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jezebelblues · 3 months ago

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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.”

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gothamite-rambler · 2 months ago

Text

Gotham citizens are kind of used to the whole child sidekick with Batman

A brunette on-the-scene reporter named Angela held the microphone slightly higher for the six-footed Bat-wearing hero to speak into.

Angela (inquisitive reporter voice): Batman, what do you have to say to those who find it odd and concerning that you have a child sidekick?

Batman glanced down at his Robin, a ten-year-old Dick Grayson in his Robin suit, then back at the reporter then at the camera.

He sighed, covering his eyes because this was becoming annoying to deal with when his son/sidekick has been that for two years. Why did they find it odd that a child could fight well.

Robin beamed sweetly, his head peeking up next to Batman's imposing figure.

Robin!Dick (chipper greeting): My name's Robin, by the way. I can do flips and tricks!

Angela (sweetly): You sure can, kiddo. Batman, inquiring minds would like to know.

Batman (deadpan as he looked at his son): Robin, how do you feel about being my partner, or sidekick, who just happens to be a child?

Robin!Dick (sweetly, high-pitched): It’s fun! I like fighting with him. Tonight, I bit the arm of a guy who was going to hurt a child! Batman is a... um... neat man. Yes! Plus, we’re getting McDonald’s afterwards!

Batman (confused): I never said we were.

Robin!Dick (mischievous grin as he swayed back and forth): I’ll cry if you don’t.

Batman let out a heavy sigh and shook his head at the small whirlwind beside him. He knew Robin would hold him to that promise, and he was already dealing with a lot on his plate.

Angela (sympathetic tone): Yeah, I have a four-year-old at home; I get it.

Batman (exasperated): Can we leave now?

Angela: Yes, I think you gave a decent answer and I wish you the best as a parent. Have a good night, heroes.

Batman (flatly): Yep, Robin, come on.

Robin!Dick (holding up his arms): Carry me, please! I’m too sleepy to walk.

Cameraman: Aww.

Robin opened and closed his hands, eagerly waiting to be picked up, fully aware he was milking the moment for every second it was worth.

Batman (annoyed): Don’t fall for that; he’s tricking you with his cuteness.

Despite his annoyance, he picked up Robin and carried him back to the car, the little boy hugging him tightly as they walked off. Angela giggled and then turned back to the camera.

Angela: And there you have it! While I find the duo an odd pairing, it’s a sweet father-son team-up. I’m Angela Ito reporting live from Gotham. Back to Chip and Lily in the studio.

The camera cut to a white man with blonde hair and a black woman with black hair, both unable to hide their amusement at the interaction. Lily even covered her face with a sheet of paper while laughing.

Chip (raising his eyebrow with a smile): That’s a cute kid, but did he just say he bit a child abuser?

Lily (still laughing): Yeah, yeah! Oh my goodness, this is so dang weird, but I love it. I love it so much!

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sitepathos · 27 days ago

Note

Imagine the angst if Bruce does end up finding a cure for the Megamycete, but when he injects reader, he starts to calcify immediately bc the megamycete replaced most of his cells already. Reader laughing maniacally as he crumbles bc he won

First of all, I hope everyone had a great holiday season, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, etc. Also, Happy New Year to those already in 2025 and to the rest of us still in 2024, hope you’ve found a fun way to ring in the upcoming year!

Second, I’ve had A LOT of people asking me this question (for real, most of my asks are about the Reader dying after the Megamycete is removed) and I just want to say… sips sweet tea.

Sorry, everyone, that is MAJOR spoiler territory and I’m not ready to reveal that information. You’ll just have to wait until climax of the series to find out whether you lose the Megamycete and what happens if you do, or if you prevail over the Bats.

But, for this individual’s ask, let’s just say the Bats do manage to kill the Megamycete, resulting in your death due to it making up much of your body at this point. You slowly but surely turn an alarming shade of white before crumbing into dust, choosing to spend your last few moments of life to mock them, laugh at them, and that “you’ll see them in hell.”

Bruce would be totally destroyed that he’s the reason for his son’s death. Once again, a member of his family is dead, but unlike Joe Chill and Joker, he was the killer, the smoking gun/detonator in his hand. He completely withdraws into his work, both as Bruce Wayne and Batman; doing anything he can think of to keep from being reminded that the last words his son said to him was that he’d see him in hell (he’ll gladly spend the rest of eternity being tortured if it means being near you). He had your calcified remains gathered into a capsule and buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery (despite Alfred’s best efforts to convince him to bury you next to your mother).

Dick is heartbroken, both at his baby brother being dead and that death was preferable over you being with them, your family. While Bruce withdraws, Dick becomes more present, dropping in on his siblings practically every day, asking how their day was, what they’re currently doing, do they want to hang out, etc. He also visits your grave everyday, telling you about his day, what’s going on with the family, and how he regrets not being a better big brother to you and he wishes he could change the past.

Jason separates himself from the family (except Alfred, of course), pissed at them for mistreating you for years, but mostly pissed at himself for doing the same thing. Looking back, he can see that he was so engulfed in his anger, pain, hatred, and sadness and so convinced that he’s the only one in the family that’s suffering that he couldn’t see that you were just like him; if he had gotten his shit together, he would’ve seen that you clearly didn’t belong in this family of batshit crazy vigilantes and you weren’t getting the proper support you needed. If he had, he would’ve snatched you and raised you himself. But he didn’t do that, and he’ll never get the chance to spend anytime with you.

Tim does the same thing as Bruce, drowning himself in his work, both as Tim Drake and Red Robin, but he goes a step further in his spiral into madness that even Bruce couldn’t bring himself to do: obsess over your remains. After your funeral, he dug up the capsule containing the calcified dust that was once you (he has a very concerning obsession with your remains) and brought it to a safe house he had prepared just for this purpose, using all the scientific equipment within it to analyze your remains down to the atomic level, confident that even in this form, you’re still alive (after all, this is a sentient pile of mold we’re taking about, so logic and reason have long since been thrown out the window). When he’s not obsessing over your remains, he’s obsessing over your game studio, having used Drake Industries to acquire it and personally oversees everything it does, telling everyone that he’s doing it to honor you.

Stephanie tries to cheer everyone up, but if even Dick is depressed, there’s nothing she can do. She feels extremely guilty about how she basically threw you away like a child does an old toy after her first week in Wayne Manor. Since Bruce has basically taken over your old room, like he’ll find you there if he goes there enough times, she takes up the burden of taking care of your house (a task she was able to take right from under the noses of Bruce, Tim, and Damian), going through all your possessions every time she’s over there, reading your books, playing the games on your computer, and even sitting in your bed. As she does, she learns a little more about you, making her grief for you even stronger and wishes she could’ve hung out with you.

Cassandra has only known true regret and grief a few times in her life, but her treatment of you and your death are definitely the worse instances of regret and grief she’s ever experience (and probably ever will experience). She accompanies Steph every time she goes to your house, helping clean it, keep your knick-knacks organized, and pointing out anything you may have hidden. As she gazes upon your various collectibles and posters in your game room, she wishes she could’ve gotten to know you more; when she first met you, she deemed you insignificant due to your lack of combat training and low threat level, but she now knows that you were not only a person, but her brother. She only wishes she would’ve learned that lesson before you were taken from them.

Damian is like his father, withdrawing into himself, but he also comes out every now and then to lash out at anyone unfortunate enough to be near him when his anger reaches its boiling point (Jason gives as good as he gets while Dick takes it all in stride). You were his brother and you were suppose to be by his side! When he realized his error, he had made plans for you to be by his side for all the important moments of his life, like when he inevitably inherited the Cowl of Batman, or when he took over Wayne Enterprises, or when he finally triumphed over Drake! But, not only are you dead, but you used your last few moments of death to curse and taunt him. He becomes a time bomb that goes off unexpectedly on a nearly daily basis.

Alfred is absolutely heartbroken over the end of your feud with the family. He knew that you wouldn’t go back willingly after helping the others relate the error of their ways, and when he learned of you being the host of the Megamycete, he already foresaw the fight you’d put up (so much like your father, he thought), but he never thought that you’d take it so far as to result in your death; had he known that you’d die he would’ve found another way of making you return to the manor. But now, you’re gone reduced to a pile of dust. He tried to convince Bruce that you should be buried in your hometown next to your mother (he’d want that more than anything, Master Bruce, he pleaded), but you ended up being buried in the place you hated more than anywhere else close to the people you hated more than anyone else; as much as he hated to admit it, he liked that you were buried in the Wayne Family Cemetery since he can visit your grave everyday, keep it clean from leaves, dirt, and dust and beg for your forgiveness for not doing more while you were alive.

#asks #from gold to mold

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nullusreimorio · 7 months ago

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Degrees of Lewdity AU: Actor AU

Yes, you heard that right, folks! DoL:ActAU will now be a thing in my blog.

Re-reading this made my brain go BRRRR, because in my head a random person getting their costume's head off is that funny, and from there it all spiraled down.

The Whitney breaks Syd's glasses scene in particular is stuck in my head, because I imagine that at some point, right before Whit can grab the glasses, Syd would scream to wait, making Whit shit himself cuz dude what is happening. The director screams cut, of course. "I'm so sorry, these are my real glasses-" while laughing, and taking them off to give into custody before putting on the props, with Whitney just wheezing in the background.

The genderbent version of LIs would mostly be people that really resemble each other, except for the Kylar duo. They are twins who love to scare other people by just staring at them (it is a running inside joke on set).

Bailey is actually a sweet parental figure off-character, always making sure he didn't actually hurt the other actors (think Jason Isaac in Harry Potter as he switches between the cruel Lucius Malfoy and actually caring for Tom Felton, asking him if he's ok and apologizing when he did in fact hurt him by accident)

Another running gag on set is Harper just.. being there. Smiling at everyone with cold eyes, bombing pictures and selfies. Sometimes they stay in the background of the scene, looking directly at the camera. They say it's funnier to stay in character. Off-character they are very fun to be around, but they enjoy unsettling people. Them and the Kylars are sometimes banned from being in the studio if the scene doesn't need them.

GH got tangled up in the fly system. Everyone laughed and took pictures and videos, but promptly eliminated them at GH's request. They are shy.

The Averys enjoy their role very much. What they don't enjoy is having to drink grape juice or scented water instead of actual alcohol. They do get a nice glass of wine once off-set are over.

Whenever the Wrens are in the studio, F!Whit, M!Robin, the Wrens, F!BW, the Edens, F!Avery and the Baileys get a bit too much into playing cards. Blackjack, Durak, Scopa, Rummy, Machiavelli... the list could go on. They always manage to rope technicians to play with them as well.

Everyone hates the Kylars because their makeup doesn't need much time, while everyone else (ESPECIALLY GH, BW and IW) need enough time to always look polished/roughed up, depending on the situation.

M!Jordan is actually atheist, and whenever he has to talk like a true Christian guy, once his line is over he mocks himself. He enjoys wearing his costume off-set just for shits and giggles, and other actors often visit him in the confessional just to say "I'm sorry daddy, I've been naughty~" "Jail for a hundred years. NEXT"

F!Jordan and Ivory Wraith are actually cousins, and sometimes M!Jordan and Ivory Wraith swap costumes to see if there is any difference other than Jordan's massive tits.

Aaaand that's it, for now! As of now this is how far my brain thought while in the middle of exams, I will slowly add more into it. I don't know if it was already done, but thinking about these jackasses actually play-pretending makes me feel better ^^

#dol #smoking jester thoughts #smoking jester writing #degrees of lewdity #DoL:ActAU #smoking jester dol hcs #dol kylar #dol harper #dol whitney #dol sydney #dol bailey #dol eden #dol great hawk #dol black wolf #dol jordan #dol wren #dol avery #dol robin

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rad-batson · 1 year ago

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Multiverse AU where different variants of Damian Wayne Al Ghul are accidentally hailed to one universe and Damian is in the middle, trying to get all of them back home, but it only gets worse and NOT for the reasons you would think.

So picture this: there’s a sea of Damian variants crowded into the Batcave. One’s a leader of the LOA. Another became the next Harley Quinn? One is a mute assassin. Another is Red Hood’s apprentice. One’s Batman. One’s a meta for some reason. Another is the leader of a revolution. One’s a monk. And another is a clone. They’re all somehow involved in vigilantism or the LOA.

And then there’s a completely normal one. He goes by Dami. He’s in college :) He works at an art studio. He’s got a heart condition. He has a boyfriend, and he has never been Robin before. In fact, he doesn’t even know his dad is Batman. So in a room full of wildly different versions, this Damian sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s like an NPC just standing in the middle of a final battle.

What he does know is that his mother, Talia, left the LOA with him when he was two because she fell in love with Bruce. Since then, the three have lived a Perfectly Normal Life as Perfectly Normal People in a moderately nice house in the suburbs of Gotham.

And you know what? No one questions it. Out of all the problems the Damians are having right now, Normal Damian is the least of them. So he just sits to the side, completely chill, and doesn’t interfere.

But then some chaos happens, the Damians are all sucked into a battle at some secondary location, Normal Dami is kidnapped, gets killed, and everyone’s super depressed about it. (Gosh, he was so nice. Why did it have to be him? Boo hoo. We didn’t even have time to recover the body.)

Until they head back to the cave…and there he is. Respawned. Alive. Confused.

He was literally dead on the floor two hours ago. They checked for a pulse! He bled out. Normal NPC Dami is supposed to be dead. But nope. He’s right there. “Hey, what happened? The last thing I remember is being tied up. Did I faint again?”

Everyone else, the whole batfamily and the mini Damian army, is like “wtf how’d you get here, buddy?” While he’s just like :) so Bruce, who put a bug on the security cameras or whatever, checks the footage and what he finds is absolutely horrifying.

Just after he died, Normal Dami’s eyes snapped open. Glowing a deep Lazarus Green. He stood up, walked out, and immediately fucking decimated the remaining group of kidnappers like a rabid animal. Literally anyone who got near him were goners, and Thank Sweet Jesus he didn’t run into anyone on the walk back because he didn’t care to clean off all that blood. Nope, he just walked right through the front doors of the manor, found a clean set of clothes, completely on autopilot, then all of the adrenaline wore off, and he collapsed from exhaustion.

So everyone watches the footage. NPC Damian is horrified. He insists that’s not him because he doesn’t kill people! How could they ever accuse him of killing people?! He has never done something like that. He can’t even walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded for Christ’s sake!

Nonetheless, he agrees to sit in their itty bitty holding cell as they do some fun little tests, and lo and behold: he is so genetically fucked up. Why? Because his DNA isn’t like the other Damians. It’s completely mutated by this green glowing substance that they know all too well.

The verdict? Normal Dami has been permanently mutated by the Lazarus Pit. The Lazarus Pit is inside of him. It IS him. Or maybe Normal NPC Damian is the Lazarus Pit.

When Normal Dami was two and he and Talia still lived with the LOA, there was an incident involving Damian drowning in the Lazarus Pit (à la Ra’s Al Ghul's Stellar Grand-Parenting Skills.) However, since he wasn’t dead, the Lazarus Pit devoured him, consumed him with violent pit madness, spat him back out, and Damian became this completely, unstoppably rage-filled toddler that can throw you over his shoulder and snap your neck. So Talia, terrified of what Ra’s would do with him, escaped to Gotham, found Bruce, begged for help, and they devised a plan.

Step 1: Raise Lazarus Damian as a completely normal kid.

Step 2: Take him to therapy. Maybe give him anger management classes. (Monitor his sugar intake. That couldn’t hurt.)

That was literally their whole plan. They had no other ideas ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Occasionally, he’d snap and kill someone in cold blood (whoopsie daisy) but his parents were an assassin and the world's greatest detective. No one’s gonna know.

Through some trial and error, they found out that abrupt adrenaline spikes were what triggered the madness. So they worked around it. They gave him calm, relaxing hobbies. They spoiled him with emotional support animals. They Never Raised Their Voices. He was homeschooled for a bit then introduced to university, but only AFTER they made sure Jon (the Indestructable Superboy) was his roommmate. (Yes, they told him. Yes, he is now part of the convoluted Keep Deadly Damian Relaxed Task Force. They’re also dating.) They got Damian a FitBit that tracked his heart rate so they could predict when his adrenaline spiked. They Life360’d his ass so fucking hard. Meanwhile, Damian just thought he had some kind of medical thing, none the wiser the entire time.

Long story short? “Chill Normal NPC Damian” Cannot Die. But he can Kill.

If he does “die” (the Lazarus Pit cannot die) then he goes into a murderous rage, kills everyone in sight, it wears off with the adrenaline, and he can’t remember what happened. This Damian is the Most Dangerous of the variants, and he doesn’t even know it because his parents decided that would be best.

And now the other Damians are scared of him, and he’s scared of himself, and no one knows why he's made of the Lazarus Pit, and they don’t know what to do with him, and they still don’t know how to get back, and some of them want to kill him, and some don't, but no one trusts him, including himself, and it becomes an all-out war over the fate of Damian.

Anyway, Normal Damian who's actually a Murderous Lazarus Spirit without even knowing it. Thank you :)

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l0ca1-s1mp · 23 days ago

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~❀W-E-L-C-O-M-E❀~

~*Hello! I'm Nicky (specifically spelt N-I-C-K-Y) or you can call me Ny Ny. I'm a local pansexual, goes by She/Her, and I'm a M-I-N-O-R! My birthday is March 18th (along with my Ds oc Nikki Ohnosaki we naturally born Pisces). My favorite food is Fried rice, and my favorite color is orange🟠*~

(Moving on lol)

❀Learn More About Me❀

~*I'm a big anime dweeb/game fandom dweeb(DUH! Have you seen my whole blog)*~

Favorite/Recent Animes:One Piece, Demon Slayer, Kimestu Academy, Case Closed, Dandadan, Sailor Moon, JJK, Glitter Force, Spy X Family, Apothecary Diaries, Toilet Bound-Hanako-Kun, and all Gibli Studio films

Games:TMNT, Sonic, Dead Plate, Going Live, Roblox, Minecraft, Stardew Valley, Obey Me, Gacha Life, Crush Crush, Demon Slayer game (forgot what it's called), One Piece games, and any Romance Games

Hobbies:Drawing, listening to music, posting art and videos, simping over anime men (OOP- ignore that tee-hee), reading, playing games, spending time with family, eating, writing, and going outside

❀Things I Love and Hate❀

Things I love:

Anime

Food

Plushies

Giraffes, Cats, and Turtles

Friends

Family

Anime men-

Sleep

Games

Being alive-

Romance/Thriller/Comedy

Halloween/My Birthday

Music

Canon x Canon

Ocs

Watching Movies/Shows

Watching Butterflies Or Birds

Doing Art In General

Dancing

Singing

Being Silly

Writing stories (or jurnoaling)

Sleepovers

Admiring The World's Scenery

Showing Off

Yapping About Anything

Making fake edits(acting like I'm the main character bruh😭)

Collecting Rocks

Collecting Seashells/Sea Items

Freetime

Things I Hate:

Bright Lights/Colors (neon)

Traveling

Getting Yelled At

DNI/Proshipping

Sweet Potatoes, Red Bean Paste, And Some Seafood

Being ignored

People Being Hated Or Shamed On

Ads

Bugs, Snakes, And Spiders

Drama

Being Cold

Judged/Mocked

Ask games

Being Flashed (Like WTF)

Pedos, CP, Animal/Child Abusers

School

Presentations

Brainrotted Kids (Also Babies)

Being annoyed/interrupted

Country/Rock Music

Melanie Martinez

Britney Manson

Porn bots

Traitors/Bastabbers

Being Pressured

Pumpkins, Pears, Kiwis, Bananas, Coconut, and berries (except strawberries)

Blood

Ed Sheeran

Sean Diddy (Jay-Z, R-Kelly, Etc)

Sharp Objects

Winter

Math And Spanish

Spammers/Exploiters

Banana And Pumpkin Bread

Dying-

Venting/Trauma Dumping

Screeching And Bone Breaking Sounds

(Learn about me section complete)

❀Anime Favorites Of All Time❀

(Copied from old post, also this is a new category of this post)

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE DEMON SLAYER CHARACTERS~

Sabito/Makomo/Senjuro/Kotetsu🦊🌸🔥👺

Tamayo/Yushiro/Rengoku/Inosuke💉🔪🔥🐗

Genya/Mitsuri/Muichiro/Giyuu🔫🍡💨💧

Aoi/Kanae/Gyomei/Akaza/Kaigaku🦋🪨❄⚡

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Sanemi x Kanae

Obanai x Mitsuri

Tanjiro x Kanao

Sabito x Nikki

Zenitsu x Nezuko

Inosuke- x Aoi

Giyuu x Shinobu

Taro x Natsuki

Inosaki x Miki (👈Not my oc!!)

Yushiro x Tamayo

Doma x Enmu

Tengen x His Wives(Hinatsuru, Suma, and Makio)

Demon Slayer Fan Since:2019

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE ONE PIECE CHARACTERS~

Corazon/Paulie/Shirahoshi/Koby🤡👨‍🔧🧜‍♀️🦸‍♂️

Usopp/Ace/Sabo/Luffy/Yamato🤥🔥🎩😈

Buggy/Zoro/Sanji/Nami/Law🤡⚔️🍳🤑💟

Ms.Kaya/Perona/Boa/Uta/Chopper👸👻💗👩‍🎤🦌

Shanks/Yassop/Crocodile/Mihawk🍺🔫🐊🗡

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Paulie x Miyake

Sanji x Nami

Franky x Robin

Usopp x Kaya

Sabo x Koala

Shanks x Buggy

Koza x Vivi

One Piece Fan Since:2024

~MY TOP 3 FAVORITE CASE CLOSED CHARACTERS~

Conan (Jimmy Kudo) 🎭

Ai/Rachael📸🌧

Amy/Richard🌺🥋

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Jimmy x Rachael

Conan x Ai

Case Closed Fan Since:2024

~MY TOP 5 FAVORITE DANDADAN CHARACTERS~

Jiji/Evil Eye🤪👁

Okarun(Ken Takakura)/Momo👽👻

Seiko/Vamola👩‍🦳👽

Acrobatic Silky/Zuma👿☔

Aira💃

(Ships I Enjoy-Canon x Canon-Canon x Oc)

Jiji x Aira

Okarun x Momo

Kenta x Vamola

Dandadan Fan Since:2024

(I'm most likely gonna add once I get into maybe more animes that are in my top 5? But right now I only have a top 3)

~About My Main Oc's(The Main 4)~

Nicki Ohnosaki (DS): Is the Shadow Hashira(Ranked as 4th strongest)who took former Flower Hashira, Natsuki Ohnosaki's rank in the core (Etc:Joined the Core at: 16 Former Age:21). She was raised in a house of 2 younger siblings and 1 older sibling, each one with their fair share of abuse by their father, Natsuki being the oldest was the only sibling who could stand up for all her siblings (Natsuki was 9, Nikki was 7, Inosaki was 4, and Kai was 2). On the night of August 18th their family was slaughtered with the only survivers being, their father, name is Timoko Ohnosaki (who got turned into a demon by the lower moon who slaughtered their family), Natsuki Ohnosaki(The oldest sibling of 3, after the slaughter became a slayer at 15 and at 18 because a Hashira to revenge the death of Kai Ohnosaki and her mother Momisuke Ohnosaki), Nikki Ohnosaki (The 2nd oldest of 3 after the slaughter she was taken under Natsuki care becoming a slayer and Natsukis Tsugoku at the age of 16, After Natsuki's death she takes her place ranking one rank higher {at 4th} Getting the title 'Hashira' for her speed, senses, and fighting tactics), and last Inosaki Ohnosaki (The 2nd youngest of 3, after the slaughter he was taken care of by Taro{Natsuki's Bf, Light Hashira}and Nikki after training sessions with Natsuki, after Natsukis/Taros murder, Inosaki makes the decision of becoming a medic to help slayers and the injured in general while Nikki was out on missions doing her role as a hashira. Present he works in the Butterfly Mansion with Ms. Aoi, Shinobu, and the Caterpillar sisters)

(Natsuki's Death & Nikki's Revenge With a Fatal Price.

-Natsuki's mission was against a lower moon, lower moon 2 {her own abusive father} the master had sent her with light hashira, Taro Rimko both were sent on the night of March 23rd and never were seen after that day. The mission was normal until they had found the twisted game of the demon, bodies hung by trees some didn't even have most of their limbs, Both Hashiras were left in pure disgust Taro learned to pray from his father and Gyomei and decided to do so as Natsuki yelled out for the demon to reveal themselves. The demon listened to the command as Natsuki's eyes widened, Taros blind eyes focused on the demon from hearing... It was Timoko Ohnosaki but a uglier and more blood thirsty father, it didn't take long for the rage and flame to strike, the battle lasted until the brink of dawn, Timoko had to finished the two quick.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠⚠}

Taro was the first to be demolished, his eyes were targeted first one being poked out and held in the hand of lower moon 2 and lastly when Taro was distracted with his bleeding eye, he was K. Oed with his head being ripped ripped off right in front of Natsuki making her boil with rage since he'd token another loved one, her blood boiled as she decided to attack out of anger, that didn't end well.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠}

The lower moon gripped her head ripping it back before stabbing his fingers into her throat, slashing it aggressively. The sun finally rose, Timoko had fled, leaving Natsuki's body next to her lovers as they both rotted in their own piles of blood.

-Story 2: it was the final battle, Nikki was faced with the death of Tokito Muichiro and Kocho Shinobu, her eyes filled with sarrow as she placed flower clips onto their covered corpeses after she had shredded her demon father mouthing the words 'You'll never be granted with a second chance, not by the devil himself' the battle between her and her father was harsh, loosing vision in her left eye from a bloody slash along with multiple bruises and cuts, but it was finally over she had better demons to take care off, to revenge the lives that had been lost to such merciless creatures. The war was finally over.. Down on her knees with a missing hand, and blind in her left, she'd had survived with a fatal price of her limbs.. She had survived to see the light of day... She had survived to see her brother.

Peace finally came over the remaining survivors of the corps, and peace to all the lives who fight and died in battle. The wind blew as silence was between the two Ohnosaki siblings as they sat in front of Natsuki's, Kai's, and Momisuke's graves as they gave gifts such as food, flowers and last but not least their tears. 'Stay hello to the others for me'

-The end, thank you for reading Nikki's lore

Miyake Suzui (OP):Worlds most known/Wanted engineer, getting the titles for bombing Marines (basically committing genocide 😭) and helping pirates then backstabbing them by stealing their valuables, getting her first bounty at 10 at the high price of 150,000. Years go by ever since her sister had left her, and her other sister had died she found herself in a floating restaurant called 'Baratie' dressing herself up as a guy to avoid Sanji's simping but it all changed when a group of pirates rulled by Dawn Kreig had started a ruckes with another group of pirates a very small but strong group called the 'Strawhats' she finally revealed her identity fight by the side of Luffy until Kreig was defeated, after this Luffy had offered to be on sea but like Sanji she declined acting as cold as she did when she served them beside Sanji. After s bit of convincing she joined their crew as the loyal engineer besides the simping cook Sanji. Her next bounty raise wasn't until after the 2 year span, raising from 150,000 to 240,000,000. (this was made lazily bc I made this at fucking 12am)

(Family Lore & Years spent engineering)

-Gardening was fun as a family time, each caring for a certain part of the garden, Mother and Father focused on the grass, trees, and bushes, Moko and Michii worked on picking and growing fruits, and lastly Miyake would plant flowers. It was all friendly until a ambush by Marines sent by one of the admirals they wrecked the garden the wrecked parts of the house, their parents forced them three to hide and Moko shoved her and her sisters into a bunker, Michii was angered and Miyake? She cried and cried for her parents (I'd like to add their parents we're wanted pirates!her father with a bounty of 23,000,000 and their mother with the bounty of 15,000,000)but Michii covered her mouth as shots were shot, bodies had fallen. After the ambush the three had gotten out of the bunker, seeing blood stains but no bodies. Days pass Moko and Michii had moved on trying to fix their garden and the destroyed parts of the house. 2-3 months pass and the Suzuis met the same fate of a ambush after the Marines found out about the children, Moko had to step up risking her life.. (The trauma man😭) the other two cried as they hid themselves in the bunker without someone older to protect them anymore, soon enough the same sound of a gun firing arose.. {TRIGGER WARNING⚠⚠}

Moko was shot in the heart ending her young life quickly, the Marines yelled for the other children to come out or they'd destroy the house but they didn't leave both were scared both were horrified, the marine army marched in wrecking and throwing objects as dusk neared they finally left. Immediately at dawn the two sisters made graves for the family they lost placing flowers and their own personal items, Michii placing fruits on her parents graves {oranges and strawberries since it was their favorites) and a hairbrush on Moko grave on the other hand Miyake placed her plush of a cat on her mother's grave, a carton of strawberry milk on her fathers grave, and her kimono on Mokos grave.

-Story 2: years pass since the death of their family, Miyake started to study astrology {Moko loved astrology and the sea} as Michii barely came home to see her own sister. One day Michii called Miyake to tell her news, she was leaving on a 'trip for food' but that made Miyake even more devastated than she already was and before her sister left she mutter out the words 'PROMISE YOU'LL COME BACK FOR ME!!'. After the day her sister left she started to learn how to be an engineer, building new things she never thought she could succeed everytime she knew he family would be proud but at the same time she missed Michii. 2 years pass Michii never came back {She betrayed her own family by joining the Marines, the ones who killed her family, but once the two meet when Miyake is 23 she makes up a reason that she only did it to steal and destroy all their plans} after her 10th birthday Miyake was more mature finally fed up with being alone people were shocked she was still alive she was only a love because of her circus loving friend Paco who'd bring her food and drinks while she worked, one person was so shocked they called marine forces to arrest her. The Marines had got there but no trace of her was seen until... All the ships had blown up, the screams of the Marines who stayed behind filled the people's ears, as she left one of the ships with supplies and weaponry that's how she got her first bounty of 150,000.

-The end, thank you for reading Miyakes lore (next one will be shorter)

Kuro Tsuko(DDD): She is a 16 year old girl who transferred to the same school as the alien geeks, not believing that aliens and ghosts exist until she encountered Acrobatic Silky (episode 5 or 6). She didn't know she was possessed by a ghost herself, the ghost of her samurai father (her father was a samurai who slayed Yokais until the day he died from a demon using his own blade to stab him) Out of the group she has the best strategies, best battle plans, and attack tactics. She is the only one who has no siblings and a living mother so she has no lore. Her personality is sassy, funny, and loyal.

Bingo(OM! OM NB!): The knight who guards the Lord's castle, who loves rocks and Simeon- ignore that. Like the brother she too is a fallen angel due to her lovers lie {will explain in 'Cupid's Lore'} Her personality is like a literal bitch, cussing everyone out, even going as far to throw rocks she collected or bite demons for their disrespect towards Diavolo {She hears all} and really caring and loyal.

(Cupid's Lore & The day the hearts would shatter)

-Bingo was the most popular cupid, always on track with building relationships and making them last with her never missing arrows, her herself was beloved by all for her beauty and soft heart {Personality is completely different from her personality in hell}. One day she was confronted by a Royal Knight of the celestial realm, he confessed his love and she accepted it. Everything was sweet from the start but truly this man was hell itself, as years passed he turned more controlling and grew distant but it wasn't enough to break her heart yet...Her lover came back from his duties seemingly annoyed and then yelling at her accusing her of cheating!? She denied it {obviously she didn't, like she's cupid just like she sore loyalty to her job she sore loyalty to her relationship} but that wasn't enough to make him believe, she truly was on the brink of being a weeping angel.

-Story 2: After the rumors had spread of her cheating it finally reached the god. When she was brought to his mercy to explain her sin she denied and finally broke before she was banished she let out her anger on the god and her lying lover.. She was finally banished and fell from the light clouds swearing she'd never forget the betrayal she felt during those final weeks and the friendship she made during all the years.

-The end, thank you for reading Bingos Lore

(All OCS except bingo bc she's mysterious)

(Anime favorites of all time section complete)

❀All my lovely corazons❀

@ackie-slays your art is amazing, I literally can't eat it for breakfast🍳☕🍞

@arie2faced I literally adore you, I was so scared to follow and talk to you bc I thought you were cooler than me, and you still are :)

@aceofstars0 keep being super super amazing! I'm in love with the pretty theme of your blog

@anime-nugg3t you're so amazing and a silly corazons

@a-frogo-sitting-on-a-leafo ahh!! You're so friendly and silly I love it hehe!

@alexy2000 I know we don't interact (much) but you still are beloved by me

@bugzheadquarter amazing, fucking amazing! We also don't interact anymore but I still love seeing your posts and supporting you when I can (also ty for introducing me to Case Closed)

@boo-simplified you were a really long and supportive moot of mine! And you're an amazing artist that I adore and want to eat your art everyday

@cock-ainee I know you've been gone but you always make me happy whenever you are online and post

@certifiedlucifersimp yes. You are my very goofy, pookie, spooky corazon, we interact a lot and I like that! Thank you for the traumatizing but interesting asks and reblogs (Lucifer is watching 👀)

@demonmew25 we also don't interact but I always see your Muzan posts and I smile at your responses, consider me a stalker (Muzan is always watching 👀)

@dumbasscat1 awah!! You're so amazing to interact and talk to!! It makes me smile knowing you also like the same anime as me and reblog it for me to also reblog it (that totally didn't make sense lol)

@donkeybro we don't interact as much either (I need to interact with people more) you're great and you should know that you'll always be apart of my heart with the other 50+ sillies

@eros-the-dumbass I remember when I drew your oc and thats how we became friends and bonded, I loved all the art you made and posted keep making me proud

@gumii-bear I kinda forget who you were, and I feel bad but keep being mysterious and slay!

@gyutarowritings I hope you're doing okay! You haven't been active and it scares me since you were one of the sillies who interacted with me the most, I MISS YOU 🥺💞

@juusou I'd die to have your amazing art style and your artistic abilities! You're also so sweet and amazing to talk and send asks to, ty heh

@kagaya-ubuyasiki you are so nice and sweet you've made my day multiple times! Your art is so good like fruity pebbles I hope that I'll keep interacting with you

@knyinfinity I've seen you interact with me multiple times (I appreciate it) you are also one of my oldest sillies here! I wanna talk to you more as well

@kokushibosbestie you're a new corazon of mine but I already cherish you like my others, I've seen your writing and how friendly you are and I'm excited to interact and (maybe) spam you on my journey

@kitkat-moon I INTERACT WITH YOU THE MOST (as of now) you are a literal sunflower in my life, lighting up my day with your friendlyness and creativity, thank you for being one of my silliest corazons

@kiyokatokito and @ta-ni-ya you both are so nice! Literally the Boba tea to my life, you both are the best duos I could ever have as corazons

@local-giyuu-simp WIFEYYY!! you are the most amazing, craziest, pookiest person I've met on this at alone with @vampp4 you both are so chaotic it cracks me up everytime, keep being the silliest and pookiest duo on here

@larz-barz YOU WERE LIKE THE 2ND TO FIRST CORAZON I HAD ON THIS APP🥹 You also interact with me the most with the great roleplays, amazing and cutesy art, and the amazing goofy and nice personality I'm glad I have a person like you to talk and interact with, thank you for supporting me all the way to this point

@lunaunknown404 I've tagged you in some posts and interacted with your posts and like your art YOUR ART 🤭💗 I've never met such a great obey me artist like you, you're also like how do it say it... Amazing and great! You're also so pookie!

@muichirolover14 YOU. YOU. YOU ARE ANOTHER ONE OF MY BEST BEST BEST BEST FRIENDYS! YOU MAKE ME SMILE ALL THE DAMN TIME LIKE AUSVSISUSVSISBZ!! NO WORDS CAN EXPLAIN HOW MUCH I MISS YOU BEING ACTIVE AND US INTERACTING ON THIS APP! Ms Madam? There is only room for one sun *Cutely shoots the sun in the sky*

@mochimarshii YOU ARE SO FUN TO INTERACT WITH! like you are one of the newest corazons but you make my day all the damn time! Thank you for being so sweet and kind towards mehhh (INTERACT WITH THEM NOW TEE-HEE)

@muichirotokito-122 I MISS YOU 🥺💞 we use to talk all the time and you made me laugh at any chance you could take. Us talking was like ordering a cherry blossom ice tea (which is you)

@misty-sees-you-hehe SONIC FOREVER!!! When I first became corazons with you I was curious to see your blog and when I did I was like "WOAH! THEY ARE SO COOLL!" And you will always be cool, let's start a cult-

@m4tthxw I haven't interacted or talked to yet since you're my newest corazon, but I've seen your oc art and it's amazing!! I hope we can interact and talk soon :)

@noahowls YOUR ART IS SO CUTESY! And youre amazing to interact with, thank you for making me SUUUUUUUUUPER happy

@nothingtoseehere1-2-3 I literally was so glad that we interacted more! I need you're kind personality back! Keep being the amazing pooks you are and never let anyone ruin that (or I'll beat em up)

@naramaiz I tagged this account bc I don't know which to tag, I literally loved your art and how you drew like I miss it, thinking about it gives me so much nostalgia!! (You also were one of my longest corazons, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BEING SO SWEET AND LITERALLY SILLY)

@pinkwisteria I loved your art and was so scared to interact with you because I thought you were super popular and thought you'd just push me aside, but no! You were open arms to accept me and I literally cried when you became my corazon. I'd eat those masterpieces of art everyday, every year, in my grave- ignore that! Keep being my amazing friendddd awhsgsjs

@pulim-v you also are very new but so kind istg! I haven't interacted much with you (expect a spam someday) but I've seen the art and like it's so cool, amazing, and good!! Hehe

@qwardivior I LOVE YOUR AU'S! Like reading them make me ascend and has me thinking 'What if they were Ghostbusters instead of slayers', I ALSO LOVE THE EXTRA ART THAT COMES WITH THE PACKAGE your blog is the official place I will find home at when I need to find demon slayer au's to draw or if I need something to think hard of. You're also so sweet and like cutesy I will always support you

@ruiglazer you are one of my newest by you are so welcoming! I love your blogs and how nice you are to everyone that interacts with you, I hope someday I'll spam the bee jesus outta your blog until it lags XD

@rion-isnot-an-ai I HOPE YOU'RE DOING WELL ON YOUR BREAK! I'll be waiting for you to come back in the future! You're amazing and so great and like sweet! I can't explain how much I enjoy your company

@ryn-loves-cheese We don't interact much but I love your art! It's so yummy I could just crunch on it (non-stop) I hope you're doing well and you stay good hope we'll interact soon (I love cheese as well)

@r0yal-v4mp AJEISAVSB! I LOVE YOUR ART I LOVE IT I LOVE IT I LOVE IT! PLUS YOU ARE SO AMAZING AND LIKE ARGHHH?!! I CAN'T EXPLAIN HOW SWEET YOU ARE! 'You're to sweet for meeeeeeeeeee"

@seerachii-art YOUR ART IS JUST MWAH! AND THE SHIPS MAKE IT SO MAJESTIC, ADDING THAT GREAT SPARKLE! I literally love your art and you're great and a lovely corazon :D

@shycroissanti YOU. YOU. IT'S YOU. YOU WERE MY FIRST FOLLOWER🥹🫶 I'M CRYING YOU SUPPORTED ME SO MUCH THROUGH MY WHOLE TIME ON HERE, YOU'RE SO SWEET YOU MAKE ME CRY, I'm literally crying right now. Your art and oc's are just French's kiss! Like I literally love you so much (platonic)

@tor-the-tortilla YOU ARE MY BEST BEST BEST BEST BEST FRIENDY! I LITERALLY WANT TO HUG YOU THROUGH MY SCREEN. YOU ARE THE DEFINITION OF GOOFY GOOBER, and thus made me a goofy goober too. I know you haven't made art since you got a job (I'm so proud of you!) But I still look back at it and cry tears of pure joy.

@tokito-dulya20 I haven't interacted with you in so loooooooooooooooooong!!! I want to so bad, why? Because I misses yous and your kind personality

@vexinghearts ARGHHHH! YOU MAKE MY HEART CRAMP WITH HOW SWEET AND FANTASTIC YOU ARE! you're art and ocs make me ascend, like you'll catch me lacking in class because I'm thinking about drawing your silly goobies. HEHE ALSO YOU'RE SO COOL TEE-HEE

@waitinguntililikemyart you might be a new corazon, but you certainly aren't as loved as my other. YOU ARE ABSOLUTELY AMAZING, you made my day yesterday with that box kitty! I hope we can continue interacting and being le-sillies together and hopefully forever (see what I did there? I rhymed)

(Will definitely get more soon. All my lovely corazons section complete)

❀My Music Taste/Recommend❀

(You've reached the end of my welcome blog!)

#help #goofy #xd #my new welcome blog #spotify #all about me #rahhh #things i love and hate #😭💝#my corazons #oc lore #*cries in oc*#Spotify

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aylasology · 7 months ago

Text

rockstar!Robin x reader pt. 2

Summary : Five unbridled months of sex, drugs, and rock and roll...

Warnings : SMUT SMUT SMUTTTTT

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

✮ Hellfire's first stadium tour happened almost exactly the few weeks after your first encounter with the band.

✮ And being Robin's sweet little plaything, you packed your suitcase and got in the bus.

✮ Robin's got such a thing for getting caught fucking you. Keeping doors unlocked and windows open when she is. Getting someone else see how much a dumb slut you were for her was a *massive* turn on for the rockstar.

✮ "You like that baby? Like how people can see how much of a cockdrunk slut you are for me?"

✮ Robin leaves your panties on the door knobs of her dressing room/hotel room 👁️👁️

✮ She let's you eat her out inside the bus, a hand tugging your hair and the other holding a cigarette.

✮ When you feel a little antsy and tired, she lets you rest up in the hotel room. Leaving gifts like lingeies and toys to keep you wet and occupied.

✮ Of course you wear the lingerie before she gets to the room. Laying down in bed all dolled up for her.

✮ "Oh baby I knew you'd look so sexy in this.."

✮ She likes to keep you pinned to the bed, eyes peering down at you as she rutted into you harshly. Watching your face twist and contort in pleasure.

✮ Sometimes she'd pull out her polaroid camera. Taking photos of your breasts and stomach as she fucked you senseless. Your face and your neck as she was done littering it with hickeys. Your full body once your done and spent.

✮ After the tour, the band immediately heads to the studio. Ready to create their second studio album to keep the popularity they gained on tour.

✮ Robin kept a small notebook and a pen with her everywhere. You would wake up next to her, scribbling and writing into her notebook. Sometimes, when she doesn't have it, she looks for a pen and writes into your palm. Becoming the very flesh of her inspirations.

✮ And everything felt that way too. The album was comprised of songs that could all lead back to you. Words Robin had spun into poetry were merely fragments of who you were.

✮ And because Robin had found it boring to have all four of them for the album art, in nothing but a guitar to cover your breasts, you had become the visual of the album along with its title - "ROCKET QUEEN."

✮ And since that wasn't enough for the world to know who the Hellfire girl was, she had fucked you in the studio and added your moans into the title track.

✮ Robin had started to think you were more than just her plaything...

#aylasology #robin buckley #stranger things #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley stranger things #robin buckley x fem!reader #robin buckley fanfiction #robin buckley x reader fanfiction #robin buckley x reader smut #robin buckley x you #robin buckley x female reader #robin buckley x y/n #Robin buckley x reader fluff #robin buckley x reader concept

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bangaveragewhitewine · 1 year ago

Text

Pinch Me

After your first date with a familiar face from home, waking up next to Steve feels like something out of a dream.

This is a follow on from Clean Slate but can be read as standalone fic.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings/Content: Both you and Steve are in your late-twenties and were in school together; you met again on a blind date almost ten years later. This is an 18+ fic; oral (reader receiving), penetrative sex. Spoiler but use of ‘good girl’ in a sexy content. Steve Harrington being a smooth mf comes with it's own warning.

I have tried to leave physical descriptions as neutral and inclusive as possible! Some mentions of anxiety and insecurity. Plenty of kissing to make up for that!

Author’s Note: Clean Slate was intended to be a one off fic but here we are! This is my first attempt at smut in a fic, so hopefully it’s not horrendous! Thank you for reading, enjoy!

Thank you to my lovely @specialagentmonkey for beta reading for me💖

Once again, this is an 18+ fic. Please do not do any AI fuckery with my work or repost on other sites.

(divider by me)

Ever since you were little, your bed had been one of your favourite places. Soft sheets, books on the bedside table and a perfectly curated stack of pillows all topped off with the quilt you had made with your grandma before her arthritis got too bad.

In your mom’s photo albums there was more than one snapshot of you as a sleepy toddler with a wild bed head peeking up from your pillow on Christmas morning. Another few of you reading Nancy Drew in a pillow nest with a gap toothed smile.

By now, you had made your own little nest out in the big bad world now; a surprisingly roomy studio with big windows and noisy neighbours on one side. You had bought new sheets and a duvet printed with dusty pink roses on porcelain white cotton, curated a new stack of pillows and added too many decorative cushions on top of the same quilt that had made the move with you to Indianapolis and on to Chicago. There were still books on your bedside, a little dish for your jewellery to sit in while you slept, and an accumulation of lip balms, pillow mist and a candle or two to set the mood.

After long shifts and bad dates, your bed was still your haven. When you were particularly anxious, you could still hear the shrill of your old alarm blaring in your ears; the sound of that clock that had dragged you from sweet dreams in your beloved bed on chilly winter mornings. Some mornings, as you rode the subway to work, you swore you could hear your bed’s own siren song calling you to get off at the next stop, come home to read and nap the day away.

The sanctuary was for you alone, save for an occasional sleepover with your best friend Annie. Your dates were never invited to stay and make themselves comfortable. But this morning, waking up with Steve Harrington in your bed? That was new.

It was safe to say that your blind date went well. Really well.

You had resolutely avoided talking about school, only mentioning people each other might have remembered in the context of a story about your lives outside Hawkins. Steve was still in touch with a lot of people from home. You recognised some of their names; Robin who grew up a street away from you, Eddie Munson who you knew from art class and the occasional house party in your youth, even Nancy Wheeler. The way he lit up with so much fondness for ‘his kids’ who weren’t kids anymore made your face ache from smiling.

And Steve had listened, wanted to hear how you had liked Indianapolis for college (he had spent some time there too before making the move to Chicago with Robin after Eddie had sussed the place out and found an apartment near his own for them that they still shared). He had asked about your job, your life in the city, and took a real interest in you.

His attention had stayed on you, never straying to see who else was around or looking for an escape route. His honeyed gaze had stayed focused, watching how you used your hands when you spoke and dipped occasionally to look at your lips. Steve’s hand had stayed close by when his fingers weren’t outright intertwined with yours. He did this thing with his thumb, stroking it across the bone of your wrist, and a few times he had squeezed your hand while you spoke as if to say ‘go on, I’m listening’ - it was so centering for your often anxious mind.

You had a few more drinks, picked a few songs on the jukebox, kept talking and talking until you were sitting close enough to hear Steve’s stomach growl, making his cheeks flush pink.

“I know a pizza spot close by if you’re hungry?” you suggested.

“DiFontaines?” Steve smiled a little, nodding at your suggestion. “Yeah I love it. Let’s go.”

Neither of you wanted to end the night yet, say goodbye. So you didn’t. Instead you headed hand in hand into the warm night air, nicely buzzed and in search of hot pizza and crispy cold sodas.

The sun had dipped in the sky, taking the worst of the heat with it, but the night stayed humid and sticky. Despite the warmth, Steve held your hand and between stories, as you walked down the next block, he lifted his arm to twirl you when you passed a bar blaring Achy Breaky Heart onto the street; Billy Ray’s crooning was eclipsed by your laughter.

“You’re such a dork,” you giggled, pushing him gently before Steve quickly hugged you against his side again. Never had you felt so comfortable on a first date - but this wasn’t just any blind first date.

“Dork?! You been talkin’ to Robin?” Steve smiled down at you, sparking heat in your belly.

“Guess your reputation precedes you, Harrington.” With a burst of bravery, owing it to your younger self, you bounced up on your toes to peck his cheek before taking off a few steps ahead, turning to grin back at him as he jogged to catch up before you swerved into the pizza place.

You joined the line of late night pizza lovers and Steve had slipped an arm around you, leaned his chin on your head as your heart pounded hard. “So, what’re we getting?” he asked.

The familiarity of it all made you feel fuzzy around the edges, his thumb stroking your shoulder, the heat of him pressed against your side.

“It’s probably sacrilegious but the New York style slice, veggie or… artichoke.” Feeling brave again you cover his hand with yours and squeezed. “You?”

“Okay so we’re both sinners then.” He hummed, considering his options. “You’re vegetarian right?”

“Yeah, I try to be.” You liked how he had remembered a tiny detail from a story told hours ago.

“Okay. Four cheese then.”

“You sure?” Your interest piqued.

“Yeah, ‘course. You might not want a goodnight kiss if I have pepperoni breath.”

You swear your jaw dropped as Steve schooled his smile, watching the group of tipsy tourists ahead of you order their slices before his eyes darted back to you.

Steve was more timid, his voice quieter as he filled the silence between you when you had been too stunned to answer. “It’s also totally fine if you don’t want to kiss me, sweetheart. I know I can lay it on ki-“

Instead you rocked up to close the gap between you, ignoring the pinch of your sandals to lay a kiss onto his lips. Steve was quick to cup your cheek, keeping you there to kiss you back just as sweetly.

His nose has nudged against yours before he let you go, gazing into each other’s eyes until your attention was pulled to ‘order or get out’. His arm had stayed around you as you placed your orders, splitting a third classic deep dish slice between you so you wouldn't be run out of town with torches and pitchforks.

Full of pizza and soda and bravery, you had taken Steve’s hand again and strolled through the sticky Chicago night, steering him toward your apartment with the guise of proving that the same pink scrunchie you wore in high school was in fact on your bedside table. You both knew what you were really suggesting.

Part of you niggled away, expecting him to make a polite excuse to head home instead. But Steve only had eyes for you and sealed the deal with another kiss. You lost yourselves in each other, feeling younger together, and made out with Steve’s back against the shutters of somewhere long closed for the night as he squeezed your hips and you toyed with the ends of his hair. It was with regret that he had to tear himself away from your lips to hail a cab for you both, where you did your best to behave on the way to your apartment.

As you lay in bed that next morning, watching how Steve’s chest rose and fell with breath, how soft he looked in sleep, you felt warm and happy. His golden glow was just as dazzling in the morning light.

Your night together had been unrushed. Steve hadn’t just hit it and quit it with you. No, instead you had kissed and kissed, making out and letting your hands roam like two teenagers except there was no hurry; no seven minute deadline or someone pounding on a guest room door to see if it was occupied. The rumours in school had been true; Steve Harrington was an amazing kisser. You had listened to a friend of a friend rave about his soft lips after a lucky spin the bottle in junior year; now you had tasted him for yourself, you understood why she had brought it up so much. But Steve was in your bed now, not hers, you thought smugly.

On the way from the couch to your bed, he had unzipped your dress and you made sure his powdery blue shirt wouldn’t be too creased in the morning, draping it over the back of a chair instead of leaving it balled up on the ground.

Steve had made sure you knew how beautiful he thought you were, kissed you everywhere before taking his time with you and spent an age between your legs as he worked you open for him. Lying there the next morning, you could feel your face heat up when you remembered how his touch set you on fire. The pleasant all over ache weighed you down into your mattress.

With a messy bed-head, Steve woke a little after you and saw you smiling dreamily to yourself. He reached out to pull you closer, tucking his face into your neck.

“Mornin’.” His voice was gravelly and deep.

“Morning.” You brush his hair back gently and dot a kiss to his forehead before stroking your fingers over his shoulders soothingly, dragging them down his arm.

“S’nice,” he said, lips moving against your neck before he pressed a few kisses there.

Lying face to face on your pillow, your fingers played with the fine gold chain that settled around his throat, dipping lower into the thick hair on his chest.

“I had a really good time last night.” Steve’s fingers walk up your arm, before twirling your hair around one carefully.

When you look up at him, he’s got this little smile on his face. He inches closer, letting his gaze drop to your own smiling mouth before you share a slow morning kiss.

“Me too,” you whisper, settling your hand on the side of his neck before returning his kiss again. Your fingers skate across and behind the lobe of his ear, the underside of his jaw and the shade of stubble there.

With his large soft hands, he drags you closer still, pressing you right up against him. The t-shirt you had pulled on after the sweat on your body had started to cool last night was rucked up over your hip as Steve’s thumb strokes the dip there.

You sigh into his mouth, feeling warm all over despite the chill of your box fan to cool the room down. This morning you're warmed by the heat and glow that radiates from Steve Harrington, hotter than the sun itself.

“You’re really beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, shifting his weight so you’re on your back again with one of his thighs slotted between yours. Steve brushes your hair back, fanning it out over the pillow before dipping down to kiss you again. He leaves you breathless before his lips trail lower to your jaw and neck.

It’s an intimacy you hadn’t had with anyone in a long time, feeling safe enough with Steve to let yourself be loved on like this. You will yourself to be present with him, bask in his glow as it warms you, but barbs of anxiety have crept in to distract you.

Last night was amazing, slow and syrupy and tender. If that had been the last time you ever saw Steve Harrington you could have probably died happy - happier than before anyway. But instead he stayed, and as he kisses you again (morning breath ignored and forgotten). Steve didn’t care that you had faded into the background of your shared high school halls, he had loved how you had the bravery to break out of Hawkins and be you now.

Steve notices you tensing up and peels himself back, thumbing your cheek again as he says your name. “Do you want me to stop?” he asks, concern in his eyes. It makes your heart ache.

You shake your head and cover the hand on your cheek. “No. Never.” You pull him to you again and relish the weight of him on top, your hands over his shoulders. “I’m getting in my head. You’re straight out of a dream, Steve. I feel like asking you to pinch me.”

You feel a little embarrassed about being quite so honest with him like this, but he oozes a magnetism and calmness that makes you want to tell him everything. But you don’t want to scare him away, be left waiting for another call that’s not coming, or hear him say ‘that was fun but I’m not looking for anything serious right now’.

He smiles and leans his weight on one strong arm so he’s not totally crushing you. “I can, if you want. But I promise I’m real. And I’m just some guy.”

You laugh. “Some guy? Nah Steve, I think you might be some sort of apparition. Or like, a Greek god.” You squeeze his bicep for emphasis. “Definitely dreaming.”

Steve rolls his eyes, playful, and pinches your cheek lightly. “See? Silly.” He presses a kiss to where he pinched before going in for another on your smiling mouth. Steve was not shy or stingy with his kisses, you had learned. You liked that a lot.

“I think you’re pretty amazing, y’know. If you’re not sick of me yet, would you wanna go for breakfast with me?” Steve kneels up between your thighs, the sheets pooling around his hips. Your eyes go right to the white Calvin’s pulled tight over the thickness of him. Your eyes rake up over his body until you’re caught staring, ogling, and Steve smiles when you pull a pillow over your face. You certainly hadn’t been so shy last night; he laughs and lifts it away to gaze down at you, hoping you will say yes.

“C’mere. Then you can take me for breakfast.” You coax him back down, hooking one leg over his hip. “Prove to me again that you’re not just in my imagination?”

Steve grins and rolls himself down over you. “You been imagining me like this? Scandalous,” he teases before resuming his kisses from earlier, which you are eager to return. Your bodies move together, hips tilting toward each other seeking out that pressure that makes your tummy sizzle. As Steve’s hands slip under your sized-up sleep shirt again, your own dips down to cup him through his underwear. His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut.

“Baby…”

Baby.

You smile and repeat the movement firmer this time before beginning to coax him to hardness, breaking your hold on him only to help him remove your tshirt. It’s lost to the floor along with Steve’s briefs. His breath is hot against your mouth as your bodies press together. The feeling of Steve’s hands on your breasts draws out a whine that’s swallowed by another kiss; his hands are so big and they feel like they are everywhere, like Steve is everywhere. His mouth and hands trail lower, spreading you out for him on your dusty rose bedsheets. He cups you there, thumb swiping in a delicious rhythm that has you gasping against his shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, kissing the tops of your breasts. “Let me hear those pretty noises again, baby. Please?”

You whimper as his fingers ease you open, so gentle like the polite ‘please’. Steve had proven he was a talker already last night, his words making you feel hot all over as he had pushed so carefully inside, turning tipsy giggles into needy gasps. You felt the same heat engulf you now as he lay wet kisses to your tummy, your hips, pausing only so that he could lie comfortably between your thighs after shouldering his way between them.

He’s looking up at you, his cheek against the meat of your thigh. Lips curve into a smile when you meet his gaze, and he closes his eyes when you stroke his hair back. One of his hands takes yours and rests together on your belly as he dips to kiss you where you need him, humming against you when you gasp his name.

Your eyes drop closed, fireworks bursting behind them as he makes you feel so good. The once or twice any other man had done this was lacklustre in skill and enthusiasm, which Steve possessed in every cell of his being. When you chance looking at him you spot his hips shifting against the mattress, chasing relief for his own ache which makes you moan louder. His whispered “good girl” sends your eyes rolling back into your skull.

Steve brings you to your peak quicker than anyone ever had before. Mindful that you might be a little tender from the night before as he presses one long and thick finger inside before a second joins it a few moments later, gentle but with a purpose of making you forget your own name. His shoulder presses firm against your thigh, spreading you wider as his fingers pump steadily, keeping the pace and press against the spot inside you that makes you feel fit to explode.

You squeeze his arm while your capacity for coherent speech vanishes, focusing only on the swirl and suck of his mouth and the crook and curl of his fingers. It’s so sudden, and you swear you’ve never made a noise so loud as you moan for him, trembling all over. He whispers his praise against your thigh before bringing his mouth back to where you’re weeping for him and doesn’t stop until your thighs are crushing his ears, muffling your voice.

Chest heaving, you feel him move up to check on you. He brings you close, holding you as you glow with him and presses feathery kisses to your hairline. “You still with me? Not still dreaming about me?”

“Mm, think I died,” you manage, peeking up at him with teary eyes. Another tender kiss to the dopey smile on your lips. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, sweetheart.”

His grin is deservedly cocky, earning himself the warm grasp of your hand around his length. The prettiest frown graces his face as you squeeze and slowly pump your hand, your lips moving to his neck.

Steve’s gaze moves from your face, dragging down your body to where your hand holds him. His size makes your hand look small and you feel the kick of his arousal on your palm. You manage to swing one wobbly leg over him, sitting on the breadth of his thighs with new confidence as he holds you steady.

You lean across him, earning kisses to your chest as you fish for a condom to rip open and roll on to him before lowering yourself down into his lap.

Sinking your teeth into the fat of your lower lip at the stretch of him, Steve huffs out a breathy swear against your chest. His hands settle on your hip and thigh, grounding and never rushing as you breathe into the feeling of him inside you before beginning to move.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching you in awe. “So pretty f’me.”

That spurs you on, chasing the tingle deep in your abdomen. Your fingers lace with Steve’s on your thigh, the other hand braced against the wall behind his shoulder.

His head leans back by your hand, turning to kiss your wrist as you move in his lap. You curl your arm around him, bringing each other close as his hips hitch up to meet you.

“So good, baby,” he murmurs, kissing you again as his breath comes quicker now. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty.”

Gasping his name, you hold him tight to you as you move together. He can’t take his eyes off of you, “Good girl, so gorgeous.”

Messy kisses broken by gasps and Steve’s praise are traded back and forth. His hands feel huge where they hold you at your waist.

The cord of pleasure deep in your pelvis winds tighter. Steve’s jaw twitches as he holds on to you, and you kiss the tense muscle before whispering, “You make me feel so good.” The sound he makes is almost a whimper and he squeezes the meat of your ass. Your hips continue their rise and roll, you feel like every cell of your body is aflame.

Steve watches you, praising words fanning the fire low in your belly. The burn in your thighs makes you pause and he takes the chance to kiss you stupid again.

“Feel good? Yeah?” When you nod, feeling spaced out, he pecks your swollen lips and whispers, “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” You wonder if he lets anyone take care of him, return his generosity and affections.

He is so gentle as he holds you to his chest and slouches lower on the bed. You close your eyes at the feeling of being held like this, cheek to his broad shoulder. His feet are flat and firm on the bed and the experimental thrust up into you makes you sigh his name. Steve sweeps your hair to one side so that he can kiss your neck again, checking in with you before continuing.

His name echoes on your bedroom walls as he grazes the elusive spot inside of you; the way you press right against his pelvis gives a rub of friction that makes lightning zing through your limbs. “That’s it. Huh? Right there?” His voice is tight as he drives up into you again, faster now with the new angle.

You can hardly summon the sense to make a sentence, babbling now with how good he’s making you feel, the occasional broken curse or plea. After last night and this morning, the neighbours won’t be happy or forget Steve’s name anytime soon - not that you give a fuck.

You kiss him again, though now you’re both so far gone it’s messy and needy, hot breaths against each other’s cheeks. The lick of his tongue against yours makes you shiver. You feel ready to burst, pleasure building as his hips drive up hard into you

With the feeling of him so deep inside of you, you fall over the edge again. The feeling of your orgasm, clenching and fluttering and soaking, drags him with you, groaning against your neck when his hips slam and stutter still. His arms are tight around you, both heaving deep breaths together.

Steve eases you both down onto your sides, tangled together. You feel dazed and heavy but the stroke of Steve’s fingers on your hip, his hot breath on your collarbone grounds you until the sounds of Chicago on a Saturday morning remind you that this wasn’t a dream.

“You okay? That.. Jesus…” Steve’s voice is breathy, but you hear his smile.

“Yeah. I’m…amazing.”

“Yeah, you are.”

There’s comfortable silence as you both come back to earth.

After a few moments Steve dots kisses to your cheeks, forehead and nose before he eases out of you to bin the full condom. Soon you’re back in bed with him, held safe in his arms. His cheeks are pink and you want to squeeze them.

“You’re so gorgeous, Steve.” Your fingers brush over the moles dotted along his cheekbone, and he catches your hand to kiss your fingers sweetly in distraction. “Hey. Look at me, Harrington.”

“Back to Harrington?” he teases, looking into your eyes with faux intensity to make you giggle. “M’lookin’.”

“Steve. Steven.” You match his teasing with pretend-seriousness.

“Not Steven. Please, baby.” His mouth turns down, exaggerating his unhappiness with you, but the stroke of his fingers on your hip say otherwise.

“Ms O’Donnell called you Steven.”

“Please don’t bring O’Donnell up while my dick is still out.”

You both dissolve into giggles, pressing your face against the chain on his chest. “Shut up, she had that much of an effect on you?! Calling you Steven gets you all worked up? Okay perv, good to know.”

“You’re sick in the head.” His voice is shaky with laughter against your hair. “S’a good thing you’re cute.”

“Mhm. Definitely a sicko. Two cute sickos.” You take his face in your hands again. “You’re a great date Steve Harrington.”

He smiles, but it falls a little - you just about catch it. It makes your heart hurt. Your inability to just say that you don’t want this to be a one time thing makes you want to pull your own hair out.

“I do my best. I had so much fun with you. I’m just kinda… sick of first dates though. Yknow?”

“I do know. But that’s not how last night felt.”

There’s a flash of recognition in his eyes as he nods.

“Definitely helped that we had a bit of a head start on the ‘where are you from?’ shit..” There’s a twinkle of playfulness in his heart wrenching sincerity.

“I hate that part.” You look into his eyes. It makes your chest flutter, how he looks at you.

“I know we didn’t know each other all that well in school..”

“Since kindergarten.” Your shrug is tiny, you smile playfully as he groans.

“Since kindergarten. Shit. What’ve I been doing all this time…” he asks the ceiling.

“Same as me. Getting out of Hawkins. Going on crappy dates...”

“Mm, true. Growing up, I guess.” He’s quiet for a moment, “Last night wasn’t crappy. Best date I’ve been on in a long long time.”

“Me too. I think I’ll let you take me out again, if you want to…” you say, whispering bravely as you act all playful despite your hammering heart.

The smile on Steve’s face makes the butterflies in your stomach swoop again. You weren’t the only one who felt so dimmed by dating around, having your heart broken. There’s a beat of silence, charged electric as Steve looks at your lips and you touch his chain again.

“You like pancakes, or waffles?” Steve’s eyes twinkle.

You squeeze the bulk of his bicep. “French toast.”

His head tips back in laugh, showing off his delicious throat. “Oh she’s fancy?”

“She is.”

He leans in to kiss you in more time. “I can do fancy, baby.”

“You’ve done fancy twice. Fancy is hungry, Steve.”

Your laughter echoes in the golden morning light that fills your room as his fingers skate over your ribs, finding the ticklish spots before he hauls you as close as possible again.

Steve’s nose presses against your cheek, smooching one more kiss there before sitting up to find his pants. As you stargaze at the constellation on his broad back, you think this might just be the start of something really amazing.

comments, reblogs and likes are not simply appreciated - they are cherished

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punkrockmlchael · 16 days ago

Text

Bed Chem - Chapter Three

My Main Masterlist

Bed Chem Masterlist

Modern AU; Rockstar!Gareth Emerson x Popstar!Fem Reader (Both Gareth and Reader are in their early 20s) ; loosely based off of the song Bed Chem by Sabrina Carpenter

Warnings: 18+ mdni, Slow Burn, Popstar!Fem Reader, Rockstar!Gareth, Best Friend!Robin, Mutual Pining, Flirting, Texting, Smut: Sending Spicy Pictures, Masturbation (Fem and Male; these two are so far up each other's asses it's not even funny), Brief Descriptions of: PinV, Oral (Fem and Male Receiving), Hand Jobs

Synopsis: And now the next thing I know I'm like, manifest that you're oversized. I digress, got me scrollin' like, out of breath, got me goin' like...

Word Count: 2.5k

The last couple days or so have been a blur. Between sitting in the studio writing and recording, to doing a couple shows around your hometown, to spending most of your free time texting Gareth (which you weren’t complaining about); it had all been a little too much. You wanted nothing more than to take a hot bubble bath and just… relax.

Relax and forget about your problems, your priorities, everything for a good solid half hour, or maybe longer. Just yourself, some foamy bubbles and some hot, steamy water as you sink deeper and deeper into your bathtub.

You walked around your bathroom quickly in your pink lace panties, your oversized Corroded Coffin band tee and your pink fuzzy bunny slippers. Gathering everything you needed for your bath: a fresh towel, some bubble bath and your robe; you moved to hang the pink, silky robe up on the back of the bathroom door before you set your clean towel on the counter next to the sink.

You brushed through your hair gently before you moved to put your hair up in a messy bun, fingers moving through your locks as you worked your magic on the messy updo; it’s not like anyone was going to see you anyways.

You placed the bottle of bubble bath on the side of the bathtub before you turned the water on, allowing it to reach the perfect temperature for you before you plugged the bathtub. Robin had texted you telling you about her most recent date, you giggled as you read through her message, reading all of the juicy details she had given you. Turns out she had met a girl named Vickie at one of your most recent shows and really hit it off with her, and she sounded really sweet. And you were happy for her, Robin deserved all the happiness in the world.

Beep.

New Photo from Gareth Emerson.

Gareth: We have a day off today and Eddie dragged me to the gym with him and I’m not really having a good time :/ He made me lift some weights and run laps with him… But, I guess on the bright side, your album makes for some good workout music ;) thanks for keeping me fit!

You opened Gareth’s message as you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, hot water pouring out of the faucet at a rapid pace. You poured in some lilac scented bubble bath, watching the white bubbles form in the water quickly, the scent instantly bringing you comfort and relaxation.

You clicked on the picture Gareth had sent you, groaning to yourself as it popped up on your screen.

Fuck, he looked good. Better than usual, in fact; something you never thought you would think.

Gareth was a sweaty mess as he stood in front of a full length mirror at the gym. His black shirt was discarded from his body, hanging over his shoulder instead. His tongue was out of his mouth, resting on his bottom lip as if he was in mid pant, struggling to catch his breath from his workout.

His curls were stuck to his forehead as sweat trickled down his face and chest, making his body glisten in the light. His chest muscles and abs were on full display and leaving nothing to the imagination; a little trail of hair sat perfectly below his belly button, sneaking down more and more until it disappeared under his underwear. He wore some grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips, the black band of his boxers peeking out, the words Calvin Klein written in white across the band.

Your eyes trailed down his body in the picture, stopping at the noticeable bulge that sat perfectly against the fabric of the grey sweatpants. A pitiful whine escaped your lips as you stared at that picture, so desperately wanting to know what he was working with underneath those sweatpants and underwear. Though, the photo that he sent did help you paint a good mental picture of what might be… tucked behind that fabric.

You groaned again, closing your eyes as you thought more and more about the drummer in the picture. You knew he meant this as a harmless photo, but you couldn’t deny the desire that pooled more and more between your legs, stirring something deep inside of you that so desperately just wanted Gareth. Your thighs squeezed together tightly, a sigh escaping your lips as you set your phone down on the edge of the bathtub. You drew your attention back to the bathtub, turning the water off as it came towards the top, careful not to overflow the water.

Standing up, you grabbed your phone and walked towards the bathroom mirror, debating with yourself. You took a deep breath, lifting your shirt from the middle, your fingers wrapping around the fabric as you pulled it up higher and higher. Holding the shirt in your left hand, you brought the edge up to your lips, biting the fabric gently. Your body was on full display, your curves showing perfectly as you still kept it modest. You snapped a photo with your phone in your right hand before you typed out a message to Gareth.

You: What a shitty bandmate, making sure you stay fit while on tour… though, I wish I was able to help you stay fit in person ;) I’m sure I could give you some great motivation! This week has been so much for me, running around like crazy… it’s time for a nice, hot bubble bath.

You attached the photo and hit send, setting your phone down on the counter. You stripped from your oversized tee and panties, discarding them on the floor as you stepped out of your slippers. You walked towards the bathtub and stepped in, the stress of the week slowly melting away and you were overcome with water and bubbles. The smell of lilacs filled your nostrils more prominently as you sat back in the tub, closing your eyes.

The picture of Gareth continued to pop into your mind, the need and want becoming more than you could handle. You leaned back against the side of the tub, your right hand moving down your body under the water, moving closer and closer to your core. You stopped your right hand at your clit, rubbing small, tight circles against it slowly.

A whine left your mouth, your eyes closing as you pictured Gareth’s hand rubbing those circles. Your left hand moved to your breasts, pawing at them as you squeezed and massaged them in time with the circles on your clit.

“Fuck, Gareth,” you moaned to yourself, your right hand moving down to your folds. You ran your middle and ring fingers up and down your folds gently before you pushed both fingers inside of you, thrusting them in and out slowly.

Your left hand squeezed your left breast harder, rubbing your thumb over your nipple. You continued to thrust your fingers in and out of you, arching your back slightly.

“Come on, princess,” rang through your head in Gareth’s voice as you began to thrust your fingers faster, groaning at the feeling.

You squeezed and massaged your breast faster, moaning as you thought about Gareth. Picturing his hands on your breasts, his fingers sliding in and out of you. His head between your thighs with his soft curls tickling your skin as his tongue licked up and down your folds before he began sucking at your clit. Picturing him towering over you as he thrusted deeper and deeper into you, grunts escaping his lips as he took you to another world with his cock.

Your middle and ring fingers picked up their pace, thrusting in and out of you faster before you curled them a couple of times, hitting your sweet spot. Your left hand trailed down your stomach, stopping at your clit. You rubbed tight circles on your clit as your fingers thrusted, driving you crazy.

Your back arched slightly, a whine escaping your lips as you clenched around your fingers, feeling yourself get closer and closer to your high.

“That’s it, princess,” rang through your head in Gareth’s voice as you sped up the movements quickly, bucking your hips up as you released around your fingers. You moaned his name again, falling back against the side of the bathtub as your chest rose and fell, trying to catch your breath.

The warm water around your body and the smell of lilac brought you back down to earth, a sad reminder that you were alone in your bath and not with the fluffy haired drummer you were thinking about so much.

Gareth had ran another few laps with Eddie before he physically could not do it anymore. He shook his head at Eddie and slowly made his way back to the bench where his belongings were. He grabbed his water bottle, drinking it down like he hadn’t had a drop of water in ages.

He sat on the bench, his back resting against the wall as he groaned, watching the guitarist continue to run around the gym. Fuck him and his agility, Gareth thought as he drank some more water.

He wiped the sweat off of his face with a towel before he grabbed his phone, noticing a new text and photo message from you. When he opened it, his eyes widen; closing the phone quickly so that no one else around him could see it. He cleared his throat and redirected his attention towards Eddie, watching him.

“Are we almost done here?” Gareth asked, “I would like to go take a shower,” he added. And look at that picture you sent him… but, that was besides the point.

“Yeah, just a few more reps,” Eddie grunted, now lifting some weights.

“Remind me never to come to the gym with you again,” Gareth groaned, crossing his arms over his chest as he pouted like a little kid.

Once back in the safety of the hotel room Gareth had shared with Eddie, he groaned, dropping everything on his bed.

“Nice work out, Gare!” Eddie grinned, patting him on the back. Gareth grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever, Eddie,” he replied, grabbing some new clothes. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” he nodded, making his way towards the bathroom.

“Have fun!”

Gareth made his way to the tiny attached bathroom, closing the door behind him with a quick lock of the handle. He set his clothes on the counter and groaned to himself, opening his phone. He clicked on your name, reading over the text you had sent him from earlier.

He clicked on the photo you sent him, biting his lip as it appeared on his screen, “fucking hell,” he mumbled.

You were standing in front of the mirror in your bathroom, body on full display; those curves of yours making him want to pull you through his phone to take you then and there. Your hair sat in a perfect messy bun on the top of your head, little strands poking out here and there. He could just barely make out the words Corroded Coffin on the oversized tee were wearing, making him groan as he thought of you in his band’s merch.

You had modeled it perfectly, and were showing a decent amount of skin. The fabric of the shirt between your teeth was making him crazy, but the way it rode up to show the perfect amount of cleavage and underboob was something that would drive any man wild. His eyes scanned down your body, stopping on your left hip bone where a small tattoo was.

He raised his eyebrow slightly, zooming in on the picture to see your tattoo, he didn’t know you had one. He saw a small little flower with some leaves and smiled to himself, making a mental note to compliment you on that later. Your pink lace panties with the words Victoria’s Secret across the band made his mind spiral with more and more fantasies about you.

He looked at the photo in full again, groaning to himself as he absentmindedly thrusted against the counter, wanting some friction for his rock hard erection. He placed his phone down on the counter and walked towards the shower, turning the water on. As he stood there waiting for it to warm up he shamelessly palmed himself through his sweatpants, a soft groan escaping his lips as he thought of you.

After a few moments of standing there palming himself, Gareth couldn’t take it any longer. He stripped from his clothes and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain back as he enclosed himself in the tight space. He let the warm water overtake his aching muscles before he got back to what he was originally doing.

His right hand moved down and wrapped around the base of his cock, squeezing it gently before he pumped his hand around it a few times. A soft groan left his lips as he closed his eyes, picturing you on your knees for him. He moved his hand more, swiping his thumb over the tip of his cock, picturing your pretty lips around it.

Gareth pumped himself again, moving his hand faster as he pictured you. Bending you over his drum set in your pretty little sparkly skirts. Pushing up against the wall backstage at a show. Thrusting into your mouth as you kneeled in front of him. Watching as you wrapped your hand around his cock, pumping it painfully slowly with that perfect grip you have. The little moans and whines that would escape your lips as he thrusted into you deeper and deeper, your nails scratching down the skin of his back or digging into the skin of his biceps.

The thoughts of you continued as he picked up the pace, moaning and groaning your name softly. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hand movements getting sloppy as he came closer and closer to his high.

An image of you on your knees for him, face covered in his cum was what finally pushed him over the edge. The thought of you taking everything he gave you, licking up and down his cock as he came, hips sputtering as came down from his high.

Gareth groaned your name, feeling his hot cum spill onto his hand as he pumped himself a few more times. He sighed, resting the back of his head against the wall of the shower.

He heard a knock on the door followed by Eddie’s voice traveling through the door, “Gareth? Are you almost done in there?”

He grunted softly, cleaning himself up in the water before he began to actually take his shower. “Yeah, I’ll be out soon.” He called back, scrubbing the shampoo through his hair as his mind went back to thoughts about you.

tag list: wanna be added? comment + let me know! @the-unforgivenn ; @keeryhours ; @fan-maddson ; @hotgirlsshareaccounts ; @swiftieintheupsidedown ; @hawkinsmafia ; @losingmygrasponreality ; @ilovecupcakesandtea ; @pupwrites ; @the-lurking-await-you ; @l1ving-d3ad-girl-69

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imsodishy · 3 months ago

Text

Take a Step That is New

another episode of Four's Company (a series on ao3)

this episode filmed in front of a live studio audience

May 1987

The cheery chimes above the door at Dot's Dinner ting-a-ling as Steve walks in and he almost throws his stupid briefcase at it. He settles at the last minute for telling it to, “Shut the hell up,” and heads for the counter.

“Whoa, buddy, rough day?” Robin's already saddled up on a stool, Billy’s just serving up her burger and onion rings.

The boxy fan they’ve set up on the counter does nothing to dispel the muggy heat that’s settled over the city, just moves the humid air around. It also does nothing to improve Steve’s mood, sweltering in his stupid suit, he yanks at his tie until he can breathe again.

Steve claims the stool next to Robin, peels off his stuffy jacket and slams it down on the teal formica counter top with zero thought for whatever grease or condiments it might find there, then he plonks his head down next to it without acknowledging Robin, and groans like a dying seal, “I hate my fucking life.”

It’s not true, Steve likes his life. Mostly.

What he fucking hates is his job. Which makes up… some way too big percentage of his life; 9 to 5, Monday to Friday is a big chunk of the week. The heat doesn’t help.

Robin pat-pats his shoulder consolingly. He hears Billy huff at his dramatics before walking away from the sad spectacle of Steve’s life. Off in the corner Seymour, a grumpy old regular who basically lives at his booth, frowns. He’s always frowning at something though. Mostly at Steve, though not exclusively. Eddie earns his fair share of stink-eye.

Robin's hand is still on Steve’s shoulder when he can sense her lean in closer and– “Don't fucking sniff me, dude!” He snaps upright, leaning as far away from her as he can without toppling off the stool. “It's so weird.”

“Sorry! Sorry,” she says, “You seem stressed is all, and I was just checking you didn’t go crawling back to sweet lady nicotine's disgusting embrace.”

Robin’s been rabid lately on her bid to get all three of them to quit smoking. It started with a not in the house rule, and has quickly progressed to all out war on the cancer sticks. Steve's the only one who's buckled so far. He's on an almost two month streak right now, and she's been playing hard defense to keep him on it. He draws the line at the sniffing though. That is simply unacceptable.

Steve rolls his eyes, and grumbles, “I didn’t smoke,” God, he could really go for one right now though, “If I bring a lighter to work I’ll end up burning the building down.”

A strawberry milkshake clonks down on the counter in front of him as Billy basically drops it like a bomb, “Oh my God. Quit! Just quit your stupid fucking job that you hate!” he explodes, “I cannot listen to your sad-sack, bitch-baby, whining about it anymore.“

Steve pulls his milkshake in close just in case Billy tries to confiscate it for bitch-baby behavior. “I can’t just quit,” he whines.

Billy just rolls his eyes and doesn’t try to take Steve’s one joy away from him. “Why? Because your Dad got it for you?”

And like, yeah, but Billy doesn’t have to be such a dickhead about it.

Billy landed his job at Dot’s Diner like some kind of magic. Seriously, their first day in New York, they hadn’t even unpacked any of the boxes they'd schlepped into the house when Billy dusted off his hands and said, “I'm gonna get the lay of the land,” and walked out the front door.

He came back six hours later with a job and a peanut butter milkshake. It took him a month after that to tell them where he worked, and he tells them frequently that he's regretted it everyday since he caved. They do spend a lot of time there bothering him, despite the fact he refuses to give them freebies. His boss, Sal (who reminds Steve a lot of Benny from the diner back home, if he had about two dozen extra tattoos, like they both rolled off a big, gruff, diner proprietor assembly line somewhere), is actually way more likely to sling them a free coke or some fries once in a while.

“We could find you another job,” Robin says, as she’s been saying for months, “One that makes you at least sixty percent less arson-y, guaranteed!”

Robin got her job at the campus bookstore through student services, (obviously not an option for Steve), although, with the first year under her belt, she's talking about looking elsewhere for employment, since the school pays them peanuts anyway, and she thinks she'll be able to balance her schedule better now on her own.

The door chimes jangle crazily as Eddie bursts into the diner, “Outstanding news chums!” he booms, ignoring Seymour scowling in his direction.

“Easy on the door, Munson,” Billy warns.

Eddie shuts the door with exaggerated care, before he hustles over to the counter and hops up on the stool on Robins other side. He gives himself a drumroll, rattling all the flatware on the counter. Old Seymour’s glare intensifies.

“I have news,” he repeats, flipping his cup right-side-up for Billy to fill with coffee he doesn’t need, upcoming nightshift at the bar or no.

Robin takes a guess, “You talked to you boss about getting the time off for the Hawkins trip?” she doesn’t sound that hopeful.

And for good reason. “What? No,” Eddie dismisses her with a flapping hand, “I have an audition with a band!”

“Gasp,” Robin says flatly. The only news Eddie gets this excited about is when he's auditioning, or sitting in, or has a lead on some new band seeking a guitarist.

Eddie, by his own account, got his so-called day job (it’s nights, bar-backing) by just hanging around the bar/music venue he frequents all the time, bothering the bartenders (and selling them weed) until one of them slapped a rag in his hand and told him to make himself useful. Which suits him just fine to fill time while he chases his music dream.

“Look, I'm going to Hawkins either way,” Eddie tells her with a carefree shrug, “If Rosco won't give me the time off I'll just quit and get a new job when we get back.”

“See!” Billy says, slamming the coffee pot back into it's cradle, “You see how easy that is, Harrington? You lose a job, then you get another one. C'est la fucking vie.”

Eddie leans around Robin to look at Steve, “Oh-ho. Did the little Lord Harrington finally break free from the yuppie rat race?”

“No,” Steve says, and slurps a big sip of his milkshake.

Steve didn’t get his own job at all, obviously. It was already lined up for him before they even rented the moving truck. It came pre-approved for him courtesy of his father and his father’s business connections. Steve's been working there for almost a year now, but he's still not entirely clear what they do.

It's real-estate... kind of? The company buys properties, but they do it by selling shares in the properties to other companies, then they use that money to pay construction companies to tear down those properties and build new ones on the land. Those construction companies use that money to buy steel and other building shit from Steve’s dad’s plants back in Indiana (and Michigan). Then Steve's bosses sell the whole shebang for several butt-loads of money for them and their investors to start the game all over again.

Steve’s job largely seems to involve standing around, insuring their side of the boardroom has the most men in suits at all times, and occasionally kissing investor ass. He’s a Junior Account Associate somehow.

It’s soul crushing.

“Aw, cheer up, Stevie,” Eddie says, slapping him on the back, “Look on the bright side, at least you can always keep our beer fridge stocked with that fat paycheck of yours.”

Robin does Steve the favor of smacking Eddie upside the head.

Steve decides to change the subject, “What’s the band called, Ed?” he asks, because that’s always good for a laugh at least.

Eddie holds his hands in front of his face like he's framing a marquee, “ God of Gore ,” he announces in a theatrical growl.

Steve snorts to himself. Yeah, that’s good shit.

“And,” he goes on, voice rising in pitch as he gets more hyped up, “Get this, their last guitarist up and moved to Indiana! How's that for kismet? It's fate, I tells ya!”

“Who would willingly move to Indiana,” Billy wonders, “The whole state's a toilet.”

Not at all bothered by the shit talking of their home state, Eddie hops down of his stool and announces, “Speaking of which, gotta drain the snake.”

While Robin is busy grimacing at that, Eddie wiggles incredibly unsubtle eyebrows at Billy. He gets a, much more subtle, jerk of the chin back, so Eddie slips right past the bathrooms and into the kitchen, and doubtless out the back door to smoke in peace, away from Robin’s judgmental gaze. He’s made vague, placating noises at her about cutting back, but he’s just been sneaking around behind her back, with Billy as an accomplice.

Billy might be smoking more out of spite.

Eddie's whirlwind act really made Steve feel like the sad-sack Billy accused him of being, and he’s sick of that feeling, gets more than enough of it everyday at work.

All the silverware rattles as he slams a decisive hand down on the counter, much to Seymour’s ire. “You know what I think would make me feel better?” Steve asks loudly and rhetorically.

He shoves away from the counter and heads straight for the jukebox.

“No!” Billy booms, pointing at Steve like he’s a cat on the counter.

Steve backs slowly down the aisle, facing Billy the whole way with big, guileless eyes. “What's that?”

“You’re still banned for Bryan Adams crimes.” Honestly, Steve’s probably got a couple bans stacked at the moment. Billy doles them out liberally.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Hargrove,” Steve bumps into the jukebox because he still won’t turn away from Billy’s impotent glare. It's great, his ears are going red.

“I call the shots here,” he tries, fruitlessly.

“No you don‘t, Sal does,” Steve snorts, “And, anyway, I am a private citizen, this is a free country! My dime is as good as anybody’s!” He's been spending too much time with Eddie.

Billy throws a spoon at him.

Steve cackles as he plugs the jukebox. There’s a couple beats of bassy synthesizer.

Billy tells him, “You’re a monster,” with feeling.

Then— “ Watching every motion in my foolish lover’s game.”

Steve slow dances back towards the counter, swaying to the dreamy beat of the bum-bum-bum-bubums, high on the joy of being deeply annoying. He slides back onto his stool just in time to dramatically sing along to, “ Take my breath awaaaaay,” right in Billy’s face. It's gone all red now, like the cherry on Steve's shake, which he happily pops between his grinning teeth.

“It’s not my fault Sal won’t put Mötley Crüe in there,” Steve says, munching happily on his cherry.

Billy storms off into the kitchen.

“Someday,” Robin muses through he mouthful of fried onions, “he’s going to feed you a floor burger, and I’m not going to stop him. This song is sincerely awful.”

“I like it,” Steve declares.

“Of course you do.” Robin pats his hand condescendingly.

She swivels on her stool to face him, a concerned little furrow in her brow, and ketchup on her cheek. “Seriously though, Steve, we could find you a different job. No problem. You got the job at Family Video, and Scoops before that.” Robin got him the job at Family Video, and he only got the job at Scoops because the first guy they hired showed up to the training stoned, but it’s nice of her to say. “You don’t need to stick it out because of your dad, you don’t need his help. It’s not your only option or whatever bullshit you’re worried about. You can get a different job. And, okay, no it wouldn’t pay as much, but you'd get by.”

Robin wasn’t Steve’s first real friend or anything like that, he wouldn’t even say she’s his first good friend . But she’s definitely his best friend. Steve lays a hand over her slightly greasy one on the counter, and furrows his brow right back at her, “But then, Robin, who would keep the beer fridge stocked?”

She rolls her eyes and turns back to her burger, “So we'd have to bid goodbye to Daddy Beer-bucks, we'd survive.”

They would. Robin, Billy, and Eddie are resourceful, and smart, and self-sufficient, they’d figure out a way get by, even with Steve hanging like an anchor around their necks. But Steve hates the idea of dragging them down. Actually can’t stand it. He literally gets a stomach ache if he thinks too hard about it. When he can hear future Robin, somewhere down the line, when she’s sick of his shit, saying You can’t expect us to handle every little issue for you, dingus, in his head, except sometimes the ‘dingus’ morphs into ‘darling’ and imaginary-Robin sounds disturbingly like his mother (which doesn’t help the stomach ache problem at all). So he needs to keep bringing in enough money to pay his way.

Steve just smiles at her.

Billy reemerges from the kitchen to make a round of his tables, giving Steve the evil eye as he goes, before settling behind the counter to concentrate on glaring at Steve despite the fact that the song is long over by now, Eddie Money is playing now. Steve raises his eyebrows at his glare, “Don’t look at me, I’m all out of dimes.”

Robin, perhaps prompted by Mr. Money asks, “Where'd Eddie go? He’s taking forever in there.”

Billy silently points over her shoulder to where they can clearly see Eddie’s hunched form cowering miserably under the diner's awning from the unpleasantly warm rain that’s finally broken after threatening all day. He’s sucking down smoke like his life depends on it. Must not have been enough shelter in the alley when the rain started.

“No!” Robin shouts, much like Billy had shouted at Steve earlier, and dashes out the door, bells cheerfully chiming her exit. Eddie takes a couple more panicked puffs before Robin gets to him and he has to start playing keep away with the butt.

Steve watches them through the window for a couple seconds like a real life version of those weird old puppet shows, “What are those puppets that–“

“Punch and Judy,” Billy answers the unfinished question.

He flicks a dime that bounces off Steve's forehead and drops to the counter with a ring-a-ting-ting. “Go put on some Springsteen, Bambi,” he says, smiling at him like he’s still a sad-sack, sure, but at least he’s one Billy’s kinda fond of, then he goes to top off Seymour’s coffee down at the far end of the other end of the diner.

For Billy alone, Seymour’s got a great big smile.

Steve has stapled his tie to his desk. Which seems like the kind of thing most people would only do by accident. Not Steve, though. No, he simply got so bored that when the thought, I wonder if I could staple my tie to this desk right now, breezed through his head he went ahead and did it.

Turns out he could, so he added a couple more staples for no better reason than the first one.

Steve feels like his brain is melting out his ears which is maybe half boredom, half the heat. The AC has been in and out all week, something about the grid according to maintenance. Turns out a cracked window and a fan isn’t any more effective on the 10th floor of a Manhattan office building than it is in a ground level diner in the Bronx.

“Harrington.” All the staples explode off his tie, flying all over his little hot-box of an office, when he jerks upright as Connor Michaels walks in to his office. The guy definitely notices the staples too, judging by the shitty little smirk on his face.

The thing about all of Steve’s coworkers is that they hate him, because he’s clearly just a doofus nepotism hire who has no business working here. They all hide it behind a veneer of polite condescension while trying to use him as a connection since his last name is Harrington, though. It’s all so pathetically exactly like high school Steve can hardly stand it.

Connor chuckles, “Tgif, am I right? Listen, I asked Laura to pull the permits for the Hell’s Kitchen property for me, but she’s on the rag or something and flipped out at me.”

The other thing about Steve’s coworkers is that they’re all douchebags.

“Okay,” Steve says to avoid stapling his smug face.

“I know she does shit like that for you all the time, so think you could work your magic?” Connor wiggles his fingers vaguely that reminds Steve of how his mom would talk about his sport’s things any time it came up.

Laura is the only exception to the douchebag rule. She’s smart, and competent, and the only woman at Steve’s level of management. She also hates Steve, but she doesn't try to hide it. She’s got integrity about it. The only reason she helps Steve with things like permits and filings is that she knows she’s the one who will have to clean up the mess if he royally screws it. She reminds him a lot of Robin in the early days of working at Scoops, just completely unimpressed by and uninterested in his King Steve bullshit.

Steve does frequently throw himself on her mercy, she’s the only reason he hasn’t caused any serious problems so far. Which is maybe the other reason she keeps helping him, because he unreservedly admits that it’s a joke that they’re on the same level professionally. And not a funny one.

Steve starts sweeping the staples that landed on his desk and not the floor into a pile, “Sure,” he says to Connor, hoping that’ll get him to leave.

No luck. Instead he tucks his hand in his pockets and settles into a slouches against Steve’s wall, “How do you manage that anyway?” he asks lightly, “You tapping that?”

Steve rolls his eyes, “No.”

Connor hums, “Yeah, not surprising. I bet she’s a dyke.”

And maybe, on a different day, when Steve wasn’t already at his boiling point both figuratively and literally, he would have responded more... diplomatically.

“I quit my job,” Steve announces as he walks through the front door of his house.

All three of his roommates turn to gape at him from the living room.

They were all lounging around in the bare minimum of clothes required for the living room with two opposing fans pointed at them in an attempt at a cross breeze when Steve arrived home with his briefcase in a cardboard box with shockingly little else in the way of personal effects in it. He really hadn’t built up much of a presence at the office over the nearly a year he worked there.

“What?” Robin exclaims, as she mutes the TV, “What happened?”

“I threw a stapler at a guy’s head.” Steve answers.

“A stapler?” Billy asks, baffled, “Why?”

Steve shrugs, “I don’t know. I mean, I also said a lot of shit, but the stapler was probably the button on it.” Steve drops his things, steps out of his wingtips, and starts tugging at his tie as he makes his way across the room, “It wasn’t even- Like, I mean, it was business as usual, really. It wasn’t anything new, and I just... lost it.” He’s down to his undershirt and boxershorts by the time he collapses between Robin and Billy on the couch with a massive sigh like a slowly deflating raft.

“Right on man,” Eddie says from his spot on the armchair, leaning over to slap Steve’s knee, “I bet that guy had a stapler to the face coming.”

He really did, Steve must concede.

“Shit, I can’t believe I quit.”

Robin makes a questioning noise, “Did you actually quit, or did they fire you? For the stapler thing?”

“Who gives shit,” Billy says before Steve can tell them he’s not actually sure technically, “It’s done and dusted either way. Which calls for a celebration!”

Billy bounces up off the couch and goes to the kitchen to collect a round of beers for everyone, he’s the only one who’s foregone a shirt so far, which is unsurprising. He pops the caps of with his ring before doling out the bottles.

“To casting off the corporate shackles!” Eddie toasts, Billy and Robin here-hereing it.

Steve takes a big gulp of his beer. “What the hell am I gonna do?” he wonders aloud.

“Celebrate!” Robin says, she’s also in a t-shirt and boxershorts, which she stole from Steve a while back for loungewear, “Like the man said.”

Steve huffs, “I meant like, longer term. The rent and stuff.”

“Don't worry, Stevie my boy,” Eddie says, clapping him on the back, “Once we find you a real person job you'll do just fine. After all, the rest of us plebs cover our fair shares with our piddly little paychecks, right?”

Steve, caught out, hesitates a beat too long (long enough for Billy's bullshit radar to ping), before saying, “Right. Sure. Yeah,” in a way that clearly doesn’t cover for him.

Billy squints at him, “We have all been covering our fair share of the rent, right, Harrington?”

Steve nods but he can’t maintain eye contact when he answers, “Right. Fair shares.”

Robin, catching on immediately, groans, “Oh god, Steve, tell me you haven’t been doing something outstandingly stupid, like paying half the rent, this whole freaking time.” When Steve doesn’t answer right away she screeches, “Steven!”

“Not half! I haven’t, okay?” he rushes to explain, “Just, like,” he holds up his fingers pinched so close together, “A little more, than you guys.”

“How much more,” Billy demands through clenched teeth.

“Well,” Steve tries to think of how best to phrase it, “Imagine we had a fifth roommate, who's rent I have also been paying.”

“So, double,” Billy’s basically growling now, “You've been paying double what the rest of us have. This whole goddamn time!” Steve hadn’t thought of it that way, but the math does check out. He thinks.

“And... also the utilities,” he admits reluctantly.

“Oh, Stevie,” Eddie says, shaking his head sadly.

“Fuck!” Billy shouts and storms off, stomping his way upstairs without anyone trying to stop him. When Billy removes himself from a situation, it’s best to let him.

“I can probably still get the job back,” Steve offers, even though the thought makes him nauseous. He’ll eat shit if he needs to, “If I tell them I was on coke or something they might actually respect me more.”

Eddie’s still shaking his head, but more decisively, “No way, man. We’re not letting you go crawling back to those corporate shitbags now, not a chance in hell.”

“No other job I can get for myself is going to pay a quarter as well, though.”

Robin backs Eddie up though, “You were miserable, Steve. None of us wants you to be miserable like that, not for any amount of money.”

Steve still can’t just let it go, though, “But without that money-

“There’s no need to panic, all we need is a plan. You’ve got savings, yeah? That’ll give us a cushion until you get a new job- we need to do a comprehensive household budget,” Robin says, like she’s already running numbers in her head, “We’ve been way too loosey-goosey about it, anyway.” Because they’ve been relying on Steve to smooth over any gaps. Not that they necessarily knew that. They’d just hit him up for beer and pizza sometimes and called it a Shill tax.

“I don’t know how to do a budget,” Steve admits with an apologetic grimace.

Eddie slings an arm over his shoulders and tries to pull him into some kind of wonky headlock while Steve resists him easily, “Don’t you fret, for you are a very lucky boy, with three wonderful roommates, whose collars are all extremely blue. We’ll show you the ropes.”

“You know what the easiest expense to cut is?” Robin says brightly, “Cigarettes.”

“You know what!” Eddie wheels on her, suddenly apparently at his limit on the whole smoking thing.

Steve watches them bicker back and forth for a couple minutes. Even though it’s clear that this has been building for a while, and of course the inescapable heat doesn’t help, Steve can’t help but feel like it’s his fault for dropping a stress bomb on their heads. Or at least it feels very reminiscent of watching his parents fight about the wallpaper when what they really want to fight about is their miserable marriage. What’s the word for that? Displacement?

Eventually he slips out, leaving Robin and Eddie to their squabbles he can’t really contribute to one way or the other and heads upstairs.

Billy's not in his room, but Steve didn’t really expect him to be.

Halfway up the flight of stairs from the second floor to the third there's a window, and outside the window is a strip of roof, about five feet wide by ten feet long, and gently sloped, covering their porch below. Billy likes to sulk out there, especially since the weather turned, though not quite so much since it turned mean.

Sure enough, the window is ajar and Steve can smell smoke.

He sticks his hands out the window, palms out, he comes in peace, “I’m coming out,” he says, “Please don’t hurl me off the roof.”

Billy doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t bite Steve’s head off either, which from him is basically an engraved invitation.

Steve hauls himself up onto the little stretch of roof, crab walking over ‘til he can plant his butt next to Billy. Even though the sun is sinking fast the heat hasn’t broken at all.

He snags the cigarette right out of Billy’s mouth as he settles next to him and takes a long, indulgent drag. He only grimaces a little at the taste, Billy and his fucking Marlboros.

“Ooooh,” Billy deigns to speak to him, snatching his smoke back, “Robin's gonna be mad at you,”

“More or less mad than when I tell her I'm not going to Hawkins this summer?”

Billy's hand freezes with the cigarette just about back to his mouth. His lips, already parted to accept it, now just hanging slack pointlessly. “Seriously?”

Steve shrugs, shooting for nonchalance, missing by a mile probably. “Figure I can do without getting the full rundown on what an embarrassing disappointment I am in person. I’m sure I’ll get the CliffsNotes from our answering machine anyway. Those were always more my speed.”

He figures they'll share a laugh at that, but when he looks over Billy's not laughing. In fact, he's not even smiling, he just takes a rough drag off the cigarette and then hands it back to Steve without prompting. “If your dad leaves any blowhard message on our machine, I’m deleting them.”

Steve’s not sure what to say to that so for a while they just pass the butt back and forth in silence until he screws up his courage to ask, "What about you? You mad at me?” with a wince, “About the rent thing.”

“Well I’m not fucking thrilled about it, Harrington.”

Yeah, that was obvious.

Billy runs an agitated hand through his hair leaving his curls, already frizzy from the humidity, even more messed up. “Thought- it felt like we were making it. Doing it for real, you know? Standing on my own two feet like a man,” he scoffs to himself, “ Stupid.”

Billy’s got a very specific tone he does when he’s quoting his dad, and Steve fucking hates it.

“You are,” Steve insists. Billy quirks an eyebrow at him, and Steve scrambles to clarify, “Making it. Not stupid. You’re making it.”

“Not without a heaping helping of charity apparently. I can’t-”

“It wasn’t charity, dickhead!” Billy’s mouth snaps shut, and thank god for that, because Steve has no more interest in hearing what Neil Hargrove would have to say about his son than Billy does in suffering through phone messages from Richard Harrington. “It just made sense. I took that stupid job from my dad, and the paycheck was the only good goddamn thing about it. And you guys have all this other stuff going on. You and Robin have school, and Eddie’s trying to do his whole music thing. I mean, what the hell else was I supposed to do with all that stupidly easy money I was barely really earning? Other than use it to buy you guys food, and beer, and, yeah, pay the fucking rent!” He’s worked up a good head of steam, but he deflates immediately in the wake of his outburst, “I mean, what the hell else am I bringing to the table here?”

Suddenly self-conscious in the silence that follows, and way too aware that he’s breathing a little heavy, Steve snatches the cigarette from Billy’s hand. Takes a huffy little puff, like someone who doesn’t know how to inhale, then takes a slower, more measured one.

“You sell yourself short, you know,” Billy says, uncharacteristically quiet. Steve looks over at him, but Billy's not looking back, he's gazing out across their neighborhood instead.

“Look,” he goes on, slow and awkward, “I don’t exactly know where I'd be right now, if not for you. But, I know I wouldn’t be here .” He throws his arms out wide to encompass all of New York City, and their whole life here.

It's not like they have a spectacular view or anything, they're not up remotely high enough for that. Their sagging little strip of roof, on their rundown building, isn’t even facing the glittering Manhattan skyline. Down below them a taxi driver is shouting at a truck that’s blocking a cross street. The humidity is oppressive and the heat makes the streets stink like garbage, and it’s not like it’s any cooler in the house.

Their whole life here? It doesn’t actually look like very much from the outside.

Steve gets it though.

He jostles their shoulders together, “You would have gotten out. You would have made it anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Billy plucks the cigarette out of Steve’s grasp, kills the last of it and pitches the butt to the street below. Steve watches the glowing trail of the cherry as it falls.

“You know,” Billy says after a long stretch of mostly comfortable silence, “If you don’t go to Hawkins, you’re gonna have to let Eddie drive the beemer.”

“Shit, I didn’t think of that.” He waves off the thought, “Can’t be helped. I need to start the job search anyway.”

Steve thinks about that process for all of thirty seconds before he groans, “Man, my resume is gonna be so fucking weird.” Steve lists his employment record out on his fingers, “Scoops Ahoy, burned down. Family Video... I don’t think I gave notice at Family Video, I think I just left and didn’t come back. Kensington Group Limited, assaulted a co-worker with stationary.”

“Well, if all else fails, you know Eddie would love to fake some references for you,” Billy says, “Bet he’ll do voices and everything.”

“Just what I need. A reference from Gondelf.”

Billy snorts a laughs, “It’s Gandalf, you know it’s Gandalf.” He’s right, Steve knows that, because Eddie never shuts up about that book.

“Mmm, pretty sure it’s Gondelf. I mean, he’s an elf, right?” Billy just rolls his eyes but he’s smiling, and listing a little towards Steve.

“Billy,” Steve speaks softly, earnestly. Billy hums back a question, “Would you... get me a job at the diner?”

Billy explodes with laughter, “Fuck no!”

“C’mon,” he wheedles, through his own laughter, “We can commute together! Sal loves you. Be a pal, put in a good word for me!”

Billy punches him in the shoulder, “Sure, I’ll tell him you’re a chronic masturbator and that I’ve never seen you wash your hands.”

“Thanks, buddy. I really appreciate that.”

Billy grabs the shoulder of Steve’s shirt and rattles him around a bit like a dog with a squeaky toy, “I’m going to shove you off this roof,” he threatens through laughter.

They lapse into giggly silence and then just silent silence. Billy keeps his grip on Steve’s shirt like he’s worried he might actually go toppling over the edge after all if Billy doesn’t keep a tight hold.

Or maybe he’s just forgotten that his hand is there.

“Hey,” Steve says after a while, just to get Billy to look him in the eye, “We’re gonna be fine,” he reassures him once he has.

Billy’s undivided attention is always intense, eyes like blue lasers locked on to a target. It used to freak Steve out in high school, but he’s gotten used to it. It’s just how Billy is. Sharp like that.

Sharp enough that he reads Steve like a goddamn book and knows that as much as Steve really was trying to reassure him, he was also, maybe just a bit, fishing for reassurance too.

“We’re gonna be fine,” Billy parrots.

They stare at each other, probably for too long, sitting in a little loop of comforting and being comforted. And Steve, he believes it. They’re gonna be fine.

They have each other.

#steve harrington #billy hargrove #robin buckley #eddie munson #harringrove #(pre harringrove really but ya know)#more cross-posting #dishy writes #four's company #fic

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scarletwitchproperty · 1 month ago

Text

Your eyes whispered have we met? - Chapter 6 (epilogue)

Pairing: Taylor Swift x Fem!OC

Words: 5,2k

Summary: It's the first night of the Eras Tour and something magical happens

Warnings: none (okay no maybe that's a lie I almost gave Tree a heart attack in this with Taylor and OC almost doing it in front of her lmao the poor woman)

masterlist

The End Of All The Endings (She knelt to the ground and said…)

‘’Are you sure about this Taylor?’’

‘’Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?’’

‘’It’s just…it doesn’t look safe at all. I’m worried about you!’’

Four months. It’s been four glorious months since you met your soulmate, your Lover, the Queen of your Heart, your everything.

You got to know one another pretty quickly the days following that fateful Sunday, going on dates like any normal couple would do. Taylor took you to her favorite restaurants in the city, and more often than not she would also drag you along to her recording studio. You love these private moments the best, being able to listen to her enchanting voice away from prying eyes. Often times you record Taylor in front of her mic, completely bewitched by the passion she showcases each and every time she performs any of her song for you.

You met the rest of her family and friends on her birthday three months ago, which was an event in and of itself. Andrea had been nothing but sweet to you, and although Scott had looked at you with narrowed eyes at first it didn’t take long for him to warm up to you. Taylor’s brother acted as though he knew you since forever, telling you embarrassing childhood memories about the singer every chance he could. Taylor acted like it bothered her to no end, but you knew otherwise.

Robin had insisted that you invite Taylor and her parents over at her house for Christmas Day, telling you that it would be a good opportunity for all the in laws to meet. Your soulmate’s parents loved the idea, and now you knew where Taylor’s love language came from, because the way Andrea’s car was half full of presents for your nephews wasn’t even funny. As you predicted, Taylor fell in love with little James the first time she laid eyes on him. The little boy even had that weird but cute phase a month ago where he refused to sleep anywhere else other than in Taylor’s arms, but it all came to a stop the day you blasted Wonderland from your phone and the baby fell asleep on the couch. It was then discovered that while James loved your soulmate, it was the sound of her voice that lulled him to sleep. It still didn’t prevent Taylor from bragging about it to everyone. Even to Tree.

It was, of course, inevitable that pictures of you would start circulating all over the internet. You were aware that it was a possibility, but the day you saw a man standing outside your daycare with his gigantic camera filming your every move was the day you clearly lost your shit. That was a complete breech of privacy and the children didn’t deserve this, nor did you. If not for the countless bodyguards Taylor had patrolling around the block the man would be six feet underground, and you were sure the remains of his camera could still be found where you crushed it with all your strength on the street that day. Serves him right!

However, the thing that surprised you the most was that Taylor’s fans, the Swifties, defended you on the internet every chance they could. Someone tried to badmouth you in a video? Comments immediately flooded by angry swifties. Another tries to belittle you when they find out where you work? Best be sure someone would find out their name, address, phone number and place of work faster than you could blink and send it all to their boss, effectively getting them fired. Of course there were still those whom were less than supportive of your relationship with Taylor, but those who were supportive held a special place in your heart.

Speaking of Taylor’s fans, you could hear all seventy thousands of them talking and screaming out in the stadium, waiting for your soulmate to come on stage for her first ever show of her new world tour, The Eras Tour.

To say that you didn’t cry tears of joy when Taylor told you she was going on tour for more than a year would be a lie. You were so happy for her, glad that all her hard work would finally pay off. Although she didn’t tell you which song she would put on the set list, you know it’s going to be amazing to see. Simply looking at her sitting next to you in her pink and blue bodysuit as well as her brand new knee-high boots made you loose your mind.

Now the hazardous contraption meant to transport her unnoticed for the beginning of the show was another thing.

‘’But babe what if you die in that thing? What am I going to tell the kids?’’

‘’Darling don’t be so dramatic,’’ Taylor says as she holds you against her, head over yours. ‘’Olivia, Meredith, Benjamin and Bailey will be okay. They’ll have their second mom with them if I die.’’

‘’TAYLOR!’’

‘’What? They love you more than me anyway! But seriously Charlie, I’ll be okay. I promise,’’ your soulmate kisses you on the nose and you finally relax. You know it’s a bit childish of you to worry about something like this, because no one on Taylor’s team would allow her to do something stupid and/or dangerous (you still had doubts). ‘’It’s just a cleaning cart, and look! There’s a blanket at the bottom, and I’ll be sitting on it the whole time. You can even walk next to it before they bring you to the tent, alright? You won’t get rid of me that easily.’’

‘’Tay I love you too much to even think about getting rid of you.’’

‘’Say that again?’’

‘’I love you Taylor, forever and always.’’

Taylor kisses you then, her lips taking control of yours, but before it can go further like it usually does when you’re alone together and your soulmate gets too into it, someone clears their throat behind you. You almost yank yourself away from Taylor but she keeps the kiss going for another ten second before she releases you with a smirk upon her face.

‘’There, something to make you think of me for the next three and a half hours,’’ Taylor declares, giving you one last kiss on the cheek. She winks at you before she gets up and turns towards the redhead whom interrupted you. ‘’You couldn’t let me have this one moment with my soulmate did you?’’

‘’Taylor, you know as well as I do that you can’t miss your entrance, it’s the first night of your Tour, it must be perfect,’’ Tree, the woman of the hour, says as she waves at you. The publicist had made it clear at the very beginning of your relationship that she didn’t appreciate Taylor’s little stunt of not listening to her directives, but she was also smart enough to recognize that it was a little bit harsh to command the singer to stay away from you for months. Tree also quickly became one of your favorite people in the world, the main reason being that she was ready to ride at dawn for Taylor in the blink of an eye. ‘’Come on Taylor, get inside the damn cleaning cart. The sooner you get to the stage the sooner my headache will go away.’’

‘’Awww, are you saying I’m the solution to all your problems?’’

‘’You wish,’’ Tree rolls her eyes and turns to you. ‘’Your family is safe and waiting for you. Theo insisted that I tell you to hurry up, as he wants to ‘watch aunty TayTay singing on stage with aunty Charlie next to me or I’ll be mad at her forever’. I would do what he says, just to be sure.’’

You put your earplugs in your ear before anything else, observing with apprehension as Taylor gets in the cleaning cart. You’re able to see her smile up close one last time before one of her staff member closes the door and you’re all off.

Outside, the sound is almost deafening. Despite your earplugs being in, you can still hear the thousands of fans screaming and singing along to the music that’s playing before Taylor gets on. Some of them notice you walking behind the cleaning cart, confused but happy to see you there nonetheless. You put a finger over your mouth, winking at them and pointing to the cleaning cart with your other hand, laughing as you hear quite a few Swifties shouting ‘’OH MY GOD TAYLOR! TAYLOR’S IN THERE YOU GUYS!’’. You did help them in figuring it out, but honestly how they guessed it so quick is incredible.

Once you arrive behind the scene and away from prying eyes, Taylor finally gets out of her deathtrap. You swiftly jump onto her and the singer is all too pleased to let you do so, squeezing your backside as you wrap your legs around her waist.

‘’You’re alive thank gods!’’

‘’Honestly you’re just being dramatic darling,’’ Taylor whispers against your neck, pressing her lips against your skin. You shiver as you feel the ghost of her tongue tracing a pattern up and down your neck, a pleasurable pain radiating from it as Taylor bites down on your skin. She reaches your lips and proceeds to give you one of her special breath stealing kiss, teeth trapping your lower lip as she lets you down from her. ’’Now off you go. If you look for me, I’ll be the one in the sparkly outfits!’’

‘’Love you Taylor!’’

‘’Love you too Charlie!’’

Tree rolls her eyes at you when you join her, acting like she’s horrified by your display of affection but you know she secretly loves seeing Taylor so happy with you. There is a clock on the giant screen when you walk out, and Tree starts cursing under her breath as she urges you on. The security guards around you keep people from getting too close as you get to the VIP tent, but a teenager with her hand held towards you catches your eye. She has her arms full of friendship bracelets, a new tradition from Taylor’s fans that you love, and when you lock eyes with her something clicks in your head.

Despite Tree’s slight protest you go towards the exited teen, your own hand full of one of the many friendship bracelets Taylor helped you make. You hand it to her as she gives you one of hers, tears of happiness running down her face.

‘’OH MY GOD THANK YOU! We love you so much!’’ The teen shouts, showing of her new bracelet to her friend next to her. ‘’Mia look! Oh my god thank you so much again! Exile is my favorite one from Folklore, how did you know?!’’

‘’Just a hunch,’’ you answer with a smile and a wink. You see her hesitantly looking down at her phone. ‘’Do you want a picture maybe? It’s okay if you do, we have approximately…a little more than one minute until Taylor comes out.’’

‘’YES PLEASE!’’

The picture gets taken, and when you hand the girl’s phone back to her you sneakily whisper in her ear.

‘’Take care of that bracelet or Taylor will be very much upset you’ve lost one of her creation.’’

Tree drags you away with all her strength, the girl’s screams of surprise and joy still echoing in your ears as you reach yours and Taylor’s families. Andrea and Scott both give you a hug when they see you, quickly letting you go when you hear your best friend shouting your name.

‘’BESTIE FINALLY! Where the heck were you?!’’

You go to answer Sam but your best friend quickly cuts you off, laughing as she points to your neck.

‘’You know what? Forget I asked, it was a stupid question anyway,’’ Sam keeps laughing as your entire face turns red, acutely aware of Taylor’s parents watching over you and the apparent hickey on your neck. ‘’ALEX! You owe me fifty bucks for this! I told you she was late because they were fuck-‘’

‘’HUSH!’’ Try as you might, everyone in the VIP tent heard Sam. Even your own sister was laughing at you, the traitor. ‘’Must you always bet on us like that?’’

‘’What can I say? With these kinds of bets, I always win,’’ Sam answers with a wink, throwing her arm over your shoulder. She gives you a kiss on the cheek as she steers you towards your sister and the rest of your family. ‘’But you love me anyway Charlie. And Taylor does too, that’s why it’s easy to guess where you are and what you’re doing if you’re not with us.’’

‘’…are we really that predicable?’’

‘’Sweetie, you two were literally late for Christmas because Taylor couldn’t get her hands off of you,’’ you hear your mother say. She hugs you too, ruffling your hair in the process. ‘’She had her shirt inside out, and you were missing a sock.’’

‘’You were barely able to walk too.’’

‘’GET IT GIRL!’’

‘’SAM SHUT UP!’’

Suddenly the crowd goes wild and your eyes are inevitably drawn to the stage. The clock has reached its final seconds, and when it slowly disappears from the screen even you can’t help but share in everyone’s excitement. You hold your breath as the introduction starts, the dancers getting on stage with their gigantic colorful props. When one of them bends down with his giant prop touching the stage, your heart skips a beat because you have a pretty good feeling about what’s about to happen.

‘’GET IT AUNTY TAY TAY!’’ Theo screams when all the other dancers join the first one. His bright little mind apparently reached the same conclusion as you. ‘’I’m so excited!’’

Taylor appears on stage in her jaw-dropping bodysuit, capturing your heart all over again as she starts singing her seventh track of her seventh album. You must look like a fool as you stand there with tears running down your face, eyes glued upon your soulmate moving along to her own music. Everyone around you is either singing or dancing while your mind is still processing what it’s seeing.

You’re perfectly aware of your family filming your reaction to the show, can even see some of the fans doing the same, yet the tears won’t stop. Months ago you were living a normal life, in your cozy little apartment with your cat and going to work everyday, hoping and praying that one day your soulmate would show up.

And show up she did, stealing your body and soul as soon as she was able to get her hands on you. Taylor loves you, as you do her.

‘’Aunty Charlie are you crying?’’ Theo’s little voice asks you when Taylor is done singing You Need To Calm Down. You feel your nephew’s arms wrap around your waist as your soulmate gets handed a pink guitar. ‘’Are you sad because aunty Tay Tay is far away from you?’’

‘’I’m very much happy right now Theo,’’ you answer as you take him in your arms. ‘’I know she’ll get back to me before the night ends, and this is very much important to her. Do you understand that sweet boy?’’

‘’I think…’’

Theo suddenly gets this mischievous little smile upon his face as he turns his eyes back on Taylor.

‘’I think this night is very much important for aunty TayTay too.’’

‘’Of course it is Theo, it’s her first show of-‘’

‘’No! She wants to ask you to-humph!’’

Your sister is quick to cover your nephew’s mouth, glaring at him as if he was about to say something he shouldn’t. You get the feeling that it might as well be the case here, observing the way Robin is silently communicating with Theo. The little boy glances at Taylor on stage, then back at you, then once again at Taylor.

‘’I’m sorry mommy, I almost ruined it.’’

You don’t linger on this much longer as you hear Taylor say your name. She’s playing some chords on her guitar and you can feel her eyes boring into you from all the way up there on stage. The huge screen at her back even has your blushing face displayed for the entire stadium to see.

‘’I wrote this next song long before we met and I want the whole stadium…what am I saying, I want the whole world to know that from this moment and for the rest of our life I’ll sing it for you. Forever and always Charlie, remember?’’

The crowd goes wild again as Taylor sings the first lyrics to Lover but you’re still stuck on her very public declaration to you. Yes, she made a social media announcement about you two being together, yet somehow this right there felt like so much more. The whole time she keeps looking at you, her lips moving along to her lyrics, telling a story to the crowd while her eyes convey something of a deeper meaning to you.

You don’t stop crying when The Archer starts, not even when Theo jumps into your arms at the beginning of the Fearless era part of the show, screaming along to the song of the same name. The only thing able to bring you back to your normal self is Taylor once again saying your name at the end of Love Story and blowing a kiss your way.

‘’Are you feeling big feelings right now aunty Charlie?’’

‘’I-I think I am little man,’’ you whisper as you hug your nephew hard against you. Theo is holding onto you like a koala to its tree, little eyes jumping from you, to the stage, to the crowd and back to you again. ‘’I love her so much.’’

‘’Awww me too, I love her,’’ Theo admits, and you laugh. Your nephew starts playing with the bracelets around your wrists just as you recognize the first notes to Willow. ‘’Do you think I can sneak on stage with aunty TayTay?’’

‘’You could certainly try.’’ One glare from your sister makes you backtrack immediately. ‘’Although maybe that’s not such a good idea. There’s a lot of people on stage, you could fall and hurt yourself you know?’’

The rest of the show goes by and the more you see of Taylor performing, the more you think that your life and hers especially couldn’t get any better. You quite literally start drooling when the Reputation set starts, knees trembling all throughout …Ready For It?, admiring her red and black snake outfit. It sticks to her body like a second skin, and there comes a moment when your mind goes ‘’Damn, this would be a pain in the ass to get off of her…but so worth it.’’ and it must’ve shown on your face because the next thing you know Sam is smirking at you as her wife, Alex, keeps filming your face diligently.

When Delicate comes the entire stadium shouts the iconic chant to the song, and you know it shouldn’t surprise you yet it did, because Theo shouts the words right along with everyone. Your nephew is gleefully laughing afterwards, singing and dancing along to the rest of the song.

The transition between Don’t Blame Me and Look What You Made Me Do literally brings you to your knees. Taylor knows exactly what she’s doing, her electric blue eyes looking for you in the dark and smirking once she does find you. She moves this way and that, hitting high notes after high notes like it’s the easiest thing one could do in the world.

Before you know it the Speak Now, Red, Folklore and 1989 sets are over. Your eyes are still glued upon the stage where Taylor disappeared, cheeks red and sweat dripping down your back from all the dancing you just did. However a frown is quick to appear on your face when you notice a group of security guards walking towards the VIP tent.

‘’Andrea, do you know what’s happening?’’ You ask, confused. Taylor’s mother simply shrugs, acting like she is as clueless as you are. Yet you see it, the same glint in the older woman’s eyes that Taylor gets before she’s about to do something either stupid or completely mind-blowing. ‘’You know something. What is it?’’

‘’I’m not aware of anything.’’

‘’Come on, you’re just messing with me now and I just want to k-‘’

‘’Miss Walker? If you could follow us quickly,’’ one man amongst the security says as they stop in front of you. You just look at them with your eyes wide open, not knowing what to do with yourself. The man sighs. ‘’Please? The boss lady is waiting for you on stage.’’

‘’W-What for?’’

‘’We are not allowed to tell you, I’m sorry.’’

Damn you Taylor, trying to make me pass out aren’t you?

You do as you’re told, but not before you try and fail to make your nephew let go of you. Theo stubbornly stays glued to your body when Robin tries to get him back, stating high and loud that he wants to stay with you or he’ll scream ‘bloody murder’. You just shake your head at your sister and make your way backstage.

People put you on a platform to raise you up on the stage, not unlike Taylor for her 1989 set earlier. Your heart is beating wildly inside your ribcage, Theo squeezing you with all his might being the only reason you’ve not sent yourself into a full blown panic attack.

‘’Welcome to the acoustic session!’’

The stadium erupts into more cheers if that was even possible. You’re able to hear your soulmate talk about this fun new little tradition that she decided to add for the Eras Tour, and before you know it the platform your nephew and you are on starts moving up.

‘’Now before you hear the song I chose for you tonight, I actually have a very special guest coming here with me on stage! Would you mind giving a round of applause for my amazing soulmate Charlie? Yeah, come on!’’

There is a spotlight tracking your every move when you finally appear on stage, and as a reflex more than anything you turn your head away from the light as well as shield Theo’s eyes from it.

‘’Well, it looks like we might be getting two special guests tonight!’’ Taylor says into her mic, watching as you stay rooted to your spot. ‘’Little man do you mind telling your aunt that she actually needs to stand before me if she wants her surprise?’’

‘’YES AUNTY TAYTAY!’’ Theo screams right into your ear. The stadium erupts into a chorus of ‘Awwwww’ as your nephew jumps down from you and proceeds to drag you towards Taylor. He makes you sit down on the piano stool before assaulting your soulmate with a hug around her waist. ‘’Look I did it TayTay! Are you proud of me?’’

‘’Of course I am Theo!’’ Taylor tells your nephew, ruffling his hair as her mouth nears her mic once again. Her eyes are on you through it all, even as she addresses the crowd. ‘’It’s been a long time since I played this one on the guitar, so I ask that you forgive me if I mess the lyrics up a little, yeah?’’

There’s a smirk and ten seconds of notes on the guitar later you immediately recognize the song even before the lyrics come.

Our secret moments in your crowded room

They got no idea about me and you

There is an indentation in the shape of you

Made your mark on me, a golden tattoo

Taylor’s goddamn smirk is still on her face while yours turns red from her words. Theo is back at your side, clueless about the state you’re in and oblivious to the actual meaning of the song he’s singing along to.

All of this silence and patience, pining in anticipation

My hands are shaking from holding back from you

There are no words to describe what you feel right now. You’ve heard this one before, of course you did, but hearing it live compared to your home speakers are two completely different experiences.

Say my name and everything just stops

I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

Take it off

Carve your name into my bedpost

'Cause I don't want you like a best friend

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

Take it off

To be fair she did buy you a gorgeous dress a few days ago, and she did take it off of you…

Inescapable, I'm not even gonna try

And if I get burned, at least we were electrified

I'm spilling wine in the bathtub

You kiss my face and we're both drunk

Everyone thinks that they know us

But they know nothing about

Oh you were definitely going to tell her both of your families are perfectly aware that you were late to Christmas because Taylor was too busy doing…well, you.

"How'd we end up on the floor anyway?" You say

"Your roommate's cheap-ass screw-top rosé, that's how"

I see you every day now

Did she just-?

And I chose you

The one I was dancin' with

In New York, no shoes

Looked up at the sky and it was

Yes she did. Even your earplugs couldn’t save you from the deafening sounds of the stadium recognizing the mashup for what it was, Dress x Maroon. You still don’t know why Taylor wanted you on stage for this, yet you’re grateful that you get to experience it from up close. A part of you also wonders if Taylor planned this just to see the blush rising on your face in front of all these people.

The burgundy on my T-shirt when you splashed your wine into me

And how the blood rushed into my cheeks, so scarlet, it was

The mark you saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones

The lips I used to call home, so scarlet, it was maroon

Taylor turns to the crowd, winking to a few of her fans as she continues singing. Her ever permanent trademark smirk upon her face lets you know she’s perfectly aware of your current state. You have this big smile on your face with a hand over your heart, your other unoccupied hand playing with the necklace Taylor gifted you all those months ago.

And I wake with your memory over me

That's a real fucking legacy

There is an indentation in the shape of you

You made your mark on me, golden tattoo

Only bought this dress so you could take it off

And I…

You did not realize but Taylor had this tiny black mic-like thing attached to her dress. How did you notice it?

Your eyes were simply unashamedly checking out your soulmate as she was now walking over to you, talented hands continuing to play the guitar. Theo was especially squirmy at your side, jumping up and down as Taylor got closer to you.

In your mind your soulmate would just sit down next to you as she finishes her song, it certainly looked like it. And yet…

Taylor kneels to the floor right in front of you and the entire world stops.

Love you to the moon and to Saturn

You could hear a pin drop as the whole stadium waited in anticipation for Taylor’s next move, all watching as she put her guitar down on the floor and reached inside a hidden pocket on her dress. Taylor was steady on her knee as she retrieved what she was looking for, a tiny red velvet box.

Her eyes once again upon you, Taylor smiles as she notices the wonderstruck look on your face. It doesn’t escape her that you have yet to say a single word. But maybe that’s just it, because she knows sometimes you find yourself incapable of uttering a single word, brain thinking ten thousand miles a minutes while your mouth refuses to relay your thoughts.

And that’s okay, because your soulmate knows. She always does.

‘’I know when one has to ask this very specific and important question, there is technically this whole speech that you have to prepare, but I find myself thinking that I don’t even need one,’’ Taylor says as she opens the tiny box containing the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen. You briefly glance at it, tearful eyes quickly going back to your soulmate’s face. ‘’Us two are inevitable. We are soulmates, destined to spend the rest of our lives together. You’re the best thing that’s ever been mine, so why not make it official? Would you make me the happiest person on earth and be my wife?’’

Tears immediately go down your cheeks. You want to move, do something, literally anything to make Taylor understand that your answer is very much in the positive. But your body betrays you, staying still with this gobsmacked look upon your face.

Theo doesn’t seem to be able to wait any longer than is strictly necessary, as before you know it your nephew is shaking your body like a leaf.

‘’Aunty Charlie stop gay panicking for aunty Taylor and answer her!’’

‘’YEAH! What the little boy said!’’

‘’Come on say yes!’’

‘’Don’t let her get away from you!’’

‘’Get a grip and marry her!’’

‘’You two love each other!’’

‘’BLOODY SAY YES WOMAN!’’

Taylor ever so gently puts her hand over your cheek, gently wiping some of your tears away with her thumb. She looks into your eyes, electric blues searching for what she is sure to find. Her hand stills at your neck and it is only then that you find enough strength to nod, if only a little.

Relief surges through your soulmate as she stands up, dragging you with her, and before all Taylor kisses you with everything that she has. You gasp as her tongue invades your mouth, surrendering yourself over to your one true love like you’ve done it the millions of times before then. Taylor’s hand grasps your thigh to get you to come closer to her, the need to feel you right up against her higher than it ever was before.

Before long and at your own protest, Taylor lets you go with a last searing kiss on your lips. Your legs are barely able to support your own body when the singer sits down at her piano stool and make you straddle her. Gently, as if you were the most precious thing on earth, Taylor carefully slides the ring on your finger.

‘’You can’t get rid of me now darling,’’ Taylor whispers to you. She grins as you laugh, hiding your face in the crook of her neck. ‘’Thank you for loving me Charlie, I could never be myself without you.’’

‘’You’re the Queen of my Heart, how could I ever let you go?’’

No matter what people thought about you, no matter what others might think about you, because in this moment nothing was more important. The world could burn for all you cared, and as Taylor kisses you once again in front of her sold-out stadium, you know you would do anything for her. As she would for you.

You are her beginning, as she is your ending.

a/n: so there it is, the ending of my pride and joy, my baby, the story my friend waited weeks to know the ending of (started writing it mid April of this year and finished it early July). Hope you enjoyed! (I know I did)

#taylor swift #taylor swift x oc #surprise song #taylor swift x reader #wlw

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