#shrouded vale

[thedungeonofbaddecisions]

Are you telling me this ice monster has no bones??

Me, to the DM. It did not.

[jayphrax-art]

AcElodie Brainrot cont.

N E Way, I make tiktoks from time to time ^^

[princesslocket]

Commission + Gift Art for one of the coolest people out there @ozrockbitway

[villainessprefect]

OC x Canon Week 2023 - Bonus day: kiss / arranged marriage AU / "I'd die for you..."

summary: based on Pokemon but they’re fighting something cooler I just have Iron Leaves as a most recent experience for something like this lmao

ship: IdiaVale (idia/gn!oc)

@theocxcanonweek​ thank you for hosting this event!! it was fun to be able to write about my OC <3 thanks for all the hard work!!

Read on AO3

"You think we can do it this time?"

"Yeah. I can tank the hits no prob and lower its defenses while you go aggro on it. We're finishing this fight. Now."

Their eyes meet and for once, golden hues don't try to escape their hold. His eyes shine with a fiery determination. It's almost scary how serious he looks like he's ready for a fight to the death. Vale's gaze doesn't waver. Seeing Idia's confidence makes them believe that they can do this. They take in a breath and exhale.

"Start the raid."

Idia bares his teeth with a wide grin.

"Don't have to ask twice."

Within seconds, Idia opens the invite into his game. Vale is quick to join and the moment they do, he starts it. The two are greeted by a familiar intro. One with a limited-time legendary beast that roars out its battle cry, beckoning them to the challenge once more. It shines brightly as it stands on its stage, basking in its own glory as the challengers' approach.

Then, the clock starts ticking.

"Go, go, go!"

Idia spams his creature's defenses and then aims to lower the legendary beast's. Meanwhile, Vale is busy igniting a burn on it before raising their creature's attack. This tactic almost won them the battle last time. Their side managed to beat it down to a teetering yellow before both were knocked out by critical hits. Knowing that they could get it’s health down that low gave them hope. And now it's time for all their hard work to pay off.

"It's putting up a shield!" Vale hisses.

"How many times have you boosted already?" Idia asks, unfazed.

"Four?"

"Go for the kill."

They obey without a word. They switch from one move to another, one that would land a super effective blow on it. Vale waits for their turn to come and watches as their creature lets out a cry before wailing a ball of darkness onto the enemy.

The legendary beast's health goes from green to red in one blow.

"A little more...!"

"Fuehehe, we got this in the bag."

With a few more strikes, the beast falls. Its stage shatters beneath it and the option to capture it is given out. Neither waste any time in capturing this beast.

"We did it!" Vale cheers, holding their console in the air.

"Yes! Idia rules! See? Told you we could do- V-Vale?!"

His confident demeanor crumbles to dust as he's met with a sudden embrace. The console in his hand slips out, meeting with his bed as he's frozen in place. He lets out a gasp as Vale keeps a firm hold on him, their body pressing against his. The close contact makes his cheeks flare up, his hair doing the same with tints of pink coloring his hair.

"Thank you so much for the help! I couldn't have done it without you!" They say with a laugh in their voice. Vale gives him another squeeze and nuzzles their head against his. "I can't wait to put it on my team and...and..." They pull back and lose their voice as they realize their current position.

Vale isn't one for a surprise PDA attack. They tend to ask beforehand or start off slow and warm their way up to leaning against Idia. But the sudden spark of joy at finally defeating this beast made them resort to their strongest attack. Now that they're here, they aren't sure what to do.

They remain still, unmoving with Idia still in their hold. The poor boy's cheeks are on fire, eyes wide, and hands at a loss for what to do. Seeing him like this only makes them want to pull him close and comfort him even more.

"Ahh..." Vale starts, but nothing else escapes them. They think to finish their sentence, tell him their plan of how they're going to go around the game with the legendary beast as their partner, level it up, and maybe throw in the fact that they were going to give it a nickname that would remind them of Idia. Everything they want to say is there, they just can't speak, too captivated by the boy in front of them.

Idia looks as if he wants to say something too. Instinct tells him to run and hide or in this case, find a way under the covers while he can recover his HP. But he also likes this. He wants to stay and be held, but he feels so awkward since he doesn't know what to do. Scenes play out in his mind in which he can turn the situation around and say some cool line to Vale, but in reality...he can't even squeak out a word.

"Thank you, Idia."

Thankfully, Vale speaks for both of them. Their voice is soft, quiet, as if just finding it. With a bit of courage, they lean forward and press their lips against his forehead. It's a gentle brush of lips against his skin, enough to send a raging warmth throughout his body. His cheeks and hair burn brighter than before, the latter literally lights up in a bright pink and looks as if it were about to combust and set his room ablaze.

"Was that too much?"

Yes and no, Idia thinks. Regardless, he shakes his head before throwing himself against their body. As long arms finally return the embrace, Idia buries his face into the nook of their neck.

"N-No...I-I really liked that..." he breathes out. Embarrassment and nerves eat at him. It's easier to hide like this. Better to. "You're acting like the legendary now. D-Doing crits and taking me out with a OHKO..."

Vale chuckles. "Sorry, I was lost in the moment." They loosen their hold on him, now with a hand patting his back. "You know, maybe I will name it after you."

"H-Huh?!" He removes his face from the safety of their body to look at them with wide eyes. "I-Isn't this one your favorite? Why name it after me? You only get one a-and it should have a special name..."

"I want to name it after you." They say with a breathless smile. "When I first saw it, I thought it reminded me of you in a way. Maybe it was just the blue fire, but... " They shrug. "You're special to me, so why not?"

Idia wonders how he manages to stay conscious and hang onto his remaining LP as they say such things. It's so horrendously sweet and cringey, but in a cute way. He can't believe that he's starting to be a normie and have his heart be swayed by this kinda stuff.

Now he has to decide on telling Vale that he was planning to do the same or let them find out later as a surprise.

[cherry-titz]

Hi friends! @1800titz here. This is my contribution to the collaboration, and I’d like to start off by saying that I am so, so, so beyond excited to work with the immensely talented @cherryjuiceblues!! Thank you for working with me Soph :’)

We have loads of goodies planned, and we’d like to kick things off with Mr. Hitchhikerry. (Sidenote: he’s a little late to the party, this WAS supposed to be a spooky piece for Halloween but SHDJDJCJDJD don’t worry about it. Life got in the way a bit, but he’s finally HERE so WOOOO). A little idea based on this reddit post. This one has great big warnings. DARK HARRY. VERY DARK HARRY. With a piece like this, I want to really emphasize: this is purely for entertainment purposes, and there is 0 correlation intended to the real Harry Styles <3 just a spooky faceclaim.

With that disclaimer out of the way, here’s some content warnings: dom/sub themes, choking, (light) spanking, degradation (and praise!) ((some good ol’ LET’S PLAY SIMON SAYS)). THE WOOF WOOF is for humiliation purposes only <3 GREAT BIG WARNING FOR A DISTURBING CONFESSION OF INTENT TO HARM.

Also, I writhe in my seat as I write, wanting to put in lengthy context of prediscussion and safewords and aftercare and everything important I always talk about, BUT. You’ll see. He’s an …interesting character and I tried to keep hitchhikerry true to himself.

PLEASE DON’T HOOK UP WITH STRANGE MEN YOU PICK UP ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. PLEASE DON’T PICK UP STRANGE MEN ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD AT NIGHT. Enjoy ٩(◕‿◕)۶ (WC is 11K)

She doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

Not figuratively, not literally. 

Y/N was raised outside of the scope of the seventies, post-Bundy and his hitchhiking antics, and since the evolution of serial-killer lore, she’s never been fond of a stranger hopping into her passenger seat and then cutting her up into itsy-bitsy parts to hang around his back garden like string-lights, or something. An ear there, a palm with crooked fingers there. Morbid stuff. 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, but she doesn’t think about that, hurtling down some back-country road, a poorly lit vale through a field of tall, boundless grass. It’s not the first thought budding behind her skull when she sees his silhouette through the shone of her pearly brights — a blip by the line of tall shrubbery — even a good distance away. And from her distance, he’s just a little blip in a cream, hoodless sweatshirt, feet planted into a bed of patchy grass. Her first sane thought, as she squints through her windshield, has to do with why someone would be out on this road, at this time of night, with no feasible form of transportation, and how. As her Honda nears and passes some fork off, a dirt bend of clearing into the winding field of nature, the man’s hitchhiking, signature thumb morphs into a wave of his arms, and his foot steps out, toying at the edge of the road. It doesn’t quite breach the threshold, but her speedometer decreases enough for her to catch baggy denim, distressed at the knees, and a slow wave of his arms, raised. He doesn’t launch at her car, forlorn, as she passes — thank Christ. But even then, his frame swishes by, out of sight, coated by darkness. She casts her gaze to the rear-view, and the image of him scrubbing over his face with an exasperated palm shrinks in size the further she gets. 

The young woman gets about a hundred feet before she nudges the break with her foot to a halt, sighing as the car settles with a subtle lurch. She makes another glance to the rear-view. Now, she can’t see him, not in the shroud of night, but she squeezes her eyes shut for a second, and then twists the wheel until the car curves. A tire slips off onto gravel and grass with the U-turn, but she steers herself back onto the road and drives into the same direction she’s just come from. 

He looks surprised to see her reverse, form pivoted toward the same headlights that’d just passed him with a crease over his brow bone. Y/N slows and breaks as she nears, absent-mindedly pressing a fingertip over the lock button on her door. TV Girl is still playing quietly from her car speakers when she cracks the window, stopped beside him across the road, and beckons with her chin raised just enough for her cadence to seep through the opening, “Do you need help?” 

“Yes, yeah, I—“ the man makes a quick glance towards the side of the road where vehicles would be incoming, a sharp turn of his chin, and then a step towards her parted window as Y/N twists over the volume toggle. “I just— my car broke down,” he raises an arm and points towards the dirt clearing that slips into the field, “I was coming this way, and my phone’s died—“ 

He pauses, shaking his head down at his converse, his voice a baritone croon with charming, foreign dialect, “I know this is so odd, and you probably don’t want a stranger in your car. But f’you could just order an uber or something, I could give you the cash for it?” the girl watches his ring-clad palm disappear into the front pocket of his denim hastily, only to retrieve a wallet, “—If that’s alright?” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, her pupils rove over the charming stranger, trailing from his soft dark curls, swiping over his lashes as his head ducks, down the slope of his nose, to the cushiony pink of his lips. Irises graze down his neck and catch a white tee under the collar of his cream pull-over, and they brush down his denim, to his battered, white converse. The young woman watches his hand stretch out, cautiously, a wad of neatly folded cash cupped by pads of fingers with short, yellow-lacquered nails. 

“No, don’t— …I can give you a ride,” Y/N tells him, her tone soft as her gaze wanders over his frame. 

A downward shift plucks at the corner of his plush mouth and his jaw flexes, a hesitant look shaping over his features, “It’s— I couldn’t— s’like a thirty minute drive, and I don’t wanna take you out of the way…”  

His large hand is still stretched out toward her, and she admires the cross inked over the back of his hand, on the fleshy area between his thumb and forefinger. Her brows pinch together, and the window whirs as the glass partition sinks. The girl raises her hand and points back with her thumb. 

“Are you going in that direction?” 

Wordlessly, the attractive stranger nods — a single dip of his chin. 

“I’m going that way, too. I can give you a lift.” 

Another look of hesitancy flits over the curly-haired stranger’s face, a soft, dubious touch to his facial features. He purses his strawberry mouth. 

“If you’re sure.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. 

And still, she slips her hand over the unlock button, and the doors click to signal unshuttering as the man culls his wallet and stuffs the cash back in, sticking that back into his jeans. She watches him wind around her car, his gait trailing behind, and her eyes follow his side profile, bathed in the red of the brake lights, through the rear-view. The passenger door slips open. She rolls her window the rest of the way up. 

“Thank you,” the man tells her in his low baritone, raking fingers through his curls as he slides into the seat beside her and shuts the door. 

He smells heady and fresh — expensive. But it’s not overpowering, by any means. A blend of tantalizing notes; cologne blotted in increments that mesh well with his natural musk. The pleasant scent is the first thing she notices when he climbs into her vehicle. The second is the sculpt of his side profile — lengthy lashes over the crest of his cheekbones, his nose, a plush, pink mouth, a stray curl splayed over his forehead. He’s a little older than her, at least by a handful of years; there’s this innate, aged quality to him, and she can witness it in the shape of his features, in the soft dusting of stubble over his jawline. Y/N catches glimpses of his side profile discretely as the music track shifts, eyeing the bob of his Adam's apple as he cranes his neck back against the headrest. The screen over the center console reads 1:02 AM. 

“Long night?” 

It’s a shit attempt at small talk, but the young woman turns the wheel in her palms, hopeful that the man is interested in something more than an awkward silence, sparsely filled with the mellow keys of electronic-indie leaking from the speakers. She heard him expel a breath more than she sees it in her peripherals, and as the car embarks on another U-turn, he tells her, with laughter suffusing his cadence, “Yeah. Yeah, s’been a long night.”

She does make out that he pivots a bit towards her, and his tone is earnest when he says, “But it’d be a little longer without you, I think. Thank you, again. Feels like I can’t say it enough.” 

Her mouth quirks softly. The young woman keeps a haphazard left hand on the wheel, vision bouncing from the poorly illuminated road ahead and the phone in the cupholder. The LED display lights alive as she swipes her thumb over the lockscreen and toggles onto the maps app, cueing him by nudging the electronic in his direction. 

“Um. If you could just type in the directions— I’m sort of shit in these parts, to be honest.” 

She casts a brief gaze toward him and sees a soft divot pinch into his cheek as the corners of his mouth crook up. His fingertips, warm and rough — calloused — brush over the back of her hand with the handoff, and then his thumbs are working over the screen before an address and a winding blue line of directions with an eta of thirty-four minutes teems the screen. 

“Hi, by the way,” the man says in his honey-smooth cadence, “My name’s Harry.” 

“Hi,” Y/N grins, shooting a bashful glance into the attractive stranger — Harry’s — direction, before fixing her irises up ahead. “I’m Y/N.” 

“Y/N,” the man parrots — God. She could listen to him drone on about the most monotonous topics in that voice. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses that same timbre again to say, “S’a pretty name.” And she has to ignore the flurry of butterflies that swarm her innards at the entirely innocuous compliment and the heat that suffuses her cheeks. “Are you from around here?” 

“Ish. Sort of,” she slows at a curve through the field. Her brows pinch, “I mean, I’ve lived here for a bit now, but I moved from Oregon.” 

“Oregon? That’s sick. Any particular motive?” 

Y/N lifts a subtle shoulder, because there isn’t. She pauses before she answers. “Dunno. Just needed a change of scenery.” 

Harry twists the ring over his pinky and nods down at the motion, lips pursed with intrigue, “Adventurous.”

The young woman’s mouth crooks, because he’s, evidently, from the opposite hemisphere.  

“That’s admirable,” the man motions with his chin. 

Her mouth is still smiley when she rounds another curve, in the opposite direction, and mirrors his dialogue, “What about you? Any motive?” 

“My motive?” his inflection is cheeky and playful, “You don’t think I’m a native?” 

The girl makes a wry sound of amusement; an obvious inclination of disagreement. The handsome man grins, all raspberry-tinted lips and friendly teeth. “Just …visited, and never wanted to leave,” he declares with little expansion on the topic. Simple, short, sufficing. 

There’s a little moment of lull between them when she straightens the car out and the track slips into the chorus. 

Harry shifts in the passenger seat and asks, in that same deep timbre she could sink into and drown in, “Where are you headed from?” 

Where is she headed from? Y/N blinks at the road ahead, digits flexing over the steering wheel. Truth be told, it’s a late hour to be out and about, especially in this deserted neck of the woods. Every cozy little farmhouse in these plains, distant beyond the fields of grass, has lights off. No other car passes. 

“I was on a …date,” the young woman tells him. 

Harry nods and swivels in his seat to face her a bit. “Good date?” 

Y/N pauses, the fragments of the story rolling around behind her skull. And truth be told, …it wasn’t a very good date. But it wasn’t a date to begin with. In all honesty, she’s not about to tell this attractive stranger that she’d driven forty minutes for a routine hook-up with an old tinder match, only to be stood up outside his door. 

He was a character whose path happened to cross with hers for purely carnal purposes, and their flings were like rolls through seasons, rendezvous blotted into her timeline where either had a smidge to make room. She’s not going to talk about that. It’s piteous, basically. The young woman doesn’t risk side-eyeing him. This man seems like he’s well off in that department, and she doesn’t want to discuss her shit intimate life and the way that Cody decided, last minute, that he was more interested in going out for miller lites with his buddies than entertaining the idea of sleeping with her. 

He didn’t even have that impressive of dick game anyways — that’s the brutal candor. It wasn’t that he had this particular lack of satisfaction guarantee, but the sex was okay. It didn’t tick all the boxes or leave her fulfilled, not in the real sense, but it was sex, and it was decent. Maybe the most brutal part is the way she’d driven all the way to see him, even knowing that the sex wasn’t going to be top notch. 

Apparently, her silence stretches too long, and the pause gives away the answer she mulls tactics over hiding. 

“Bad date,” the girl hears from beside her — it’s in this thoughtful sort of way, like Harry’s slotting puzzle pieces together in the lull.   

Y/N shifts her fingers over the wheel, the sound of skin sliding over leather meshing with the starting notes of a Cage the Elephant track. Her thumb toggles over a button on the wheel. She skips it. 

“No,” the girl responds, eventually, but she doesn’t even sound fully convincing to her own ears. There’s this high note to her cadence, and she hears it in her own waver of honesty. She wants to cringe up, a little, at the sound. “Not …bad. Just. Well, you know. What about you?” 

For the first time since she’d gotten back onto the road, Y/N casts her gaze to him. A glimpse, a twist of her chin, enough to take in his side-profile for a smidge of a second, more in a way to incite switching the topic and pivoting the point of conversation than the inconspicuous stare she’d made appreciating his features. The corner of his plush mouth curves up, and he makes a little sound; a puff of air through his nostrils like he’s bridling mirth. 

“Was my date bad?” Harry says, in this playful sort of way. Like he’s teasing her. 

“No— your— whatever you—” 

Y/N huffs. She rolls her shoulders back against the seat, a heat teeming over her cheeks. Why was she so nervous? Why did he make her so nervous? Harry makes another sound of amusement, the cushion of his lips unsealing to display straight white teeth. 

“I was at a friend’s,” Harry expands, opting to stop drawing out the teasing, enough for Y/N’s shoulders (that’d grown rigid) to relax a little against the seat. “Was actually having a good night, believe it or not. And then, you know.” 

Unfortunately, she does know. He’s sitting in her car, after all. 

“Do you know what went wrong with it?” she ponders. 

“Well,” Harry the pads of his fingers over the door, and it takes every fiber in her not to sneak a glance at the motion, not to admire the yellow polish, washed with darkness, dim in the car, “the check engine light was on for a bit, to be honest. But— no,” the man pauses with a little simper, shooting her a glance, “Cars aren’t my specialty.” 

They talk about loads of things — she learns all about his friends and the sort of outing they’d had (game night it’d been, Uno, and he’d beckoned her opinion on a debate that’d arisen — whether a draw four could be stacked onto a draw two). That had spawned another conversation on card games —

(“Is it like Go Fish, then?” 

“No,” she snorts, “not at all.” 

“Not at all?” 

“There’s a board and it’s— more complicated.” 

“There’s a board,” Harry parrots, shifting with his elbow brace on the center console like an armrest, “And it’s just, like. Cards, like, in a deck of cards?” 

“You’ve never played cribbage?” Y/N repeats in disbelief.)

She learns about his job, and his cat, and his collection of vintage vinyls. He’s amiable, and he answers every question she directs his way with this smooth sort of charm. He’s easy to talk to, and the span of the drive cuts shorter and shorter through intriguing conversation. But she leads the way for the majority of the inquiries. 

It’s not until they’re at the halfway mark before he asks his own, rather than redirecting one of hers. 

“Can I ask you something?” Harry drums his fingertips over the plush of his mouth, and Y/N struggles to fix her eyes back onto the road once she’s spared him a glance. 

It takes her a second to hum out an agreement, too. 

“It was a bad date, wasn’t it?” 

The girl expels a breath and drums her fingers over the wheel, casting her gaze onto the screen of directions. 

“It wasn’t even a date,” she confesses, “he was like—“ she blinks, lashes fluttering as exasperation at the reminder leaks through, “A tinder hook up, and we didn’t even end up hooking up.” 

Before he can interject, Y/N tacks on, begrudged, “He wanted to hit the bars with his posse of Mag-con wannabes, instead.”

And then there’s this sort of pause that has Y/N thinking that maybe she’s overshared. The man with the sun-polished nails isn’t an old friend she’s having a gab with, catching up on the phone — he’s a stray man she’s plucked up off some deserted road, and if he judged her for her choices, it’d kind of be justified. Namely, the one where she’d driven out in the middle of the night for impromptu cock. 

And anyways, this all feels a bit surreal — the beginnings of a therapy session with a stranger who’d hopped into her sedan for a lift, filling the void of a psychologist in a great, big leather armchair.  

Except Harry sounds earnestly disbelieving when he says, “You’re kidding.” 

She purses her mouth and readjusts her fingers over the steering wheel. “He sort of …canceled when I was already at his door? Forgot to text me that the plans changed. That’s what he said.” 

“What a dickhead.” 

“Mm,” Y/N hums. 

“He’s a moron for passing up the opportunity,” Harry tells her. It’s not in an awkward way, or anything creepy, either. He’s got this air to him, she finds — an ability to make a comment like with effortless delivery of charm. He’s not even looking at her when he says it, only risking her a brief glance that she catches in her peripherals. She still side-eyes him from her seat in surprise, the edges of her mouth curling up bashfully. 

“M’serious,” Harry says, dimples pinching into place beside the upturned-curl of his plush mouth. 

And the thing is, Harry is so friendly. He’s kind, and interesting, and despite the way Y/N had assumed allowing for his presence in her car would be the world’s greatest chore, she’s pleased to be in his company. 

That’s why she lifts a wry shoulder and tells him, “The sex was bad anyways.” 

The man’s face pivots to face her, then. “Yeah?” he coaxes for expansion in his molasses-slow croon of a timbre. 

“It was just a little boring.”

“Boring?” 

“Not— maybe not boring. Just, you know. There was nothing…” Y/N drums digits over the steering wheel, “I don’t know.”

The man beside her clears his throat. 

“Was he a missionary in the dark type of bloke, then?” 

“Yes,” she responds, almost instantly. Because missionary in the dark is, perhaps, the best way to describe Cody’s sexual nature. Down to the T, practically. She can’t fathom how many times she’d lay there, hoping he’d switch up into something different, something where his hands weren’t resting shallowly on the bed sheets beside her shoulders, something where his face wasn’t tucked into the crook of her neck, his mouth biting back everything but soft hisses of air as his hips rocked at an mediocrely slow pace. 

Harry’s mouth quirks. 

“But not even that, it’s like. He wasn’t bad at foreplay, or anything. It wasn’t the best. But, you know. It was all sort of… plain.” 

The young woman pauses before she continues with an apathetic, one-shouldered shrug, “And there’s nothing wrong with plain. It gets the job done, and, you know. That’s what some people like.” 

There’s a shift in energy, from there. It’s subtle, but Y/N can feel it, and she wonders whether the morph is a one-sided experience. It happens with the honesty of the context, with the way she swears jade winds over her figure from beside, with the rasp of his voice beckoning something playful. 

“But that’s not what you like.” 

Y/N takes a second to answer. “No.” 

“What do you like?” 

Maybe that phrase is where it hits her. Where she recognizes that the subtle shift in energy is not one-sided. Not by any means.

Y/N risks a haphazard glance into his direction. 

“Not …that,” the girl laughs. It’s a nervous, giggly kind of sound, but it’s not because of him.  

It’s different now, she thinks. He’d been so timid at first — all bashful gazes through lashes glimmering under the beam of headlights, hesitancy shaping his features. Friendly dialogue — alluring, but curt in anything beyond friendly. This is different. This is blunt and forward. This is his eyes raking over her, this is his tongue swiping out over the plush of his pink mouth, this is his dimples peeking as the corners edge up.

“What do you like?” Harry asks again, a note of flirty, lighthearted amusement to his smooth cadence.  

Y/N sighs, the corners of her mouth tipping up. “I don’t know. Oh my God. Why are you interrogating me?”

Harry laughs. His brows rise, and he tips his chin down so the green sparkles at her. “You don’t know what you like?” 

“I don’t know,” she huffs, good natured. And then she gives. “Something… rough. Something exciting. I don’t know, pull my hair, make it hurt a little. Don’t… lay there in the dark and…” her speech morphs into giggles, “Groan into my ear about how tight I am while I’m laying there like a dead fish.”

Y/N doesn’t know how she ends up pulled over in some deserted parking lot. She doesn’t know how her headlights end up off, how the stranger’s hands sew into her hair, how his lips mesh softly with hers, hungrily. Well. She does know, but she doesn’t care about the details in between. Because he’s hot, and he tastes of mint, and the tips of his fingers press into her scalp and tug a little when they brush through, when he slips a palm over the nape of her neck through the work of his cushiony mouth. It’s thrilling, and it’s sexy, and it’s dangerous, she thinks, but that thought becomes clouded and pushed back to the dells of her mind. 

“Such a pretty little thing,” Harry murmurs when they disconnect, fingers splaying over her cheeks. Her heart hammers in her chest, and his irises trail after the motion of his thumb, bumpily dragging over the side of her lips, all the way to her cupid's bow. That same pad of his thumb pauses and tugs, drawing her bottom lip down to show the slightly parted seal of her teeth. 

And then he’s taking his thumb away and nudging the tips of his index and middle finger, coaxing, “Open your mouth, open your mouth.” 

The pads of his digits meet the tip of her tongue and prod in, brushing over her taste buds, until he’s tapping onto the center of the muscle and crooning, “Stick it out. Tongue out for me.” 

A little hum escapes her, plucking at her vocal chords when she complies, only for him to trace further with his fingertips and nudge until he strokes the back. He holds them there and makes a little motion with his chin and a soft tut when her irises stay pinned on him, glazing with a sheen of watery protest at the depth of the intrusion. 

“Ah— don’t you gag,” he tells her softly, every syllable of every word coated with these notes of dominance that almost seem …innate — like the headspace is a pair of shoes for him to slip into with ease. 

It’s filthy, it’s so filthy — this stranger’s fingers in her mouth, this man she’s never seen a day in her life, a complete, nameless stranger, not even an hour prior, prodding into the warm wetness behind her lips. And her, following his aimless direction, just to please him. She doesn’t gag through the way his fingers crook, her tongue twitching and her throat bobbing, her sight growing blurry with the coating of sheen. It’s worth it, immensely, when Harry hisses out a soft curse and groans softly, his brows pinched. 

It’s worth it when he takes his fingers away, and Y/N’s jaw is coated with her drool, when her tongue is still out, when Harry says, in this soft, strained voice, like it’s praise, “Christ, you’re a filthy thing.” 

She finds that this impromptu rendezvous sort of gives her whiplash. She’s parked in some empty parking lot with her lights off, and an alluring stranger’s just untucked his fingers from her mouth. Maybe someone would deem this a new low — having a shag with some hitchhiker she’s scooped off the side of a back-country road. But he’s eyeing her like she’s prey, and he rolls from one action like pages flitting and flipping in a book, and every detail keeps her on her toes. She can’t keep up. Y/N pants wetly, like she’s not sure whether to slip her tongue back into her strawberry mouth, because she’s not. 

Not until he swipes another thumb over the tip of the lax, twitching muscle and beckons, like he’s a little amused, “Aren’t you?” 

Slowly, her tongue retreats, and that’s when his hand slips and cups over her throat, and that’s—

Her pulse thunders like it’s straining to beat out from below her skin, and Harry adjusts his grip, that same, wet thumb drawing short, slow lines over the point like he wants to test the race of her heart, like he wants to know that the pattern has skyrocketed since his palm has made homage over her windpipe. The man hums, pupils trailing and lingering slowly. 

“Tell me—“ Y/N shifts in her seat, spine straightening out against the cushion, and something wracks down every individual knob when his blown gaze pins her the same way his palm pins over her neck, “Tell me you’re my filthy plaything.” 

The press of his hand isn’t harsh by any extent, not until she parts her lips to answer — that’s when he nudges a little firmer. A little harder. He cocks his head at her in this condescending way — like her stifled sound of surprise entertains him, like the subtle, almost unnoticeable jolt of her eyelids, widening, pleases him. Judging by the slight quirk at the edges of Harry’s plush mouth, it does. 

Her tummy coils with unanticipated desire. This feels almost scary. This feels like traipsing over a rope, like teetering over dangerous territory, and the sudden spike of adrenaline only has her thighs clenching together harder. Because this is sweet Harry, the friendly hitchhiker, in his cream sweater with his nice smile, and his charming dimples, and his loose, clean curls, with his warm palm cupped over her throat and the pad of his thumb digging into her pulse. He looks fucking hungry. 

“I’m—“ her statement’s muzzled by the press of his hand, an increase in only a slight increment. It’s enough to wrest a garbled sound from the back of her throat. He tips his head. 

“What’s that?” 

“I’m your…” she pauses when he presses harder, again, and this time’s enough to have her feeling lightheaded, her bleary eyes wandering over his face and every muscle of her face battling the light flutter of her lashes. She thinks a dimple peeks from his cheek. Harry lets up.

Y/N siphons breaths like her lungs have been deprived for ages, and not just partly for the timespan of a short fifteen seconds. Still, his palm is glued over the front of her neck — just there. His thumb strokes over her pulse gently. 

“I’m your …filthy plaything,” the young woman confesses in this pathetic little voice that’d have her ashamed in every other setting. But in this one, it doesn’t. 

Arousal creeps through every fiber of being, instead, crawling through her arteries and settling into her veins like a twisted, dark goo. It thrums through her and sinks through to the trench of her tummy, frothing as chills teem down her back. He’s got this glint in his eye, like a dance around a bonfire in the deep of the night — but it’s just a stray street light that casts its shone as a spotlight when he ducks forward a tad, just enough for it to. When he tips forward, his gaze growing half-lidded, lower and lower the closer he gets, it feels like he starts to siphon every breath from her own mouth as his cushiony lips ghost over her cupid’s bow. Even for the smidge of the second it takes for their mouths to mesh again, it feels like the movement is in ultra slow motion. 

The mold of their mouths together, this time, feels a lot less like she’s got her hands on the wheel — the first time had been almost testing, sweet — something soft that’d shifted into something headier, something firmer. This feels like something he guides, something he takes the clear lead in, from the pace of his hungry lips to the exploratory nudge of his tongue against the seam of her own mouth. Her fingers flex over the center console aimlessly, palm straying, and fingertips catching on a part of his cotton sweatshirt. They twist into the fabric softly when Harry’s tongue strokes over her own. A hand settles onto her thigh. It’s not her own.

“Get in the backseat,” he hums into her open mouth, squeezing over her flesh when she doesn’t immediately comply. He’s got this way of dulling her reflexes, crumbling the semblance of her mind to mush, and Y/N is convinced it has more to do with his touch than it has with the time of night, despite the way exhaustion wears at her tired muscles. “Get in the fuckin’ backseat.” 

When her arms strays and she reaches for the door handle, though, he squeezes at her thigh again, and hums out a displeased note of disagreement. “Not like that.” 

Bemused, Y/N shifts in her seat. A glint of something playful glows in the jade when Harry tells her, “You can find another way, can’t you, pet? Go on.” 

Y/N sits in confused silence for all of three seconds before the man sits back a tad and cocks his head, irises flashing towards the backseat with a playful, little grin quirking at his lips. Like he’s suggesting. 

It takes her longer than three seconds to clamber into the back from the driver’s seat, through the slot over the center console, but it satisfies Harry, evidently, judging by the way he palms over the globes of her backside through her stretchy mini-skirt. It’s not very graceful, and if she was less aroused she’d probably find it in her somewhere to be a bit embarrassed, but. She doesn’t. She wriggles over the cushion, instead, settling back. 

Harry has smarter ideas. He toggles the gear on the side of the passenger seat and sets the whole top of it back, like a makeshift day-bed, and scoots into the back of the sedan through the opening. And there’s not much leg room — not for the two of them, not with the whole back of the seat splayed — and there’s not much room for their heads, either, but they manage to squeeze back, and he’s gripping onto her shoulders and twisting her on his own whim before the young woman has a chance to shift around, herself. 

“Get—“ the way Harry manhandles her with a grip on her hips, (once he’s got her slumped, at least somewhat) — with ease, like he’s flipping a page in a book rather than rearranging her whole position in the cramped space of a sedan backseat — that lights something fiery in the pit of her belly. “Hands and knees, baby,” Harry tells her, grunting softly while her limbs scrabble over the pleather. He pulls her back into him, by the hips as she’s physically molded into it, parroting, quieter, “hands and knees.” 

“Itsy bitsy skirt… so easy to just—” Harry hums, this sort of mischief to his cadence — and it becomes blatantly obvious, the reason for it, when his digits creep under, from behind, and his colossal palms hitch it up, “Oops.” 

She’s wearing tights under it. They’re not the fleece-lined kind, despite the bite of chill in the air outside, but they are there, and Harry spans the pads of his fingers over the barrier like he doesn’t have plans to discard them the practical way. 

He doesn’t. The man stripes a fingertip down her core, from behind, over the fabric and the faint hue of cheeky purple that peeks through, and makes this devious sound of mirth when her whole body twitches. And then he draws the same fingertip back up, in the same line, and nudges a bit. 

“What am I gonna do with you?” Harry coos. The third, slow drag has her arching her hips back. “Hm? What am I gonna do?” He takes almost a thoughtful second, tongue peeking out to swipe out over the cushion of his pink bottom lip, before Harry splays his palms over her bum, “Pretty girl… pretty arse…”

And it’s so calm — he’s so calm, so casual, so nonchalant — Y/N doesn’t even sense it coming until he sighs, and then he’s digging the tips of his digits into the nylon, stretching it from her core, and just tearing. Casually. Nonchalantly. The sound of fabric ripping apart coaxes her jaw to slip open, and her pupils stick to the inside of the door, unblinking, as he just tears, and tears, and tears. 

And she’s not even upset, is the thing. She’s not irritated that this stranger’s just torn the crotch of her tights apart — she can’t be, not when he hums devilishly and strokes over her core, a layer closer. Maybe that’s pitiful. Maybe that’s sad, that she’s so fucking horny that she doesn’t care that her tights have been split open with no prior discourse on the topic, but this direction of impulse — the way she’s not even able to try and guess his next move, it kindles something hot and hungry. 

And if she ever has Cody to thank for anything, Y/N thinks maybe it’d be that he’d inspired her to shave and slip on a pair of decently attractive underthings. 

“These are pretty, too,” Harry tells her, thumbing at the crotch of the thong, just over one side. The young woman gives this dreamy little sigh and arches back up into him further. “What d’you want, sweetheart? Want me to give some attention …here—“

Her spine jolts when he nudges the pad of his index right up against her clit, lightly, over the purple fabric, “Maybe? Is that it? Eager girl.”

He draws a featherlight circle over it, and then another, and another until her thighs are trembling. The tip of his digit taps. She nudges back, and he takes it away altogether. An amused sound slips from his mouth.  

“Say please,” Harry demands. 

Y/N jumps as his fingertips trail to her inner thigh, crooking and tickling in the line they draw. 

“Please.” 

Again, he makes a disapproving tut, and Y/N rolls her cheek onto on a forearm, tucked over the seat. 

His eyebrows climb up his forehead, and his fingertips drift up and down the back of her thigh, drawing closer and closer where she needs him most with every lap. Each word is covered with notes of firm dominance. “Not like that. Like you mean it — like you’re pleading.”

Y/N mulls over the words, her heart thundering. 

“How d’you beg?” 

It takes a second for his words to sink in, but then when they do, she croons out, softer, more desperate, “Please.” 

There’s a soft sound of a breath being expelled, the seat crinkling quietly as, she assumes, Harry sits back on his haunches, head ducked. Like it’s not good enough. Her tongue traces out over her lips and she beckons, “Please, please,” each plea prompting a spiral of unfamiliar humiliation — glazed with arousal — to unfurl. 

“Please, please, please—“ each word emphasized with a rock back of her hips. And finally, he touches her. 

His palm cradles a cheek, and he doesn’t sound even slightly impressed. Instead, his voice comes out exasperated when he tells her, “That’s not convincing. You’re desperate. You want something — you need it, you’re pleading.”

“Please— please—“

“Louder,” he scoffs, “Beg. Beg.” 

“Please,” she tries, desperation creasing her voice strained on the syllable, and Harry drags fingertips, airy, across her inner thigh, from bottom to top. “Please, please, please—“

And finally, something clicks. Something slots together, at some point, when she ditches the inhibitions and her cadence starts to border on a delirious sort of desperation. Finally, something works. 

“That’s better,” Harry says softly, swiping his thumb over her clit, “Much better.” 

She doesn’t pick up on that, though, and she’s still begging, pleading, quietly. Quieter, quieter, quieter — the words growing more sparse the longer he spends time honing on her clit, the firmer his touch becomes. 

“Good girl,” Harry coos, his fingertips latching up under the hem at the crotch of her panties, before he tugs, “Good girl. You ask nicely, and I’ll give it to you. S’that easy.”  

He slips a thumb against her gushing entrance and drags it down, tracing careful shapes over the bud of nerves, before he tugs down on the hood and emphasizes on the new exposure by reigniting the touch with the thumb on his opposite hand. Two hand task — very dedicated. 

“S’this all for me?” the man teases, pinching her clit, lightly, between the pad of his thumb and the side of his index. He sounds a little self-satisfied when he declares, quietly, “I’m flattered.” 

Her lips part as a silent, breathy moan wrests from the back of her throat. It happens when the pad of his long middle digit prods at her entrance and nudges in. The thumb on his other hand sweeps, side to side, over where she’d most sensitive, and he stuffs into her further. And they are lengthy — his fingers. She’d seen them drumming over the center console, and smush over the raspberry tint of his lips, felt them coat her tongue, and felt them press against her throat. They can reach further than her own, crooking against her spongy walls, curling when he adds a second before straightening out and scissoring for the stretch. 

“Christ, you’re gushing,” Harry says, and as if on cue, the pornographic squelch of his fingers working crowds the cramped space, “Jesus— d’you hear that?” 

Y/N buries her face in her arms to muzzle the little sounds of bliss that he pries from her mouth. It’s not until he’s proper fucking into her with his digits, the pad of his thumb dragging tight, little circles over her clit, that those sounds escape her. And when they start, they pour in a flood. Because he works so expertly, so deftly — from the pace, to the angle, to the way he hones on her clit with his other hand, and the filthy dialogue he spews in his honey-smooth baritone. It’s everything, everything, and it prompts the coil in her belly to circle and squeeze, tighter, tighter — a telltale prior to its inevitable snap. She clenches over his fingers helplessly.

But then he just— stops. 

The nudge of his digits skirts to a stand-still within her, and his thumb stops drawing circles, and Y/N just squeezes over him like a silent plea. He makes this sound — this mirthy, deviously pleased hum, like her displeasure at his pause amuses him. It’s pure sadism. 

It’s not until she rocks her hips a bit, a shallow, desperate kind of back and forth, that the amusement seems to slip from his tone. 

“Don’t—“ Harry tuts sharply, taking his thumb off her clit altogether to grip at her hip harshly, “Stay still. Naughty, little minx.”

And she does. She stays still when his voice gets hard like that. There’s a bit of quiet between his snap and the subtle freeze-up of her rocking. Soft breaths sew through the lull, but then he talks again, his tone a little nicer. 

“We’re gonna play a little game, yeah?” 

That’s …intriguing. Y/N shifts over the cushion. His grasp over her hip has softened considerably, but there’s still this humiliating heat that swarms her face at the fact that the crotch of her panties is still tucked against her skin, that everything’s out in the open, that Harry’s practically ogling in lieu of touching her. 

“It’s a bit like Simon Says. Except, when you play Simon Says, you hesitate a little, right?”

The man’s thumb presses back to her clit, and she buries her face in her folded arms. 

“And I don’t want you to hesitate. I’ll tell you something to do, and—“ 

His fingers sink into her, and her shoulders grow tense from the bliss. Y/N muzzles her groan. 

“You’ll do it. Sounds easy enough?” 

It does. It’s easy enough instructions, and when Harry pats at the same hip he’d been clutching over and beckons, “Hands back here,” Y/N obliges easily enough. 

Her cheek presses to the cushion, cool against the warmth teeming beneath her skin, and she lets him manhandle and move her splayed fingers to his liking, arms stretched behind. 

“That’s good,” Harry croons in his low timbre, the warm, lewd praise of it drawing chills up the nape of her neck, “Now spread a bit for me.” 

Y/N does that, too. Her finger pads nudge and press into her flesh, coated with the tights, and her digits crook as the tips dig in to splay — to follow his direction, to please him. And it’s shameful, a pinch in her shoulders as her arms reach back, fingers twitchy, imprinting into her own backside with little divots as she opens herself up for him to do nothing. But his satisfied little hum sends an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment spiraling through her veins. The way his warm palm rests on and pets over the back of her thigh along with it feeds something new and starving. 

“Good girl. There you go. See? S’easy.” 

Y/N makes a little sound into the seat, and her fingers flex as Harry pumps his own digits, a steady rhythm of in and out, paired with a hum from him that sounds absolutely pornographic. 

“Such a good girl,” the man tells her, fingers crooking, but the praise isn’t enough to muffle the bemusement that wracks her when he says in this devious hush, “Let’s try another. Bark.” 

Bark. 

It takes a second for the command to register past the immediate threshold of the pleasure curling in her belly as he strokes at her spongy walls. And when it does click together, his word settling past the membrane of bliss, her initial thought is that she’s definitely misheard him. Because that’s …sort of a ludicrous request. The young woman sounds strewn between groggy and muzzled when she cranes her neck a bit over the cushion and beckons with a confused hum. 

“Bark,” Harry repeats, “like a dog.” Simple and nonchalant. 

Bark like a dog. She’s midway through creased brows, a strained raise of her head, and a baffled what, before the man stills his fingers and takes a grip over her wrist, sliding her hand away. 

And then he smacks her, hard, with his palm on one side, in the same place where her digits had dug in to spread herself open. 

It’s loud, and it stings, and it sends a shockwave through her nervous system, strong enough to have everything buzzing on alert as her forehead pastes to the seat and the parted gap of her mouth struggles to mute a gasp. Maybe the most surprising part is that the hurt feels good, that the sting morphs into something else as it fizzles and ebs, that the hammer of her heart spikes this famished, unfamiliar arousal coursing through her when he doesn’t even bother stroking over the bruised skin. It’s definitely hard enough to leave a ruddy mark under the tights, and Y/N blinks down at the faux leather, wordless and a little gobsmacked. 

And then Harry sighs in this way that’s so …disappointed. And the calmness of his inflection, grouped with the irony of the harsh hit… that has a chill climbing up her spine. 

“That’s not how you play the game, pet.”

He says it in this eerily nonchalant note of disdain, like he’s not just casually tattooed the shape of his hand onto her backside with a blow. Like he expected better. Like it’s a little mishap they’ll gloss over. She doesn’t even realize she’s still got a vice clamped over his fingers until he shifts the digits in her, coaxing her core to flutter around him. Harry sighs again. 

“Did you forget the rules, baby?” he asks, cadence soft and basked in condescension. The man strokes over the heated skin, the same spot where Y/N is sure a subtle welt has peaked to the surface below the thin veil of the sheer tights, “I tell you to do something and you do it, right?” 

Her knees are starting to ache a little, a soreness settling into the joints, but she doesn’t even mind it when his fingers pump again, slowly. 

“That’s how the game goes. Right? I need an answer.” 

She makes a soft sound. A little sound that’s not protest. A little sound that’s not outright agreement. It’s a whimper into a void, but everything about him and his touch lights something alive in her. And she wants more. She’s dizzy off of it when she manages out a breathless, “Yes.” It’s a short word that comes out in a breath, like she’d been holding the air in her lungs. 

Maybe that’s why she’s dizzy. 

“Are we on the same page? Let’s try again, then. Bark.” 

Y/N shifts over the seat. The hand he’d moved has splayed helplessly to her side, and the fingers curl and uncurl as the weight of the suggestion hits her. Because that’s— it’s humiliating. It’s demeaning, and it’s strange, and the fact that he demands it has the tips of a fire licking up at her insides. The young woman makes an uncharacteristically pathetic noise. 

Harry sighs. 

The split second of hesitation is enough, apparently, for another slap, just as hard, in the same spot. It has her rocking forward and clenching over his digits again. Harry’s quick to correct her posture with a hand on her hip, guiding her back in a way that lacks gentleness. 

“I said, bark.” 

This time his voice is harder. Meaner. Y/N gives. 

She gives because the tips of his fingers prod at this heavenly spot inside her, because her skin smarts in a way that has her practically drooling, because she’s dizzy, and hungry, and desperate. Her thighs are quivering when she gets out a half-hearted woof, her lips shaping over the word like the task is a chore to get out. 

“Better—“ another slap, aimed lower onto the back of her thigh, has her hips jutting and the straight line of her spine twisting up, “—but not what I’m looking for. Try again.” 

She doesn’t even aim to please, is the thing, when her yelp overlaps with another smack. But it morphs into something surprised and deliciously pained, and evidently, it’s enough, judging by the way his touch smooths over the stinging skin.

“Oh, baby,” Harry tells her, his fingers stroking like he’s smudging the pink-tinge of bruising, “That’s pathetic.” 

And it dawns on her then, that there’s no winning with this game. When he tuts and tells her, absolutely patronizingly, “So desperate for it, she’s barking like a stray.” 

It dawns on her that she doesn’t want to win. She doesn’t care, because his filthy dialogue, as demeaning as it is, just draws her wetter and closer. As if to highlight on it, Harry crooks his fingers and tacks on, “You’re leaking all over the seats, pet.” 

And she is, she’s sure. It’s a dirty game he plays, and she loves every part of it and more. It has her writhing when he draws circles over her clit, it has her aching for more when he guides her hand back to her backside with a squeeze and a wordless coax to keep spreading. 

“Gonna let me fuck you?” Harry pulls the digits out, dirtying what’s left of her tights and smearing sticky wetness over the back of her thigh, “Hm? Gonna let me—“ his belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and then comes the soft sound of a zipper, its teeth unlatching, “—fill you up?” 

“Glovebox,” Y/N mumbles, hips shifting back when he pets at her thigh. 

His pupils flit, sticking to the back of her head, before they jump back down to his handiwork. Harry’s tone sounds absent-minded and mirthy when he asks, “What’s that?” 

“There’s condoms in the glovebox,” she expands, a little louder than her prior murmur, bracing on her forearms to cast her gaze back at him over her shoulder. 

And he looks rugged in this boyish, youthful way, then, is the thing. The corner of his mouth jolts, lopsided, and a stray tendril has flopped over his forehead. His hands are on the undone buckle of his belt, and his fly’s down, and he sounds absolutely amused when he says, “Are there?” 

There are. 

“You’ve prepared for this, then, have you?” Harry sets a palm onto her hip, squeezing as a dimple pinches into his cheek, “Condoms in your glovebox …like a proper dirty whore?” 

Coyly, she blinks, cheek nuzzled to the seat, and she watches him stretch his arm out for the glovebox as he knees away. 

“I’m always prepared,” Y/N settles on, softly.

The glovebox slips open. There’s rummaging — his torso turns to face it entirely, and then he gleans a shining, golden little packet, tucked between the pads of his digits. The young woman wriggles her hips. There’s this glint of fiery …something. Something playful, something lewd, something hungry in the jade, when he clambers back over, steadying himself with a palm on her tailbone. It coaxes her spine into a pretty, sharper arch.

“You do this a lot, do you?” Harry teases, “Pick up strange men, let them fuck you?” 

She hums in agreement as the man takes the little gold square, snug between his teeth, fingers working quickly, pushing buttons through slots and tugging his cock out. 

“Maybe I do.” 

He tears at the wrapper with his teeth. She knows, because his next words come out a little muffled. 

“Is that right?” 

It’s not. It’s so out of the norm, so far from the usual, but Y/N would be a masochist to string out the arousal that’d built between her thighs in lieu of letting Harry span his palms over the globes of her ass in the backseat. Harry, with his cheeky smile and his sunshine, short-trimmed nails. Harry, with his denim-tethered bulge dragging over the back of her thigh and his filthy tongue shaping crude dialogue.  

She doesn’t see him as he tuts from behind, but she can picture it; his palm cupped over the base of his shaft as he rolls the condom over and then presses the tip against her teasingly. 

“Wanted to be fucked like a dirty whore, is that it?”

Her “yes” stretches and ebs and splinters into a whispery hiss when Harry nudges forward and stretches her out. And then he’s beckoning for her hands, one hand splayed over her hip and the opposite coaxing at her shoulder, tugging and jolting in gentle nudges, mouth shaping over firm, “Hands, hands, give me your hands — behind your back— that’s— just like that.” 

Barred from scratching at the seats with his firm, warm grip binding the joints hostage, Y/N presses her cheek to the cushion. She slumps into his willpower, gives into him, the smush of her face sweaty on the cushion, jolting with every rock forward. The young woman clenches over him helplessly. Soft sounds slip past her lips, pried out by the nudges of his hips, over and over, again and again. Her fingers stiffen and flex, and the arch in her spine shifts when the head of his cock bumps that delicious ridge so deep in her — and it’s like Harry senses it, the way her entire body grows taut like a string. He goes at that too, prodding, again and again, until a whine plucks at her vocal chords. Every shallow jolt of his hips sends waves of paralyzing bliss licking over her insides. Every nudge forward has her slumping more. And when he talks, Y/N barely registers it over the rush of blood in her own head. 

There’s been little things that fall from his mouth — soft curses and hisses as he slides in, hums and groans when he bottoms out, readjusting his grasp over her wrists. Words, though — now he’s saying words. They’re still in that gentle baritone, this sort of luring croon. 

“Come on, baby. Come on — got a stranger’s cock in your pretty, little pussy—“ Harry’s voice catches on a strained note as he pulls out—

…A sigh as he rocks back in, “—and …you’re not gonna struggle?” 

A warmth stems from his grasp, behind her back, and as if on reflex, her digits crook and flex. The danger of the words don’t even register. Because, yeah, he’s right. She’s got a stranger holding her restrained, rocking up against her, and all that peaks in her at the filthy dialogue is a bud of deranged arousal. She doesn’t shoulder forward though, doesn’t try to pull her hands apart, doesn’t sag forward, not even a little, too concerned that even a minute shift will alter the delicious intensity of the angle. 

“Not even a little bit?” Harry tuts, grinding forward, one more time, slow, and then he squeezes over her wrists hard and picks up in pace. Just until he settles into a hard tempo of short, deep thrusts, and her shoulders are aching from the way he pulls her arms back. 

His words blanket her with this patronizing sort of humiliation — the kind that has her spongy walls pulsing over his length and chills erupting from the nape of her neck to the creases between her shoulder blades. “You make it so easy.”

So easy for a stranger to fuck her — so easy, pulling over in some desolate parking lot. So easy, letting him wrap a palm over her throat and stick his fingers past her lips. So easy, following his every command for the reward of his hips pummeling against her own. 

And it’s easy to get close with the way he works into her, tip bumping into a spot that sends waves of pleasure coursing through every millimeter of her nervous system. The kind that has every muscle stiffening to stone until the wave ebs. It’s so easy to lurch higher and higher, closer and closer, when his touch digs into her joints, rendering her helpless to his crude affections. When strained grunts and sordid words fall from his mouth, when his other hand slips from her hip and knots into the hair, at the roots, on the back of her scalp, only smushing her cheek into the seat with more pressure. 

“Fuck,” Harry groans, the pace of his thrusts stuttering as he picks up the tempo into something merciless, his digits flexing into her hair and his body weight sagging onto her frame. 

Every time his balls slap against her clit, teasing where she wants that attention the most, she feels the spring draw tighter, lips smushed to and gaping against the seat. And then he readjusts his grip, lets one of her hands free while he keeps the other pinned, and he coaxes, “Touch your pretty clit, baby. Make yourself cum all over my cock.” 

Y/N makes it to the crest before he does. It’s her fingertips sloppily winding loose shapes over the bud of nerves, it’s his cock hammering down into her, it’s the pinch in her shoulder, and the way Harry’s grip grows harsher over the hand he still has pinned, the closer he gets himself. The way his digits are still flexed at the roots of her scalp, the way his moans and curses are garbled with pleasure with each pump. The way her helpless fluttering, when she tips over the peak, draws this long, sordid groan from him as he cranes his neck back. And then he slows, ducking his chin to watch below through slow thrusts. 

“Dirty girl, cumming all over a stranger’s cock,” Harry swipes with a thumb where the mesh, toying at the seam of her hole when he goes deeper, again, slow. 

And then his grip on her wrist gets hard again as his fingers flex, and he holds onto her hip and guides her in a steady-paced, back and forth bounce over cock. He chases his own releases, every motion rough, and full of control, and so brimmed with this unfamiliar hunger. She’s mush by the time his head tips back, and he gushes ribbon after ribbon into the condom. She’s mush when his grasp over her wrist grows lax, when he knees back clumsily on his knees, when he discards the condom, wrapping it into the confines of its wrapper, when he fixes her purple panties back over her crotch and strokes over the back of her thigh with an amused huff. 

“Alright?” Y/N vaguely hears Harry say from behind when she doesn’t instantly sit up, his voice bordering on amused. 

That’s. Yeah, Y/N thinks. She’s great. There’s still this rush of blood in her ears, and an ache in her joints that interweaves with the soreness of her muscles, but it’s all in such a good way. She makes a barely coherent hum of agreement and rolls her shoulder forward, planting her palms onto the seat to sit up and glance at the time over the display in the front of the car. It’s nearly three in the morning now, and it hits her then, that she’s so tired. She’s so tired, she feels like every piece of her energy had been strewn up and pulled tight on a rope, and now it’s all wasted away. 

Harry gets it. Or he seems to, at least. Sleep beckons her with a whispery croon and a soft touch. The corners of his mouth crook up, and he pats at her hip. 

“Hop up, pet. D’you want me to drive the rest of the way? S’just a little bit, now.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers. She doesn’t let strangers into her car in the middle of the night from some empty road, she doesn’t fuck them in the backseat, and she certainly doesn’t let strange men drive her car to some unfamiliar location, only lacking being undisclosed from its visible street name on the GPS. Y/N doesn’t do any of that. But she nods weakly and lets their roles flip. She’s mid-raising the back of the passenger seat by the time Harry jogs around to the driver’s seat and slips in. 

In the rear-view, her reflection greets with her unshed tears and bloodshot eyes, mascara smudged below. He turns to face her and strokes a hand down her thigh. He picks the same hand up and sets it onto the gear-shift. Switches to reverse. 

The first thing he says from the front of the car, strawberry mouth quirking as his eyes direct to the back-up camera, is, “I’m sorry about your tights. I hope that was alright.” 

When they pull up to the motel, Y/N doesn’t ask questions. There’s only been a span of, maybe, ten minutes passed between the parking lot and their final stop of the night before Harry pulls into a parking spot and shuts the car off. 

He tells her, “This is my stop.” 

Y/N doesn’t do hitchhikers, and exhaustion wracks at every sinew of muscle in her body. She half-expects him to wordlessly hop out of the car. He doesn’t. The man fixes her with a smile, and says, “Could I get your number, maybe?” 

It’s not an odd request by any means, but if she weren’t so tired, maybe she’d ask more questions. Her pupils would wend over the shoddy motel sign, and the shit cars parked beside them, and she’d wonder what the hell they were doing parked in front of some abandoned-looking motel. She’d ask why this was his stop, and not a home. Instead, she pulls a napkin from her glovebox and digs for a pen. She scribbles her digits and hands them off. In the brush of the cool air, from the night, when she clambers out to swap spots with him, she wraps her arms about herself. When she takes a seat into the driver’s side, she expects him to walk away. He doesn’t do that either. Instead, she rolls her window down when he beckons, and Harry leans onto the car and tells her, “Get home alright, yeah?” 

It’s a miracle when she hobbles up the steps of her apartment complex, when she pries open the front door and crashes into her sheets. The blankets envelop her like a warm hug, and she doesn’t even bother pulling off her tights. 

It’s a week before she gets a phone call. There’s no texts, and the morning after, when she’s greeted with radio-silence, she thinks that maybe she’d dreamt the whole thing. 

Her tights, ripped at the crotch, prove otherwise. 

She’s in bed, days later, when her screen lights up with a call. It’s an unfamiliar number, and curiosity peaks before she swipes over the answer toggle. 

“Hello?” 

A gap of silence, a breath, and a familiar, smooth baritone on the other end of the line. 

“Y/N.” 

There’s a little sound of the bedsheets stirring as she freezes up. He’s caught her off guard. A little laugh plucks at his vocal chords, tinny on the other end of the line, like he’s amused by the stretch of lull. Her lips part, the corners of her mouth inching up as she hears a sigh from him that seeps in all the way to her eardrum. But she doesn’t have time to contemplate what to say or how to say it, because he doesn’t let her get a word in before he’s talking again. 

And his next words are not a playful jest at her lack of response, or anything friendly, really. In fact, the confession, said so nonchalantly, causes chills to erupt down her arms. 

“I was going to kill you that night.” 

The chills aren’t the initial reaction. The initial reflex is the crook of her mouth to morph bemused, the pinch between her eyebrows, and this sullen feeling of dread that twists up in her stomach. A laugh bubbles in her chest, because, what the fuck? 

But then he keeps talking. 

“Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down,” the voice on the other end sighs, and it’s got this sort of …reminiscent quality to it. Like he’s tracing the steps of the night back to its starting point. Reliving it when he tells her, “It’s such a thrill, you know. Taking that from someone. So intimate.” 

The young woman doesn’t make any sounds, kind of appalled by the sick joke. Because it is sick, it’s disturbing, and it’s a twisted way, at the least, to strike up a conversation if he’s …looking to do what they did again. This isn’t the Harry she’d met on that night. This isn’t the same one who’d worn the cream sweatshirt, and talked all friendly with this smooth, wholesome charm — this wasn’t the man she’d let into her car, this wasn’t the man she’d let do all those filthy things to her, in the backseat of her sedan. This doesn’t feel like the same man at all, and she wishes she’d been aware of the sick sense of humor to his character before she’d let him …violate her. Y/N’s just about to budge in with a disgusted comment, tell him off for calling her so late at night to mess with her, but he beats her to the edge of the gap, yet again. 

Except this time, he sounds sort of frustrated, and the phrase comes out like a scolding, the tone of his cadence firm and irate. “Didn’t your mum ever tell you not to talk to strangers? …Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to trust strange men on the side of the road? S’just …bloody stupid.” 

He laughs. It’s this soft sort of chortle she’d been so charmed by that night — it’s identical, except then, it was this sweet sound full of wholesome mirth. Now, it feels cold. Odd and detached. Surreal.

“But you… you made it so easy,” Y/N listens to every word that comes through the line, hanging onto every syllable of the empty threat as dread churns her stomach. His words from that night crowd behind her skull. You make it so easy. “So friendly, so sweet. Just wanted to chat on and on. I was going to kill you, and you wanted to have a shag—” 

Harry tuts. Her heart hammers behind her ribcage, and she only realizes that her breathing has slowed and that her grip on the smartphone’s grown white-knuckled when it shakes against her cheek. She’d let him drive her car. She’d let him get into her car, she’d let him lure her into pit-stopping in a deserted parking lot, she’d locked the doors, and dimmed the lights, and let him open her up with his fingers and his cock. And then she’d let him drive her car, and take down her number. There’s a moment of mortifying silence.

Harry sounds deadly serious when he tells her, “Don’t you ever pick up another hitchhiker.”

The line goes dead. 

Y/N calls back. The number she reaches belongs to a payphone, unanswered.

[ichorai]

A SONG OF CURSES AND CROWNS ; series masterlist.

A SONG OF CURSES AND CROWNS — a collection of stories in westeros following the characters of jujutsu kaisen ... themes/warnings will be specified in each part.

main masterlist.

ONE. the wolf and the beast ; assassin!toji x stark!reader (3.3k) nobody told him that his target had a direwolf.

TWO. blacksmith!choso x highborn!reader you’re engaged to kenjaku, the father of the man you’ve already fallen in love with.

THREE. night’s watchman!yuji x wildling!reader and as you aimed the tip of your arrow to his chest, yuji knew he’d fallen in love with you.

FOUR. bard!yuta x witch!reader every night, the same nightmare. that is—until he came across you in a tavern, shrouded in mystery and shadow, whispering promises of ridding him of dreams. 

FIVE. king!gojo x knight!reader gojo, the young king who refuses to marry and turns down any potential suitors, grows attached to a mysterious knight who easily dominates over all his best warriors in a tourney.

SIX. prince!megumi x prisoner!reader he had no business being in the castle dungeons. and, upon further consideration, neither did you.

SEVEN. knight!ino x tyrell!reader you aspire to be a healer, even though women aren’t allowed to be maesters. ino, who’s infatuated with you, offers for you to practice on him.

EIGHT. hand of the king!geto x lady!reader during the first few moons of your arranged marriage, geto seems to hate you—all cold and distant, barely ever acknowledging you at all. you’re determined to find out why. 

NINE. sailor!yuki x merperson!reader perhaps a shipwreck wasn’t all that bad. it was what led her to you, after all.

TEN. lord!toge x painter!reader there’s much to do with the tongue other than speak.

ELEVEN. commoner!miwa x lord!muta they both stuck out like sore thumbs—with her pale blue hair and her shoddy dress; his scarred face and club-foot that gave him a terrible limp. it was only natural that they gravitated towards each other. the bastard and the cripple, the court whispered. it was a twisted tale of romance at best, an accursed union at worst.

TWELVE. dragonrider!sukuna x dragonkeeper!reader sukuna misliked how his own dragon seemed to like you more than him.

THIRTEEN. knight!nanami x lady of the vale!reader nanami considered himself a dutiful, honorable man. even if he was completely unworthy to marry an aristocrat like you, he would stand guard by your side regardless. 

FOURTEEN. master of laws!higuruma x mistress of whisperers!reader the two of you often butted heads during small council meetings, which led to much unresolved tension within the castle. having had enough, the king decided to lock the two of you in an empty chamber until all was resolved—or until one of you was dead. whichever came first.

[daenysthedreamer101]

Daughter of Steel and Bronze ~ HOTD

Ch 15 - To Mend a Broken Heart

HOTD x Targaryen!OC, Targaryen!OC x Harwin Strong

Warnings: slight make-out session? They get a bit horny lol. Daena and Harwin being sappy, love-sick fools, fluffy overall

A/N - I'm obsessed with this painting of the knight and the lady. It's so beautiful and represents Harwin and Daena so well

HOTD masterlist

"Not much can be said for the couple following years - Queen Alicent gave birth to another son, Prince Aemond in 116 AC. Once again, Princess Rhaenyra's status as heir was questioned, but the King ignored all the whispers at court.

On Driftmark, Prince Daemon wed Lady Laena Velaryon. Many took notice of this, as the wedding followed quickly after the death of his first wife, Rhea Royce. Not even a year has passed and the Rogue Prince found himself a second wife. 

His daughter, Princess Daena, stayed shrouded in black for an entire year, following the death of her mother. The once vivacious princess was now a shell of her former self, refusing to eat or drink, barely sleeping, and confining herself to her chambers. Some believe she never truly recovered." 

(Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros, by Archmaester Gyldayn)

~

116 AC

During the first two months after her mother's passing (before Rhaenyra's wedding), Daena visited the Eyrie, intending to speak to its ruling Lady, Jeyne Arryn. They discussed her inheritance and her new role as Lady of Runestone.

Daena knew that as Rhea's only child, she was the heir to Runestone and upon her mother's death, she became its new ruler. But there was just one problem. She was Daena Targaryen, not Daena Royce.

She had Royce blood. She was raised at Runestone and knew the castle better than any living soul and the Vale had a special place in her heart. But, she was a dragon. She was fire and blood. She loved her mother's side of the family dearly but, she could never part ways with her last name. She could never imagine herself as anything other than a Targaryen.

That is why she flew to the Eyrie and spent three whole days there, talking with Lady Jeyne for hours. She also reconnected with her distant cousin, Jessamyn Redfort, a 'dear companion' of Lady Jeyne. 

~

Following Rhaenyra and Laenor's less-than-perfect wedding, Daena (with the King's permission) relocated to Dragonstone, where she spent most of her time, mourning. There was no way in the Seven Hells she would spend any unnecessary time at King's Landing, for she loathed the city. She also had no desire to go back to Runestone, even though it was her birth-given right and duty.

Ultimately, she settled for Dragonstone, the ancestral home of House Targaryen. Both she and her dragon loved the smoky air and gloomy atmosphere of the island. There, she could sulk in peace, without worrying about what the lords and ladies of the Red Keep would say.

With her, Daena brought Harwin and Hanna. Joy, the older and more outgoing of the two sisters, was married off to Ser Elmo Tully, the heir to Riverrun and the future Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Initially, Daena was quite sad; she would miss Joy's lively spirit. But on further thought, she realized it would be a good thing to have one of her most trusted friends become the future Lady of Riverrun. 

The months she spent on Dragonstone were quiet, peaceful, and healing. On the nearby island of Driftmark, her father and Lady Laena were wedded; not even half a year has passed and her father has already found himself a new wife. It stung Daena, the fact her father was so quickly able to move on from her mother's death as if she never existed. She did not attend their wedding.

But, Lady Laena was kind, beautiful, of pure Valyrian blood, and as of late, a dragon rider. Months before Rhaenyra's wedding, Laena claimed Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world. Vhagar was almost two hundred years old and was one of the three dragons Aegon I used to conquer Westeros. Only a bold spirit could claim such a beast and Laena proved she was worthy of riding the Queen of all dragons. 

Harwin didn't know what to make of Dragonstone. The first time he laid his eyes on the island it was hidden by fog and mist, the smell of salt and smoke hitting his nose. The castle itself was a wonder to see; built by the last Valyrians, it was an homage to their once-powerful Empire. It was wholly non-Westerosi. Everything about it was made to honor and glorify dragons. 

It was unnerving to live in, to say the least. A grim place, Dragonstone was built with arcane arts, fire, and sorcery. Draconic architecture could be found in every nook and cranny of the castle. Door handles, murals, candles, goblets, chairs, tables, mirrors, wall carvings, statues; the entire castle was shaped like one giant dragon. Harwin did not like the idea of living inside a dragon's belly. 

But who was he to disobey his darling Princess? 

Speaking of said Princess, she was leaning on one of the many balconies that were perched up on the walls of the castle. She seemed in deep thought, her gaze focused on the roaring sea. She looked so hauntingly beautiful, Harwin thought; her long silver hair was pulled up, and she was shrouded in black as she always was these days. Around her neck, she wore the Valyrian steel necklace her father gifted her. 

He stood behind her, slightly to her right, watching, observing her. Her face was expressionless, but he could see so much pain and grief inside her lilac eyes. She drummed her fingers against the stone balcony. 

"I wish to walk on the beach." She said quietly. 

Harwin looked up at the sky - large, grey clouds were covering up the sun and it looked like it would rain any minute. 

"Are you certain, Princess? What if it rains?" 

"Then we'll be wet." She stated, turning to face him. 

Her once lively face was blank, and Harwin couldn't help but notice how her new way of dressing made her look significantly older than she was. Before he could respond, she walked past him, quickly descending the long flight of stairs. 

~

The bottom of her black gown dragged across the wet sand but she paid it no mind. The wind carried a scent of smoke and salt, something she enjoyed immensely. There was a certain coolness to the air which indicated to her it would rain soon. As someone who spent a lot of time high up in the air, she knew the telltale signs of an incoming storm.

"I received a letter from Joy this morning," Harwin said, breaking the silence. 

She looked up at him. "You did? What does it say?"

"She says the Tullys are most hospitable and that they take great care of their future Lady." 

Daena smiled at the news. She was glad the Tullys were taking good care of her friend. 

"There's more," Harwin added and stopped suddenly. 

Daena stopped as well, waiting for him to reveal more news. 

"She is with child." 

Daena was speechless. "That's wonderful! You're going to be an uncle!" 

Harwin chuckled. "I suppose I will." 

Daena's smile faded. "...I haven't received any letter from her since she moved to Riverrun. I think she's cross with me."

Harwin furrowed his brows. "Why do you think that?"

"Because...I didn't attend her wedding." She mumbled, nervously playing with her necklace. 

Harwin chuckled once again. He took hold of her hand, kissing the inside of her wrist. Putting his other hand around her waist, he pulled her closer, their faces inches away. He placed his forehead against hers. 

"It is not in my sister's nature to be resentful. It must have slipped her notice once she found out she was pregnant." Harwin said quietly, looking deeply into Daena's eyes. Her pupils were wide, making her eyes appear darker. She placed her other hand on his forearm.

"I- I suppose you are right." She whispered, her eyes falling to his lips. 

He smiled at her, nudging his nose against hers, and kissed the side of her head. She sighed in contentment, placing her head onto his breastplate. The cool metal felt nice against her hot skin. He placed many small kisses on top of her head, holding her tightly against his body. He inhaled the scent of her hair - lemon and rose oil.

She felt her heart skipping a beat. Ever since her mother's death, she's been...distant and formal with Harwin, ignoring the way he looked at her, ignoring whenever he called her 'love.' In a way, she was punishing herself, abstaining from his touch, depriving herself of any joy. 

Not anymore.

"Kiss me." She pleaded, looking up at him, her eyes full of desperation and desire. 

Harwin was taken aback. They haven't had any intimate moments ever since Lady Rhea passed. Daena noticeably distanced herself, and he respected her wishes even though it broke his heart. And now here she was, begging for his love. 

"Are you certain?"

Daena tsked and grabbed his head, pulling him down and connecting their lips. He stumbled a bit, not expecting her to react that way. He put his hands on her hips, squeezing her soft flesh. Her fingers were tangled in his dark curls, drawing him closer. 

He grabbed the back of her head, deepening the kiss. He gently bit her lower lip, making her gasp in surprise, giving him further access to ravage her mouth. All the little noises she was making were spurring him on and he couldn't help but notice his pants tightening.  

"Harwin..." She whined his name and it sent a shiver down his spine.

"The things you do to me, you pretty little thing...You don't even know." He groaned in her ear and the sound went straight to her core, making her clench around nothing. His hot breath made the hairs on her neck stand up. 

"But I do...You have ignited a fire in my heart and it burns so sweetly I wish for it to burn forever. I wish for it to consume me whole." 

His hold on her hips tightened and it ached slightly, but she didn't dare to move. A low growl left his throat as he inhaled her scent.  "Those are dangerous words, little dove."

"I know you feel the same way." She whispered into his ear. 

Before he could respond, the sky opened and rain started pouring from the clouds above. To her surprise, he picked her up and ran toward the castle. A gasp escaped her lips upon realizing her feet were off the ground. 

For the first time in months, she laughed. 

~

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" Hanna screeched as she saw the Princess and her brother enter the castle, sopping wet. 

"We were just taking a stroll on the beach," Daena answered innocently as Hanna dragged her toward her chambers. 

"Quick, Princess! We must change your clothes or you'll get sick." Hanna rambled on as they reached the room's door. 

Daena chuckled at her friend's worry. "No need to worry so much, my dear. I'll be fine." 

Hanna clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval, catching sight of her brother. "You too, Harwin. Go and change."

"Why of course, my Lady," Harwin said with a smirk. 

"I'm serious!" Hanna hissed angrily at her big brother. 

"Alright Hanna, dear, I'm sure Ser Harwin can take care of himself. Now, come and help me get out of this dress. I'm positively soaked." Daena said, pulling Hanna by her sleeve. 

"Congratulations on your sister's pregnancy," Daena muttered as Hanna massaged oils into her skin. The light of the now-waning sun trickled faintly into her bedchamber. The fireplace was lit, warming the room and adding additional light. Daena was ready to retire for the day. 

"...You know?" Hanna asked, her voice coated with surprise.

"Harwin told me while we strolled on the beach," Daena said, leaning back in her bathtub. 

Hanna stayed quiet. 

"What's the matter?" Daena asked. 

"Nothing, Princess."

"Hanna. I know you. You've been unusually snappy today. Something's bothering you. Won't you confide in me? I thought we were friends."

"It's just- Joy's pregnancy. It made me think of my own life."

"Yes?"

"I'm afraid Father will soon marry me off."

"Would that be a problem?" 

"I-"

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Hanna wiped her hands, got up, and went to see who was knocking. Daena could hear the measter's hushed voice. Hanna was back with something in her hands. 

"A letter for you Princess. From King's Landing."

A sigh escaped Daena's lips. She perched herself up, picked up a towel from the side of the tub, and wiped her hands. Hanna handed her the letter. 

Her eyes went over the lines over and over again. A frown appeared on her face and an agitated groan left her lips. She crumbled the letter and threw it away.

~

The Princess was in a foul mood this morning, Harwin noticed. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her jaw was tense, in the way her brows were furrowed. Instead of talking, she sighed, clicked her tongue, and rolled her eyes at everyone. She was annoyed, dare he say angry. 

Why? Harwin didn't know. 

They were now in Aegon's Garden - it was filled with tall dark trees, wild roses, and cranberries. It had a pleasant piney smell. Daena sat down on a large bench made of black stone. She patted the seat next to her and Harwin sat down. 

She took a deep breath, taking in the scent of all the wildflowers. "This was always my favorite part of the island. I like how quiet and peaceful it is here. I've never felt such tranquility anywhere else."

"... I'm sure you have noticed my less-than-pleasant behavior today. I'm sure you've wondered why that is."

She handed him a crumbled letter. "This is why."

Harwin's brows were furred as he read it. "So, what does this mean?" 

Daena sighed, looking down at her feet. "It means that as soon as I finish my mourning, the Queen will try and marry me off to a lord of her choosing. She will whisper in my Uncle's ear, just like her father did. She'll try and convince him it's for my own good."

"I would sooner jump into Vermithor's mouth and let myself get eaten alive than let her control my life."

Harwin smirked. He knew she would do it. 

"There is only one course of action I can take." She said, turning to face him.

"And that is?"

"I need to find a husband, by myself."

Harwin's heart skipped a beat at the mention of her marriage. It would be a lie to say he hasn't fantasized about marrying Daena, or at least offering himself as a candidate for her hand. He never verbalized those dreams because he never thought himself worthy of her hand, let alone her love. 

"He will be one lucky man, whoever he is." He whispered, looking at a rose bush in the distance. 

"Yes, yes he will be." She said pointedly while looking at him. She grabbed his hand once she realized he wouldn't look at her. 

"...Princess?" Harwin uttered. He was overwhelmed by the feeling of her warm hands wrapped around his. 

"Harwin..." She called teasingly. A wide smile was on her face, a glitter of determination in her eyes. 

"You don't mean-"

"You, silly. I'm talking about you. Marry me, Harwin."

He felt like somebody punched him right in the gut, his lungs begging for air. His heart drummed wildly in his chest as he processed her words. Daena Targaryen, daughter of the Rogue Prince, rider of Vermithor, the most beautiful woman he has ever seen, was asking him for his hand in marriage. 

"I'm not worthy of you." 

Daena did not expect those words to come out of his mouth. Why would he think that?

"Why would you say such a thing?" She asked more harshly than she wanted. 

He stayed silent. 

"If not you, then who? Who is worthy of my love if not you, my brave knight?" She inquired, her voice softer.

"I-"

"Do you not feel the same way? You...you don't love me?" She finally asked, cutting to the heart of the problem. Her voice cracked, tears welling in her eyes. This was the first time they had a conversation about what they were to each other. 

Harwin took note of the uncertainty in her voice and the fear in her eyes; fear that perhaps, she was wrong and he never truly loved her. He needed to put her mind at ease.

He got down on one knee and held her hands.

"There are no words in any language on this earth to describe how I feel about you, how much I adore you. You have...bewitched my heart, body, and soul. Even in my dreams, I could not escape you. Countless nights I have spent thinking about you, praying to every god imaginable, and thanking them that I get to spend my life serving you -  my darling Princess, the one who holds my heart.

If you told me right now to fall on my sword, I would. If you told me to throw myself off the Wall, I would. I would kill for you. I would die for you. I would follow you to the ends of the earth. If you banished me and told me to leave your side, I would if it meant you were happy. Gods, I- I never thought this day would come but, will you marry me and be my lawful wife?"

~

She couldn't believe her ears. Or her eyes. She was beyond herself, to say the least.

"Daena?"

Her mouth was dry and her tongue twisted. His words struck a chord in her heart and she felt like it would burst out of her chest from how loudly it was beating. Tears blurred her vision and she could feel his calloused hand wiping them off her face. 

"No tears, my love. This is a happy occasion, is it not?"

She only nodded, not trusting her voice. More tears ran down her face as realization of the situation set in her mind. Harwin loved her. He loved her. He asked her to be his wife. 

"Come here, beautiful." He said as he pulled her onto his lap. She placed her head on his shoulder, the cold metal of his armor helped calm her down. He brushed his fingers through her silver tresses. He could hear her sniffing and her body shook slightly as she held onto his body tightly. 

"Harwin?"

"Yes, Princess?" He asked, looking down at her. 

"I love you." She whispered, a little pout on her pink lips. 

"I love you too." He whispered back, kissing her softly. 

They sat in silence for a while, holding each other and taking in the scent of wild roses. Little birds chirped high above them and the wind whistled. They stayed there until the sun went down and the moon showed its silver face.

Taglist: @ateliefloresdaprimavera

[lookbluesoup]

I know shippy stuff and canon-adjacent stuff is popular and I'm certainly not dissing those. I like them too, they're a lot of fun! And AUs are great, I have so many!

But man, I wish there was more... idk, emphasis and exploration of the FFXIV lore, and those moments that have to have happened but aren't shown on screen - talked about and written about and illustrated here on tumblr.

That's usually been my favorite part of fandoms, discussing the lore with other fans in-depth and sharing theories, and seeing how everyone's characters would handle those big or quiet moments from the story itself. Exploring how a game mechanic/boss fight would feel from a story perspective, and what it would mean to the characters.

It's not entirely absent from here, but even when I make my own meta posts, even if they get lots of notes, I tend to see very little discussion added compared to what I'm used to from other fandoms. And when new patches come out, there's not a lot of deep talk about the story itself circulating. Maybe I've just been lucky in my previous spaces!

But... I want to know how the WoL and Graha bonded during the Crystal Tower raids. Did they sit around the campfire at night and talk? Did they drink and sing and laugh and argue?

What was it like, recovering from Ultima Thule? How did it feel to set out on the road again, leaving the title of Scion behind? Did they give their friends a tour of Ishgard? Did they visit Edmont? What was it like in the trenches of Ghimlyt Dark, for these characters who have never seen war before, versus the ones who have? Did the WoL help stabilize Lakeland, and tend wounded after the sin eater attacks?

I want late night study sessions with the twins, bittersweet work in the hot sun rebuilding Ala Mhigo, learning to fight on dragonback, Hraesvelgr's brood visiting Ishgard on diplomatic forways. I want snarking with Emet Selch while you help people with "side quests" in Norvrandt. I want gentle moments with Ryne on the road because if anyone understands the suffocating feeling of immense responsibility Hydaelyn and Minfilia have dropped on that child, it's the WoL.

What was it like for the WoL to fight the pirates in Sastasha? To see the women taken captive there? To see the Drowned mutilated by Leviathan's tempering? How did they handle the narrow tunnels and rickety elevators in Copperbell, and the giants angry after centuries of unjust imprisonment? Did they step in Aurum Vale's goldbile and have a shoe burnt off? Did they bring a pet korpokkur home from the Arboretum? Do they carry scars?

Do they take the manacutter out for joyrides? Did Grani recognize the color of their soul, and choose them over the tempered twist of Emet Selchs, or did Emet charge his familiar with looking after them? Have they ever been robbed in Limsa Lominsa? Did they ever buy loinfruit?

Does that goobbue sproutling grow up? The coerl kitten become a battle steed? The wolf pup a guardian? Do the sylphs play games with the WoL when they visit the Shroud? Do they carry a polished shell to remind them of their Clutchfather? Do they stop by the guild to check on the Deftarm whenever they're in Dravania?

What was it like trekking the spindly mountains of Othard, riding a Yol for the first time, seeing the endless plains of green, and the dead white of the Burn?

Do they still have nightmares about Haurchefant, or are they good dreams remembering his smile? Did he teach them to make hot chocolate? Did they stay up all night when the Scions lost their souls, waiting by the bedsides with a candle and feeling helpless?

Do they visit Amaurot, even after Emet Selch is gone? Are they still trying to remember? Did they look up at the night sky in Elpis and feel an indescribable sense of loss?

Was there ever a moment in Endwalker where they almost became a Blasphemy themselves? Did they ever answer Venat's question? Do they know that the love their friends had for them, saved them?

[fortheloveofarchons]

Aether brings Xiao to a special area near Mt. Laixin

A special chapter to make it up for Xiao's bday!

C.W.:

- Fluff and angst - Kong | Aether is a ray of sunshine - Pining Xiao | Alatus - Mild sexual content - Light-hearted - Mentioned Lyney and Verr Goldet

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.

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Dear Xiao, 

I’ve recently finished my exploration around Chenyu Vale, and the place has delightful scenery! 

I’ve gone through the journey of tea leaves, hiking through mountains of mists, and fought a lot of new creatures. Recently, I’ve stumbled upon a location that reminds me of a place called, “The Orchard of Pairidaeza”, also known as the “Eternal Oasis” back in Sumeru. 

I want you to come with me to witness this familiar feeling I have felt when I explored the Eternal Oasis. 

I thought about calling you at that said time, but if you have free time you can come early if you wish! I don’t want to rush you into things. 

I will be waiting for you near Mt. Laixin. If you look at the next page of this letter, I have the coordinates for this specific place. 

From your traveller, 

Aether. 

What’s so special about that place in Chenyu Vale? A question that Xiao has pondered for the whole afternoon. What was originally a letter that was held in Verr Goldet’s hands, was something special that Xiao had to skim through the letter three times just to be sure. 

An invitation to explore the area around Mt. Laixin. 

A special area, Xiao’s eyes highlighted those words.

Although Xiao hasn’t really ventured deep into Chenyu Bale, he remembered how the gentle breezes carry the fragrance of tea all across the mountains of Liyue, filling the air with the savoury scent. Some say that Chenyu Vale is the fog-robed peaks of the south. The faint perfume and ancient song of jade drifts together along the rivers past Qiaoying Village to the bustling port of Yilong Wharf.  

In a flash of thick dark mists, Xiao teleports himself from the top of the roof of Wangshu Inn, to a place where the first view he sees is the glowing floating jade on the summit of Mt. Laixin, where an arrow of a blue light shines through the sky. A few Sacred Simulacrums that looked to be carved as jade owls were placed on some lands, their shade of jade glowing brighter under the moonlight. 

“The Chiwang Terrace…” Xiao admires the glow of the jade light amidst the destruction of the terrace above, where concrete and jade float into the air around the summit.

Just then, he hears the angry groan of a lawachurl. Xiao immediately turns his head down from the top of a boulder he was standing on, donning his mask, summoning his spear in thin air, prepared for whatever obstacle he’s about to face–

“Wiiinnnddblaaaadeeeee!!” 

He sees a flash of a yellow light, the outlander’s blade slicing through the lawachurl’s defence with lethal precision. The clash of steel and rock clashes through the air, and Aether immediately jumps up into the air… and pierces his sword directing into its chest! 

With a sorrowful groan, the lawachurl slumps to the ground, its body slowly disintegrating into ashes, gleams of blue and white light casting out of its body. With a heavy heave, Aether stabs his sword onto the soil, sweat dripping down from his chin and neck. 

That serious look of his changes instantly when he sees a gigantic precious chest in front of him, now unlocked for all its glory. 

“Yippie, new loot!” Aether gleefully runs over to the chest, and slowly opens it, revealing all of the artefacts, some mystic enhancement ores, and moras. Xiao slowly walks towards him, his footsteps quiet as he observes the outlander admiring the success of his victory against the lawachurl. 

“Why would anyone want–” Xiao stops himself and changes his sentence, looking at the mountains of Chenyu Vale that are shrouded with clouds. “Forget it, it’s not my concern.” 

Aether’s ears perk up from that familiar voice, and he quickly turns his head to find Xiao behind him, standing within a distance. 

“Xiao! You’re here.” Aether gives him a bright smile, and runs over to him. “I’m glad, I was really worried that you wouldn’t come.” 

“Why would you be worried?” Xiao asks, his jaw flexes and creases form around his eyes, and Aether knows he’s tense. “Do you perhaps not remember, or trust my promise? I told you before, if you ever need me, call me.” 

“I know, I know.” Aether sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “Even though you have accepted my calls many times, my mind couldn’t help but always think of the second scenario.” 

“...Hmph.” That made Xiao let out a scoff, turning his back away to avoid Aether from seeing his face. 

I’ll never understand mortals’– and your expectation of disappointment. 

Seeing this action from the Vigilant Yaksha, a big, imaginary bead of sweat falls down on Aether’s head from the guilt of his words. Aether slowly walks towards Xiao from behind, in tiptoes. 

“Oh Vigilant Yaksha, I’m sorry!” Aether calls out his name from behind. 

The yaksha ignores. 

“ General Alatus… Heed my apology, pleaseeee~” Aether purrs the title, turns it into a caress, and Xiao shudders. He could feel Aether’s voice near his ear, and he instinctively turns his head to the side. 

“Xiao Xiao~” Aether whispers in the nape of his ear, making Xiao’s back shiver instantly. Xiao immediately turns away, his expression a mix of fluster and frustration, and a pink hue escapes his ears. 

“What exactly do you want to show me?” Xiao diverts the subject. 

“Come with me!” Aether gives Xiao an excited smile, takes his hand, and runs with him… 

Onto the lake. 

As the moon casts its silvery glow upon the tranquil surface of the lake, Aether steps upon the water, as if defying the laws of nature itself. As time seemed to slow down, Xiao looks down to see Aether’s footsteps leaving shimmering ripples and glows, the faintest whisper of light trailing behind like ethereal footprints upon the surface of the water.

He gazes at the outlander’s back, whose golden, braided hair flies gently in the wind, and the scent of Qingxin touches Xiao’s nose. 

Back in the present time, each of Xiao’s steps reveals the gentle glow that emanated from his feet, casting a soft luminescence upon the water. 

It was as if their very beings were infused with starlight, a celestial aura that illuminated the darkness with its radiant glow. 

Despite the brilliance of their glow, Xiao observes how they remained untouched by the waters below, their feet suspended above the surface as if borne aloft by unseen forces. 

Aether releases his grip, spins, and turns to him with a smile, his hands on his back. 

“Tada! What do you think? I’ve been doing some quests and I managed to find this place!” Aether asks. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” 

Aether’s movements were fluid and graceful, his feet scarcely disturbing the stillness of the lake as he glided effortlessly across its mirrored surface. 

With his heart doing physiologically impossible things, Xiao manages a sentence. “Yes, it is certainly unique compared to the other areas of Liyue. Truthfully, it has been a long time since I have ever heard of Chenyu Vale, so I haven’t…” 

Xiao looked down to find not a drop of water dared to mar his boots, nor did a ripple disturb the perfect reflection of the moon above. 

“Xiao? Have you ever danced–” 

“No.”

That immediate answer made Aether cast Xiao a long and measuring look, and Xiao keeps his face schooled into a mask of neutrality. 

“...Back then, on some carefree nights,” Xiao explains. “Bosacius would force me to join with them, and I would always refuse. As a general yaksha, it’s silly, senseless, and unwise.” 

“So?” Aether asks, shrugging his arms. “It’s just the two of us, so your reputation won’t be destroyed by some silly dance. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with dancing. I’m almost certain that the other adepti have danced before.”  

Xiao’s heart pounds. Blood surges through his veins. 

“Aether, are you asking…” 

Aether gives him a bow, Fontaine style, and extends a hand up to him.

“Shall we dance, Vigilant Yaksha?” 

Beneath the shimmering glow of the moon, its silver rays painting a celestial pathway upon the surface of the tranquil lake, two figures stood…

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Happy Village Trail

After the battle of Vacuo and pushing Salem's forces back, everyone is taking a much needed rest to recover before going back to Vale to (hopefully) end the war. Blake is helping Kali in the kitchen making breakfast when she realizes that the knives are all dull.

Blake: (sharpening knives) Mom, how did you let these get so dull?

Kali: I'm sorry, dear. In case you haven't noticed, things have been pretty hectic here.

Blake: You could just let me use Gambol Shroud to-

Kali: You are not using your weapon, that you use to disembowel Grimm, on any of the food I am preparing for breakfast.

Blake: (rolls eyes and finishes sharpening the first knife) Fine, here. This one should be fine. (flips knife to Kali)

Yang: (pops out of nowhere and catches knife with a smirk) Never would have thought I'd be the one saying this, but no knife throwing in the house.

Blake: Good morning, Sleepy Head. Sleep well? (notices Yang's only wearing a sports bra and jeans, the elastic of her boxers is poking out from the waistband) Pants were an afterthought, huh?

Yang: (blushes) What do you mean?

Blake: Those are Sun's jeans.

Yang: Huh... I thought these felt different. How did a pair of Sun's pants get in our house?

Blake: He lost them during the after battle party, remember? (stares appreciatively) Not going to lie, you fill them out better than he does.

Yang: (puffs her chest proudly) Of course I do! Have you seen these legs and ass?

Blake: And everything in between~ (squints when she notices tufts of dark blonde hair trailing from Yang's bellybutton into her jeans) Yang... have you always had that?

Yang: (checking the knife's sharpness by shaving her arm hairs) Had what? Arm hair?

Blake: No- well...now that you mention it, yes. But I was talking about the village trail.

Yang: (looks down and scratches the back of her head with an awkward chuckle) You mean my happy trail? Yeah, I've, uh, I've got my dad's body hair genes. Ever since I got more control over my semblance in the Ever After, I've noticed that I haven't been burning off all my extra body hair. I take it you're not a fan?

Blake: (eyes dilating as she drags a nail through the soft wisps of hair) Oh...the exact opposite...

Kali: If you're going to act like horny teenagers, can you not do it where I'm making breakfast? We eat at that table.

Yang: (under her breath) That's not what Willow and Ghira were saying the other night.

Kali: (throws dull knife passed Yang's shoulder and lodges it in the wall) What was that, dear?

Yang: Nothing, Ma'am!

[reichiin033]

( #twst #twstファンアート #ツイステ )

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" If you ever want to play tag, just say the word. "

- Ortho

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

Hallo!! I went to draw Bunny Ortho ! 😭✨❤️ I just couldn't! Because he's so CUTE here!! ❤️

Also, please excuse my messy lines! Ortho is adorable yet very hard to draw! ✨❤️ His hair is such a challenge to color too like Idia so this took me quite a while to finish 😭

Anyways long time no full render heueheueh and this is such a great challenge for me 👀❤️

Imma draw Vale again soon after this but for now it's Fanart time heheh ❤️

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

(PLEASE DO NOT USE /SHARE ON OTHER PLATFORMS/ REUPLOAD MY DRAWING WITHOUT MY PERMISSION)

Ortho Shroud a character that belongs to Twisted Wonderland.

EVERYTHING On This FANART is Drawn by ME including the background .

(Tags:)

#Rei_Art #Twistedwonderland #TwistedWonderlandfanart #ツイステッドワンダーランド #ツイステ #Twst #fanart #twst

#illustragram #bunnyears #aliceinwonderland #twistedwonderlandortho #digitalart #orthoshroud #ツイステファンアート

#イグニハイド #blue #blueflames #ツイステイデア #twstファンアート #ツイステ #イグニハイド

#orthoshroud #オルトシュラウド

#イラスト #illustragram

#twstファンアート#twst #orthoshroud #オルトシュラウド #ツイステ #イグニハイド #fanart #orthofanart #twstfanart #twistedwonderlandfanart

[thedungeonofbaddecisions]

We're fighting an alchemist in an enclosed room. He is in the room. We have not yet fully entered.

DM: Crondak smirks. He takes a potion out of the pocket of his coat, just smashes it on his skin, and he fades from sight.

Tex: Oh, shit.

Me: I should've taken See Invisibility!

Sean: We could always close the door and wait one minute.

Me: This is true! Is that metagaming?

DM: Amity, your turn.

Jennifer: Amity's going to move [directly in line with the door] and then loudly suggest "We could always close the door."

Iska: Could he not open door?

Turuk: But we would know if he opened the door.

Iska: This is true. Let's close the door.

Jennifer: I cast Shield and end my turn.

DM: Okay.

Sean: I'm going to delay till after the KitKats.

DM: I'm gonna give everyone a chance to say what they wanna do.

Tex: Turuk is gonna close the door.

Me: This is so stupid. This is so stupid.

Tex: This is the dumbest strategy we've ever done.

Me: And the worst part is, I think it's actually going to work, because this guy's like "Aha! I'm sneaky! I'm gonna hide in the darkness!" and we're just like "Okay."

DM: So you close the door.

Me: What happens?

DM: Well, you hear movement inside.

Saturn: The KitKats are going to ready an action to, as soon as there's any activity on the doorknob, run the door straight through.

*everybody readies actions to attack as soon as the door opens*

*the full minute passes. nothing happens. the door remains shut.*

Sean: Well, uh, who wants to open the door?

Saturn: Okay. The KitKats are gonna kick down the door.

DM: You kick open the door. You don't see anything.

Saturn: Okay. Second action, advance ten feet.

DM: Ah! As you walk in the door, you see a much larger dwarf, with a reach of five feet, take a swing at you with his hammer. You take 21 damage.

KitKats: Oh, fuck, he's gotten real big. What are we gonna do?

Iska: Stab him!

KitKats: Easier said than done. Well. Wait. He's too big to fit through the door...

Saturn: The KitKats are going to come back out and close the door behind them.

Me: This is so stupid!

DM: This is the best fight ever.

*the party confers once more. We decide to wait him out, again. Though we leave the door open this time, and fire on him every time he comes into view. I hit him with a Purifying Icicle. He telekinetically hurls a rock at the KitKats. He misses. Amity hits him with Magic Missile. Turuk and the KitKats move into the room. Crondak is eventually killed.*

[cinderthefallenmaiden]

RWBY Beyond Predictions: Vale

Spoiler warning: This post contains spoilers for V7-9 of RWBY and RWBY V9 Animatic as well as the two team CVFY Novels

Last we saw of Cinder was when she left the site of a destroyed Atlas/Mantle with Salem. At the time I thought the two of them were heading straight for Vacuo.

However, the RWBY V9 Animatic paints a different picture. According to Oobleck and Port who have recently fled Vale, Salem has set up shop in the vicinity of Vale and the city is gone. The usage of the word gone rather then destroyed is interesting to me. It paints the picture that while presumably waiting for Tyrian to prepare Vacuo for their arrival and locate the Summer Maiden, Salem and presumably Cinder attended to other matters in Vale.

Why are Salem and Cinder in Vale?

I think It is a safe assumption that they returned to Vale at the very least to search for the allusive Crown relic. Another possible reason is because the situation in Vale had changed. Salem has a mysterious informant in the area of Beacon who may have caught wind of something that Cinder and Salem needed to investigate on their own.

Who will be our POV Character?

This is a bit of a toss up between Cinder and Salem for me. It would be insightful to get into Cinder's head now that she has for want of a better word exercised the demons of her past. On the other hand so much of Salem's goals are still shrouded in mystery. We think she wants to end the world but are Ozpin and Tyrian reliable narrators?

The case for why both Ozpin and Tyrian are unreliable narrators for understanding Salem's endgame

Tyrian:

1.) Tyrian reveres Salem as a kind of death goddess to be worshiped and is probably working under an assumption that supports that

2.) If Cinder is the only one who knows the truth about Salem's true aims, I find it kind of hard to believe she would consider Team Remnant's attempts to stop the end of the world as misguided

Ozpin:

1.) Ozpin hasn't had a heart-to-heart with Salem since before the messy "divorce" and that was before the Great War so quite possibly well over 80 prior to V1.

2.) Due to a combination of the GOL's words and his own experiences Ozpin can only see the very worst in Salem so assuming her goal is the end of the world is kinda a given at this point.

3.) It's quite possible that Ozpin views Salem wanting to end the world as a foil to his own desires of stopping Salem and being granted eternal rest by the Gods.

Why not Tai or Glynda?

I think the writers have planted the seed that Glynda is MIA but are in no real hurry to confirm what happened to her. As for Tai I think he is another end game character who's involvement is going to be kept close to the chest.

Is the Crown in Vale?

I highly doubt it. However, for the sake of playing devils advocate lets say it is in Vale what would that accomplish for the story? Well other then shortening the series by one to three volumes not much comes to mind. Sure, this could make it so Vacuo is the final arc but why make a mad dash to to wrap up what remains of the story in just one to two volumes?

Past RWBY Beyond Perdiction Links

[aspoonofsugar]

Gambol Shroud And Blake's 2 Beauties

Your hopes have become my burden. I will find my own liberation…

This quote is the crux of Blake's arc and it can be read in 2 complementary and intertwined ways:

Blake needs to find "freedom" for the Faunus (outside)

Blake needs to find her own freedom from Adam (inside)

These 2 different "freedoms" give birth to 2 different plot-lines that together make Blake's story. They are initially intertwined in Adam, who is Blake's partner both romantically and politically. This is highlighted also by Blake's fairy tale. As a matter of fact Adam is:

Blake's Rose > He is Blake's mentor whose ideals have corrupted and trapped her in an abusive relationship fed by hate

Blake's Beast romantically > He is Blake's boyfriend, who is a beast because of his abuse towards his Beauty

Blake's Beast politically > He is Blake's partner in crime, when it comes to Faunus Guerrilla. They are the Beasts society refuses to see, so they fight to be seen

In short, Adam plays all the characters of Blake's fairy tale. This is because he has poisoned her life so much, she is initially completely dominated by him. Luckily, things start to change at Beacon where she finds a young fresh rose:

Ruby becomes an inspiration for Blake and helps her find hope again. At the same time, she also leads our black beast to 2 beauties that can help her:

Weiss is the Cold Beauty who is wary of the Beast at first, but eventually warms up to her. She is going to help Blake overcome the hate between humans and faunus.

Yang is the Yellow Beauty our Beast is falling in love with. She is going to show Blake healthy and balanced romantic bonds are possible and wonderful.

This meta is going to briefly explore the set up for both Beauties to help Blake with her arc. In particular, it is gonna show how Gambol Shroud is used to comment Blake's relationship with both Weiss and Yang.

BLAKE'S ARC STRUCTURE SO FAR

Blake's arc seems to follow a specific pattern. In every arc where she gets major focus, she has 2 climatic moments tied to her 2 subplots (faunus/political + abuse/romantic).

In Vale we have:

volume 2 climax that ties with Blake facing the White Feng and her past affiliation with the group (political)

volume 3 climax where Adam comes back into Blake's life with a tragic result (romantic)

In Mistral we have:

volume 5 climax where Blake leads the Managerie Faunus and defeats the White Feng (political)

volume 6 climax where Blake fights Adam and shows she is strong enough to resists his manipulation (romantic)

Let's highlight that these 2 plotlines are initially thightly united, as Adam is both a political leader and Blake's abuser. That said, as the story goes on, they start to separate. Right now, I would say they do not overlap anymore, as Adam is gone forever.

Let's now analyze Weiss and Yang's role in Blake's 2 subplots and their climaxes.

Vale

Blake starts her arc in Vale by

facing the White Feng and her past affiliation with them

facing Adam and their past romantic relationship

Weiss is involved in the first subplot, while Yang in the second.

Weiss's bias and racism bring to the surface Blake's past, forcing our cat girl to open up about it. Later on, Weiss is the first to notice Blake's suspicious demanour in volume 2:

Weiss: Stop. Lately you've been quiet, antisocial and moody! Yang: Uh, have you met Blake? Weiss: Which I get is kind of your thing, but you've been doing it more than usual! Which quite frankly, is unacceptable! You made a promise to me, to all of us, that you would let us know if something was wrong! So, Blake Belladonna, what is wrong!?

They fight together against the giant paladin:

And in the train battle, Weiss and Blake help each other out. Weiss stays behind to give Blake the chance to move forward and confront Torchwick. Blake chooses to save Weiss's life even if it means she is letting Torchwick go:

This scene is particularly important because it parallels (and it foreshadows) this scene:

Blake ends volume 2 by running away with a wounded Weiss and it ends volume 3 by running away with a wounded Yang.

As a matter of fact Weiss kickstarts Blake's arc through their initial conflict, while Yang is the focus of Blake's romantic subplot. She is the one who symbolically "brings Blake" to the dance by convincing her to take a break:

She is the one directly compared to Adam:

Blake: I had someone very dear to me change. It wasn't in an instant, it was gradual - little choices that began to pile up. He told me not to worry. At first they were accidents, then it was self-defense. Before long, even I began to think he was right. This is all just… very familiar. But you're not him. And you've never done anything like this before. So… I want to trust you. I will trust you. But first, I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me that he attacked you. I need you to promise me that you regret having to do what you did.

And obviously she becomes Adam's target and victim, which traumatizes Blake and pushes her story forward

Mistral

In Mistral Blake succeeds in 2 different ways:

She takes the White Feng back from Adam's clutches

She herself escapes Adam's clutches once and for all

Weiss doesn't play a big role in these developments. Still, she and Blake are tied up symbolically, as they go through parallel arcs. They both escape their abusers and deal with their opposite legacies. On the one hand Blake embraces Ghira's political legacy. On the other hand Weiss refuses Jacques's. Blake finalizes this part of her development in Mistral. Weiss finalizes hers in Atlas. Basically, both girls are given "narrative personal space" to deal with their opposite sides of the conflict. Blake takes care of the most extremist faction of the White Feng. Weiss saves her family and stops Jacques.

This thematic connection is still highlighted in Haven, when it is Weiss's Queen Lancer which breaks the wall and symbolically reunites Blake with her team:

On her hand Blake is quick to step in when the Queen Lancer is shattered:

She joins when Weiss needs her the most.

This kind of separated and yet intertwined development is shared by Blake and Yang, as well. Throughout volume 4 and 5, the bees face their insecurities and traumas, until they defeat the ones responsible for them:

After that, they share a climax, where they top off their developments by overcoming Adam together:

Nevermore Will I be afraid Nor will I run away It's behind me Freedom is finally here You may have taken the lead but I'll even the score You won the battle you won't win the war Not now and Nevermore

Adam tests their respective growths. He tries to manipulate Blake with guilt and Yang with anger. However, he fails because both girls are now stronger. Together.

SUN AS THE ULTIMATE HELPER

Obviously there is another key character to Blake's arc and that is our good boy Sun:

Sun plays the role of the helper in our cat girl's story. Specifically, both in Vale and Mistral he prepares the terrain for Blake's climaxes with respectively Weiss and Yang.

He follows Blake when she runs from her team because of Weiss

He follows Blake when she runs from her team because of Yang

He is key in supporting Blake throughout her personal journeys both in Vale and Mistral/Managerie and is a big reason why Blake finds her way home both times:

In short, he is the beast who leads the Beauty back to her 2 Beauties/Beasts, who wait for her to complete Blake's fairy tale on two different levels. Macrochosm/political (Weiss) and microchosm/romantic (Yang).

2 RELATIONSHIPS BLOOMING

So, structurally Blake seems destined to solve/top off her 2 major conflicts through her relationships with Weiss and Yang. Still, what are these 2 relationships like?

Obviously, throughout the volumes they have been slowly built up.

Weiss and Blake start as complete opposites, but throughout Beacon they grow closer and this process is still going on:

Weiss: She will. Yang… You, Ruby, and even Blake are more like family to me than my brother or even my own father. I would do anything for you three, and I'm willing to bet Blake feels the same way. So, when she's ready, I'll be there for her. And I know we're not as close, but… I'm here for you too.

Drunk Man: Stupid Faunus like you wouldn't unders-- He looks down to unscrew his flask and pauses when he sees a black glyph beneath his feet. His glasses hover off his face as his eyes widen in surprise. The glyph flings him into the air, and he falls into a dumpster in the nearby alley, his glasses and flask accompanying him soon after. Yang, Nora, Blake and Ruby stare at the dumpster, then turn to see Weiss pointing Myrtenaster where the man had been standing. Weiss: It was worth it.

Weiss: I wish I could take back the years of pain my family has caused the Faunus and all of my complacency in it.

Weiss: Blake… I’m really glad you’re okay. Blake: I’m really glad you are too.

Their story is full of little interactions that show how they are progressively becoming more intimate. From teammates, to friends, to family, to sisters.

Yang and Blake start as fighting partners and grow as romantic love interests. This journey is like... obvious:

They are currently together and closer than ever, as they have finally symbolically united.

GAMBOL SHROUD

Here we come to the motif I really wanted to explore! Blake's bond with her 2 Beauties is conveyed also through Gambol Shroud. This weapon comments Blake's arc as a whole, so it should not be surprising it tells us something on her relationships with others.

It is used early on to highlight her connection with Yang:

Blake and Yang's combination (Bumblebee) is the only one where a weapon is shared with another person. None of the other combos work this way. Moreover, Blake usually does not share her weapon with other people, despite how much she swings around with it. So, it clearly becomes indicative of Yang and Blake's chemistry.

This is true for Weiss and Blake, as well:

Weiss sharing her Dust with Blake emphasizes the girls slowly overcoming their differences. This is why it is also interesting that in volume 9 Blake shares Gambol Shroud with Weiss of all people:

Weiss takes Yang's place in their combination attack (and Yang takes Ruby's). This is a minor detail, but it is still interesting considering another strong parallel:

So far, Gambol Shroud has been damaged twice. Firstly by Adam, who shatters it. Then by Cinder, who burns its ribbon. Both times, a Beauty picks the weapon up and uses it. Yang uses its fragments to help Blake kill Adam. Weiss wields the weapon as a memento of her team and family. Yang and Weiss are also why Gambol Shroud goes back to Blake:

Yang helps Blake heal from Adam and Weiss leads Blake to where Gambol Shroud is in the Ever After. In short, both help Blake to rebuild and find herself again.

BLAKE'S FINAL PUSH

What does it all mean for Blake's story? I think it points to where she is going as we approach the end, tbh. She should have 2 major moments:

One with Weiss where they solve thematically the human/faunus conflict. It doesn't mean they will have racism disappear, of course. Just that they will fight side by side and inspire their respective people to do the same.

One with Yang where they finish their Beauty and Beast love story. As a matter of fact I think we still miss a final top off for them, despite all their focus so far.

When it comes to Blake and Yang's final moment, I think they should go through an inversion of what happened in Mistral. There, Blake leaves Yang and Yang forgives her and is there for her. In Vacuo, I think Yang might unwillingly trigger Blake (for example, her hiding the truth about Raven might have some minor conflict arise). Still, Blake will be able to overcome it and to stay by Yang's side. In this way, she would do for Yang what Yang did for her. Moreover, she will metaphorically overcome Adam once and for all, as she will conquer the traces he left in her by trusting Yang, no matter what.

[villainessprefect]

OC x Canon Week 2023 - Day 6: touching foreheads / sci-fi AU / "Can you stay? Please..."

summary: post ch6 but no spoilers for it. Shroud bros find out Vales ‘condition’ or kinda their link with Grim during their chapter so???

ship: IdiaVale (idia/gn!oc)

@theocxcanonweek​

Read on AO3

Asking people for help isn't their thing. People ask them for help, whether it be for something small or large, Vale will do all they can for another person. It's never the other way around.

Even as they lie sick in bed, guilt rises in their chest for burdening others. Ace, Deuce, and Grim were all reassured that they would manage for the day. It's better if they don't know the cause behind it either.

But it's different when Ortho intervenes. Vale can't lie when his analysis bears the truth right in front of their face. No matter what they come up with, he will pester them into resting. This is his area of expertise after all. Idia's too.

"You should tell Grim," Idia says after looking over Ortho's data. Vale swallows. "If he keeps this up..."

They shake their head. How could they steal Grim's dreams away from him? Tell him to stop using magic at their expense? It would be better to at least tell him to know his limits, but...

Idia sighs and looks to his brother. There isn't much to do aside from keeping an eye on them and Grim. Ortho is given the order to assure that Grim doesn't overdue his magic while Idia ends up staying behind. Ramshackle isn't the greatest place to be, but he has enough tech set up to make it bearable for a while.

Vale turns in bed, body heavy and making their movements sluggish. It isn't as bad as it could be. But it hurts. A lot.

They take in a breath and try to force a smile on their face. Fake it until you make it, goes an old saying. Don't let your weakness show, goes another. Beg for help and no one will listen, echoes the loudest. Their strained smile leaves their face.

Would it hurt to be just a little selfish for once?

"Idia...?" They call his name and even they’re surprised by how weak their voice sounds. Vale nearly regrets uttering his name as the tapping of a screen comes to a halt.

The blue haired boy turns to them. His focus on his game shifted towards the one in bed. Worry and unease settle quickly into him. He wants to call Ortho for help, but he's on his own mission right now.

Vale opens their mouth to speak. Their body trembles. Maybe if they stay like this then Idia will return to his game. He doesn't.

"Do you need s-something..." He tries, he really does. "Water?"

As he doesn't get a response, he begins to fidget. Normally they'd give an answer, but in this state? He isn't sure what's going on. Idia decides that he will go get some water, for them and himself.

When he stands, something pulls him back. It's a weak hold on his sleeve but one that keeps him from taking a step forward. Idia turns back to see a hand gripping with all its might onto him.

"Can you stay? Please..." they breathe out. "Don't go."

Idia gulps. "S-Sure..." He sits back down onto the bed. "You...okay?"

Idia wishes he could pull up a manual for what to do during moments like this. Or at least pause and read up on what the right steps were to lead to a good ending. He's never been prepared for this. Not just the whole 'magicless human somehow has to deal with blot' thing but also having to see this side of Vale. The usual easygoing and strong Prefect of Ramshackle has been reduced to a sad, almost broken mess in front of him.

Vale tries to answer with a yes, but it feels like there's some kind of magic preventing them from lying. So, all they can do is shake their head. They try to bury their head further into their pillow while releasing their hold on him.

"You can go back to playing your game. Sorry for interrupting," they whisper.

For a moment, Idia dares to consider it. It's an easy escape from this treacherously dangerous social situation. He could ignore them and focus on his game, but it wouldn't be as easy as he makes it sound.

"I-I'm okay. Ortho says I need to take a break anyway. Are you...sure you don't need anything?"

Vale takes in a breath. What they need isn't materialistic. If they could cry out their heart without any regret, it would be nice. Maybe that's why the blot continues to stick to them. All their worries and selfish regrets make the ink stick to them even more. But, they can't burden Idia with their worries. He's done more than enough today.

"I just...need you here."

The boy nods and shifts a little closer to them in bed. He lets his hand linger closer to theirs, allowing them to take it if they wish. They don't hesitate to do so. The touch of another is comforting when they feel so wretched.

"Thank you, Idia..."

With a shaky breath, they smile into the pillow. It's small and weak, but genuine enough to be considered a real one.

[allyriadayne]

Jefferson Hall for The Nerd Shepherd during the Comic, Film & Mangafestival in Rotterdam

Link for the interview, originally in dutch and translated with google.

Earlier this year we spoke with House of the Dragon actor Jefferson Hall (who previously also briefly appeared in Game of Thrones as Hugh of the Vale) at the Comic, Film & Manga Festival in Rotterdam. We asked him about the new season and what we can expect from the Lannisters. Hall plays a double role; he can be seen both as Sir Tyland and in the role of his twin brother: Lord Jason Lannister.

"What can I say?" Hall begins cautiously. “There is of course a lot of secrecy, but with the impending war the brothers will be pushed in different directions and their loyalty will be tested.” Hall's answer suggests that the Lannister brothers – like the twins Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk Cargyll – will eventually face each other.

Playing a double role requires some preparation. Hall explains: “I've been researching twins; they can look very similar. But the difference between first and second born, even if only a few, is great, especially in the world of Westeros." Only the first born is heir, and only he can call himself lord in this case. Hall adds: “The first season was more difficult, there were more…” Unfortunately he does not finish his sentence: “I can't say too much about that.”

The mystery surrounding the brothers' fate suggests that at least one of them may not survive long. The second season promises to be quite intense, although the role of the Lannister brothers remains shrouded in mystery.

The first episode will be so intense that it will even rival the infamous Red Wedding episode from Game of Thrones. The big question hanging like a dragon in the air is: Who will emerge as the winner? Team Green or Team Black? “Team Green, of course!” concludes Hall.