#Ordinary Gods 3

[shiveringsoldier]

Lawrence of Arabia (1962) dir. David Lean

[dreamybasil]

looks at u like this :3

stares back at u :3

[taenuviel]

the problem with award shows nowadays is that they dont put taemin in crown prince's flowing blue silk hanbok anymore

[tsuzukerukoto]

Crazy how I went through a phase where I was hesitant to use the word hope while talking about Makoto because of how often the fandom's view of him reduces and bastardizes him into some happy-go-lucky hopeman who feels no negative emotion and now I'm back in my hope arc where I'm comfortable using the word again because I've figured out how to put Makoto's brand of hope into proper words that don't erase entire parts of his character. See, it's because hope and despair aren't a dichotomy. To act as if people or the world is only hope or only despair, just white or just black, is completely wrong. Just like it is to assume that someone is naive just because they're optimistic (spoiler: optimism isn't naivete) or childish because they're kind. Everything's got some good, some bad, and some in-between in it. Makoto's not some pillar of hope or avatar of everything that is good and pure and beautiful in the world, he is and always will be at his core just some guy even if he's capable of utterly staggering feats of heroism. Makoto feels plenty of negative things. A lot of them, in fact. Sadness, anger, jealousy, regret, even despair. It's just that at the end of the day (sometimes with the help of his friends and loved ones, too) he's able to accept, process, and bring that negativity forward with him because it's just a part of being alive. Getting knocked down, not knowing how to progress or if you even want to, being disappointed in what happens-- that's all part of being a human being, and Makoto has the maturity and strength of character to accept that and keep going even if the future is uncertain and things might not work out. He's a guy who cares a lot, who won't give up, and just keeps trying. A hopelessly stubborn guy who can't give up on his hope for the future, no matter how many times he stumbles and falls. And God, he cares. I think that means a lot.

[this-charming-primevalmusic]

EXACTLY

one big thing i think people outside fandom (like, all fandoms, fandom in general, not any particular one) tend to misunderstand is they know it's a subculture of people who are weirdly deeply invested in fictional media, and they hear about drama caused by people in those subcultures being unhinged in not-fun ways, and they think the unhingedness comes from the fact of being overinvested in works of fiction.

which is a natural assumption, but in my experience that's not really the case? like in my experience the drama llamas in fandom are usually not the ones who are just genuinely very deeply into the fiction. i've known people who are basically thinking about star trek or x-men comics or supernatural pretty much 100% of their free time and ime that type of person is usually very nice and surprisingly functional in their regular life. when someone's a constant nexus of fandom drama it's usually not that they are obsessed with the actual work of fiction the fandom is about, it's at least one of the following:

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but their unhealthy parasocial relationships with one or more of the people who created it

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but some elaborate shared-universe subset of fanfic about it that's only barely related to the original at this point, and/or an esoteric reading-against-the-text reinterpretation of the source material (often if the canon is active and ongoing this leads to becoming actively hostile toward it for its inevitably increasing failure to conform to their preferred fanon)

what they're obsessed with is not the source material but the fandom itself and gathering clout within it, so that the source material basically only exists to them as a tool for scoring points in increasingly arcane fandom disputes

and very often you get the same person doing 2 and sometimes even all 3 of these, and that's where the trouble really starts

[ssahotchnerr]

public displays of affection - aaron hotchner x reader

the aaron take on the derek/penelope workplace seminar (episode of reference: 9x12)

cw; bau!reader, established relationship, suggestiveness, small allusions to sex, fluff <3, bau family banter, aaron being mortified😭, references to the episode wc; 1.4k

"penny," you shut one of your files, placing it in your desktop organizer. "you're creating a draft."

"this is bad. oh so very very bad." she stammered, continuing to pace back and forth, "i'm just mentally preparing myself to be humiliated in front of the entire unit. for the second time, may i add. god, who blabbed this time?

"what did you even do?" spencer chimed in, his head lifting from his current read.

"i don't know." she exclaimed, an exasperated breath leaving her. "nothing out of the ordinary, so that means anything is possible. you," she pointed at morgan, who casually was making his way over to the rest of you. "we're in big trouble."

"this could be totally unrelated." jj reassured her. you agreed, giving penelope a nod and a hopeful smile. "there was no footnote on what this meeting consisted of."

"well, there was no footnote last time. and to this day, i still get asked what flarpy blunderguff means." she huffed, crossing her arms and turning towards derek. "i love you my hunk of a man, but this. this is a nightmare."

as two began rolling around, the bullpen filled in anticipation for the seminar, a light hum in the room as conversations were exchanged back and forth in waiting.

in addition, a presence soon stilled beside you. one always familiar, but surprising under the current circumstances.

"what are you doing here?" you looked up to find aaron's gentle eyes. he took a seat on the edge of your desk, just behind your chair.

meetings like these - usually below aaron's pay grade. he hadn't needed to attend the last, infamous meeting for instance, HR meetings were normally things he had prior knowledge of, or simply not worth his valuable time as unit chief.

"i got the email as well." aaron's hand found the back of your neck, his fingers comfortably kneading into your always-tense muscles. every so often, his hand would brush to your shoulder, and then back again.

"oh no," penelope slapped onto derek's arm, the smack covered up by slim buzz within the vicinity. "what did we do?"

"looks like we're about to find out." dave stated, his eyes following the woman who had just entered the bullpen, moving to the front.

the notorious HR lady of the bureau, nancy, sauntered over to the large presentation screen set before the clusters of desks. not wasting a second to get down to business, she turned toward the crowd of eager agents.

"thank you all for your attendance and time, this shouldn't take too long." she started, poised and head held high.

penelope took a deep breath.

"this afternoon's presentation," nancy clicked a button on her remote, displaying the title page. "public displays of affection."

oh no.

aaron's hand, which had continued to smooth out the stiffness in your neck, halted immediately.

"as you all- most are well and should be aware, keeping conduct professional in the workplace is a must to prevent disruptions within the environment. displays of affection - examples upcoming - can cause extreme feelings of uncomfortableness amongst your colleagues, and can be distracting nonetheless. all of which, creates a...."

just as last time, she clicked her remote. and adjacent to penelope and derek's presentation, in big letters across the top:

"hostile work environment."

derek immediately snorted under his breath, inviting others to openly laugh as well. despite the urge to shoot daggers at him, you were utterly incapable of pulling your attention away from the front.

it wasn't a top secret ordeal - everyone could infer the pair this presentation was centered around, and be correct.

"and so," nancy exhaled a breath, her eyes darting in your and aaron's shared direction for a smidge second, causing the heat to grow in your face and body. "i urge everyone to refrain from the following,"

similar to yours, aaron's face burned, comparable in color to his tie. he let out a nearly inaudible, nervous cough from above you.

"sitting on one's lap, while working on caseloads - not appropriate."

more laughter rippled through the division.

"oh god." you mumbled under your breath, uncomfortably crossing a leg over the other as your palm covered the bottom half of your face.

contrary to the present belief, aaron was a stickler on pda.

for the first few months of your relationship, he hadn't dared to touch your arm, back, anything in order to maintain such affection within the field; it was reserved for closed doors at home only. he loved you, but he wanted to uphold his reputable professional nature.

but as time moved forward and your relationship progressed, he hadn't gotten sloppy, per se, but more relaxed or lenient was a better way to put it.

some displays were accidental by habit. if he wanted to give you a quick peck, depending on the situation and setting, he would. seated beside each other, he would lovingly squeeze your thigh under the table, if you needed the encouragement or if you made him proud in some regard. if he were feeling frisky one day - sure he would do something, just to rile you up for later, to each of your benefit. so on and so forth.

and if he was initiating affection, you took that as the all-clear to do the same. in variation, of course.

so more often than not, it was in private. just not... always. and the lock on aaron's office door often came in handy for that.

"prolonged kisses in the bullpen, elevator, not appropriate."

once. you were caught once in a (very) heated kiss in the elevator.

as you and aaron cowered in embarrassment, both dave and morgan looked far too amused for their own good. the rest of the team - raised, entertained eyebrows, tossing glances to one another while trying to constrain their laughter.

nancy swallowed, as if she needed strength to deliver the next point, "grabbing one's behind when going up the stairs, not appropriate."

another mortified cough exited aaron.

she went on, giving more examples of affection aaron and you were completely guilty of. and if just one singular time wasn't enough, she went-forth on the explanation that such displays can cause a barrier within the workplace.

when you thought it would never cease, nancy finally delivered her ending statement, "save it for home people, thank you."

and with that, as well as the screen darkening, everyone disbanded, low murmurs and chuckles filling the room as each went about their usual routine.

you looked up at aaron in absolute horror, whose face was currently in his hand. but even that didn't hide the blush brewing within his face, his ears flushed wildly as well.

you reached up, grabbing his wrist to pry his hand away.

"nuh uh uh," derek grinned as he wiggled his index finger at the two of you, imitating nancy to a tee. "not appropriate."

"you hush." you got to your feet, allowing you to remove his hand more easily. you cautiously prolonged your hold, brushing your thumb across his knuckles before letting it drop. "aaron?"

his brown eyes found yours, full of embarrassment. "that was..."

"humiliating?"

he nodded, his head accelerating in speed with each nod, "yeah. that's the term i would use."

"oh you poor dears." penelope breathed out, the one compassionate member of the team.

"damn." emily chuckled.

derek cackled again, clearly not ready to let this go. honestly, he probably never would. "thought we didn't notice when you pulled the blinds in the office, did ya?"

aaron gave him a pointed glare, putting a very quick end to the conversation. just as the rest, the team carried on with their remaining work for the day - you and aaron remaining frozen in place.

but surprisingly enough, a laugh did escape him, shaking through his chest. "guess i have to tone it down a little, huh?"

"oh thank god," you blurted out and exhaled in relief, a small smile forming on your lips. "i thought this would cause an avoidance arrangement or something." you teased - partially.

"of course not. some reservation, maybe, but not avoidance." aaron laughed quietly again, a sigh escaping him.

"that was bad, wasn't it?" a slightly pinched expression took form on your face, your cheeks tinting once more.

"it wasn't... good." aaron admitted with some hesitation, but his brown eyes still glowed despite the lines of troublesome. his hand found yours - after scanning that no one was paying attention to the two of you - giving it a squeeze. "but hey, out of problems to have, i'd take showing my love for you any day."

[reidmotif]

For the Love of Lace

Summary: Reader decides she doesn't want to pine for her best friend, Spencer, anymore, but still needs his help deciding what lingerie to wear for her upcoming date.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: breast and nipple play, fingering (r!receiving), lingerie talk, unprotected penetrative sex, no implied breast size, couch sex, best friends to lovers, possessive Spencer

Word Count: 3.7k

Masterlist

Pining for your best friend definitely has its lows. There’s a certain sense of pathetic-ness that comes about when your friend is simply speaking, and your mind is occupied with the yearning to bridge the gap of distance between you two, and kiss them senseless. I think perhaps the biggest low that I’d hit, however, in the two years I’d been pining for Spencer Reid was the sexual frustration that came with being unable to see myself with anyone else. 

I’d never meant for it to play out like this. I thought it was an innocent crush, a byproduct of all the time we’d managed to spend with each other divulging into our personal lives and sharing the ordinary comings of the day together. However, there came a point where I looked at him and could see my future laid out so perfectly with him. A future of love, and laughter, and God, so much sex.  And no matter what I’d tried, the thought was too good to let go. 

It didn’t help that not only was he oblivious, he clearly didn’t return my affections. There were no signs of longing that I could deduce from his actions, and I’d decided to be reasonable about this. His actions were always remnant of a good friend, but a lover? No. There were no longing stares. No stolen brushes of fingers, or hushed whispers. It seemed that anything romantic about our relationship only emanated from my fantasies of what I wish we could be. 

And so here I was, unable to get past the mental block of wanting anyone as much, and it’d resulting in a long, exasperating two-year stint of celibacy. And Jesus, did it show. The tiniest thing Spencer did would set me off in a frenzy, and it left me feeling nearly perverted at a certain point. There’d been a day that he ran his finger down a page, attempting to locate a passage to display to me and all I could think about was how badly I wanted that finger in me. My mouth. Me. Anything. And then I realized I was lusting over my best friend’s hand, and considered the possibility of this being a serious problem on my end. 

My only block to getting laid was my own self.  And I certainly didn’t relish in the debauchery I’d clearly stooped low enough to indulge in, and so it was decided. This Valentine’s Day? I wasn’t going to watch rom-coms and wonder if Spencer and I could ever have a happy ending like them.

 I was going to man up, and go on a date. Easier said than done. 

I’d found the date, that bit was easy enough. Trying to find someone to hook-up with on Valentine’s Day is like trying to find sand on a beach. Plentiful and simple. 

What wasn’t easy? Feeling ready for it. I hadn’t been like that with anyone for nearly two years, and found myself worrying that my sexual skills had deteriorated with lack of practice, even though the thought was rooted in some ridiculous notions about myself. I knew that logically the sex would be fine, and hopefully, exactly what I needed to get over Spencer, but still. I wanted to ensure the best possible experience. 

I found myself going through the motions of date preparation. A manicure and pedicure. A facial. I even bought a fancier perfume to wear the night of. And of course, a trip to procure some new lingerie for the night. 

I’d always been indecisive, and with the choices presented in the shop, I found myself overwhelmed. I’d decided and picked up 3 possible pieces, and instead of determining between them whilst buying, I bought all of them, with the intention that I’d be able to make a choice in the comfort of my own home. 

Except now, it’d been a week, my date was tomorrow, and I still couldn’t figure out what would work for me. All three were equally as appealing, but which one was the best? The question haunted me, and continued to  haunt me as Spencer and I hung out. Despite my date tomorrow, I’d promised to keep up our tradition of binging episodes of Star Trek on Friday night together, except my head was clearly elsewhere, which he quickly noticed. 

Damn profiler best friend. 

“Alright, what’s up with you?” Spencer asks, reaching for the remote and pausing on some random frame of Spock’s face, the show taking less precedence than my lack of attention. 

I sigh apologetically, quirking my mouth to the side. “I’m sorry, Spence.” I say, taking a deep breath. “Just a lot on my mind.” 

Spencer tilts his head, his expression a little more worried. “Something important?” 

I shake my head quickly, not wanting to disclose the reasoning for my distraction tonight. Especially to him, considering my date tonight had the sole purpose of me getting over the man currently sat to my right. 

“No, no.” I say, softly. “Just.. stuff.” I voiced, quickly.

“Stuff?” Spencer inquires. 

“Stuff.” I affirm. 

Now it’s his turn to sigh, making a slight groaning noise whilst he did so. “Come on. I’ve known you for years. I know there’s something on your mind, and it’s clearly distracting you, so.. Please? Tell me?” He asks, giving me those eyes. A look that would make anyone weak in the knees. 

I find myself hesitating, and bite my lip, and in the end, it’s the way he’s looking at me that does me in. I opt to stay vague, but give him a bit more insight into my wandering thoughts. 

“My date tomorrow? I don’t know what to wear.” I say, shrugging. “It’s not very important, but I want to make it work, you know?” I continue. 

“Why don’t you just show me your dress then?” Spencer inquires. “I’m not a fashion expert, but it’s not like I’m unable to have taste.” 

I laugh a little self consciously, shaking my head quickly. “Oh no, no. It’s not a dress. It’s okay, Spencer. I couldn’t ask you to do that for me.” 

“Shoes? C’mon! I’m your best friend. I’d do anything for you.” He protests, coming closer to me now. 

“Not shoes.” I say, still shaking my head. “And no! I mean, seriously. There are some things you can’t do for me, and it’s fine. I’m fine.” 

“Jewelry? Hair? Makeup?” He implores continuously. “I’m all ears.” 

I realize there’s no way in hell he’s ever going to let this go, so I blurt out with little thought, “It’s lingerie!” 

He goes a bit quiet in thought, and then raises an eyebrow. “And that poses a problem?” He asks, softly. 

I blink a little. Yes. Of course that’s  a problem. I love you so much that it makes me feel weak, and I can’t be even more vulnerable in front of you. Not like that. 

But instead I shrug, running my hands through my hair. 

“I just.. Wouldn’t that be weird?” I say, hesitantly. 

“Not really.” Spencer replies, nonchalantly. “You’re my best friend. And I want to help you in any way I can. Nakedness doesn’t really bother me, and if it doesn’t bother you, I’d love to help you decide.” 

“Spencer..” I mumbled, still incredibly hesitant. 

“I’m your best friend!” Spencer articulates. “And logically, I can provide you with insight that only another guy could give.” He points out. “In a purely platonic, and logical sense.” 

I had to give him credit for that. It’s true. Spencer did have insight that none of my friends could provide, and I’d always entrusted him in helping me make decisions for myself and my life. And honestly, it was starting to get suspicious with how much I’d been objecting to this. The man had helped me decide bikinis, clubbing dresses- this couldn’t be any more different, could it? 

“Okay. Okay. Fine.” I give him a resigned nod, getting off the couch. “Alright. Wait here.”

He plants himself more firmly on the couch, his eyes trained on where I’d disappeared into my room, rummaging through the shopping bag until I’d found the first lingerie piece. 

It was a simple black lace bra and matching panties. The bottoms were a bit cheekier than a normal pair of underwear, and my legs were on display in full. My hair framed my pushed-up breasts, and I looked at myself in the mirror, slightly self-conscious at the fact that I was about to present myself this way to Spencer. 

How did I get into this mess? 

I slowly twist the doorknob, calling out to him. “Spencer! I’m coming out with the first one.” 

“I’m here.” is his reply, and I know he’s waiting, and so I slowly push open the door and come out in the light, a little more in his view. I give a half-hearted 360 degree turn, and look at him. 

“So?” I ask, my eyes finally meeting his, but the sight I’m met with is a lot different than the one I’m expecting. He’s slightly red in the face, his hands fidgeting in his lap- quite different from the more composed version I’d seen of him. 

“Is there something wrong?” I ask, quickly, feeling even more vulnerable as I stood there, half naked in front of a blushing man. 

“No, no!” He sputters. “I’m sorry. This is normal.” He gulps a bit and gives me a quick once over. “Sorry, I’ll be normal.” He clears his throat again and nods more definitively. “This one is nice. It’s simple.” He replies, as diplomatically as I’ve heard him. “Black works well with your skin and hair, and I feel like it brings out your eyes.” 

I nod, biting my lip. “Anything I could do to make it.. more than nice?” I queried. 

He narrows his eyes in thought.  “It’s already really, really nice, but I feel like stockings, or even a garter would even the attention from your breasts, more to your legs- which already look really nice, by the way.” 

It's my turn to blush and I nod quickly. “Stockings, got it.” I say. I blow out a breath of air. “One down, two to go.” I say, absentmindedly. 

“Better go back and try the other two, then.” Spencer says, with a smile. 

I attempt to return his smile and disappear back into my room, putting on the next piece. It was red, and a bit more showy than my previous piece. It was a criss-cross, cut-out lingerie. Lines of maroon fabric danced around my skin in a way that exposed the curve of my breasts, and connected to a simple, red thong. I walked out quicker than last time, a little less nervous now that the initial nervousness of appearing naked in front of him had faded. 

Despite my nervousness fading, it seemed like his had only increased. I’d only caught a glimpse of it in my hurried departure from my room to his line of sight, but had he.. been adjusting his crotch area?

 No. No. I mean, maybe he was turned on, but that was a completely normal reaction to a half-naked girl in front of a man. To my knowledge, Spencer hadn’t dated anyone in 2 years either, so it was completely possible he also had pent-up desires. This was normal. Spencer Reid did not feel the same way for me, not in the same way as I did for him. 

He quickly looks up and his hands are by his side in record speed. “This one is.. Wow.” He marvels, his eyes boring into my body. “Your breasts. They look great.” 

I can’t help the giggle that escapes me, a part of me secretly delighted that even if this was friendly, Spencer was enamored with my body in the way I’d always wished he would be. 

“Was that too much?” Spencer questions, upon hearing my laugh. “I’m only being honest. Your breasts look nice in this one. My eyes immediately went there with this piece.” 

I smile. “No, no. That’s what I need from you, anyway. That’s what I want my date to do too, anyway.” I say, dismissing his worries. 

“Right. Your date.” He says, curtly. 

I raise an eyebrow at the snippy reply, but don’t think much of it. “So.. the last one then?” 

“Yep. The last one.” 

“Right..” I mumble, going back to my room, slightly confused by the sudden change in demeanor, but ready to get this over with nonetheless. 

The last piece was a lot more revealing, in the sense that my nipples were exposed from the get-go with this one. A lavender slip, with transparent lace covering the breasts, and the silky fabric stopping right below my crotch. It was a bit more daring, but I still enjoyed the way it framed my curves, my hips, and my breasts. I wondered what Spencer would think, and out of modesty, I placed both my hands over my nipples, wanting to show the lingerie without fully exposing myself to him. 

I walk out, and this time, his gaze is intense. More so than I’d ever seen him in our years of friendship. 

“Spence..?” I ask, when he’s silent for a beat too long.

“Turn around.” He says, firmly, and I find myself listening instantly, baring my back to him, and no doubt he’s focusing on the way the fabric wrapped around my ass, leaving me slightly flustered and more on display than I’d ever felt tonight. 

“Spencer? Come on. Say something. Feeling a bit like cattle right now.” I voice, laughing a little nervously.

When I hear his voice again, I nearly jump out of my skin because he’s right behind me, his hands ghosting across my bare shoulders. 

“Don’t go.” He whispers, his hot breath fanning around my neck, sending shivers up my spine. 

I’m too nervous to turn around, so I keep my hands planted firmly on my breasts and murmur out my confusion. 

“What?” 

“Don’t go.” He repeats, more firmly this time, and I can feel his hand moving to grip my hip, orienting me to face him. “Please.” 

“Why not?” I ask, softly, my eyes wide as I try to read his expression. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, and I could feel his hands moving to cup my face, bringing us even closer. 

“I’d be an idiot to have not at least tried.” He whispers. “I’m sorry for doing this now. I’m sorry if this ruins everything. But I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t try.” 

I feel my confusion bubbling up, my eyebrows furrowing a little bit. “Why.. what is this? Is this because of the lingerie?” I ask, my lips parting slightly. 

“No. God no.” I can see him emphatically shaking his head at my rumination. “This has been coming for a long time.” He murmurs. “I thought I could ignore it, but I can’t. I can’t physically stand the thought of someone worshiping you the way I’d like to.” He rasps out, and I feel my heart jump, my breath coming out faster. 

When I’m silent, unable to respond,  his fingers run across my lips. “Can I kiss you?” He whispers. 

I nod, and it’s like he’s been waiting all night, and then some. His grip on my face tightens and he brings me in for a searing, earth-shattering kiss. His lips move over mine desperately, and I feel his grip shifting to bring my hands off my breasts, and to replace them with his own, his hands now pawing and squeezing at the flesh, which draws a soft moan from me. 

He throws his head back at the noise, leaning to kiss my neck. “Fuck yes.” He mumbles, seemingly goaded on by the noises slipping through my lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.” He groans out, to no one in particular, just wanting to get the words out there somehow. 

I nod rapidly, and his hands are on my hips again, guiding me to the couch and laying me down. I move easily in his grasp,  a slight gasp escaping me as he climbs on top. His thumb goes to graze my jaw, leaning in for another kiss. It’s less rushed this time, slow and passionate. His tongue darts out to swipe over my bottom lip, and I open my mouth easily for him, reveling in the sweetness of how he tasted. 

He breaks off the kiss and moves down, kissing my breast between the lace. His tongue goes out to wet the fabric, and I’m arching my back at the sensation of the rough lace and the warm wetness now rubbing against the sensitive skin.

“You taste so good.” He mumbles. “God. Why did I wait so long?” 

“No clue.” I whimper out, desperately. “But don’t stop.” 

“I’m not stopping.” He says, gruffly, moving to bunch up the fabric of the slip until it pooled around my waist, exposing my dripping cunt to him. 

“I can’t stand the thought of another man touching you like this.” He whispers, his finger running up and down my wet folds, causing me to moan out needily. 

“Shh, shh, baby.” He murmurs. “You’ll get what you want soon enough.” 

Without warning, he easily slides two fingers inside me, and I can’t help but wonder if he was made for me. Given the way he effortlessly reached that spongy spot so deep inside me, I was compelled to say yes. The action prompted me to release a string of desperate moans and whimpers, increasing in octave with every second he pumped the digits in and out of me. 

“Yeah, you like that?” He mumbles, almost entranced with the way my cunt was sucking him in, tightening around his finger with each second he continued. 

“Yes. Yes, oh God.” I moan out, my eyes squeezing shut. 

“Open your eyes.” he demands, his thumb now darting out to rub harsh, tight circles on my clit. “I want to see your face when you come on my fingers.” 

My eyes snap open, and I can’t help it when I release another moan and feel my orgasm absolutely shred through me. My hips raise in an attempt to move off Spencer’s fingers, but he manages to follow my movement, nursing me through my orgasm, and watching every second of it. 

When it's over, he removes his finger and brings it up to his lips, sensually tasting my release right in front of me, never breaking eye contact- and the sight itself makes me need him all over again. 

I pull him in by the collar of his shirt, and my hands move to remove his buttons, wanting to feel his skin on mine. He laughs a bit and admonishes me, removing my shaky fingers. 

“Let me.” He mumbles, leaning back between my spread legs, and removing the clothing, before moving to his belt. 

I bite my lip as he hovers over me, and kiss him again. I can’t get enough of him. He’s all I wanted for so long, and here he is- mirroring my desire in the way I’d always hoped he would. 

“No man-” He breathes out, in between kisses, “could do this for you.” 

I nod in affirmation, continuing to kiss him. No argument there. 

“No man deserves to.” He adds, possessively, and it’s enough to make me clench around nothing, and I know at that point I’m more desperate for him than I had been the whole night. 

“Spence, please.” I groan out. “Need you.” 

He understands immediately and wastes no time, pulling himself out from his boxers, giving himself a few tugs before pushing inside of me, groaning as he feels my warm, wet walls grasp onto his cock. 

He remains there for a second, allowing me to adjust to his size. When he looks at my face again, and I nod, he starts to move, pulling out until only his tip remains inside of me, before slamming in. My jaw drops in a silent scream, and my hands go to grip his shoulders, and with the confirmation I was enjoying myself, he set on a ruthless pace, snapping his hips over, and over again, until I was reduced to a babbling mess in front of the man. 

He’s all I can feel at this point. His hands on my breasts, my hips, before he eventually rests both hands on either side of me and envelops me in his being. I can smell him, and the familiar scent only serves to tighten the coil in my stomach, reminding me that this was someone I’d loved so deeply for so long. Someone who was interwoven into the fiber of my being, and I know this is all I want, and all I’ll ever want. 

As we both feel our releases coming on at an alarming pace, he leans up to kiss me one more time, moaning against my mouth. I feel myself whimper before I feel my walls contract around his cock, my orgasm causing my back to arch even closer to him. The clamping of my cunt seems to drive him to finish too, and a warmth fills my deepest point as he groans into my ear, pulling out and lying against me. The two of us are panting, sweat sticking to both of our bodies and hair, lost in the post-sex haze and enjoying the proximity. 

He kisses my jaw and I giggle out and give a soft moan. “God.” I whisper. 

“Yeah.” He murmurs against my skin, and I can feel his smile. “Are you canceling your date then?” He says, a slight bit of glee in his voice. 

I giggle a little, finding his delight adorable and endearing. “Yes, Spencer. Obviously.” I murmur. 

“Good.” He whispers, laying his head on my chest. There’s a lull of quiet as my hands stroke through his hair, smoothing it out from our illicit activities just a moment ago. I can hear his grin as he breaks the silence. 

“Guess you could say I liked this piece the best.” 

hiii!! omg. this took a while. yes this is more of a valentines day fic and its a bit late but hey!! got it out in february. this was actually written for @imagining-in-the-margins new beginnings challenge, so go ahead and check that out when you can. i hope you guys like this one. as usual, please reblog, like, comment, and show your support any way you can. thank you for reading, and i hope it was enjoyable <333 ty ty ty!!

[suguru-getos]

-> Kid Gojo running away from home, meets kid F!Reader. <3

It was weird, the scorching sun of Kyoto was humiliating her very body. Gasping, panting, heavy breathing, she had just run from a few bullies who wanted to take her limited edition water bottle away. For a child who was so doted on, overbearingly so, but somehow it all being a facade, Satoru couldn’t understand his own life, part of him thought it’s fun & he gets to have whatever he wants. Part of him craved what normalcy means, and how he could possibly achieve it in a stigma of innate power & pedastal he’s crowned with. His birthday recently passed, so many gifts & yet gift giving could lack warmth that much & include agendas? Unbearable. This world was unbearable.

His eyes were powerful, he had been practising with his own given the strict routine of Jujutsu being taught in his clan… Gojo clan, Zen’in clan, Kamo clan… how do normal people behave? Ignorance is bliss indeed, or that is something Satoru swears by for the non-sorcerer community.

Ignorance is utterly blissful, why else was she running towards him without a fear of her life? His eyes widened, school uniform, tattered & bruised knees, beautiful hair that are utter opposite to his, eyes gleaming, happy— kind— before Satoru could say anything, both her hands clasped his arm, using him as a leverage, she hid behind him.

Now, Satoru can handle all the trouble in the world. Small kid with small hands knew his worth, knew his birth shook the sorcerer community & he is god-like. Still, this normalcy felt endearing. The fact that she didn’t ask him, or bow in front of him to be allowed to touch Satoru was, new.

He turned his head to look at her, what was she running from. His gorgeous blue eyes met hers, thick lashes batting in curiosity, “Ano- what are you running from?” He asked, a slight snobbish arrogance lacing his sentence. He just isn’t used to any other way. Could it be that she was being haunted by a curse? What was tormenting this beautiful girl?

“How old are you?” Satoru continued, asking another question.

“I’m eight, turning nine soon. My name is Y/N. I am running from a few people in my school, they want my water bottle & they get anythin’ they want from anyone…” she pouted big, showing Satoru her water bottle. It looked cute, he’d give it that, but for someone who always has whatever he wants, the idea of people bothering someone else for materialistic things seemed unfit.

“Pretty bottle.” He said, taking it from her & examining it further. Maybe he’s missing something? There has to be something valuable about it… he even tried using six eyes to understand, nope… nothing. Just an ordinary bottle in the hands of an ordinary girl.

“They won’t bother you, I am here. I’m really strong.” He grins, so far he’s always been told he’s really strong but this time he has used this to forge his own identity. “Yeah?” She raised a brow, slightly skeptical.

“Yeah- I am already ten years old. Senpai.” Satoru smirked again, what a tiny lady being bothered by a tiny bottle.

“Well, if you really can protect me from those bullies, I can take you home and make you meet my mom. She makes amazing cookies, & she is making a cake today, Fridays are baking days.” This time, the girl grinned back, just as chirpy and excited. Happily accepting herself to be under Satoru’s wing.

The strongest sorcerer in the world, was still a kid. Needed to be loved like a kid. “I could get any cookies I want.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, not my mum’s cookies.” She resisted, pouting & yanking the bottle away.

What was about her mom’s cookies which could be that special? Satoru raised his brows, he has promised to protect someone & what kinda man would he be if he doesn’t keep his promise?

“Okay, I’ll go home with you.” He nods, besides, there is a special naughty joy that erupts in his childish psyche to imagine his butlers being scolded.

Satoru Gojo didn’t have a normal life, yet. This was a good start, maybe a frequent spot to visit when he escapes his gruesome trainings & his role to save the world.

[strange-aeons]

So, the first bumping lesbians isn't even that much caffeine:

1 shot of espresso is 65mg

7 shots is therefore ~450mg

That's:

-5.5 cups of hot coffee

-3 Monster Energy

-2 5hr Energy

-55mg more than the recommended top daily caffeine intake (no harm is going to come from that)

Oh thank god can’t wait to replace my morning coffee with 2 5hr energy shots and feel nothing out of the ordinary

[diah-the-demon]

IM SO FUCKINT TIRED

My nerves are completely shot omg

[yurunivo]

Combining two requests into one because yes

Synopsis: the beginning of war part 1 part 2 part 3

TW: yandere themes, SAGAU imposter au, gn!reader, multiple perspectives of the same goal, reader's perspective is not written, mentions of death, english is not my first language, bad grammar, bad writing, not proofread, not too many perspectives (sorry), mischaracterization, no use of y/n, very short, lazily written

Characters: Genshin cast x creator!reader (no romance in this one)

Understanding the gods was a hard thing to do.

Despite having been revived by Mavuika, Kinich found himself at a loss when trying to figure out your thought process.

What was going on in your head when you refused his assistance in keeping you safe? He honestly had no idea. A slight shove in his arm, telling him to stay away and leave you alone was imprinted in his mind.

He thought, what was going on in the dear Creator's head? He did know that you should have power beyond his own Archon, but shouldn't you be weakened? From the years of the chase you had to go through, shouldn't you be weaker than n Archon right now?

You paid a hefty sum of Mora to stay away, your expression one that he couldn't read. He couldn't really stop you in anyway as he was frozen in place, looking at the pouch of Mora you gave him. Did you feel determination? Anguish? Or did you think of a plan to seek out revenge? For all the suffering you endured?

Whatever it was, Kinich couldn't understand it. It was simple enough to know what Mavuika was thinking, considering that she too was a human like him once, that she knows all the emotions that one person can feel in a short amount of time. So, slightly idiotic as he was, he sent Ajaw to spy on you in your lonely walk. He of course grumbled at the request, however the fact that it was the creator that Kinich was worrying about was the only reason that he agreed in the first place.

Ajaw was on the sidelines, out of your line of vision. His small form looked at yours in the far distance.

Nothing out of the ordinary was really happening.

You were just feeding a few injured saurians, nothing strange. Yet, that melancholy expression of yours was worrying. Just as Ajaw was about to leave to report this to Kinich, he halted in his tracks as Fatui surrounded you. The saurians ran away in fear, and he could feel tiny amounts of your divine wrath seeping into the tethers of the grounds of Natlan. He still left though, just to bring Kinich to fight the Fatui.

Yet, something about your expression told him that you didn't need help. And, you were right, as bolts lightning surrounded you, knocking the majority of the Fatui back. They were light headed, likely slipping into unconsciousness. Even the grass around you changed colour, showing the affect of your sheer power. Again, Ajaw and Kinich both didn't understand what was the reason that you were behaving this way. They both didn't understand what you were thinking, and they probably never will.

Capitano found you strange.

When he first sought you out under the orders of the Tsaritsa, he couldn't feel any divine power of yours surging through his rotting corpse. No, it was almost as if you weren't the Creator at all. But now, he felt excruciating amounts of electricity running through his veins.

Perhaps his body got so weak that even from a reasonable distance he still felt the pain of elemental energy. The abyssal corruption wasn't really helping either. Or maybe it was that your power was strong enough to make him feel this way. Whatever it was, the feeling wasn't pleasant. Yet, he still had the energy to walk over to you in his significantly weakened form. He only had one question to ask you, and he wanted the answer clearly.

Why?

Why did you allow the destruction of one of your own nations? Why was it that he and his companions had to suffer? Why did Khanriah had to suffer the wrath of the gods?

He always knew that the imposter was a fake, he felt no resentment towards them, and certainly no terrifying amounts of power that he was now. So, when he was informed of your returning, he only had one thing in mind, to get an answer for his misfortune.

Yet, looking into your eyes, it seemed that you had no intention of answering his questions. The moment he looked at you, a voice boomed in his head. The average mortal would've died from the intensity alone, dying of madness at the loud sound. He could only handle it for the reason that he was cursed with immortality, yet that voice alone was enough for make him perish and never be seen again, his corpse immediately being absorbed by the leylines.

"Leave. Tell the Cryo Archon that I have no intention of taking the position of godhood," and he felt strangely compelled to do so by the voice. His henchmen were thrown at the ground next to him, and a second later, you vanished into thin air. He reached out his hand too late, touching the particles of your now gone presence.

He really couldn't understand you.

Ei couldn't really understand what you were trying to say with your confusingly worded message.

Centuries of being in Teyvat, her soul was practically intertwined with its ground principles. She could feel all the electro users using their elemental energy, or the strike of lightning that she had caused far away. So with this, she could always recognize your power, even after so long, even if it's on the other side of Teyvat. The strike specifically said, in her best understanding:

"Do not enter Natlan under any circumstances, do not wait for me."

She couldn't understand. You would be on the pedestal of your divine throne once more, why shouldn't she come to Natlan and put you in your rightful place? Hasn't she done enough, killing all those who didn't believe in you and even making a shrine for you in Inazuma? She couldn't understand, what part of you wouldn't like these gifts? She even planned an outing for the both of you! The thought of eating together and feeding each other made her all too giddy, wouldn't you feel the same? No, shouldn't you feel the same?

After all her years, decades, centuries of living, she couldn't understand your request. It sent a shiver down her spine, and not in a good way. It was just telling her that she shouldn't even be near the creator, the one she had dedicated her eternity to. It was absolute blasphemy! Why shouldn't she, a loyal follower of yours, be allowed to not enter Natlan? What does Natlan even have any way? It's leylines are weak!

So it would be expected for her to completely rebel against your message, no? The thought of it just went in one ear and out the other, most likely. She prepared her army to raid the nation of war.

She needed answers.

Why do you want her to stay away so badly?

Neuvillette felt a repulsive taste in his mouth.

The more in proximity he got to the Pyro Archon's abode, the more he felt your oncoming anger.

Or was it that the other nations were coming close too?

By the time he reached Natlan, all the Archons were there, each with their respective army. All except Buer, whom he thought was allying with you. The group of them shared a glare, before proceeding to step foot into the Nation.

The first step in and he already felt like vomiting.

The high concentration on the other elemental energy being used was making him sick. The thunderstorms, the vines, he could all feel it in his veins. The one and only thing that prevented him from giving up was you, only you. He could feel your presence, and it all disgusted him that you were in Natlan and not Fontaine. Wasn't his nation better than the one that constantly reeks of war and bloodshed? He really has no place of judging what you did, considering the unfair hiarchy placed by Celestia themselves, but he couldn't help judge your taste.

It seemed like he wasn't the only one that thought what he did too, considering the not so pleasant complection of the other Archons. Their face contorted, and he would have laughed if it weren't for the situation.

He was getting impatient, so just as he was about to use Hydro to attack first, a wall of Geo immediately went up to protect the Nation. They stared at you in disbelief while you returned the stare with disdain.

"Haven't I told you to stay away?" A strike of electro travelled through the ground, and using the current rain, the electro charged reaction attacked the puppet, Raiden first. The level of concentration being much more than what the puppet can handle, her arm fell off her torso, leaving a hollow hole in the area where her limb used to be. Dendro vines slithered and grabbed the Archons' and Dragon's leg, and as much as they tried to escape, they couldn't. The plant went up to Neuvillette's neck, threatening to choke him but just resting on his shoulders instead.

"Just when my identity was revealed you all scurried to me like dogs chasing their owner. It's pathetic really, how delusional you are to think that I would forgive you after everything you've done."

Your veins became more visible, and all of them could see the flow of golden blood throughout your body. Venti was about to say something to your words in protest, but the vines kept his vocal chords in check. You narrowed your eyes at the god of freedom.

"Seriously? Attempting to speak when I've already set boundaries? How lowly. However I'm not that cruel to get rid of your status," Venti got pushed into the walls with your own Anemo prowess; "you should just be weakened beyond repair."

There was a mad look in your eyes, looking for something. One thing that Neuvillette was sure that he couldn't understand was your wrath. The way you looked at everyone with such eyes that showed that you had lost all hope. The way your eyes showed the wanting of revenge. He couldn't comprehend that at all.

Your face held an expression that he never wanted to see in you.

Manic.

Now he was wondering himself, where did he go wrong?

Tried to make this as triggering as possible lol. Like showing off the archon's hypocrisy was fun but also hard to write

[docdudo]

Familiar 141 - Young Witch!Reader (Part 3)

You looked up at the cabin looming before you, its structure crafted from beautiful dark pine wood. The windows were adorned with extravagant details, and the doors, oversized and imposing, seemed designed for beings much larger than ordinary humans.

Well, maybe because, yeah, they weren't humans. Familiars would be offended if you ever compared them to humans.

Then again, so would witches.

You think.

Who would have guessed that such a grand and beautiful construction was hidden in the forest you’ve been exploring since you were old enough to walk?

It was clearly made with love and dedication too...

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Gaz smiled smugly, crossing his arms as he looked up at the place with you. "It’s been here since the 1800s. Of course, we’ve been updating and remodeling it for quite some time now."

You prefered not to think too hard about that date.

"Right..." You mumble, a little unsure what else to say, trying to avoid looking at his face for too long. His yellow, shining eyes made you a bit nervous.

You didn't even notice that your hand automatically went to stratch at the gold bands around your wrist, only jumping a bit in alarm as your small hand was grabbed by a much bigger one.

"Ey, wee lassie! No scratching, don't wanna ye hurting!" Soap smiled big even as he scolded you, making you frown a little at him.

"Right..." You grunted a bit more annoyed now, pulling your hand away from his quickly.

Soap barely reacted when you yanked your hand away from his, still smiling like an eager pup. He was leaning close, his wide stance unwavering, as if the thought of being even a moment away from you was unbearable.

Clingy...

Then again, weren’t Familiars usually like this? God, you wished you’d been born into a proper Coven, with real teachings about being a witch.

But nooooooo...

Instead, all you had were the itty bitty pieces of information your grandfather had about them and their life style. Sure, it was a lot of knowledge about witches for a human to have, but it wasn't enough.

You didn't know how they did it, really. Were your grandfather right about young witches never going outside the Coven? Like, never?

You doubt it that they were just being kidnapped left and right by solitary Familiars, so it had to be true, right...?

"What'cha ye thinking so hard about it, lass?" Soap questioned, inspecting your face closely, smile still present on his face.

"How to get away from you." You snarked quietly, a small frown tugging at your lips—though it looked suspiciously close to a pout. Not that it was intentional; your face just did that when you glared at someone.

"Aawww, lassie…" He crooned, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, his sharp smile making his eyes squint dangerously.

You trembled, instinctively stepping back at his reaction, your mind screaming 'danger' for a few panicked seconds. You’d grown bolder without the two scariest-looking Familiars around, momentarily forgetting the truth: no matter how they appeared, they were still ancient and dangerous. And goddamn, was his reaction terrifying…

"Tav." Gaz hissed, approaching you two with an annoyed look, immediatly slapping the back of Soap's head. "Baby witch, remember?"

"Tsc..." He grumbled at the hit, but immediatly softened as his eyes went back to you. "Sorry, mo leanbh... 'm not dangerous, not for you, never for you..." He crooned slightly, kneeling in front of you easily. "Would never hurt ma witch..."

You could only nod stiffly, still on edge about his behavior. Their behavior. Ever since you woke up a few hours ago, your emotions had been swinging wildly—mad, angry, annoyed… then terrified, scared, hesitant…

You wanted to go home.

Oh, God, please, don't cry again... you don't want to cry again, you're better than that....

Gaz and Soap watched your face for a few moments, quickly noticing your bubbling emotions once again. The cat Familiar immediately dropped to his knees beside Soap, intent on calming you down before you could get worked up again.

"It's okay, kid... you're okay, we would never hurt you, Soap was right..." Gaz soothes, voice quiet and gentle, big hands hovering above your arms, unsure if he should touch you or not.

"I know..." You raspy, a weird mix between emotional and annoyed. "Wanna... wanna go home...."

"Aw, lassie..." Soap murmurs, much more tamed now, one hand carefully touching your limp arm, trying to comfort you.

"......where did you even lived, hon'?" Gaz frowns a little as he asks, like he was thinking this over for the first time now. "You are not part of a Coven, right?"

"I..." That makes you hesitate a little, also frowning as you try to explain your situation. "I'm not... part of a Coven.... I... I, like, lived with my... grandfather close to the forest entrance... near the south part..."

"Gran'father?" Soap repeats, face immediatly scrunching in strong distaste.

"W-Wha-, what's with your reaction??" You question, eyes going a little wide as you take a step back, now frowning more than ever, almost glaring even. "It's my grandfather...!"

"Witches don't have gran'fathers." Soap grunts back, clearly annoyed but holding back so he wouldn't scare you again.

"Well—!" You caught yourself, suddenly remembering the dangerous creatures you were speaking to, taking a small breath to try and calm down a little. "W-Well, I do..." You murmur, quieter, but still annoyed.

"Soap, stop provoking her." Gaz sighs, shaking his head slightly. At least you don't look like you would cry now; good thing Soap has a way to always make everyone annoyed at him. "We'll take this to Price and Ghost, have a proper conversation..."

Soap grunted softly but nodded obediently, taking your small hand in his and bringing it closer, gently rubbing his face against the smooth palm with his eyes closed. Gaz studied you for a moment, but when he saw you standing still, just looking mildly annoyed, he smiled slightly.

Gentle little Witch. No mature Witch would let a Familiar have their way like that. Were all baby witches this cute? They lacked the danger and wild nature of older witches, making them seem so soft.

"C'mon lassie, we need to have a good, long chat, uhm?" Soap murmured, getting back up to his feet, not letting go of your small hand.

"Why...?" You almost whined, keeping your voice quiet, but still letting your displeasure obvious.

"Because some baby 'ere never had proper teachings," Soap smiled humorously, tugging you along with Gaz immediately closing in beside you, smilling gently down at you.

"Let's go get Price and Ghost, sweetheart."

[hungharrington]

Ok hear me out casual intimacy with Steve!! Like imagine the first time u shower together and u just wash his hair for him! The first time u change in front of him or wen ur wearing an oversized t shirt and like skimpy panties and go over to the couch where he is and sit in his lap it's the moments where it's such so much trust and love low key him realizing how comfy u are around him and how much u trust him he gets turned on

Brushing ur teeth together at his place? Man is half hard already

ohooooo casual intimacy IS his turn on you’re so goddamn right — this is just like, sweet domesticity <3 and steve then gets turned on by it hehehe + fade to black smut

There had been a period of time after you got together where Steve sometimes wondered if you were ever going to properly relax around him. Like truly relax.

Not that he minded in the least! Watching you avert your gaze nervously, feeling your face glow all hot when he calls you honey, feeling the little tremble in your fingers when you hold his hand— Steve adores it all.

He knows it means you like him. And Steve likes you too.

He likes you a whole bunch— like a lot a lot, okay? In fact, if he probably told you how much he likes you, you’d probably melt and hide under the covers and never return. Which Steve doesn’t ever want.

So you’re a bit reserved and Steve’s still crazy for you and it works. But basically, he never really expected to get this.

“D’ya wanna, like, maybe, shower together?”

Steve blinks, his towel in one hand and his heart pounding in his chest. Did you just say that? He blinks again, just to be sure.

You’re staring at him from your place on his bed, probably being the bravest you’ve ever been considering what you’ve just asked him.

“Yeah- yes. Of course.” He stammers out before you can get too shy on him. “I’ll go get another towel.”

It doesn’t take long for him to snag another from the linen cupboard but by the time he’s back, he can hear the spray of the shower. You’ve left a trail of clothes leading up to it. Something warm stirs in his chest.

He doesn’t make a big deal about it and you seem grateful for it. Beyond the odd complaint about hogging the water, to which Steve sticks his tongue out at you before switching, it’s almost like an ordinary shower. Washing up, wetting his hair.

Except, y’know, til you offer to wash it.

I swear to god do not get a boner right now, Steve thinks desperately to himself, his head ducked down so you could reach it more easily. You’re not making it easy for him. You’re paying him so much attention, your fingertips soothing along his scalp as you lather up the shampoo, massaging the skin. It’s heaven.

Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen you this relaxed whilst the two of you have no clothes on.

You’ve been trying not to be so iffy about being naked but honestly Steve didn’t care if you were forever. He likes you any way he can get you.

Usually, the lead up to sex is the only time Steve gets to see you naked— when it’s all charged air and an eager energy to start making each other feel good. Hot kisses and a feverish vision of pleasure.

But this… this is different. There’s no charged energy, just a low buzz of love.

You cup your hands over his eyes so shampoo doesn’t get in them when you tilt his head back to rinse it and Steve nearly cries then and there. He’s never been so happy to return a favour, letting you lean up against him as he soaps up your hair. He’s pretty sure your eyes are closed the whole time. It feels good, taking care of you. It makes him happy.

Afterward, as you towel off, Steve keeps expecting that familiar shyness to creep in.

He’s not watching, okay? But as he gets himself dressed, just in his pyjama pants, it doesn’t go unnoticed that you’re not scrambling to cover up. Instead, you’re at ease, slipping on your panties and then one of his own large t-shirts. You must’ve stolen it when he wasn’t in the room.

It makes him pause, a momentary gawk, before he remembers to close his mouth. You catch the end of it and a flustered expression crosses your face, as if realising how much you’re exposing yourself. And that just won’t do— so Steve remedies it with a kiss, dragging you over to him by the waist so he can lean up against the counter and kiss you sweetly.

You both have wet hair. Your skin is all dewey from the shower and your eyelashes look extra long when they’re wet. You’re fucking beautiful.

It’s all Steve can think as you both brush your teeth in the mirror— making eye contact every couple of seconds and grinning like goofballs. It’s not productive. Steve adores it.

You’re both half-dressed, you without pants and Steve without his shirt, and it’s so damn homey, so cozy, so in love, that it makes Steve’s chest a little tight, in a good way. It’s intimate. You trust him.

Oh my god, He thinks. You trust him.

His pants grow tight. The flimsy material of his pyjamas hide nothing. Steve holds one hand in front of his crotch and looks to the ceiling for strength, because there’s no way you won’t be able to notice.

You lean over and spit out your toothpaste and then look at him through the mirror.

“Steve?”

“Yah?” He gargles back, toothbrush still in his mouth, eyes still on ceiling. His cock thickens a little more in his pants, blood getting a little hotter.

“Are you…?”

He gives a big sigh through his nose, “Yah.”

He finally forces himself to met your eyes through the mirror and you’re… smiling? Almost mischievously. Oh god.

“Because… of the teeth brushing?”

Steve rolls his eyes but the embarrassed flush on his cheeks still gives him away. He leans over and spits his toothpaste, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No, not cos of the— well, not just cos of the—“ He cuts himself off, the blush on his face beginning to spread down his neck. “Look, you washed my hair and you’re not wearing any pants! We’re brushing our teeth together! I like it, okay?”

In a complete reversal of the usual, suddenly Steve’s the flustered one and you’re the cool, calm one. Your smile only grows at his explanation, some of the mischief exchanging for fondness.

“That’s okay,” You say softly. You press up on your toes to kiss his cheek and wander towards the door. “Do you wanna cuddle tonight?”

Steve’s cock gets harder at your words and he groans, because he knows you know what you’re doing— especially when you laugh a little, a cheeky sound. You’re playing into his in-love fantasy, his domestic dream, that somehow has a direct line to his dick now, which is probably most definitely a problem for later.

“You know I do.”

“Well, c’mon then, loverboy,” You coo.

Steve chases you from the bathroom all the way to his sheets, your laughter louder and more beautiful than anything.

And he does get his cuddles —y’know, after he fucks your brains out.

[angelssmvse]

𝙂𝙊𝙊𝘿 𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙎 𝙂𝙊 𝙏𝙊 𝙃𝙀𝘼𝙑𝙀𝙉

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ 𝙁𝘼𝙏𝙃𝙀𝙍 𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙀 𝙈𝘼𝙔𝙃𝙀𝙒 𝙓 𝙁𝙀𝙈 !𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 𝜗𝜚 (smut)

𝜗𝜚 𝙎𝙐𝙈𝙈𝘼𝙍𝙔 The ordinary girl, always abiding by the rules—so innocent and pure. But sometimes, stepping outside those boundaries can be a good thing, can't it? And Father Charlie is about to show you how. (P.S. he’s gentle with you)

𝜗𝜚 𝘼/𝙉 So recently I made this edit and oh God I had this urge to write a smut — and please feel free to send me any requests. Enjoy, angels<3 ( click here to watch the edit )

𝜗𝜚 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂𝙎 smut! minors DNI. This narrative contains mature themes and explicit content, including strong language, depictions of violence, adult situations (smut), and elements of both humor and tenderness. Reader discretion is advised.

It's been months since you and Father Charlie began talking and spending time together. Your conversations often revolve around beliefs, modern society, and even psychology. Yet, what intrigues you both the most is uncovering each other's thoughts and understanding what truly goes on in each other's minds.

You always saw him as the mysterious type of man—the kind you’d chase despite knowing he’d probably hurt you.

And then there was you. God, he hated you. To him, you were almost angelic, divine in every sense, as though you’d barely sinned a day in your life. Your eyes held a magnetic pull, and your presence was undeniably comforting.

He was a mess, yet somehow, you managed to understand him—at least in part—and soothe his anger.

“The desires of the flesh do not come from the Father…but from the world,” Father Charlie intones, his voice steady as he reads from the Bible in his hands. “But in the end,” he continues, setting the Bible down on the nearest surface, “we are all…” — “Sinners,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. “So fuck it,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

In an instant, you find yourself pressed down onto his bed, his body over yours, his lips claiming yours in a fervent kiss. The kiss deepens, the atmosphere grows charged, your heart pounds, and your bodies remain entwined.

He gently positions himself as he slowly begins to move, you arch your back towards him in pleasure, softly moaning holding his defined shoulders as your nails dig into the skin causing it to bleed. He growls taking your wrists and holding them tight to keep you still “Father-“ you whimper, he shuts you up by kissing you, your tongues dancing as he quickens up his pace.

Father Charlie felt your climax building up and your walls tightening around him, “Fuck…” he whimpers in pleasure drowning himself in the crook of your shoulder; kissing your soft skin and leaving trails of love marks behind as he goes on.

Tears began to fall down your cheeks, your legs tight around him letting you come. He finishes and collapses on top of you, his lips brushing softly against your skin. Your hands, now free, move to the back of his head as you gently play with his hair. "Hey now," he chuckles, lifting himself slightly to meet your gaze.

You both savored every moment—every second spent together. But was it wrong…this feeling?

Copyright © angelssmvse 2024 — I own only this story; please do not copy nor translate without permission or proper attribution. I give credit for the character Father Charlie Mayhew from the series "Grotesquerie" by Ryan Murphy. This is the only platform where I have published the story.

[jezebelblues]

forsaken | h.s

summary: florence 1583. a woman of fire, a man of fuel.

cw: smut18+ penetration (piv), oral fem!receiving, parent death, fem!reader, unedited. unrealistic happy ending if u seek tragedy 😔

world count: approx 17.2k

| omg will be writing more on these 2, renaissancerry is my heart <3 not rlly thinking a series, more like extras on them fosho. ps: am not a historian or time traveler–if u see something incorrect no u didn’t

masterlist

Florence, 1583

Harry Edward Styles was born to a mother, an older sister, and two fathers—one of blood, one of choice.

The man that bore his blood to the two Styles children preferred the sound of the way glasses of ale would clink in warm evenings, the twinkle of gold coins in the sunlight. Children were the continuation of a name, a bloodline—and that’s all he thought them to be. The only fathering a man was made to do was the ritual of burying their seed in a woman, her duty was to grow them.

So, after a son with his same eyes drew his first breath, he rose a dagger and marked his heel with one singular, vertical dash.

He had done the same when his sister was brought into this world, but he marked her with a horizontal dash.

Their mother, Anne, didn’t understand why—and hated it with every fiber in her being—watching her newborns cry for any other reason then being pulled from the comfort of their mother’s womb.

Once their father left after Harry’s first week on earth, she understood why, his words messily printed with ink on parchment.

Dearest Anne,

Thank you for bringing my own flesh and blood into this world. You are a woman I entrust most with them, having been chosen by God to bear such souls.

Which is why I must leave. A man has more to do with his time on this Earth than to nurture, I shall pour my being into others and bring forth more Brothers and Sisters for sweet Gemma and Harry.

My blood with course through this nation and find itself basking within the kingdom of heaven. I’ve marked my children to find them when God finally calls us forth.

Your womb is a gift from the angels above.

Until then,

– Desmond.

For a while, she mourned the loss of her lover and children’s father. But as time continued, as it always does, she realized that she had dodged the fatal strike of a sword.

She was unsure of the crimes committed by the hands of their father, but she remembers hearing the news of him being hung in the southernmost village of their country.

On Harry’s second birthday, she had fallen in love with a woodmaker, Robin. Shortly after, they moved to Wiltshire and Robin was always known as their papa.

Of course, Harry and Gemma had learnt their true parentage before the dawn of Gemma’s thirteenth birthday, but it was hard to mourn a man you had never known.

Anne would have never told them he was hung in a town’s square, but ascended to heaven of natural causes—the inevitable kiss of an angel.

The scent of turpentine and drying oils had long become as familiar to Harry as the earth beneath his feet. In the cool stillness of his studio, he paused, fingers stained with ochres and umbers, to stare at the remnants of his father’s brush—the one he had used all those years ago, before the fever came.

Harry’s father had been no renowned artist. He was a man of simple trades, a woodworker from the hills of Wiltshire, far from the splendor of Florence’s sunlit domes. But in the evenings, when the day’s labors were done, his father would sit by the window, painting quietly by candlelight. It was there, beside him, that Harry had first seen the magic of creation—colors flowing like rivers across rough wood and fraying canvas, ordinary scenes transformed by the wild, unspoken emotion in every stroke.

His father had painted not for fame, but for peace.

Harry had only been fourteen when his father’s hands, once steady and sure, began to tremble with sickness. His chest had grown tight, his breaths shallow, until finally they stopped altogether. He remembers the way the pads of his fingertips would prune from bringing a water soaked rag to his lips, how his father would drink from the drops of it.

For a while, he hated the color red and grey. His father’s lips would crack with peaks of crimson, leaving faint stains of red on the water rag in its wake. His skin greyed in a speed he didn’t think possible once his heart fell absent of a beat.

In the days that followed, the house had filled with the clamor of neighbors, mourners, and merchants, but Harry could only hear the quiet absence in the stillness.

In the flickering silence, he had picked up his father’s brush.

The years after his father’s death were a blur of movement, as though he had been running from some unseen ghost. He had wandered south, across valleys and mountains, always chasing the sun. By the time he arrived in Florence, he was a man of twenty three and had little more than the clothes on his back and a single paintbrush to his name.

Florence had embraced him like a reluctant lover. The city’s streets were gilded with Renaissance splendor, yet heavy with the weight of expectation. It was a place of grandeur and art, where even beauty was a form of currency—where the Medici and other noble families wore their wealth as a crown and commissioned artists to immortalize their names in frescoes and portraits.

Harry’s talent had bloomed in these streets, but it had come at a price. Every stroke of his brush, every commission, felt like an unspoken promise to a father who would never see what his son had become. The bright colors of his palette were often mixed with the shadow of his grief, and though his name was now whispered in the gilded halls of Florence’s elite, Harry felt as though he were forever painting in the twilight between joy and sorrow.

Sometimes his mind would wonder to the possibility of if he was an angel banished by God, his punishment being to bear the pain of not having lost one, but two fathers.

Three if he counted the absence of Jesus in his life. He felt fatherless, in all senses of the word.

Or maybe it was all well circulated fairytale, conjured in the thoughts of his father’s, the one he shared blood with, brain.

He had grown to resent the mark on his foot, and in the depths of his heart he would refer it as the the kiss of the devil, rather than the mark of God.

He would blame his struggle with faith on his fathers, the three men who sat behind the title.

Desmond, for abandoning his family.

Robin, who loved him like a son and died in front of his eyes.

And Jesus, who had ignored his prayers for his papa to stay and to take him instead.

But it was the pain, the deep and gnawing ache within him, that had given his art its soul. His patrons spoke in reverence of his ability to capture more than a face—how he painted the delicate tremor of a moment, a fleeting look, a breath before the breaking. His works were praised as vibrant, yes, but they also carried something deeper, something tragic. A hidden sadness, like the ghost of a love lost too soon.

In his heart, he knew: he painted because the world was filled with such unrelenting beauty, and that beauty was fleeting. To capture it was to hold on, however briefly, to something that could not last.

One afternoon, as golden light filtered through the shutters, a letter arrived. The wax seal bore the mark of a powerful house—the Candela family. A commission for their daughter’s portrait. A noble request, one that might cement his place among Florence’s greatest. But it was not the promise of riches or recognition that made Harry’s heart stir with something close to fear. It was the girl herself, the rebellious daughter who, rumor had it, could not be tamed by family or duty.

As Harry read the letter, his thoughts drifted back to the girl he had once seen in the Candela gardens. Her eyes had been bright, but wild. Free. In that moment, he knew what she was—a living echo of the spirit he had long tried to capture in his art: untamable, elusive, yet heartbreakingly beautiful.

It was a portrait that might change everything. Or destroy him.

He set the letter down and turned back to the canvas, but his hands trembled once more, just as his father’s had in those final days. A reminder of mortality. A reminder that every brushstroke was borrowed time.

But still, he would paint.

*

The heavy velvet curtains of the Candela palazzo had long felt like a prison to her. Born into one of Florence’s oldest and wealthiest families, Y/N had spent her life in the shadow of their legacy—one that was both gilded with fortune and bound by duty. From the moment she took her first breath, her future had been decided for her. Her days were filled with lessons in etiquette, music, embroidery, and diplomacy, while her nights were a symphony of forced pleasantries at banquets and balls, always under the watchful eyes of her mother and the judgment of the city’s elite.

But from a young age, Y/N knew she was not made for such a life. Beneath the layers of silks and jewels, beneath the carefully orchestrated smiles and curtsies, there was a fire burning in her—one that she had learned to hide from everyone around her, for fear it would consume her entirely.

Her earliest memories were not of the marble halls of the palazzo, but of the gardens beyond its walls, the wild olive groves that stretched out toward the hills. It was there, in the quiet spaces between her responsibilities, that she found her freedom. She had spent her childhood escaping into the fields, where the wind would tear through her hair and her laughter would echo through the trees, free from the rules that shackled her in the world of men.

Her father, the head of the family, was a cold and distant man, more concerned with his political alliances than with his children. He rarely spoke to her except to remind her of her place—her duty to the family, her obligation to marry into another powerful house and secure the Candela legacy. Y/N’s mother was no different, though her scoldings came wrapped in sweet, deceptive smiles. She had been raised to be an ornament, a living testament to her family’s wealth and power, and Y/N was expected to do the same.

But she refused to be molded by their expectations.

She had always been different from the other girls of her station. Where they dreamed of betrothals and courtly love, she dreamed of escape. She would slip out of the palazzo at night, dressed in the simple clothes of a servant, and wander the streets of Florence, blending into the crowd, invisible for the first time in her life. In the dim glow of lanterns, she would listen to the street musicians, watch the painters in the piazza, and breathe in the freedom that was denied to her by daylight.

By the time she reached womanhood, her spirit had only grown wilder. Her parents, exasperated by her refusal to marry the suitors they paraded before her, tightened their grip on her life. But the more they tried to contain her, the more fiercely she fought to break free. She began to push the boundaries of what was expected of a noblewoman—her wit was too sharp, her temper too bold, her opinions too dangerous. Whispers spread through the Florentine courts, branding her rebellious, unfit for the delicate role of a noble wife.

It was not that Y/N wanted to be unwed. She simply refused to give her life to a man who would cage her like a bird. She longed for something more than what Florence could offer her, more than a life of duty and appearance. There were moments—fleeting though they were—when she felt she could see the world as it truly was, raw and beautiful, and she wanted to live in that truth, not the carefully constructed illusion of noble society.

That was when her mother decided it was time to have her portrait painted, a desperate attempt to remind the world of her beauty, her value. It was, of course, more for show than for art—another piece in the game of noble alliances, another way to lure in potential suitors. But Y/N saw it for what it was: a final effort to tame her.

And that was when she had first heard his name—Harry, the painter from the north.

Her mother spoke of him with the same dismissive tone she used for all the artisans they employed, but there was something about this Harry that intrigued her. He was not born of noble blood, and yet his name carried weight in the circles that mattered. The Medici spoke of him with admiration, and even the Pope had once commissioned his work. His paintings, it was said, had a rare quality—they revealed not just the outward beauty of a subject, but the soul beneath.

Y/N had seen one of his works in the home of a distant cousin, a portrait of a young woman who had died tragically young. The face had been serene, the colors soft and gentle, but the eyes—the eyes had told a story of longing and loss that no courtly painter would dare to capture. It had haunted her ever since.

For days, she tried to convince herself it was just another scheme of her parents—another attempt to make her fit the mold she had spent her life breaking. Yet, she could not deny the flicker of curiosity that sparked within her. What would this man see in her? Would he, too, try to make her into something she was not? Or would he paint the fire she had spent her whole life hiding?

The day her mother informed her of the first sitting, Y/N had felt the familiar weight of resignation settle over her. She would sit for this portrait because she had no choice. She would smile, she would pose, and in the end, her mother would hang the portrait in some grand hall for every eligible bachelor to admire. It was all part of the game they had been playing for years.

But when the day came, and she finally entered the makeshift studio lended to Harry for the length of his time here, she felt a shift in the air, as though the fates had turned their gaze upon her.

Harry was not what she expected. He was younger, rougher around the edges than the other artists her family had employed. His dark curls were wild, and there was a certain sadness in his eyes, something she recognized all too well. He was no stranger to loss, that much was clear. His eyes were a vibrant green she had not seen before, unless she counted the gardens that sat in a rainy haze. Perhaps he was a painting himself. And he, too, seemed out of place in the glittering world of Florence’s elite. It was as though he was merely passing through, as though he belonged somewhere quieter, more distant.

Draped in heavy silks, with eyes as sharp as a hawk and a posture that suggested defiance rather than decorum, the daughter of the noble Candela family was unlike any of his previous subjects. Her name was Y/N, and she exuded an air of mischief that the delicate ladies of Florence rarely allowed themselves to entertain.

He did not greet her with flowery pleasantries, as other painters had. Instead, he regarded her quietly for a moment, his eyes flickering over her face—not in judgment, but as if he were searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

“You’re the one they cannot tame.” He said at last, his voice low, almost amused. His accent confirmed he did not have deep roots in Italy, it sounded more of the English suitors her mother would introduce.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And somehow, in that moment, Y/N knew that he had already seen more of her than her family ever had.

She smirked, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “That depends on what you believe needs taming.”

Harry’s lips quirked into a half-smile, and for the first time in years, Y/N felt as though she could breathe just from the few seconds in his presence.

Her eyes gaze around the studio as she waltzes further in, her lips in a closed smile. Her skin held the glow of the sun beautifully, hair bouncing with the scent of lavender. Her fingers feather across a few empty canvasses he has on stilts, messes of paint and brushes scattered onto a table. “They say Hephaestus molded your flesh and bones before sending you to Earth.” She eased, a smile still on her reddened lips. Her steps clicked closer to where Harry stood, eyes still drawn out the windows surrounded by nature. “I heard Aphrodite herself kissed your wrist, frame still soft with clay.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle, though her tone soft, there was anything but sincere admiration laced in her words. “I assure you that there’s no markings of her kiss pressed unto me—m’just a man with a brush.”

She hummed, rounding the stilt between them and watching the sunlight glimmer in his eye as the sun would in the waves. There was no denying the shift in the air between them, an unspoken understanding that went beyond the typical dance of polite conversation. In this studio, amidst the scent of oils and pigment, they were stripped of the titles and roles society had thrust upon them.

“A man with a brush.” She repeated softly, almost to herself. She reached out, her fingers grazing the surface of one of the unfinished canvases. The texture of it was rough, still raw with potential, much like her own life—full of promise, but still undefined. “I wonder,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “what you see when you look at me.”

Harry’s hands, stained with the colors of his art, stilled for a moment. He had painted many faces, each one a portrait of both beauty and sorrow, but this woman—this subject—was different. There was something about Y/N that made him hesitate. She was not like the others who sat for him with plastered smiles, eager to be frozen in time, their beauty immortalized for the world to see.

No, Y/N did not want to be captured in that way. She wanted something more, something truer. Her spirit was restless, untamed, and her gaze held a challenge, as though daring him to see beyond the layers of silks and expectations. To see the woman beneath.

Slowly, Harry moved closer to her, the distance between them shrinking. He studied her face, not with the detached gaze of an artist trying to perfect his subject’s likeness, but with a quiet intensity that sent a ripple through the stillness of the room. His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate.

“I see a woman who was never meant t’be caged.” He mumbled. “I see fire and wind—a calm in an eye of a storm that would bring no ruin; something wild, something the world doesn’t understand.”

Y/N’s breath hitched slightly at his words. It was as if, in a single moment, he had unraveled all the masks she had carefully worn her entire life. The world she had known, the roles she had played, felt fragile and false in the face of this raw truth.

“And yet,” Harry continued, his voice dipping lower, “they try to fit you into a frame, don’t they? As if y’could ever be captured.”

For the first time in what felt like years, Y/N let herself be vulnerable. She turned away from the canvases, facing him fully, the light catching the strands of her hair like molten gold. Her eyes met his, no longer guarded, no longer deflecting.

“I don’t belong in that frame.” She whispered, the words slipping past her lips like a confession. “But they’ve been trying to fit me into one for as long as I can remember.”

Harry nodded, his gaze never wavering from hers. “I know.” He said simply. “I’ve spent my life painting what people want to see. But you–”

He trailed off, as though the thought itself was too bold, too dangerous to speak aloud.

“Me?” she pressed, her heart beginning to race in her chest. She stepped closer, drawn to him in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

“With you,” Harry continued, his voice a hushed murmur, “I want t’paint what the world can’t see.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them was palpable, charged with the weight of unspoken desires, and the world outside the studio seemed to fade away. In that small, sunlit room, there were no titles, no expectations, only two souls who had somehow found one another in a world that had tried to break them.

Y/N’s hand hovered near Harry’s arm, and then, slowly, as if testing the waters of some forbidden sea, she let her fingers brush against his. The contact was light, fleeting, but it sent a shockwave through both of them.

“I want that too,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the vulnerability of the admission.

Harry swallowed, the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears. He had never felt this way about a subject before, had never let himself blur the lines between artist and muse. But with Y/N, those lines had already been crossed the moment she had walked into his studio.

They stood there for a moment longer, hands barely touching, eyes locked in a silent conversation. And then, as if by unspoken agreement, they both pulled back—just enough to remind themselves of the roles they were meant to play, even as those roles were beginning to crumble.

Harry stepped away first, turning back to his easel, his voice steady as he spoke. “We’ll begin the portrait today. But I won’t paint what they expect.” He nodded toward her, “A caged dove to be set free.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a soft smile, her heart still pounding in her chest. She knew, in that moment, that whatever Harry painted, it would be the truest version of herself she had ever seen. And it would bind them together in ways neither of them could yet understand.

“This will displease them.” She smiled, pausing her words. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her voice carried the weight of a promise, though she wasn’t sure who it was meant for—him, or herself.

Without another word, he jutted his chin toward the chair in the center of the room. “Sit.” He instructed, his tone soft but firm.

She followed his gesture, looking toward the seat and ambling toward it silently. She sat, keeping her spine stiff—something that was embedded into her through her training over the years. His eyes narrowed onto her face, cataloging each curve, line, and hint of emotion that sat in her eyes.

Their sittings became a ritual over the last month—an escape from the suffocating demands of her family, from the world that sought to control her. Each time she stepped into his studio, it was as though she left the weight of her name behind, shedding it like a heavy cloak. Here, she was not the Candela daughter, not the rebellious heiress trapped by duty. She was simply Y/N, a woman with dreams and desires that no one had ever cared to ask about.

Harry painted in near silence, his brush moving with a precision that bordered on reverence. But as the days passed, the silences grew warmer, more comfortable, and slowly, they began to talk. He spoke of his father, of the quiet life in England he had left behind, and of how he had found himself in Florence, painting for men who would never understand the depth of what he was trying to capture.

And she, for the first time, spoke of her own longing. Not for marriage or jewels, but for freedom. For the wildness of the world outside the palazzo gates. She told him of the nights she wandered the streets alone, the moments when she felt most alive, when the weight of her name fell away and she became just another face in the crowd.

With every word, with every glance, they both knew they were crossing a line—one that could never be uncrossed. Their relationship was not one of artist and subject. It was something deeper, more dangerous. And Florence, with all its grandeur, was not kind to those who broke its rules.

As Harry’s brush moved over the canvas, he realized he was no longer painting just a portrait. He was capturing the essence of a woman who had lived her entire life behind a mask, forced into roles she never wanted to play. With each stroke, he revealed her fire, her vulnerability, her defiance.

And Y/N, who had spent her life being told what she should be, saw herself reflected in his eyes—not as the noble daughter, not as the prize her family sought to offer to the highest bidder, but as she truly was.

In those stolen moments, as the sunlight filtered through the shutters and the world outside seemed to fall away, they became something Florence would never understand. They were freedom itself—dangerous, fleeting, and unbearably beautiful.

Y/N’s portrait only neared its finish as time continued to pass. They would always meet three times a week for about an hour or two. She would never say it out loud, but it began to become a favorite part of her weeks—meeting Harry. His soul was anything unlike she’s ever known, and all she wanted to do was linger.

They sat outside the cobblestone studio, lying upon a blanket adorned with fresh vegetables, cheeses and meats. Her mother and Father had been out for the day, and she thought it’d be a perfect opportunity to see Harry as he is, rather than the painter.

He spoke of his travels as he would eagerly show her he could catch the bites of cheese he would throw into his mouth—and he would order her to rank each catch one through ten.

Harry lied back, weight on his elbow as his curls tousled perfectly in the warm breeze. Y/N lied on her belly, kicking her feet in the air behind her as she lie her head on her folded arms.

The afternoon sun peaked from the trees above them, catching the light in her eyes perfectly. Harry always found her to be beautiful, but at this moment she looked ethereal.

He tossed another piece of cheese into the air, leaning his head back and catching it deftly with his mouth, smiling proudly as he chewed. “Well?” He asked, his voice teasing. “What say you? Surely that was a ten.”

Y/N laughed, the sound as bright as the sun and as sweet as the strawberry he head earlier. “A six, perhaps.” She grinned, voice lilting with playful challenge. “Surely you could do better.”

His smirk widened, and he threw another piece of cheese, catching it again with exaggerated flourish. “A six indeed.” He mumbled, feigning offense. “I think you’re quite mistaken, my lady.”

She bit her lip to suppress another laugh, shaking her head against her forearms. “Perhaps your talents lie elsewhere.” She mused, her voice dripping to a soft, flirtatious murmur as she gazed at him through her lashes. “Catching cheese seems beneath you.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was something else in them too—something she hadn’t seem from him yet, something that sent a shiver down her spine. "And what talents might you suggest, then?" he asked, his voice low and teasing, though the undertone was laden with meaning.

Y/N's breath caught for a moment, her heart fluttering in her chest as the playful banter between them took on a new edge. Her gaze lingered on his lips before she tore it away, focusing on the light streaming through the leaves above them. "I think you know the answer to that.” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, the world seemed to still around them. The laughter and lightness faded, replaced by the palpable tension that had been simmering between them for weeks. It hung in the air now, thick and undeniable. Harry shifted beside her, his playful grin fading into something more serious as he watched her carefully, as though waiting for her to give him permission to step closer to that edge.

He wanted to toss away the platter that lay between them, to grab her waist and flip her onto her back and show her the talents he possessed. It made his heart go into a sputtered mess, to cloud his gaze with need. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was in that moment.

“Did you hear me?”

Harry blinked, shaking his head before letting a sheepish smile spread across his lips. “No. I suppose not.”

“Have you ever thought of leaving Florence, H? Of leaving all of this behind?"

Harry narrowed his eyes, the question pulling him from whatever unspoken thought had been lingering on his lips. He exhaled softly, rolling onto his back and staring up at the sky. "I've thought of it," he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. "But Florence has become something of a home. Even if it binds me, l've learned t’live within those bounds."

Y/N frowned, her heart tightening at his words.

"But don't you wish for more? Don't you long for freedom?"

He turned his head to look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a reflection of her own yearning, the quiet desperation that they had both been trying to ignore. "Of course I do," he murmured. "But freedom is not something easily won. Especially not for people like us."

She swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her like a shroud. She had always believed that Harry, in some way, was freer than she could ever be—an artist, a man without title or the crushing expectations of nobility. But now, she saw the truth. He was as trapped as she was, bound by the invisible chains of his station, his livelihood tied to the whims of men like her father, men who would never derstand the depths of what he truly wanted create.

"And you?" he asked, his voice soft but filled with quiet intensity. "If you could go anywhere, if you could leave all this behind, where would you go?"

She hesitated, the question stirring something deep within her, a longing she had never dared to voice. "Anywhere," she whispered, her gaze distant. "Anywhere but here. I want to see the world, to lose myself in it. I want to go where no one knows my name, where I can be just Y/N—not the daughter of Candela, not someone's prize to be won."

Harry's gaze softened, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the garden, but the air between them crackled with an intensity that neither of them could ignore.

"And if l asked you to go with me?" she said suddenly, her voice trembling with the weight of the question. "Would you?"

Harry's breath hitched, and for a moment, he didn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost pained. "If you asked me, I would follow you anywhere."

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest, the enormity of his words settling over her like a heavy cloak. The desire to reach out, to cross the boundary they had been skirting for weeks, pulsed through her veins. But fear-fear of the consequences, of what they would beer if they gave in to this—held her back. Harry could feel the weight of her thoughts, the far away look in his eye. He sighed gently, propping himself back onto his elbow as he took a cheese from the platter, lightly throwing it toward Y/N.

It pulled her from her thoughts with a smile as it bounced from her shoulder onto the blanket spread beneath him. He laughed, leaning across the space between them and stealing the cheese for himself. “That’s a zero, I’m afraid.”

*

Before meeting Harry around the same time she had been, she brought forth a bowl of fruits from the kitchen—both a snack and a small gift. The heat was unforgiving today, adorned with the same silk gown she was supposed to wear during these sessions, but her feet were bare. The ground was cold beneath her, blades of grass leaving kisses from the dew left behind.

The temporary studio Harry resided in was across the courtyard, a small, cobblestone building hidden between trees and a small pond.

As she reached the studio, the door slightly ajar, she paused, listening. Inside, she could hear the faint sound of Harry moving, his footsteps light as he adjusted the easel or mixed colors on his palette. Her heart quickened, not out of nervousness, but out of anticipation. Each day spent with him had become an escape, a release from the weight of her family’s expectations.

Pushing the door open with her hip, Y/N entered the room, the bowl of fruit balanced in her hands. Harry was bent over his canvas, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the sinew of his forearms, streaked with paint. His dark curls were unruly, as though he had been running his fingers through them absentmindedly. When he looked up and saw her, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“You’re early today, my dove.” He grinned, his voice warm, the familiar hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“I brought something.”Y/N murmured, holding up the bowl of fruit. “A peace offering, perhaps.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, setting his brush down and wiping his hands on a nearby rag. He stepped toward her, his eyes flicking from the bowl of fruit to her face, as though trying to discern the real reason for her gift. But there was no pretense between them here, only the quiet truth of what they had started to build—a fragile, unspoken connection that neither of them dared to name.

“I did not understand us to be at war.” Harry teased gently, his voice dropping to that low, familiar murmur that always seemed to make Y/N’s pulse quicken.

She smiled, setting the bowl down on a nearby table. “In these walls, we are always at war.” Her tone was soft, the weight of her words lingering in the air. Her gaze shifted to the canvas behind him, where her likeness had slowly begun to take shape. He was capturing her in a way no one had before—not as the carefully polished daughter of Florence’s elite, but as the restless, untamed spirit she had always been. She stepped closer to the easel, studying the way he had painted her eyes, the intensity of her gaze, the subtle fire that simmered beneath the surface.

“You paint me as though you know me.” She paused, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s eyes softened, his expression unreadable as he stood beside her. “I am beginning to.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the quiet intimacy of his words. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be before. For so long, she had worn her defiance as armor, a shield against the world that sought to control her. But here, with Harry, she didn’t need that armor. She could be raw, unguarded, free.

Y/N turned to face him fully, her bare feet making no sound on the cold stone floor. She had spent her life being afraid—afraid of disappointing her family, afraid of not living up to their expectations, afraid of being trapped in a life that wasn’t her own. But standing here, inches away from Harry, she realized that the only thing she was truly afraid of was losing this—this feeling, this connection, this fleeting glimpse of what life could be like outside the constraints of duty and decorum. “I am no artist, but your own beauty belongs on canvas.”

For a moment, Harry’s hand hovered near hers, as though he was about to reach out, to close the distance between them. But instead, he stepped back, turning to the easel once more, a breathy chuckle escaping him. “Okay, Shakespeare. Let us thank our lucky stars that you are not.”

She laughs with him, placing the bowl of fruit on the table beside the paint. She shook her head, popping a grape into her mouth. “Here I thought you to whisper me something poetic—we all have an art about us, we are art ourselves.” She mocked in his accent, rolling her eyes.

“Well that would be simply untrue.” He grinned, adjusting the canvas before him. “I am much too talented for you to compare your hand to my own.”

She scoffed, though it was humorous. Through her feigned offense, his lips only spread wider. “Show me to be wrong.”

“Show you wrong?” She raised her eyebrow, parting her lips. “You want me to paint you?”

He nodded, glancing at the blank canvases behind him. She only rolled her eyes as she gently grabbed his wrist, pulling him to the chair into the center of the room. He sat expectantly, his dimple cratering his cheeks as she retreated back toward the bowl of fruit, fishing out a deep red cherry, skipping back toward him. He knit his brows in confusion, but Y/N’s lips parted to speak before him. “You are to be my canvas.” She smiled, bring the cherry to his lips like a challenge. His expression was amused, though he couldn’t deny the way she made his chest tighten with tension. His eyes flickered between both her eyes and the fruit as he gently bit into the fruit, his lips brushing against her fingertips.

It was slow, deliberately intimate. Their eyes still burrowed into each others, she watched as the bead of crimson juice dribble down his chin. She thumbed it away, her touch light and fleeting before she feathers the fruit across the apples of his cheeks, adding to the already flushed pigment. Hesitantly, she pressed her fingers into the glistening flesh, patting it in and leaving his cheeks and lips painted red.

She steps back ever so slightly, putting the rest of the cherry into her mouth and letting a quiet laugh escape her lips. “Consider yourself to be painted.”

He shook his head, his cherry red lips widening into a smile as he stood. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s how it works.” Harry leaned in close, his breath a whisper against her cheek, but he made no move to wipe the remnants of cherry from his skin. His eyes, still dancing with amusement, searched hers, lingering with a quiet intensity. “I’ll grant you this.” He murmured, his voice low, carrying the hint of a jest. “Your methods are..most unconventional.”

She smirked, refusing to be daunted by his nearness. “Unconventional?” she quipped, her chin rising with a flicker of defiance. “I would call it a work of art. Would you not?”

Harry raised a brow, feigning deep thought as he smeared the red juice across his chin with a casual flick of his finger. “A work of art, you say? If by that you mean I appear as though I’ve just stumbled from a duel with a fruit cart, then aye, I’ll concede to your genius.”

Her laughter rang through the studio, a sharp contrast to the quiet that had hung heavy in the room moments before. It echoed off the stone walls, a sound so free that it banished all thoughts of duty, of propriety. The half-finished portrait on the easel, the weight of her family’s name—all of it melted away. In that moment, it was just them. Two souls bound in a fleeting absurdity, lost in shared laughter.

“Delicate sensibilities,” she teased, her brow arching as she wiped the last of the cherry’s stain from her hand. “I never thought to find such in a man.”

Harry’s lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Delicate, am I?” He drawled, his voice thick with mischief. In a single swift motion, he swiped his thumb across her cheek, leaving a streak of red in its wake. “There. Now we are even.”

She gasped in mock indignation, taking a step back as her fingers flew to the sticky mark on her face. “You’ll rue this day, Harry Styles.”

“Will I?” he challenged, his tone now deep and laden with mischief of its own.

Y/N moved closer, closing the space between them with a deliberate slowness. Her heart raced, but not with the trepidation that had gripped her so often in this room. No, this was something far more exhilarating. The world outside this studio—the rules, the expectations, the rigid walls of her life—it all felt distant, unimportant.

“I’ve never claimed to be a master of painting,” she whispered, her voice dropping like the edge of a velvet curtain. She took a few steps backward, reaching into the bowl and pulling out a plum. She looks at it expectantly in the gleam of sunlight, trotting back toward the painter. “Yet I do believe the best art thrives with a hint of chaos.”

Before he could form a reply, she bit the dark fruit pressed it hard against his chest. The plum burst, sending dark juice cascading down his tunic, staining it deep purple.

Harry blinked in astonishment, his expression hanging in the space between disbelief and amusement. But the moment of shock passed swiftly, and his laughter came, full and bright. “Your peace offering was a coup!” he declared, lunging forward with a handful of cherries.

Y/N shrieked and darted away, her laughter filling the air as she dodged him. They circled the room, the once-serene studio descending into joyful chaos. Fruit flew, staining the floors, the easel, their clothes—a riot of color and recklessness.

By the grace of God the portrait remained untouched through the ordeal.

It was madness. Glorious, reckless madness. And for the first time in her life, Y/N felt utterly, completely free. Free from the chains of decorum, free from the burden of her family’s name. In that riot of fruit and laughter, she was simply alive.

When at last they collapsed onto the floor, breathless and sticky, the room a ruin of color and laughter, neither of them could stop smiling.

Harry lay beside her, still chuckling as he tugged at the ruined tunic. “If my patrons could see me now, they’d see me cast out of Florence faster than y’could say ‘masterpiece.’”

Y/N propped herself up on her elbow, a grin dancing across her lips. “Then we shall flee to the hills. I’ll hide you amongst the olive groves. We’ll live like rogues, artists and outlaws.”

“Artists and outlaws,” Harry echoed, his smile softening, his eyes lingering on hers with a look that carried something far deeper than the playfulness of a moment before. “I think I could grow fond of such a life.”

And in that quiet, as their laughter ebbed into the late afternoon light, Y/N felt the air shift between them. What had started as a game, as flirtation, had become something real. Something undeniable.

And try as they might, neither could outrun it.

As they lay there amidst the chaos, the moment stretched on, teetering on the edge of something neither could fully name. Y/N’s pulse thrummed in her ears, her heart racing not from the frivolity of their earlier play, but from the weight of his gaze on her. The air between them had thickened, laden with an unspoken tension that neither laughter nor fruit could break.

Just as her lips parted to speak—to say something, anything to diffuse the intensity—a sound, sharp and echoing, pierced the air.

The door to the studio had swung open, and there, silhouetted by the fading light of the late afternoon, stood Y/N’s mother, Lady Candela, her presence a sudden, jarring intrusion into their world of fleeting freedom.

Her eyes, dark and sharp as the blade of a dagger, took in the scene before her: the floor littered with the remnants of their childish game, the streaks of fruit staining both their clothes and skin, the disheveled state of her daughter and the painter. And in an instant, the mask of propriety that Y/N had so desperately sought to tear away snapped back into place.

“Y/N.” Her mother’s voice was cold, clipped, a tone that could freeze the blood in one’s veins. “What, in God’s name, is the meaning of this?”

Y/N scrambled to her feet, her breath catching in her throat, but her defiance flickered in her eyes. She had been caught, but she would not cower. “Mother,” she began, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart, “it was nothing—just—”

“Nothing?” Lady Candela stepped forward, her posture rigid, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “This disgrace is nothing? You, a daughter of the Candela family, covered in filth like a common servant? Is this how you choose to honor your name?”

Harry, who had risen to his feet beside Y/N, cleared his throat, stepping forward as if to shield her from the wrath of her mother. “My Lady, it was my doing,” he lied smoothly, his voice respectful but firm. “I allowed myself to get carried away during our session. The fault is mine.”

Lady Candela’s eyes flickered to him, her disdain barely concealed. “And you—an artist—think you can speak on matters of decorum in this house? You are here to paint, not to play the fool.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. He could feel Y/N tense beside him, her fists clenched at her sides. The silence that followed was thick with tension, the weight of Lady Candela’s expectations pressing down on them both like a vice.

But Y/N, ever the rebel, would not be silenced.

“I am not a child, Mother,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “I will not be tamed.”

Lady Candela’s gaze snapped to her daughter, her eyes narrowing. “You will be what this family needs you to be, YN. This behavior—this foolishness—ends now. You are to be married, and your actions today have only made that more urgent.”

Y/N’s heart sank, the reality of her mother’s words hitting her like a blow. Marriage. The cage she had spent her entire life trying to escape was closing in around her, tighter and tighter.

She glanced at Harry, her chest tightening. The fleeting freedom they had found in one another was slipping away, vanishing like a mirage in the desert. And yet, she knew she could not let it end like this.

“Perhaps I wished for something more than just another hollow painting to hang on the walls of your prison,” Y/N said, her voice stronger than she felt inside. She could see Harry stiffen at her side, his gaze flickering between her and Lady Candela, but he stayed silent, letting her words hang in the air.

Her mother’s mouth tightened into a thin line. She took a deliberate step forward, her eyes narrowing as they bore into Y/N. “A prison?” she hissed, her voice dropping dangerously low. “You speak of this house as if it were a cage, when all we have done—all I have done—is ensure you live in luxury, surrounded by the finest of Florence. Yet here you are, acting the fool with a common painter.” She spat the word like venom, her eyes flicking toward Harry before returning to her daughter. “Do you want to ruin yourself? To become nothing but a scandal whispered about in the courts?”

Y/N’s fists clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms, but she kept her voice level. “What you call ruin, I call freedom.”

Her mother’s eyes blazed, her nostrils flaring, but before she could retort, Harry stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. “My Lady, if I may—”

“You may not,” Lady Candela snapped, cutting him off with a sharp glare. “You are here to paint. Nothing more. Your thoughts and opinions are of no concern to me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but he bowed his head, stepping back in silent acquiescence.

The silence that followed was thick with tension, each breath Y/N took feeling heavier than the last. Her mother’s gaze never wavered, cold and unyielding, but Y/N refused to back down. Not this time.

“Mother,” Y/N began again, her voice softer now, though no less resolute. “I do not wish to ruin the family’s name. But I also do not wish to be something I am not. I have given you my obedience for years, attended every ball, entertained every suitor you’ve paraded before me. But I cannot—will not—live a life that is not my own.”

For a brief moment, something flickered in Lady Candela’s eyes—something that looked almost like uncertainty, or perhaps a recognition of her daughter’s growing resolve. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that same cold, unyielding stare.

“You have a duty, Y/N,” her mother said, her voice flat, as though the very word—duty—was the end of any argument. “To this family. To this city. And if you cannot understand that, then you are more lost than I thought.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, the weight of her mother’s words pressing down on her like a heavy cloak. But before she could speak, her mother turned sharply on her heel, heading toward the door.

“You will be expected at dinner,” Lady Candela called over her shoulder, her tone dismissive. “We will discuss your upcoming engagement. I suggest you clean yourself up and remember who you are.”

With that, she swept from the room, leaving Y/N and Harry standing in the wreckage of what had once been a moment of shared joy, the heavy door closing behind her with a finality that echoed through the studio.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Y/N could still feel the burn of her mother’s words, each one a reminder of the gilded cage she had been trying to escape her entire life. She swallowed hard, turning toward Harry, who was watching her with a mixture of concern and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “You shouldn’t have been involved in that.”

Harry shook his head, his eyes softening as he stepped closer. “You don’t have to apologize, Y/N. I knew what I was stepping into when I took this commission.”

Y/N let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Did you? Did you know you’d be caught in the middle of a battle between duty and freedom?”

Harry smiled, but it was a sad, knowing smile. “In a way, yes. I’ve seen it before. This city—this life—demands so much from those born into its upper echelons. But I think you are stronger than you know.”

Y/N met his gaze, her heart twisting painfully in her chest. She wanted to believe him, to believe that she could somehow break free from the chains that bound her. But the reality of her situation felt suffocating, as if the walls of the studio were closing in around her.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted, her voice cracking slightly. “I don’t want to be trapped in a marriage I never wanted. But I don’t see a way out.”

Harry reached out, his hand gently brushing her arm, a small gesture of comfort. “There’s always a way out,” he said quietly. “But it’s not always easy.”

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes searching his face for some kind of answer, some hint of hope. But all she saw was the same uncertainty that gnawed at her heart.

“I don’t know if I’m brave enough,” she whispered.

Harry’s grip on her arm tightened, just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, but full of quiet conviction. “You are. You’ve already proven that.”

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet, the weight of the world pressing down on them, but together, they felt just a little lighter. The path ahead was uncertain, and Y/N knew the battle was far from over. But for now, in this small, sunlit room, with Harry by her side, she felt just a little bit stronger.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

The heavy, golden hour light had faded, replaced by the muted grays of twilight, casting long shadows across the stone walls of the palazzo. Y/N stood before the mirror in her chambers, her reflection staring back at her, cold and distant. She had shed the stained silk gown and washed the remnants of the fruit from her skin, but no amount of scrubbing could remove the weight of her mother’s words or the tension coiled tight in her chest.

Dinner. The final act of the day’s charade, where her mother’s sharp gaze and her father’s stony silence would frame yet another conversation about her future—a future she had no say in. The idea of sitting through another meal where her fate was decided without her input made her stomach twist with dread.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and her maid, Lucrezia, entered the room, her face a mask of quiet concern. “My lady,” she said softly, “your mother has requested your presence in the dining hall.”

Y/N let out a slow breath, her hands gripping the edge of the vanity as she steadied herself. “Of course she has,” she muttered, her voice thick with resignation.

Lucrezia stepped forward, her hands moving to adjust Y/N’s gown—another silk creation, pristine and flawless, as if nothing untoward had happened earlier. “Shall I tell her you are not feeling well?” the maid asked gently, her fingers lingering on the delicate fabric.

Y/N smiled weakly, shaking her head. “No, Lucrezia. I must face it. I always must.”

The maid nodded, though her eyes were filled with sympathy. She knew the weight that rested on Y/N’s shoulders, the burdens placed upon her by a family that demanded perfection at all times. But even Lucrezia, with her quiet understanding, could not offer a solution to the problem that had no easy answer.

With a final glance in the mirror, Y/N straightened her posture and lifted her chin. She would face this evening the way she had faced every other trial in her life—head on, even if it tore her apart inside.

The walk to the dining hall felt longer than usual, each step echoing in the vast, empty corridors. The palazzo, so grand and full of splendor, felt like a prison tonight, its marble floors cold beneath her feet, its towering walls closing in on her with every breath.

When she reached the dining hall, she paused just outside the door, gathering her courage. She could hear the faint clinking of silverware and the low murmur of voices—her mother’s sharp, clear tones and her father’s deep, measured replies. It was the sound of a family accustomed to routine, to the rigid structures of their world.

Taking one last breath, Y/N pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The dining room was grand, as always, with high ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes and a long, gleaming table set with the finest china and crystal. Her father, Lord Candela, sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable as he idly cut into his meat. Her mother sat opposite him, her posture perfect, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her eyes sharp as they flicked up to meet Y/N’s.

“You’re late,” Lady Candela remarked, her tone light but edged with reproach.

Y/N forced a tight smile, lowering herself into the seat that had been prepared for her. “I apologize, Mother. I lost track of time.”

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more, her gaze lingering on Y/N for a moment before turning back to her plate. The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the occasional murmur of servants as they moved in and out of the room.

For a few minutes, Y/N focused on her meal, her appetite nonexistent but her movements precise, each cut of the knife and placement of the fork a carefully rehearsed act of decorum. It was a routine she had perfected over the years, a mask she wore to survive these dinners, to navigate the unspoken landmines of her family’s expectations.

But tonight, the weight of that mask felt heavier than ever.

It wasn’t long before her mother broke the silence, her voice smooth but laden with intent. “Y/N, your father and I have spoken, and we believe it is time to move forward with your betrothal.”

Y/N’s fork froze halfway to her mouth, her pulse quickening as she set it down with deliberate care. She had known this conversation was coming—she had felt it looming over her for weeks, like a storm gathering on the horizon. But now that it was here, the reality of it hit her like a blow to the chest.

“Engagement?” she echoed, her voice steady but her heart racing.

Lady Candela nodded, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as though she had just solved some great puzzle. “Yes. We have received an offer from the Montellini family. Lord Montellini is a man of considerable influence, and his son, Leonardo, is a fine match for you.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she fought to keep her composure. Leonardo Montellini. She had met him once, at a banquet—a young man with slicked-back hair and an air of arrogance that made her skin crawl. He had looked at her the way one might look at a prized horse at auction, and the thought of spending her life chained to him made her stomach churn.

“Mother, I—” Y/N began, her voice faltering for a moment as she searched for the right words, something that would convey the storm of emotions rising within her without sparking her mother’s ire. “I do not wish to marry Leonardo Montellini.”

Lady Candela’s fork paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded her daughter. “What you wish is irrelevant, Y/N. This is a matter of duty. Of ensuring the future of our family. You cannot afford to be selfish in this.”

Her father, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “Your mother is right, Y/N. This marriage is important. The Montellini family’s wealth and influence will secure our place in Florence for generations to come.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to find a way out, a way to make them understand. But how could she make them see that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—live her life in a cage, bound to a man she didn’t love, trapped in a world that suffocated her?

“I understand the importance of family, Father.” Y/N said carefully, her voice measured, though her hands trembled slightly in her lap. “But I cannot marry a man I do not love. I cannot live my life as something I am not.”

Her mother’s gaze hardened, her lips curling into a faint sneer. “Love,” she scoffed, the word dripping with disdain. “What nonsense. Love is a fleeting thing, Y/N, a frivolous notion for those who have the luxury to indulge in it. We are not those people.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, her breath shallow as she fought to hold back the rising tide of panic. She could feel the walls closing in on her, the future her parents were trying to force upon her looming like a prison, cold and suffocating.

“But I am not you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but full of quiet defiance.

The silence that followed was thick, the tension between mother and daughter palpable as they stared at one another across the table. Lady Candela’s expression remained cold, unyielding, but Y/N could see the flicker of frustration in her eyes.

“You will marry Leonardo Montellini,” her mother said at last, her voice like steel. “And you will do so without further complaint. That is the end of this discussion.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, her heart sinking as the weight of her mother’s words settled over her like a heavy shroud. She felt trapped, suffocated by the life they were trying to force her into, and for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to fight it.

As the servants moved quietly around the table, clearing the plates and refilling the wine, Y/N stared down at her hands, her mind racing. She knew she couldn’t do this. She couldn’t marry Leonardo. But how could she escape a future that had already been decided for her?

Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Harry—to the quiet strength in his eyes, to the way he had seen her, truly seen her, in a way no one else ever had. There was something in him, something that stirred in her a desire for more—for freedom, for choice, for a life lived on her own terms.

But that life felt impossibly far away, separated by the vast chasm of her family’s expectations and the iron grip of tradition.

And as the dinner dragged on, Y/N sat in silence, her heart heavy with the knowledge that, for now, she was still very much trapped. The clinking of silverware and the quiet hum of conversation felt distant to Y/N, as if she were trapped in a cage of sound, separate from everything around her. Her mother, satisfied that her edict had been given, spoke no more of the engagement. Instead, she shifted her attention to her father, discussing household matters and social engagements as if Y/N’s entire future hadn’t just been decided without her consent.

Y/N’s mind, however, was far from the table. It kept circling back to Harry, to the moments in his studio where, for the first time in her life, she had felt something close to freedom. His presence had stirred something within her—a quiet rebellion, a fire that had been smoldering beneath the surface for so long it had almost gone unnoticed. Until now.

As her mother droned on about the upcoming ball and the importance of making a good impression, Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass. The thought of standing beside Leonardo Montellini, paraded like a prized possession for Florence’s elite to admire, made her stomach turn. She had seen his eyes on her before—hungry, possessive, as though she were nothing more than a means to an end for him. The Montellinis wanted to solidify their power, and she was the key to that door.

She could feel the bile rising in her throat, the suffocating weight of her family’s expectations pressing down on her like a vice. How many more dinners like this would she endure? How many more nights would she be forced to smile, nod, and pretend that her life was something she could control?

No. She wouldn’t accept this.

“Y/N,” her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts like a blade, sharp and sudden. Y/N blinked, realizing she had been staring down at her untouched plate for far too long. Her mother’s gaze was fixed on her, cool and assessing. “What fare you? You have been rather quiet.”

Y/N looked up, her heart racing as she met her mother’s eyes. For a brief moment, she considered telling her the truth—telling her that she wasn’t well, that she couldn’t bear the thought of marrying Leonardo, that the life they had planned for her was suffocating her.

But the words died in her throat. Her mother would never understand. To Lady Candela, duty was everything, and love was nothing more than a foolish indulgence.

Y/N straightened her spine, steeling herself against the rising tide of emotions that threatened to betray her in front of her family. Her voice, when it finally came, was measured and cool. “I am well, Mother. Merely tired.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she did not press further, turning her attention back to the meal with a dismissive wave of her hand. Y/N, however, could feel the weight of her father’s gaze lingering on her for just a moment longer. He was quieter than her mother, but no less powerful in his expectations.

The remainder of the dinner passed in a blur, with Y/N’s mind distant from the conversation at the table. As soon as the final course was cleared and her parents rose from their seats, she made her excuses and slipped away, retreating to the sanctuary of her chambers.

Once inside, Y/N locked the door behind her and pressed her back against it, her heart pounding in her chest. The events of the evening, the threat of her future being sealed with a man like Leonardo, weighed heavily on her. She crossed the room to the window, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the sill and stared out into the night.

The city of Florence lay before her, bathed in the soft glow of lanterns and moonlight. From her window, it looked peaceful, almost serene, but Y/N knew better. The world outside her family’s palazzo was teeming with life, with freedom that she could only dream of.

And in that world, somewhere amidst the winding streets and narrow alleyways, was Harry.

Her thoughts drifted to him once again, to the way his eyes had softened when he spoke to her, the quiet understanding that passed between them without words. In his studio, she had felt something she had never known before—something raw and unburdened by the chains of her family’s name. It wasn’t just attraction, though she couldn’t deny the pull she felt toward him. It was more than that. It was the promise of escape, of possibility. With him, she could breathe.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting the cool night air wash over her as she made a decision.

She could not stay in this gilded prison any longer. She could not marry Leonardo. She would not be used as a pawn in her family’s games. And if there was anyone who could help her find a way out, it was Harry.

Her heart raced at the thought, a mixture of fear and excitement coursing through her veins. It was reckless, perhaps even dangerous, but she had no other choice. She had to act before it was too late, before her fate was sealed by forces beyond her control.

Without another moment’s hesitation, Y/N slipped into a simple cloak, pulling the hood over her head to shield her face. She moved quickly and quietly, slipping through the darkened corridors of the palazzo until she reached a small, hidden door that led to the courtyard.

As she stepped outside, the cool night air wrapped around her like a cloak of freedom. She paused for a moment, glancing back at the towering walls of her family’s home, the place that had held her captive for so long. And then, with a determined breath, she turned and disappeared into the shadows of the city, her feet carrying her toward Harry’s studio.

The narrow streets of Florence were quiet at this hour, save for the occasional flicker of lamplight or the soft murmur of voices carried on the breeze. Y/N kept her hood low, her steps quick and purposeful as she moved through the labyrinth of alleyways. She had walked these streets before—many times in the dark of night—but tonight felt different. Tonight, the weight of her decision pressed down on her like the stone arches above.

As she neared Harry’s studio, her heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. What was she even doing? She had no plan, no real escape beyond the hope that Harry would understand, that he might offer her a path out of this life she couldn’t bear. A reckless hope, she knew, but it was the only thing she had left.

The studio was tucked away behind a row of trees, secluded from the main roads. The small building, though unremarkable to most, had become a haven for her—one of the few places where she could let go of the expectations that had weighed her down for so long. And Harry, with his quiet strength and sad, knowing eyes, had become the embodiment of the freedom she craved.

As Y/N reached the door, her breath hitched in her chest. She hesitated for a moment, her hand hovering over the handle. What if she had misread everything? What if Harry did not want to be a part of her rebellion, her escape?

Yet she stood at his door anyway.

She pushed the door open, the familiar creak breaking the stillness of the night. Inside, the soft glow of a few candles lit the room, casting long shadows over the walls. The scent of drying oils and turpentine filled the air, mingling with the earthy smell of wet canvas. Harry was at his easel, his back to the door, lost in the rhythm of his work.

For a moment, Y/N stood there, watching him in the golden light. His dark curls fell over his brow, and his hand moved with a kind of precision that made her chest tighten. He was absorbed, unaware of her presence, and the sight of him in his element, so quietly powerful, made her heart ache with something she couldn’t name.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness.

He froze for a moment, his brush poised in mid-air. Slowly, he turned to face her, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of her standing there, cloaked in shadow. “Dove?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of concern in it. “What are you doing here?”

She stepped further into the room, her hands trembling beneath the folds of her cloak. “I had to see you.”

His brow furrowed, and he set his brush down, wiping his hands on a rag before crossing the room toward her. “It’s late. If anyone sees you—”

“I bear no sentiment to it,” she interrupted, her voice sharper than she intended. Her breath came quickly, the weight of everything catching up with her all at once. “I cannot stay there any longer, Harry. I can’t marry Leonardo Montellini. I cannot live that life.”

He studied her for a moment, his green eyes searching hers, and she saw the conflict in his gaze—the pull between wanting to help her and knowing the dangers of what she was asking. “What are you saying, Y/N?” he asked quietly, though there was a heaviness in his tone.

“I’m saying I need to leave. I need to escape before they lock me into a life I never wanted.” Her voice trembled with the intensity of the confession, and she took a step closer to him. “I don’t know where to go or how to do it, but I cannot stay here.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he said nothing. His eyes flickered with something—worry, perhaps, or fear for what this might mean for both of them. He glanced at the door, then back to her, the weight of her words sinking in.”

“Do you know what you’re asking?” he said, his voice low. “If you leave, there’s no going back. Your family—Florence—”

“I know,” Y/N whispered, her eyes pleading with him to understand. “But what is the alternative? To be sold off to a man who does not care about me? To live my life in a cage, pretending to be something I am not? I cannot bear it, Harry. I won’t.”

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as he tried to process what she was saying. She could see the battle in his eyes, the part of him that wanted to protect her warring with the part that understood the gravity of the situation. “And what do you desire from me?” he asked softly, though she could hear the strain in his voice.

Y/N stepped closer, her heart pounding in her chest as she met his gaze. “I want you to come with me.”

The words hung in the air between them, charged with a kind of desperate hope. She knew it was asking too much, knew that she had no right to pull him into her escape, but in that moment, Harry was the only person she trusted. The only person who understood her enough to help her break free.

Harry’s eyes softened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say yes. His hand reached out, brushing against hers in a gesture so small, so intimate, it made her chest tighten.

But then he pulled away, shaking his head. “Y/N, I—”

“I know it’s reckless,” she cut him off, her voice filled with a kind of raw vulnerability she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in years. “But I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

Harry’s expression was torn, his hand still hovering near hers as if he wanted to take it, to pull her into his arms and promise her everything. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. “If we run, they will come after us. Your family will not let you go so easily. You know this.”

Tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to let the weight of his words crush her hope. “Then we’ll be careful. We’ll go somewhere they can’t find us. Please, Harry.” Her voice broke, and she reached out, gripping his arm as though she could will him to say yes. “I know not of heaven nor hell. I know not of Lucifer or God, I know only what I see before me, and If i were to draw my last breath tomorrow, I would perish with all this regret—my soul bound to my grave for eternity.”

For a long moment, Harry didn’t move. He stood there, staring down at her with an expression so conflicted it made her heart ache. And then, finally, he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.

“We’ll need to leave before first light,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Pack only what y’can carry.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, a mixture of relief and disbelief washing over her as his words sank in. “You’ll come with me?”

Harry met her gaze, and though his eyes were filled with uncertainty, there was a quiet determination in them as well. “Wherever.” He murmured. “But we must be careful.”

A flood of emotions rushed through Y/N all at once—relief, fear, gratitude, and something else she couldn’t quite name. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest as tears of both joy and fear slipped down her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice muffled against him. “Thank you, Harry.”

He held her for a moment, his hand resting on the back of her head as if trying to steady them both in the face of what they were about to do. “We shall figure it out,” he said quietly, though she could hear the weight of the uncertainty in his voice.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, Y/N believed him.

As they stood there in the quiet of the studio, the world outside slowly fading into darkness, Y/N felt a small spark of hope flicker to life within her. She didn’t know what the future would hold, but for now, she wasn’t alone.

*

The night air outside the palazzo was thick with the scent of jasmine and damp stone, but to Y/N, it felt more like freedom than anything else. The distant sounds of Florence, the murmur of distant conversations and the soft rush of water from the Arno, filled the silence as she made her way through the narrow streets, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her heart raced, but her steps were sure now. This was her choice, her rebellion.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting its pale light over the winding alleys and quiet courtyards as Y/N hurried back to Harry’s studio. Her thoughts were a whirlwind—but she couldn’t think of it now. The only thing that mattered was what lay ahead. She had to believe that there was a life waiting for her beyond the walls of Florence, beyond the expectations that had shackled her for so long. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could find it.

As she reached the secluded courtyard where Harry’s studio stood, Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. The small building was bathed in moonlight, its wooden door slightly ajar, as if waiting for her. She paused for a moment, her hand resting on the doorframe, listening to the soft rustle of the wind in the olive trees.

Inside, the studio was quiet, save for the gentle flicker of the remaining candle on the windowsill. Harry stood at the far end of the room, packing his own bag—his movements careful and deliberate. When he heard her enter, he turned, his eyes immediately meeting hers. There was no need for words; he could see the decision in her gaze, the finality of it. She was here, and there was no going back.

“You are prepared?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge of tension there, a quiet understanding of what they were about to do.

Y/N nodded, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. “I am.”

Harry’s eyes softened as he crossed the room toward her, his hand reaching out to brush against her arm in a gesture of comfort. “We shall be leaving soon. I’ve made arrangements to head south, toward Siena. s’not far, but far enough. We will be out of reach, at least for now.”

Siena. The name sounded distant and unfamiliar to Y/N, but it didn’t matter. Anywhere was better than here, better than the fate that awaited her if she stayed. She met Harry’s gaze, a flicker of gratitude in her eyes as she nodded.

“I trust you,” she whispered, the weight of her words hanging in the air between them.

Harry held her gaze for a moment longer, his green eyes full of that quiet, steady strength that had always made her feel safe. “Then we’ll make it through this,” he said softly. “Together.”

He moved to the door, pulling it fully open and stepping outside into the cool night air. Y/N followed close behind, her heart pounding in her chest as the reality of what they were about to do sank in. They were running. Not just from Florence, but from the lives they had known, from the expectations and the rules that had governed them for so long.

The streets of Florence stretched out before them, dark and silent, like a sleeping beast. They would have to move quickly, before the city woke, before her family realized she was gone. Harry led the way, his pace measured but urgent as they slipped through the narrow alleyways, avoiding the more well-lit streets where guards might patrol.

Y/N kept her hood pulled low over her face, her heart racing with every step they took. She glanced over her shoulder more than once, half-expecting to see her father or Leonardo rounding the corner, chasing her down. But the streets were empty, save for the occasional whisper of the wind.

They moved in silence, the weight of their decision hanging heavy between them, but there was no hesitation now. They had crossed the line, and there was no turning back.

It wasn’t long before they reached the outskirts of the city, where the walls of Florence loomed high above them, casting long shadows over the ground. The gates were closed, but Harry had anticipated this. He led Y/N to a small passageway, hidden between the stones and covered with vines. It was narrow, barely wide enough for one person at a time, but it led out of the city—an old smuggler’s route, known only to a few.

“This way.” Harry whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

Y/N nodded, following him through the narrow gap in the wall, her heart pounding in her chest as they squeezed through the passage. The air was cooler on the other side, the scent of the open countryside replacing the dense smell of the city. When they finally emerged, they found themselves on a small, winding road that led away from Florence, disappearing into the hills beyond.

Y/N paused for a moment, turning back to look at the city she was leaving behind. The towering domes and spires of Florence rose into the night sky, bathed in moonlight. It was beautiful—so beautiful it made her chest ache. But it was also a prison, a place that had tried to shape her into something she could never be.

She turned back to Harry, her breath catching as she realized the full weight of what they had done. They were free. But freedom came with a price—a price they had only just begun to pay.

Harry met her gaze, his expression soft but serious. “There’s no going back now,” he said quietly, as if reading the thoughts running through her mind.

Y/N nodded, her hand instinctively reaching for his, their fingers brushing in the cool night air. “I know,” she whispered. “And I am ready.”

Together, they turned and started down the road, leaving Florence behind them—its walls, its expectations, its suffocating weight—everything. The future was uncertain, full of dangers and unknowns. But for the first time in her life, Y/N felt a spark of hope flicker within her. She was free. And with Harry by her side, perhaps—just perhaps—she could build a life that was truly her own.

As they walked through the quiet countryside, the stars above them shining like tiny, distant beacons, Y/N knew that they were only at the beginning of their journey. There would be challenges ahead, and dangers they couldn’t yet foresee. But for now, she allowed herself to breathe in the cool night air, to feel the weight of the past slowly lift from her shoulders.

She glanced at Harry, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the moon, and felt a sense of calm wash over her. Whatever lay ahead, they would face it together. And that, she thought, was more than enough.

It had been two days since they left Florence behind, and the journey had been long, filled with the quiet tension of fear that someone might catch up to them, might discover their flight. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rolling hills as Y/N and Harry approached a small inn nestled at the edge of a sleepy village. The inn was humble, tucked between groves of olive trees and fields dotted with grazing sheep. It wasn’t much—just a small stone building with weathered shutters and a modest stable for travelers’ horses—but it was enough. For the first time since leaving the city, they could breathe.

Inside, the inn was warm, the smell of bread baking in the hearth mingling with the faint scent of wood smoke. The innkeeper, a woman with kind eyes and silver streaks in her hair, greeted them with little more than a nod, motioning them toward the narrow staircase that led to their room.

As they climbed the stairs, the weight of the past two days seemed to settle over Y/N like a heavy cloak. The adrenaline that had carried her through the journey was fading, replaced by the quiet realization of what they had done. They had left everything behind—their lives, their families, their very identities—and now, here they were, standing on the precipice of a future they had yet to define.

Their room was small, with a single window that overlooked the fields beyond the village. A modest bed stood against one wall, and a small wooden table with two chairs sat near the hearth. The fire had already been lit, the flames flickering softly in the dim light of the evening.

Harry set their bags down by the door, glancing around the room before turning to Y/N. His expression was calm, but there was a tension in his eyes—a quiet awareness that they had crossed a line they could never uncross.

Y/N crossed the room to the window, her fingers brushing against the cool glass as she looked out at the fading light. The sky was a deep, dusky blue, and the first stars were beginning to appear, faint and far away. For a moment, she said nothing, her thoughts swirling like leaves caught in the wind.

Y/N finally broke the silence, her voice soft and uncertain. "Do you think we made the right choice?"

Harry turned from the window, his gaze settling on her. His green eyes, illuminated by the firelight, were filled with something unreadable-fear, perhaps, but also a quiet determination. He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots as he walked toward her.

"There was no other choice, Y/N.” He said gently, kneeling beside her. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing lightly against hers, grounding her in the reality of their shared decision. "Not for you, not for me. Remaining in Florence..it would have destroyed you.”

She looked up at him, her heart aching with the weight of his words. "But what have we done, Harry?" she whispered “I–” her voice trembling. "I have abandoned my family, my name. What if they find us? What if–" Her words trailed off, the enormity of their flight catching up with her. Her thoughts tangled in Fear. Fear of what might come, fear of the unknown future they now faced together.

Harry's gaze softened, and he took her hand fully in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in a soothing motion. "I do not know what will come," he admitted, his voice low and steady. "But I know that staying in Florence vould have been a life you could not live. You would have been chained, Y/N, to a life of duty, of expectations that would have suffocated you. What we have now, it may be uncertain, but it is ours."

She blinked, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "And you, Harry? What have you given up for me?"

Harry smiled faintly, shaking his head as if the question was unnecessary. "Florence never belonged to me.” He murmured. "| painted for men who looked down on me, for families who never saw what I could truly do. l've left behind nothing of importance." He paused, his gaze deepening as he looked into her eyes. "But y–you are the first thing that's ever felt real to me."

Y/N's breath caught at his words, her heart thudding in her chest. She had never expected this-never imagined that leaving Florence would mean finding something, someone, who saw her not as the Candela daughter but as herself, YN, in all her flawed and wild glory. "And what do we do now?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "We are not nobility here, Harry. We bear no titles, no claims to protect us."

Harry stood then, his hand still holding hers as he pulled her gently to her feet. His expression softened, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes, something that made her pulse quicken. "We live Y/N.” he said simply, his voice low and intimate. “For the first time, we live as we choose. I have land in Siena, now—it isn’t much, but it’s a roof and four walls.”

He drew her closer, their bodies inches apart, the warmth from the fire mingling with the heat of his presence. Y/N could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath hitching as his gaze settled on her lips for a brief, tantalizing moment. “You are free now.” Harry murmured, his voice a whisper in the quiet of the room. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling deep within her. She could feel the walls between them crumbling, the barriers they had built around themselves dissolving in the heat of the fire. And as she looked up at him, her heart in her throat, she knew that whatever lay ahead, she wanted him beside her—no matter the cost.

Slowly, tentatively, she reached up, her fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath her touch. Harry inhaled sharply, his hand sliding to her waist, pulling her closer still. The air between them seemed to crackle, the unspoken tension that had simmered for so long finally rising to the surface. "Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Are you sure?"

She nodded, drawing her lips closer to his. Their kiss is slow, appreciative—full of months that had gone without it. He cupped her cheek as he parted briefly, holding her eyes into her own before he smiled. Harry's lips crashed against hers in a fierce, desperate kiss, his hands tangling in her hair as he pulled her closer still. Y/N gasped against his mouth, her fingers gripping his tunic as the heat of the fire surrounded them, enveloping them in warmth. The kiss deepened, becoming something raw, something that spoke of all the things they had left unsaid —their fear, their hope, their unspoken love.

They stumbled back toward the hearth, their bodies pressed together as Harry's hands roamed over her, pulling at the ties of her gown, freeing her from the constraints of fabric. Y/N's breath hitched as the cool air touched her bare skin, but Harry's warmth, his touch, was all she needed. He held her close, his lips tracing a path down her neck, sending shivers of pleasure through her body.

The heat between them became unbearable, a fire that consumed all reason. Harry's hands moved with purpose, deftly undoing the ties of Y/ N's gown, his fingertips brushing against her skin with a tenderness that belied the hunger in his gaze. Her breath came in shallow gasps as the fabric fell away, baring her to him. His eyes, darkened with desire, roamed over her with reverence, as though he was seeing her not as a woman of noble birth, but as someone entirely his, a secret kept only for him.

Her pulse quickened under the weight of his gaze, and her hands, trembling slightly, moved to the front of his tunic. She tugged at the laces, fumbling as her fingers brushed the hard planes of his chest beneath the linen. Harry let out a low groan, his own need palpable in the way his breath hitched, the way his body responded to her touch. He shrugged out of his tunic, tossing it aside, revealing the lean, muscled form that had been hidden beneath.

For a moment, they simply stood there, the space between them charged with a tension that was nearly unbearable. The firelight flickered across their skin, casting shadows that danced along the stone walls of the inn, but all Y/N could focus on was Harry—the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the way his eyes darkened as they traced the curves of her body. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached for him, her hands sliup his arms, feeling the strength in his muscles. Their breaths mingled, and as Harry leaned in to kiss her, the tension between them reached a breaking point. His lips were soft but insistent, claiming hers with a need that mirrored her own.

Y/N's hands found his hair, pulling him closer, desperate to feel him against her, to erase the distance that had always lingered between them until now.

He guided her down onto the fur-lined rug before the fire, his hands caressing her with a tenderness that made her breath catch. The warmth of the flames flickered around them, casting their shadows on the walls, but in this moment, there was only the heat between them, the way their bodies fit together as if they had been made for this. They had stripped away the layers of propriety, both figuratively and literally, leaving only the raw desire that now pulsed between them. Y/N's heart raced as Harry’s body hovered over hers, his eyes dark with a hunger she had never seen before. Her skin flushed under his gaze, the anticipation swirling in her belly like a storm.

He kissed her softly, his lips moving against hers with a tenderness that made her melt into him, but there was something else in his touch—something deeper, something more primal. As his hands roamed her body, tracing every curve and dip, Y/N felt a strange mix of excitement and nerves coiling inside her. She had never known this kind of intimacy before, never been touched in such a way.

Harry pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her neck as he pressed a trail of soft, lingering kisses down her throat, over her collarbone, and lower still, to the curve of her breasts. His hands slid down her sides, gently parting her legs as he kissed his way lower, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. Y/N's breath hitched, her body trembling beneath his touch, and she instinctively pressed her thighs together.

Harry paused, his lips hovering just above her skin, his hands still resting on her hips as he looked up at her with a soft, knowing smile. "Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice low, rough with desire but tender, too.

Y/N nodded, her breath trembling as she met his gaze, the flickering firelight casting shadows across his face. “I do, H." She whispered.

Harry's smile deepened, and he pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh, his hands gently coaxing her legs apart once more. "I got you, dove. Promise.” He murmured, his voice a quiet, confident assurance that sent a shiver of anticipation through her.

Y/N's pulse quickened as Harry kissed his way higher, his lips brushing her skin in a way that made her body ache with a need she had never known before. Her hands gripped the fur beneath her as his mouth hovered just above her most intimate place, and when his lips finally made contact, a gasp escaped her, her body tensing with the unfamiliar sensation. It was unlike anything she had ever felt—a warmth, a softness, and then the slow, deliberate flick of his tongue against her bud, sending a jolt of pleasure through her core.

Y/N's head fell back, her breath catching in her throat as Harry continued, his mouth working with skill and precision. He moved with confidence, as though he knew exactly what she needed, exactly how to coax the pleasure from her body.

Harry's hands slid up her thighs, his fingers pressing gently into her skin, grounding her in the moment. His tongue moved in slow, teasing strokes, building a rhythm that made Y/N's body tremble with each touch. Her hips moved instinctively toward him, a soft moan escaping her lips as the pleasure began to build, layer upon layer, each stroke of his tongue pushing her closer to a place she had never been.

"Harry," she gasped, her voice breathless, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back, the heat between her legs overwhelming. She had never imagined this kind of pleasure, had never known it was even possible.

Harry hummed softly against her, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through her as his tongue moved faster, more insistently. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer to his mouth, and Y/N's entire body shuddered with the intensity of it, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around her blurred, the crackle of the fire fading into the background as she became lost in the sensation of his mouth, his tongue, his touch.

The tension in her belly coiled tighter and tighter, the pleasure building with every movement of his lips, every flick of his tongue. Y/N had never felt anything like it before—this burning, all-consuming need that made her body tremble, her breath catch, her heart race. She was on the edge, teetering between control and surrender, and with one final, skilled movement of his tongue, she fell.

A cry tore from her lips as the pleasure crested, washing over her in waves that left her breathless, her body trembling beneath him. Her fingers tightened in his hair, her hips lifting off the rug as the pleasure pulsed through her, intense and overwhelming. Harry didn't stop, his mouth working her through the height of her release, his hands holding her steady as she writhed beneath him, lost in the sensation.

When the waves of pleasure finally began to ebb, Y/N collapsed back onto the rug, her body spent, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. Her limbs felt heavy, her skin flushed and sensitive, and as Harry pressed a final, soft kiss to her inner thigh, she shivered, her body still tingling from the intensity of it all.

Slowly, Harry rose, his hands sliding up her body as he kissed his way back up to her lips, his breath warm and soft against her skin. He settled beside her, pulling her into his arms, his lips brushing her forehead as she nestled against his chest, her heart still pounding from the intensity of her release. “Told you I had you, hm?” He cooed, combing his fingers through her disheveled hair.

She nodded, the sound of her heart thumping in her ears as she cupped his cheek, pulling him into another kiss. His hands roamed from her hips to her breasts, rolling back on top of her with a smirk. His hands roamed her body, caressing, exploring, a though trying to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, her body responding to his touch with a need that had been building for weeks, months even. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for the connection she had longed for, and Harry groaned, his body trembling with the weight of his desire. Slowly, reverently, he guided himself into her, his movements gentle, careful, as though afraid to break the fragile spell between them. She gasped at the sensation, her fingers gripping his shoulders as he filled her, their bodies finally coming together in a way that felt inevitable, as if they had been meant for this moment all along.

For a heartbeat, they stayed like that, perfectly still, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison. He was entranced by the feeling of her walls fluttering around his cock, the way she stretched around him.

Then, slowly, Harry began to move, his hips rocking against hers in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure coursing through her body. Y/N’s head fell back further into the rug, a moan escaping her lips as she gave herself over to the sensation, to the connection that seemed to bind them together more deeply than any words ever could.

Harry's movements were slow at first, deliberate, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure through her body, but soon the restraint he had tried to maintain began to slip. His pace quickened, his body moving against hers with a raw, desperate need that matched her own. The sound of their breathing, of their bodies moving together, filled the room, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind outside.

Y/N's fingers dug into his back, her nails leaving faint marks on his skin as her body arched beneath him, her breath coming in gasps. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a promise, a declaration that neither of them could speak but both understood.

"Harry," she whispered, her voice trembling with the intensity of her need, with the overwhelming sensation building inside her. "I–” But she couldn't finish the sentence. Words seemed inadequate to describe what she felt, the way her body and soul seemed to be unraveling in his arms.

Harry's lips found hers again, silencing her with a kiss that was all-consuming, his body moving against hers with an urgency that mirrored her own. He groaned against her mouth, his breath ragged, his hands gripping her hips as though afraid to let her go. “Y’like that, huh?” He grunted, bottoming out with each thrust. “Sound so pretty, the way you sing f’me.”

She nodded, eyes glossed over in pleasure as she wraps her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder with whimpers of praises. And then, with one final, desperate thrust, Y/N felt herself fall over the edge, her body trembling with release as the pleasure crashed over her like a wave. She cried out, her fingers tangled in his curls, her heart pounding in her chest as the world seemed to fall away around her.

In that moment, Harry pulled away, his breath hot against her neck as he pressed his forehead against her shoulder, his body shuddering with restraint. His hands tightened on her hips as he pulled back, separating them just before the inevitable.

A moan fell from his lips, and Y/N swore it was the prettiest melody she’s ever heard.

He fisted his cock, coaxing his hand back and forth before he lets out a low whimper, spilling himself right onto her abdomen—decorating her in opaque that marked her as his.

His sigh was heavy as he fell back beside her, placing a kiss to her temple as she lie there breathlessly. For a moment, they lay there in the quiet, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of it all, the only sound in the room the soft crackling of the fire. Y/N's chest rose and fell with the aftershocks of pleasure, her heart still racing, but she felt safe. “S’warm.” She giggled, his release glistening in the flames of the fire.

He couldn’t help but smile as he maneuvered his arm beneath her neck, turning to his side as he rested his chin atop her head. “Promise I’ll clean y’up.” He chuckled, draping his other arm across her chest, to which she reaches up and holds his bicep with a smile.

He presses a kiss into her hair, breathing her in. “Ad vitam aeternam.” He murmured, listening to the fire crackle and her even breaths.

Her eyebrows furrowed, recognizing some of the words but she figured the meanings are different, because what she interpreted made no sense at all. He tilted her head back, looking at the man expectantly as he shifted his own head ever so slightly to place a soft kiss against her lips. “To eternal life.”

Her cheeks flushed as she stared into him, the color almost as red as the cherries from the other day. She runs her fingers through his curls, a small smile spreading across her lips.

His own eyes searches hers, the tips of their nose almost touching. His hands cup her face, thumbing gentle strokes onto her cheek. “What?”

She lied her hand atop the one on her face, dipping the tips of her fingers to hold onto his grasp. “I’m falling in love with you.”

He exhales through his nose, a chuckle laced with content emitting from his mouth. He nudges his nose with hers, brushing their lips together softly before pressing it into a kiss. He smiles, pulling back after a beat. “I already have.”

[4pfsukuna]

No ordinary love

Debrief: Terry promises to come back in one piece and something about those pretty eyes has you believing everything he says.

Warning: fluff, angst, no weapon formed against me shall prosper but against this mans eyes? We never stood a chance.

Terry has always and i mean ALWAYS been persistant. If he had a goal he didnt care about obstacles; that didnt matter. He could sometimes be so one track minded and while you loved that about him its one of the reasons you and him couldn’t date.

“Still look as good as i remember” You hear and your keys fall from your hands with a loud clatter against the freshly painted porch. After a long day at the hospital being the head nurse may pay well but they make you work for your paycheck. And after your 9 ½ hour shift that was only suppose to be 3 just to help cover everyone’s lunch you were so over it.

“What you doing back in town?” You ask reaching down for your keys but he beats you to it taking the heavy grocery bags from your hands relieving your arms for a moment. He could be here today and gone tonight that’s how it was with him and your attachment issues just didn’t allow that, you needed a constant. Fuck the military and mcmap but you also couldn’t ask him to choose you or a career, so you chose for him.

“Damn no ‘welcome back, i missed you, good to see you it’s been so long’?” he jokes trying to look you in your eyes but you avoid eye contact at all cost. You would fold the minute you looked into those electric blue eyes and when he smiled at you instantly you were weak in the knees fuck standing up.

“Its been so long i guess i should enjoy this time i have before you up and leave” you snap before finally looking up at him and it’s his turn to look away. “If im lucky you’ll say something before you leave this time, hmm?”

And yeah he was fucked up for leaving with no good bye but this man was so unbelievably down bad for you that had you made the slightest indication of wanting him to stay he would’ve. You heald his heart in your hand with no regard or maybe you just didn’t know but to hold that much power over someone was insane.

You can’t lie thee Terry Richmond was a fine fine FINE man. God took his time with him if he took 7 days to create earth he took 8 to make Terry and watching him do all the manly things around your home never got old as he hummed along to you playing Sade.

“See something you like?” He ask looking over his shoulder at you as you take a sip of the moonshine from your cup pulling his attention.

“I love a good handyman… might have to get me one im trynna see what that be like” you throw shade sitting on the couch not expecting him to make his way over to you holding your chin in his palm as he directs your head up to him.

“You can get the idea of another man out your head, i got some loose ends im trying to take care of but it’s always gon be you mama… always has been.” He promises and its the one that he doesnt let anything get in his way but you didnt want him to break this. You look away before he squats down pulling your face to his again lips close enough to yours all he had to do was breath heavier and yall would be kissing.  

“So you finallygon’ let me take you out on a proper date?” He ask his lips brushing yours and you almost can’t even comprehend what he’s asking you feeling the heat buzzing so much between you two as it always did.

Your tongue grazes your bottom lip and he instantly follows it with his eyes before his thumb follows the trail. 

You and i, baby… This is no ordinary love you hear sades voice through the speaker and make the mistake of looking up into his eyes yeah he had you on lock and no key to be found as much as you wanted to stand up you couldn’t.

“Ill think about it” you murmur your lips brushing his before pulling away drinking the rest of your moon shine his eyes watching you with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He needed to take care of those loose ends ASAP.

And when the morning comes he’s gone… as you expected. You didn’t expect a bouqet of roses and sunflowers on your living room table. You can’t help the smile, you want to be so mad at him but damn this wasn’t no grocery store bouqet this was some professional shit. 

Its another 4 days before you hear from Terry again, and in them 4 days you smiled on your way to work seeing the flowers although they would make you sad looking at them before bed. Just a reminder that all you had was an empty promise and empty bed never coming home to a man and really the only one that you knew was for you. Dating was pointless because none of them was him you didn’t even bother anymore yet he was probably out slanging dick left and right so before those thoughts can take over you submerge yourself deeper in the tub enjoying the lavender bubbles and cinnamon scent of the candles you lit.

Fuck, terry smelled like cinnamon.

“Oh so you do remember my number” You speak into the phone, sitting up a bit, voice raspy.

“I deserved that, how was work mama?” He ask and you instantly hear the frustration in his voice. He sounded tired, frustrated and like he wasn’t in the mood for shit yet he was calling you.

“You sound like your day was longer than mine” you admitted running your fingers through the bubbles and he chuckles.

“Yeah… just needed to hear your voice and I can get through anything. You like the flowers?” He ask and it sounds like he’s taping something a nervous tick you know he has. You don’t even let your mind wander into that territory just hoping it has nothing to do with his cousin mike who was always finding himself at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Yeah a lot… you being safe out there? Wherever you are?” You ask and he laughs this time.

“Yes baby, gotta make it back to you in one piece” and he never said that before, never even called you. He must be in something deep.

“You in trouble with the law?” You tease earning another laugh and the sound of taping gets louder. Leave it to him.

“And im not your baby, either” you add and that makes him laugh… a real one you can’t hide the smile on your face just glad he can’t see it.

“That’s why you smiling ain’t you?” He ask earning an eye roll as you sink back further into the bath. Its silent for a second, a comfortable one and you close your eyes.

“Just…” you trail off not knowing what kind of trouble he was in. “One piece” you reiterate.

“One piece” he promises easing your mind  before catching you off guard. “You miss me?”

And you hang up the phone.

The next time you see Terry again is when you’re up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep. You’ve tried a bath, a shower, journaling, reading the Bible and even eating. Ok and maybe catfish, baked mac n cheese and cabbage wasn't exactly a late night snack  but it gives you a view of something rustling through the bushes outside and you're quick to grab the knife from the top of the fridge.

You don’t expect it to be a bloody Terry with two bullet holes one in his shoulder and one in his back not close to his spine but as a nurse youve seen enough  life changing accidents and you never wanted it to be terry so as you sit on the couch behind you cleaning his wounds you silently pray over him, for him to any God that will listen that this man lives and comes out on top.

“Baby?” He asks softly and absent mindedly you answer not even realizing he called you that; just that he called you. You were stuck in your own thoughts. you stay quiet for a moment until he looks over his shoulder seeing the emotions swirling in your eyes. Anger, sadness, worry maybe even regret.

“Baby girl i'd rather you just yell at me and tell me you hate me than silent treatment” he grinds his teeth turning back forward so you can finish. It feels nice being touched in a tender way he can’t remember the last time somebody did it's just been fighting for the past few days…weeks… months.

Years.

You don’t say anything at first you look for words to say until you think of the only thing you know that will get through his head.

“You promised… you promised me one piece” you feel your eyes start to water and hes quick to turn around quick to face you when he hears the tremble in your resolve.

“I am in one piece…” he tries watching the way your eyes start to water with tears and you stand up tossing the needle and thread onto the coffee table next to his empty plate.

“Are you fucking serious? This aint one piece! This is not a life” you finally yell at him before a tear falls yanking your hand from his grasp. “You and this disappearing act fucking sucks! I never know when you’re leaving or coming back if it’s for days or weeks and when you do come back you leave all these promises of being with me and settling down! When? When the next bullet goes through your spine and you’re paralyzed?” You snap harshly at him through tears you don’t even give him a second to talk or breathe.

“You never break a promise because you pussyfoot around what actually happened. Its like telling a lie— not telling the whole truth is still a lie. I don’t want no more of your promises or half truths.” And he opens his mouth to speak but you arent done yet now that he got you started he was going to listen to everything you had to say.

“ You don’t think I’m worth more than that? I deserve flowers…all the time. And dates not promises of one. I deserve a person i know i can rely on, someone i can come home to because THEY are home not the house. I deserve love and alot of it…all the love i give without expecting anything in return and you know what? Nah. I need that in return. And you can’t provide that so i gotta let you go cause it’s hurting me more to hold on” you cry but articulate so perfectly hes silent. It’s nothing he could say you read him like a book, tore his heart out like some flimsy pages and closed it shut like you closed your heart off to him.

Everything was falling apart, he didn’t think his day could get worse.  You had walked away and shut your light off making sure he heard you lock your door. Oh you were done done.

Leaning forward he drops his head in his hands you were the only thing keeping him at ease, the only thing keeping him going and without that he was fully ready to crash out. Ready to kill everybody in that crooked ass police station. Fuck peace, nah now he wanted problems. 

Terry was a man that didnt let nothing stand in the way of what he wanted. You are what he wants and right now he was prepared to burn the whole state down if it meant getting you back in his arms, but this time officialy.

Yeah they fucked with the wrong one this time. 

Cleaning up everything, the first aid kit, dishes and alcohol he had to clean up his act to he throws on a fresh shirt looking at the flowers you still had on the table even though they were starting to wilt.

You wrap yourself up in the blankets angry at how stupid this whole stupid situation was. It was starting to feel like that episode of spongebob where he keeps asking squidward “are you finished those errands yet” like an ass there are no errands squidward just didnt want to work and why were you so heartbroken over a man who didnt want to put in the work for you.

“Bitch and they were roommates” your coworker gossips over lunch just some leftovers you had thrown together though before you can ask any follow up questions theres flashing police lights, sirens and yelling making the two of you stand up and rush into the hall. Gossip hour would have to wait.

A familiar blonde girl gets pushed past you on a stretcher covered in glass and blood even blue lips. You know her, an unfortunate upbringing but she cleaned up even got a job at the court house and was in school for law.

“Summer?” You ask walking with the stretcher listening as everybody yells commands to another.

“You must be the girl… t-the girl he’s in love with” she smiles clearly dazed out of her mind. “He did 100 miles an hour with no tires” she whispers before passing back out.

Nothing she was saying was making sense and not that you gathered much but what you did gather is that there’s someone else in a car with her. Someone else that needs help so running back to the main entrance all you see is several shelby springs cop cars and damage to the front doors.

“One day somebody is going to take down those fucking crooked cops” you shake your head thinking maybe summer was to dazed and just saying anything.

“Baby girl” you hear behind you turning to see Terry who looks like he’s also covered in glass, this time a bullet proof vest a bouqet of roses and sunflowers in one hand and a vhs tape player in the other.

“Terry wh—“ he stops you pushing the flowers in your hand pulling your face to his and finally kissing you. His lips are warm and he kisses you hungrily holding you as if youre going to run when he lets go.

“Hey man” a security officer speaks up unaware of the situation, stepping too close for either of your liking.

“Shut the fuck up” he fucking barks before pulling you back to his lips licking into your mouth not caring about professionalism, or restraint just you… it’s always been you. Leaning back into the kiss giving him the same amount of passion and intensity he’s pouring into it you feel him relax with a slight groan.

Pulling back from him needing to breathe he chases your lips making you giggle.

“Stop denying me” he gruffs out only for you to swat at his hands pulling at his shirt to see if he's hurt anywhere but he shakes his head.

“One piece baby, i promised” and that was enough for you. No new bullets, cuts scratches anything. He heard you, heard your rant and didn’t say anything words wasn’t enough he had to show you.

“I also promised you a date… hows tomorrow night?” He ask before shaking his head pulling 3 crumpled hundred dollar bills out his pocket and tucking it into the front of your scrubs.

“Nah call out tomorrow, im picking you up at 6” he tells you with a smile this time shocked you pull him down for a kiss.

“Yeah… i did miss you”