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eveningepiphany · 1 year ago

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welcome to the final show | H.S, part 3

my masterlist!

part one and part two!

summary: harry goes over to y/ns hotel for a good old room service dinner, also getting a little tipsy on wine, while starting to blur some lines. and it’s not long before things are no longer just between the two of them.

warnings: fluff, swearing, alcohol, getting a lil wine drunk, paparazzi, being confused on if you’re falling in love or just really good friends.

a/n: i’m so excited to finally have this written for you all! i’ve had some pretty bad writers block, hence the delay in getting it to you, but thank you so much again for your support and I hope you enjoy <3

———

There’s a certain type of attatchment that comes around once and a while. It’s rare.

It’s when things start to flourish. Maybe with a hobby, a passion, or a new found person. One your brain decides to put all its focus and interest on, to the point it’s all consuming.

This one gets stuck to you like glue. Hard to shake in the sense of no matter how hard you try to ignore it, it’s all you can think about.

Losing yourself in daydreams of something or someone without even realising, until you’re reaching for anything that will bring you closer to filling that need.

That’s exactly what’s leading you to be reaching for your phone at any given point of the day.

You imagine many perceive it to be a permanent growth on your person. But you can hardly help it. Texting is a simple way to reach someone. Feel connected.

So, safe to say you’ve messaged Harry more than your own family over the course of this trip.

You’ve become attached. To Harry Styles. Again…?

Of course, being a huge fan it’s easy to say you should probably already be accustomed to this, given your level of obsession.

But this is a whole other ball game. One that is becoming like an internal battle. Your already unhealthy and predisposed infatuation paired with now a real physical connection is enough to render you useless.

You reach for your phone. Text him, your brain begs. You consider. No, stop being clingy you loser, your brain rolls her metaphorical eyes. You place the phone down. Stare at a wall. Think about him. Rinse, repeat.

Not normal, you don’t think.

However, you search for some kind of justification. That you’re just good friends, and all that shit. It’s normal to miss someone you’re friends with.

If he considers you as that.

Which you would hope since you’ve been texting him enough it would be concerning if he saw you as just some mutual of his.

You’re also sitting in a cafe, unfortunately without him right now. Eating a croissant wishing that he were here. Allowing your gaze to linger on the chair across from yourself, imagining his solid frame filling up the empty space. What he would do if you stood up and ran a hand through his hair, maybe lent down a little so you could just—

The ring of the bell atop their entrance chimes and drags you out if your dangerous and spiralling thoughts. And for some reason get excited like you’ve somehow manifested this man to walk through the cafe door by thinking of him.

Feeling silly at the nag of disappointment in your stomach as you see an ordinary bloke saunter over to the till.

Maybe one you would check out, or emit some kind of interest in before you properly met Harry. You would feel disloyal now. Like the parasocial relationship has entered an entirely new level of psychotic.

If it’s still parasocial, that is. Or if now you’re just simply a girl with very cloudy and mixed feelings about a very beautiful man.

You audibly sigh out. Eating the final bite of your admittedly delicious croissant and picking up your phone.

You type out a message, sending it before you can even think it.

I’m in a cafe right now without you and you’ve honestly ruined them for me. I miss you and your free cups of tea.

Without me? Rude.

You laugh at his quip, watching as the little bubble pops back up indicating he’s typing.

I’m out right now, but if you’re not busy later we can do something? Go out or I can come over to yours.

You pluck mindlessly at your bottom lip with your teeth, how could you say no to that?

You stress over it either way.

well, you’re very welcome to come over to my hotel room. we can order room service if you want?

To this he texts back an agreement, seemingly keen. And you realise immediately you have to tidy your room before he comes over.

You swing him the location of where you’re staying, including your room and floor number.

Thank you love, ill be there in like 3 hours say? If that works for you.

At that, you stand, because who are you if not over-prepared. And it was time to go make sure your room didn’t like a war had been waged in it when he came over for the first time.

Cant be having a bad impression, you figured.

———

You did in fact rush back to your hotel complex. Not even stopping a crepe stall you passed by, which had to be a first for you. You clean the place until it appears well-kept at the least.

And once you’re finished, you easily fall back into overthinking the whole thing. So excited, yet getting those anxious jitters like a caffeine addict 12 hours no coffee.

Which is why you decide to busy yourself with an afternoon shower. And at the time you’d still had over an hour to go.

You take of course longer than you intended, and shortly after you come out there’s a knock at your door, easily making you jump as you tug a shirt over your head. Regretting the last minute decision for a shower since now you have wet hair and probably look like a right mess.

But it’s not like you can leave him out there while you go blow dry your hair, so you rush over to the door, and tug it open.

His brows shoot up, and a smile slowly blooms on his face as he takes in your appearance.

Your hair is still near dripping, and you stand in bike shorts and a loose tshirt. The most casual he’s ever seen you. Which he loved the look on you more than he admits to himself.

“Hi darling,” he smirks, a warm feeling settling over him as he keeps his eyes on you.

“Hey, Harry.” You stand for a few moments longer, finally shuflling out of his way to let him through the door. He is adorning a white shirt and has the cutest little bandana around his neck.

“I’m sorry,” You laugh, gesturing him inside, “I was drastically overestimating how long it would take me to shower… hence why im in this state.”

He pulls a hand from behind his back, a cup being presented to you.

“Don’t be silly, y’not in a state at all.”

“You’re joking—“ You gently take the cup from his ringed hands, “Harry!”

“M’sorry, m’sorry. I saw a coffee van on the way and I couldn’t help myself.”

“Did you get one for you?”

“No, but I did have a little sip of yours.” He confesses with a quiet laugh. But he quickly busies himself with your room, padding around and peeking out the balcony window.

You take a sip, watching him examine your space. Grateful you cleaned it.

He asks you a few questions about random things in your room, and you settle yourself on the foot of your bed, cross-legged.

You didn’t really think about the lack of seating in your one man room. But this hardly bothers Harry, since he’s scoped up the room service menu from wherever he found it, and sat next to you.

“Alright… what d’we have.” He talks to himself, opening up the menu and scanning over the foods.

You discuss the options, settling on a pizza and pasta to share, because, well, you’re in Italy.

The night progresses easily as time always seems to do when you’re together, and you fake fight over the best kind of pasta sauce. But he lets you have to last slice of pizza so peace is made shortly after.

“Should we order a wine or something? T’wash the pasta down.” He suggests as the sun begins setting.

“Why not, I won’t say no to some wine.”

That gets ordered to your door, and you go from the foot of the bed to lazing at the head of it. Sipping on wine and recounting old stories, or discussing stupid topics.

“Do you think the chicken or the egg came first?” You swirl your glass around, eyes shifting to look at his side profile as he gazes at your roof.

His cute nose outlined by the warm light off the lamp, which you flicked on in the corner after it got dark.

He bursts out into a laugh, “what kind of question is that?”

“I feel like it indicates the sort of person someone is.” You shrug, smiling.

“What like it gives you an intel on my personality?”

“Something like that.” You nod, “and decides if we have to stop being friends, if you answer the wrong one.”

He grins, “Well, maybe tell me which one to pick so we don’t have to do that.”

“Awh, so you don’t want to stop being friends?” You coo, still staring at him, watching as his eyes flick from the roof over to you.

“Of course not, who else am I meant to go on cafe dates with.” He laughs.

You’re both teetering on the edge of being tipsy, and it’s evident in the way you’re both talking to one another. Borderline flirting, probably a more fitting way to describe it.

“True, because I’d be very hard to replace.” You snort with sarcasm, taking the another sip of wine.

“You would be! I love our little dates.” He smiles, the second time he’s dropped the word date in the last minute.

You’ve scooted closer to one another somehow. Shoulder to shoulder as you steal glances of his beautiful face. Maybe this was subconscious, or on purpose. But you’re drawn to him like a magnet.

“So do I…” You flush.

“I’m a little tipsy.” You clarify, breaking the searing eye contact and looking at the near-empty glass in your hand. A fourth refill would easily tip you over the edge.

He lets out a quiet laugh, “Wine gone to y’head too?”

“Mhm, and I have a track record of poor decision making when I have too much of it.” You recall the plenty of times you did the stupidest shit just because you were wine drunk. Hoping that does not happen tonight.

“Might have to see it one day.”

“One day…” you agree, but you realise that you’re not really in Italy for much longer. You have about a week and a half left now.

“I… Harry,” you turn your body to face him, and he sits up a little, noticing the almost serious tone to your voice.

“I’m leaving soon.” You blurt it out, because it’s the only topic of conversation you’ve both been steering clear of. The thing neither of you want to address because eventually this won’t be easy to do. Who knows how many miles could get out between you.

And it almost hurts you to admit yourself because… where exactly does that leave you both?

Does your contact end when you leave Italy? Do you become people who occasionally text on a bi-monthly basis?

He draws a breath, “So am I.”

You let out your own tortured sigh, turning to pop your glass on the beside table and then lean your head onto his shoulder.

Your heart jumps at the contact, and somewhere in your brain, sober Y/N lets out a gasp, because she would never have the balls to do that.

So the wine maybe was a great idea…?

He wraps an arm around your back, “I go back to London after this.”

“Second week of August as well?” You pray it’s not earlier than the start of the month, since tomorrow is literally the 1st.

“Yea, the 13th.” He nods and it’s the only tiny shred of relief you’re getting from all this. That there’s still time left.

“I fly out on the 12th.” You say quietly.

But there’s a small silence that consumes you both for the first time since you met. Because you’re kind of exasperated for options right now. What do you say to someone who is going to inevitably slip from your grip.

You shake your head at nothing in particular, moving to wrap your arms around his shoulders, since words really weren’t going to cut it.

Somewhere in his muddled brain he notes this is the second time you’ve ever initiated a hug. And he leans into it, the arm he had around your back tugging you infinitely closer.

Your cheek is pressed to his neck, and you swear you feel his lips ghosting over the top of your head.

Slowly, you pull back. And he watches you with sharp green eyes. You hold that gaze, until he’s the one that breaks it. Stifling a groan with his hand, covering his face.

You look at him quizzically.

“I like this more than I probably should.” He gestures now between the two of you.

You chuckle, a tiny flutter in your stomach announcing it’s presence.

“So we’re making the most of the time left in Italy, then?” You put forward, ready to nearly wipe your schedule clean for the man.

Which, who could blame you?

“What are y’doing tomorrow?”

“Nothing, if you’re the one asking.” You laugh, and he smiles wide at your comment.

“Oh, is that so darling?”

You roll your eyes in attempt to be convincing, “of course, you always buy me tea so…”

“Well, that decides we’re going to another cafe I suppose.” His hand reaches for his phone strewn on the quilt somewhere, pulling up google maps to find some nearby cafes.

You perch your head back onto his shoulder to watch him scroll through the options. He stumbles on a beautiful looking one, less than a 10 minute walk away. He looks to see if you approve.

He peers down to where you rest on his frame, smiling unwillingly at the sight of you. Your own eyes trailing up to meet his.

And he swears they linger on his lips. Just for a fraction of a second.

“Mh, what d’ya think.” He gets out, voice suddenly several octaves lower. Almost gravelly.

You almost audibly gulp at the sound of him. Hyperaware of his existence right now, you could nearly zone out thinking about the strength of his arm muscle that’s right now pressed against you.

“Yea… yea that looks amazing. And tomorrow, what time?” Your hands fiddle with themselves in your lap.

“How about 1, since you’re probably gonna wanna sleep in a bit.” He suggests, free hand pushing his curls from his eyes.

The way he knows you’re probably going to want to sleep in. God.

“I’m down.” (Bad)

A smile erupts over your face, and you almost forget that the clock is still ticking. That you only have so long left here.

Which ‘almost forgetting’ isn’t enough to stifle the urge to use it as some kind of yolo shit. Because that is unbelievably strong. Like why not just invite him to stay the night?

Maybe another glass of wine and you can gaslight yourself into cuddling him and just falling asleep. He wouldnt leave unless he had to, so it’s an almost flawless plan.

———

The plan infact, was flawless.

To say the least, he slept at yours. In your bed.

I mean you don’t really remember it, since you talked into the early hours of the morning and drank some more alcohol to really top it all off.

You woke up under the covers, still clutching onto Harrys side.

He was already awake, scrolling on his phone, seemingly unbothered by the fact your head had taken residency on his chest.

You take the initiative to glance at the time in the upper-right corner of his phone, a little shocked when it reads 11:47am.

You do groan at the morning light streaming in the windows immediately after seeing the time though.

“G’morning. D’ya have a headache?” He asks with what you can only assume is the end of his morning voice. Which although just a taste, is enough to send you spiralling.

It’s also around now you realise he’s stripped down into boxers— still clad in his white shirt. What the fuck!

You struggle to form a coherent response.

“Morning. A little.” Your voice comes out as a hum.

Somehow, considering you’re cuddling him right now and you literally just slept in the same bed all night, both of you outwardly are quite relaxed about it.

Nothing is awkward. It feels lovely.

“I want a croissant so bad.” You huff, sitting up, stomach growling like as if you hadn’t eaten in a whole 24 hours.

“So, you’re the kind of person that’s hungry immediately after they wake up?” He laughs, hand coming to push the locks of your bed hair out of your face.

Outside of the sheer domesticity of that (which makes you literally have heart palpitations), your hair is a proper train wreck.

The humidity in Italy has made it horrific.

“I guess I am right now?” You reply to his previous ask, combing your fingers through the locks.

“Jesus Christ.” You curse at its uncooperativeness.

“Y’know that episode of friends where Monica complains about how the humidity fucks her hair, she was so right.”

“I love friends.” He immediately gasps, nearly jolting upright in excitement.

You laugh at his enthusiastic reaction, noting that you have to somehow find time over the next week to watch an episode or two with him.

“And if it’s any consolation, I think your hair looks great.”

“Yea well, it’s not like you’d really be able to relate to the frizzy hair. Since yours look so perfect all the time.” You joke.

This evokes a genuine flush on his face, “Alright, Y/N, calm it down.”

He’s laughing but you swear he actually looks a little flustered. Without the wine as a confidence booster, he seemed like suddenly he didn’t know how to take a compliment.

Unbelievable to you since he probably gets that many a day from strangers on the street.

“I, am going to get up and get ready then, so we can go out and eat.” You state, excited to be seemingly spending the majority of the day with him.

He holds back the urge to beg you to stay in bed with him, and says something nonchalant as if he doesn’t mind you getting up. But when you pad off to the bathroom he stares at your now empty space. And immediately shivers at the lack of your body warmth, despite the already warm humid weather.

After a few trips in and out of the bathroom you come out looking beautiful. And he has to get himself up and ready to go in attempt to not overthink it.

You craved his closeness the whole time it took you to prepare for the day. Every few minutes you’d get this almost overpowering urge to just go out there and throw yourself back into his arms.

It’s borderline pathetic. But now you’ve had him in your bed, his strong arms coddled around you, it’s very hard to not to be just that. His physical presence is perfect and comforting. You’re attached to that as much as any other aspect of him.

He puts on his pants, which were folded neatly on his own bedside table, plucking out the car keys in his pocket, “Im gonna nick down to my rental car, because I have an extra button up in there, so I’ll wear that out.”

He comes back and changes into said white button up, stripping his worn shirt off and leaving it somewhere.

Just like that, you’re ready to go, and you both decide to walk the short way there. It was too nice a morning to not.

The whole walk you’re chatting away as usual. But it’s paired with this newfound physical aspect. The way you so obviously want to be close it hurts.

Yet somehow you both act like it’s nothing. That the brushes of hands and shoulder as you’re in step beside each other is a simple coincidence.

And that when you get breakfast, the two croissants and shared cookie is just a friendly thing. In your head you’re even playing off the touching all throughout breakfast.

Which sounds dirty— but just the little conversational touches. Like a hand reaching out to touch a forearm in laughter, acting as if it adds something important to the moment being shared.

Or that somehow when you leave the cafe, with two takeaway cups of tea, the hands that end up interlinked softly between the two of you is just…

Well… who even knows anymore?

Because you’re walking through italy beside Harry— who is talking about his favourite kind of playground equipment, regardless of if he’s a near thirty year old man— all while holding your hand.

And to take a moment, because it’s important, his hands are everything they’re talked up to be. Littered with chunky rings and calloused fingertips from the years of guitar playing. Yet contrasted by his soft palms, which cups yours with this delicateness it almost brings a tear to your eye.

You also pray that your own hand isn’t sweating profusely in his grasp, because you wouldn’t put a clammy hand past yourself. The already humid weather paired with your anxiety surrounding this whole situation is quite literally the match made in hell.

Nothing about this can be passed off as casual to your brain anymore. You’re literally about to implode.

But you strive to hide it. So you solider on.

“I’m a seesaw girl okay. Hear me out—“

“No, I can totally see that!” He interjects, and you chuckle at his quick agreement to your statement.

“Right? They are so much fun. And even though I nearly took a tooth out playing on one when I was 7, I can still recognise they are superior.”

To that he laughs and bumps his shoulder into yours, “I mean I love that. I’m probably a swing person, I feel like no matter the age I will always be down for it.”

You can agree that a swing is a solid second favourite for you. And as you talk about that point with him, you don’t realise you’ve walked the whole ‘scenic’ route back to your hotel until you turn the corner and the entrance is around the corner ahead. And the way you went usually takes an extra 20 minutes.

It went so fast.

“Are you gonna head off or… come back up with me?” You ask gingerly, the hand not interlaced with his fiddling with the fabric of your clothing.

“Not sick of m’yet?”

“Never…” You shake your head, smiling as he gleams at your answer.

“M’flattered. The feelings mutual love,” he chuckles, “However I do have to go remind my family I’m alive. But it’ll only take about a day until they’re pleased for me to ditch them.”

Gently runs his thumb over your knuckles, whether it be subconsciously or not, “So tomorrow night ill come back over to yours for dinner if you y’want?”

You smile, a little sappy over the way he’s working a plan out like you’re both teenagers, “Yea, thats perfect, and we can try something else off the menu.”

“Maybe, if you want,” he begins carefully, “after that you can come over to where we’re staying. Meet my mum and sister. They’ll love you.”

Now you’re nearly bursting at the seems, “Oh, I would love that, H!”

“Okay, it’s a plan then.” He agrees, pulling his keys from his pocket.

You bid your farewells for the night, unlinking hands and being left with a tingling sensation in it, one that you wonder if he’s also getting.

You go to your hotel room and feel full with joy.

He is all too sweet for this world. And you’re a little obsessed.

———

Although Italy being in Italy feels like being in a bubble, and like you’re so far away from the real world, it is unfortunately a purely mental one.

And there’s one thing about a headspace like that, and it’s just how quickly it can be popped.

At midnight that night a notification pops up on your phone, one that when you open, you have to physically put your phone down.

harryflorals:

what do i even caption this post because is that who i think it is or am i officially delusional? “HARRY WITH A FAN FROM THE LAST SHOW, HOLDING HANDS IN ITALY!” correct me if I’m wrong YALL idek anymore.

And this time, there’s no grain saving your ass. Because this was taken on what, quality wise, looks like a digital camera.

Which has made it so painstakingly obvious that it’s you. And you don’t even remember it being taken?

It was when you were walking back from the cafe, holding hands probably talking about fucking seesaws.

And everyone has caught on fast, because in the comments it’s an all out frenzy.

So, cats officially out of the bag.

———

y’all can expect a part four considering i lowkey left this on a cliffhanger 😝 so its on its way my loves

update: next part, PART 4!

taglist:

@harrystylesgirlie @purple9950 @teamspideyman @rociolunaa21 @spiritofbuddha @lemonhrry @deamus-liv @Iquvlly @kuntxrgraudunkelbunt @hsfanficsrecss @hsstylesrings @saturnheartz @victoriasigaard @lilfreakjez @mrsvxder @skxawngs @theekyliepage @hannah9921 @shiffpring @multifandomsw @roslastyles420 @slutforcoffein @kittenhere @stylesfever @butterfly-lover @daniizstyles @padf00ts-l0ver @sunflowervol18

+ all the anons who sent stuff to my submission box, thank you to you guys too, all my love

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles series #fanfiction #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles x you #harry styles x y/n #harry styles writing #harry styles oneshot #hslot #love on tour #i just love finalshowrry #love u too #hopefully part four doesn’t take me also two weeks to write HAHA

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iamumbra195 · 5 months ago

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!!!SBG SPOILERS CHAPTER 77!!!!

THIS CHAPTER WAS EVERYTHING HOLY FUCKING SHIT!

The dynamics between the kids and how comfortable they've gotten around each other, especially with how Ashlyn was totally okay with Taylor and Aiden messing with her hair-- which is something I absolutely adore in this chapter she looks amazing and badass. The fact that Logan felt comfortable enough being snarky like that is also everything. Like this kid has been bullied relentlessly and the fact that he knows he can be snarky and mess with Tyler like that without getting hurt because of it shows so much growth. And the little moment of childish delight between Taylor and Aiden at the idea of racing around and the fact that Ashlyn doesn't tell them to focus or be serious but instead tells them they can do it later?? Early Ashlyn would get so annoyed and now she's just chill with it because she knows they all have their own ways to cope and deal with the stress and that's honestly so sweet.

Also, Ben using sign language and being understood and the others trying to find solutions so he can warn them of danger or something he is about to do is so sweet. They're so accommodating and caring to one another without even having to think twice, it's honestly so sweet.

Alex helping them with the card without question is really sweet but I have bad feeling it's gonna backfire on him and I don't like it.

And the rules of the phantom dimension are literally so weird. So technically they don't need to sleep or eat but they should because it helps them feel better when they're awake? I knew I was onto something when I made that post about how the fact they're technically living 31 hours a day should effect them more physically.

Also, The fact that the facility has a fucking armory is insane but also works so perfectly for the Mike-centric AU I've been trying to cook up and speaking of Mike, OH MY GOD HE'S IN THE PHANTOM DIMENSION, I REPEAT, HE'S IN THE PHANTOM DIMENSION!!

Does that mean the other parents are there too? Is it just him? Is Emma with him?

Also, both dad and daughter being certified badasses and having the same instincts??

We also got Mike with facial hair again lol but I'm kinda worried about what the means. Like they probably gave them stuff for basic hygiene right? Did something happen? Is he spiralling? Who was the one that screamed in this moment?

Also-- THE WAY ASH STARTED CRYING WHEN SHE RECOGNIZED HIM??

Oh my god, idk if we're gonna have another hug moment where he's comforting her again or if we're gonna have all the kids hugging their parents but either imma start crying.

Also, if she's crying but she thinks she's the one who dragged her dad into the phantom realm and feels horribly guilty about it again I'm gonna fucking cry.

My thought process is all over the place but if you stayed thanks and here are some of my other favourite panels in this chapter.

the second one and aiden shooting the guns has some good pfp potential lol

Anyway, the new outfits and Ash's new hair is everything (she looks adorable I wanna squish her cheeks she looks like a chipmunk oml) and I can't wait until next week holy shit.

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carolmunson · 3 months ago

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orange colored sky verse

he toys with the strings, a familiar riff from his late teens, nailed it right before he turned twenty. his foot taps along with the beat, in the zone, in the low hum of a side table lamp where the edison bulb glows orange. sometimes he unwinds like this — plays with his guitar with a bourbon in a glass next to him. better than his therapist, better than a phone call with steve. in his many decades of being alive, it’s the only thing that slows the gears in his head to a stop. just the strings and him. just the music and him.

you pad down the metal steps into the dark open concept kitchen and living room. he’d been off all day, and you knew this was his quiet place. him and his guitar. well, one of them, his favorite.

he doesn’t really look up when you go to the fridge for a pellegrino, he started buying them for his place when you mentioned liking them once. he replays the riff in a melody over and over, your head bobbing with the song.

‘let’s just forgeeettt, everything we said…’ you mumble sing under your breath. enough that his strumming stops and he looks up at you with a goofy grin, glasses perched on his nose.

‘what do you know about this song?’ he asks, voice like a worn record in the quiet of the apartment.

‘i got ears, babe. i was alive when the album came out,’ you laugh, cracking open the water and handing it to him.

‘nah, you would’ve been too young to be listening to that,’ he shakes his curly hair, taking a sip and putting it next to his bourbon.

‘ed it was 1999, you think i didn’t listen to american football in my emo years like, five years later?’ you go back to the fridge to get another water, this time actually for yourself.

‘ah yes, your scene phase,’ he nods, playing a harsh chord across the strings.

you roll your eyes, ‘it’s not a phase.’

‘oh i know,’ he teases. you make your way back over to press a kiss to his cheek.

‘you would know,’ you nod, ‘you’re still stuck in your grunge phase.’

when you lean back up to turn toward the spiral staircase he hear his quiet plea.

‘wait — um,’ he starts, ‘do you wanna stay down here with me?’

you look at him with a soft quirk to your brow, knowing he prefers to be alone when he’s down here tinkering, ‘you sure?’

‘yeah i,’ his face softens, ‘i just like bein’ around you.’

you come back toward him to offer another kiss on his cheek, spiky with new hair growth — not that you mind. you settle down on the sectional in the dark, watching his fingers and hands flow into his forearms while he plays new and old, some originals. he’s not trying to impress you, but you are always impressed when he plays. you know he knows that it does a little something for you.

but what you don’t know is that he’s never met a person that makes him feel quite like it does when he plays his guitar. that flows through him so effortlessly, like every song he’s ever written. you’re his favorite music to play.

#ocs!eddie #orange colored sky #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fluff #older!eddie #older!eddie munson #older!eddie x reader #Spotify

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outletcrash · 4 months ago

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my john design :)

in the book, the stranger says he has no mask. so i tried to make the mask look like a part of him, like bone. like natural growths showing under the skin. also a synonym for pallid is 'cadaverous', which is why the mask looks like a skull. the mask is also over his right side because he is the kings heart (right brained etc).

the cracks represent his humanity (like the spiral over his heart). they also represent where he has control over arthurs body (left hand, right leg, eyes). he's not trans in the conventional human way but he does have sparkly top surgery scars. and he has a sign of the king on his belly button (he was created by the king, kind of not really uhh close enough). the galaxy hair + chest/neck mouths are eldritch but also just cool.

#malevolent #john doe #john doe malevolent #john doe fanart #john doe malevolent fanart #my art #digital art #character design #the kings other other half has their mask over the left side #and shorter hair with no cracks #long curly haired john for the WIN #fanart #jarthur was swirling around in my mind when doodling this #but it doesnt have to be related to that #jarthur #private eyes

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iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia · 11 months ago

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don't know if you did this before, but m6s reaction to their kid saying they want to be just like them? I feel like they need to hear it lol

The Arcana Mini-HCs: When M6's kid says "I want to be just like you."

Julian: his impulse is to say "that's a terrible idea", but his habit is to protect his child's hopes and dreams. the inner conflict leaves him with an anxiety spiral that takes two weeks, five bowls of Mazelinka's soup, half a shriveled leech (don't ask), and countless kisses to pull him out of. now he's determined to be someone worth being like

Asra: freezes. as in, so disassociated that they can't move from the spot they're standing in until you notice five minutes later and call their name. he doesn't talk about it much, but it leaves such a lasting impression that he starts patterning his own personal growth off of what he hopes his kid becomes - loved, secure, happy, and free

Nadia: accepts the statement as the highest award she could ever receive and notes it down in a memo on her desk, to help her stay centered while she makes decisions for Vesuvia. retroactively worries that her child feels pressured to become too much like her and goes out of her way to encourage them to pursue their own desires

Muriel: can't find words and doesn't want to visibly freak out, so he gives his kid the warmest smile and pat on the head before disappearing into the woods to process it. starts trying to be more verbal with his thoughts and inviting his kid to work on projects with him so they can be part of his world. panics about it nightly

Portia: pauses, because the last time she heard those words, she was the one saying them as a toddler to her older brother before he disappeared. gets down on eye level with her kid and tells them that, if they grow up to be the best version of themself, they'll be someone she wants to be like. happy cries herself to sleep for the next week

Lucio: panics because yeah, he's a great guy now, but it took him forever to get here (not counting multiple war crimes) and he really doesn't want his kid to have the same complicated journey. on the outside he's ruffling their hair and telling them that as long as they can out-howl Mercedes and Melchior, they already are just like him

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana game #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

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zieringmedny · 2 years ago

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#bald spot crown #spiral hair growth #hair swirl #hair whorl meaning #bald spot on crown of head #cowlick back of head bald

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celtigxr · 2 months ago

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The Pink Dread (Master List) - - - - - ch. xii: High Horse

Chapter Summary: A tragedy is struck at Dragonstone, urging the King, Queen, and a few others to leave for the week. At the same time, the Baratheons and the Starks have made it to King's Landing, adding a bit more to the already simmering pot of problems at court.

Word Count: 3728

Sneak Peak: “Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–” “That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Warnings: Miscarriage mention. A G N S T

T H E R E D S

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Valeana bit her nails down to the tips of her fingers, undoing the weeks worth of growth she had been trying to achieve. It had been three days since the fiasco at the library, and Val had been pacing and tossing and losing her mind over her decision. She had nearly flipped on it, deciding to take on Aegon’s opinion of how Aemond didn’t deserve her forgiveness nor her apology. It was greatly out of character for Valeana to fold like that; usually her stubbornness and ferocity rivalled the crabs that littered the beaches of her ancestral seat. All hard and sharp edges, ready to pinch and attack anything that tried to come close to it.

A ghost of a smile came to her face at the memory of a crab that somehow escaped its inevitable death from a boiling pot in the kitchen. It had grabbed the knife the cook was trying to use to stab him with, and started to wave it around comically. Clement had pointed it out and said: “That’s you whenever you get into an argument with someone, and you are clearly losing”.

Eventually the crab won its freedom and was brought back to the beaches, knife and all.

A loud screech above her head snapped her out of her nostalgic reverie and back into reality. Vhagar flew above the Red Keep, with a distinct black figure on her back. This was the only time she was able to see Aemond after these past few days. From what her father had told them, The Cannibal had been sighted coming more west than he was known for, and they had Aemond fly Vhagar around the city a few hours in the day and nights to deter him from trying to reach the Pit.

Val had been waiting for an opportunity to cross paths with the prince, hoping to get her apology over with so it no longer weighed so much on her mind. With all this time waiting, however, her resolve was waning with every thought of doubt that passed her mind. It was nearing the hour of the bat, and the members of court will be shut in their apartments, eating their final meal of the day over a lavender tea or a mulled wine before bed. She felt too nauseous to eat, so she went for a walk through the parapets that overlooked the couryard, the gardens, and the Godswood. Aemond would return at any moment, and with the Keep being quiet and near empty, this would be the perfect opportunity to intercept him before he reached the Holdfast, where eyes and ears were keener to personal conversations.

Valeana walked through the parapets and towers until she made it down spiral stone stairs that lead to the corridor that would then lead her into the Throne Room. After all these years she still felt a sense of unease everytime she was met with them, and unfortunately, they were in abundance in both the Keep and at home. She took her time walking down the steps, as she always did, eyes glued to the ground, one hand lifting her skirts and the other bracing the wall as he watched one foot after the other.

By the time she reached the Throne room, the sun had fully settled under the horizon and the braziers were fully lit, giving the large room a foreboding glow as the shadows of iron and steel swords cast upon the ground. She stopped in the middle of the chamber to look upon it, as did everyone who passed through the grand room. It was difficult not to. Terrifying, beautiful, ancient, like the family that owns it, that created it with fire and blood.

When she exited the Throne Room, a gust of wind greeted her on the top of the grand stairway, forcing her to hug her arms as she descended slowly. A few gold cloaks looked at her curiously as they passed by, some nodding their heads and muttering a ‘my lady’ out of respect. About halfway down the main gate opened and a horse trotted through, his rider unmistakable even from her distance.

Valeana picked up her skirts and carefully sped down the stairs, which were blessedly wide, and less likely to threaten her life. Her eyes glanced from her feet to the black stallion, who stood in the middle of the outer courtyard with Aemond still atop, as a white cloak stood nearby. It looked like they were conversing about something, likely about the whereabouts of the Cannibal. Under normal circumstances, the dragon’s appearance would interest her more, but her mind had been otherwise occupied with more pressing issues.

She made it down the steps without tripping, and then took long swift strides just as the knight left the horse’s side and turned around once she was within earshot.

“Lady Valeana,” Ser Criston greeted with a stagger, “Why are you out this late? If you are lost, I can show you back–”

“That isn’t necessary, Ser Criston,” Valeana resisted the urge to bite back that she used to live at the Red Keep, and knew it well. Her eyes flickered over his shoulder, where the black stallion still remained, and his silver-haired rider still perched on top. “I need a word with Prince Aemond, if he allows me.”

Cole’s eyebrow quirked at this, and he turned to look over his shoulder at the Prince. Aemond wasn’t looking in their direction, instead he was facing forward, lips pursed as he considered his response.

“You may go, Ser Criston. I’ll ensure the lady is returned to her apartments safely,” he slowly pivoted his head towards them, eye finding hers. When violet met green, she found herself taken back, speech caught in her throat even after the knight bowed his head and bid them a good evening.

Aemond was staring at her in complete indifference.

Swallowing thickly, Valeana took a step forward towards him and his horse, but as soon as she did, Aemond kicked the side of the animal gently for it to walk at a slow trot. She stared at the back of his head in confusion, and opened her mouth to ask him to stop, but he already cut her off before a word came out.

“Keep up, Celtigar.”

“Keep up, Celtigar!” Aemond laughed as he sped down the Serpentine Steps. “Oh c’mon, Aemond! You know I can’t run as fast as you! I got little legs, Godsdammit.” Val huffed, holding up her skirt, her face red and brow sweaty as she tried to keep up with him. He slowed to a stop about halfway down and looked up at her, “Alright, alright. I’ll wait for you. But we’re going to be late!” “I rather be late than break my leg on these stupid stairs.”

With an irritated huff, Valeana picked up her skirts and jogged next to his horse, being careful to keep her distance as she approached behind. She had already been kicked more times than she can count back home, and had since learned what not to do.

“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” His voice was stone cold, with no use of her formal title.

“About the library,” she replied, out of breath as she struggled to keep up with the gait of his horse. “About that night. And– and, well, everything.”

They were approaching the drawbridge, forcing her to get closer to his horse to fit the width. Trying to keep up with him was making her left knee and her stump start to ache, but she swallowed it down.

“Hm,” the noise that filtered through his nostrils was a bit like a laugh, though humourless and barely there. “Everything. That is a lot of ground to cover, and I am a busy man, Celtigar. Speak swiftly.”

When they passed the inner gate towards the main courtyard that led to the stables, two gold cloaks flanked the entrance and both exchanged curious glances at the odd pair. They, however, didn’t say anything, or offered to help her. Briefly, she thought about Ser Harwin Strong, and how gallant and chivalrous he was. He would have helped her, surely.

Shaking her head free of depressing memories, she scrambled to continue, to find the right words.

“I wanted to apologize,” she rushed, a huff filtering through her lips. With a brief glance up at him, she saw that it was enough to catch his attention. He merely peered down at her through his lashes, his chin raised in the way he always did when he was trying to appear superior. Valeana was overcome with the desire to quite literally knock him off his high horse, but she viciously reminded herself she was here to make amends, and broker peace.

Still… It would be incredibly easy just to slap the horse’s rear and cause him to buck.

When he didn’t say anything she continued, “You tried to be civil initially – kind, in your own way – with me, and I acted like a juvenile.”

“Hm, yes, I’d say running off crying after being gently shoved is quite juvenile,” his comment made her head twirl up to him. He wasn’t looking at her again, eyes trained forward as they slowly approached the stables.

Valeana’s trot slowed down, her chest heaving in deep breaths and beating wildly from a heart that was struggling to stay in one piece.

“That isn’t– That’s not—” She cut herself off by running her fingers over her eyes in frustration. When she pulled them away from her face, Aemond was dismounting and landing gracefully next to his horse, whilst a stablehand took the reins from him. She remained where she stopped, legs exhausted and knee in pain, and it was starting to feel like it was all for nothing. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lip curling upwards derisively, “That is rich.” Then he slowly closed the space, but stopped short at three feet, “Is that all you have to say?”

“No,” she licked her lips, and failed to notice how his eye flickered to them for a brief moment. “What you did to me when we were children… It destroyed me, Aemond. Quite literally.”

He turned his cheek to her, looking about the courtyard, at the servants and knights that filtered through the castle and its grounds. His blind eye was facing her, possibly by design, given now she had no way to read him.

“And I did not want to forgive you, for a long time, but I have grown tir…of…– Are you even listening to me?” Valeana took a step forward when he still wasn’t gracing her with his attention. She peered around the area for a split second, wondering wildly if there was actually something of more importance or he was just being a jackass on purpose.

Aemond pursed his lips, slowly turned so his good eye could look at her through the curtain of his lashes, “Save your breath, Valeana. You’re almost out of it.”

“.... Excuse me?”

He continued, “There is no need for you to apologize… You have every right to your bitter resentment over a decades old childish blight. I also do not need your forgiveness… I did not apologize for it, and I have no intention to. My earlier attempt at reconciliation was merely a favour for my father, the king, who I am obligated to please. But I will tell you what I told him: I was a child who acted the way a child would after being cornered–”

“Cornered?!”

“--And now I am a man grown. I have no desire to dawdle in the past, like you may do.”

Her mouth was agape, completely gobsmacked by everything he said. From the blatant delusions of what he had done to her, to his complete apathy for everything. She did not know why she let Helaena convince her to reach out to him… Valeana was right all along; Aemond was too far for her to grab. She should’ve listened to Aegon, which was almost laughable. Aegon, the wiser one.

Valeana swallowed the pit that was forming in her throat, and immediately shook her head when she felt her nose tingle and her eyes sting. She was trying her best not to let her sensitivities get the best of her again, but Aemond was not done driving the dagger in her back.

“Gods,” he rolled his eye, and stepped back from her. “If you want pity, Celtigar, go run back into the arms and pillows of my brother. You shall not find it with me.”

“Wh-what?” She blinked wildly at him as he stomped past her, confusion joining the party of her emotions.

“I’d prefer you cease seeking me out, Lady Valeana,” he called out to her once he was a few yards away. “I do not wish to be the villain in your story any longer.”

She watched him walk away, eyes marbled wide, tears freely lining her flushed cheeks. Her anger peaked as the distance between them grew.

“TOO LATE!”

T H E G R E E N S

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The Baratheons had arrived the same day they received a letter that Princess Visenya, Aemond’s only niece, had passed away from a fever that she had been battling for a fortnight. The Targaryens were then plunged into mourning for a child they had not met.

King Viserys met with Borros Baratheon with sorrow in his heart and an apology on his lips. He needed to get to Dragonstone, to be with his daughter, to be there when they cremate his only granddaughter. Borros understood of course, and gave him and everyone his condolences.

The King and Queen, as well as Lord Bartimos, his Lady Wife, Clement and Helaena had left to attend the funeral. The rest remained behind, but they all wore dark clothes in respect.

Borros’ lady wife had remained at Storm’s End, being pregnant with hopefully their fourth child and heir. From what Aemond had learned, they had been trying relentlessly for a son, but after four daughters and a few miscarriages, they were unsuccessful. So, the Storm Lord was being overly cautious.

With him though, he brought the Four Storms, his daughters, and the five of them resided in the northern tower of the Keep, which had been furnished and made into suitable apartments for their honoured guests. When questioned why the Baratheons were made accommodations, but not any other great houses, Otto simply said they would not be in King’s Landing for the entirety of the Conclave, and it would make little sense to set up pavilions when they could find temporary accommodations.

The truth, of course, was because Borros Baratheon and his four daughters had sensitive egos, and would not have taken kindly to the Celtigars (a lesser house) being treated grander than them. Aemond would have to agree, even if the Celtigars were of purer Valyrian blood, when the Baratheons merely had a drop in the bucket.

Shortly after, the Starks arrived while the King was still at Dragonstone. It was a smaller party, with only Cregan and his sister, Wylla, but they had no issues with residing in a pavilion on the outskirts of King’s Landing. In contrast, the Manderlys that arrived with them were a large party, with two sons and a small army of young daughters, all to be married.

With their arrival, it felt the Royal Conclave would officially begin, but no events would truly start until the King returned. It would begin on Maiden’s Day, which would be followed by a ball, where all the unwed, of-age maidens of the Realm will be formally presented.

The Baratheon girls and Wylla Stark were a good distraction for the Celtigar daughters, it seemed. After the uncomfortable conversation he had the other day, Valeana had not made her presence known to him. The same could not be said for her step sister, who would happen to be just around every corner, anywhere he would be.

Floris –Grafton, not to be confused with the younger, far more prettier, Floris Baratheon– had somehow found out about her sister approaching him in the courtyard that evening. He wasn’t entirely sure how, but there were many guards and servants about, so he wouldn’t have put it past her to bribe them into being her little bird.

“I told you she was going to try something,” Floris strode next to him, a modest distance away from his left shoulder, his blind side.

“And what was she trying to attempt? I am still trying to understand what she gains by trying to reconcile.”

“She is attempting to be a martyr, because she knew you would not have accepted it,” she replied with contempt laced in her tone. “She even puts on quite a show in our apartments, walking around like a pitiful ghost. I don’t know what’s more pathetic, her charade, or how easily it sways my poor father and mother.”

“Your sister–”

“Step sister–”

“--Can put up an act all she wants. I have washed my hands of her, and kept my distance. Should she try to solicit reactions from others, they will find that there is no evidence of my involvement in her distress.”

Floris pursed her lips and remained quiet for a moment before concurring with him, “Quite right… Though, I do have a thought.”

As they exited the corridor and onto an empty parapet, Aemond turned to her, and she to him.

“Mayhaps simply avoiding her is not enough,” Floris put her hand on the stone balustrade, peering down at the gardens below, where chatter could be heard. “She will continue trying to get her petty, infantile revenge. If you wish to truly portray your non-involvement with her, then you must conduct your own charade. One that would not only convince the court, but will also paralyze her in fear and anger. She will not know what to do.”

Aemond tilted his head at her, attention now glued to her next words the moment she said ‘paralyze her in fear and anger’. It was not enough to just put Valeana Celtigar in her place publicly, he wanted to drive the sword right through her. If he was of a rational mind at the moment, he would be taken off by his own animosity for the girl, when she quite literally had done nothing to him…

Aside from making him think of her in all hours of the day and night. Aside from unearthing his decades old guilt he tried hard to bury. Aside from using said guilt to manipulate him, making him feel weak and look foolish. Aside from haunting him with memories, and reminding him of his true feelings for her… Aside from breaking him in two when she laid with Aegon. His own fucking brother.

“And what do you have in mind?”

She smiled wickedly, “Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.”

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Later on that day, Aemond found himself back in the comforts of the library. He had a small supper by himself in his solar, and decided to resume his attempts at finding a Celtigar relation in their family histories. He had been unsuccessful thus far, but he was determined to find at least the mere mention of a name.

From behind him, he could hear the large library doors open, then followed by Maester Artos’ gruff, aged voice.

“Is there anything I can help you with at this late hour, my lady?”

Aemond froze like a statue in front of the tome’s podium. All he could hear was feet on carpeted floors and his own breathing.

“Actually, yes, Maester,” came a feminine voice, foreign to his ears. Aemond’s shoulders relaxed. “I am curious to see your collection on herbology and flora life. I saw some interesting plants and flowers in the gardens that I’ve never seen…and I’d quite like to identify them myself.”

Aemond slowly turned his head as he heard feet move further into the library.

“Of course, my lady, right this way,” Artos shuffled in his direction, and the feminine form of the lady in question followed suit.

Aemond now fully turned around, not just because he was curious, but because he did not want to appear rude by ignoring their presence.

“Oh, my Prince,” the brunette startled, then bowed deeply in a curtsey. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

“You didn’t,” Aemond assured, moving his hands behind his back. She was one of the Baratheon daughters, but he wasn’t entirely sure which one. They were all somewhat similar, and near in age. The only one that was identifiable was Floris, simply because her face was still round and soft with youth, and she was known to be the prettiest of the four. The thin, lithe creature before him was not her.

She swallowed thickly, her hands clasped in front of her and fingers fidgeted, “Oh, good.”

Maester Artos, oblivious to the nature of the interaction, went on a head to collect books from shelves for her.

The Baratheon looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening at the size of the tome behind him, “What is it your reading, my Prince?”

Aemond looked over his shoulder briefly, “A bibliography of my ancestors. All members of the House of Targaryen since the Age of Conquest.”

“Oh, gods,” she smiled softly, “It must be quite extensive… Are– Are there any Baratheons mentioned?”

“As a matter of fact, I had just been reading about Jocelyn Baratheon, my cousin’s mother.”

“Oh, my father’s aunt,” she smiled, “I was told she was quite tall and beautiful.” The lady then cleared her throat, and as if suddenly realizing something she curtseyed again, “Apologies, my Prince. I realize I did not introduce myself.”

Aemond gave a half smile, “I gather you are one of Lord Borros’ daughters.”

“One of four. We often get confused with each other,” she smiled to herself. “I am his second eldest, Lady Maris.”

“Court a lady. Preferably one that… has potential. That the King and Queen would approve of.”

Aemond smiled wryly, hand reaching out to grasp hers and brought it to his lips to kiss.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Maris.”

Note: Guys, he's still cooking. It's a crockpot, okay, it takes a while. The more you hate him, the more satisfying it's gonna be, trust.

Tag: @queen-of-elves, @keylin1730, @anakilusmos, @weepingfashionwritingplaid, @sugutoad, @desireangel

( if you wish to be tagged for this story, just give me a reply! )

Please do not re post, redistribute or plagiarize my work. The only other place this story is posted on is ao3 under the same username.

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bettyfrommars · 9 months ago

Text

Missed Connections

older!Eddie x f!Reader

We are in a new town with drifter!Eddie, he's in Oregon and it's the mid-2000's. He survived the Upside Down and has been traveling ever since, carrying his wounds with him. There is no "monster" action in this, as with the other drifter Eddie stories, there isn't even any smut, but I love thinking about him, and I wrote this purely for myself, and maybe two other people. Eddie is in his late 30's to early 40's, and reader is over 30.

18+ONLY, MDNI, mechanic!Eddie, alcohol consumption, mention of scars and depression, loneliness, mutual crush, surprise ending

wc: 1.6k

On the outskirts of town, just before you could catch the highway in either direction, there sat the only gas station for 20 miles. The tiny mom and pop market behind it housed various essentials including lottery tickets, deep fried corn dogs, and booze.

The liquor store was a separate entity, but a part of the same building, which made for one hell of a convenient stop, and over the past year, it had become a part of your routine to drop by after work every Friday.

It wasn’t long before you noticed him, the guy with the long hair and wallet chain with bats tattooed on his forearm. His work boots were scuffed, and he wore a long-sleeved flannel in the winter, but by the time spring came, his button-up, heather blue work shirts gave you a view of the rest of the ink and scar tissue covering his arms. One day, when he was going in, you were coming out, and he held the door for you. He had silver hair at his temples, and a thin white scar on his cheek that tugged down his eye a bit. The patch on his pocket said Eddie.

Another month of Fridays went by. You were lingering in front of the rows of bottles, humming to Hank Williams being played over the sound system, wondering if you wanted to try a new vodka. Maybe the coconut flavored one would change your life? A bit of fizz and perhaps you could close your eyes and pretend you were on that vacation you’d only been able to dream about for years.

“‘Scuze me,” the deep whisper was so close, it made your heart somersault.

It was that Eddie guy again, stretching his arm out long in front of you to grab a pint of Jameson. The fact that there was plenty of room for him to go around and get it without interacting was not lost on you. You took that opportunity to inhale a sharp breath, noting the hints of motor oil to match the dark stains under his fingers and in the creases of his knuckles. A touch of sandalwood softened with vanilla and nicotine, and a secret other thing you couldn’t put your finger on.

“My grandpa loved Jameson,” you mumbled, keeping your attention on the clear booze.

Eddie scowled curiously, searching your profile. “He had good taste.”

You offered a tight grin, not sure what else to add. You’d been alone for so long, you were starting to forget how to interact with people, but the clunky gears in your mind registered that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring. He did have a silver hoop piercing in one ear, though, and a few days' worth of scruffy beard growth.

It startled you to find him chilling on the sidewalk, lighting a smoke just outside the door.

“Have a nice night,” you hummed politely, beelining for your car.

The lit cigarette bounced between his lips as he spoke. “Same time, same place? Next Friday?”

With your driver’s door open in front of you like a shield, you paused to look at him. All the months you’d been crossing paths, you’d never caught him smiling before, but just then, one side of his mouth curled up and a dimple popped in his cheek. An unusual warmth crept through you, and you bobbed your head a few times to answer his question.

When you got home that night, you sat outside in your car and bawled into your open hands. Your life had been spiraling out of control for a while, and every so often the dam burst when you least expected it. You didn’t have any tissues in your car, so you blew your nose on an old fast food napkin and wished you could afford to relocate and start a new life. You wondered if Eddie was lonely, if he ever sat on the couch watching TV, wishing he had friends, wondering where all the years had gone.

You’d been wallowing so hard in your misery, you didn’t hear your mother stomp out onto the sidewalk. “ARE YOU COMING IN?” She shouted it, as if you were hard of hearing and had no neighbors. “The damn remote is broken or something. I can’t figure it out.”

Staring glassy-eyed at nothing, you took a deep, withering breath that made your lower lip tremble. Another weekly ritual of yours was to show your mother how to use the TV remote and listen to her tell you how tired you looked.

The next Friday, you were running late from work and only caught sight of Eddie driving out of the parking lot. It was then you realized that you didn’t really need anything at the market that day, so you wandered around for too long before settling on a Snapple and a few of their cheapest scratch tickets. You did not win anything.

He was late the next week, but your skin flushed with excitement when you caught sight of him zooming in off the main street in his beat-up work truck. When he came in, he scanned the store until he found you, and then you both picked up items nearby and pretended to be interested in them.

You shifted too close to one of the shelves and knocked a row of tampons to the ground, cursing as you fumbled to pick them up before anyone could stroll over to investigate.

When you stood to full height again, your Eddie had vanished. Maybe he’d gone to use the restroom, you had no clue, but now you had a box of super plus tampons in your hand that you actually needed to buy, along with a few other things in a shopping basket on your arm, and you wanted to check out before he returned.

Ten minutes later, he was still MIA.

What the hell were you planning to do, anyway? His truck was still there. Months of nothing but a few words and goofy stares was all it would ever be. Just a silly little corner market crush. Get over it.

You decided to start your car up and hit the road.

But your engine had other plans.

You pumped the gas a few times on the old Chrysler that used to be your grandmother’s, asking for her help from beyond the grave.

“Please, please,” watching the door to see who was coming out, you tried the ignition again.

The engine cranked a bit, and then nothing.

You tucked your chin to your chest, about to lose your shit right there at the corner market parking lot.

But then

there was a knuckle tap at your window, and for some reason, you weren’t surprised to see Eddie standing there. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail that day and he was still wearing coveralls like he’d been in such a hurry to leave work and had no time to change. Chocolate eyes were concerned as he made the universal sign for you to roll your window down.

“Won’t start?” He rested his hand on your side mirror. “Want me to take a look at it?”

One thing about you, it was nearly impossible to accept help of any kind, especially from strangers.

“No, I—” you tried the key again, knowing you’d get the same result. “I’m sure you have other places to be.”

“I got no place to be, I promise you,” he wanted to help, but he was also weary not to force himself and make you uncomfortable. “I’d be happy to help.”

“I’ll just call triple A,” you flashed a nervous smile.

“If you’re sure,” he bit his top lip and gave an awkward thumbs up before heading back.

Eddie sat back in his truck a second and thought about it. It didn’t take long for him to jump back out and go over to offer you the use of his flip phone, in case you didn’t have one. Maybe he’d think of some other clever thing to say, but probably not.

He found you in the same position, both hands gripping the wheel, a catatonic look on your face.

“Hey,” he waved as if it were the first time seeing each other that day.

“Hey,” you gulped. “I’m really glad you came back.”

“You are?” He cocked his head, jaw muscles tightening.

“Yeahhhh. I don’t have triple A,” you let out a strangled, self-deprecating laugh.

“Is the engine turning over at all?”

You bit the inside of your cheek and shook your head, and by the expression on his face, you could tell that was not a good thing.

With a deep breath, he glanced from you to the hood of the car, hooking a thumb into his pocket. “Well, we might have to tow it to the shop so I can get a better look at it there.”

“I appreciate it, but I can’t afford—”

“It’s on me,” he shoved both hands all the way in his pockets then. “The guy that owns the shop, he owes me a favor.”

Fucking right Lou owed him a favor. He owned him like 20. He'd been busting his nut sixty hours a week, while simultaneously keeping quiet about the illegal chop shop that Lou ran out of his second garage. Not to mention Eddie had never asked for a handout or so much as a day off in the eighteen months that he'd been there. Plus, Lou did not want to meet Eddie's bad side.

"I can change your oil, rotate your tires, make sure everything else is running okay."

You sought his eyes for reassurance. The neglected heart inside of you didn’t know what to do with the generosity.

You were grateful he'd opted not to lift up your hood right then and there. It would've been pretty easy for him to sleuth out that the distributor cap was missing, and those didn't just vanish out of thin air. For now, it was in your bag, and you'd find a way to get it back on eventually.

“Do you want to wait here while I go and get the tow truck, or do you want to ride with me? I'd love to buy you dinner, if you're hungry."

#Eddie Munson #Eddie Munson fic #Eddie Munson lives #drifter!Eddie #older!Eddie #mechanic Eddie

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belle--ofthebrawl · 7 months ago

Text

Something something minute man Dew hiding how fast he cums from Aether, who figures it out and uses it against him. They're obsessed with each other. Fucking thank you @miasmaghoul for causing this.

That first time, Aether hadn't noticed anything odd. Too caught up in the heat of Dew's mouth sinking down on his cock, something he'd been thinking of as soon as he met the little ghoul, as soon as Dew had given him that sly smile of his.

But now, revisiting the memory with the air of his Quintessence, Aether notices it. When Dew's hot little mouth had taken him to the root, stretched wide and drooling at the corners, Aether had taken the back of his head and held him there. Hitting his soft palate hard enough to leave a telltale bruise, grinding Dew's proud nose into the growth of hair, rubbing his balls on his chin, Dew moans. A low and broken sound that at the time, had sent Aether spiraling, made him really start to fuck Dew's mouth. Now he views it as a spectator in his own mind and notices more. The way Dew's claws come out to tear little shreds in Aether's pants (that's where those had come from), the way his eyes start watering and the way the air becomes tinged with that distinct seasalt-and-sweat scented humidity of a water ghoul's orgasm.

Dew had cum just from Aether using his mouth. No stimulation on that little cock of his.

What had Dew done after that? He keeps watching, watches his memory self hold Dew’s skull to his crotch, jerking his hips all sloppy until he cusses and cums. Dew didn't swallow. He kept his mouth shut and Aether's softening cock slipped out. He’d gone up on his tiptoes and kissed the cum right back into Aether's mouth, pushing his skinny hips against Aether's thigh until he was shaking from overstimulation, what Aether had thought was his own climax at the time.

That was how he hid it, Aether thinks. He withdraws from the memory. Brings up another, swirling like smoke from the depths of his mind.

Tendrils curl around him, refusing to dissipate. That's right; Dew had ambushed him in the sauna after a workout. The memory is tinged with the scent of fresh cedar, the hiss of water being poured over the coals as Dew peered up at him from underneath the thick spread of his lashes. The towel hadn't hid Aether's interest at all, tenting noticeably when Dew crept forward on his knees, elegant hands coming to rest on Aether's thighs.

Can't stop thinking about you. Dew had whispered, licking a line up soft skin. Cleaning up the sweat he found there as Aether confessed to much of the same sentiment.

Wanna taste it again. He can still feel Dew’s lips move against his thigh, dangerously close to where Aether needs him. Want you to watch me choke on it.

Dew hadn't even waited for a response. Just tugged at the place where Aether had tucked the towel into itself and opened the fabric like a gift. Stuck his face right into Aether's groin and breathed in deep, opening wide to let one of his balls sit on the flat of his tongue.

Filthy, Aether mouthed as Dew tongue bathed him, chasing every hint of salt and sweat it could find. Dew had just nipped the soft, wrinkled skin of his sack and didn't deny it. Finally, after an eternity, he flicked the point of his tongue up the shaft to the head. Gave it a little kiss and locked eyes with Aether as he pushes past his gag reflex to shove his cock down his throat. It was slower, more decadent as Dew kept him warm; pulling off to taste a fresh blurt of pre and swallowing him down again. Aether had been begging for more within minutes, kicking his feet across the floor, pounding his fist on the bench but Dew had played with him until they were both moaning, Aether trying to fuck further into that mouth and Dew curling an arm around his knee and squeezing tight as he rocked and shook between Aether's legs. Again a spectator, he watches himself shoot down Dew’s throat as the little ghoul sniffles and shudders.

Putting his arm between his legs only when Aether asks about him.

Took care of myself. He muttered, voice hoarse. Aether had only laughed in wonder at the time. He didn't notice the way Dew shifted nervously, watching and waiting for…something. When it didn't come, he looked relieved and allowed Aether to heft him up on his lap and kiss him, petting at his soft, sticky little cock as Dew squirmed.

The memory fades. His body aches, a steady thrumming between his legs as blood rushes south, swelling and growing. He puts a hand over himself to rub and dips back into thought.

He’d tried returning the favor once. Tried to get his face between Dew’s legs one early, early morning when they both woke up hard, dreaming of what they’d done last night. Nothing serious. Just a hot and heavy make out session that Aether now suspects ended early on Dew’s part, the way he had arched and gone all boneless as Aether kissed his nipples. Immediately bullying his way between Aether thighs, moving his arm a little too dramatically between his own legs as he did.

That morning, he pinned Dew to the bed and kissed down his bony chest to where his stiffy poked up, already dotting the sheets. Dew had tolerated that for just about two minutes, he thinks. Cute sack all tight and blushing as Aether licked, licked lower to where Dew wouldn't let him go, not yet.

Stop-! Dew moaned, sounding just distressed enough that Aether does. Pulls away and lays by Dew while the little ghoul cusses and writhes.

Sensitive? Aether had teased, fondling his balls, weighing them on his fingertips. Tickling his perineum and smiling at the way Dew’s face contorted.

Yes Dew bit out, and then bit Aether, the little menace. Aether playfully chomped back, teeth clacking on air while Dew kicked him. It devolved I to wrestling after that, with them grinding out their orgasms on each other and Dew does a terrible job at hiding his relief when Aether blows first, hot and sticky over his hip. Giving Dew permission to do the same it would seem.

Aether sees the pattern now, of course. His hindsight is perhaps even better than 20/20, with his ability to replay his own memories. His poor, sensitive little droplet. Cagey about his own body, his own pleasure. Did he think Aether would laugh? Make fun of him? It isn't like he's Swiss, for Lucifer’s sake.

He opens his eyes. Reaches for the phone on the sheets next to him and fires off a quick message:

Need you.

Now.

He's left on read. It doesn't bother him, especially when he hears soft footsteps outside his room. Coming when called. Dew slinks into the room with a knowing smile on his face, eyes zeroing in on the casual way Aether shifts to better displays the fat shape of his cock in his sweatpants. Even now it kicks as the bed dips under Dew’s weight. He curls up to Aether like a cat, resting his head on Aether's bare chest. Tickles his fingers over the swell of his belly to pluck at the waistband below it. Aether says nothing. Just kisses his forehead and watches. Watches as Dew tugs the elastic down, takes his thick cock in hand. Gives him a few dry tugs before bringing his palm up to inhale the musk clinging to his skin before he spits and tries again. Aether moans into his hairline, puts his own hand over Dew’s.

“Said I needed you.” He tells him, lowly. They jerk his cock together, twining fingers.

“M’here, aren't I?” Dew rasps. He squeezes and Aether groans.

“Want your cock.” He says and Dew freezes, his hand pausing. Aether pretends not to notice and keeps talking.

“You never let me suck you off.” He murmurs. “Want you to cum on my tongue, my face.” He breath so deep, pushes his chest up. “My tits.”

“Uhm…” Dew stammers. He starts moving his hand again, twisting it just right at the tip. “Let’s just get you taken care of first, big guy.”

“Then I'll eat you out.” He promises and Dew whines. His hips jerk on their own and Aether hides his smile at the familiar jut of his sweet little cock behind the zipper. He hopes it hurts. “Would you let me do that, Dew? Want it so badly.”

“Uh-huh…” Dew says unsteadily. He bites his lower lip, focusing on giving Aether the best handjob he can. He's aided by the glide of precum, still a touch on the dry side but Aether doesn't care. He turns so they're facing each other, bumps the head of his cock against the swell of Dew’s.

“Or together?” He suggests, reaching for the zipper. “Let me get us off.”

“Aether, wait-” Dew grabs his wrist but Aether's already pulling the short length of him out. Already so red and wet. Fits neatly into the palm of his hand and Aether makes a happy noise as he snuggles their cocks together in his fist, holding so Dew can't wiggle away.

“You feel so good against me.” He breathes and Dew chokes. He stares wildly between their bodies as Aether starts to stroke, rubbing his thumb across the tip. So narrow compared to his own broad cockhead. All those nerves clustered nice and close together in such a small space. Pre burbles up from the slit and he smears it around, playing with it while Dew starts to panic.

“Gonna make you cum.” He says and then to his amazement, Dew does. Bucks frantically into Aether's fist for a few measly seconds and sobs as he starts to squirt, splattering over Aether's belly and happy trail.

“Fuck!” He cries, still moving his hips. “Aether, you fucking-”

Aether kisses him. Swallows all the nasty comments trying to force their way out until Dew’s beating him back, scowling. He glances longingly towards the door like he wants to escape but Aether stops him, holding him close as he humps against Dew’s hip.

“Can't believe you tried to hide it from me.” He whispers, right into Dew's ear. “Fucking gorgeous, Dew, fucking perfect.”

Dew resists his panting, open-mouthed kisses at first. Still too busy scowling. Beautiful Aether repeats. Perfect, fucking made for me and eventually he melts. Opens his mouth for Aether's tongue, let's himself be kissed and licked and petted until Aether's groaning into his neck, pumping his own load across Dew’s stomach. He doesn't say anything in the afterglow. Just holds Dew close and waits for him to speak.

“Been thinking about you fucking me.” He starts, after an age of silence filled by their steadied breathing. “It's…. I'm-, I can't-”

His words fail him. He gestures uselessly at himself and lets his hand fall.

“Been thinking about you fucking me.” Aether says to fill the silence and Dew sighs, cock twitching. “It would be easier. Especially now.”

He takes Dew’s hand and brings it to his cock again. Makes him feel how soft it is compared to how Dew is already making a valiant effort to swell up again. Dew makes a worried, broken sound as he gropes Aether. Gives his heavy balls a gentle tug.

“You could slip in so quick after I fingered myself open for you.” He continues. “Wouldn't be much of a struggle.”

Dew laughs weakly in disbelief. His tail flicks in anxious excitement behind him.

“Could sit on it.” He kisses Dew’s forehead. “Do you think you’d slip out if you were stuck underneath me?”

Dew doesn't answer. His cock sits at a decent half-chub already.

“Want you to fill me up Dew.” Aether says and Dew nods stupidly.

He wraps his own hand around Dew’s stuffy and smiles so sweetly at the way his eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back in pleasure.

“As many times as you can take.”

#dewdrop x aether #dewdrop ghoul #aether ghoul #nsft

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