#Catherine Combs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sushirrrry · 3 months ago

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INTERMISSION a harry styles x bill skarsgård x original character one-shot word count: 9k cw: female receiving pleasure, dirty talk, consensual threesome situation (no actual intercourse) summary: during a sweltering summer evening at the theater, catherine finds herself mysteriously drawn to two enigmatic men who arrive from opposite ends of her balcony row to give her an unforgettable evening. the intermission is over, and the performance has only just begun. (sorry for the wait - hope you enjoy <3)

There was no mistake that the air was unusually warm for early summer; it had been pressing down on the city with the weight of an unseasonable foggy humidity.

Catherine Whitmore tugged at her lace gloves as her carriage wheels rattled over the cobbled streets of the town, her cheeks flushed from both the heat and a peculiar anticipation for the evening. The updo of her hair had been a delightful choice; she could feel just a bit of the breeze over her neck, using her fan to lightly send waves of air across her.

This evening marked her first visit to the Royal Theatre—a rare indulgence as her most cherished friend had been cast in a performance there. It had not been lost on her that she was going on her lonesome; she wondered if she would know anyone sitting around her – she doubted, as such. Her seat was in the balcony, a seat that her friend had undoubtedly praised as she would be able to see everything across the stage.

The opportunity thrilled her as much as it had unsettled her. Catherine, at twenty-three, was hardly the sort of woman who drew undue attention, though her sharp features and discerning gaze lent her a quiet elegance. She dressed modestly in dove-gray silk, a hint of lavender ribbon at her waist the only concession to vanity. Her mother’s pearl combs adorned her hair, a gift she wore on special occasions like talismans of propriety.

The theatre loomed before her as the carriage drew to a halt, its facade gilded and gleaming like a treasure chest. Gas lamps threw their amber glow against the columns, and carriages lined the street, spilling London’s most fashionable and adorned onto the pavement. The hum of the crowd—laughter, the rustle of satin skirts, the sharp clatter of walking canes—created a vibrant symphony that mingled with the distant strains of the theater’s orchestra warming up.

Catherine stepped down carefully, clutching her reticule as she made her way toward the entrance. The feeling of uncertainty laid on her chest as she guided her way up the stairs and towards the marquee. The heat clung to her skin like an unwelcome second layer, and she fanned herself absently, her eyes darting between the throng of well-dressed patrons. She had always been an observer, content to hover on the fringes of society’s gatherings. Tonight, however, felt different. A strange energy hung in the air, tugging at her nerves like the prelude to a storm.

She loved that feeling, when the weather turned to a more abrupt darkening. Her eyes made their way to the large spires that cascaded over the city – her eyes narrowing on the large clock that hung in the darkness of the evening sky. She could have sworn that she saw a motion, something move along the hands. She shook her head, knowing that the heat had possibly turned her silly thoughts to a hysteria.

As she walked inside, she searched around for the possibility of a familiar face or two. Her eyes suddenly met those of an acquaintance she had. Adjusting her gloves and smoothing her gown, the familiar voice called out from across the bustling crowd.

“Miss Whitmore! What a delightful surprise!”

Her eyes had lifted, air blowing more directly on her neck as she kept the fan at a medium pace now that she had been indoors. The voice came from a man named William Talbot, a gentleman of her acquaintance, weaving through the throng to greet her. William was quite a decent man, slightly younger than her, with a perpetual smile and a habit of speaking far too much—the speaking part had made her laugh on multiple occasions, as he tended to blush when he did so. He tipped his hat with an eager flourish.

“Mr. Talbot,” Catherine said politely, nodding at his remarks and gesture, though inwardly she wished to avoid the usual cascade of chatter he brought.

William cleared his throat as he let his hands rest behind his back, giving her a soft smile and head bow.

“Are you attending this event alone this evening?” he asked, his bright eyes darting to the ticket that she had held in her opposite hand.

“I—um,” Catherine replied with hesitation. “I am, yes. You remember Julia, surely. She is in this performance, and she said that I absolutely had to be here on the opening night, so she was able to reserve me a seat.”

William nodded enthusiastically, showing that he had remembered her friend, “Yes, of course, I do remember her. I had heard great things about her ballet, and I’m quite intrigued myself.” He paused for a moment, as he noticed that she had been making her way towards the staircase. “You do not happen to be sitting on the second story, do you?”

Catherine tilted her head to look at the ticket that was in her hands before giving her brows a furrow. “Why, yes, it’s the only seat that was available in such short notice. It’s not a big deal surely.”

She watched the way that William blinked, tilting his head with a ponder. The smirk on his face led her to believe that there was much unknown, “Tell me—have you heard the tale about this place?”

“Which tale?” Catherine asked, trying to keep her tone mildly disinterested as they stepped aside to avoid a gaggle of patrons that had started to make their way into the building, making their way to their seats in a timely manner.

“The ghost story, of course!” William leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice despite the lively noise around them. “They say that this theatre is haunted, but only on opening nights of new productions. Supposedly, many years ago, an actress died upstairs—from heartbreak, or betrayal, depending on who’s telling the tale. She’s said to linger, watching the performances in search of her lover, who never came to see her perform. They say if you feel a sudden chill, you’ve caught her notice.”

Catherine gave him a dry smile, letting her heartbeat try to recover from the information she had gathered. “Well, that’s quite a romantic story to tell before a tragedy, no doubt. But I don’t believe in such things. I suppose I do believe in true love over such a silly tale.”

“As do I!” William exclaimed, though his expression betrayed his delight in the story. “Still, I wouldn’t want to feel that chill. And you, Miss Whitmore, should take care not to catch her attention—you look the part of a heroine, and she might take you for a rival.”

She let out a soft laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Your imagination does you credit, Mr. Talbot, but I’m sure I’ll be quite safe.”

With that, she excused herself and made her way toward the staircase. Yet, as she ascended, she could not entirely shake the memory of his words. A chill, he had said. She told herself it was nonsense—another of London’s countless theatrical legends meant to amuse—but the unease clung to her as she reached her seat.

Inside the theater, the warmth persisted, though it was tempered by the lofty ceilings and the faint breeze stirred by the swish of hand fans. Catherine paused in the gilded foyer, her eyes drinking in the splendor of her surroundings. The chandeliers above shimmered like constellations, casting a golden haze over the crimson carpets and mahogany railings. The crowd seemed almost otherworldly in its opulence, their laughter and conversation lilting like a melody that threatened to sweep her away.

Her ticket in hand, she climbed the winding staircase to the second tier, her footsteps soft against the plush carpet. The theater’s grandeur enveloped her as she emerged into the gallery, the expanse of the stage below framed by velvet curtains of the deepest red. Her seat was near the center of the row, and she maneuvered carefully past the other patrons, murmuring apologies as she brushed against skirts and jackets.

At last, she settled into her seat, smoothing her gown as she allowed herself a moment to simply breathe. The heat of the day seemed to have followed her, lingering in the crowded space like an uninvited guest. She drew her fan from her reticule and unfurled it, the painted silk fluttering softly against her face.

And then it came—the cold.

It was subtle at first, like the whisper of a draft, but it grew with an intensity that made her spine stiffen. The warmth that had so overwhelmed her seemed to recede, replaced by a chill that gnawed at her through layers of fabric. She glanced around, her brow furrowed, but the other patrons appeared unaffected. If anything, they were fanning themselves more vigorously, flushed with the oppressive summer heat.

Catherine rubbed her gloved hands together, willing the cold away. She convinced herself it was nothing, a mere trick of her imagination brought on by nerves. Yet the sensation persisted, settling deep into her bones.

As the house lights dimmed, her unease grew. A strange stillness fell over the room, one that prickled at her skin despite the murmurs of anticipation rising from the crowd. She tried to focus on the stage, where the curtains rippled in preparation for the night’s performance, but her thoughts scattered like autumn leaves in a gale.

It was then that she noticed where the chill had come from.

Catherine noticed the first man enter her row from the left, his movements so fluid they barely disturbed the air around him. He was tall, his black coat tailored sharply to his frame, and his dark hair gleamed like polished onyx. Catherine’s gaze flickered to him briefly before she looked away, unsettled by the quiet intensity of his presence. He took the seat directly beside her, and she felt the coldness intensify, as though he carried winter under his petticoat.

Catherine kept her head up, eyes forward. The seats were quite small, which made his presence was all too well knowing.

A second man appeared from the opposite end of her row, on the right side this time; his approach no less graceful but somehow more intriguing as she turned her head. He was almost, if not more, striking than the first, but there was something in his bearing—something measured and deliberate—that drew her attention despite herself. His eyes, pale as smoke, caught hers for the briefest of moments as he seated himself to her right. A faint smile touched his lips, one that seemed to mock her discomfort.

The space between them—between her—felt suffocating, though neither of the men had spoken a word. Catherine’s heart beat faster, her fan now still in her hand as she struggled to make sense of the sensations coursing through her. The cold, the stillness, the strange pull of the two men—it was as though the theater itself had conspired to unnerve her as they stayed the only three on the balcony thus far.

The heat of the summer was a distant memory as Catherine rubbed her fingers together to warm them.

“Good evening, miss,” The man on her left murmured at last, his voice low and rich, each syllable curling like smoke in the air between them.

She turned to him, startled by his sudden address, something she wasn’t sure she should interact at all. While Catherine had been taught her manners, she felt that there had been a feeling of unease that she just couldn’t place. Maybe it was the story that she had heard from Henry earlier; it had been playing with her mind.

The man’s smile was faint, his pale skin catching the faint glow of the stage lights as he kept an eye on her. A steady one, at that.

“Indeed,” The man on her right said, leaning slightly toward her—her head turned towards him then as he raised a brow at her attention. His voice was deeper, tinged with an almost imperceptible amusement. “A most enchanting evening, I’d say.”

Catherine felt the chill deepen, her body rigid as though she had been caught between two forces she could not name. The theater seemed to fade around her, the murmurs of the crowd and the swell of the orchestra a distant hum. She had been acutely aware of their presence, of their gazes lingering on her as though she were not merely an audience member.

However, as she stared towards the stage, feeling the sensational pull of fear in her chest, she hadn’t known then at that she was the main event.

The first notes of the overture began a trembling of violins and a distant drumbeat that Catherine couldn’t decipher between being her own heartbeat or on the stage; her attention had been pulled in multiple positions as she tried to keep herself in a calm. Her senses were stretched taut between the two men beside her, her awareness fraying at the edges with every passing moment. Her chest rose as she tried to take in a deep breath, but it came out with a shaking presence.

"You seem cold, miss," said the man on her left, his voice a murmur so low it was barely a vibration against her ear. The feeling practically touching her skin; it had felt as close as he could be to her. He shifted slightly, the movement almost imperceptible, and yet she felt the brush of something—air, or perhaps the graze of a coat—against her arm.

"And yet," the other added, his tone almost teasing with a loud whisper, "you burn."

Catherine’s breath caught. She looked down, noticing that her hands tremble; a perspiration on her hands under her gloves as she tried to understand the complexity of the feelings. It made no sense—none of this did—but her instincts screamed that logic had no place here on the balcony, watching the tragedy unfold on the stage before them.

“Forgive us,” the first man said, inclining his head so subtly it was more a suggestion than an action. Catherine turned her head towards the left, noticing that the man’s eyes were gleaming with a hunger that she hadn’t understood. “We are... unfamiliar with the customs of restraint.”

"You'll find," said the second, catching Catherine’s glare then, as well, smiling in a way that made her stomach twist in a curious mix of dread and something dangerously close to thrill, "that we just want to help, you see.”

The lights shifted, the curtain rising with a rustle and a flare of golden illumination; a wonderous round of applause below them. Catherine had searched around as the applause had been below her; her fear levitating up as she searched around the balcony to find that she had been alone. The people that she had passed, the patrons she had moved through had disappeared. Almost like the hadn’t been there at all.

The actors took the stage, but Catherine barely saw them. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out their opening lines.

Her gloved fingers clenched around her fan, the lace trembling under her grasp. The mix of heat and cool had sent a shiver down her spine.

“What—what do you want?” she asked, her voice so faint it was hardly more than a breath. She dared not look at them, fearing what she might see in their faces when she finally spoke.

The man to her left laughed softly, the sound like velvet slipping through fingers.

"Only to know you," he said, a charm in his tone that created a thick warmth around her.

"And perhaps," added the man on her right, his voice curling with mischief, "to be known by you, in return."

Their words wrapped around her like silken cords, delicate yet unyielding. She could feel herself being drawn further in, a marionette at the mercy of invisible strings.

A scene change onstage jolted her, and she finally managed to tear her gaze away, focusing desperately on the actors. But it was useless. The performance blurred and swam before her eyes. The only reality was here, in the balcony, suspended between two beings who should not exist. Who she had feared she felt merciless to.

A chill breath ghosted over the nape of her neck, and she shivered violently. She wasn’t sure if it was fear or intrigue that drew her in, but the latter made her stay seated.

"You may choose," whispered the man to her left, the words so close they brushed the shell of her ear.

"Or..." said the other, with a grin she could feel without seeing it, "perhaps you need not choose at all."

Catherine shut her eyes tightly for a moment, trying to steel herself. When she opened them again, she realized with a jolt—

There was no reflection of the two men in the ornate glass of the balcony’s mirror across from them.

And in that instant, the truth settled over her like a dark, sumptuous cloak: she was not merely being courted.

She was being hunted.

The revelation did not ignite panic in Catherine the way she had always imagined fear would strike. It was subtler, more insidious—a cold bloom unfurling slowly inside her chest, locking her ribs into a fragile cage. Even as the knowledge settled — that the men flanking her were not simply strange, but something far older and darker — she found herself paralyzed by a brittle, crystalline calm.

The mirror across the balcony, that grand old relic framed in tarnished gold, reflected the velvet seats, the polished balustrades, the dim glimmer of the theater’s faded splendor—but not them. Not the two figures seated so intimately close to her. It had felt like a dream, possibly a nightmare – but her hysteria worried her further.

Had she been driven to insanity?

Still, they remained as real as her brain had created them. Silent. Impossibly still, like statues in an abandoned temple, still but steady. Yet she could feel them—oh, she could feel them—like the deep press of a weight against the skin, a hum just beneath the flesh.

Bill, on her right, exuded a different kind of cold. It was the solemn cold of a winter forest, of deep snow muffling every sound but your own heartbeat. His presence was carved, deliberate, as if every line of him had been sculpted from shadow and night air. His dark hair gleamed in the muted light; his coat draped sharply across his frame like a shroud. His profile, when she dared glance, was a perfect study in quiet menace—elegant, forbidding.

Harry, on her left, was the opposite and yet equally unnerving. Where Harry was winter, Bill was the biting chill that precedes a summer storm—thrumming, electric, wild. His hair was lighter, catching glints of copper and gold, and there was a restlessness in the way he shifted ever so slightly, a coiled energy vibrating under his skin. His mouth, curled in a faint, knowing smile, spoke of mischief, of dangers willingly courted.

The first act of the performance played on in front of them; none of them bothered to pay any minds. It was as if it was just the background. Catherine heard the swell of the violins, the echo of tragic lines uttered by powdered actors far below, but it all seemed so far away, as if she were watching through thick, rippling glass. Her world had shrunken to this—the narrow confines of the balcony, the relentless proximity of the two men, and the frozen hammer of her heart against her ribs.

She rose, almost without thinking, the primal urge to flee carrying her to her feet.

But Harry moved.

He stood in a single liquid motion that kept her from being able to move past him in the contained row seating, so fast and fluid it barely seemed human. He blocked her path, towering yet composed, his own gloved hand extending to catch her wrist with a gentleness that belied the iron strength beneath it.

"Leaving us already?" His voice was a velvet thing, smooth and low, carrying a weight that pressed against her skin like mist.

The chill of his touch seeped through her glove, numbing her fingers, rooting her in place. Catherine’s lips parted, but her voice faltered, nothing escaping but a soft gasp.

Bill stood as well, slower, almost lazily, as if savoring the inevitability of the moment. His pale gaze roamed her face with an unsettling ease, as though he were admiring a painting he already owned.

"Stay," he murmured, stepping closer, enough that she could smell him—cedarwood, cold rain, something wild and ancient. "The night is young yet."

Catherine’s breath trembled from her lungs. Trapped between them, the world outside the balcony felt impossibly far away, a reality she could no longer reach.

"I—I don't even know your names," she managed at last, her voice so small it was nearly swallowed by the thrum of the crowd.

Harry’s lips quirked in something that was not quite a smile.

"You may call me Harry," he said, his tone a careful, measured thing, as if the act of sharing his name was a ritual in itself.

"And I am Bill," said the other, his voice curling around her like smoke. There was laughter threaded through his words, but a dark, velvet laughter that promised more than just that.

Harry still held her wrist, his thumb tracing the delicate bones beneath her glove with a slow, deliberate pressure. She felt branded by it, even as her skin froze.

"And you," Bill said, leaning in until she could feel his breath—a whisper of winter air against her cheek—"are Catherine."

It was the moment that she had figure that she hadn’t been alive any longer – there hadn’t been a way that this was a reality. How had they known of her? They spoke her name as if it was something sacred, something fated between the three of them that gave her almost admission to their game. She had been hunted, taken into capture as she let herself fall into their grasps.

"You were always meant to find us, Miss Whitmore," Harry murmured. His dark eyes, fathomless and ancient, seemed to see straight through her—to the parts of herself she kept hidden even from her own reflection.

Bill chuckled softly, playing along with Harry. "Or perhaps... we were meant to find you."

"Please," Catherine whispered, though she wasn't sure whether it was a plea for release or for something else entirely.

Harry’s hand loosened its grip, but not before he lifted her fingers to his lips. He kissed the air just above her knuckles—no flesh touched as the lace of her gloves had kept them apart, yet Catherine felt the icy imprint of it burn into her very bones.

Bill brushed his fingertips along her neck as she had been turned Harry then, a ghost of a touch, setting her nerves alight with a sensation that was not wholly fear.

"You’re with us now,” Harry said, his voice rich with certainty, as if pronouncing a verdict older than the stones beneath their feet.

"You’re safe," Bill added, his grin sharp, wicked, and impossibly beautiful. Catherine noticed that Harry’s eyes moved behind her; his gaze settling on the man behind her with a hint of a knowingness. They were working together, she had known that.

The whisper of a breath on her neck, her head turned towards the side. Her eyes shutting in a flutter; a strange, bated breath had been released as she felt the first touch of skin on her – Bill’s lips were soft against her neck, almost like a silk so thin.

Catherine’s legs nearly gave out at the feeling, a heavier breath hung on her lips as she fluttered her eyes to see Harry had been staring at her reaction. She was the story now—the main act—and the two men on either side of her were writing the script with every lingering glance, every chilling brush of their hands.

And somewhere deep inside her, a small, terrified voice whispered a truth she could not deny:

She hadn’t wanted to escape.

Harry’s hand moved to her chin, tilting her head to lean back as she felt the exposure of her stature. She lowered her shoulders as she pushed her head upwards, letting the site of her neck exposed to them. The scent of her sweetness had practically made their eyes roll back as Bill kissed her shoulder, on the right, moving towards her – pushing behind her.

Harry’s lips pressed on her left, the feeling of his hair had pressed against her chin as he moved upwards, both of their lips along her shoulders as she let the sharpness of a moan elicit through her lips as she found herself uncaring of the noise. She hadn’t believed that this was real; this was a heavenly dream that had caught her in a web of complete bliss.

“We will take the utmost care of you, Miss Witmore,” Bill whispered softly, his hand pressed against her waist as he pulled himself behind her, allowing his tall stature to envelop her. Harry, nodded in an agreement.

Their lips moved in slow, alternating patterns, as if they were marking her, binding her to them. She could feel her body yielding, the fight draining out of her limbs, replaced with a drowsy, golden haze that made her feel almost like she hadn’t had control of herself any longer. The world dimmed further with each brush of their mouths.

"You are ours now," Harry whispered against her skin. “Don’t be scared.”

"Sleep well, darling" Bill murmured, lips grazing her once more.

Catherine succumbed, slipping into darkness as if sliding beneath a silken surface to a world unknown to her – unknown to most. The floating, fleeting feeling had been a dream – she was certain of it.

She woke to the sound of bells – they were loud, chanting. But she hadn’t been able to open her eyes; she felt the sound through the bones – the chill. Their deep, sonorous toll vibrated through her bones, pulling her slowly, unwillingly, back into a consciousness that allowed her eyes to pry open. Her body felt heavy and languid, draped over a cold stone floor that she hadn’t been familiar with. The darkness had overtaken her; the night had finally flourished to its highest hours.

She was no longer in the theater; she had come to that conclusion. She was somewhere high above the world—in a bell tower, by the look of it—surrounded by the massive silhouettes of ancient bells and the skeletal framework of wood and iron and staircases that fell hundreds of meters down.

Her gown was gone, the only fabric coating her was the silk of slip that had been situated under the large gown that had been so heavy on her body previously, her gloves also missing, her hair tumbled free around her shoulders out of the updo she had spent so much time lifting off her shoulders.

The sound of her breath was the only sound now through her ears. She hadn’t fully come to her senses, but she could understand that she wasn’t alone. She couldn’t have been alone.

Harry and Bill were there, standing before her like twin specters conjured from a fever dream, their faces cast half in shadow, half in amber light from the full moon that possessed the sky through the tower. The long lines of their coats had been shed, revealing the stark beauty of their forms—tailored shirts clinging to broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to bare their forearms, veins and muscle etched beneath pale skin.

Catherine rose onto trembling elbows, disoriented by the feeling – unsure if they had taken advantage of her without her knowledge, and knowing that her body had been on high alert of fear now rather than the previous intrigue.

"How—?" she began, but the words evaporated from her tongue when Harry knelt beside her, cradling her face with a touch so gentle it made her heart ache. He had been gentle; they both had been.

"You came with us," he said softly, nodding to convince her. "You wanted to."

Bill dropped to his knees on her other side, his hand sliding along her thigh in a slow, deliberate stroke that left goosebumps in its wake.

"And you still want to," he said, voice low and hungry almost as if trying to hold himself back. “Don’t you?”

Harry’s eyes had glared at him then; Bill’s fingers had lowered themselves to her knee rather than her thigh as if to concede to the other man.

Catherine opened her mouth to protest, to demand answers of how she had gotten herself up here, but all that came out was a soft, desperate sound as Harry's mouth captured hers in a kiss—cool and commanding, a claiming feeling that brushed her questions into a fleeting wonder. Her shoulders had lowered, melting into his touch as the sweetness of his taste had completely demolished her will to know more.

Bill was not to be outdone, almost as if he had been annoyed by the motion of the other man claiming her first without prior consent of his own. His mouth found her neck, his hands framing her hips as he drew her closer to him. He pressed open-mouthed kisses along her throat, her pulse hammering wildly beneath his tongue as she felt completely overwhelmed by their firmness, and capabilities of taking her at once.

Harry’s hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to allow Bill greater access. Their movements were coordinated, seamless, as if they had done this countless times before. They had known how work together; to work in tandem to pleasure and to please.

The heat between them built with terrifying speed, banishing the lingering cold from her skin to the heat that they had confirmed earlier. Harry’s fingers traced the line of her collarbone, then drifted lower, slipping towards the delicate neckline of her silk slip with reverent slowness.

Bill’s hands roamed more boldly, dragging up the hem of her skirts to reveal the long, trembling lines of her leg that he pulled over his hip.

They took their time, worshiping every inch of her with mouths and hands, leaving no part of her untouched, unclaimed. But, somehow, she knew this – she practically knew what move to make next, almost like this had been rehearsed. Certainly, the sin hadn’t even crossed her as she thought of the unknowingness of being with two men at once. She had barely been with one.

Catherine gasped against Harry’s lips when Bill’s mouth found the inside of her thigh, his breath searing her sensitive skin. Her fingers threaded through Harry’s hair, tugging, desperate for more, even as her other hand sought Bill blindly, clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer to her skin.

“You will be a good girl for him, won’t you? He’s quite hungry for you,” Harry whispered against her lips when he felt her shift at the feeling of Bill’s lips against her.

Catherine’s eyes moved from Harry to the lips and to the hands that formed around her thighs as the silk of her slip fell above her thigh. Bill pushed her thigh upwards; a gasp escaped her at the man’s forwardness, showing an incapacity of being able to stay steady.

“Slow,” She heard Harry demand, however, not pointed at her, then. His voice had a vibrato that held her firm as she watched Bill’s demeanor changed, a flint of anger like a quick amber match.

“We mustn’t keep her waiting,” Bill challenged, his hands gripping around her thigh in a way that made her cry out in a bout of pain.

“We will scare her.” Harry’s eyes glared at him then; it was a challenge of domination, she thought as she panted with anticipation. It had been quite something to watch as she settled on her elbows then, allowing her hair to hang over her shoulders as she felt a grogginess that held her steady.

“We have all night,” Harry told him with an assurance, a tinge to his voice, “You will keep her waiting. She can handle it.”

Catherine shook her head then, vigilantly. “N-No, I can’t—” She cooed, practically dripping with unknown anticipation that was bottled up, “I-It’s too much.”

The two men stopped for a moment, but she couldn’t tell from the way that they stared at how far their play had gone on; how deep they would push, how intrusive the lingering thoughts would be. They spoke in a silence of stares.

Catherine lay between them, her body humming, her mind adrift somewhere between waking and dreaming almost like she had been kept in this space to heighten her pleasure. Her dress was half-slipped from her shoulders, the silk pooling around her waist as it had fallen and been pushed around, but she hardly noticed. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of their hands, their mouths, the way they filled the vast emptiness inside her that she hadn’t noticed prior to them.

Harry's hand slid along her arm, soothing, grounding. His eyes, pale and shining like twin moons, found hers and held them, steady and warm with a flicker that she hadn’t seen yet.

"But you’re already doing so well, darling girl," he murmured, his voice low and mesmerizing.

On her other side, Bill hovered closer to her now, the light catching the sharp planes of his face that were hollowed in shadows. He looked almost fevered with restraint, his hand trembling slightly where it rested at her hip.

Catherine's gaze drifted up to his mouth—and that was when she saw it.

The glint of something sharp. Something indecently, satanically unnatural.

Two pointed teeth, slender and gleaming in the half-light, pressing lightly against his bottom lip as if he could barely hold them back from his aghast need for her.

Her breath caught in her throat; a gasp locked behind her teeth as she pushed herself away at the fright that made her pupils dilate in a haziness.

Harry felt the change in her instantly. His fingers stroked calming circles at the inside of her wrist as he grabbed them at an inhumane quickness that had her mind racing with incomplete thoughts.

"Don't be afraid," he told her softly – so softly, as if his own fears had been overcome – that she had seen something that she wasn’t meant to, "You're safe with us. Always."

Bill looked away, a feeling of shame inherent now, his hair falling into his eyes. His entire body tensed, as though expecting her to recoil and the moment to be taken from them both; the tension in her body was holding her back from untethering the rope that held her together.

But Harry's hand tilted Catherine’s chin, gently coaxing her to look at him again.

"It’s who we are," Harry whispered directly into her soul, almost like he had opened her up like the shell of an oyster to reveal the pearl that had been created beneath, "It’s what allows us to love you the way we do—forever."

Catherine’s heart raced so violently she could feel it against her ribs, against her throat. But when she looked into Bill’s eyes—wide and burning with a need that was not hunger but longing—something inside her softened.

She reached out, hesitantly, brushing her fingers against Bill’s cheek. Frozen.

His skin was cool, almost startlingly so, but it was the way he leaned into her touch, the way his breath hitched, that anchored her.

Harry kissed the back of her hand, a soft, worshipful gesture. His voice was a murmur at her ear:

"Trust him. Trust yourself."

Catherine's hand slid lower, tracing the sharp line of Bill's jaw, marveling at how beautiful he was – they both were indistinctly holding a beauty that was unlike anyone she had seen, with a power so tender that she couldn’t move. She wasn’t certain how something so terrifying could also be tender. Bill shivered under her touch, his fangs glinting as he struggled to hold back.

"I won't hurt you," Bill rasped, almost brokenly as he approached her then. He moved upwards, moving towards the other man as well as their distance was significantly lessened. She felt the ease in her muscles, the caress of his words held her tightly.

"I know," she said, surprising herself with a solid nod that would convince herself. Bill’s eyes met Harry’s again, a devilish aid of warmth with unspoken words as they had finally let her fall into their clutches.

She tilted her face up, offering him her mouth, her throat—offering him all of her, then.

Harry's hand at her back encouraged her forward, supporting her, steadying her when her knees nearly buckled from the intensity of it all. Bill sat between her legs, her legs pressing against his hips as he pulled himself closer to receive the affection that Harry had first taken.

Bill cupped her face in both hands, reverent, and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was not violent, not greedy—it was a vow to keep her safety and trust bottled in the tower they inhabited. He kissed her with aching gentleness, the points of his fangs never breaking her skin, only brushing her in delicate warning that elicit a push of her hips against him.

Harry stayed close, his hand soothing along the small of her back, his whispers interrupting her unsettled thoughts.

"You're doing perfectly. Let him show you how he feels."

The air between them was thick with the scent of old stone, rain, and something darker, richer—something that belonged only to them.

Bill’s mouth moved to her jaw, her throat, trailing kisses like falling petals from the reddest roses. Catherine closed her eyes, leaning into him, letting herself be guided by the warmth of Harry’s voice, the steady touch of his hands as he sat behind her now, letting her fall forward into Bill’s touch.

The fear melted into something else—something fierce and wild and right.

And when Bill finally lifted his head, his eyes shimmering with something ancient and grateful, Catherine knew there was no going back.

The bell tower sighed around them—old stone exhaling after centuries of silence, as though it too were bearing witness. Moonlight spilled in through the narrow-arched windows, catching the dust in the air like falling stars. Below them, the city pulsed faintly, its lanterns glowing amber in the distance. But up here, in this forgotten bell tower, time had unraveled. Catherine no longer knew what hour it was—or if it even mattered.

She sat in the center of it all, her body draped in folds of pale silk, her bare shoulders kissed by the cool night air. The quiet was no longer unsettling. It was sacred. Heavy with anticipation. The kind of silence found in the pages of old stories, the ones with blood-red covers and gilt edges, where forbidden things happened beneath candlelight.

Harry knelt behind her, fingertips tracing slow, thoughtful lines down her forearm. His touch was a promise—reassuring, unhurried. His skin was warm, impossibly so, like a hearth that never cooled. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he watched her, and his gaze carried the weight of endless patience. The kind that didn’t ask for surrender—it invited it.

“Tell me what you feel,” he whispered, his voice brushing against her ear like velvet.

Catherine closed her eyes and took a breath. The air was tinged with the scent of cold stone, old wood, and something sweeter—something floral and dark, like crushed violets and wine.

“I feel…” Her voice was soft, almost like she had her thoughts ripped from her, “Like I’m standing on the edge of something. Like the world below doesn’t belong to me anymore.”

Harry smiled gently and pressed a kiss to her knuckles as he pulled her hands behind her, Bill pulling her waist towards him. “That’s because it doesn’t.”

Bill sat quietly in front of her, his presence like shadow and snowfall. Where Harry was firelight and mischief, Bill was winter and moonstone—remote at first glance, but hiding depth, waiting to thaw. He watched her from under heavy lashes, eyes rimmed in silver beneath their darkness, something ancient flickering behind them.

When she turned her gaze on him, she caught them again—those teeth. Slender and pale as pearl, just peeking past his lower lip. Not grotesque. Not monstrous.

Beautiful. Ivory.

They were a reminder. Not of danger, but of devotion. Of power held carefully in check, like a blade wrapped in cotton.

Catherine reached up, fingers trembling slightly, and brushed them over his mouth. He stilled beneath her touch, eyes closing. The faintest intake of breath escaped him—an almost inaudible sound, yet it felt louder than the bells suspended above them. His lips parted beneath her fingertips, fangs catching the moonlight like crystal.

Harry’s hand steadied hers, anchoring her as she traced the edge of that forbidden beauty. "You’re not afraid," he said, like an observation rather than a question.

“No,” she said truthfully. “Fear is learned. I-I am not afraid.”

Bill leaned closer, his forehead resting against hers. The gesture was soft, so full of restraint it nearly broke her. Catherine’s chest ached, not from pain—but from the overwhelming fullness of it all.

“I still don’t understand everything,” she said, shaking her head and feeling doubtful in waking up and this memory fading away as it had never happened.

“You don’t have to,” Harry said. “Not yet. Just let yourself be here. Be with us.”

She exhaled shakily, and for the first time, she allowed herself to fully feel it—the pulse of something not quite mortal between them. The way their voices curled around her like ribbons. The cold elegance of Bill’s hand against hers. The sun-warm brush of Harry’s thumb across her cheekbone. The electricity that thrummed in the air, thicker than breath.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” she said.

“You’re not,” Bill murmured, brushing his lips to her temple.

“But we can show you how to dream while awake,” Harry added, his lips against her shoulder, so gentle it was more sensation than kiss.

She closed her eyes again, giving them her answer in silence.

And when Bill’s lips followed, pressing to her other shoulder with aching reverence, the room seemed to sigh with her. Her spine arched ever so slightly between them, her breath caught in that space between anticipation and surrender.

She didn’t know what they were turning her into—not yet. But in that moment, she didn’t care.

In that moment, her knees weakened, and she felt herself come to her sleepiness again; she felt herself start to fall deeper into the confines of the hallowed room around her. Catherine started to feel herself lower to the ground with the help of Harry’s hands letting her down softly before she felt Bill’s hands lower to her hips.

It had happened with ease; the lift of her hips, Bill lowering himself to lay along her, his lips pressing into her thighs once again as if the familiarity hadn’t been gone too quickly.

Catherine stared at the crossing eaves that layered in the ceiling of the tower, her body forming to the creaking, wooden floor as she gasped at the feeling of his hot breath in her most precious spaces. She threw her head back at the feeling of touch – opening herself as if a tulip with a hint of warmth hitting her delicate petals.

“Oh.” She gasped outwards; knowing that the way that his mouth attached to her was a disgrace to itself in the heavenly boundaries. But her sins felt diminishing as she pushed her hips towards him, letting his hands curl around her thighs as if to ground himself then.

“Letting him spread you open,” Harry narrated, “Devouring you. Feel him, Catherine.”

He leant down, letting his own warmth on the opposite side of her, brush her cheek as she fell deeper into oblivion.

The warmth, deprival of everything she had ever known, his raging need for her upon them as Catherine spread her thighs just a bit wider to allow him as much access as feasibly available. His tongue flicked at her, sending a shockwave that could have been sent directly from the pearly gates of paradise.

Without a warning, she gasped sharply at the feeling of his teeth nipping at her – just enough to aid in the relationship between pain and pleasure that had been unspoken; she knew now that it had been unspoken as there hadn’t been a word to describe it.

“You taste like a story untold,” Bill murmured against her, letting his lips settling on her thigh to give her a moment to catch her breath, “Rich. Beautiful. Wonderous.” Between each word, a softer kiss was laid against the velvet skin of her open thigh.

“Do you feel him deep inside of you? Through your veins, through your blood, through each inch of you?” Harry’s maniacal voice spoke certainly into the air, allowing Catherine’s hips to pulse as if to nod with agreement to each of his words.

Her head pressed against the wood, wanting to push her body away at the height of the feeling. It had been so unknown to feel such a strength of pleasure that could only flourish.

Under her breath, she let words come out of her mouth that had been the only ones that she could muster: “Forgive me, Father. In the name of you, I resist temptation; I resist –“

“Praying?” Harry asked with a humor lacing his words. The moonlight danced in his amused expression. “For protection? Or penance?”

Catherine ached at the feeling of Bill between her thighs; aching at the way that each second that passed was another that built this feeling that had been so uncomfortably unfamiliar that she was uncertain that it could be natural. Every moment that passed was another that had pulled her deeper into the underworld of the damned, she knew it.

“God could never make you feel this way,” Harry pushed her, wanting her to fight against it for the greater outcome, “God could never make you feel this ruined, this worshiped, this utterly alive, Catherine.”

Every moment that built her up was rewarded with another wave of heat that she felt from top to bottom. In an effort to push away the feeling, she sat up; the way that she watched Bill rise from between her legs added to the feeling of the tightening in her as she saw the life in his eyes that had been dancing out of complete arousal.

Harry’s hands traced down her spine, “Give it to him.”

Bill panted as she stared at him, “Come help her, would you?”

Moving from behind her, Catherine watched Harry move down to between her legs; he thrust her thigh upwards to open her before Catherine caught the black of his pupils. Harry let his strong, willing fingers to trace down her clit, pushing softly inside of her with two; letting his finger trace in circles before she let out a whimper of succumbing to them.

Bill let his tongue dance along her, letting his tongue work in tandem with Harry’s fingers in a way that had sent Catherine’s mind into space; a lifted oblivious that only let her eyes see beyond space and into the galaxies beyond it.

“Descend from yourself, Catherine,” Harry coaxed her, his words soft and subtle as he edged her forward; he knew she was working in her head to not succumb to the feeling, wanting to pennant for the sins she was certain of.

Bill coaxed her then, “Let us have this part of you.”

In an instance, her eyes had flicked to watch the men work her; the only memory that caught her before the extraordinary feeling of release was the way that Harry’s ivory teeth, sharp and settled against his lips as the smirk on his face had matched the ember red of his newly changed eyes; they hadn’t frightened her but sent her further into ecstasy as she laid her head against the wood with a rippling effect of sensation that was completely, univocally unnatural.

“Good girl.” They stated, watching as she drowned in the rush of the flood that overcame her. “Our good girl.”

It overtook her like a tide pulled from the moon — slow at first, then sudden, sweeping, inevitable. A tremor started deep in her core and bloomed outward, a crescendo of light and heat that filled her lungs with air she forgot she’d been holding. The world unraveled at the edges — time stretched, breath caught, and for a moment, she was nothing and everything all at once. It was like breaking and becoming all in the same breath — a shuddering hush, a silent hymn, and then the soft collapse of surrender.

Catherine then awoke with the taste of midnight on her lips.

Her eyes fluttered open to the pale ceiling of her bedroom, the familiar cracks in the plaster and the sway of the sheer curtains in the morning breeze. The window was open, allowing the sounds of the village to disperse into her realms. A bird chirped just outside. Someone rolled a cart along the cobblestones below. The ordinary world had returned, as though nothing strange had happened at all.

Except everything inside her felt different. There it was – that emptiness she now noticed.

She sat up slowly, the sheets cool against her skin. Her body hummed—not sore, not aching, but tender, as if touched by something not entirely of this world. Everything about her felt renewed, almost like she hadn’t understood how to make sense of it all. She glanced around her room for any changes – anything at all that would validate this odd feeling of sudden unease.

Her fan was on the nightstand. Her shoes neatly by the door. Her opera gloves, folded on the chair as if she had come home from the theater like any other night.

But she hadn’t – she was certain of this. She just was uncertain of how she arrived back safely at a slumber, how she arrived in her own bedroom at home without a lick of a memory.

She pressed a hand to her chest. Still beating too fast, she thought to herself.

Catherine rose from beneath the covers that had coated her moments before, padding barefoot across the room. She didn’t even notice the cold until she passed the mirror—and saw her breath fog against the glass. She stopped with unease. Turned slowly toward it.

She had sensed that the mirror shifted then, almost unseen by the naked eye. No—not the mirror. Her reflection. Something about her was different and she was unable to put a finger on it.

For the briefest moment, her eyes stared back a shade too bright. Not her usual hazel, but something darker, deeper. Like shadowed amber, flickering with light that didn’t belong in this world. Her pupils dilated, narrowed, then returned back to their normalcy.

The illusion—or whatever it was—vanished just as quickly. But it was enough; it was enough for her to recognize this sense of hysteria that had been filling her. Catherine stood frozen, the nightgown suddenly too light, the room too quiet. Her breath was still visible, curling like frost in the room that had to be warm from the summer air.

And then, she had caught sight of it. From beneath her pillow, she heard something faint almost like it had been metronome. A delicate ticking. She turned and lifted the corner of the pillow slowly to reveal the item

There, gleaming against the white linen, lay a small, antique pocket watch. Its face was cracked down the center. And the second hand was ticking—backward. She blinked a few moments to try to understand.

Inscribed on the inside of the open case, in impossibly fine script:

Time bends easiest for those who belong to the night.

Catherine’s hand shook: her jaw becoming slack as she stared at the item before looking at the open window when she heard the boom of the bell tower. It had struck on the hour; her eyes glancing towards the tower as she approached the window. Her fingers tightened around the sill, and she exhaled slowly.

Then she heard it. Not with her ears, but somewhere inside her like a way of communication that hadn’t been taught but felt.

A voice. Two voices, like harmony pressed against her spine as she heard them as clear as the daylight shining in through her open window.

“You are not dreaming, Catherine.”

She gasped and stepped back, nearly dropping the watch. The sensation of their voices—Bill’s smooth, deliberate cadence and Harry’s velvet-dark lilt—wrapped around her, like the memory of hands at her waist and breath at her throat. She had been taught not to be scared but frightened by the power that had been pressed on her.

A warmth stirred beneath her skin, like embers glowing after a night-long fire.

She pressed the pocket watch to her chest, the ticking now loud in her ears, insistent. The scent of night-blooming jasmine rose from nowhere, thick and unmistakable.

On the windowpane, she had felt the sketch on the sill. Delicate, precise lettering—curved like a signature on an old love letter:

Tonight. When the bells chime. Come home.

She stared, breathless. She could almost feel the cold stone of the tower beneath her hands again. Taste the metallic sweetness of Bill’s kiss, hear the low murmur of Harry coaching her in the dark.

She blinked, and the message vanished as if her thoughts played the game of the magic. But she knew better now.

Some dreams were only doors. And Catherine had been invited to step back through. _______________________________________

vampire bill skarsgaard and harry can take me any night of the week tbh

hope you enjoyed this little thing <3

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