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breakyeol · 4 years ago

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— SQUIRM, BABY.

You don’t like Doh Kyungsoo. Especially not when he’s got his fingers buried knuckle deep inside of you and your seeing stars —goddamn stars!— but can’t make a sound unless you want the entire library to know exactly what he’s doing to you under the table.

┗ Pairing: Tutor!Kyungsoo x Reader

Genre: college au, tutor au, enemies w benefits au, smut

Words: 4.7k

Rating: 18+

Warnings: strong language, sexual acts in a public setting, fingering

A/N; tomorrow is going to be my 1 year anniversary as an EXO-L!! oh my goodness that feels so crazy, time really flies. so here is a little present from me to you, enjoy lovelies!!

“These are all wrong,” Kyungsoo mutters blankly, “start over.”

A loud groan is ripped from your throat, the sound earning you more than a few sideways glares from the surrounding tables but you can’t really bring yourself to care. You’ve been here for two hours, studying one of the most intolerable subjects in the world: Calculus. The mere mention of its name made you shiver in disgust.

To be blunt, you’d always been shit at math. Numbers and equations were never your strong suit, not in high school and definitely not now with the added complexities of derivatives and differential equations (neither of which made even the slightest bit of sense to you). You much preferred the gentleness of literature and history to the strict logic and rules of mathematics and science. Unfortunately for you, the latter subjects were just as vital a part of your education, and opting out of them was not an option.

“Can’t we take a break?” You almost whine the question, pressing your fingers into your throbbing temples. “My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”

“No.”

You scowl at the bluntness of his rejection. “I’m paying you.” You point out, stabbing a finger into his bicep for emphasis. “Shouldn’t I have a say in when we take a break?”

He rolls his eyes, swatting your hand away and shoving the paper back in your direction. “I’m giving you your money’s worth. Do it again.”

You let out a noisy huff of air, slouching over dramatically in the stiff plastic chair until your chin is pressed against the cold table. “I hope you know I am deeply regretting some of my life decisions right about now.” You grumble, shooting him an icy glare that you hope conveys the absolute loathing you feel for both him and the set of problems laid before you.

“I thought that was a daily thing for you.”

Scoffing, you bury your mouth in the thick sleeve of your hoodie. “Your face is a daily thing for me.”

He doesn’t even bother to look at you, though you could almost feel the intensity of his deadpan. “I think that was the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“Your face is the shittiest comeback I’ve ever heard.”

“You do realize that that makes absolutely no sense.”

“Your fa—”

“Shut up and do your work.”

He either doesn’t hear or consciously chooses to ignore the colorful array of curses you grumble spitefully in his direction, though simultaneously resigning yourself to the fact that you won’t be able to put off your work inevitably. Kyungsoo was a stickler for proper time management. If he had an agenda set in place for your tutoring session (which he always did), then you better believe he’d be checking off each item within its designated time frame. And if you don’t cooperate— well then, your best bet is to pray that there isn’t a mechanical pencil within his reach.

He might not always be able to reach the top shelf, but Kyungsoo had ways of getting what he wanted. Usually, that chilling glare was enough to get those around him to bend to his will. He could be a scary little shit when he wanted to be. You’ll admit, even you had been the tiniest bit intimidated when you first met him. He was quiet, reserved, strict in manner, but also the dangerous unpredictable type, you gathered that much quickly enough. Maybe that’s why the two of you didn’t get on too well.

Where he was cool and standoffish, “a man of few words” some might say, you were more vocal about your opinions, social by nature, always eager to meet new people and make new connections. You had a tendency to speak loudly when excited and talk with your hands when passionate about a subject. That was something most people learned about you very quickly. Unfortunately, upon your first official meeting at a party in your freshman year with your mutual friends, Kyungsoo had no idea just how emphatic you could be until you’d knocked his drink clean out of his hand and spilled it down the front of his brand new shirt.

It was an accident, of course. You’d apologized profusely and he’d accepted it (albeit somewhat begrudgingly), but that was probably the first of many missteps in your... unique relationship.

With such conflicting personalities, it was understandable that you got into frequent arguments about one thing or another. Petty disagreements would often grow into something larger than they really needed to be. Mostly because despite having such contrasting personalities, you shared the trait of innate stubbornness, neither of you willing to admit when you were wrong. It was easy to argue with him, and you liked when you proved him wrong. You liked the way his brows furrowed and his cheeks flushed. You liked the way he glared, the way his lips pouted. You like the challenge he presented you with every time he opened his mouth. Above, you loved to win. Especially when it was against him.

So you pushed, and he pushed right back. And before you knew it, you found yourself a proper ‘frenemy’, though you aren’t sure that that’s quite the right word to describe whatever it was you two were.

But that’s just how the two of you are, how you’d always been. If you were being honest, riling him, seeing that usually so stoic, so controlled expression crack when you pushed just the right buttons— it was fun. You thoroughly enjoyed fucking with him, discovering new and creative ways to get under his skin. And you knew he got just as much satisfaction from doing the same to you, rendering you speechless with witty comebacks, flustering you with his sharp tongue and impressive rebukes.

So really, was it such a terrible thing?

Not to mention, a number of not-so-terrible things occurred as a result of one of your many arguments, such as hiring him as your calculus tutor. One that started out with you claiming he would probably be the shittiest teacher to ever exist (which seemed a valid argument at the time considering how short tempered and impatient he could be *cough* with you *cough*) to which he rebutted with the claim that he could “teach a goldfish advanced calculus” if he set his mind to it, and considering that you “had an IQ equivalent to one”, he could without a doubt teach you. His words, obviously.

It just so happened that you had a calculus exam coming up that next week, so to prove his point, he tutored you for the three days preceding said test. Even though you loathe being proven wrong, you ended up getting one of the highest scores you’d ever gotten on a math test in your entire academic career.

Putting your pride aside, you made the suggestion that he continue to tutor you. He only agreed when you offered him green in exchange for his troubles and admitted that he was right (it took a few extra hours to convince yourself that your grades should be held above your ego before you could bring yourself to verbally admit defeat).

And now here you are, not flunking out of calculus. You’d consider that worthy of the bruise to your pride, even if only by a small margin.

“Kyungsoo, why’d you mark this one wrong?” You frown at the large red X marking problem two as incorrect. You’d been glaring at your scribbled work for almost two minutes, running over the problem in your head, but you couldn’t seem to figure out where he thought you’d gone wrong. It looks right enough to you.

Kyungsoo shifts over to get a better look, his arms pressing against yours in the process and you are briefly stunned by the sudden, unexpected closeness, wholly unable to stop yourself from noticing the faint, woody scent of his aftershave that caresses your senses. Fuck. You can’t tell if you hate or love the fact that he smelled so good. Partly love it because good hygiene is always something to admire in a man (even if that man was Doh Kyungsoo), partly hate it because dammit it’s Doh Kyungsoo and you loathe finding anything that has to do with him attractive. Plus, it’s distracting. You’re here trying to learn and he has the audacity to go around smelling like pine trees and fresh moss after a rainfall. Unfair.

“Right here.”

The scowl you don’t realize you’re wearing immediately drops away as the low baritone of his voice thrums through the cavity of your ribcage and you lean forward to see exactly what he’s pointing at.

“You multiplied straight through instead of distributing.” He explains further upon seeing the uncertainty on your face. A few seconds of further inspection and you finally see what he’s talking about.

“Fuck,” you hiss, “I’m so stupid.”

“It’s an easy mistake to make.” He reassures.

“Yeah, but I should know that by now, I should’ve—” you turn your head, only to nearly choke on air as you discover that any space that once existed between the two of you has virtually disappeared, “... seen it.”

He’s close, so close that you can feel the cool rush of his breath against your skin as he exhales, goosebumps bristling across your arms in response. He’s close. Too close. You can’t think straight, can’t even breathe. The moment that surrounds you feels fragile, like even the slightest disruption would rupture it completely.

Frozen, you can only swallow around the sudden dryness of your mouth as your treacherous eyes drop to trace the plush line of his lips. Who even has lips like that? They’re just so big and so pink, that dark, kissable kind of pink that every girl just wishes her lips could be. You, included. They look soft, and you can’t help but to wonder if they’d still taste like the strawberry bubblegum he’d been chewing on at the beginning of your tutoring session.

“Careful, ___.” The sound of Kyungsoo’s voice, raspier than you recall it being before and laced in a faintly taunting pitch, is enough to break you from your trance and, once freed, you whip your head around fast enough to give yourself whiplash.

“Fuck off.” You cough, jaw clenching as you attempt to drag your mind out from the gutter and back onto the calculus problems you have yet to correct. But for whatever reason your brain refuses to cooperate, instead filling your head with images of his pretty mouth and everything it could be doing instead of rambling on about something as uninteresting as calculus. Damnit.

No doubt seeing the distress written clearly across your face, Kyungsoo chuckles, the sound low and smooth where it drips from his lips, and a familiar heat blossoms in the pit of your stomach.

You can feel his eyes on you now, every cell of your being suddenly hyperaware of his presence beside you. The pressure of his knee where it nudges against yours, the teasing curl of his lips as he watches you struggle to focus, the warmth of his palm caressing up your thigh, the— wait what?

Your gaze whips down, breath hitching at the sight of Kyungsoo’s hand gently gripping the lagging clad flesh just above your knee. It’s another few seconds before you’re able to find your voice again.

“W– What’re you—?”

“Focus.” He cuts you off smoothly, fingers soothing over the inside of your leg, squeezing gently. When you don’t look away from him, he smirks, jerking his chin forward in a manner you can only interpret as challenging. There’s a familiar glint in his eye, a dangerous glint that doesn’t fail to provoke your competitive side. You know that look well. He’s challenging you.

And you don’t back down from a challenge.

Especially not from Doh Kyungsoo.

Determination flairs up inside of you, your jaw clenching as you strike him with a single, heated glare that read plain and simple ‘you. are. on.’ before honing all your attention onto the worksheet in front of you. It’s not too difficult to focus at first, to disregard the tingles that erupt across your skin where his hot touch sears into it. You manage to find and correct your error in one of the problems (impressive for you even if Kyungsoo wasn’t feeling your leg up under the table).

But whatever pride you find in doing so is quickly quelled when his hand suddenly shifts higher, and you feel the faintest pressure against your heat. It’s a sensation that robs you of your ability to breathe entirely for a handful of seconds, and you can’t stop the shiver that ripples down your spine.

This, you see, is one of the more recent developments in your oh-so complicated relationship with Doh Kyungsoo. Yet another that began with a disagreement at a party, over something you can’t even remember anymore thanks to the haze of alcohol that clouded both your minds at the time, that spiraled way out of proportion. You remember yelling at him, insulting him, stabbing your finger into his chest, feeling the sting of his lethal glare. God, he’d looked so pissed off, and you just fed off of it, fed off the rage and the frustration that festered like lava in those dark brown eyes. The angrier he got, the harder you pushed, until he finally snapped.

You’re still not sure what you expected to happen. What you expected him to do. But you sure as hell hadn’t anticipated him grabbing you by the throat and pulling you into one of the hottest, most mind numbing kisses you’d ever experienced.

Next thing you remember is being in a bed. Whose bed it was, isn’t important. What is important, however, is the fact that that night you had the best sex of your entire life with the man you thought you couldn’t stand.

Hate sex with Doh Kyungsoo opened your eyes to a whole new world of mind boggling pleasure that you’d never experienced before. Pleasure that no other person had ever been able to give you. God, the things he did to you. No one had ever touched you like that before. It was like he knew all the places on your body that made you unravel. He honestly ruined all other men for you that night because none have even come close to comparing. Which was beyond frustrating especially considering that, at the time, you thought it was a one time thing.

The morning after you both pretended that nothing happened. In the two weeks following as well, neither one of you mentioned it. You tried to erase the memory from your brain, tried to go back to normal, but it was hard considering every time you needed some sexual release (which was more often than you care to admit), it was his hands, his mouth, his cock that you imagined while you touched yourself. You replayed his moans in your head, his deep, rasping voice growling your name, and fuck, you never came harder.

But it was still nothing compared to the real thing.

As time passed you only grew more and more frustrated. Worst of all, you could tell he was feeling it too. It was obvious in the way he looked at you, with fire burning in eyes, in the way he spoke to you, with a pitch of something hot and wanting in his voice, in the way he lost his cool far quicker and far more often than he had in the past, your arguments fiercer and more frequent than they’d ever been. The tension between the two of you was palpable, thick enough to be cut with a knife. It got to the point where even your most oblivious of friends started noticing it as well, though they knew better than to voice their curiosity.

The second time it happened, you were both sober and, somehow, it was even better than you remembered. The pleasure was more intense, more overwhelming, a feeling you can’t even put into words. Then it kept happening. Late at night when he’d show up unannounced at your door. Early in the morning when you had an important exam later in the day and you needed some pre-test de-stressing. Between classes in the back seat of his car just because you could. At parties when your friends were too shit faced to notice the two of you slipping into an unoccupied bedroom.

Just sex. That’s what you both agreed to when it became blatantly obvious that your little ‘arrangement’ wouldn’t be coming to an end any time soon. No strings. Just sex. Just really, really good sex.

And that was perfectly fine by you.

Exhaling shakily through your nose, you try to block out the feeling of his thumb as it begins to caress gently up and down your clothed core, suddenly very grateful for the layers of fabric that separate you from his intoxicating touch. But it’s a gratitude that’s short lived. Just as you manage to adjust and scribble down a correction, he cups his hand over your mound and squeezes. A gasp escapes you, and you try to cover up the sound with a series of short coughs, the sting embarrassment intertwining with the warmth of pleasure as a few eyes briefly glance in your direction.

“You’re such an asshole.” You hiss under your breath, thighs tightening around his hand, locking it in place.

He throws you a lopsided grin, brows lifting and you don’t miss the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “I’ve been called worse.” What he means is you’ve called him worse.

Your lips part, but any intelligible words die on the tip of your tongue as he grinds the heel of his palm down, directly against your clit. Your head drops, eyes squeezing shut, teeth locking down firmly on your lower lip in order to silence the soft moan that threatens to break free.

“F- fuck.”

You hear him coo tauntingly beside you at your slip, the tips of his skilled fingers easily locating your entrance and prodding experimentally. At this point, you don’t doubt he can feel the fabric of your leggings growing hot and wet with your arousal.

Despite being used to the quick effect he had on your body, you can help but to feel the slightest twinge of shame at how he was able to rile you up this much with little more than a few well-placed strokes of his fingers. But fuck, it felt so good. You’d already been feeling somewhat deprived since you’d both been so busy this past week with exams and projects and what not. This is the first time you’re spending time with him since almost a week ago.

And you are in need of a fix.

“You look like you’re having a bit of trouble on that problem. Do you need my help?” Kyungsoo leans into you, his face right up next to yours, and you have to resist the sudden urge to kiss him right then in there in front of everyone in the stupid library.

Instead, you grit out an unconvincing, “I’m fine,” and force yourself to stay focused on the dizzying mess of numbers and letters on the worksheet in front of you and not on the delicious warmth of his hand where it is applying just the right amount of pressure to keep you teetering between pleasure and the insatiable need for more.

“You sure?” There’s a certain lightness to his voice that tells you he is thoroughly enjoying watching you struggle. Sadistic bastard.

“Positive.”

And just like that, he’s gone. You almost gasp as a rush of cold air fills the places he had been, and you can’t help the frown that tugs at the corners of your lips, disappointment and irritation coloring your features before you can reel them in. From the corner of your eye, you chance a glance in his direction. The smug, knowing little smirk staining his lips sends a wave of heat pulsing into your cheeks, and you grit your teeth in frustration.

“So what, you’re just going to stop?” You whisper sharply, not making any attempt whatsoever to hide your annoyance.

A look of feigned innocence overcomes his features. “You said you didn’t need my help.”

You grit your teeth, glaring at him as hard as you can manage with how incredibly turned on you are. But he remains unfazed.

“If you want my help,” he continues, voice dropping an entire octave, “you’re going to have to ask for it... nicely.”

Nice wasn’t a word in your vocabulary when Kyungsoo was involved.

Seeing the resistance you are still putting up, he feathers his fingers over your thigh, tracing slow designs across the thin, black fabric. You swallow, unable to look away as they trail dangerously higher, teasing closer to where you both knew you wanted them most.

“You do want it, don’t you?”

Fuck, you want it so bad.

You know that he knows you want it. It’s just the getting yourself to actually say it out loud part that proves to be a challenge. But that’s exactly what he wants you to do, he wants to hear you say it, wants to see you cast aside your stubborn pride and beg for it. Beg for him.

Lifting your eyes, you glance unsurely around the library. It isn’t overly crowded anymore since most of the other students have begun to trickle out as late afternoon approaches. Plus, the table you were seated at was tucked into the far back corner of the room, secluded and out of the way. But still, your nerves buzzed at the thought of someone seeing. Though maybe — just maybe — there was a buzz of something else as well. Excitement, perhaps?

Grip tightening around your pencil, you chewed on the corner of your lip, refusing to meet Kyungsoo’s penetrating gaze as you let out a soft murmur. “...ease.”

He leans closer, mirth shimmering in his eyes. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Groaning, you shoot him a scowl, shoulders slumping in defeat. “Please help me, asshole.”

Laughter bubbles at his lips, the genuine kind that makes his cheeks lift and his nose wrinkle. You like it when he laughs like that. Makes him look a lot less like a serial killer.

Sinking his teeth into the pillowy flesh of his lower lip to stifle his laughter, he shoots you a lazy grin, “that’s all you had to say.”

Next thing you know, his hand is slipping beneath the elastic of your leggings and into the soft cotton confines of your underwear. Your mouth fell open, a sharp inhale filling your lungs with cold air as his fingers slid through your slick folds.

“I knew you were wet but shit.” He hisses, thick brows furrowing at the feeling of your heavy arousal coating the length of his digits. “I must say, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be,” you breathe, eyes fluttering, “even Chanyeol can get me this— ngh!”

Without warning, he plunges his middle finger inside of you, and the remainder of your sentence pitches into a strangled moan. One look at his face, jaw clenched, nostrils flared, lips down turned, tells you he isn’t all too pleased at the mention of another man’s name, especially when he’s the one buried knuckle deep in your greedy cunt.

A hazy smirk curls onto your lips and you let out a low hum of pleasure, walls squeezing around him. “You’re sexy when you’re mad.”

“Is that why you enjoy pissing me off so much?” He questions, tone biting and low, and you shutter involuntarily as he rolls the pad of his thumb harshly over your aching clit.

“Partly.” You admit, somewhat breathless. “But you’re also just a really fun person to piss off.”

He chuckles dryly in response, though the sound lacks any genuine amusement. “You are such a brat, you know that?” He emphasizes the word by stretching you around a second finger, and you have to drop your pencil in favor of clasping your hand over your mouth, unable to swallow down the soft whimpers that tremble up your throat.

“You love it.” You manage to get out before you’re forced to bite into the tender flesh of your palm to muffle a desperate cry when the slow thrusts of his digits suddenly picks up speed. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, hips jerking up to grind your throbbing clit against the heel of his palm. Electricity ricochets through your veins, and you feel that distinctive tightening in the pit of your stomach. Kyungsoo also feels the way you throb and clench around him, and makes sure to grind down hard against your swollen clit.

Heat immediately spreads through your core, the intensity of the pleasure becoming more than you can handle. “Oh god, Kyungsoo.” Your voice comes out louder than you intended, and you quickly duck your head, doing your best to make it seem like you’re focusing on your work and not the fingers drilling relentlessly into your g-spot, praying to god that no one had seen the blissed out expression on your face. Still, you can’t help the quiet whine that escapes you when his ministrations slow.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” He asks in less than a whisper, breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Ever hear of subtlety?”

“Ever hear of suck my dick?” You snap back without missing a beat, only to jolt as his fingers curl inside of you, pressing directly against that sensitive bundle of nerves. Every muscle in your body tenses, and fuck you’re so close you can almost taste it. Frantically, you thrust your hips, desperately trying to fuck yourself down on his digits.

“Sit still.” He growls, and you quiver when he sinks his teeth into the lobe of your ear, obeying only because you really don’t want to get banned from the campus library if someone happened to catch on.

“Soo— fuck,” the force with which you bite into your lip is nearly about to break the skin, but you can’t be bothered by the pain, not with how quickly your orgasm was approaching. Sensing as much, Kyungsoo goes the extra mile of drawing hard, fast figure eights over your clit with his thumb while simultaneously thrusting his fingers into you so fast that you swear you can almost hear it.

All at once fire roars through your veins, euphoria consuming you as your high crashes over you. Your walls spasm around his digits, painting them with your release.

He doesn’t withdraw from you until you go slack, thighs spreading, body slumping back in your chair, eyes fluttering as a hazy, blissed out smile touches your lips. You can only watch through hooded lids as he brings his glistening fingers to his mouth, sighing in amazement as he sucks them clean. There’s a twinge of arousal in your core as he moans softly at the taste of you on his tongue, a downright lethal sound that somehow manages to rouse your positively spent pussy.

This man is going to be the absolute death of you one of these days.

“Fuck.” You chuckle airily, heady gaze flickered over him lazily, only to do a double take when you notice something standing upright beneath the zipper of his jeans. The corners of your lips twirled into a mirthful grin, eyebrows raising slowly.

“Need some help with that?”

“Yes.” He answers shamelessly and without hesitation, grunting softly as he adjusts himself in the tight confines of his jeans to make the raging hard-on he’s sporting somewhat less obvious. “But not here.”

“I figured. So... your car or mine?”

“Didn’t you just get a new one with reclining seats?” He questions, running the tip of his tongue over the seam of his lip at the mere implication.

You strike him with a wicked grin, already beginning to shove your things into your bag. “I did indeed.”

“Then what are we— wait.”

“What?”

“You didn’t finish correcting the worksheet yet.” He points out, drumming his fingers across the paper that had completely slipped your mind.

You pull a face, pausing in the act of gathering your belongings long enough to cross your arms pointedly over your chest. “No offense, Kyungsoo, sweetheart, but I’d much rather suck your dick than do one more of those stupid fucking calc problems.”

His brows leap to his hairline, and he offers a single nod of acceptance, in no position to argue with such a valid point.

“Noted.”

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anythingandeverything1d · 5 years ago

Text

Not in the same way

A few months ago:

You were sitting cross legged on Harry’s bed while he was on the phone. You were scrolling thorough pictures of the two of you and smiling thinking about how great the past year had been together. You had fallen completely head over heels in love with him in that time and he genuinely made you the happiest person on earth. You had been wanting to tell him that for quite a while you just didn't know how to make it special and memorable. So, with the help of some friends, you had painted a map onto a small wooden board with all the places Harry had toured and in each area that was filled in was a picture of the two of you. The bottom had your initials carved into a heart with the date you had started dating. You were so excited to show him the finished product. He walked back in the room with a slight frown on his face, not looking up from the phone but you smiled, patting the bed next to you “Harry..”

“Yeah love?” he mumbled still looking down.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” his head finally glanced up from the phone and looked at you curiously.

“Mhm...come sit down.”

He sat next to you with his hand on your knee and his eyes curiously looking into yours. “What kind of surprise are we talking here?” He leaned over kissing your ear, causing you to slightly smile.

You looked down, feeling a little nervous to how he would react. You pulled the board out from the pillow it was sitting under and handed it over to him. “I just wanted to do something to commemorate making it through this past year together and let you know that I love you.” You looked at him looking at the gift but he remained silent so you nervously continued on..”I love you so so much Harry and I’m grateful for every moment we have together, whether we are FaceTiming late at night when I can't sleep or if we are just having a lazy day in bed. I know that you will be leaving in a few weeks to do your next tour so I thought you could take that with you. To give you a little piece of home while you're gone.” Your cheeks had blushed red and you had looked down.

“Oh.”

You looked at him a little confused and hurt. “Oh?”

He set the board gently down and looked at you running his fingers through your hair with a pained expression on his face. “It’s just that, you know with me leaving and everything and I’ll be gone so much longer this time that I thought maybe it would be a good idea to take a break.” His lips pressed together and he watched you carefully. You just stood up from the bed and looked at him before turning away to hide the tears.

“Oh.”

“(y/n) I mean I just think-”

“No I get it.” you grabbed your jacket from his floor and walked out the door mumbling goodbye, and that was the last you had heard from Harry Styles.

Present Day:

It had been a few months since the break up with Harry. At first you had taken it really hard but eventually you moved on with life and tried forgetting about the curly haired boy you once knew. “Hey beautiful.” Luke said wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek. “Ready for the award show tonight?”You had only been dating Luke for around a month but it felt good, and he did make you really happy. Tonight 5 Seconds of Summer would be performing at the AMAs and Luke had invited you to be his date, which meant getting red carpet ready of course. You smiled and nodded.

“Of course I am!” You pressed a kiss to his lips. “Im really excited to see you guys play.”

“Im really excited for you to watch us and for me to see you in this dress.” You rolled your eyes and laughed at him. Your dress had been specially designed. It was a sleek black dress with a slit up the side to show off your leg, and Luke had been eyeing it since you originally got fitted.

“Speaking of which” you grabbed the dress from his hand. “I need to actually get dressed so mind leaving?” He stuck his lip out and pretended to pout.

“I could help you get into the dress you know.” He wiggled his eyes and bit his lip.

“Oh I’m sure you could, but something tells me that I would end up with less clothes on then when we started..”

“I wouldn't complain..” his kissed your lips, lingering a little longer before you smiled and pushed him softly away.

“Go.” you laughed. “Before I change my mind and you miss your performance and the award show all together.”

“Anything for you.” he said with a wink. “I should probably be getting ready as well. See you soon beautiful.” He kissed your cheek once more before leaving the room. Your stylists luckily came in as he was exiting and sat you down in the chair.

You spent the next few hours getting ready. From getting into the gown, to getting hair, makeup, and nails all done. It was quite a process but the end goal was totally worth it. You spun in the mirror admiring yourself before heading out to meet Luke and the other guys. They were huddled in the corner by the car and all stopped dead when you walked over. Their mouths dropped and Luke stepped forward taking your hand and slowly spinning you. “(y/n)...uh” he stumbled while his face turned bright red. “You look absolutely stunning.” The other guys nodded their agreements and you smiled thanking them all before climbing into the limo after them.

You were nervous..you hadn't been on a red carpet since Harry and you didn't know what to expect from tonight. Luke held your hand tightly and squeezed, assuring you that everything would be perfect. He helped you out of the car and held onto your waist as the paparazzi flashed their cameras, pushing closer to ask questions and get the best shot. Luke looked forward and guided you to the next camera location and smiled kissing your cheek as you posed with a smile. You had taken nearly a hundred pictures with him when an interviewer came over asking for some news on their new album. You backed up, giving them space and watching with a smile as they teased new hints and what song they would be performing. You were about to join them when a guy with a camera stepped in front of you, causing you to stumble backwards and trip into the person behind you.

“Sor-” you stopped dead as you looked up into the face of person whose hand had stopped you from falling. Your eyes were looking into the emerald green eyes of none other than Harry Styles. Your heart was pounding and you shifted your feet taking a step back from him. Harry was surprised too. His eyes traveled your body slowly from head to toe, leading your face to turn a very dark red color. His eyes made their way back to yours and he smirked seeing the blush on your cheeks. “Sorry..” you awkwardly continued, trying to step back from him.

“(y/n)....” Harry breathed. “Uh- its, you look um” he stumbled with his words. You stumbled with your thoughts as you looked him up and down. He was wearing a white floral suit with a black button down shirt. His hair in soft curls. You could barely look away, he looked like a god. “You look-wow” he breathed out again. You shuffled away and looked down, he noticed and grabbed your hand again. “Look (y/n)..there’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about...I just didn't know how to go about it..and Ive been meaning to call or text or just show up on your door ste-”

“Harry-”

“No seriously. Look I was an idiot. I never shouldve let you leave that night and I’m sorry for that. I just had some things going on and-”

“Please...Harry just stop.”

“No because I’m in love with you. I always have been..” He looked at you and stepped forward. You willed your legs to move but nothing happened except for your heart rate rising as he got closer. Luckily, Luke, Ashton, Calum and Michael had finally made their way over. Luke looked from you to Harry with a concerned gaze as he followed your hand that was resting in his. You awkwardly pulled it away and took Luke’s instead. Harry looked disappointed and then upset watching the exchange happen and you just looked at your feet.

“Everything okay?” Luke asked noticing the tension.

“Yeah, Harry had just stopped me from falling. I tripped over the guy with the camera.”

“You always are a clumsy one.” Luke laughed pulling you close. “Thanks for helping Harry, its always a pleasure.”

“Same to you guys. I look forward to seeing your performance tonight.” He said, his eyes leaving you and focusing on the group.

“Yeah it should be a good one, but we have to get going to sound check.” Luke turned to you, “Ready?” you nodded and he smiled kissing your nose and pulling you along. “See ya later Harry.” Harry didn’t answer, just watched with a murderous look in his eyes as Luke pulled you away.

You sat in a chair listening to sound check, or partly listening. Your mind had been stuck on Harry since the encounter and it was driving you to distraction. All of the emotions that you had shoveled way down after the breakup were making their way up to the surface. Hurt, confusion, disbelief, and lust. Did he love you, did he not? “(y/n)?” Luke asked concerned. You shook your head and looked at him.

“What?”

“We asked what you thought...”

“Oh...I thought you guys sounded great” you lied. You hadn’t actually listened to a thing they had just sung but your answer had satisfied them. He smiled and nodded taking the guitar and setting it down.

“Well then boys, we should probably get out to the awards then and find our seats.” You followed slightly behind the boys trying to get your brain focused on the show ahead, but when you came to your seats you were surprised to find Harry in the row directly behind yours.

“Well isn't this exciting.” he said looking at you with a devilish grin. “Just like old times right guys?” You thought you were going to be sick. No one else seemed to notice the tension or anxiety Harry had caused within you and you were grateful for that and annoyed. Luke should've been able to pick up on the shift... The awards started and luckily that meant no distractions..or so you thought. Harry touched you at every point he possibly could. A tap with his foot on your leg. His fingers brushing against your neck as he leaned forward to comment something to one of the boys. Every touch was driving you deeper into your thoughts and deeper into your feelings.

Luke seemed to finally notice something off so he put his arm around you, leaned in and whispered a��“are you okay?” against your ear.

“Yeah, just a little hungry” you lied. He didn’t look fully convinced so you placed a kiss on his lips, earning a smile from him, and an angry look within Harry. Unfortunately the boys all had to leave to prepare for their performance. and get on stage, which meant you would be alone with Harry for the next 20ish minutes at least. You had wished the guys all good luck, hugging them tightly before they walked away. You then nervously settled into your chair as Harry walked around and took Luke’s seat.

“So. You and Hemmings?” Harry mumbled leaning extra close, his hand resting lightly on your thigh.

“Yeah.” you said distractedly, playing with the bracelet on your wrist and avoiding eye contact with him.

“When did that start?”

You looked up annoyed. “When do we break up again?” you said sarcastically. Harry also looked annoyed and he sat up straighter before leaning in closely again.

“So you just move on like that?” he said pointedly.

“Like what Harry?” he was getting a rouse out of you and he knew it.

“I just find it a little suspicious that you tell me you love me and then move on so quickly, that’s all.”

“Fuck you Harry.” He smirked and pressed on.

“Does Hemmings know about us? Does he know about how you felt, all the nights we spent together?”

You rolled your eyes. “Leave me alone Harry.”

“Ahh so he doesn't know which is why he didn’t seem to notice the reaction you had to me earlier.”

“How about you just go back to your seat now?” you ask but he has other plans. “And there was no reaction.”

“Now you never have been a good liar love. Are you going to tell him or should I?”

That led to the snap. You hadn’t mentioned Harry to Luke before because you didn't want questions about your feelings. You didn’t want the memories of him. You had kind of just assumed he already knew since it had been a public relationship in the past. Your eyes locked on his and you leaned in close. “Harry. I swear to god. Don’t you even dare. Its my relationship and I’ll decide when I want to tell him things about my past, so read my lips and leave me the fuck alone”

Harry grinned and whispered, “I thought you would never ask.” He pressed his lips to yours, cupping your cheeks with his hands and pulling your face closer. You reached up, your hands on his chest. You meant to push him off but he gently bit down on your lip and your body gave in. You moaned softly into the kiss and your hands knotted into his black shirt, wrinkling the once ironed fabric. Your brain was telling you no but everything else in your body was telling you yes. Harry’s kiss left goosebumps running up and down your body and when he pulled away, you were gasping for your breath while your body begged for more. Harry look satisfied with himself and sat up straighter with a smile on his face. “Tell me love, how's that kiss compare to the ones you have with Luke?” You groaned annoyed with him and scooted a seat away as the lights dimmed and the music played. The boys had chosen to perform Not in the Same Way, one of your favorite songs on their new album. You hummed along to the words, trying to ignore the very smug face Harry had sitting next to you. The words of the song really hit you differently at that moment. “I love you, you love me, but not in the same way.” Did you love Luke? Did you love Harry? Did either of them love you? There was so much you were confused on. The song ended and you hadn't really noticed. You were still distracted by the fact Harry was sitting near you, the smell of his cologne intoxicating you as if it were a drug. Your brain felt fuzzy and you were feeling off balance. Harry seemingly saying what you were thinking whispered, “He loves you, you love him but its not the same because you, my love, still love me.” Your mouth dropped open and you looked at him as he smiled before moving back to his seat, crossing his arms as he sat back down behind you. Luke and the guys made their way back over and you dramatically grabbed him, kissing him hard on the lips and giving Harry a look behind you. The other guys whistled and clapped Luke on the back before sitting down again.

“Did you like the show?” Luke asked with a smile.

You nodded, your brain was comparing the kisses. Harry’s was knee weakening. It made you want to drown in him forever. Luke’s was gentle and comforting. Everything going on in your brain was making you feel sick. “Uh I’m going to run to the bathroom” you told Luke who nodded and turned the other guys to talk about the performance. You stood up and wobbled grabbing the chair for support, causing Luke to turn to you with a look of concern.

“You okay?” he went to stand up and help you.

You stepped back. “I’m fine, just tripped.” You turned again, making a point to not look at Harry and walked out to find the bathroom. Once you made it to the bathroom, you gripped the edge of the sink and looked in the mirror. You had tears threatening to spill out of your eyes from frustration. You weren't even mad Harry had kissed you. You were mad that you had enjoyed it. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to never see him again. You looked up again and jumped when you saw Harry standing behind you in the mirror. You took a deep breath and slowly turned hissing “What are you doing in here?”

He sighed and looked at his feet. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay...you seemed a little off when you left.”

“And you had to come into the women's bathroom to do that? Aren't you a little worried someone will walk in and freak out?”

“I locked the door behind me. Its just me and you.” he stepped forward and ran his fingers across your cheek. You weren't sure how to feel about this situation and you tried to step away but your body willed you forward leaning into his touch. He sighed and opened his arms. Unwillingly you walked into them, your head against his chest and your arms tightening around his torso. “(y/n)...”

You shook your head and stepped away looking at him. “Please don’t Harry. I really can’t.”

“I can’t live without you anymore.”

“You seem to have done well the last few months without me.”

“You don't even know. I’ve been a disaster. The only thing keeping me from rushing to you was the fact that Louis and Liam talked me out of it. They said just to wait until tour was over. That there was no point to put stress on you while I was away. But then of course you had to go get yourself a new boyfriend.”

“Oh I’m so sorry I didn’t just continue to let the break up ruin my life. I’m sorry I found someone who actually wanted me.”

“I want you more than I want to breathe. I don't know what else I need to do to get that into your head.”

“There’s nothing you can-” Harry cut you off. His hands tugging you hard against him, his lips crashing into yours. His hands slid down your back and gently squeezed your ass. You didn't even pretend to not enjoy it and soon you were matching his energy. Your arms tangling up around his neck. He picked you up and sat you on the counter by the sink, his body between your legs. His tongue ran down your neck and your head tilted back in response. He continued down, pressing gentle kisses along the soft skin on your chest and he laughed softly. “What?” you asked partially annoyed and partially willing him to continue.

“I just wish this dress was easier to get off..” He kissed you again, biting your bottom lip and tugging before slipping his tongue into your mouth where it tangled with yours. The taste of Harry was overwhelming and what you had been missing more than anything. After another minute Harry pulled away, gasping for air. Your head leaning against his shoulder while catching your breath. He hugged your body tightly and your arms snaked around his ribs where you squeezed hard, hoping he would never let go. The two of you sat like that for a few minutes before Harry reluctantly pulled away. You looked at him and he looked back and smiled.

“What’s that look for?”

“You mean my smile?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just happy I have you back. I feel like I can breathe normally again, I-”

You sighed and looked down. “Where do we go from here Harry? What happens next?”

“You break up with Hemmings.” “I can’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because...it-it wouldn’t be fair to him.”

“And it’s fair for me to just sit back and let you walk away again, knowing how we both feel?”

“You pushed me away the first time Harry. Lets not forget who's fault that was.”

He shook his head. “I know. I know it was my fault, which is why I won't back down now. I don't care if it hurts him. I need you. Look I’ll give you till the end of the night.”

“Or what? You’ll tell him? That will hurt me too Harry you know that right?”

“Or I’ll leave. And you will never see me again.” Harry turned and walked out without looking back at you and your heart dropped as you were faced with the hardest decision you may have ever needed to make.

----

Part 2

Hope you all like it! xoxo

#one direction #directioners #one direction imagines #one direction fanfiction #5 seconds of summer #luke hemmings #luke hemming imagines #Harry Styles #harrystyles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagines #harry styles imagine #5sos

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mutantsrisingrpg · 5 years ago

Photo

Congratulations DEAN! You’ve been accepted as ARIEL.

Dean, you don’t know how overjoyed I am to have you and your take on Lenox back in my life! Lenox is one of my favorite skeletons and you just capture him so perfectly. For Lenox, the devil is literally in the details, since he has the ability to control how they’re perceived. I love everything about him, especially when I view him through the lens you crafted (or is it the lens he crafted, and I’m actually under the spell of his powers right now? my brain hurts)! I can’t wait to see the havoc you and Lenox unleash on this dash.

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

its britney bitch

NAME/ALIAS: Dean

PRONOUNS: She/her

AGE: 22

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT, i’m fairly active bean and am always here to plot

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Lenox Syed

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: This is where you show us who the character is to you! The format of this doesn’t matter, whether it’s in bullet points or in para form, and can be as long as you’d like it to be. Feel free to get creative!

Lenox as a boy’s name is of Scottish and Gaelic origin, and the meaning of Lenox is “with many elm trees”.

Syed or Sayyid or Sayed (Arabic and Urdu: سيدعلی) is a family of Syeds in South Asia, notably India and Pakistan. Syeds are the direct descendants of the Islamic Prophet Muhammad.

Lenox is lost in his own fantasy world. Creating so many illusions for people each day that he has become lost in one of his own. With a lack of attention through his childhood, he craves the limelight and approval of everyone around him and will do pretty much anything to get it, even if it’s false or trickery.

He’s so painstakingly constructed, he’s his own work of art. Each detail of his personality and appearance delicately manipulated into something strikingly beautiful. Someone you can look at with awe just by the way they talk or move. It’s almost hard to realise there’s another man beneath the mask, someone raw and damaged. Like a bird with a broken wing.

BIO:

Tw: Drug mention

His mother is just fifteen when she gives birth to him, swaddled in a blue blanket and passed immediately to the arms of a doctor; she never held him, never looked at his freshly reddened face as his cries wailed down the corridors. It’s not because of his mutation, not because his birth family couldn’t bare to raise a being burdened with powers. She was a child herself, naivety leaving adoption as the only logical decision.

A foster home decides to take him in, raising him from infancy without any awareness of any abnormality. It’s where he stays for the first nine years of his life, a cosy house in Oregon that housed five other children. But the dormancy of his powers didn’t stay concealed forever. It started with his foster siblings sleepwalking, Lenox’s dreams imprinting on them accidentally as they’d trample through the house enthralled by the vivid illusions of his fantasy worlds. Then it began intertwining into everyday life, emotional outbursts of temper alluding unsafe situations like fire or monsters that hid under the bed. Games became near impossible to differentiate between make believe and reality from the second he joined in.

“You’re unsafe,” it’s a comment he’d gladly wear as a badge of honour once he’d matured. But to the little boy being dragged away from his foster family, betrayed by his caregivers and turned in for research, the words grazed his skin like stinging nettles.

The four plain walls of the room only further ignite an overly active imagination, a tool that was dangerous to have with a power like his own. The eleven years he spends there does the opposite of what society would have hoped, boredom allows for focus and practice, it sharpens his talents and he’s able to put them to good use. By the end of his stay the doctors had favoured him among the rest, because he wills it so. They go easy on him, carefully placed illusions write false notes on his reports. Detailed and intricate enough so that he doesn’t get caught out, handwriting remarkably identical to each nurse or scientist that take their turn testing on him. He starts to admire the way it feels, too chaotic to be part of society and embedded with more potential than anyone could have known.

It’s when that potential reaches a point where imagination can no longer be imprisoned by those four walls that he decided enough was enough. The process of discharging himself was a meticulous operation. Theatrically staged and miraculously timed with an annual cell collecting test. Before he can be sedated he’s enticed the nurses into an imaginary induced coma, deep enough into his intoxication that he can use the poisoned needle on them. The theater only has the two women on the floor when the doctor enters, sly projections manipulating each person he’d bumped into on his way to the exit into that same sleep, a psychedelic world of kaleidoscope landscapes and stained glass colours, once awakening they would never see this boy again.

“You’re unsafe,” the same words, just a different context. An ally ushers him to leave Oregon and head to Chicago. A place where policies were loosened and his own kind somewhat tolerated.

The new city put Lenox’s own fresh start in full swing.

Fragile reality was a vehicle for his reinvention, so easily malleable that to change it was simpler and more natural to him than breathing. He’s masterful in the way it’s applied, diminishing a past life of shame and grit in place of high strung worth and superiority. He’d created himself with utter royalty, his own nobility evident by the way in which he moved, regally eloquent and unmistakably ethereal to anyone who crossed his path.

He builds his career on the sins he knows other’s desire. Selling crushed up aspirin as a party drug in the underbelly of the city’s night clubbing scene, using his power to make it seem as if it were the legitimate stuff and not something that cost him a couple bucks from the convenience store across the street. Lenox could make them see whatever he wanted, turn their evenings into a production of his own design and leave with none of the being any wiser. It’s how Benjamin Granger catches word of him, a supposed mutant that was living life as if he were a king. He’s the first person to ever acknowledge his capability, strikes him up an offer he couldn’t refuse. Drawn like a moth to a flame after the slightest suggestion of power and the infatuation that he was finally wanted by someone and to belong to something.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

Chance Matthews: He’s the face he can’t erase from his mind, the curve of his lips engraved in deep fixations when he couldn’t fall asleep on a Sunday night. Perhaps it’s the fact that he shouldn’t do it that makes it more enticing, a lust to ignite underlying passion to unearth exactly what they had both been burying.

Jordan Rojas: Jordan is somewhat of a curiosity for Lenox to unpick. A closed book that is intriguing because of their close association together. Always keen to show his worth, to prove himself to those around him, perhaps it’s a dangerous combination should Jordan utalise the other’s naivety in combination of his powers in the way that Benjamin does.

Jack Mizuno: He likes that he can get so deep into their head, that he can have full control of a world that wasn’t Jack’s domain. It’s all to do with power and annoyance, a deep craving to see exactly how far he can push people before they hit their breaking point. Even then, it’s fun to flip that breaking point into a place of pure bliss and drop it again just when his subject is at ease. He’s like a lab rat, someone he tries his tricks on before taking them to the main show.

EXTRA:

https://www.pinterest.co.uk/dean_ie/ariel/

Lenox spends a lot of his spare time writing and doodling. It’s all extremely sketchy, there’s never any sort of final draft. It helps his imagination, which is a much exercised tool in his life.

He is probably more invested in mental health than most. Meditation and yoga being a crucial part of his daily routine after a bowl full of sugar packed cereal.

He’s naive and eager to please anyone that might create a bond with him, he craves companionship after never really understanding it due to the absence of it in his life.

Lenox works as a part-time artist and painter, he’s guilty of using illusions to get clients to buy his art by playing into their preferences .

He also works as a drug dealer, never selling legitimate stuff but using over the counter medicines with the combination of his powers to masquerade as the real stuff.

He has an unruly sweet tooth. He keeps lollipops in his back pocket and will order dessert off a menu at a restaurant instead of a main meal. His favourite thing on the planet is warm cookie dough and ice cream.

He listens exclusively to Grunge music. Celebrity Skin by Hole is his absolute jam and he only ever sings Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet is his go to karaoke song.

Lenox is openly proud of his sexuality as a homosexual, though he’ll flirt with anyone and anything for the fun of it.

He prefers tea over coffee.

He’s a bit of a poetry dork, he collects first edition poetry books and his most prized possession is a first edition of Howl and Other Poems by Allen Ginsberg.

He’s very judgemental of how others present themselves and will tell you if your new shirt is ugly.

Lenox lives in a small apartment, anyone that enters he’s carefully to make them see it as 3 times bigger than it actually is with far more light.

He has a fear of heights.

#accepted #accepted: ariel #dean is giving the people what they WANT

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deviationdivine · 6 years ago

Text

The Stoic Prince (RK900!Prompt Request)

TLDR: To you he’s a smug pain in the ass but you still fantasize about getting dirty with him at the DPD.

Word Count: 1,912

TW: Language, Suggestive Themes, Smut Fantasy

A/N: Follower/Reader Appreciation Drabble | Prompt: “Why the hell am I attracted to snarky stuck up dick faces?” - anon request! Thanks for participating nonnie! This went somewhere else. 1 in the queue done! Onto the next!

"Why do you even bother talking to it?"

Bitter taste of coffee barely touches tongue. Peering up at the question leaves a tiny smirk across lips, which did a hesitant skim of cup rim. Can the DPD honestly get a better brand to chug out of this dispenser?

“Excuse me?”

Purposely hedging away from your co-worker’s sudden interrogation hardly hides the clear tinge of artifice lacing words. Speaking any further may give away this ploy. Of course you know who they mean. He is the only smug jackass that does a heck of a job digging under skin.

Tall, imposing steel scoping a sea of puny humans to gnaw on, using his steadfast jaw, cut from stone if he were made of clay to be fitted by the gods themselves. Plastic, metal – raw material configured, manipulated into eye catching aesthetics.

Fabricated beauty and despite a brusque imperious affectation streaming out of those cool, pert lips. Often times you fantasize how human, warm they might taste. Not just against your mouth but gliding in a hungry appreciation upon every inch of skin made readily available.

To say you had the hots for Nines is an understatement. To say it can go anywhere is another quandary in your grand scheme of things. Natural enigmas be damned he is a walking puzzle waiting to be stripped of his authoritarian programming and cynical attitude.

Unfortunately those gods decided pompous and hypocrisy should be star qualities. Incessantly rolling eyes at your luck, leaning casually into table, coffee machine obscured by your current position, sank an invigorating quiet into your weary body for a brief moment.

Breaks are never long enough. At least there isn’t a sign of top human asshole of the Detroit Police. Rather not have to put a foot up his ass again. However, let’s get back to the inquiry at hand since it hasn’t left the break room.

“Daydreaming about it? Wow, Y/N.”

Sounds like some others you’ve known in the city. Detroit is just a heaping pile of garbage on a good day. Android fever is still in full swing and not how society originally saw it unfolding. "Don't call him that." You defend him while not in his presence. Better to keep it that way because no way in hell are you admitting how fast you’d drop clothes and get down with the rigid android on the force. "Just because he's an android, I mean." The female officer rolls eyes at you. "Uh huh. Sure. Next time you’ll tell me Reed’s going out for drinks with Anderson and Connor.”

Considering androids do not drink she’s a long way off course. You snort.

“Better luck with puppy eyed boy,” the officer jabs, smug. “He doesn’t look like he wants to eat people alive. Or maybe that RK900 just wants to eat you out.”

Nearly spitting coffee all over moves you in a quick step forward, grabbing a napkin out of dispenser to brush splotches of brown liquid off shirt. Eat you out?! Yeah, absolutely!

Perfervid antagonism blinds your gaze resting in a target over fellow officer all consuming in personal embarrassment. Truth is not far from luscious fantasies swirling in nightly subconscious. More than a few dreams about tangling body, flesh and humanity with synthetic, plastic and robotics transforms sleep. It is a burning secret.

A mystery garden planted between the cages absconding the heart ruminating for something of construct, designed in perfection but never mind false images. Never mind unnatural heavenly auras built around a shell of mechanized man. He is everything you can dream about but never will quite openly acknowledge.

One more step and – "Your heart rate is dangerously high for caffeine consumption."

The calculating voice of the RK900 hovers close, sinking in smooth and curt. A statement more so than concern but appropriately edged with his swift, sharp stride into break room.

Fusing a firm hand atop your shoulder seemingly resonates effectively. Analysis is punctual upon your figure as are the sweeping steel he possesses to invoke fear in opponents. He stares down suspects and useless colleagues alike. However there is a bit more skill in you out of most among these humans. He keeps silent, studying a wide appreciation in your eyes.

Pupil dilation is telling to an android who measures subtlety, language in the human form, moving under its own command. Rarely does he witness a shining example of what is referred to as a poker face in most offenders. Upon you it is quite - delicious.

The spike in vitals draws him. Nostrils flare in your personal radius sampling as a bloodhound on a ferocious hunt. Fluctuations respond exquisitely as you are equally confounding in his state of processing.

Do you honestly believe you will affect him in such a wasteful way without retaliation? The form in which he shadows your trembling inhibitions is opposite of what is desired in potential partners. This android does not care in the slightest for decorum.

He will pull you into his awaiting grasp, splaying atop his smooth marbled chest, wanton in prurience, undone from the molecules that form soft, fragile flesh. Tasting your essence will act as more than data on a long, skillful tongue. It will bury into the nerves breaking down your barriers in a flood of rapture.

All it takes is a deliberate push. Buttons unfastening with each poke he prods, bleeding into your skin and he does so intentionally to gain reaction. Steeping within your system liquefies him to the plasma running through veins.

Just as thirium runs a gamut of power to biocomponents he readily will be the life force keeping your mortal existence afloat. So it will be because he wills it out of a viral need you have unwittingly but most adoringly spread into his frame.

His lips twitch faint. A tiniest curve unseen by naked eye but he settles them to a hard line.

Your entire body shivers giving away how good he’s gotten you. Damn it. And he’s looking awfully smug about it all. Somehow he manages to keep his stoic façade nestling in his wide, masculine exterior; handsome is a mere flash in the pan for Nines.

He is beyond definition. You think he knows it too. Why else does he single you out? Making you literally sweat, taking great pleasure in how you behave and pretending nothing is happening.

What a complete and total jackass! Sometimes you swear he fakes this hard ass persona to look the part. Actually, no he’s built this way. Deviancy does nothing for him!

Collecting yourself is instinct and self preservation kicking in. Nobody in their life will get away with this but he melts your strong core down to a puddle. Limpid steel expunges self control. In front of him you strive to be alert so it's not obvious but there was more warmth underneath his imposing touch than you can stand.

God, he's too good. Flicking eyes down the length of his body drives a surge in your heart, thundering in desperation to current fantasy riding out awake.

Strewn atop table, legs around his waist; ripping open that damn white jacket, digging fingers against defined pecs visibly bursting at the seams through black material, fluffy camouflage to a toned body. Taking you right then and there, moaning his name, sinking fingers into exposed synthetic skin because you want to lay into him as heavily as he lays into you.

Biting of perfectly white teeth, licking languid, sensual from smooth tongue and pounding your body on hard surface, pain thumping against the plane of your back but you beg him for more.

Ravenous, unfiltered and insatiably poetic while he completely ravages whatever is left of you, nearly collapsing the chosen surface of your hungry carnality. Eye witnesses neither ceasing nor distracting from the obvious orgasm you will ride on high in the clouds of your mind.

Breath catches in a mystifying glaze sparkling up to his hard narrowed brow. A daylight delusion swept hold at the least private location for you to be horny. For a minute you fear he knows what went on in your head. A predatory slit of Nines’ eyes tracks each minute expression, fidget you relay. He resembles an albino king cobra, flaring a shroud to engulf you in his beguiling shadow.

Hammering against ribs betrays you to the point of imagining the entire precinct eavesdropping on the laborious thud. A small inhalation expands his chest one he hardly requires for oxygen but absorbs your arousal. Oh, it’s very obvious. You have a bit of a problem between your legs right now. Fuck.

"Peak performance suggests you not consume more than the recommended dose of caffeine, Detective.”

The android’s voice is deeper, darker than usual. Almost testing, watchful of how your body will respond next. Enough so that a smirk graces the mouth you wish to ascend in prayer to the immediate issue you physically suffer. He will cure such issue predominantly efficient. “Coffee will not help your productivity if you misuse it." Misuse it, huh? Oh, you’re sure nothing will be of misuse here. Preferably his tongue; you screw up your face to hide the lust.

Why the fuck is he looking like that? Does he realize people will start noticing? Honestly, it’s first time you realize it’s just the two of you in the break room. Guess he scared off your former gossip partner. "Why do you care what I do anyway?” Seething at his game and the fact you’re turned on at work, you slam a finger into his chest. Stabbing him doesn’t move his perfect posture but it sure does make you ache more. “It's not as if it's worth your time."

Nines’ head cocks to the side marginally amused by this insolence. He finds it cripplingly fascinating on a good day but why voice such trivialities?

“Perhaps if you behave in a professional capacity, Detective Y/L/N?” Leaning in to brush the words beside ear, purposely expelling artificial breath to lick your skin, the android fuses fingers against your hip.

A slow slide kisses beneath the android’s tempting fingertips allowing the hitch of your natural breath fuel his personal stimulus. Aroused by you will not go without discipline. There is only one kind he imagines to have utmost potency and satisfaction.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Nines switches to informalities, dangerously silken. “Do you wish every advanced piece of technology that wanders into the DPD to fuck you? Or is it because I am faster, stronger and more resilient to your needs?”

Gasping is the last vocalization you will give him. Pushing back from you reserves dignity even if you want him to just snag you hard by the hips and throw you down into the evidence room. Quieter, less traffic right now and it’d be a pretty good way to… He just called himself the best and believes it.

Well, it’s true right? No. Fuck his snide self!

You are trying but still…

“Why the hell am I attracted to snarky, stuck up dick faces?!”

Story of your goddamn life apparently and this one is the snarkiest, smuggest, sexy piece of android you’ve had the discomfort and pleasure to meet.

“Get over yourself, Nines!”

Yelling on the way out of the break room only causes looks and you’re sure without turning around he’s still standing there. Tall as hell and making you weak, oh so weak to his stormy sea and he’s already swallowed you up.

Wait until he devours you.

Tag List: @elydith @your-taxidermy

#dbh #rk900 x reader #dbh rk900 x reader #dbh nines x reader #nines x reader #follower/reader appreciation #dbh drabbles #detroit become human #dbh drabble choice #drabble prompt #personal prompts #it's popping off #lets get follower appreciation lit #snarky nines is best nines #oof it's hot here

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aqua-harry · 7 years ago

Text

She’s Just Not That Into You » Part VI (A Harry Styles Miniseries)

Miss the previous parts? Part One » Part Two » Part Three » Part Four » Part Five

Check out the inspiration behind Harry’s home here! The amazing @graceak made a phenomenal playlist to go along with Harry’s story, and I could not recommend it more. You can find that here!

“But it’s like…” Harry stops and starts again. “I met with Carly, her replacement, and she’s nice enough. So nice. Lovely girl, really. But every time I talk with her about the plans, I jus...I can’t smile. I can’t get excited about it. ‘m not supposed t’ be talkin’ with Carly about them. She’s not the one who made ‘em. She’s not the one who...well, y’know.”

“If I’m being honest,” Gemma sighs on the other end of the phone, “I would’ve done the same thing, had I been put in that situation.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “I would’ve, too. And I wouldn’t’ve been as nice.”

Harry didn’t need his sister to tell him he was in the wrong, but he did need her advice. So, he bucked up the strength to call her in his time of need, explaining everything, starting with the night he’d met you at Nick’s house. He spared no detail - it wasn’t worth lying to his sister just to make himself look better, as he knew she would see right through it. She let him tell the entire story, never interrupting, but offering an affirming “mm-hmm” every now and again.

“Well,” she chirps. “What’re you going to do now?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs, picking at the loose string on his t-shirt. “‘s why ‘m calling you.”

“Full disclosure?” Gemma questions.

“Course.”

“When Mum told me you’d be getting your new place designed by her, I did my research,” she chuckles. “Not t’ scope her out as a person, because I wasn’t aware of your infatuation, but just t’ see what her work looked like. She’s really cool, Harry.”

“I know this,” he smiles.

“Like really cool. And gorgeous. Her eyebrows are incredible. I know ‘ve got great brows, but hers are just...phenomenal.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but laugh.

“And if what you say is true about her, then she seems even cooler. Y’know I’m not one to be jealous because I think it’s a waste of time, but I kinda am,” she says. “More of you, really. Jealous that y’get to spend time with her!”

“Gem!”

“But really,” she scoffs. “In all my years of knowin’ you - what is it, almost 23 now? You’ve never been this way over a girl. Over anyone, really.”

“‘cept when I was 15, maybe…”

“No, not even then. At least she was your girlfriend then. This one...this one is different from the others,” she sniffs, her voice contemplative. “All of ‘em.”

“How do you know?” Harry asks. “I ‘aven’t told you about all of ‘em.”

“That’s exactly why she’s different, Harry.”

The siblings are quiet for a moment, the weight of Gemma’s statement settling atop both of them, a wool blanket that was appreciated, yet uncomfortable to the point of removal.

“So what do I do?” Harry bites the skin around his thumb nail. “Did I fuck it up for good?”

“Probably,” Gemma laughs, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Didn’t call y’for a laugh, Gemma,” he groans, resting a hand over his brow. “Coulda called ten other people if I wanted t’ be made fun of for being a fuckin’ idiot.”

“Hey,” her voice is curt. “You’re not an idiot, alright? Not even close.”

“Feel a bit like one.”

“Which you’re allowed,” she goes on. “But just because y’did something stupid doesn’t mean you’re an idiot overall. We’ve all done stuff we regret. Like the time I got a fringe because I thought it’d look good…”

“Wouldja ju-”

“Calm down, yeah?” Gemma laughs, getting back to the point. “What ‘m tryin’ to say is that we all make mistakes. If she’s as good of a person as y’ve made her up to be in your mind, she’ll at least be willing to hear you out.”

“‘ve already apologized excessively. Like to the point of it probably not even meanin’ anythin’...”

“Doesn’t matter,” she clears her throat. “Do it again. Do it with flowers - y’ said you brought her a bouquet of peonies?”

“Yeah.”

“Send her another. This time with some added shit to make it fancy - make sure it’s got a vase to go along with it. Nothing says “I’m sorry for calling you drunk and making you so uncomfortable that you had to give my account to your employee” like a bouquet of her favorite flowers.”

“Okay but th-”

“Not finished,” Gemma stops her younger brother. “Don’t just order them online. Go to a shop, make sure the arrangement is just as you want it to be, ‘n then hand write a note that goes along with it. Somethin’ that’ll make her smile. One of your stupid jokes or summat.”

“They’re not stu-”

“Still not finished,” she grunts. “She’ll have to call to say thank you. Or at least text.You’ve made her feel awkward, but she’s still professional, otherwise she wouldn’t’ve told you to sod off in the first place.”

“Well I think ‘sod off’ is a bit har-”

“Harry!”

“Okay, okay. ‘m sorry. Please continue…”

“Thank you,” she sighs. “When she calls, or texts, or whatever, ask her for dinner. And before you say no,” she quickly says as she hears Harry taking in a breath to interrupt his older sister yet again, “ask her as a friend. Say you know you’ve apologized plenty, but y’ feel really bad for what you’ve done and y’ wanna thank her for being nice and everythin’ she’s done for you. Promise her it won’t be awkward and that if she does feel weird about it, y’ won’t be hurt if she declines.”

“And what if she does decline?”

“She doesn’t hate you, kiddo,” Gemma tuts, her voice soft. “I don’t think she will. I think she was probably plannin’ on being your friend anyway, ‘specially because she’s so close with Nick. You just kinda freaked her out with the call.”

“Rightfully so,” Harry chimes.

“Yes, rightfully so,” she agrees. “If y’ don’t ask her, she can’t say no. But she also can’t say yes…”

“If I ask her to go as a friend, wouldn’t that just be lying?” he questions. “Because I don’t want t’ be her friend. I don’ want to be just her friend.”

“Think that’s all y’ can ask for at the moment. Rather have her as a friend than not in your life at all, right?”

“Guess so.”

“Harry…”

“No, you’re right,” he sighs, combing his free hand through his hair.

“Know I am.”

---

The day after calling Gemma, the flowers Harry ordered are delivered to your shop. Megan receives them, glancing at the card in the holder as she signs her name on the delivery slip. She runs to your office, squealing as quietly as she can in the industrial space.

“Oh my gosh!” she wiggles in your doorway, a wide-eyed toddler with a new toy. “Harry sent you flowers! Please tell me it’s Harry Styles. They’re peonies. They must be from Harry Styles!”

“Can I read the card, Meg?” you laugh, coming around your desk to take the vase from her. You pluck the small note from its holder, your mouth turning upward when you see the handwritten message.

I’M STILL VERY, VERY SORRY. FOR THE RECORD, VINTAGE VELVET WAS THE RIGHT (SEXIEST) CHOICE. X HARRY

“Yeah,” you nod. “It’s from him, all right.”

“What’s he sorry for?!” Megan can’t help herself - she’s braced against your desk, her face stuck straight into the beautiful pink and white blooms where you’d set them, her eyes wild as she tried to catch her breath.

“Nosy, nosy,” you shake your head, taking a smell of the flowers for yourself. “I gave his account t’ Carly after he called me on my personal number in the middle of the night,” you sit down again. “He was drunk and said he was calling because he wanted to hear my voice.”

“Wait,” Megan scoffs. “You gave Carly Harry Styles’ account because he called you in the middle of the night because he wanted to hear your voice?!”

“Yes.”

“I love you, but that is literally insane,” she huffs, plopping down into the chair opposite your desk. “Harry Styles personally delivers a bouquet of your favorite flowers to you, misses your voice and tells you so, then sends you flowers for telling you so, and then you give his account to Carly?! The job was almost done! Two weeks and it’d’ve been finished! And you give it to Carly?!”

“To be fair,” you smirk. “He sent the flowers after I gave the account to Carly.”

Megan looks at you, blinking slowly.

“What?” you laugh.

“Like that matters!” she throws her hands up in the air. “It’s Harry fuckin’ Styles!”

“I know it is,” you shake your head. “But that doesn’t mean he can call me whenever he’s drunk and wants a lay.”

“D’ya really think that’s why he was calling?” Megan asks, grabbing the card from the holder. “He said he wanted to hear your voice, right? Doesn’t sound like he was looking to boink you.”

“I’ve never gotten a drunken call at midnight with innocent intentions behind it,” you raise an eyebrow. “Have you?”

“Okay,” Megan considers your point. “Touche. But maybe he’s different! Everything ‘ve ever read about him points towards him be-”

“We’re not talking about what you’ve read,” you explain, taking the note from her hand and placing it underneath the desk calendar between the two of you. “He’s a good guy. He really is. But when that line is blurred or crossed or whatever, I have to redraw it, and you know that,” you look pointedly at Megan, willing her to understand your position. “So the account went to Carly.”

“Are you at least going to thank him for the flowers?”

“Of course!” you scoff, delicately running your fingertips over the petals. “I did what I had to do, but I’m not that mean.”

After eyeing the flowers for a bit longer, you shoo Megan back to work, reminding her that she still had to price the new pieces that had arrived earlier in the morning. You answer some emails while you decide on how to thank him.

Emailing seemed too professional.

A text seemed cruel - what string of emojis could you put together that conveyed how absolutely beautiful the flowers were, and that yes, you’d certainly forgiven him at this point?

You decide to call him, clearing your throat before clicking on his name.

“Hello?” Harry’s voice on the other line is unsure when he answers.

“Hey,” you chirp, hoping to set a positive tone. “Just calling because I wanted to hear your voice.”

Harry laughs then, a hearty chuckle that causes you to laugh as well.

“Suppose I deserve that one.”

“Maybe a little,” you smile. “I’m looking at a very lovely arrangement of peonies right now,” you glance over at the vase at the corner of your desk, the flowers pluming out of the sides. “Thank you for sending them. You didn’t have to.”

“Know I didn’t,” he shrugs, feeling a bit more confident at your positive tone. “Just wanted to.”

“Well, thank you,” you smile, slipping the note card from underneath the calendar that had just been flipped to February the day before. “Things with Carly are good, then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he affirms. “She’s great. You’ve taught her well.”

“I hope so. She’s a great part of our team.”

It’s silent for a few moments, but you’re unsure of where to take it from here.

“Listen, I-”

“Would y-”

You both begin speaking at the same time.

“Go ahead,” you say.

“No, it’s alright,” he clears his throat. “You go ahead.”

“I don’t even know what I was going to say,” you admit with a laugh. “So you go.”

“Okay,” he takes a breath. “Can I take you out to dinner?” his voice his nervous. “One last apology. Jus’ so it’s not weird if we ever see each other again. ‘n I promise not to make any advances,” he chuckles. “Jus’ two people goin’ out to dinner. As friends.”

You thumb the corner of the card, running your finger over his handwriting.

“I would really like that, Harry.”

---

The two of you plan to meet outside of the city in a small, quiet restaurant where you won’t be bothered. He feels wholly at ease when you greet him, your cheek warm against his when you offer it to him. The response was much more settling than the one you’d given him the last time he’d met up with you - this time, at least, you weren’t cowering away from him.

He decides on the same glass of wine you’d ordered - a dry red that warms him from the inside out - and tries not to let his imagination get carried away when you smile at him in the dim candlelight of the bistro.

“Remember that magazine I was doing a shoot with?” you inquire, your hands clasped neatly in front of you after you’d both ordered your meals.

“Course,” he nods, placing his wine glass down on the table. “HGTV, was it?”

“That’s the one,” you smile. “Well - and you’re the first person I’m tellin’ this to, so don’t get any wild ideas about spreading this information to anyone else,” you point at him with an exaggerated eyebrow raise like you’d done after telling him about the initial photoshoot. “They’ve asked me to fly out to LA in early March. Preliminary meetings, I think, but they wanna talk about a collaboration of some sort.”

“That’s amazin’,” Harry grins, his smile genuine. “That’s...wow. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” you sigh. “Not gonna get my hopes up or anythin’, but I’m pretty excited about it.”

“As you should be!” his eyebrows raise with the corners of his mouth as he grabs onto the stem of his wine glass. “Cheers to you, yeah? What a massive bit of good news!”

“Thank you, Harry,” you laugh, shaking your head as you lift your glass to his, clinking the rim of it to his. “Thought ‘d tell you the news, ‘cause you’re still the only one who knows about the magazine.”

His heart leaps in his chest at your confession, but he remains collected on the outside, changing the subject to something he’s more comfortable with.

“Have you ever been to LA?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, nibbling at the complimentary bread. “Flight’s a killer, but ‘m more than happy to make it.”

“Especially at this time of year. Early March in Los Angeles is a lot different than early March in London.”

“That’s very true,” you dip the crusty piece of bread into olive oil. “However, I will say I tend to miss dreary ol’ London if ‘m away for too long. LA is such a different world. Everyone is so nice - it boggles the mind, if I’m honest,” you smile when Harry lets out a laugh that could be qualified as a giggle. “What! It’s true! Always sayin’ thank you for this or that. I held the door open for y’ because it’s the proper thing t’ do, not because I wanted uncomfortable eye contact and a shoulder squeeze in return. A nod of the head’ll do, as far as that goes…”

The two of you keep easy conversation throughout your meal, speaking about your favorite places to travel to. Harry’s pulse skyrockets when you frown in response to him saying he’d been to so many cities, yet never had the time to really explore them all. He wishes - with more willpower than he’d ever mustered for anything else, he’s sure of it - that one day, he’d get to visit those places again. The next time, with more places to explore. The next time, with you.

You exchange stories about Nick and Harry makes you laugh so hard, you shed a tear or two at his anecdotes. He’s got an eerily accurate impression of his best friend, and he’s glad he got to use it on you. With the pressure of not reading into everything you say or do, Harry finds it effortless to be himself.

And, if he’s reading you correctly, you seem to enjoy this version of Harry.

A version he hadn’t allowed himself to show, up until now.

“Any travel plans for you, then?” you ask, steering the conversation away from your shared contact in Nick.

“Actually,” he moves his plate away from him. “‘m goin’ to Jamaica next week.”

“Are you really?” you sip on your water, tucking the straw between your teeth. “You lucky bastard.”

“Well,” he rubs his nose with a smile. “It’s for work, but it probably won’t feel like it.”

“What work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Recording. Gonna do this whole solo thing, I guess.”

“Recording your album? The first one?”

“The first one,” he nods, tapping his knuckles against the table. “Got everythin’ in place, so now’s all I have to do is record.”

“Well that’s not nearly as big of a deal as me going to LA for a meeting, but I’m sure you’ll get to that level someday,” you jeer, winking at him. When he scoffs, you laugh, shaking your head. “Really, Harry, that’s incredible. Y’must be so ready to get started. Must’ve been waiting for years to do this, yeah?”

“Guess so,” he rubs his palms on his thighs. “Bit scared, if ‘m tellin’ the truth.”

“You’d be mad not to be scared, I think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree, setting your glass of water down. “You’re scared because it means something. If you weren’t, that’d be more telling than anything, I think. It’s good of you to be nervous. Means you’re doin’ it right.”

He smiles at you in response, a closed-mouth symbol of gratitude. Everyone had told him not to be nervous - not to be scared. You’d been the first to make him feel like it was okay to fret over it. Relief floods over him and it’s the calmest he’s felt in months, all because you’d reassured him with a simple shrug and a flit of your hand.

“Excuse me,” the hostess who’d sat you approaches the table. The two of you look up, and she takes a step back, obviously intruding on a moment that was only meant for two. “I really hate to bother you but...if you are who I think you are…” she trails off, her voice shaking.

“Think I probably am,” Harry chuckles, running a finger down his chin. “‘m Harry,” he sticks out his hand, standing up as he does so. “What’s your name again?”

“Vanessa,” she nearly whispers, her fingers unable to quit fumbling at her sides.

“Vanessa,” Harry nods, as if he’d known it all along. “Nice to meet you, Vanessa.”

He glances at you in apology, but you shake your head and encourage him to continue. You must’ve figured that this was a part of being around Harry - how could you not have known that this was bound to happen at some point? You let him chat with the trembling girl who was nearly ready to combust, smiling at how gentle Harry was being with her. He’d likely comforted his fair share of girls just like Vanessa, you were willing to bet.

“Would you like me to take a picture?” you chime in.

“Oh, God!” the hostess laughs, grabbing onto your bicep when you stand up. “Yes, please. If that’s okay with…” she looks at Harry, who is intently focused on you.

“Of course,” he glances back at his fan, tucking his arm around her while you stand in front of them, taking a couple of snapshots before handing Vanessa’s phone back to her.

“Thank you so much,” she says to the both of you before tucking her phone in her pocket. “Enjoy the rest of your date.”

Harry thanks her, wishing her a good evening, before glancing back at you.

“A date,” you run your fingertip underneath your bottom lip. “She must’ve not heard about our agreement…”

“Must not’ve,” he clears his throat, sliding his finger down the condensation of his water glass. “Didn’t have to do that, y’know. Take that picture…”

“Know I didn’t,” you shrug, mimicking his words from your earlier phone conversation. “Just wanted to.”

Harry keeps good on his promise, and when he walks you to your car, he gives you a hug. You kiss him on the cheek, thanking him for the meal and conversation.

“I had a great time,” you admit.

“I did, too.”

You grip the handle to your driver’s side door, turning back to him before opening it.

“Thanks again, Har-”

“My birthday was yesterday,” he blurts out.

“What?” you release the handle, facing him fully. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“t’s not a big deal,” he shakes his head, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “But the new house is almost done, and it was m’birthday, and ‘m leavin’ for Jamaica for a whole month, so ‘m havin’ a party.”

“At the new place?”

“Yeah,” he bites his lower lip. “Kind of a housewarming slash birthday slash see-you-in-a-month kind of deal.”

“Quite a few slashes,” you note.

“I want you t’ come.”

“Okay,” you nod, sniffling due to the cold winter’s air.

“Carly said she’d come when I asked ‘er today, ‘cause she’s put together everything so nicely, but you’re the one who designed it all. Nick’s comin’, so’s basically my whole family. Y’don’t have t’ come if y’ don’t want to, but it’s your party too because you had such a big part in everythin’. But don’t feel pressured into it, because I don’t want y’ to feel like it’s something you have to do,” he bounces on his heels, looking up at the dark February sky.

“Harry,” you place a gloved hand onto his forearm. “I said I’d come.”

“Oh,” he stops bouncing, looking at you. “Oh. Okay. Great. Good!”

“I’d love to,” you smile. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

He resists rolling his eyes.

As if he’d spent any moment - waking or otherwise - in the past two months not thinking of you.

“Course,” he leans in for another hug, pleased when you accept it, your nose cold against the exposed skin on his neck. “Tomorrow at seven. You know the address,” he smirks at his own joke as he pulls away.

“I’ll be there,” you squeeze his arm before stepping to your car again.

“Text me when you get home?” Harry questions. “Just so I know you’re safe?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “See you tomorrow, Harry. Thank you for dinner.”

He tips his head to you, waving your car off as you drive away. On his walk back to his own car, he pulls out his phone, clicking on his sister’s name in the recent messages.

You know how much I hate saying this, he types. But I’ll always give credit where credit is due. You were right. About everything. xx

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurbs #harry styles concepts #harry styles x you #harry styles x reader #harry styles angst

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sarcasmfish · 7 years ago

Text

The Knight Shop: Chaperone

Cullen Rutherford works as a modern day knight at the Knight Shop, a quaint little place that rents knights for odd jobs and a cup of tea, all with the upheld honor of a knight. Dorian decides to rent a knight for his cousin as chaperone to a questionable date arranged by her father.

Cullen Rutherford x Talia Trevelyan

Read here on AO3

Author note: This is a bustling little AU on Tumblr that I adore. So I guess you could say that this is an AU of an AU? Wow. I never intended to write something like this and when I started I never intended to finish, but it seemed to get away from me.

The bell on the door chimed its happy greeting as Dorian pushed his way inside. The door was an old, heavy wood that stuck in warmer weather, chosen more than likely, to invoke an older time period than the modern bustle surrounding the quaint shop.

A woman, chiseled jaw and stern eyes, snapped a book shut and hurried to stow it beneath the counter she perched behind.

“Good morning. Welcome to the knight shop.” She folded her hands together atop the wood block counter. “My name is Cassandra. How can I assist you?”

Dorian took a cursory glance around the shops small entryway, taking in the replica armor displays with placards of detailed historical info displayed, a few sign boards with information on prices, even a small selection of merchandise, shirts, keychains, mugs, “I love Knights” bumper stickers.

There were professional portraits of available knights working at the shop, a few drew his eye closer than others. Once selected, would these knights arrive at your doorstep in full armor? No, that was rubbished. Wasn’t it?

He snapped his attention back to the woman awaiting his response.

“I would like to hire a knight for my cousin.”

The woman swept her hand toward the wall of portraits.

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?”

Dorian scanned over the photos again. They were housed in ornate, but elegant frames. There were several appealing faces, but he was not shopping for himself at the moment.

“Hmm, not particularly.” He tapped his chin a moment in thought. “Who would follow rules the best?”

“Cullen.” she answered without hesitation and slid a form and pen across to him.

---

Cullen arrived a few minutes early to the posh tea room in an area of town he had never set foot in before.

He had dressed as requested, a simple understated black suit and narrow tie. Even still, he felt under dressed compared to the rest of the patrons within. He had anticipated some sort of modern coffee shop trying to cater to higher crowds by calling itself a tea shop. What he found instead could have stepped right out of some Victorian era drama right off of the television.

Each table was busy with gossiping guests dressed their best, as if they had just left a church service or important business meeting. Even the wait staff was impeccable. How did they keep stains off their uniforms so well?

Large, bright windows at the far side of the room of quaint tables overlooked a lavish garden, complete with koi pond and cherub fountain in the center. Every plant seemed to be in bloom. The water sparkled in the reflecting sunlight and birds flittered from petal to petal, inspecting each flower for its bounty. It must have taken an army of gardeners to keep everything looking so magazine worthy.

He scanned the crowded, murmuring tables and found his client. The woman sat, serene, seemingly waiting for nothing. A cup of steaming tea sat beside her untouched. He would have expected her to be tapping away at a phone or reading a book while she waited for his arrival, but instead she sat observing her surroundings, prim hands clasped beneath the lace pastel tablecloth.

He approached and offered the sketch of a bow.

“My lady. I am Cullen Rutherford, your knight for the day.”

She looked up, openly appraising him. He expected her gaze to be something haughty, judging like the ones he could feel behind his back as he had walked in. But the depth of her eyes were curious, tinted with a generous amount of wary concern. If there was something more it was well hidden.

“Thank you, ser Cullen.” She gave a small, wry smile at the title and Cullen found himself returning it.

The woman had a delicate accent, from what part he could not place. She spoke with care, obvious polish rounding every word. Instead of making her seem stuck-up the accent just finished off the delicate librarian look her pinned up hair and thin glasses had begun.

There were two other chairs at the small table and she gestured for him to take the one beside her, to her left.

A waiter arrived at his elbow as soon as he sat down. It was still morning, so Cullen decided on coffee.

The woman beside him was watching him from the corner of her eye. That open curiosity kept her eyes moving. Was she trying to figure him out or catch him revealing his true nature?

Cullen straightened as the waiter left to return his order. “It’s uh… this is a nice place. I’ve never been before.”

Her expression changed almost immediately from wary to excited.

“The Pennington family has owned it for many decades. They opened it as a meeting place for some of the first Templar orders and the second owner dedicated the gardens to his young daughter who was just smitten with the outdoors. My uncle once…” She caught herself, a touch of pink highlighting her cheeks. “I’m sorry. You were just making small talk, not asking for the history of the place.”

The way she spoke was small, polite, diffusing, as if she were unused to carrying on much conversation that did not follow a pattern or script. He found himself curious to hear more of what she would say.

“I love history.”

Her eyes pulled away from his only to return. They were filled with a stunning light that made them almost as blue as some of the flowers she spoke of. “The… the gardens are very beautiful. They’re an old Orleasian design, but the plants are all thriving in Ferelden. The Crystal Grace is in bloom right now. The birds are in love with it and can’t stay away.”

He looked out through the grand windows overlooking the garden, picking up some of the details she had described. “I never thought I would appreciate something so Orleasian so much.”

That wary hesitance in her eyes was vanishing at his interest. “My family has a garden of Antivan influence, lots of marble and high pillars.”

From anyone else the statements might have seemed boastful, but from her they were excited and eager. “Many of the plants don’t do well in the colder months here, but we’ve gotten them to survive. It takes a lot of work and some of them spend months out of the year in a greenhouse, but it’s well worth it to see them when they’re finally able to bloom.”

Cullen leaned a little closer, hoping to hear more about her interest in gardens.

“Ah! There you are!

Another man strode toward the table, steps sure and purposeful. He was almost as tall as Cullen, but the suit he wore was of some fine material Cullen could not identify. The cut was sewn as if were crafted just for him, which it more than likely had been. A beaming smile full of perfect white teeth was a permanent fixture on his face. His hair was dark, more brown than black, and slicked back with a more than generous helping of product.

“Miss Talia Trevelyan!” He grasped her hand and kissed the back of it before she had even fully offered it across the table. “It’s so good to see you again! It seems like it’s been ages.”

The man paused as his eyes drifted to Cullen, confusion and something else squinting his eyes.

“Cullen Rutherford,” he supplied, offering his own hand to shake. “I –“

“He’s my escort for today,” Talia interrupted with a pleasing smile.

“Ah! Oh yes, escort.” The man gave a chuckle that seemed amused at the idea, but he relaxed and shook Cullen’s hand with a firm, practiced grip. It reminded Cullen of the last time had, had to buy a car.

“Stephen Castelan. Good to meet you.” He sat down in the open chair at their table. “Rutherford, hmm… I’m trying to place that name. Is your family –“

Talia picked up her cup of tea from the saucer with a clattering that drew both men’s attention. Cullen was willing to bet the move was absolutely intentional.

“Stephen, I don’t believe I’ve seen you since the Autumn Seasonal. How is your family?”

He brightened, captured by the question.

“My father put me in charge of acquisitions for the company. Finally! I’ve been running nearly half of the entire business for almost the last six months. It’s been thrilling.”

The waiter returned with a large pot of coffee and a small tray of cream and sugar. Cullen poured himself a coup with a touch of cream while Stephen heaped sugar into his own. Talia watched them both, eyes full of interest. He felt like they were being studied. If her hands had not been wound around the cooling cup of tea he would not have been surprised to see her writing notes.

Stephen took a sip of coffee before continuing to describe his growing role at his father’s company. The man needed no more caffeine. He gestured and spoke with grand enthusiasm, spinning tales of his accomplishments and mastery. Cullen spent more time worried about the coffee pot being knocked over than what he was saying.

Talia nodded and laughed in all the appropriate places, but did not interrupt. Occasionally she threw small glances Cullen’s way. He offered her an encouraging smile when he could. She would dart her eyes back to the man across the table, but the tiny amusement in her lips had Cullen feeling like this was their own private joke. He had lost count of how many billions Stephen had saved the company or how many hours of polo the extra work had cost him. Cullen had the luxury of tuning him out and taking in his surroundings. She did not.

In a lull of business stories Cullen found himself blurting, “Talia was just telling me about some of the flowers that were in bloom.”

Both stared at him, Stephen even blinked once or twice as if he had forgotten the other man had been sitting at the table with them. Talia set her cup aside and clasped her hands atop the table. He watched her collect herself after almost shrinking from the attention. He felt awful for putting her on the spot so suddenly.

“We just acquired a fertilizer factory, actually. Manure is surprisingly lucrative.” Stephen stepped in to fill the silence and Cullen glowered at him unnoticed as Talia went back to dwelling in silence.

“That sort of brings me to something I was hoping to discuss with you.”

Talia tilted her head, indicating an unspoken interest. There was a flicker of some emotion that she immediately quelled.

“I’d really like to be able to meet with you again.” Stephen leaned forward, an eager and excited expression taking over. Their current get together had hardly started and already the man was asking for more?

Talia shifted in place, giving a quick glance at Cullen before clearing her voice.

“Oh, that might be possible. I would need time to look at my schedule and make sure ser Cullen was available.” She cut her eyes to him again and he nodded in agreement, taking note of the tiny sign of relief in her brows.

“Oh, of course! Maybe over dinner sometime with your father.”

“My father?” Her shoulders stiffened, but otherwise the question remained innocent.

“Yes, I haven’t spoken to him in years and nothing more than greeting. I would love to see him again.”

Her eyes narrowed just the slightest. Stephen did not seem to catch on to the turn in their conversation. He continued blundering forward as if nothing had changed.

“I think our businesses could profit from each other.” A grin found its way to his face, ambitious and earnest. “Now that I’ve taken over so much of the company I know so much more about the way things work within it. I’ve been brainstorming some ways that we could branch out and diversify ourselves out of the current markets that we’ve been locked into for so many stagnant decades.”

Stephen went for another breath of air, but Talia interrupted.

“You don’t want to dine with me. You want to meet with my father.”

The connection finally met. Stephen’s eyes widened. “No! I mean yes. I do want to meet with you. And I’ll have to meet with your father eventually anyhow, right?” He offered a charming smile, the implications of that sentence hanging in the air.

Talia straightened, a patient, but weary smile on her lips. It was practiced, old and thin like she had been using it for too long. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

The man scrambled to salvage the crumbling conversation, panic filling his features. Cullen almost felt sorry for the man as things fell apart in his hands.

“Wait! Your father set this whole meeting up with mine.” His tone strained to impart his sincerity. He reached across the table to grab her hand.

Talia immediately froze, eyes growing wide and full of a look that spurred Cullen to action. He latched onto the other man’s wrist in a firm grip, not painful, but enough to get a message across.

Stephen shot a glare at Cullen, a warning in his eyes.

“Let go of her.” His voice was low enough to not draw attention from the bustling room, but enough of a threat to make the man yank back his grip.

Talia withdrew her hands from the table and slipped them beneath the tablecloth. He could see her rubbing at the one that had been grabbed.

He marshaled himself not to form his words into a snarl. “Did he hurt you?”

The woman stared at him as if processing his words before shaking her head.

“I’m ok,” she whispered.

“If you’d just give me a moment to –“

“This meeting is over.” Cullen stood and offered Talia his hand.

“You can’t just –“ Stephen sputtered up at him, his voice rising. Pairs of eyes began to turn in their direction, curiosity and hunger for gossip making them predatory. “You’re just a-“

Talia just stared at his hand and it came to his mind now that he was asking to break the first rule Dorian had laid down for this job.

He could feel heat rise on his neck at the scene this was becoming. Cassandra would string him from the rooftop if his name became a source of scandal.

Stubborn honor made Cullen refuse to withdraw his hand. If the woman refused him at least she had an out now. She could lay the blame at his feet, but escape this floundering man that sought to use her. He kept his chin high, his back straight. Let the gentry stare. They would not sway him from what he felt was right.

Talia was staring up at him, eyes wide. Maker, they were blue. They drifted from his own, to his hand, and back.

Stephen was still rambling on. Distant threats and warnings faded in his ears as Talia placed her hand within his and stood.

Her hand was different than how he imagined, and he was embarrassed to admit he had been imagining it. It was small in his own, but not soft. He could feel a roughness to the pads of her fingers and palm. Somehow in her affluent life, full of rules and expectations, she had found something to do with her hands.

He gave her a reassuring smile as Stephen tossed his cloth napkin to the charger and spat his ire. He found himself near breathless when she returned it.

He turned from the table and offered her his arm, praying this was not some silly gesture used only on TV dramas. He was rewarded with the warmth of her as she stepped closer to slip her hand into the crook of his elbow.

Cullen could not help but feel like a real knight as he escorted her outside. He could have sworn he saw a few older patrons give him a brief nod of approval. Maybe his name would not be muddied after all.

Her steps slowed as they reached the watery sunlight. It was an overcast day out, but bright enough to not be dreary. Fall had brought about an undercurrent of chill, just a nip of wind now and then to warn of future weather.

Cullen brought his steps in line with her own, content to meander at her pace.

“What did Dorian tell you?” There was a bite to her words, but not directed at him.

“Only to defend the princess’s honor.” Dorian had demanded confidentiality on the details of the contract. Cullen put on his most charming smile, hoping she would not press further.

She gave an exasperated sigh, but did not pry for more.

Her steps began to falter as they reached the parking lot.

“Ser Cullen, thank you for-“

“I’m to see you to your car, my lady.” Her hand almost slipped from his arm but his interruption kept it in place.

“You don’t have to.”

“I do.” He stated simply, hoping the firmness in his voice would quell any further debate.

He could hear her mutter Dorian’s name, but she continued leading him to her vehicle.

Cullen did not consider himself a car man. He could appreciate a well-made car and would certainly never turn down the opportunity to drive one, but he did not have every make, model, engine detail, and price memorized.

She led him to some sort of BMW that fell between sporty and conservative. The stormy grey paint was spotless and Cullen wondered if there was a butler hired just to buff it every day. The sunroof, tinted windows, and detailed wheels completed what must have been a car dealer’s dream sale.

He may not have been an enthusiast, but he knew an expensive car when he saw one.

Talia withdrew the keys from her small purse and clutched them in her hand. She was avoiding his eyes and the car. The silence that had been so comfortable between them as they had walked now grew strained and awkward.

Cullen cleared his throat and fought for something to say. “It’s a um… it’s a nice car.”

It was as if she had been waiting for him to say it. Her shoulders sagged and she gave a weary nod. Cullen ground his teeth and wished he could recall the words.

“Thanks.” The response was muttered and insincere.

She clicked a button on the keys and the car chirped a happy response, unaware of the strife it was causing.

The woman that had took his hand and smiled so warmly at him was gone, replaced with someone small and closed. Cullen struggled to gather his wits before she breezed from his life.

“I apologize.” He found himself blurting, not even entirely sure what he was apologizing for.

She blinked up at him as if she had to process the meaning of those words. The light did not return to her eyes and he found himself missing that curiosity that had burned so bright just moments ago.

“It’s alright.” She mumbled, reaching for the door handle.

He reached for it first and stepped aside to sweep open the door for her.

“It isn’t if I have made you uncomfortable.”

She hesitated, toying with the keys in her hands as the moment stretched out between them.

Talia finally nodded.

“It’s just…” She gave a little uncommitted shrug, finally turning her eyes back to him. They were full of something that pulled at him to understand meanings beyond what she was saying. “This isn’t me.”

Those words resonated within him and found matching ones buried somewhere in his memories. This is not me. He had once shouted those words to himself, repeated them each day during each memory that threatened to engulf him and carry him away like a wayward tide. She had been born into this life, he had chosen his. Those words came from a different place for him, but the message was the same.

He placed his hand over his heart, giving her a brief bow. “I would never presume that it was.”

She stared up at him, searching his eyes for truth. He held her gaze, letting her see the way her words had found purchase within him.

After a moment a shy smile touched her lips, heralding the blush that touched her pale cheeks. Her head ducked down at just the right moment to miss the matching one crawling from his neck.

“At first I was furious at Dorian for this… this knight thing. But now I’m glad for it.”

She set her bag into the car and slid into the seat. Cullen stood fumbling for a moment for words, his hand still perched on the top of the car door.

“I hope to see you again, Talia.” He had decided on simple, but the words insisted on continuing. “Maybe as something other than a knight. Well, I’ll always be a knight, but… I mean-“

He slapped his hand to his forehead, fingers finding his temples as that blush turned fierce. He was rewarded with a kind laugh.

“I would like that, ser Cullen.”

The answering grin could not be kept from his face. He gave her once last glance before shutting the door and stepping away.

That grin stayed with him until he returned to the office and Cassandra caught the look in his eyes.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfic #fanfic #cullen rutherford #modern au #knight shop au #cullen rutherford x inquisitor #modern

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sassasquashedgrapes · 7 years ago

Text

Beauty's Entrapment, The Sleeping Beauty series

Hello there!

This is inspired by the 2011 Australian film, Sleeping Beauty starring Emily Browning with an Eyes Wide Shut Stanley Kubrick feel.

I wrote the draft of this story in about mid 2012, and it's a bit obvious I took in some of the characters from the British E4 Series, Made in Chelsea as part of my inspiration for the other supporting characters (hehe, was a huge fan of the show).

So anyway, initially, I had intended this to be a short story of sorts, but as I revisited this plotline, I'm not quite sure on whether to continue it, but I hope you like it.

Enjoy!

**Warning: NSFW for nudity, excessive alcohol & drug use, sex with underlying rape theme, and obscene language. Rated R-17.

* * * *

***

Beauty’s Entrapment

“I’m telling you, man. It’s the craziest fucking thing I’ve ever done,” Walt throws his head back and lets out a guffaw as we listen with piqued interest at a recollection he encountered two fortnights before.

“So, basically you just lie in bed next to a naked hot girl and not fuck her?” Oliver Patman rubs his well-manicured hand thoughtfully against his clean shaven chin and taps his index finger emphasizing on the words: DO. NOT. FUCK.THE.HOT.GIRL, his eyes dubious behind the huge horn-rimmed tortoise shell glasses.

He’s the only one who is dressed casually in an off-beat gray shirt with a huge cross with a pair of eyes on them and black Diesel pants.

The rest of us are in suits and have just agreed meet up for some after lunch drinks at one of the newest bars that opened in SoHo.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Spencer Stevens scoffs as he raises his half empty class of martini and points at it imperiously to the bartender to throw him another hit.

“You have to admit there’s something poignant about the thought of lying next to someone who’s vulnerable and all you can do is absolutely nothing,” Tom Belhaven murmurs.

“Sounds like you can relate with that,” Stevens is at his fourth round and eyes Tom with derisive viciousness, taking in the redhead’s wildly psychedelic patterned pink Missoni shirt that’s given me a migrane in the last hour. As I finish the remains of the Madeira, which I consume hastily because I’m tempted to order a Vodka or something stronger. I realize that it’s 2 in the afternoon and I have to meet Lyca as she’s been dying to look over apartments on the East Village.

“Knock it off, Stevens.” I cock an eyebrow and smirk at the pretentious bastard.

“He may be a virgin but at least he was never fat.”

“Oh, fuck. Must we reminisce?”

“What did you call it Spenny, your Adele phase?” Walt chuckled as Spencer purses his lips and grins unabashedly.

“I’m sorry, Belhaven.”

But Tom is miles away as he cranes his necks and loosens the powder blue bow-tie.

Five of us sit idly around the bar as Walt patiently answers each of our questions. I turn and order a J&B, deciding that Lyca isn’t probably going to care if I have alcohol on my breath when I kiss her. She’s been doing this new ballet pilates exercise and swears she’s going to look better than Natalie Portman circa Black Swan.

Plus with her busy doing PR for a new client dubbed to be the next Zac Efron, it wasn’t a surprise either that my so-called longtime girlfriend is fucking him on the side as a bonus.

Not that I care anyway. She’s already slept with Oliver and had been fucking Spencer behind my back for the past two years I’ve lost track.

Carrington Walters the Third, whom we fondly call Walt because he refuses to be given a moniker like the Third as it sounds similar to ‘turd’; has been my closest friend since our days at Eton.

I grew up with Spencer, Oliver, and was next door neighbors with Tom but because Walt was the descendant of a famous English cookie and my grandfather was the last Earl of Mondevale, it only seemed appropriate that we taint our American blood with our long forgotten British heritage.

I rub my eyes occasionally, fighting the urge to sleep.

I’ve been working seventy hours a week for the last few months now that I’ve made senior partner at Lyndon & Pryce. I am the youngest ever to achieve the honor and lately I’ve been slacking my ass off not giving a rat’s ass, blanking in and out during meetings and mergers.

I sit and listen to Walt talk animatedly waving his hands on the air like a music conductor as I take in deep swallows of the J&B.

Belhaven sits on the other end, not listening to a word, as he eyes the huge Jackson Pollock painting as if it were the most interesting thing on earth while to me it looked like something from an infant who just barfed on a white Egyptian cotton bed sheet.

Patman looks at his glass occasionally, contemplating if he should order another round but because he’s been on strict detox, he digresses.

Stevens listens amiably, but he’s been eyeing the pretty brunette from the far side of the table whose been giving me salacious looks since we arrived.

* * *

“I’m a friend of Carrington Walters,” I answer the elderly bird-like lady who is dressed like a gothic governess during the Victorian era who greets me at the door.

How I managed to even bother with Walt’s suggestion that I go here was a stroke of spontaneity.

I had done my duty going around looking for apartments with Lyca. She had opted instead that the East Village had been deemed as ‘unfit’ for her aura and is now looking towards us getting something near Fifth Street, which would still be considered miles away from her parents living in Park Avenue.

I assume this is because she’s afraid that someone would catch her bringing home her latest ‘pet’ while I was sitting on my ass in the office, sleeping it off after a round of codeine and alcohol.

Instead of coming home to my stark white apartment on the West Village, that was covered in at least three muted shades of gray and black with nothing but a gigantic authentic samurai armor for décor as the piece de resistance, I hailed a taxi and asked to be driven at the specified address Walt relayed earlier.

It was out of sheer luck that the driver was willing to drive me anywhere near Rhode Island, as I fished in a couple of hundred dollar bills telling him I’d make it worth his while.

I had gotten off work at 9 and thought, what the fuck, any party that Walt brings in has got to be fun.

Besides, I thought to myself; I earned it anyway.

I’m brought to a sprawling three story mansion near Rhode Island that reminds me of one owned by the Vanderbilts with the Neo-Victorian era slash Tudor designed architecture.

I could tell the place was far younger as the plastered walls still didn’t achieve that aged appearance. I take a good look inside and could tell by the vast display of dark Persian rugs that this house was merely more for show because it looked too ostentatious for anyone to live here.

The bird-like Governess ushers me into something that reminds me of a waiting room with antique black steel ornate chairs lined with plush red velvet that remind me of a Gothic Versailles.

Now as I recall those days I spent in Paris roaming around King Louis XIV’s chateau, it was indeed like the place but better suited for Bram Stoker’s Dracula and his Vampire Brides with its Baroque styled interior furnishing.

Blood. Sex & Rock and Roll.

I’m so enthralled that I barely notice the tall statuesque redhead who looks old enough to be my mother.

She’s expensively dressed in head to toe Chanel and is wearing Christian Louboutin pumps that may have been appropriate for a woman half her age, but because of her undeniably perfect legs she puts it off well enough.

Her strawberry blonde hair is neatly styled into a coif and her entire outfit reminds me of a Stepford Wife. H

er cold blue eyes meet my hazel browns and she looks at me from head to toe, giving me an appraisal that I’m not quite sure whether she approves or not. I cock my head to the side and wait for her to finish giving me her stare down. When she’s done with her inspection, I offer my hand and introduce myself. She responds by saying that her name is Evelyn Collins.

I get the feeling that she’s lying, but don’t comment on that either.

“I take it you have been briefed in by your friend on how we deal with our matters?” she inquires but it sounds more like a statement than a question.

I nod curtly.

“We have a moral code here that the girls are not to be penetrated under any circumstances and I am taking your word as a gentleman that you will stand by that rule.”

“Yes,” I answer contritely like an obedient prep school boy.

She looks again at me to judge my sincerity. Her piercing gaze narrows as she assesses me by taking in my features as if she were mentally calculating a difficult problem that needed to be solved immediately.

“You are not what I expected from Mr. Walters usual referrals.”

“Is it because I��m younger?” Based from Walt’s stories, this decadent discovery was a revered endorsement given by his 60 year old uncle who was not only rich as Midas but was an absolute lecher.

Walt had been introduced to the lifestyle as a means of finding new ideas on events planning at he’s been working as an events coordinator for one of New York’s bigger, more successful nightclubs.

This ranked as one of his monthly dalliances, the kind that to most would have been considered like trying a new restaurant or going to that latest spa for the heck of it.

From Walt’s endorsement at the bar earlier this afternoon, the rules were that the man could do anything to the heavily drugged women except engage in sexual intercourse, which was probably was something mostly old men who were dependent on Viagra could do without.

I heard of brothels during the Japanese Feudal era where men visited places such as these just for the pleasure of lying beside opium laden beautiful women just to watch them sleep.

As I recalled during my brief Japanese Literature class in Yale about a novel written by Yasunari Kawabata telling a tale of where rich men of a certain elderly age paid high amounts of money to visit a place where they could spend a night sleeping with beautiful young girls.

So it was no surprise that Evelyn Collins would readily assume this.

However, her next words take me by surprise.

“It’s because you’re attractive,” she says flatly.

I’m well over six feet in height, weigh 180 pounds of lean muscle, I exercise regularly and have been joining triathlons since I entered law school in Harvard. I had dark brown hair and piercing hazel brown eyes that complimented my tanned skin. I owe it my mother, whose Malaysian and Portuguese heritage added to the Eurasian mix had blended it well enough that I still managed to maintain the best of the Caucasian features, but with dark, bronze-skinned coloring that many of my friends envied.

Walt on the other hand, compared to me was less attractive standing at five foot seven inches with a shock of pale blond hair, an Irish boxer’s nose that often reminded me of a parrot, and had a tendency to turn beet red if he had too much sun exposure.

His uncle was a 300 pound version of my friend.

She then swiftly changes the topic and asks briefly about my background. I feel no shame and tell her about myself, what schools I’ve attended, that I’ve been living in Manhattan for most of my life except that time when my parents sent me off to Eton, my travels and other particulars.

She seems neither disapproving nor impressed and I get this feeling that she employs this method rather out of courtesy than curiosity.

I’m also more than certain that there have been more distinguished men who have like me gone through the same process, yet somehow I feel as if she’s also testing me: whether to see I am worthy to even be stuck in this presence.

After my ‘interview’, she pauses for a moment and I bite the urge of excusing myself and getting the fuck out of here as I feel as if I’ve overstepped my boundaries.

After what felt like a contemplation that took almost forever, Evelyn finally speaks.

“I’ve changed my mind about you. I won’t give you the usual treatment that Mr. Walters expects. Yours will be something….different, but special nonetheless.”

She adds as she lifts the white porcelain phone beside her and speaks in a low, soft voice in fluent French that I could barely comprehend the words she utters except for the distinct word ‘virgin girl’.

She hangs up and offers me a genteel smile and a nod signaling that I am to follow her to the next adjacent room.

She opens the paneled doors and ushers me inside a huge bedroom heavily draped in dark red curtains that cover the high paneled windows. She then nods and mutters goodnight to me, leaving me alone as I take in the full view of the room but instead of minding the décor, my eyes zero in on the woman sleeping underneath the covers of the huge bed that is centrally located in the room.

As I approach her, I am unmindful of the fact that the walls are heavily painted in deep shades of red with a high back chair that rests besides a huge king-sized four poster bed that’s decked with a heavy Oak wood headboard and decked with sheets that are matched in leathery brown hues and red giving it an aristocratic, yet highly masculine feel.

I stand beside the naked girl with burnished honey colored hair and pale lucent white skin that complements the bed as if she herself were included in the ornate decoration.

Just by looking at her I automatically know that she’s young, probably at least barely legal or at least 18 years of age. Which isn’t too young for a man of my age at 25 years, except that she had probably had men far older than myself.

I continue to stare as I watch her sleep, almost anticipating her to wake up, but her even breathing suggests that whatever Evelyn had given her had knocked her out cold.

I marvel how she really is a pretty fetching thing.

There was an innocent sexiness about her in that delicately angled face with russet colored thick eyelashes and delicately arched eyebrows that have been shaped to perfection; a light dusting across her pert straight nose and pink sensual lips that reminded me of those pretty ingénues starring on those teen dramas that my younger sister loved to watch.

She had the look right down to a pat. While myself, I preferred dark haired sophisticated, sensual women like Lyca, whose long straight chestnut hair and ebony eyes and tan skin on well toned curves were more befitting for a centerfold on Maxim’s.

However, I could care less about my girlfriend at the moment for there was something enthralling about the sleeping girl that as if she could hear me, I find myself easily conversing with her.

“Hi, my name is…” I drift in midsentence, realizing she could give a fuck what my name is and is probably dreaming of some prince charming who looked like me that would rescue her and get her out of here instead of being caressed by some geezer who’s old enough to be her grandfather.

I smile in wry amusement wondering how indeed she would react if she knew that instead of being stuck with a saggy assed lecher, she was to spend a night with me.

I’m finding this no-penetration rule thing a lot harder to abide by the minute.

So instead, I fish around my suit jacket and take out a pack of Dunhills. I shrug myself out of my jacket and toss it to the chair beside me and sit on the free side of the bed as I cross my long legs.

Due to the enormous size of the bed, I don’t feel the need to move her and move in closer that I’m on the opposite side, acting as a reluctant guardian as I lie on top of the covers while she’s underneath and almost with a slight hesitation, I turn towards her as if to ask permission to what I’m about to do.

“Do you mind? Of course you don’t.”

I light up the first cigarette and take a deep breath, inhaling the goodness of the nicotine adding up to my system already mixed with two tablets of Vicodine that I’ve downed with a shot of Remy Martin.

I’m relieved Evelyn barely noticed how bloodshot my eyes were when I had first arrived at the mansion as I again turn to take a look at my lovely bed partner whose deep breathing was in sync that her mouth exhaled in a delicately sweet sigh that sounded incredibly erotic for something so menial.

For the first time, in what I may have considered may have been far longer than I could ever recall, here was a female who was unaware of my presence.

She appears oblivious to the man smoking beside her as she continues with her current comatose state, unmindful of the smoke emanating my hands.

I had been used to countless of women giving me fascinated looks, or wondering if I was the devil incarnate like how Evelyn had done earlier.

I’m also accustomed to being talked to incessantly to by women like Lyca, who could just never seem to be content on whether to fire her current facialist who does home services or take advantage of her friend’s newly opened spa, but thinks that she isn’t ready to trust herself especially with the Vietnamese as she feels like one of them might do a Viet Cong on her face that might scare off her new tricolored Cavalier King Charles Spaniel puppy, Alex who is said to be of the same litter as the dog belonging to Kate Middleton.

In fact, for the longest time that I could ever recall, this is the first time I felt that a woman is completely oblivious to my presence.

I’m not sure if it’s because of the drug interaction to my system that’s done me in or just out of pure ennui that I begin having a one sided conversation with the woman sleeping beside me.

I think of a mundane to talk about to initially amuse me, since there really wasn’t much to do. I wasn’t sleepy either in spite of my inebriated drugged state, so I talk about my day at work, about my relationship with Lyca and how I wasn’t sure if I wanted to really marry her because her father had just made me senior partner at his firm and somehow expected that out of me.

I tell her about my mother which was rarely something I did because I haven’t spoken about her since the day she walked out of my life and divorced my father for plastic surgeon from Brazil who turned out to have a fake license and is now being sued heavily for malpractice.

I then turned the conversation about my boyhood and Walt and how I had come around to finding this place.

Then finally I describe to her my father, my older brother and little sister whom I haven’t spoken to in a year because I just ‘didn’t feel like talking’ to them. I realize that after what seemed like a soliloquy that had drained me out completely, added to the fact that I had just run out of cigarettes and that dawn was close approaching, I take a long puff of my last cigarette and glance again at the still sleeping form beside me.

The entire night she had not moved a muscle but that had not bothered me in the least because I knew from her heavy breathing that somewhere in the deepest depths of her slumber, she had perhaps dreamt of a man who did nothing but sit beside her and give a brief summary about his life.

Perhaps she dreamt too if she had wondered who I was, what I looked like, who my people where, and my character.

But alas, she just slept it off without a toss like she could give a fuck. I was beginning to like her already.

I threw a grim smile over that delectable sleeping form and said, “Well, goodnight to you as well. Sleep while you can.”

With that, I put out my cigarette butt on the ash tray and sleep beside her without touching her. It was the deepest, most peaceful slumber I had ever experienced.

It lasted for an hour.

***

“You cheeky devil you.” Walt was grinning ear to ear as we have lunch at the new Japanese restaurant at Tribeca as news from Evelyn had reached my precocious friend about my dalliance last night.

“When I told the boys about that sleeping beauty brothel, I would have expected Belhaven or even Stevens to have gone there. But you? Have you finally broken things up with Angelica already?”

“Lyca doesn’t know I went there so I would appreciate you keep your mouth shut,” I answer dryly as I reach in another serving of raw prawn and dunk it on the hot plate in front of me.

“Hey, you know you can trust me, I’m your boy!” Walt isn’t exactly thrilled with my relationship with Lyca knowing her turbulent history but he knows better than to meddle as her family also handles the legal part of his business.

“Evelyn was rather impressed by you.” I snort in disbelief.

“She looked like she was debating whether I was the spawn of Satan then I get upgraded by being assigned to sleep with the jeune fille vierge.” I say, repeating the exact French words used to describe the delightfully sensual young woman, whom I had truly little doubt was still a virgin in reality given with looks like hers.

Walt’s eye grow twice in size in amazement and he gives a hoot of laughter.

“That’s fucking amazing! Do you know what that means?” He taps me against my shoulder and inspects my reaction and I shrug in indifference as I continue to eat my noodles.

“It’s like the highest honor the House gives to their guests.”

When Walt doesn’t see any recognition on my face he quickly explains.

“Remember when we were in Yale and we had that class with Mr. Ichikawa on Japanese Feudalism? He gave us that novel to read on our spare time about the House of Sleeping Beauties where this old impotent dude practically sleeps with every virgin in the house, saying that one chick is different from another in sleep.

The same rules follow in the Chateau de Beaute Dorme as my Uncle calls it. It starts as a bidding.

All the gentlemen of the room are presented with a beavy of beautiful women wearing Venetian masks to conceal their features, dressed up in lingerie, serving them dinner, barely speaking a word to them as they dine.

The women wear little make-up except for the lipstick that’s the same shade as, get this, their vagina.” Walt snickers as he recounts the dinner he had to endure not being able to chat nor charm the women. “ He takes a long sip of his Asahi Super dry, as if running out of breath from explaining before he resumes.

“The most prominent server is the one who apart from all the other women who wear different colored lingerie, she’s decked in pure white and is called the jeune fille vierge and is also known as the head server. She’s the most special of all of them, because not only is she fucking expensive, but her Duenna, that’s Evelyn to us only bestows that honor to the one they call Le Roi Charmant, who could either be the Head of the table or the male host or the highest selected bidder.”

Walt then gives me a pointed look, like he’s examining me in some revalida.

“But I see it on your face that you weren’t invited to a banquet nor did you have to bid for her either.”

“No, I wasn’t.” I answered slightly bewildered by the notion.

“And that’s what makes it twice more impressive in your case,” Walt laughs as he quickly downs his second round of sake that his gin blossom is starting to show.

“You have to get an invite first. I only told it to you guys so Evelyn could register your names and arrange a party for us but I guess when she met you, she thought differently and made you go all the way instead. Which reminds me, how much did you pay her?”

I answer in the amount agreed upon on that first night.

Walt now looks amazed.

“That’s barely even close to the asking price for a jeune fille. My uncle wanted the same privilege and even charged twice, but Evelyn decline and offered him a different girl, one she said that had far more, erm, experience in dealing with men.”

Walt looks over his shoulder as if he doesn’t want to be heard and lowers his voice.

“You see there was this incident with a previous girl who was selected as the jaune fille vierge but woke up earlier than scheduled and found that she was lying naked to a dead old man.”

He shakes his head, as if trying to get that image off his head.

“Rumor has it that the poor girl was so traumatized that she was confined to a mental hospital and never recovered. So these days, they’re more careful and selective with their patrons and the girls they choose.”

“So are the jaune filles really virgins?”

Walt grins devilishly. “Who knows? The only way you’ll find out is if you stick your cock in her, but that’s against the rules. Though I would like to see someone try.”

***

I swore to myself that I wasn’t going to see her and do this again, but I find myself looking at the card given me by Evelyn. I dial the number and make arrangements with Claude, the House chauffer who is a taciturn fellow as we drive in silence as thoughts of the turn of last night’s events run through my mind.

I cancel my date with Lyca, telling her that I wasn’t feeling well and needed to sleep early.

I could tell from the tone of her disinterested voice that she didn’t really care even though she had at least made an effort to pout her prettily saying that she was going to miss me.

But my thoughts aren’t even remotely centered on Lyca’s lips but are towards someone else’s.

“It’s good again to see you,” Evelyn pauses and gives me a formal nod when she sees me again at the waiting area.

“I trust you had enjoyed your first night.”  

“I did,” I admitted sheepishly. “It was quite unexpectedly pleasant.”

“Then I take it you are not interested in choosing another girl?”

“No, I like the first one just fine.” I felt ridiculous as I didn’t even know her name. Polite conversation tells me that I should at least inquire.

“You realize that we normally charge a higher fee for one such as prized as our Jaune Fille Vierge. I trust Mr. Walters has informed you of such matters?”

“Yes,” I answer acerbically, waving an air of dismissal as I hand her the Centurion Card which she graciously hands over to her assistant.

“Which reminds me, what is her name?” I ask as she hands me back my credit card that I hastily shove back to my wallet.

“Cassandra,” she lies blithely barely batting an eyelash as she leads me again to a different room.

This room is much different than the first. A bit more spacious than the red velvet room, but still ornately decorated in the same romantic Baroque taste that matched the other interior decors of the mansion.

It still had the same king-sized bed, but this time styled differently in muted white, lilac and gold tones with the bed post decorated in gold carvings reminiscent of Italian Capitone.

It was like a setting from the Renaissance and I felt like Casanova about to seduce a beautiful young princess who was again lying naked, this time on top of the covers where her beautiful flawless body was exposed save for the delicate gold Venetian mask covering her face.

I grin and take long easy strides toward her and pause taking in the full view of her taunt perfectly shaped breasts, flat stomach, long shapely legs and notice that she’s also had a Brazilian wax as her nether regions are free from pubic hair.

I shake of the stirring I start to feel in between my legs and opt for humor instead focusing on the costume covering her face.

“I see, are we attending a party?” I chuckle at her and grin as I sit down beside her and trace a finger across the Gold Fleur de Lys mask that not only covers the delicate beauty underneath, but somehow it adds a subtle mystery making her just as alluring which I found almost impossible, having never to compare it with anyone woman I’ve ever been with.

My eyes rove around lovingly at the notes displayed on the top of her mask and absentmindly I lift her gently, the back of her long, dark golden hair brushing against my arm as I trace the golden swirls around the mask that match the color of her hair.

She relaxes against me, trusting me completely as I hold her upper body with my arm and as I look down at her as desire shoots up my system.

The first night I was amused by her, but lust has taken a strong hold of me that it’s taken me a bit by surprised that I look at my surroundings instead of focusing on that gorgeous face where I’m again given a conscious self reminder as I look at the conspicuously hidden cameras that I’m also aware that we’re not fully alone either.

I try to recall the previous night if there had been any cameras but also due to the smaller size of the room, it might have been more difficult to install one. I had come to an earlier conclusion that perhaps Evelyn was testing me the first time by seeing if I could truly keep my word.

The second room, though far more grand in comparison, was also stark in feeling and I knew that my behavior was again being observed.

I shrug these thoughts aside and concentrate on the beauty who was a bit uncomfortable wearing her mask.

Almost without thinking, I gently remove the restraining object and ran my fingers across her soft silky hair.

It was beginning to feel unnerving staying so close to someone so exquisitely tempting yet completely forbidden. I carry her entire weight on my arms easily and with a free arm shift her weight on my right side, the side of her face nestling comfortably against my shoulder as I pull the covers down hastily. I know her unconscious state also makes her unaware of her positioning so I’m just as careful to support her head as I kick off my shoes and gently lay her down beside me.

It seems innocent enough at first but somewhere between carrying her and the thought of that gorgeous body naked against mine brings my libido senses into hyper drive.

Fuck, this is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done and I’ve barely removed my own clothes.

I’m aware that my erection is desperately begging to be sprung free off my navy blue Armani pinstripe suit pants and I hastily remove my matching Armani blazer and tie as I sit straddling myself on top of her in my vest, white blouse and pants.

I keep my lust meter on check and throw the remaining articles of clothing from my body until I’m down to my Calvin Klein boxers.

I’m breathing heavily watching the easy rise and fall of her breasts that I close my eyes and try to remember that I cannot under any circumstances do what I’ve been dying to do to her the minute I walked in the room.

I lean over and nuzzle her neck, inhaling the deep scent that is her mixed with a heady combination that reminds me of strawberries, champagne, and lily of the valley.

“Who are you?”

I ask as my voice goes hoarse before I run my tongue against her neck, tracing it upwards towards her ear, tasting and savoring the very flavor that I know only belongs to her and so far, I could barely recall anyone, even Lyca tasting just as sweet and succulent.

“Tell me your name.” I demand again kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, and her nose as I run my hands through that dark titian mass of hair then with one arm supporting my upper body because I’m afraid with my built might bruise that perfectly smooth lovely skin of hers while the other hand caresses her chin and cups it towards me as I aim my lips for her mouth.

I kiss her slowly, tasting those luscious pink lips that have haunted me from the time I left her last night as I revel in the knowledge that I could never have imagined anything better than this moment as I graze my teeth gently across her velvety soft lips, cupping slight pressure with one hand on her chin.

I groan and continue to kiss her as my hands move further down on her breasts to fondle them and I knew that whatever I had done had aroused her as much as I could feel her nipples harden undeneath my touch.

It feels almost like heaven, but not just quite until I’m completely naked and I could feel my cock poking underneath begging for the same release in that junction between her thighs.

I stop myself from the urge to dry hump her and open my eyes and watch hoping that my Sleeping Beauty would awaken and give me the response I’ve been trying to elicit in these past few moments.

Instead I find with a huge disappointment that my seductive efforts have been in vain as she continues to lie peacefully, unaware of what has just happened.

She just lies there, absolute unaware of my physical assault that I’m shocked for a moment that I close my eyes and rest my forehead against hers as I again breathe heavily trying to erase every erotic thought that’s drumming now in my tormented brain.

Never, ever under hell or high water was I going to rape a woman, let alone a virgin (that is if she truly is still one) while she’s knocked off unconscious.

I’ve attended the most insane frat parties during my time in Yale, even going as far as being invited to other parties from Brown and Sarah Lawrence.

I’ve seen a lot of drunk, unconscious, albeit half-naked attractive college girls but never had I once contemplated in engaging something like this that it makes me feel like a vile lecher.

I was no better than Walt’s uncle Francis and even Evelyn couldn’t trust the man to spend five minutes alone with her.

My thoughts then viciously turn to the other ‘men’ who may want her on those banquets Walt described. I’ve trusted that the impotent dirty old men before me couldn’t have gone far, but I didn’t want to think that there was anyone else who would want this girl more than I.

I already made up my mind.

I barely knew anything about her and already I wanted to be her champion.

Her guardian.

Her knight-in-fucking-shining-armor.

I smile tenderly at her. She answers in a symphony of deep, heavy breathing that I’m amazed that this girl barely snores as I cup my hands on her face and kiss the side of her mouth.

I’m also glad that my erection has ceased knowing that in the next succeeding nights, she will be mine alone and though I’m highly aware that I could never make love to her, she could at least have me in her most vulnerable state.

With a reluctant sigh, I roll off her and sit up to pull the covers up our bodies.

I lay her head underneath my chest where our legs are entangled as I lean my head against the top of her head, taking in the mix of strawberries and lily as I close my eyes in contentment.

Before I drift off to slumber, she briefly half opens her eyes and responds to my previous questions as if answering one in a dream.

“Emily,” she murmurs tiredly as she closes her eyes once more.

***

“I’ve been trying to call you for days, where have you been?” Walt yells from one side of the road when he finds me crossing down a block near my apartment.

It’s been three weeks since that fateful night and I’ve been spending each night with my Sleeping Beauty. It was a mid-afternoon Saturday and I find myself experiencing the most excruciating migraine as I feel my sinuses pounding along to the point that I feel like one side of my mouth has gone numb and my left incisor is going to fall off.

I occasionally press the side of my nose to stop the pain. I search for my pocket for Xanax and Valium as I’m feeling anxious all over again from the pain. I had been prescribed previously by a psychiatrist of these medications and because he’s a good friend of the family’s I’ve always had a stand-by prescription.

I pop them quickly on my mouth as I find Walt easing his way up to me and I quickly down it with the Gatorade bottle I’ve been holding on to for my morning jog.

My mind hasn’t been really focused lately, I’ve barely had a moment’s peace that the only moments that I do finally rest are when I’m with her.

Even if it means having to spend a chaste two or three hours alone with her, I didn’t give a shit.

I needed her like I needed to breathe.

“I heard you broke it off with Lyca.”

“Oh fuck, not you too.” I moan in protest.

Here you’d think Walt would be happy but he looks….concerned.

“Seriously, are you ok? You haven’t been yourself lately. You barely hang out with us, you’re chronically late at work and you look like shit. Christ, you haven’t been getting enough sleep either.”

He throws a worried look at my haggard face shakes his head in dismay.

“Man, I know this is none of my business and I know I’m partly to blame for this but you’ve got to stop seeing that girl. That little sleeping beauty house party was supposed to be just for fun. Like that time when we got high on coke and skied on the Alps for the fucking sheer thrill of it. If I knew you were going go all loopy on just one girl---“  

“Leave it,” I warn as my eyes turn flat cold.

“Jeez, man. Settle down! I’m not the enemy here,” Walt raises both his hands up in truce as I grimace at my behavior.

Weeks have gone by since that first night. It was an obsession, a drug I couldn’t stop.

Walt have every right to call my shit but yet here I am.

I don’t even recognize myself, like my life had been turned down in this need to be with this girl.

I couldn’t understand it, hell, I couldn’t understand my own behavior.

  I keep my silence and pat Walt’s shoulder as a truce.

He grunts and gives me a sour look.

“Look man, it’s gotta stop. Whatever it is. You don’t even look like yourself, shit. Have you seen yourself in front of the mirror?” Walt says quietly, taking note of the bristles growing on my chin.

“I can’t stop thinking of her,” I answer rubbing my hands on my face.

“Then don’t. Figure out who she is, where she’s from, what she’s doing. Get her out of that shit slumber whore party and be her knight in shining armor, that would be the one thing the young hotshot lawyer, defender of the peace and all morality, Philip Jason Young I know would have done.” He looks at me expectantly.

It’s at that moment as Walt and I are arguing I see her walk by.

Sleeping Beauty.

My Emily.

Except out in the sunny mid-afternoon of New York, she's not asleep, but very much awake and crossing the street.

She’s wearing a teal colored shirt dress with a denim messenger wrapped around her slender both and beat-up white sneakers walking like as if she’s in a hurry.

Without warning, I follow her. Ignoring Walt as I mutter something inaudible, probably an apology, leaving him at my wake with an incredulous look.

I don’t care.

I follow her. But not close enough to catch up to her.

There was no way I was just going to introduce myself to her. It might creep her out.

Heck, if I were in her shoes, I’d be running for the hills, if she found out what I had done to her in her defenseless sleep.

She walks in some non-descript diner across the street.

As I enter, I find myself sitting in one of the comfortable bench type counters. The place had a rustic, old-school 1950’s feel to it. Whoever was running it did their best to keep it running considering this was one of the lesser better parts of the city. Not exactly Hell’s Kitchen, but that wasn’t what mattered right now.

I watch in silence as she talks to one of the staff as she makes a beeline inside the staff room.

She emerges a few minutes later donning an apron and I realize she works here as one of the waitress.

A myriad of panic and excitement bubbles in me as I see her walk my way.

“Hi, what can I get you?” She asks cheerfully, completely unaware of who I am and what I’ve done to her those long tortuous nights.

*** 

  Story ends here. Or does it?   Tune in to find out more on the second part Beauty’s Entrapment: Beauty in a Cage.

#original short story #fiction #sleeping beauty #emily browning #romance #creative writing

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weflossindaily · 7 years ago

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Supreme skaters Javier Nunez and Tyshawn Lyons, model Paloma Elsesser, Jen Brill, skater Tyshawn Jones, Chloë Sevigny, skaters Sean Pablo Murphy and Mark Gonzales, all wearing a mix of Supreme and their own clothing.

James Jebbia, the man who, in 1994, founded and to this day runs the SoHo-based company that has been making clothing and skateboards and a lot of other things that the people who love it absolutely have to have, doesn’t think of Supreme the way most people in fashion might—as a brand that started out in a small store on Lafayette Street and has since inched its way to legendary global status. He thinks of Supreme more as a space. When Jebbia was a teenager in Crawley, West Sussex, in the eighties, working at a Duracell factory, listening to T. Rex and Bowie on breaks and spending his spare cash on trips to London to buy clothes, it was always in a certain elusive kind of store—one that became the model for Supreme.

“The cool, cool shop,” says Jebbia, who is 54 and dressed in jeans and a plain dark-blue T-shirt, label-free and low-key, with closely cropped hair and deep blue eyes. “The shop that carries the cool stuff that everybody was wearing—no big brands or anything.”

His office a few blocks west of the Supreme store is adorned with a skateboard designed by Raymond Pettibon; some drawings by Jebbia’s kids, age 8 and 10; and a larger-than-life-size portrait of James Brown—whom Jebbia, crucially, sees as not just the hardest-working man in showbiz but as a guy who never played down to his audience. Jebbia is, likewise, ever-mindful of his customer, who is generally aged eighteen to 25 and wants simply to buy cool stuff—and who will pay for it, assuming it’s worth it.

Of course, what began as a generally male-focused enterprise has, with more and more frequency, been co-opted by women—mirroring both the rise of girl skaters and youth culture’s impressively genderless approach to dressing and living. (The recent surfeit of off-duty models posting Instagrams of themselves lounging, living, and partying in Supreme has only added fuel to the fire.)

“My thing has always been that the clothing we make is kind of like music,” Jebbia says. “There are always critics that don’t understand that young people can be into Bob Dylan but also into the Wu-Tang Clan and Coltrane and Social Distortion. Young people—and skaters—are very, very open-minded . . . to music, to art, to many things, and that allowed us to make things with an open mind.”

Recently the fashion world has been waking up to Supreme. In the past decade, the company has opened stores in Tokyo, London, and Paris, while the passionate devotion of their customers has brought it into the conversation with both teenagers at skateboard parks and the front rows of high fashion—with Paris in particular swooning over Supreme’s collaboration this fall with Louis Vuitton. Jebbia loved working with Kim Jones, Vuitton’s menswear designer, to make skateboard trunks and backpacks, bandannas and gloves, shirts and jackets. The feeling was mutual.

“When you see the lines for Supreme in New York or London,” says Jones, “you see so many different types of people, and they are people you can relate to—they understand high-low, they’re smart, they’re intelligent, and they’re humorous. They know what they want, and they are very loyal—and a customer who is loyal is a real aspiration for anybody with a brand.”

The Vuitton collaboration was also, for many in fashion, their first glimpse into the secretive world of Supreme, which has become a kind of shorthand for authenticity, immediacy, speed, and deftness in its way of doing business. More than just selling sweats and tees and hats, the brand brings out a new collection two times a year, like any fashion company—generally, an online look-book, followed by a few pieces dropped every Thursday, each item available both online and in the stores. A Supreme drop, for those who haven’t experienced it, is an event. “We can have a leather jacket for $1,500, and if it’s a good value, young people will understand that,” Jebbia says. “But we also want to have the feeling that this won’t be here in a month. When I grew up, I think everybody felt that way. It’s like, If I love this, it may not be here, so I should buy it.”

If Jebbia was anxious to get press when he started, now he worries about overexposure. Supreme keeps advertising to a minimum and works with people like Sage Elsesser, the pro skater, who models for its look-book. Elsesser is the kind of person marketers think of as an influential outsider but whom customers see as just a cool skater. “Supreme is family-oriented, and that matters most to me,” says Elsesser. Supremeheads understand the nuances of marketing nonsense; their nose, both for corporations pretending to be human and for brands trying to throw themselves at potential customers, is highly refined, a reason Supreme uses social media primarily as an exhibit space. “We’re not trying to overconnect ourselves,” Jebbia says. “We’re just trying to show people things that we do—no different from what a magazine did 20 years ago.” (They published six issues of their own magazine before developing their website around 2006.)

Founder James Jebbia at the Supreme office in SoHo. Photographed by Anton Corbijn, Vogue, September 2017

Nothing about Supreme was planned in advance, its success a coincidence of place, time, and hard work. By the time he was nineteen, Jebbia had left England and was a sales assistant at a SoHo store called Parachute. From there, he worked a table at the nearby flea market, then founded a store, Union, on Spring Street that sold British goods and streetwear. Union did well enough until it began to sell clothing designed by Shawn Stüssy, the skateboarder and surfer, at which point it did great. Next, Jebbia helped run a shop with Stüssy until Stüssy decided to retire. “Now what the hell am I going to do?” he recalls asking himself.

“I always really liked what was coming out of the skate world,” Jebbia says. “It was less commercial—it had more edge and more fuck-you type stuff.” So he decided to open his own skate shop on Lafayette Street. Lafayette was then a relatively quiet strip of antiques stores, a firehouse, and a machinist, but also a Keith Haring shop—a downtown art-scene connection that, in hindsight, was key. Jebbia built a spare space (the very notions of spare and clean soon becoming Supreme trademarks), then brought in good skateboards, cranked the music, and played videos constantly—wildly disparate things like Muhammad Ali fight videos and Taxi Driver—to draw onlookers.

The kids he employed, often skateboarders themselves, were cool, opinionated—and, yes, often scowling at the uncool—but allowed outsiders a view into their clique. The very first employees were extras in Larry Clark’s film Kids, written by Harmony Korine, who lived in the neighborhood and recalls Supreme as less of a store, more of a hang—though within a year, designers from uptown as well as Europe and Japan were paying attention. “They were easy adapters to a kind of dissonance, where you have several things at different points on the cultural spectrum that are all connected by a kind of aesthetic or vibe,” says Korine. Supreme started a magazine featuring the faces of the young downtown scene—Chloë Sevigny, Ryan McGinley, Mark Gonzales—a mix of models, artists, skaters. “James tapped into a secret sauce,” Korine continues, “and they’ve kept strong because youth propels the culture, and they are always on the side of the youth. You can’t fake that.”

Initially, Supreme made only a few T-shirts. Then their customers arrived wearing Carhartt matched with Vuitton, Gucci with Levi’s. Soon Supreme tried a cotton hoodie, realizing that if it was simply made a little better than what was out there, skaters would be willing to pay a little more for it. According to Jebbia, this sort of thinking isn’t unique to skate culture. “Gucci is saying, ‘Hey—just because you’re young doesn’t mean you won’t love this $800 sweatshirt,’” he says. Jebbia can’t say enough about designers who respect young buyers rather than simply use them to attract press. The genius of Alessandro Michele, Gucci’s creative director, as he sees it, is that he doesn’t just show young people wearing pieces on the runway; he hopes they’ll actually wear them as they go about their lives. “He’s creating exciting products for right now—today,” Jebbia says.

The hoodies worked, as did the fitted caps they tried next. Collaborations came early on, with artists making work for skateboard decks, as well as for T-shirts and other clothing. The painter Lucien Smith credits Supreme’s intimacy. “A lot of people don’t understand that this is a supersmall group of people who are just working on that original idea—that it is a skate shop,” he says.

The list of artists who have worked with Supreme over the last two decades could fill a gallery space: Christopher Wool, Jeff Koons, Mark Flood, Nate Lowman, John Baldessari, Damien Hirst—even Neil Young. But the collaboration that changed everything was the line of tees, shoes, and shirts produced with Comme des Garçons, in 2012. “I think that opened a lot of doors, a lot of eyes,” Jebbia says. “I have never met anyone with such a strong, single-minded vision who has always stayed close to his sense of values,” says Adrian Joffe, president of Comme des Garçons and Rei Kawakubo’s husband. “That’s why our collaboration was so meaningful—and why the growth of Supreme has in a way mirrored our own.”

Spend some time with Jebbia and you get to know his own favorite brands, which include well-known names like Patagonia along with a few you are not likely to have heard of, like Antihero, a skateboard company. “They’re very below the radar,” he says, “but they are very pure in what they do—I hold them in as much esteem as I do Chanel or Vuitton.”

I think a lot of brands reach a point where they say, We kind of have a formula—we’ve got it made,” he says. “Our formula is there’s no formula.” He mentions his wife, Bianca, who grew up in Elmhurst, Queens, in a Chilean family and raises their children at their apartment in Lower Manhattan. “She’ll shop at Prada, she’ll shop at Chanel—and then she’ll shop at Uniqlo and she’ll wear something from Supreme,” Jebbia says. “And it’s not ‘Look at me dumbing this stuff down.’ She’s just wearing what she likes, and I think that people are more like that now.”

On one recent morning in his office, Jebbia stepped up from his desk and went out for coffee, passing through the studio from which the new Supreme motorized street bike was about to drop, the latest in the seemingly infinite collaborations—this one with Coleman. The space is big and open and white-walled and has the feeling of a workshop. The office staff—an industrious, no-frills team of about 40—is dressed elegantly but practically as they prepare to release their new Comme des Garçons Nike Air Force 1s, the long lines on Lafayette Street still a day or two from forming.

Out on the street, he offered a tour through his own history. “Parachute was there,” he says, “and Comme des Garçons had a store there. . . .” He pointed up. “I love that Alex Katz lives up there,” he says. “People can talk shit about the neighborhood, but I really think it’s one of the most vibrant places in the world.”

Jebbia doesn’t have a title. “My wife keeps saying I should just call myself founder, but I don’t know,” he says. “ ‘Just tell em I run a skate shop’ is how I usually put it. But I guess I kind of direct things.” He likes to stay out of categories, to be free of market demands. Growth, for instance, is something he is focused on, but at the Supreme pace: slow, but quick enough to satisfy customer demand. “We don’t want people to think we are a tricky, hard-to-get brand,” he says. “We can only do so many things,” he says. “The hat factory we use can only make so many hats.” Jebbia is also wary of anything that will raise his overhead or put his ability to take risks at risk. “We’re making stuff we’re proud of,” he says, “not doing stuff to stay alive. I don’t think enough people take risks, and when you do, people respond—in music, in art, in fashion.”

As we walk, Jebbia is greeted by people from the neighborhood, and when at last we sit he seems to almost relax for a minute talking about his weekends—which are, he stresses, decidedly unglamorous. “The kids have a lot of homework,” he says, “and I actually like not having any plans.” As with his stores, he likes to keep life clean and simple—dinner with his wife and kids, and maybe a weekend visit to MoMA. “I don’t have this lavish lifestyle,” he says, “so I don’t have this massive overhead.”

And with that, he’s back to being wary. “I’ve seen brands get comfortable,” he says, “but I’ve never felt comfortable. I’ve always felt every season could be our last.”

In this story:

Sittings Editor: Sara Moonves. Hair: Tamara McNaughton; Makeup: Romy Soleimani. Production: Patrick Van Maanen for Moxie Productions.

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vogue

Supreme, From Cult Skate Shop to Fashion Superpower

Supreme, From Cult Skate Shop to Fashion Superpower James Jebbia, the man who, in 1994, founded and to this day runs the SoHo-based company that has been making clothing and skateboards and a lot of other things that the people who love it absolutely have to have, doesn’t think of Supreme the way most people in fashion might—as a brand that started out in a small store on Lafayette Street and has since inched its way to legendary global status.

#Supreme

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rodrigohyde · 6 years ago

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Who Makes the Best High-End Perpetual Calendar?

Watch Snob Explains How to Pick a Vintage Timepiece

Let the Watch Shine

I recently acquired a pink gold A. Lange & Söhne 1 Moon Phase with brown alligator strap, which I adore. While I know this is a dress watch, one of the reasons I bought it was that I think it can straddle both casual and dressy. So, what is the best way to dress it down for everyday use? Is this even worth considering? My first thought is a brown Cordovan strap. Others have suggested a whimsical NATO Strap. I can’t imagine rubber working.

RELATED: Last Week: Watch Snob on Why the Wait for Rolex

The Lange 1 and the Lange 1 Moon Phase both lend themselves to a wide range of attire from business formal at the top all the way down to, depending on your carriage and the general attitude towards life that you project, a T-shirt and jeans. On the brown strap and with that case it becomes a watch that lends itself very much to either high-low contrasts, or just plain straightforward elegance. The only thing I would avoid perhaps is pairing it with a dinner jacket (a tuxedo) for semi-formal dress.

True formal attire, it is usually forgotten, is white tie, but unless you are invited to a coronation or something, most of us will never wear a tailcoat, so we can leave that out of the equation.

What I would not do is change the strap out just for the sake of whimsy or for creating a high-low contrast in the actual watch. A NATO strap can be an interesting and unusual choice in some circumstances, but I have never seen one put on a really good watch like a round-cased Patek or Lange without simply looking silly; it reeks of striving for effect for its own case. If a watch is genuinely versatile there is no need to dress it down or up. Let it exude its own character.

Only the Best of the Best Will Do

I am currently looking for an engagement watch with my fiancé and could not agree more with one of your previous articles about choosing the right watch, and not a Breitling. After ample research and visiting various boutiques, I have narrowed down my selection to four pieces but am unsure of which to purchase. I am currently looking at the Breguet 5327, Patek 5327 (oddly they have the same number), the A. Lange & Söhne 1815 Perpetual, and the JLC Master Ultra Thin Perpetual in enamel.

While the ALS is my favorite in terms of aesthetics, I’m not convinced it’s worth double the price of the Patek or Breguet. The Jaeger, from what I’ve read, is well made and great mechanically but more of a “budget” (using this term loosely) piece, especially in stainless steel.

The Lange, Breguet, and Patek represent the best of the best in modern watchmaking, in many respects. The Jaeger-LeCoultre is not a bad watch, but it lacks the lyricism of the Breguet, the overwhelming sense of qualitative superiority of the Lange, and the classicism of the Patek; at a cost of some $50,000 or more, a wristwatch nowadays simply has to have more character. And while I have a great deal of respect for much of the watchmaking from Jaeger-LeCoultre (the Reverso continues to be one of the great underappreciated watches of all time, in my opinion), if you are willing to spend what you are obviously willing to spend on a highly complicated wristwatch, the very best is not too much to ask.

Personally, my sympathies are with Lange of the three remaining watches. The quality of execution cannot be matched by either the Patek or the Breguet. The Breguet has a great deal of appeal but the dial design, while somewhat charming does not represent the house at its best; while beautifully executed (the guilloche work is world-class, as one often finds in Breguet) is too busy for its own good; an ironic issue as Breguet himself, during his lifetime, mastered the art of transmitting information on a watch dial whilst avoiding clutter. That is perhaps an easier thing to do on a pocket watch than in the case of a wristwatch, but this reference falls into the trap that the late George Daniels so pithily described when he said that the danger of making a complicated watch is that you end up with something that looks like a gas meter.

Where the Patek edges out the Lange, and when we discuss watches of this very great cost, this must be taken into consideration, is in value retention. In general Patek Philippe wristwatches will retain their value better than anything except perhaps Rolex. However, I feel that Patek has fallen a bit into complacency in recent years. The confidence that you can sell anything you make tends to lead to a relaxing of standards and while there is still much beauty to be found at Patek Philippe, Lange & Sohne simply gives a greater feeling of putting their hearts into what they are doing. The Lange is not an object of obvious ostentation or luxury, but it is an object of such immediately obvious quality that I simply can’t think of any other reasonable choice.

What’s Old Is New Again

I am fascinated with the design and construction of vintage movements. They seem more beautiful and seductive. What are your favorite vintage movements to look at, just considering aesthetic beauty?

Oh, indeed, there are many that are absolutely magnificent in terms of beauty and execution, although it bears remembering that just as is the case today, there have been watches made at many different prices and with many different degrees of craft over the centuries and there were certainly, even in the alleged good old days, shoddy goods being produced along with the really beautiful stuff.

Still, there were also standard production movements produced in the millions which, if not qualitatively superior to anything made today technically, still represent classic mechanical horology in its most impressive forms. My favorites among them include any of the Omega 30mm family of movements (which are still, modern methods and materials be damned, some of the finest movements for wrist watches ever made) as well as the great hand-wound Valjoux chronograph calibers.

Additionally, Longines movements in general (which were neck-and-neck with Omega for many years in both beauty and quality, the shaped caliber 9L deserves a much broader audience), Minerva chronograph calibers (though towards the end their quality slipped badly) and of course, the great classic lateral clutch chronographs from Nouvelle Lemania, which in various forms have been used, sometimes in rather plain garb but sometimes really dressed for the ball, by everyone up to and including Patek Philippe.

Movement appreciation in general is a sign of horological maturity, which seems to escape most collectors nowadays, who would rather ooh and aah over made-up things like so-called tropical dials, than acquire a real horological education.

Send the Watch Snob your questions at [email protected] or ask a question on Instagram with the #watchsnob hashtag.

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#AskMen Style

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voxplusherizes · 8 years ago

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April Ramble: Eye Troubles, Hair Uncertainties, and Doll Instanity

I’m gonna try to do a monthly update about stuff from now on.

So, Lots of stuff has happened. and at the same time lots of stuff ...hasn’t...happened.

Eyes:

I’ve finished Erasii’s mouth and right eye. However, my confidence with dealing with resin came back to bite me in the ass. Severl years ago, i tried to start a project where i would make large plushes (like Erasii’s size with a wildly different pattern) or all the remnants and i started with Azur. I didn’t get past sewing the arms and legs, and thats because i started on the eyes right away. I used the exact same methode as this time: sculpt an eye from polymer clay, make a mold, cast the eye dome, attach a photo of the eye behind it. Simple. easy. Lmao. Nope. I recall casting three eyes and every one of the had bubbles. every one of them was cloudy. one was very sticky. I gave up back then, and the project was since abandoned.

Until two weeks ago, where I thought i’d done enough research to know how to do it right. Except i forgot that resin has a fuckin vendetta against me i swear to god.

The first eye attempt developed holes at the dome, aka: the front of the eye. This irritated me because when i poured the resin, it was super clear for two hours before i checked it and suddenly: a fuckton of bubbles. I havn’t no idea where they came from. So i tried again (also tried to cover the first attempt in more resin after pokeing holes to the bubbles, which.....ended poorly.) and poured another cast. i watched this version religiously, and it was amazeingly clear! I thought it went perfect.....until i went to check if i could remove it after four days of letting it cure and it was still completely liquid. two extra days did nothing. Evidently, I did not stir it properly enough (i call bullshit, i stirred for three minutes. i timed it.) and i had to scoop the resin into the trash and clean the mold. by far the most agaonizeing part of this one was that it was still completely bubbleless like w h y must u hurt me.

By this point, I’m incredibly irritated. Whenever I get the measureing and stirring correct, my cast developes bubbles for no damn reason. whenever my cast doesn’t develope bubbles, it doesn’t cure. I have browsed forum after forum, video after video, did every trick i could find, fallowed the instructions to the T. and still, my resin has failed to turn out.

I am torn, honestly. I am so pissed at my inability to cast resin properly that i’m determined to keep trying to get it right. but at the same time, i’m wasteing resin and not making any imporvments. on the other side, My mom has a coworker who owns a jewlery buiseness with her husband and most of their peices use a really nice clear casting material. I’m wondering if I could ask them if they’d be willing to make me a complete eye as a commission. I havn’t any idea how they make their casts, however (i assume molds, but not sure) so i’m not sure. i’m also unsure if their casting material is a type of glass. I’ll ask about the durability of the material, and keep it as an option if everything else fails.

I currently have a third eye in the mold. i havn’t checked it since i poured it. i’m scared to, thb. i don’t want to be dissapointed.

Dragon:

On a more lighthearted note, If yall rememeber my dragon pattern from a while ago, i started on that plush. Originally i was just going to work on it until i got the rest of the stuff to finish erasii, but since his eye is taking forever and i havn’t been able to get the yarn to the correct length for his hair, i’ve gotten a lot of it done. the wings and batting inside are completely done (witht he exception of turning and sewing the finger details+stuffing) which was the largest part of the project. I started working ont he gold tail decor but i need to pull out an entire side since the peice didn’t match up properly. i was going to leave it, but i dont want her to look ugly int he end so about two hours of sewing earlier are down the drain Lol.

Hair:

Returning to Erasii, for more bad news, I’ve decided I can’t use yarn for his hair. i can’t get it long enough. I also can’t make a wig for him like i wanted to try, because i forgot his horns existed. Instead, i’ve decided to order saran hair. This....doesn’t sit well with me. I was going to try wefts this time, but i dont feel comfortable attching them dirrectly to his head. but i havn’t any idea how else to attach them either. i was thinking maybe glueing? or somehow sewing the hair directly into the head? the bangs and sides are the main ones i want to look nice since the back of erasii’s head is litterally just A Mess of short hair. I dunno. i’m ordering a crapton of hair, so we’ll see what i can do when i have it in my hands.

Dolls:

I’ve made the mistake of watching doll customizations. and i wanted to do one. except i couldnt make up my mind, and now i have three planned whoOPS

The first one is Pumpkin Pie, a pumpkin themed girl I want to make arund halloween. I have an orange body thats faceless and lacking hair bc it was from a create your own monster kit. she’s the perfect starter.

The second one was the original one i wanted to make, Nyoul. My little girly boy with a taste for cupcakes and human flesh. He was the reason i first went through the way-too-big box of dolls my mom and i bought years ago (over 500 dollars worth like srsly.) to find a duplicate to tear apart. but surpriseingly, we didn’t have any duplicates. We have three frankies, yeah, but they were all different versions, so i didn’t feel comfortable tearing any of them apart. Most unfortunately, this conundrum gave me time to lament, during which time i keep peeking at my Gooliope. She’s 17 inchs high, and i loved that size. I didn’t dare ruin her (she’s by far my favorite) so i kept an eye out for other 17 inchers. And as luck would have it, while stopping by toys r’ us the other day, I noticed one in the clearence bin. orignally 30bucks, dropped down to 15. not bad. the reason for this was because the doll (a clawdeen) was a little bit damaged. both her ears have broken bits and theres a lots of weird plastic at the seems. not so good for a child, a miracle gift from the doll gods for me. i expected to feel a little guilty buying a doll away from a potential kid, but because this one is damaged, i don’t. parents would have told a little girl to put this one back and grab another one anyway, so no harm in giving this little misfit a home x3

There are some....drawbacks, however.

Nyoul already requided heavy modification (ie: tiddy-be-gone) and now he needs even more. I was originally aiming for a frankie, since she has a lighter skin tone and no ears, since my concept for Nyoul has him as very pale. this is because his outfit will have a lot of color and having his skin be near-white would allow them to pop like on a canvase. he’s also aupposed to look like a doll, but also sickly. Cute, but not quite right. I’m going to have to cut off the ears (and boobs), and then repaint the entire body. I do feel.....gross, about doing that. it feels insulting and wrong. But if i’m going to put all this effort into makeing him, why shouldn’t i make him completely what I want?

on the upside of workin on him, I get to make a prop eventually! I love doing that! he carries a big-ass axe and long scissors.

Nyoul’s going to be a very long project. This is why I want to finish both Erasii AND the dragon before i even start him. So Clawdeen’s just chilling with her deformities for a couple of weeks Lol.

And lastly.....my ball joint doll.

Years ago, i purched a ball joint doll from someone used. I’ve always loved ball joints, but they were all too expensive. I was so excited to have a BJD at last, i developed an entire design for her that sadly failed to come to be. I had a lot of trouble as a newbie seamstress back then that i eventually gave up, and tossed her into my closet for a few....years.

and then i took her out of the closet and put her in the attic for several more years. I rescued her afew days ago, and i feel super guilty. I never even put her pants or shirt back on!

I dislike the original design i had for her, so i’ve been trying to think of what to transform her into. I was thinking about a demon popstar, so i could make horns and wings and a tail, but....her face doesn’t fit. she has a very serene sad face, lidded eyes. I’m not sure if i could paint her face to make her look more evil or mischevious or a diva. I really want to try tho. I might have to save it for another 17 incher monster high tho. i keep seeing the popstar design with highheels and my BJD has flat feet. and I can’t order new ones because they’re expensive and also i have no idea what modle doll i even have so whoops.

if i do move ahead with that idea tho, i’ve taken inspiration from Sia and Lady Gaga (and Billy Joe Cobra if i’m being embarisingly honest) especially witht he hair idea. a boxy neck length thats pure white on top, but each later under is a different color of the rainbow with some rainbow bangs. She’d also have sunglasses, piercings, tattoos, long fake nails....just so much stuff.

But its a long way before i’m confident to even try to work on her. just holding her makes me scared i’m gonna break her. (even tho i kinda already did, accidentally had to restring her legs bc i dropped a string trying to take her head off.)

Her time in the closet and attic seem to have done something to her faceup. I’ve been struggleing for the past three days to remove it (bc i want to repaint her and also the colors were ugly and she has a stupid little tear on her cheek) useing everything i could. I tried acetone first (i did a test ont he inside of the headcap to see if it’d hurt the resin) and it did absolutely nothing. so then i tried rubbing alcohol, and again nothing. i tried a magic eeraser which finally worked, but not well. i don’t want to try to buy anything else, so i’ve been dealing witht he magic eraser. i’ve nearly removed everything besides the lips, and i honestly don’t think i’m gonna be getting that lip color out of there. I’ve tried to shove some eraser into there and scrub with a toothpick and it did not do anything. I was planning on coloring her lips a dark color anyway, so meh. bonus shadeing.

#VoxRambles #Text #not spellchecked #longpost

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usamotorscycle-blog · 8 years ago

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MO Tested: Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit Review

Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit Review Touring suits have a difficult job description. Quite simply, they need to protect the rider from both the elements and potential mishaps in a wide variety of weather and riding conditions. If you think that’s a prescription for compromise, you’d be right. However, compromise is not necessarily a bad thing. The essence of a successful compromise is how carefully the sacrifices are made. In the case of the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit, the designers made smart choices in crafting this modular riding garment. The most obvious choice made by Spidi was to divide the differing kinds of protection required from the 4Season Suit into different layers. The exterior layer features abrasion protection the CE-certified armor in the elbows, shoulders, knees, and hips. (Oddly, the back protector is a $110 accessory item that was out of stock, but thanks to the interchangeability of Spidi’s armor, I was able to borrow Tom Roderick’s from his Spidi Ventamax H2Out Jacket.) The next layer is the waterproof layer, followed by the innermost insulating layer. MO Tested: Spidi Ventamax H2Out Jacket & Thunder H2Out Pants Layered Functionality First, let’s consider the handsome exterior of the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit. My wife has seen over 20 years-worth of riding gear pass through our house, and I can count on one hand the number of suits that she’s actually made me stop and model for her. After I was done prancing around the kitchen for her, she said the 4Season was the best looking touring suit she’d ever seen me wear. High praise from a very opinionated woman. However, the exterior construction is more than just a pretty face.

The sleeve alone shows the versatility of the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit. The adjusters allow the rider to fine-tune the sleeve’s fit. The reversible gauntlet zipper opens a vent on the inner arm for cooling airflow. The exterior of the suit is constructed of what Spidi calls tenax Nylon 6.6 of varying densities, with lower potential for abrasion sections receiving the lighter, more supple textile. Higher impact areas, like the elbows, shoulders, knees, and seat receive a heavier version of the fabric, sometimes in multiple layers. To account for differing body types and for the fact that removing the two inner jacket layers can slightly affect its fit, adjustments are used throughout. The rider’s torso gets a high and low adjustment belts on both the left and right side to allow for broad-chested (or broad-bellied) riders. The arms each receive a strap on the upper and lower arm to minimize wind flap or give a little extra room for airflow on hot days. The bottom edge of the jacket also utilizes an adjustable elastic cord to help keep cold wind and rain out – a very good thing when one considers that the jacket and pants do not zip together. Thanks to the layers, the vents on the jacket and pants do not need to be waterproof. This is a place that many suits run afoul of either leaks or poor venting. The two chest vents unzip and roll down to create a 5-inch x 5.5-inch opening. The rear vent measures 8 x 9 inches while the pants’ thigh vents form an 11-inch long triangle that is 3 inches wide at its base. All of the vent covers snap out of the way in their open configuration.

The vent flap tucks cleanly out of the way and is secured with snaps to hold it open. The tightly sealing zippers (left) keep cold air from leaking into the jacket in cooler weather. The waterproof layer of the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit is completely removable, giving the rider direct access to the airflow from the vents in dry weather. When the H2Out inner layer is installed the suit becomes completely wind/water-proof. This design has two drawbacks that the rider must accept. First, none of the pockets in the exterior shell are waterproof. So, don’t keep your wallet or cell phone in them during a downpour. Second, donning the waterproof layer requires that the suit be removed. Personally, if it means I’ll be dry and warm, I’m willing to stand on the side of the road in my boxers for a minute or two. Your level of modesty may dictate otherwise. The second issue with inserting the inner layer is the numerous attachment points between the exterior and interior layers. Personally, I always took the time to snap the 7 jacket loops and the 13 snaps (plus 6 loops) on the pants because they kept the liner properly positioned. Your mileage may vary. Once in place, the suit defended my meaty core from the sometimes heavy rain encountered on our Saddlesore 1000 ride. Although there is no rain hood, the adjustable collar sealed tight enough to keep the dreaded cold drip down the center of the back from occurring.

While having to close three layers around the neck may seem a bit excessive, it keeps the cold and wet out, making it well worth the effort. The layers are: quilted (zipped by neck), H2Out (unsnapped at neck), and armored exterior (held in fingers). The final layer of this modular suit – the layer that gives the suit its 4Season name – is the fiber-filled quilted liner. Essentially a lightweight insulated jacket that is worn under the other two layers, the innermost liner helps the rider maintain a warm core, which signals their body that it is safe to maintain a high level of blood flow to the extremities. Although the liner utilizes seven snapping loops to affix it to the jacket, I wore it as a separate jacket under the other two outer layers. This allowed me to easily remove the insulating layer as the temperature rose and fell. Unlike the H2Out liner, its exact positioning isn’t as absolutely important for rider comfort. Although the insulated layer functioned as a light jacket when sitting outside on a coolish day, the lack of exterior hand warmer pockets was a missed opportunity on this otherwise well thought out riding suit. The Technology In Action When I first received the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit, I was surprised that the pants didn’t feature an insulated liner like the jacket. I have worn this jacket in temperatures ranging from the mid-80s to the low 30s Fahrenheit and am impressed with the suit’s versatility. In cooler weather – down to the upper 40s – simply adding the insulated liner was enough to keep me comfortable, though I did notice a bit of chilliness creeping into my fingers once the temperature dropped to 50° F. Adding an Aerostich Kanetsu AIRVANTAGE Electric Vest ($247) electric vest kept me cozy down to just around freezing – plus (or is that minus) wind-chill. In warmer weather, the venting is quite good. The 4Season looks to become my go-to warm-weather suit in addition to my cold-weather choice.

Whereas many suits zip the jacket to the pants, the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit uses these straps to pull the jacket down over the pants, ensuring that it doesn’t ride up and allow cold drafts or rain to reach the rider’s core. In the wet, I stayed dry and comfortable – which is the purpose of riding gear. However, I’m a bit surprised by the limited amount of waterproof storage space provided. Essentially, the one mesh pocket inside the H2Out liner is all you’ve got unless it’s cold enough to prompt you to wear the insulated liner, too. In the end, I kept my wallet in the inner pocket and placed my keychain (which had my truck remote on it) in a ziplock bag in an outer pocket. If you’re not wearing the insulated liner, you’ll probably want to put your phone in a baggie, too. The mesh pocket gets a bit crowded with a wallet and a phone.

Venting is overlooked in pants, but the vents on the rider’s thighs make a noticeable difference in comfort in warm weather. The suit itself is all-day comfortable. In the more than 24 hours straight that I wore it during our Saddlesore 1000 ride, it felt great. All I wore under it was my Rev’It Oxygen Shirt And Pants and a t-shirt. The 4Season’s layers that kept me so warm and dry did come with a slight cost, though. Every time I put my jacket back on at a gas stop, I had three separate zippers to close on the front of the jacket to seal it – which seems like a small price to pay to be warm and dry. MO Tested: Rev’It Oxygen Shirt And Pants The Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit comes in sizes from M-3XL with color options from Black, Black/Grey, Black/Grey/Blue, Black/Grey/Red, and Black/Grey/Hi-Viz Yellow. While I normally wear a L or XL, depending on the gear, I followed the sizing chart and ended up with 2XL for my size and a perfect fit. So, be aware that sizing seems to run on the small side. I’d recommend trying one on before buying. At $1,080, the Spidi 4Season H2Out Suit’s pricing isn’t cheap, but with the technology and versatility in riding conditions allowed by the construction, this should come as no surprise. Since I believe the back protector should be included in the price of a suit in this cost range, adding it brings the effective cost of the suit to $1,190. For the rider who rides long and hard, this will be money well spent. Learn more about the 4Season H2Out Suit at the Spidi website.

The cargo pockets (bottom) offer plenty of storage but are not waterproof. The zippered pockets (top) are good for items like change, earplugs, and keys. Click to Post

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