omega already knows what's about to happen when you waltz in, lips sheening with an unusual color. This hasn't been the first time you've come in showing off something new, after all. He's very teasing, letting you kiss against his hand before you get tired enough to pull him by his harness for a real kiss. When he finds out you've already shown the others though, he will get a bit peeved though. Next time, come to him first, okay?

Zandy didn't want to be left out of the party either, so you put a kissy stain on one of his drawings that he hung up in his room (along with all his other works of art).

Prime is pleasantly surprised and amused by the gloss on your lips. Did you miss him that much to doll yourself up like this? He'll let you give him kisses - just out of sight of what others can see. Which means, sometimes Dottore takes off his shirt and sees the residue from the lipstick you left and he smiles. Of course, no one will dare to comment if a kissy stain peaks out from the collar of his shirt. You will have to ask Bina for some more products at this point...

(Said lipstick was actually a Fontainian product that was quickly recalled after it was discovered the effects caused hypnosis when it came into contact with another's skin. However, it was ineffective on the segments and Dottore as they are already under your spell. Columbina was just curious about if it'd work. She is a lil instigator.)

#smooches talks #dottore love notes <3 #fragile reader <3 #zandy bb <3 #i love that person they make peak art and writing their hands are BLESSED #ARGHSREFBREK doter creating make-up for u is just the cutest #ALSO IM VERY HAPPY U LIKE HOW I WRITE HIM ANON!!!#regardless. akademiya zandik covered in kiss stains. we all agree.

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problems-exe · 2 months ago

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If you were wondering where I've been the past few months, this is one of the things I've been working on.

After being in the UTMV fandom for so long, I decided it was about time I made my own Undertale AU, so here it is!

Introducing UnderCandy!

UnderCandy is my own horror spin on Candytale, taking inspiration from various sources. Each of the main characters have been redesigned to fit the reworked story, which I plan on sharing over the next few months.

With each new post I plan on making, I will reveal two of the character designs as well as give info about them and disclose new lore.

This first post will serve as a way for me to gauge community interest and see if I want to continue putting effort into this project.

To start things off, here are the designs for Sans and Papyrus!

Sprites and designs were made by me, all credit for the art goes to @shynetyme06

Not much has changed about them personality-wise, but as you can tell, their designs certainly have some changes.

With each character I designed, I wanted to apply a dessert to them that I felt fit their concept/personality in some way.

The first brother I designed was Sans, and with his design, I wanted to pay tribute to the original Candytale Sans design, whilst also making it my own thing. I kept the "goop dripping on head" aspect but changed what that looked like into a S'more. The reason I chose a S'more for Sans was because I tried to think of what some of the laziest desserts you could make are, and recalled how I've often microwaved S'mores for myself in the past. It's a dessert that you could put more effort into if you wanted, or you could take the easy way out, and that felt fitting for Sans to me.

Both Sans and S'more, starting with the same letter, was also a bonus, though not intentional.

After designing Sans, I designed Papyrus. For his design, I wanted to make sure I kept something in common between his design and Sans, so I decided on the chocolate aspect. Papyrus is based on chocolate-covered pretzels, as well as peppermint. I'm not sure how to describe this one other than "it just felt fitting."

And again, both words starting with a P was also a nice addition.

I also tried to keep some of the colors consistent between the two skeletons to add more visual relation to each other.

Something important to know is that both Sans and Papyrus are made entirely out of their assigned desserts. Everything you see on them is edible. Keep this in mind for the future.

I'll talk more about their personalities and lore in a separate post, though I will say that you might have to ask some specific questions to get specific answers :]

Lastly, before I close off this post, I want to finish off with a proper introduction to the plot.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

This AU's story begins on The Surface, in a small town nestled at the base of Mount Ebott.

The town serves as a popular destination for tourists, thriving thanks to its numerous renowned small businesses and bustling factories.

Amongst these beloved establishments, a compact candy company stands out, famous for its hard candies, which have become a staple for the town.

Residents and tourists alike often flock to the candy factory to witness the company's next big idea, eager to be among the first to taste their latest product.

It was during one such reveal that everything fell apart.

A young man, weary of his monotonous day-to-day life working at the factory, took it upon himself to “improve” the company's newest candy concoction.

The night before the reveal, he snuck into the factory and poisoned the supply, tainting hundreds of candies in the process.

The next day, as people lined up to sample the new product, many would fall ill, and many more would lose their lives due to the man's actions.

The candy factory was forced to shut down, and all of the candy had to be boxed up and thrown out.

It just so happened that the town's garbage dump linked directly to the garbage dump in The Underground's Waterfall.

All of the contaminated candy ended up there, and it was swiftly discovered by two monsters searching for items to sell.

Catty and Bratty became Patient Zero of the rapidly spreading plague that would soon grip the entire Underground in the months to come.

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦

And that's everything! Thank you so much to everyone who has read this far; I hope people find interest in this concept so I can continue to post about it!

If you have any questions about the AU at all, please do not hesitate to ask! I'd be more than happy to answer any questions you might have!

That's it for this post, but I have some neat things planned for the future. Make sure to keep an eye out ;]

Credit to NegativeCandy on Twitter for creating OG CandyTale

UnderCandy belongs to me :)

#rambles.exe #utmv #utmv au #undertale au #undertale multiverse #candytale #undercandy #sans #papyrus #smore sans #peppermint pretzel papyrus #okay all the tags out of the way #really hoping this post does well #I've spent way too much time on this #massive thanks to Shyne for helping me out with concepts and art #she'll be the main artist for this AU because I'm LAZY #go commission her #PLEASE SEND ME ASKS ABOUT THESE GUYS

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theforgottenmcrmy · 8 months ago

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For the Love of Candied Lemons (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: absolutely none, this is purely fluff, fluff, and more fluff

Summary: Princess Rhaenyra's latest craving results in a rather embarrassing incident for you, and a frightening one for Harwin.

A/N: I most fucking embarrassingly am a citizen of the “democracy” that is the US. I hope you can find some enjoyment in this product of my coping, however small. I put enough context in here that you hopefully don’t need to have read it, but this is a one shot idea from a larger story of mine called Growing Strong, the master list of which can be found HERE.

“Seven hells- Princess Rhaenyra’s message said I would find you here.”

Feeling slightly betrayed, but mostly embarrassed, you let out a frustrated huff. “I did not mean for her to send for you.”

“I have no doubt that the Princess’s intent was genuine. She only wants to ensure that you are well,” Harwin placated soothingly. He took another slow step in your direction, glancing about your shared chambers with a look of mild interest as he did so. “Though I am curious as to why you were brought here. Wouldn’t the Maester’s chambers have been more sufficient?”

“Grand Maester Mellos was a rather unfortunate witness to the … incident,” you replied carefully. “He rushed to assist me at once, and our chambers were far closer than his office.”

The maester in question, who had been gathering up the last of his supplies, hummed thoughtfully to himself. Sparing you a small smile, he chimed in, “All things considered, Lady Tyrell, the injuries you sustained could have been far, far worse.”

“But?” you prodded with a smile of your own, not bothering to hide the hopefulness in your tone.

“But, apply this salve a few times a day, ensure the cuts are kept clean, and all shall heal just fine.”

“Thank you, Maester,” Harwin thanked him sincerely. Sneaking in a teasing glance your way, your husband added, “I shall personally ensure that the Lady Tyrell heeds your advice faithfully.”

Grand Maester Mellos bobbed his head in silent acknowledgement, before rising to his feet and leaving the room. As soon as the door your shared chambers closed, Harwin was upon you at once.

“Let me see,” he pleaded, though you knew it was not a demand, but rather a request for your permission. Whenever it came to you, Harwin never acted without it.

You begrudgingly met his inquisitive gaze, and allowed yourself to be subject to his thorough scrutinization of your current state. His careful hand slowly rose alongside your face, and you allowed your head to tilt backward with his gentle guiding, giving him full visibility of the multitude of scrapes that now marred your chin.

After a moment, Harwin dropped his hand, and turned his attention to yours. You presented your palms openly towards him, allowing him to pour his eyes over the additional cuts that littered the otherwise smooth skin.

Your husband slowly traced one of the more visibly angry gashes, and you flinched involuntarily.

Harwin immediately offered a hushed apology. “What happened, My Love?”

You broke away from his loving gaze, looking down at your palms with shame. “It’s all rather embarrassing… And the truth of it is, I’m still not precisely sure what happened.”

Harwin reached for your hands once more, mindfully grasping at the uninjured sides of them. As you allowed yourself to take some comfort from the gesture, he suggested, “Perhaps it is best you start at the beginning, then?”

“Your sisters and I were strolling the gardens with Princess Rhaenyra,” you recalled. “Suddenly, she wished for some candied lemons.”

Harwin’s expression shifted from one of curiosity to sudden understanding.

As a lady in waiting for Princess Rhaenyra, who had recently discovered herself to be with her first child, you had been adamant in seeing to her every need and whim. While it would have been expected of you, given your official position, Harwin knew that you had placed additional pressure upon yourself to see that Princess Rhaenyra was well looked after. Though your time in King’s Landing had been short in comparison to others, in that time you had quickly developed a genuine kinship with and affection for Rhaenyra, sentiments that Harwin believed were reciprocated.

“The kitchens are so far away from the gardens, as you know,” you continued to explain. “By the time we would have sent word, and then waited for the candies to be prepared… I thought it would have been futile. I volunteered to go to the kitchens myself.”

“And so you did.”

“And so I did,” you confirmed, forcing yourself to meet his eyes once more. “I was on my way from the kitchens, headed back to the gardens. And as I was descending the stairs outside of the Small Council Chambers, I could not see my feet. I think my skirts may have gotten twisted perhaps, and…”

“...And?”

“Before I knew it, my feet were above my head, candied lemons went flying through the air, and I went tumbling down the stairs.”

Despite the situation, you could have sworn the corners of Harwin’s pursed lips flinched upwards.

“I managed to break my fall on the very bottom step with my hands, but not before my chin got a good go of it. Grand Maester Mellos saw everything, naturally. The Seven weren’t so kind as to spare me an audience for this grand mishap. He whisked me away at once to see to these cuts… And, now that things have calmed and some clarity has returned, I believe he also sent a page to inform Princess Rhaenyra of what had transpired. Given your presence now, I assume she in turn sent for you.” You paused briefly, feeling embarrassment overcome you once more. “I still cannot believe you rushed all the way back to the Red Keep from Flea Bottom solely on my account.”

Harwin’s patrols as a Gold Cloak of the City Watch kept him busier more often than not. You had never faulted him for it; copious amounts of your own time was spent carrying out your duties to Princess Rhaenyra.

“Judging by the ominous look on the messenger boy’s face, I did not feel as though I had much of a choice.” Your husband sighed tiredly, his eyes flickering over your various abrasions once more.

Suddenly, he placed a quick, firm kiss on your cheek. You felt them grow hot once more, although this time it was not with embarrassment.

“It pains me to see you injured, even in these small ways,” Harwin confessed. “Though I cannot deny that it brings me great relief to see that these cuts are all you have to show for a ‘tumble down the stairs’... It did not take great effort on my part to imagine the worst.”

You reached for his hands then, ignoring the stinging sensations in them that rapidly followed. “Truly, I shall be quite alright, Dearest. The only thing that was gravely injured today was my pride. A lady of House Tyrell, tripping and bumbling down a staircase like a waddling child? … Gods, I hope my brother never hears of this. He will not let me live this down.”

Harwin rolled his eyes, but the gesture was without annoyance or malice. “Between jousting and tournaments or simply training out in the yard, I am certain Lord Tyrell has taken more than a few falls of his own. An accident was all that this was, My Love. And an accident is certainly nothing to be ashamed of.”

You blushed. “You are kind- too kind, perhaps. While I appreciate your concern, I truly did not wish for you to permanently abandon your post for the day. I will not keep you to myself; go on and return to the city. I shall see you later tonight.”

Harwin scoffed. “Surely you jest. The Commander gave me leave to see to it that you are well. It seems only fair that I should ensure your wellness continues for the duration of the day.”

You smiled. “You wish to spend the day with me?”

Between Harwin’s patrols with the City Watch, and your own duties to Princess Rhaenyra, the opportunity to spend any significant time with one another during the day was seldom found.

You shook your head, attempting to quell your rising hopes. “As much as I love the thought, Dearest, I did promise Princess Rhaenyra those candied lemons…”

“I would not keep you from your duties, either.” Harwin held out a hand to you, standing fast; he was not going anywhere. “Mayhaps you will allow me to accompany my Lady Wife to retrieve more candied lemons from the kitchens?”

Grinning, you took his hand. As you carefully rose to your feet, you offered him a teasing smile. “How could I ever refuse such a generous and noble offer?”

Harwin winked. “I was hoping you’d be agreeable to it.”

“And why is that, Dearest?”

You intertwined your arm with his, daintily resting your scraped hand on the crook of his elbow. As you leaned into him, and rested your head on his upper arm, Harwin gently turned and began to lead the two of you over to the door. The pace was leisurely, the moment calm and intimate. The realm existed outside the closed chamber door, but for now, the world was comprised entirely of just the two of you.

As Harwin reached for the door handle, he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Lemon candies are replaceable. But you, My Love, are not.”

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leafington · 10 months ago

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𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙞 𝙙𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙢𝙮 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨 𝙜𝙚𝙩. - kento n.

content warning !! - enemies to lovers w nanami (i caved), blackfem!reader, ngh modelceo!reader, ceo!nanami, me putting my business and entrepreneurship knowledge to use, light intoxication, suggestiveness at the end

a/n - IM BACK YALL WOOOOOO, sorry for making u wait @jellicatty 🙁

For years, Nanami has held himself to competition with you and your company. If he had a tier-list of all the people he hated, you were a close second to Gojo. To say he hated your guts was an understatement, some thought he just had some sort of lingering grudge, others assumed you two just got off the wrong foot but they couldn't be far from wrong. That man practically wanted you dead, and that's a hard call to make from someone who was raised well.

His mother was nothing short of a good woman, she taught his son to do great things—respect elders, women, and children alike, offer up his seat to those who needed it more than him, never pray upon someone's downfall no matter how hard they made his life. Each and every time he comes across your presence, he closes his eyes and mentally apologizes to his mother.

Your being insinuates such hatred within him. The way you arose to popularity out of nowhere due to what? Daddy's money? Your looks that earned you sexiest woman alive four years in a row? He wasn't accepting that 'model starting their own company' bullshit, not that he didn't believe one couldn't, just not you.

He recalls the very first moment he met you, three years ago when you made his life hell. 'Japan's Top Model, L/n Y/n, announces her official clothing line.' Who knew a simple headline could turn his future upside down? At the time, he'd only heard of you once or twice over a news article or a random scandal that just so happened to sneak into his algorithm. But this was different, it effected him in every way possible.

Suddenly, he has competition. 'LVS' stocks had reached a pinnacle point within just a few weeks of launching, he'd never seen those abbreviations before, the next, his own business was constantly being compared to by this new threatening company. All things after that basically consisted of Nanami fighting for his top spot. You can't even describe how upset he was when he first met you. A beautiful woman, buttering up the chairman into letting you attend the business meetings that he [Nanami] went to, pretty tits bouncing when introducing yourself to the other members of the council, and that gleam of something in your eye when you finally met with Nanami.

"So you're the one hogging No. 1?"

He doesn't give a damn how many of the other pervs fell for your charm, to him, you were the devil in disguise.

Nanami Kento despised you with every fibre of his person. Even at this formal event.

"Sexiest woman alive"? Damn right you were. He can see how easily the others fell for you, if he didn't have his head screwed on tight, he would've been the next one to take you in the office.

That black sleeveless maxi dress kept him on his toes the entire night, curves and assets prominent. The way you held your glass of sparkling rosé, chatting it up with whoever that unfortunate soul was that thought they would get you in their bed after this was all over. Nanami held his own drink, a good amount of scotch that'd get him through the remainder of the event without bashing someone's head in. He's trying to listen to his colleague brag about his latest product of his work that's been selling well, but you being in his line of sight smiling and giggling seemed way more appealing.

In no way is Nanami a man who occupied himself with women, until he found a good place to settle and retire, a relationship didn't have any room in his life. To the best of his abilities, he ignores the now reciprocated exchange of stares, only sipping from the modern glass whenever he felt he needed the extra loosening.

And loose he was.

You look good. Too good. He turned his head to avoid indulging, not with the woman who's downfall he's prayed upon. Though it's far too late because that scotch is getting it's moneys worth having already downed three glasses and bringing him closer and closer to the woman he claimed he loathed.

His compliments were unlike anything he's ever thought of you. "You look stunning tonight." "Your stylist did an amazing job." "The pictures do you no justice." Drunk words are sober thoughts as they say. His eyes were telling more than his words, he wanted you bad.

Compared to any other elderly male he knew what to say to have you feel won over, even if you were well aware of his hatred towards you. So.. though it was just for a night, you returned the favor. Addressing his compliments with your own, insisting that the media makes such false claims about his person, feeling him up, and eventually dragging him to the bathroom to show him exactly how you shot to the top.

"You minx." He hisses as your kisses trail lower from his jaw. "Oh? What happened to all that talk you were doing?" You effortlessly tug his tie off, allowing it to hang from his neck. "Do you do this with every man you want to surpass?" He grits, fighting his natural urges to give in. "Very few, only the ones that act uppity and look good in a suit."

"Fuck... I hate you so much."

#anime #anime and manga #animanga #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #guess who #nanami kento #kento nanami #nanami x reader #enemies to lovers #jjk nanami #jujutsu nanami #ceo nanami #grgrgrrg i wanna bite him #i hate school

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dec4podcast · 5 months ago

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We’re delighted to be joined for this latest episode by leading author, publisher and podcaster on classic British television, Oliver Crocker. Here we take an in-depth look at his definitive history of the iconic BBC television series, All Creatures Great and Small, based on the bestselling books by James Herriot, which ran for 90 episodes between 1978 and 1990.

For All Memories Great and Small, Oliver sourced rare production documents and photographs, and personally interviewed 75 cast and crew, including the producer and stars, so we get unprecedented access behind the scenes and learn about the series directly from those who made it.

James Herriot was the pen name of hard-working Yorkshire vet, Alf Wight (1916-1995), who was still practicing during the run of the television series. His series of books sold over 80 million copies and were translated into 36 languages.

Experienced television producer Bill Sellars noticed on a train journey that everyone was reading All Creatures Great and Small, there followed a fateful meeting with the BBC’s Head of Drama, and a series was commissioned. Sellars went on to produce all 90 episodes. (There had previously been two feature films, with Simon Ward and then John Alderton in the title role).

Alf Wight's children; Dr Rosie Page and Jim Wight. (Image from the Darlington and Stockton Times).

Carol Drinkwater (Helen) left the series and, in punishment, was blacklisted by the BBC for years afterwards. She was was replaced by Lynda Bellingham from series four onward.

Margaretta Scott, despite having appeared in just 17 of the 90 episodes, created one of the series’ most memorable and enduring characters, Mrs Pumphrey, along with Tricki-Woo. Her screen career began in 1931, with her final credit in 1997.

Her daughter is BAFTA winning actress Susan Wooldridge. She told Oliver that her mother loved the series and everyone she worked with.

"…So she was 65 when she was cast as Mrs Pumphrey…Suddenly out of the clear blue sky, which occasionally happens to us actors, this lovely job came along and it was to be her life really for the next 13 years...she would be walking down the street and taxi drivers would stop and yell out, 'How’s Tricki?'. She used to say, I've played Juliet, Viola and Beatrice at Stratford, but it’s that bloomin' dog I’m going to be remembered for.'…"

In this clip from an earlier conversation, Oliver recalls interviewing the formidable Robert Hardy and the importance of preparation;

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A little more background, with some suggested links to further reading, can be found at our podcast website;

Alf Wight's daughter, Dr Rosie Page, wrote the foreword for All Memories Great and Small, and said,

"…I so admire Oliver for what he has achieved. He has delivered a book which is a must for all Herriot fans, but will also be enjoyed by anyone with any interest in television production. I enjoyed this book enormously; I know Alf Wight would have loved it too…"

Very special thanks to Oliver Crocker, and to all our readers and listeners.

#all creatures great and small #james herriot #yorkshire #classic television #british television #british culture #books and reading #SoundCloud #Youtube

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fearfulfertility · 8 months ago

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CONFIDENTIAL MEETING TRANSCRIPT

DRC, Medical Ethics & Compliance Division

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Above Average Fetal Quotas in Low Compliance Areas

Location: Paternity Compound [REDACTED], Unsecure Conference Room

Attendees:

Dr. [REDACTED], Senior Manager, Insemination Operations

Dr. [REDACTED], Administrator, Compound Oversight

Dr. [REDACTED], Senior Bioethicist

I… I need to voice my concerns again, Doctor. I understand the need for productivity, but these insemination rates already exceed what we know is a risky quota. We're well beyond the original operational guidelines that were put in place by HQ.

Dr. [REDACTED], Administrator

Doctor, we've had this conversation... twice this week already. The DRC's objectives are clear, and compliance rates should be raised. And [REDACTED] City has the lowest surrogacy conscription rates for all of Zone 6, which has the lowest rates for the entire country. With so few surrogates, increasing embryos is the only way to meet our quotas this quarter. I'd love to hear if you've found a way to double conscription rates by just waving your hands.