#colorful domed village

[nuttystarfishdreamland]

[jezebelblues]

forsaken | h.s

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

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

world count: approx 17.2k

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

masterlist

Florence, 1583

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dearest Anne,

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

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

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

Your womb is a gift from the angels above.

Until then,

– Desmond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desmond, for abandoning his family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, he would paint.

*

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

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

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

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

But she refused to be molded by their expectations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And try as they might, neither could outrun it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. She wouldn’t accept this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet she stood at his door anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[stinkywritin]

Late Night Devil

Lee Heeseung x male reader

Short synopsis: You catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure and your life’s forever changed…

…a nice way of saying gay vampire Heeseung brain rot

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, essentially PWP, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap), top!Heeseung, bottom!male reader, oral (reader receiving), biting kink, praise kink, FILTH IM SORRY

Title from song Teeth by 5 Seconds of Summer

(a reupload a my favorite fic from my old blog)

You felt eyes on you ever since you arrived at the party.

Ever since you walked through the front doors with your mother and father, you felt as though you were being watched. No matter how many times you turned around and checked, there wasn’t anyone looking.

Not until you got to the banquet hall.

Everything was draped in luxurious red cloth, the high ceilings connected to a glass dome which allowed the guests a full view of the starry night sky. The tables adorned with the finest tablecloths and expensive tableware you felt nervous picking up for fear of breaking it, the near overwhelming amount of candlelight contrasting the darkness of the night. The dark wooden chairs complimented the equally as dark tables, the ballroom devoid of all color except for the hints of burgundy.

You continued to feel watched over even as you slid down onto one of the chairs next to your mother, your black coat draped over the back of the chair as you fiddled with the silver rings on your hand. One of the rings on your finger was etched with your family crest, handed down from your father once you became of adult age and joined your father’s oil business. Light organ notes danced in the air as the chatter amongst guests grew louder, more families arriving and filling up the tables.

“Sit up straight Y/N!” Your mother scorned you, her previous lecture of maintaining the family image still ringing in your ears. Her voice sounded strained through the tight corset, you were pretty sure her internal organs were all smushed together. A tight lipped smile stretched on her face as she looked around the banquet hall, many other families and members of higher society. Politicians, heirs to fortunes, royal family members, everyone who had more money than they knew what to do with.

Through your father’s business, your family was ranked fairly high on the social status, no where near the level of royalty but definitely a name with notoriety. You being the eldest son meant you’re the child who received the burden of continuing you family’s legacy, expected to not only further your business’s success but to also hand it down to another son. Either this or marry into an even richer family but you were never interested in any of the female suitors your father brought to you, denying any advance before retreating into your studies.

Your father suddenly beckoned you to his side across the hall, champagne glass in hand along with the most manufactured smile while speaking to other men with the same expressions. Your face was devoid of any emotion as you walked to join his side, the light tapping of your shoes on the banquet hall tile was drowned out by the band in the corner.

It’s not that you didn’t like your father, quite frankly you didn’t know enough about him in order to form a sold opinion about him. You’d seen his multimillion dollar company run so many small villages into the ground, clearing out acres of land for hopes of even drilling a single drop of oil. You heard the protests of the people in your country, pleading for companies to stop their mindless destruction of land but like all the other companies, your father didn’t listen. You had no intention of continuing the family business, hoping that maybe one of your siblings would take it over or that you could personally destroy it from the inside out. Plans to escape the damned family business flooded your mind as you stood next to your father, stone faced as he bragged to a distant colleague about whatever bullshit rich old men brag about.

It was during a conversation about coal plants that you saw him for the first time.

Your eyes mindlessly moved along the grand staircase, up along the marbled railing of the balcony, before spotting him alone with his hands folded along the railing. Eyes instantly meeting yours.

His skin was perfectly smoothed and sculpted, his appearance statuesque as he held strong eye contact with you. The darkness in his eyes matched the slant in his grin, a devious smirk was on his lips as his eyes raked you in, seemingly drawing you closer to him. The dark strands on his head complimented the dark velvet coat on his shoulders, the ruffles of his white shirt peaking forward elegantly.

“Y/N what do you think?” Your father’s voice interrupted your speechless encounter with the brunette, ripping your eyes from the beauty before you to bring you back to Earth. Dante himself wouldn’t be able to fully capture the beauty of the man you laid your eyes on, his descriptions of heaven coming second to the allure of the man who captured your attention.

“Sorry come again?” You replied haphazardly, already tuning out the conversation before you look back up to the gorgeous creature from before. Only in the mere seconds you looked away, he had vanished. Your bewildered eyes searched all over the balcony for him, refusing to believe he was a figment of your imagination.

“Sorry gentlemen please excuse me one moment” you politely moved away from the men, leaving behind a group of insulted men and your angry father. Your heart rate picked up as you began your search for the man from earlier, refusing to let him leave your life as quickly as he had entered.

Your footsteps echoed in the hallways of the palace, the tiled floor ways leading to multiple different rooms. You came across a portrait in a hallway far from the banquet hall, the frame picturing a family with an only child. A son whose eyes seemed to bore into your sole, the faces of the parents had been scratched out, the colors worn pale from age.

“Such a shame isn’t it?” A rich, melancholic voice startled you from your spot before the portrait, the handsome stranger from before suddenly appearing behind you. You hadn’t heard his footsteps, nor any other indication he was near you. “The colors were much more divine when the portrait was freshly made.”

“When was it painted?” You asked the stranger, his smile was playful as his eyes shifted from you to the painting.

His hands were folded behind his lower back as he spoke up, “I stopped counting after the third century.”

Well fuck. Even though everything about that response screamed ‘don’t come near me I’m dangerous,’ something about the way his eyes flatly observed the portrait before you pulled you in for more.

“Do you know the family?” You asked, your voice wavering as you continued to take in his appearance. The man before you seemed to have discarded his coat, the silk of his white shirt now on full display. There wasn’t a single wrinkle, every fold was pressed neatly on his body. If elegance was a person it truly would be him.

“Do you always stutter when asking questions?” His eyes quickly turned to make eye contact with you, a playful slant adorned his lips at his teasing. You couldn’t help the rush of heat to your face, hopefully he couldn’t see the blush on your face but judging by how his smile grew, it was evident he saw it.

“I guess only when I’m talking to pretty people” you shrugged, your eyes traveling away from his to study the portrait once again. The scratch marks on the faces of the parents tore through the canvas, making it obvious someone took a knife to the portrait. Although the colors were muted, you didn’t doubt that the robes and silks worn by the parents were more expensive than your father’s entire company. Then there was the little boy. He looked no more than 6 years of age, cheeks puffed and eyes full of childlike wonder, his face was the only one still remaining on the portrait.

“You can do better than juvenile pick up lines” the man scoffed, your eyes snapping back to him just in time to see him stifle a laugh. “This isn’t a school courtyard.”

You let out a chuckle, already cringing on your cheesy one liner. “I apologize for that sir but I don’t apologize for the pretty laugh it let me hear from you.” Now it was his turn to blush.

It was the chiming of the bells from the clock tower that erased the relaxed feeling between you two.

“Excuse me sir L/N but I’m afraid that’s my queue to leave.” As he started to turn on his heal away from you, a tight feeling within you snapped and you reached out to grab his wrist. Immediately you felt his ice cold skin on your hand, his face contorted in shock as he looked back to you. “What are you-“

“How did you know my last name?” You interrupt him, his furrowed brows softening on his face.

“Seeing as how I made the guest list I’m well acquainted with your family Y/N” his cheeky grin was back, his wrist still in your grasp. You relaxed your hold to let him escape but instead he took another step closer towards you.

“You’re part of the Lee family?” You questioned, even if you already knew the answer. The Lee family was one of the wealthiest royal families in the country, owning a luxurious castle away from all the surrounding villages. Your father said they were weird and antisocial but seeing as how they donated to many charities and political campaigns in the villages, they were immensely powerful. No one from the Lee family held any political or government position in centuries but that didn’t mean they weren’t pulling the strings from afar.

“And you still don’t seem to know my name?” His spunky grin broke you from your deep thoughts. You were face to face with a member of one of the most powerful families in the country, your father’s complaints of their wealth ringing in your ears.

“I’m sorry,” you apologized. “I just didn’t think I’d ever meet someone from your family.” You honestly stated, barely noticing just how close he was to you. Your noses were mere inches apart, a strong enough breeze would’ve been able to bring you two together

“Heeseung.” His voice was slightly above a whisper before he continued, “my name is Lee Heeseung.”

Before your brain could talk you out of it, you took his hand in yours before bringing the back of his palm up to your mouth. You have a slight bow as you pressed a feather like kiss to his ice cold skin, you knew he still had that damn smirk on his face even if your eyes were closed. “It’s an honor to meet you Heeseung, I’m F/N L/N of the L/N family.”

“I’m aware” he snatched his hand back, although the grin was still plastered on his face. “This is my home after all.”

Before turning around to leave, he added “Meet me back here at midnight.” It wasn’t a question, more of an order, but you wouldn’t have refused either way.

“I’ll be waiting.” You gave one more curt bow, at which he scoffed and walked away from you. You noticed he wasn’t walking back in the direction of the banquet hall, in fact he was going in the opposite direction.

You turned back towards the portrait before you and as you looked at the boy in the painting again you felt a heavy weight in the pit of your chest. You could suddenly recognize the boy being Heeseung, a smiling young Heeseung. And suddenly the remark of the painting being more than three centuries old made that weight in your chest even heavier.

——

True to your word you returned to your unofficial meeting spot.

It was a pain in the ass trying to shake off your parent’s prying eyes and overwhelming amount of questions. You hid the fact that you had met — and flirted — with Lee Heeseung from both of your parents, you knew they would demand that you introduced them to him so you made up a lie about getting lost trying to find a bathroom. Seeing your parents fake smiles and having to endure a terrible sales pitch from your father was a special kind of hell that you didn’t want Heeseung to experience. Thankfully they believed your lie and didn’t press any further, leaving you alone for the rest of the evening.

It was a little before midnight, right when you were about to leave to see Heeseung again, that you spoke to your mother. You told her you would stay behind for a little while longer and that they should leave without you, that you’d call a cab later and meet them back at the house. She seemed hesitant to leave you, wanting to know why you would be staying behind but in the end she hesitantly left with your father.

“Just promise you’ll be back in the morning?” She pleaded, cradling your face in the palms of her hands. “Or at least call me in the morning to let me know you’re still alive?”

“Yes mother don’t worry I’ll let you know everything” you offered her a wide grin as she pulled back, the clicks of her heels hitting the tiled floor growing quieter. Once she had gotten in the car with your father, you turned and quickly walked back to the hallway from earlier that evening.

—-

The corridors were empty, only the sound of your hurried footsteps could be heard echoing off the walls. The painting was still just as magnificent as it was earlier in the evening, except as you footsteps took you close to it, you could feel that familiar weight in your chest again. The breaths picked up as you eyed the portrait again, this time feeling as though it was pulling you in.

“You came back” the same honey voice startled you, Heeseung suddenly appearing next to you. He grinned at your attempts to catch your breath, your eyes still wide from the scare he gave you.

“Of course” you huffed out, composing yourself by straightening your back to look him in the eye. “I had some questions.”

Heeseung quirked his head to the side while his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, the smile still plastered in his face. “Questions?” He paused, you gave a shaky nod in reply. “Alright well, ask away.”

“Is that you?” You pointed to the little boy in the portrait, his goddamn grin was making it ten times harder for you to focus on trying to make sense of him.

“Yes that’s me.” Heeseung flatly responded, his eyes traveling to look at the portrait. “I think that was my sixth birthday if I can recall correctly.”

“And you said this was made over three centuries ago correct?” Your voice was wavering, your whole body feeling heavy with anxiety and dread. “How old are you?”

“Y/N don’t you know it’s considered rude to ask someone their age when you first meet?” Heeseung’s met with yours again, seemingly able to bore holes into your brain. As if he could sense the panic coursing through your veins, he sighed before answering “I can’t remember how old I am or how many years are passing by, they all seem to blur together and over time I found it’s easier to not count my age anymore.”

Heeseung’s entire demeanor changed; he was no longer carrying himself with a high level of confidence, instead of the usual cockiness there was a melancholic tone to his voice as he longingly stared at the portrait.

He continued, “I was normal just like you, just human. Until at age 20 I was turned into this by my lover. He turned me into this so that we could be together for all of eternity but shortly after I turned he was killed by some hunters from a village up north. I was 20, a freshly turned vampire and completely estranged by my family for choosing a male lover.” He clutched something in his hand, turning it over before he took a seat on the tiled floor. His back was pressed against the dark walls as he beckoned you to sit next to him.

Once you were sat next to him, your hands making contact with the cold tiles of the floor as your back rested against the wall, you could see a small locket in his hands. The metal was scuffed and old, showing signs of years of use.

“This family,” Heeseung continued. “It’s made up of vampires from all over the country who are just like me. No family to turn to, no friends and partners to depend on, nothing. The Lee family took me in, no questions asked and I’ve been here since. And while the banquets and parties have been quite distracting, I still haven’t been able to find anyone to grow closer to, not since I died and became this.”

A fresh tear had escaped from Heeseung’s eye, it traveled down his cheek until hitting the floor, the man not bothering to wipe it away.

“I’m sorry Heeseung” you shakily whispered, hoping your voice was loud enough to be heard by the vampire next to you. The weight you had felt in your chest earlier — the intense panic over what creature Heeseung was and whether or not he was dangerous — had started dissipating at his words. Not entirely however, and it seemed Heeseung could still sense the remaining anxieties.

“Don’t apologize I haven’t even answered your question yet,” Heeseung wiped the remains of his tears off of his cheek while letting out a small — forced — chuckle. You were forced to go to banquets and business meetings and a bunch of other gatherings of snobby rich people, you were used to fake smiles and even faker laughs; however Heeseung’s was the most heartbreaking of all.

“As for age all I can say for sure is that I’ve been a vampire for a little over 400 years,” Heesung’s fingers messed with the locket in his hand as he spoke. “Anything else you’d like to ask Mr. L/N”

Heeseung had cocked his head to look at you, his eyes instantly letting yours. Sitting beside you was a supposed ‘creature of the undead’, something that up until recently you believed to be fake and the material for fiction. And yet the way Heeseung’s smile seemed to fill your being with bliss was anything but fiction, the way he had drawn you in even if you had only met that evening was a beautiful reality.

But that doesn’t mean you don’t still have questions.

“If you say you ran away to join this family how did you get that painting?” The teasing in your tone evoked a surprised laugh from Heeseung, the atmosphere surrounding you two had lightened, no longer full of worry.

“I’ve been alive longer than your great grandparents don’t question how I get stuff brat” Heeseung playfully pinched your shoulder, sending you two into a lighthearted scuffle that ended with Heeseung’s thighs straddling your lower torso.

“Ok I yield!” You huffed out between fits of laughter. As your chest rose and fell from your attempts to catch your breath, you could suddenly feel how close Heesung was. His hands held your wrists to the floor, his upper body draped over yours. “Okay one last question.”

“Ugh enough with the questions!” Heeseung chuckled out. After seeing the pleading look in your eyes he nodded his head, telling you it was okay to ask what was on your mind.

“Why did you ask me to come back here at midnight?” You asked, the underlying tone of your question being ‘are you going to kill me because I would please like to know in advance’.

“Is my interest in you not obvious enough?” Heeseung softly replied, grin widening when he sees the blush rise to your face. The hands that were on your wrists were now interlocking with yours, his hands delicately squeezing yours as he rested his forehead atop yours. “And here I was thinking you were also interested.”

“I am!” You helped out, causing a fit of giggles to erupt from Heeseung at your eagerness.

Heeseung’s hands were still interlocked with yours as he calmed down, his face still so close to yours. The way his eyes were sparkling with joy made the weight dissipate completely. Heeseung’s faced leaned impossibly closer to yours, his lips mere centimeters away from yours. “You’re so gorgeous the second I saw you I knew I had to talk to you. I knew I would miss the rest of the banquet because I had some business to take care of with another town’s mayor. Corrupt politicians and what not, such a pain to clean blood stains on carpets by the way.” Heeseung rolled his eyes at his comment, you could feel your heart rate pick up at the way his eyes flicked between your eyes and your lips.

“But I knew I had to see you again which is why I asked you to meet me here.” You felt your dick twitch at his words, the smirk playing on his lips was evidence he felt it too.

He started to slowly — so achingly slowly — roll his hips over your bulge. “The entire job I pleaded with the universe to let me see you again, all I could think about was how gorgeous you are Y/N.”

“Heeseung” you panted out, the fabric around your cock getting tighter. “Please kiss me.”

“Absolutely my love” Heeseung’s lips slotted perfectly with yours, your body heat felt as though it rose an extra 30 degrees. The way his lips fit with yours felt like an explosion of pure bliss, immediately opening your mouth to let his tongue in. The way Heeseung kissed you as if he was planning on devouring you made your head spin.

It could’ve been 30 seconds or 3 years but the kiss felt of pure heaven. No amount of time would ever be enough to fully satisfy the need you felt for each other, you thought this as Heeseung’s hip rolls began getting faster. After a particularly loud moan escaped your lips, Heeseung murmured into your ear, “Let me take you to bed my beauty.”

You eagerly nodded as he lifted you both up on your feet, leading you to his bedroom door while having his hand interlaced with yours. You two couldn’t help the giggles or the chaste kisses while you ran to his room.

—-

“Lie on your back for me sweetheart” Heeseung’s voice has seemed to drop a few octaves, sounding huskier as he pushed you back onto his silk sheets and started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

You quickly undid the laces of your boots, chucking them across the room before fumbling with the buttons on your shirt. You huffed in annoyance as you had difficulty getting your shirt off, Heeseung — who was now shirtless — took notice of your frustration and let out a low chuckle. His hands clasped yours as he placed them on you, slowly moving your hands down onto the bed before eagerly grabbing the collar of your blouse and tearing the fabric open. You gasped at the sound of the fabric ripping but quickly began to let out a deep groan as Heeseung began placing soft kisses down your chest. His lips were ice cold, making goosebumps rise all over your body from the drastic shift in temperature.

“There’s no time for slowly unbuttoning clothing” Heesung whispered into the skin on your sternum. His eyes switched back up to meet yours, the look of pure lust painting his eyes, “I want you now.”

“Then take me.” You gasped as Heeseung pushed your upper body down onto his bed, grabbing your hips and quickly pulling down your trousers and underwear, leaving you bare under him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him close to you to bring him into another heated kiss. You felt the fabric of his pants on your cock as he began to grind his clothed bulge onto yours. The friction causing you to bite at his lower lip, your fingernails scratching onto the skin on his shoulders. One of his hands moved to graze over your bulge, the cold skin causing a shiver to run up your spine.

Heeseung continued to kiss and bite at the skin on your jawline as he wrapped a hand around your cock, giving it a harsh but arousing tug. “Knew you would sound heavenly darling” Heeseung said into your ear, the strokes of his hand becoming more even. “Knew it the second I laid my eyes on you.”

“Heeseung-“ you were cut off by your own whine as Heesung sharply removed his hand to slap your thigh.

“That’s hyung to you brat” Heeseung gave your thigh another harsh smack before bringing two fingers up to your lips. The pads of his icy fingertips grazing along your lower lip so slightly you could barely feel it. “Now open up.”

You opened your mouth to let his fingers dance along your tongue, wrapping your lips around his fingers and sighing. Heeseung’s eyes were fixated on the sight of you sucking on his fingers, his cock growing harder. He pulled his fingers out from your mouth before sliding them over your tight hole, inserting one finger in as you gasped in surprise. His fingers were still so, so cold, causing you to shiver again.

He slowly worked his finger in and out of your hole, teasing his second one before pushing them both in and stretching you open. As his fingers worked to stretch you open, Heeseung licked a stripe from your thigh to the base of your cock. You let out a loud yelp as he licked up the length of your cock, your hands flying to yank at the dark locks on his head. “Oh hyung that feels so good” you moaned out, your eyes squeezing shut from the overwhelming waves of pleasure that were washing over your body.

His fingers quickened their pace as Heeseung’s dark eyes looked up at you, he whispered with the head of your cock pressed against his bottom lip, “cum in my mouth gorgeous.” Heeseung’s mouth took you in, warmth engulfing your entire body as you cried out in pleasure. You could feel the pleasure overcoming you, making your brain foggy as all your senses were being overwhelmed.

All of a sudden the coil in you snapped, you came down his throat as he eagerly swallowed every drop you let out. Even as you came down from the intense feeling, his fingers were still working you open — albeit at a slower pace. When his fingers grazed your prostate you shivered while your thighs began to shake, throwing Heeseung a confused gaze.

“You didn’t think we were done did you?” His smirk causing your thoughts to muddle, he abruptly removed his fingers before smacking your thigh again. “Sit up now darling I haven’t gotten my fix yet.”

He laid back against the dark wood of his bedpost, a pillow separating his lower back from the wood. He removed his pants and underwear before turning to you and patting his thigh, beckoning you over. You let out a small chuckle, your post orgasm brain somehow finding the cheesiness of it all a little amusing.

Heeseung tilted his head in confusion as you crawled over, placing his hands on your hips before saying, “why are you laughing, darling?” He pulled you down to sit on his lower torso, his cock nestled between your cheeks which caused the blush on your face to deepen in slight embarrassment.

“You’re so cute” you placed an innocent peck on his lips, Heeseung gave you what felt like a hundred more as a response. He held you close as the grin on his face grew larger, both of your giggles breaking the kisses. As you both calmed down from your giggling fit, the eye contact you held began intensifying. Heeseung’s eyes seemed to hold all the stars in the night sky with the way they sparkled up at you, the light blush on his face deepening as you held him close.

His hand ran through the hair on the nape of your neck, his wide eyes and large grin seemed to distract you from the fact that you were both completely bare. His finger started to drag from the bottom of your ear down the slope of your neck before whispering, “Can I bite you darling?”

You could feel your soft length grow interested at his question, your eyes widened as they filled with curiosity. “You want to turn me?” Your question made the vampire look up at you, an unreadable look in his eyes.

“I don’t have to turn you.” Heeseung started, his cold hands tightening their grip on your skin. “I can feed from you and as long as I don’t take too much you’ll still be alive and, well, human.”

When the word ‘feeding’ fell from the man’s lips, you suddenly remembered the man — the vampire — below you could very easily kill you in two ways; by either draining all the blood from your body or turning you into an undead creature for the rest of eternity.

“I’ve been alive a long time Y/N” Heeseung’s voice bringing you back to the present. He continued, “I can control my appetite, I will not take more than you can handle and I will stop if you tell me to. You have my word darling.”

Instead of giving him a verbal response, you tilt your head to the side to give him full access to your neck and collarbones and nodded. Heeseung’s hands roughly pulled your hips up, aligning his length with your entrance before pulling you back down to sit on his lap. Your body shivered at the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins, the head of Heeseung’s cock was pressing against your g spot, leaving you full.

As you tried moving your hips, Heeseung would stop your movements to slam you back down onto his lap. His hands moved from your hips further down to hold your ass, his tongue licking over a spot on the crook of your neck. Your neglected length had been interested even after already orgasming once, however all pleasure before this failed in comparison to the feeling of Heeseung’s fangs piercing into your skin. His hips moved achingly slowly as he sunk his teeth into your neck, your grip on him tightening. Even if you had only met Heeseung that night you already knew he had ruined sex with anyone else in the future, it would be only him for the rest of your existence.

Heeseung’s hips kept a slow pace, his soft groan was muffled while he fed from your neck. The intense pleasure coming from Heeseung’s movements juxtaposed the sharp pain on your neck, your post orgasm brain becoming even muddier. You felt Heeseung remove his fangs from your neck, placing kisses on the marks left behind while his hips picked up a faster pace. The sounds of your bodies moving together echoed throughout the room, your pants being interrupted by Heeseung’s voice in your ear giving you encouragements.

“There you go, that’s my good boy.”

“Knew I had to have you the second I laid my eyes on you.”

“Darling you tasted so good, did so well for me.”

“Be as loud as you can for me Y/N, don’t hold back.”

The familiar sensation from earlier came back, this time magnified by ten. You could feel your muscles tightening as you reached your climax, your grip on Heeseung’s shoulders becoming more tense.

“Hyung I’m close,” you whined out. His thrusts were precise and fast, aiming and nailing your g spot head on every time.

“How cute,” Heeseung’s low voice went straight to your hard cock, his hand wrapping around your length and stroking in tandem with his hips. He continued, “My good boy wants to cum for me a second time. Make a mess for me sweet boy, I’m right there with you.”

You reached a moment of euphoria, your entire body tightening up before you came all over Heeseung’s hand. You felt Heeseung reach his high because his thrusts stilled, his grip on your body tightened before he went slack. Your body slumped into his as you now began trying to catch your breath. You heard Heeseung let out a giggle as he held up your tired body.

“Nope you’re not getting off that easy.” Heeseung quickly flipped you onto your back below him, the speed shaking you awake. His body was bent over yours, he brought one of his hands up to your mouth and put his palm to your lips. It was the palm that was covered in your release, “lick it off baby, you’re helping me clean up.”

You quickly licked your release off his hand, holding eye contact with him the entire time so you could see his proud smirk. His lips graced yours once you finished, your entire body slugging back into the sheets below you. “I’ll be right back baby.”

Your eyelids felt heavy while you watched him get off his bed, making his way across the room while nude which gave you a shameless view of his body.

He returned momentarily with some bandaids, along with a glass of water. “Sit up for me darling,” he said as he sat down next to you, putting the glass of water into your hands once you were up right. You lazily drank from the cup as Heeseung applied the bandaids to the wounds on your neck. “It’s not too bad but better safe than sorry.”

It seemed the vampire’s entire demeanor had changed, his touches soft on your skin as he took your now empty cup and placed it elsewhere. He laid back next to you, pulling the covers over your bodies before pulling you closer to him. “How do you have so much energy?” You grumbled, looking up at the vampire to see his bright smile.

“I don’t get tired,” Heeseung’s hand carded through your hair and scratched your scalp as he started talking, making it very difficult to stay awake. He continued, “It’s that vampire stamina, I don’t need sleep or rest. I don’t eat food either, well besides blood but it doesn’t have to be human. I physically can sleep, I just don’t need it to function so it’s basically just a nap.”

“Does that mean you can go another round?” Your hand had been lazily tracing patterns onto the vampire’s cold skin, slowly moving down his torso. Your body was still sluggish from your two orgasms but seeing the devious glint in Heeseung’s eyes was lighting a flame to your body.

“I don’t think you can keep up with me baby” Heeseung roughly pulled the (H/C) strands on the back of your head, pulling you up to make direct eye contact with him. “But if you insist.”

His teeth grazed your bottom lip, the feeling of his fangs eliciting a high pitched whine from the back of your throat; you might’ve bitten off more than you could chew.

Authors Note: Hey it’s V sorry about deleting my old blog but I’ll bring back a majority of my old fics. If you enjoyed, thank you very much !!! These are v fun to make and help me take my mind off real life stuff lmao. That’s it for now, brb folks -V

[travelingare]

📍Santorini Greece.

Minogiannis Valantis Captures the ethereal beauty of Santorini, an island that epitomizes the allure of the Greek Isles with its dazzling whitewashed buildings, blue-domed churches, and breathtaking sunsets.

on the cliffs overlooking the Aegean Sea, Santorini is a masterpiece of nature and human artistry.

The island's captivating charm is not just in its iconic architecture but also in its volcanic landscapes, ancient ruins, and the deep blue waters that surround it. From the stunning views at Oia to the vibrant streets of Fira, Santorini invites you to explore its myriad of colors, flavors, and sights. Santorini's vineyards, known for their unique grape varieties, offer a taste of the island's rich culinary heritage, paired beautifully with the fresh seafood served at the local tavernas. The beaches, with their distinctive black, red, and white sands, provide a serene escape under the Mediterranean sun.

The island's history is as layered as

its stunning caldera, from the ancient

city ​​of Akrotiri to the traditional

villages that dot the landscape.

Santorini is not just a destination? it's

an experience that captures the

essence of Greek beauty and

hospitality. Whether it's wandering

through its cobblestone alleys,

sailing into the sunset, or simply

soaking in the panoramic views. Santorini leaves an indelible mark on the heart.

For those enchanted by the serene beauty and romantic ambiance of the Greek Isles, be sure to follow @minogiannisvalantis for more breathtaking visuals of Santorini's unforgettable landscape.

[apoemaday]

Catalogue of Ephemera

by Rebecca Lindenberg

You give me flowers resembling Chinese lanterns. You give me hale, for yellow. You give me vex.

You give me lemons softened in brine and you give me cuttlefish ink. You give me all 463 stairs of Brunelleschi’s dome.

You give me seduction and you let me give it back to you. You give me you. You give me an apartment full of morning smells—toasted bagel and black coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill. You give me 24-across.

You give me flowers resembling moths’ wings.

You give me the first bird of morning alighting on a wire. You give me the sidewalk café with plastic furniture and the boys with their feet on the chairs. You give me the swoop of homemade kites in the park on Sunday. You give me afternoon-colored beer with lemons in it.

You give me D.H. Lawrence, and he gives me pomegranates and sorb-apples.

You give me the loose tooth of California, the broken jaw of New York City. You give me the blue sky of Wyoming, and the blue wind through it.

You give me an ancient city where the language is a secret everyone is keeping.

You give me a t-shirt that says all you gave me was this t-shirt. You give me pictures with yourself cut out.

You give me lime blossoms, but not for what they symbolize.

You give me yes. You give me no.

You give me midnight apples in a car with the windows down. You give me the flashbulbs of an electrical storm. You give me thunder and the suddenly green underbellies of clouds.

You give me the careening of trains. You give me the scent of bruised mint.

You give me the smell of black hair, of blond hair.

You give me Apollo and Daphne, Pan and Syrinx. You give me Echo.

You give me hyacinths and narcissus. You give me foxgloves and soft fists of peony.

You give me the filthy carpet of an East Village apartment. You give me seeming not to notice.

You give me an unfinished argument, begun on the Manhattan-bound F train. You give me paintings of women with their eyes closed. You give me grief, and how to grieve.

[tamelee]

Hi! I wanted to Say that I love your art and your naruto analisys!! And i wanted to ask You, how You think an alternate universe where naruto's parents and the uchiha massacre didnt happen? I have Seen the anime, other fans and movies try to come with what it might be but i wonder what You think on how it would be. I personally think that the anime and the movie are a bit too exaggerated on the what if when it comes to the teams

Thankyou! 💕

Ah, there are so many things to consider. We'd sorta have to... ignore why the bad stuff happened? Or deal with the consequences differently? (Like, as in, fixing the system, that would be nice.) I'm not sure about the anime, but I do remember seeing it in that one movie where they're all the opposite of their true selves. Where Sasuke is suddenly straight, lol!

If Naruto's parents survived, I'd like to think that Minato as Hokage could've changed things.

What would he do? Would Minato have been able to mediate fairly? Unlike Tobirama or Hiruzen?

How would Minato handle Danzo? Would Danzo still be free to make his own decisions "for the greater good of Konoha, excluding the Uchiha" because Hiruzen took the easy route and let someone else deal with things? And if Minato knew about his plans regarding the Uchiha, would he stop Danzo? 

I'd like to believe he would. I mean, he'd definitely needed to step up way more than the 3'rd "voicing out disagreement" that was weak af. In fact, going soft on Danzo with his flabby-ass, incompetent bs and proving how little power a Hokage has in general is pathetic. 

No, you know what? I think things would've definitely been so very different had Naruto's parents been alive. Minato also had that fight with "the masked man." Had he survived, he could've teleported to Tobito later, no? Actually… the more I think about it, the more I realize how much could've easily been avoided ;-;

What if the Uchiha took leadership over ANBU? Because it seems to me that the villagers view the ANBU as protectors, while the police are more strongly associated with being the ones who will punish you for wrongdoing. That may 'help' a village, but it certainly doesn't help a clan you're singling out. Like Orochimaru said, this authority did nothing to unite the clans or demolish certain boundaries.

Anyway...

Naruto would learn more about the Uzumaki. Imagine Naruto as the second flash junior with his Uzumaki adamatine sealing chain Jutsu's listennnn. In an instant, any enemy would be chained.

He also could've made a barrier rasengan or something, or Sasuke could target thunder or amaratsu from within it as a combi-jutsu and no one would be able to escape. It would color black and white like the yin/yang symbol.

"Is that—"

"Ah.. It's the great, unstoppable dome of death!"

"Oh."

But it would also sprout life because of the yin & yang. Look, what if Itachi trained Sasuke to use his hawk more like he had with his crow, and then he'd be able to send Naruto little memories while he's traveling? Not notes, genjutsu memoriessss. Things he'd like to share. And he'd wear Naruto's teleportation mark so they could always meet up instantly. 

Mikoto and Naruto would create a frog-pond in the garden; this is not negociable. Sasuke would pretend he couldn't understand, but he would sneak off to feed and talk with the frogs while taking advantage of the peace to meditate, and Naruto pretends not to notice, taking food with him anyway and complaining that they won't take it. 

Naruto and Sasuke would always challenge each other during festivals where you could play games. They'd visit other places to play different ones, and they'd be known as rivels through that. Both gaining their own fan clubs, and entire competition days would be held so people can come watch as they go at each other while they toss rings, mold candy, or scoop balls out of water and then think of punishments for the loser. 

Ah yeah Sasuke would definitely play some type of flute, Naruto would play Taiko drums.

Oh stop me now I could go on forever tbh.

[overwatchloresnstuff]

SYMMETRA lore

Satya Vaswani grew up in an extremely poor area of Hyderabad, India. Despite living in the infamous City of Pearls, in a city renowned for artistic expression and gemstones, Satya’s village was in a bad way. Starvation was rife, the water was murky, and the village was overcrowded. Satya danced to lower her anxiety, and visited temples for meals, peace, and beauty. They were the only refuge from the ugliness of everyday village life, as Hyderabadi temples are marvels of artistic work, painted in a thousand colors with large domes and statues raised to the sky.

After the Omnic Crisis, a singular corporation decided to take advantage. India, being densely populated and with millions displaced due to the crisis, was utterly overwhelmed by the scope of humanitarian work needed to put the country back together. Vishkar extended a hand. The corporation founded a new city, Utopaea, using their proprietary hard-light technology. Vishkar’s Architechs promised order. They promised peace, and full bellies with clean water in a beautiful city made of light…and all they asked for was simple obedience.

Vishkar was known for combing records, plucking children from their families. After all, once a revolutionary company considered a child gifted, there was massive pressure on the family to let the child become an Architech. It was a path out of poverty, and a child could have their stars changed with a simple sweep of Vishkar’s hand.

So it was for Satya. She was identified as being capable of becoming an Architech, by Vishkar’s inscrutable and very secretive standards. Her parents, reassured that Satya would want for nothing, were proud to hand their daughter over to the corporation.

There was one single caveat.

Satya could never return home.

She was owned by Vishkar now, and Vishkar would be all that she breathed. To become an Architech, one had to sleep, eat, work, and embody the corporation. As was traditional for Architechs, one of her arms was removed and she was given a company-provided prosthetic that could aid her in creating hard light. Lonely, isolated, and unable to even step foot in the temples she once loved, Satya buried herself in her studies. She entered the Architech Academy in Utopaea, and was assigned a live-in roommate by the name of Niran Pruksamanee. Satya found his relaxed, privileged demeanor irritating. She preferred strict schedules, clean living spaces, and for her roommates to rise and sleep on strict timelines. The other two roommates they were assigned were happy to fall into line. Niran bucked all those trends, but despite their differences Satya found herself fond of the charming Thai gentleman she lived with. The two became inseparable.

Niran, however, had a secret. He managed to create biolight, a living extension of the Vishkar hard-light. Biolight could heal, could grow just like the plants he loved…but he wouldn’t see it turned over to Vishkar. Ignoring Satya’s advice, he fled the Academy and left her alone once again. Having no friends, Satya let her studies consume her.

Satya quickly ascended to the top of her class, and was particularly gifted with bending hard light to her will. Unlike the other students, who approached their work with physics, geometry, and mathematics, Satya found a way to weave the light with the dances of her native Hyderabadi dances.

Satya caught Vishkar’s eye once again. She was taken from the Architech Academy after her graduation, and informed that she would be no mere Architech. She would be an agent of the company, sent on clandestine missions to enforce Vishkar’s will. She was given the codename Symmetra, and finally given access to Vishkar’s dark secrets. Unfortunately, having grown up with the company line, Symmetra could only see the good Vishkar was doing. Order and obedience had become her watchwords, and she willingly gave herself to the company to do their bidding once more.

Her first mission was in Rio de Janeiro, where the company was eyeing a contract to rebuild favelas in the wake of the Crisis. Symmetra was proud to further the mission; after all, how could people stand such disgusting conditions? No. Order would be established, people would be clean and well-mannered, and she would open that path. She argued with Rio’s mayor on behalf of Vishkar, and stormed out of the strained talks when the mayor showed reticence to give their favelas over to Vishkar.

Symmetra was wholly unprepared for how angry the residents of Rio would be, and stepped into the street in the midst of a riot. The tensions between Vishkar and Rio had boiled over with the help of Lucio, a local DJ and celebrity, and the favela was plunged into a full on revolution. Frightened by the sounds, smells and chaos, Symmetra lost her way. She found a young girl named Rosa, who guided her to safety, and from that day on she vowed that Vishkar would transform the favelas into a safe place for all of Rio’s residences.

Sanjay Korpal, Vishkar’s representative in Rio, was satisfied that Symmetra was so willing to…convince Rio’s mayor that the rebuild was necessary. He sent her to infiltrate their competition. After all, with no competing bids, the mayor would be forced to accept Vishkar’s hand. All they needed was a little blackmail.

Symmetra broke in, and after rifling through the Calado corporations files, found nothing. The company was running cleanly. Calado’s guards discovered her, and Symmetra was able to throw up shields to protect herself from the resulting gunfire. She rigged non-lethal traps to give herself enough time to escape, and report back to Sanjay. When Sanjay asked why she hadn’t just killed them, Symmetra responded that she only used lethal force if absolutely necessary. Killing and brutality were a waste of life.

Symmetra then broke the news to Sanjay; they had nothing on Calado, and would likely lose the contract. Vishkar’s response was simple, and immediate: so be it.

The building she had infiltrated exploded in a fiery hail, killing everyone inside and pouring down flames and broken concrete onto the favela below. The same favela that Vishkar was supposed to be renovating. Symmetra stared in shock at the display of cruelty, and leapt in to help. Her photonic barrier carved a path through the flames, and amidst the screaming of those caught by the destruction she found a trapped child. Symmetra used her hard light to pull the child free, and recognized Rosa, the same child who had guided her out of the riot. Rosa’s face had been burned beyond repair, disfiguring her for life.

Months later, Vishkar had indeed begun rebuilding Rio’s city center, damaged by the fire. As Symmetra and Sanjay looked over the brand new buildings, nestled amid the favelas, she questioned whether Vishkar had destroyed the Calado building and killed so many. Sanjay simply responded that it was the price of regrowth.

Doubt, quiet, persistent, began to grow in Symmetra’s mind. She tried to quiet it. Vishkar was surely making a better world. She had seen the proof of it…hadn’t she..?

Nevertheless, she moved on to her next mission. Burying herself in work had worked before, why not now? Sanjay and herself were sent to help a village in Roshani, called Suravasa, damaged by a recent earthquake. Vishkar’s PR representative Chandra assured them that if Vishkar didn’t start helping the village soon, they could kiss their development rights in the area goodbye. Sanjay told Symmetra to volunteer in the village. After all, she had come from humble means. Surely she could relate to these people. Symmetra was told to give the villagers anything they wanted; it would be a scant cost compared to losing development rights.

Looking over the hologram of the damaged village, Symmetra spotted something familiar. She asked Chandra what it was, and he identified the statue as that of Aurora, the first omnic to achieve sentience and the one responsible for the Awakening. The villagers would want more than hush money, Symmetra reasoned, and Sanjay tasked her with finding out what it was.

Symmetra arrived in Suravasa to open hostility. The local Governor, Ranesh Grewal, told Symmetra they wanted nothing to do with Vishkar’s evil. Architechs were not welcome. The gathering crowd of hostile villagers seemed to back him up, and Symmetra remembered the favela riots. She requested to visit a local temple, hoping to buy herself time. Hostile, the crowd seemed like they would deny her request.

Instead, a single omnic stepped forward. Zenyatta, a pilgrim to the temple, reminded them that the temples were open to all. He led Symmetra inside, and invited her to walk with him. The help Vishkar was offering would mean nothing if it came from poisoned fingers, he reminded her. She was welcome to stay, if she did him the courtesy of taking time to understand the people and the religion here. Symmetra responded that she was no pilgrim, she was an Architech here to solve a problem.

What was a pilgrim, Zenyatta responded, if not someone who journeyed to a holy place?

Taken aback by Zenyatta’s response, Symmetra reasoned that if Zenyatta’s philosophy had calmed the crowd, perhaps his way would work better than Vishkar flinging money at the villagers. She needed more information. So, she decided to keep an open mind. She walked with Zen, and he told her of Mondatta and the Shambali monks. He led her into the main temple chamber, where the shambles of Aurora’s statue stood.

Aurora had sacrificed everything to give the gift of life, true intelligence and meaning, to omnics. Omnics had awakened, as though from a dream, from their lives chained to servitude. Aurora had given them the knowledge of good and evil, the power to make their own decisions, and become true persons as precious as any human. Symmetra finally understood why the villagers had been so saddened by its damage, and was moved by Aurora’s story. Vishkar could fix it! It was only stone, she told Zen. She could build them a new temple, a new statue, anything they wanted!

Zenyatta responded that help could come in many forms. The history of the stones around them meant so much more than any new building. The statue of Aurora had been created by hands that loved her. No hard light substitute could mean as much…ever.

Symmetra had a lot to think about, and Zenyatta invited her to stay with him. He gave her a robe, and a meal. At first, Symmetra refused the offer. Vishkar paid for her meals, and she was no pilgrim! However…the colors were quite pretty. She relented, and for the first time in many years, she wore clothing not from Vishkar’s prim offices.

The next morning, she met with Zen again. She wanted to help, and what was she to do if not use Vishkar’s technology?!

Zenyatta responded by giving her a broom, and showing her where the villagers were cleaning the temple by hand. They were so ineffective! They moved stones by hand, swept with simple brooms. Yet, Symmetra found herself enjoying the work. Organizing, cleaning, sweating as humans had done for thousands of years. As they finished the work for the day, Zenyatta handed her a gift.

The monks here didn’t meditate, but rather used distinctive orbs to ponder. Orbs of Perception focused an omnic’s powers, and while rather useless to humans, were used for understanding. They could not make them hover like an omnic could, but they could feel. They could ponder. They could focus themselves around a single object and find peace. In this way, her mind could calm itself, and she could find the solution to what the villagers truly needed. This time, Satya didn’t protest. She meditated, and cradled the orb.

Over the next few days, Satya settled into life at the temple. She rose with them, ate with them, worked with them, and centered herself on the Orb of Perception. She went into the village with Zenyatta to serve food to the hungry, and while the villagers were still hostile to her, Zenyatta stood beside her. Grudgingly, the villagers began to accept Satya. She certainly wasn’t acting like a soulless Vishkar Architech.

Satya spent her evenings with Zen. They talked about her childhood, growing up within Vishkar, and the faith she had abandoned when Vishkar had taken her. Zen introduced her to the concept of Wabi-Sabi, the Japanese concept centering around focusing on the earthly impermanence of things. Appreciate all that is imperfect, for in imperfection is beauty. Scars tell stories of love and loss, missing eyes and limbs tell of resilience. Imperfection is what makes life worth living. Some might have seen the removal of her arm as imperfection…and yet it was beautiful.

On the next evening, Zen introduced her to Kintsugi, the art of repairing broken pottery with gold lacquer to make unique and beautiful pieces. Even though a bowl is shattered, it is that shattering that makes it beautiful.

Satya realized what she had to do.

Over the next few days, Satya reassembled the statue of Aurora. Instead of merely piecing it back together, she glued the pieces with hard light. The veins of Aurora’s shattering glowed with light, yellow, imperfect but beautiful in its imperfection. Satya presented the statue to the village not in her corporate attire, but in the robe Zenyatta had gifted her.

Governor Grewal, who had been so hostile to her, was in shock. The villagers were moved, and Zenyatta gifted Satya with the robe she wore and incense…she was always welcome at the temple. Sanjay was impressed with her work, but wondered why she had chosen yellow instead of the corporation’s signature blue. While blue was a beautiful color, Symmetra told him, she had chosen yellow for warmth. Love was warmth, and she had made this with love. She wanted others to feel it when they looked at the statue.

Symmetra told Sanjay that Vishkar could do more, and be more, if they acted more like this. Vishkar needed love, and empathy, and to find beauty in imperfections rather than demanding everything be brought to their rigorous standards. Sanjay admitted, grudgingly, that she was probably right.

Symmetra continues to maintain a relationship with Zenyatta to this day, and Zenyatta views her, affectionately, as one of his students.

Symmetra still seems to tow the company line with Vishkar. Her interactions with Ana, Ashe and others reflect that she will still parrot Vishkar’s tagline of improving an imperfect world. However, her interaction with Hanzo hints that she may be seeking a way out. She asks why he left his organization, and he replied that he hated the man they made him. When Symmetra asks how he knew he did the right thing, Hanzo says he didn’t. She also asks Sombra about Vishkar’s dealings with LumeriCo…but when Sombra jokes about her escaping her cage, Symmetra shuts down the conversation.

Symmetra despises chaos. She shows disgust in her interactions with Junkrat and Junker Queen, and remarks how shocked she is Torbjorn’s inventions actually function. Likewise, she shows admiration for snowflakes with Mei. Symmetra has close friendships with Niran, who teases her about his chaotic Academy habits, and Zenyatta, who encourages her growth.

Symmetra is a person still discovering herself. She was severed from her family, and largely from her culture, by a predatory corporation. While Vishkar has made her into a successful scientist and expanded her education beyond her wildest dreams…they also robbed her of much of her humanity. She is clawing it back through her friendships with Zenyatta and Lifeweaver, and slowly growing into a person separate from the corporate drone Vishkar wants her to be.

Symmetra is a soul aching for empathy and beauty, in a world where so much of it has been sanitized in the name of efficiency. She is a reminder to us all that imperfections aren’t to be eliminated…and technical advances may come at the cost of the artist if we are not careful.

(Taken from facebook group "Deadlock gang: women of Overwatch from a member there)

[thechaoticdruid]

MEET THE PARENTS

Okay so I've had this same Astarion x Tav idea floating around in my head for a while and I'm so surprised I legit have not seen anyone write about it! It's basically the classic meet the parents scenario! Yes I know we never see Astarion's parents and probably never will, they could be dead for all we know, but they are elves, a very long lived race so it's very possible they could actually be alive! So basically I'm gonna start a little fun writing challenge and tag three of my favorite Astarion romancers.

@spacebarbarianweird , @vixstarria , @marcynomercy

(If none of you are actually interested in this I'm so sorry 😭 I just wanted to do a thing.)

The challenge is to write up headcanons of your Tav meeting Astarion's parents and vice versa. Doesn't matter if your character's parents are dead or MIA this is strictly a what if scenario. And if you'd be so kind please tag some Astarion x Tav writers you think would be interested in this challenge!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Astarion meeting Winnie's parents.

It definitely was not planned, Winnie literally had no idea her parents were even alive.

Her Gran had told her a long time ago they went missing off on an adventure after leaving their village and that they were very likely dead.

About 20 years later after their disappearance Winnie returns back to the ruins of the village she grew up in with Astarion accompanying her.

Astarion had actually insisted on venturing here in hopes of finding a lead on the drow wizard that plagued his beloved's nightmares.

The one who orchestrated the massacre of her village before kidnapping and experimenting on her.

There's nothing left but basically an unmarked graveyard. The amount of death and dark magic that seeped into the area has even brought some of the dead back from beyond the grave.

It is a horrifying turn of events for Winnie, actually seeing some of the people from her childhood roaming the land as lifeless corpses and then actually having to kill them herself this time.

Once the two of them were safe they took shelter in one of the old huts which just so happened to be Winnie's childhood home.

Astarion had to hold and comfort her as all the memories of her village's slaughter came flooding back.

At some point as they rested they noticed something watching them.

It was a wolf, with dark brown fur, eyes shining pink in the moonlight. A very peculiar shade indeed.

Peculiar but not unfamiliar as Winnie's own fuschia colored eyes stared back.

She just had to follow after the wolf and eventually it led her back to a small hut surrounded by some kind of dome-like barrier.

The wolf ended up shifting into the form of a tall muscular human woman who was none other than Winnie's long lost mother!

A short pudgy man with a lute stepped out of the hut as soon as he heard the tall woman shout. This was Winnie's Father.

Winnie was overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions with the revelation that her parents had been alive all this time!

Molly and Harry were their names.

Despite welcoming Winnie with open arms they seemed rather on the fence about Astarion.

At first glance Molly was overjoyed that her daughter had a partner so handsome and immediately began to babble on about what beautiful babies they'd make much to Winnie's dismay and embarrassment.

Harry was polite and willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He wasn't as baby-crazy as his wife.

Then came the realization that Astarion couldn't pass their magic barrier they'd created to keep out undead.

Winnie was quick to come to Astarion's defense however, but learning that your daughter's lover was a vampire would be unnerving for almost anyone.

At first Winnie's mother even asked if she was with him willingly, wanting to check and see if she was charmed. It was honestly a bit ridiculous.

Molly was checking her neck for bite marks and nearly losing her mind and screaming when she found them there.

Harry had to calm down his wife, wanting her to give the vampire spawn a chance.

Things were a bit iffy from there on our, but eventually they came to accept Winnie's undead love.

And Molly expected a dhampir baby or two within the next few years, which Winnie had to remind her frequently that she was not ready for that and might actually never be ready for it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winnie Meeting Astarion's Parents.

This was Winnie's idea all on her own.

Despite Astarion always telling her she was the only family he needed whenever she'd bring up the subject on if he thought his family was still around or not.

Yet the curiosity, the uncertainty just ate away at her.

His past was a mystery, not only to her, but to Astarion himself.

And they were elves for gods' sake. So it was very likely that they hadn't yet succumbed to old age.

What's two centuries to an elf?

But also she wanted her beloved to have someone other than herself to feel loved unconditionally by.

The human female had no idea how long she'd be able to run from her mortality.

With help from her tressym familiar Maddie to keep Astarion occupied, Winnie returned to Baldur's Gate in search of any old records of the Ancunin family.

Using her Hero of Baldur's Gate status to her advantage Winnie is able to get access to certain private documents no normal citizen would be able to.

She finds some old records on Magistrate Ancunin which immediately brings a grin to her lips.

Astarion's parents apparently left Baldur's Gate three years after his death.

From what little else she could find they moved to Evereska, but nothing told her if they were both actually still alive or not.

Winnie had her elven friends Vesperr and Arva do some investigating since they were constantly traveling nowadays and likely may be able to find out more than the human could.

She sent them a raven detailing her intentions and findings before returning home to her beloved vampire spawn.

He was a tad upset about her sneaking off for a few days and only leaving a note in her place, but Winnie was able to smooth things over with a little blood.

About a few weeks later a letter from Vesperr came back, telling Winnie that there were some Ancunins living in an estate just outside of Evereska. A couple in fact!

The human female could hardly contain her excitement, but she had to keep calm, especially when Astarion became curious about the letter she received.

He actually chased her around their home demanding to read it but Winnie wouldn't let him.

Soon after Winnie proposed that the two would go on a trip. A romantic getaway as she put it.

That was the cover she made up for going to meet his parents.

Luckily at this point the two had been able to locate the ring of the sunwalker so Astarion's days of running from the sun were a thing of the past.

The set off by carriage, taking Winnie's faithful tressym along with them.

Eventually at some point on the road Astarion ended up finding the letter from Vesperr Winnie had tucked away in her pack.

"A romantic getaway hm?"

The druid just smiled at her partner with a nervous chuckle.

Of course she apologized for lying and keeping secrets and said that she only wanted to make Astarion happy.

He forgave her and decided just to go and meet these people since the two of them had come too far to turn back now.

Astarion was getting more nervous the closer they got.

Perhaps this wasn't a good idea? What if they tried to stake him after what he's become?

Winnie would place her hand over his to comfort him after she noticed his stressed mood.

Winnie's tressym Maddie would also curl up in his lap and purr like a good little emotional support kitty.

Finally they would arrive at the estate where Astarion's apparent relatives were living.

They walked in, hand in hand before promptly being approached by who they assumed were the estate's security.

Winnie was quick to introduce Astarion, hoping to avoid any sort of confrontation.

Astarion's name had immediately made the guards freeze in place before then demanding he come with them inside.

They legit told Winnie she had to wait outside which Astarion was having none of.

If his lover was not allowed in then he would be leaving immediately.

The unfamiliar two elves muttered to each other in elvish as Winnie just watched in confusion. Every word coming out of their mouths sound like pure jibberish to the human female.

She then heard Astarion snarl back at them in elvish.

Winnie had a feeling they might have been talking about her due to her partner's very offended and frankly pissed off sounding tone.

The elven guards eventually agreed to let them both enter together.

Winnie was amazed by all the extravagant decor, almost getting distracted several times and having to be pulled along by Astarion who kept an arm linked around her waist.

Finally the time had come when they were face to face with his parents.

They were both insanely beautiful as Winnie assumed practically all high elves were, both adorned with fine silks and jewels Winnie had only ever dreamed to see.

Astarion appeared to have gotten his father's handsome facial features and his mother's luscious ivory curls.

Both his parents had different colored eyes his father's were golden while his mother's were green so the mystery of Astarion's eyes was still yet to be seen.

His mother looked over his face with pure shock before eventually bursting into tears.

She hugged him tight muttering something in elvish as she held him.

Astarion seemed to stiffen under her touch. Perhaps she was his mother, but at the same time she felt very much like a stranger.

His father eventually joined in on the hug as Winnie just stood there awkwardly.

It took them a few moments before the realization set in that their son was back from the dead.

His skin, cold to the touch, his eyes blood red and the fangs peaking out from behind his lips as he gave a nervous smile.

Immediately they jumped to a conclusion that the strange human woman Astarion was with was somehow the cause of this.

To which Winnie snarkily replied, "Do I look like a vampire lord to you?"

Astarion had to step in and explain what happened, he skipped all the unpleasant details to save himself a bit of pain.

While his parents seemed to become more accepting of his affliction rather fast, they barely batted an eye at Winnie.

And whenever they did look upon her it was with disgust.

Hells his father even assumed she was some kind of hired manservant! And tried to get her to carry Astarion's things in.

When Astarion said that Winnie was his lover, his mother gasped, acting as if she was going to faint.

It seemed theatrics ran in the family.

Things went rather poorly from there.

Astarion's father apparently tried to explain to him that bedding humans was not acceptable.

Winnie just stayed quiet and stood there awkwardly as she heard his mother claim that she probably used magic to tempt him into her bed.

It was then the pale elf snapped and told them off for not being there for him for over 200 years yet Winnie, a 'filthy human' had been there for him since the moment they met.

He made sure to let them know he wouldn't even have been here if it weren't for her wanting to reunite him with his 'family.'

Astarion eventually had enough and dragged Winnie out. He apologized to her very profusely afterwards.

He felt awful that she had gone through all this trouble only to be treated like trash by people she should have been welcomed by.

Winnie just smiled sadly and told him it was okay. It was worth trying.

The two hugged before leaving deciding to head back to Baldur's Gate and probably get drunk at the blushing mermaid.

Of course on their way out, one of the elven servants rushed after them with a letter.

It was from Astarion's father, apologizing for their behavior and begging Astarion to come back.

The vampire spawn simply rolled his eyes and tossed it out the window of the carriage.

Sometimes a real family was just a wild feral girl, a sassy vampire elf , and a winged cat.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

What? Did you expect Astarion's parents to be nice people?

~Druid

[eikonoklast]

Day 16 (Third-rate): Domesticated

   He always stuck to the script. Some of the fighters - like Silver Bullet himself - weren't allowed to be seen by the crowd outside of their battle forms. So he'd often spend most of his days relatively alone, cooped up in his room. The chairman didn't appreciate when Silver got out and about in Solution 9 - at least not without his retinue. But Silver found that only made things more obvious. The plan for today was to go off script. 

   He looked at the window sensor where it was cleverly sequestered between the paneling and the outside of the building. If he moved to open it, the alarm would sound and the chairman would likely put him under house arrest for the crime of…wanting to be normal. 

   As usual. 

   Jogging over to his closet he pulled a small cylindrical device out of his coat pocket and turned it over in his palm. A laser pointer. After his last show he'd seen a kid playing with it and he'd bribed the child with an autograph and one of his characteristic howls. The boy had been quite the fan, and Silver smiled as he thumbed the device gently, remembering the boy's return howl as he pretended to be like Silver's feral soul; growling and howling as he skittered about on the pavement on all fours. 

   Clicking the smooth button on the side shot forth a tiny beam of colorful cyan light, focused entirely on a point on the far wall where he directed it. Grabbing his coat, a pair of headphones for his ears, and a mask for the lower half of his face; Silver approached the window. His excitement crackled in the air like the lightning that was said to surround the dome. He had never been outside of Everkeep, and tonight he wanted to change that. 

   He focused the light carefully at the sensor, waiting for any sort've reaction. He'd seen this in movies but never quite attempted to try it himself; so he continued pointing the light, occasionally waving it slightly to see if that helped. To his excitement, the sensor's faint red glow dissipated and eventually vanished entirely after a couple minutes. He switched off the pointer, sticking it in his pocket and peering out the window towards the dizzyingly deep canyon outside. The city stretched for malms below him in every direction, covered in a faint lavender and periwinkle haze, red and yellow dotted lights occasionally twinkling in the distance. Everkeep's enormity seemed to impress the hunters who ventured outside, and he was excited to find out how big the real world actually was. 

   Silver tapped his regulator, hearing the metallic chirp and whirr as it spun to life. His body filled with energy as he merged with his feral soul; the feeling starting in his chest and blossoming outward with a wave of warmth through each of his limbs and extremities. He could feel the usual friction in his chest as the two spirits were forced to mesh: a sensation that had made him very ill the first few times. But the process was smoother now as the edges wore down and the two more willingly accepted one another. His hair grew out swiftly behind him in a long, unkempt mane; his hind limbs twisted back in on themselves with a snap as they were forced into their more lupine shape; his long tail grew even longer fur as it thickened and slapped the floor with a solid thump. His maw stretched slightly to accomodate a row of serrated canines, and his stance became more of a hunch as his spine bent slightly; his forelimbs elongating to compensate. His chest and lungs expanded, and he let out a deep exhale; hot, mist-like vapor sizzling from his maw into the cool evening air as saliva dripped from his fangs.

   The ‘Lugarhoo’ they called it. A silvery beast that had lived too long in Heritage Found that had to be put down after it began attacking villagers who lived outside the city. Some say it had been from another world. Though it was impossible to verify such things, particularly with unreasonable beasts who weren't so inclined to share their tales. The wolf-like creature had cost many souls in itself to be brought down and captured for storage in Everkeep - where it had eventually ‘chosen’ a young man during the selection process. Some feral souls were incompatible with hosts for their hunters and warriors, and thus were allowed to be instead used for entertainment. 

   In this form, Silver had some difficulty speaking properly, his vocal cords not managing to remain particularly one way or another during the transformation. The shape of his jaw also gave him further difficulty speaking - and thus he was considered a lesser competitor in the Arcadion. A heel who could do little more than snarl and growl at his opponent was not the best-suited for the higher-ranked matches. Outside the arena he kept in-character: never attempting to speak and guided about by his entourage in a muzzled harness. Though he could still communicate via other means, especially with his fans. The young boy he had gotten the laser from being a good example. 

   Silver dug into the side of the building with his claws as he grappled down to the ground below, leaving terrifying gashes in the electrope wall. Once at the bottom he landed nimbly on all fours, deactivating his soul so as not to attract attention. The transformation was uncomfortable and could be a bit painful sometimes, but it was worth it to get out of that stuffy room. He hit the street tiles running, enjoying the feeling of the breeze in his face. No bodyguards to block him, no muzzle to slow the fresh air as he took it into his lungs.

Freedom at last. 

Author's Note: I WILL be continuing this!! I'm very excited to tell Silver's story: I honestly LOVE the concepts in Arcadion and I want you to meet him! My fighter! You'll learn more about his appearance and mannerisms later on as I flesh out his fighting style - but first I gotta hope some prompts come up that I can weave into his story. I hope you like him so far, though!!! My boy!!!!

[faytelumos]

Writeblr ROYGBIV

Rules: Find each of the ROYGBIV colors in your WIP.

Red:

It was still light out, and the rain had let up significantly. [Syfreth] took me to the tree line south of the village, and there seemed to already be some things there. I hesitated for a moment when [my friend's] parents looked up at me. They were both there, holding each other, and [their] dad's eyes were red and wet in the rain.

Orange:

I looked down at the fire, the flicks and flickers of orange light underneath the cover. The smoke was still sweet, and it swirled together above the cover and into the rain. I swallowed again and rubbed my eye. [My friend's] dad knelt down and sat back on his ankles, and he cried quietly.

Yellow:

"Hey!"

We both turned, looking back to Toler's voice. He scrambled and loped over the forest floor and up to us, holding his hands in his front coat pouch instead of keeping them out like he was supposed to.

"You're going to trip!" Ia said, already walking back to him. He just smiled at her, his face flushed and bright.

"Look what I found," he announced, completely ignoring her, and drawing a hand from his pouch. The fistful of vibrant, yellow-orange was like a flame in the forest, and I rushed to his side, my mouth already watering.

"Cloudberries!" Ia gasped, eagerly cupping her hands together.

Green:

The leader shifted his balance in the entrance to the Dome. We were all lined up in the order we'd come back in. The two hunters and Eeteh were in front of me. We had lines painted on our faces in black and green, mostly on our foreheads, down our noses, and over our lips. The man who had painted my face also put lines under my eyes. But everyone still had the smudges on their foreheads they'd received after getting into the spring.

Blue:

Ohrik crouched down and pulled away some rocks from near the base[ of the tree]. "Look, look," he said, waving me down. I crouched next to him and looked where he was pointing. There were bunches of shiny little bugs, skittering about between the wet parts of the rocks. Their backs glimmered many colors, red and green and yellow and even blue. Ohrik reached down and let some crawl onto his fingers. They looked like seeds walking on eyelash legs, and he held his hand up so I could look closer at them.

Indigo Violet Purple:

"How… bad is it?" I asked. I moved to get to my feet and stood stiffly. Every part of me was sore and stuff now. He held up my underfur for me to hold, and I did. The white of my skin was sharply colored by dark, purplish red where the harness had hurt the most.

Thanks for the tags, @tildeathiwillwrite and @dyrewrites! I didn't expect to easily find these colors, since this particular world is always gray and rainy. But I suppose that makes the colors we do see all the more striking!

Tagging @afoolandathief, @amethystpath-writes, @annakayy, @gummybugg, @kaatiba,

@those-damn-snippets, @serenanymph, @surplus-of-sarcasm, @written-in-starlight, and anyone who wants to play!

Also tagging @thelazywitchphotographer and @mr-orion; I think this is the most number of words I've posted of my WIPs at any one time! :0

Bonus Round!

From Hhamath's story, which is much more colorful:

Red:

Paesha struck, and my heart stopped at the booming sound of Lutem's roar as she lunged.

Ræs, Mæpe, and Athetæm fell from Lutem's bodily assault, and I tumbled when her tail hit me in the chest. I scrambled to my feet in time to see her fangs and teeth buried deeply in Paesha's neck, red flowing over orange, Lutem's eyes wild.

Lutem thrashed as Paesha tried to bite her, fangs dripping amber, and I turned to Mæpe where she lay screaming on the floor.

Orange:

"Darling," she breathed, and her voice was sweet and soft. "Don't you recognize your mommy?"

I flinched again. It was like being struck by a boulder running downhill. Mother. This was my mother? The bright orange scales, the voice, the dread—

"Get away," I breathed, backing further into the wall. She looked at me, unblinking, twisting her ears to me but keeping them low.

"What?"

Yellow:

Nevermind that the sun was edging nearer the horizon and the day had begun its first attempts at cooling off. But outside, against the sun-faded green of the building, its deep blue accents and shingles, and the bright purple and yellow floral displays, I was sure to stick out from far down the road.

Green:

Athetæm and Ræs entered just as waiters were moving about the tables. Ræs was wearing the same shirt, vest, and trousers he had worn to our house for dinner. We had managed to put a new style on Meva's outfit despite using the same piece from the same event, but Fethu, Athetæm, and I were all wearing new and fancier clothes. Athetæm had a dark cream under guard to complement his dark complexion, and a light blue, silk cover that had frills around the neck and on the cuffs of his long sleeves in the front. Fethu wore a light green dress, open down her back, with soft pink accents and ribbons. I had dug out my typical garb for fights: a midnight green cover and cape with yellow-green ties. It had been a gift from Athetæm, and I had learned to trust him when he said the contrast with my unnatural coloring was eye-pleasing.

Blue: *

His hand was shaking slightly as he touched the lid where it was most worn. He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes were wide and reddened. He was… so scared. He smelled absolutely terrified.

Before I could ask him anything, he turned to the box and opened it. Inside was more blue silk, plush and soft-looking. This was a jewelry box, but instead of a necklace, it held a vibrantly colored rat skin.

I had seen mouse skins before, ones that had been dyed green or gray to contrast with the ink their messages were written in. But this was not the same caliber. This skin, on top of being surprisingly large, was dyed a lurid, shimmering blue, with golden highlights running down the spine. The edge of it, where Ræs delicately held and handled it, were worn to the point of being nearly bald. Ræs turned around slowly, gently manipulating the little hide to rest fur-down in his hand, exposing the golden lettering tattooed into the rat's inner skin.

He handed it over with the same care and delicacy he used to handle Mæpe. I took it gently in my wings, staring down at it, sure that I would never in my life hold a more expensive rodent skin.

"Can you read it?" Ræs breathed.

Indigo Violet Purple:

An Usevæ stood in the doorway, her head slightly lowered, one claw raised as if to step forward. She looked very much as if she were trying to be unobtrusive, but she was so large that she had needed to open the door almost all the way to get her shoulders in. She was staring at me with wide eyes and perked ears, and even held the forks of her tongue out slightly from her lips, her orange scales seeming muddled in the purple-ish light of the main library.

---

* In this world, people use tanned mouse skins to send little messages, because of a story/folktale where a mouse carried a letter. Common practice is to paint the message on the underside, and the receiver will wash the message off after they've read it and reuse the skin for a new message when needed. They're hard to make, and normally associated with love letters and secret meetings.

[linksthoughtbrambles]

Crow's Feet

A short post-game TP Zelink story that's kind of sad, but also hopeful. ~5100 words. Also on Ao3.

---

The first time Zelda rode through Ordon, she’d been a child.

Her father and mother had ridden in front of her, speaking much of the way—soft smiles.  Her father’s crow’s-feet had not yet appeared, his face smooth and full of a rapt attention, hanging on her mother’s every word; her smiles, in return, full of a strength Zelda had tried to fill in her absence years later, a valiance and a dedication to her people outstripping all else.

She remembered children playing, stopping to watch their procession through their little village on their way to the far-off southern shores.  One boy had caught her eye among them as her parents stopped, briefly speaking to the elder townsfolk.  He’d seemed shy, barely able to meet her eyes, though she couldn’t take her own off him.

The next time she’d seen him, she’d already fallen: a shadow—less than vapor.

He’d restored her.  Her kingdom, too.

She’d offered it to him: her kingdom.  Herself.  Hoped to watch his crow’s feet appear, as her father’s had before the shadows came to engulf him.  He could look her in the eye, now, after their shared fate.

He chose not to.

She’d respected it—his  loyalty to the woman who already loved him.  He’d promised.

Zelda did understand.

She just couldn’t forget.

---

Years.  Years.

Her advisors avoided the subject of her marriage.  Her rapier never left her side.  Her new throne stood singular, three new Goddesses suspended behind her, the breath of life stagnant, gilded metal.

The governor of Faron Provence invited her to his son’s wedding, finally, in lieu of the marriage they’d hoped for to Zelda herself.  South.

She took many deep breaths in the coming weeks.

---

The second time Zelda rode through Ordon, she held her breath.

The Mayor, of course, came forward to meet them: Bo—a friendly man.  He spoke with her advisor, Minsh, of the wet year they’d had and its effect on their legume crops, Minsh commiserating as central Hyrule had suffered the same.  Zelda listened.

Then she saw him.

He carried a heavy sack on his back, two small children at his side.  They exclaimed at the decorated horses, at Hyrule’s golden banners.

He met her eyes.

He nodded with a small smile as the children began inundating the soldiers with questions.

His wife emerged from a small house, her hair longer, still pulled off to the side, now in a tie with its straw-colored strands draped over her shoulder to run down her chest.  She handed him an envelope, receiving a wide, friendly smile in return; then she saw Zelda’s eyes on her.  She gasped, eyes wide with something more than awe at the Queen of the realm in her village.

Link did not look Zelda’s way again.

---

Their return fell on a late evening, a dusk of lavender blue-fall embracing the dome of the sky.  Lights cheered windows and caressed the air as gentle fireflies.  The procession threaded the village, unhurried.  Not far to the north, a short path through stone glimmered with a multitude of those pulsing firefly lights, and Zelda held a gloved hand up, her voice soft as she called for a halt.  She’d meant to visit each Spring in her time—what better moment than when filled with the light of such life?

She ventured in alone at first.  She would invite her people to see this lovely sight, but she wished for a few moments alone: herself, the Spring, and the golden glow.  A glimmer of something shimmering, more compact for the span of a breath above the surface of the water drew her eye, and with it a silhouette.

She knew immediately, even before he turned at the sound of her steps.

He drew a soft, unbidden breath; he sank onto bended knee.

“Your Highness,” he said, his voice ever quiet, a light hint of rasp.

“Please,” she said in volume of the water’s rippling sounds.  “Rise, Link.”

He did obey, though hesitance split each bend of joints in two or three, the pulsing light behind him dividing each further so he seemed almost to exit one stance and enter the next as a statue reshaped, chiseled by time’s minutia, his face dark against its unconcerned ebbs and flows.

She moved toward the Spring, wishing to see him to the fullest in the dwindling dusk and swelling lifelight.  She kept her distance from him.

The light played as refracted through valley-wide water-waves on his solemn face, the gold as gentle strokes of a soft brush on canvas primed with the deep hues of twilight.

“Are you well?” she asked.

He nodded, shadows caressing his face above that small smile he’d saved yet again for her.  “And you, Princess?”

Her thumbs and forefingers met before her.

His smile sank with his eyes.  She thought, for a moment, he struggled to tear his eyes from her as they moved groundward—as though her dress were the object of his interest, her outline his threshold of restraint.

“I am well, Link.  Thank you,” she said.

The way he looked at her.

It’s not as though her life were secret.  Not from anyone in the kingdom.  No husband.  No heirs.

She wondered if the shifting glow would hide it—that the risen corners of her mouth reached that far only, her eyes as polished glass.  “Were those your children I saw on our way south?”

His teeth appeared this time: a true smile, a grin reaching where hers had aspired, firefly light flitting in and out of his clarified gaze.   “Yeah.  Two of them.”

“You have more?”

“A baby girl.”

Those corners of her mouth flickered up and down so many times.

“May I ask their names?” she breathed.

“Of course, Your Highness.  My boys are Matti and Sammel- um.  Sam.”  A laugh puffed out his nose as he hooked a hand around the back of his neck and rubbed, his face half-downturned.  The shadows overtook his face only for Zelda—the light still glimmered in his eyes, her reflection as illusion made reality within the man before her.  “My baby girl is Ayla.”

“So like your wife’s name,” she said.  She wished she hadn’t.  He turned his head to follow the fireflies coalescing in visual harmony, lazy circles over the Spring, his own harmony, the turn of his seasons, the mark of sun upon the dark.

“They’re different enough,” he whispered.

She didn’t ask why he’d done it.  She had, once—once was enough.

“May I call my people in?” she asked, voice absent in breath.  Others could bask in the beauty as she no longer could.

He nodded.  “Yes, Your Highness.  Of course.”

---

Minsh recommended marriage to the son of a wealthy landowner in southern Tabantha.  Zelda declined.

---

The Baron of Hebra province visited Central Hyrule.  He remained nearly two months.  He behaved with charming kindness, and none who had dealings with him in Hebra found him to be unfair—except those who behaved unfairly themselves.  He asked for Zelda’s hand in marriage.

She squeezed his upturned hand, smiling down at him, at his respect for her, his fervency as he knelt before her.

She declined.

---

Minsh presented a detailed account of all the eligible suitors of renown in Hyrule.  The painstaking nature of his work made itself evident in its smallest details, which Zelda appreciated.

She spent nearly two weeks reviewing it.

She sat on her balcony one night, sipping a delicate chamomile tea.  It would not help her sleep.

She resolved to invite three of them to visit her.

She did not write the letters.

---

Minsh presented news on Zelda’s three most favorable suitors.  One had married.

---

Zelda’s mirror revealed a woman no longer possessed of the beauty of early youth.  She stood regal, her face stately, the set of her jaw strong, her eyes glittering and keen, her skin with a dusting of freckles high on her cheeks despite her lady’s maid’s insistence on avoiding direct sunlight.  The thought-lines on her forehead appeared as she considered herself.

---

Zelda’s second most favorable suitor married.

---

Minsh began giving regular updates on the status of those men in the kingdom whose alliance would be favorable.  His voice waxed quiet.

---

The third time Zelda rode through Ordon, she vowed to move with swiftness.  They would be in a hurry.  There would be little time to stop and speak.  The unrest between the islands to the south and the seafarers at the mouth of the river had grown to need mediation.  Other attempts at reconciliation had failed.  Zelda’s reputation preceded her.  Few failed to wither beneath her penetrating gaze.  No one failed to notice the rapier at her side.  It tended to spur agreement forward.

She had avoided it in truth—allowed the situation to simmer.  She nearly wrote to him to request he take a family trip.  She should not see him.

She should not see him.

They rode at a brisk trot, yet cease they did once more, the procession too rare and obvious for the townsfolk to ignore.  This time, children stopped them first in their excitement.  Mayor Bo soon joined them, polite, yet adamant about showing off their new mill.

“Link put most of it together, bless him.  We’d never have managed this grinding stone without him.”

Zelda attempted to put the man out of mind as she inspected the water-powered mechanism, thankful the man himself was a goatherd and not a miller.

They remained an hour, and upon their release Zelda made for her horse with purposeful strides.

“There she is, dad!”

Her heart sank.

“Ayla- she’s the Queen.  We mustn’t-“

“But I want to meet her!  Please?”

A wistful smile threatened Zelda’s mouth.

She turned.

“Hello, Link,” she said, stately as ever, though with uncustomary softness.

His eyes.  They’d changed, somehow.  His skin sun-darkened.  It made the brightness of his eyes a shock, and perhaps that explained it—yet more clarified as his daughter pulled him toward her by the hand: very fine lines—a bare sign of wear.

“You must be Ayla,” Zelda said, turning her eyes on the girl upon her last word.

“You know my name?!”

“Ayla- remember-“

“Your Highness!  Yes.  I’m sorry about that, Your Highness.  I’m not used to talking to royal people.”  The girl’s face seemed a smooth facsimile of her father’s.

“That’s alright,” Zelda said.  “It is easy, is it not, to be overwhelmed by one’s emotions?”

“YES!” Ayla said with a little jump and tightly clenched fists.

Zelda watched the child’s face—not her father’s.  His stature waited, placid, at the edge of her sight.  “I am very pleased to meet you, child.”

“Me too, Your Highness!  I want to hear the story!”

“…Story?”

“Dad never wants to tell it.”  The girl tossed a purse-lipped glare her father’s way.  “He’s all shy about it, but mom said he saved the world with you!”

Zelda’s face fell without falling.  Her indulgent smile remained.  “I see.”  She sighed so lightly a child would mistake it for a mere breath.  “Very well.  If I am to tell it, however, I would ask for all the children to hear it.  What do you think?”

“But they’re not all here now!”

“We shall return here in five days’ time.  Can you see the path far to the south?”

“I can see it way far south if I hang on the weathervane!”

Zelda’s eyebrows shot up, Link’s feet shuffling in the telltale sign of his hand rising to grip the back of his neck.  “Indeed?  Very well.  The next time you see our banners off in the distance, I would ask that you gather all the children in the village to hear the story with you.  What do you think little one?  Is that fair?”

“Yes!!!” the child exclaimed!

Time.  It bought her time to think and prepare, and perhaps to be able to meet Link’s eyes.

---

She told the story beginning just after noon on the fifth day.  The entire village attended.  She spoke from a seat made of a high stump at her own insistence—a place where many could gather about her to sit in soft grass.  She needed no throne to speak truth.

She met his eyes at the right times.

He added to her story in his quiet manner, a few words, enough to bring soft laughter to her: moments of illusion.

She wished.

When her story ended, the children predictably asked question after question.  They ended up taking dinner in the village, sharing the fine wine and mead they’d brought with them.

Zelda returned to her echoing home.

---

Zelda’s third most preferred suitor married.

The first two had children.

---

Years.

Zelda’s mirror knew another, now.  One with softness about her eyes not borne of empathy: a permanent visitation.

Minsh made one final plea for her marriage, if only to continue the royal line.

She tried.

She asked Minsh to write in her stead.

Suitors came.

To say they all impressed her would be untrue.  The Baron of Hebra, now with grey in his beard, attended, his wife of six years having passed on.

Zelda nearly said yes.

She wept in his presence.

He didn’t have the heart to press her further.

He left with assurance.  He would wait should she change her mind.  Even should her courses cease, he would have her.

---

Her heart beat slow.  Calm, always.  Her kingdom thrived.  She would sink as the Sun turning sky to nigthshade and platinum-blond in a single stroke, though deep rose would emerge brief, a chaste kiss against the sky before dark.

Minsh had commissioned a thorough study of the royal family tree.  Should Zelda’s line fail, the next in line for the throne would be her elder cousin Riett, who had married the now-governor of Faron Zelda had visited so many years ago—she’d witnessed their wedding.  Their two children, both female, struck Zelda as a sign, for the royal heredity had always been female lest it break from the throne.  Perhaps Riett had never truly split from it.  Perhaps the Goddesses knew, had always known, Zelda’s heart would end this path, necessitating another.

She knew she must travel again.  Mere letters would not suffice.

She took so much air in deep, close-eyed breaths.

To circumvent Ordon made no sense.  Her heart must bear its own silent sentinel once more.

They would come to her eventually, of course, should time take Zelda’s continuance from her, but that hadn’t happened yet.

---

Zelda rode through Ordon on her stallion.  He’d calmed with the years ,though he’d always taken to her.

The town stood so quiet.

Mayor Bo’s face displayed sags and hollows, new and yet a signature of time.  He spoke with Minsh only briefly.  The smallest village children exclaimed at the horses.  None of them were Link’s.

They rode on.

Zelda had expected her face to fall upon seeing him.

It fell far further with her hope of doing so.

---

She spent six weeks in Faron.  She became reacquainted with her kind, fair-hearted cousin.  She would make a fine queen in the case of Zelda’s passing.  The children’s dispositions appeased her fears—her kingdom would not suffer for her heart’s immobility.  Hyrule would continue.  Their administration of Faron told their story for them.

Their ride back had taken on a bit more spring, and spring it was—babbling brooks and sweet twitterings of birds wooing mates.

Zelda watched beauty of sky and grass pass her by.

She both hoped and dreaded a glimpse of him as they rode through the village.

She would receive one wish regardless.

There he was.

He held a mallet, hammering new fenceposts into place—not about his own house.  Ever-kind.

His cheeks stood stark, every bit as hollow as the Mayor’s had been.  Greyed.  Zelda’s lips parted.

Minsh turned to her, expectant.

They’d nearly reached him, and he did not look.

Something stopped the procession ahead, the horses falling into stillnesss.  A child held something out expectantly to the captain far in front.  She heard his laughter.

Link did not look.

A brief hesitation, a motion and cessation, and then she dismounted.

He knew.  His eyes found hers.

He did not smile.

She approached, small steps, pinched brows.

“Link,” she said.

He nodded.  “Good afternoon, Your Highness.”

Too many breaths passed.

“Are you well?” she asked.

His chin moved as though to answer her.

No sound issued.

“…You are... not?” she asked, a depth skirted.

His eyelids sank, so slow, shutting with a flutter.  “Forgive me, Your Highness.  An- an illness passed through.  Ilia died.”

Zelda’s heart found her throat, blood at the apex of her senses, so overwhelmingly loud.

The village had seemed subdued already.  Time had passed.  “H- how long?”

“…Nearly two months.”

Just.  It had just happened before her last passage.

It took so long to find her voice.

“I am… so sorry for your loss, Link.”  Her voice wavered.

She meant it.

Tears threatened her.  It hurt.

She couldn’t imagine his.

“Thank you,” he said.  So soft.  Heavy.

She bowed her head.

After a time, Minsh appeared at her side.  He informed her of their readiness.

She said goodbye.

She mounted and left with tears freely falling.

More fell within the confines of her bedchamber.  They drenched her pillow night after night.

Cruel.

It would be cruel of her to ask him now.

---

Years.

Her heart hurt.

---

It became difficult to see herself in the face her mirror showed her.

Crow’s feet.

Her voice turned hard, though not unkind.  Final.  Finality.  Decisions as weights to be placed and not moved.

---

Minsh recommended marriage one more time.  He’d come to see her late in the evening—no longer uncustomary for him, for they could speak more frankly out of sight of the court.

“My courses shall pass soon,” Zelda reminded him, working a soothing cream into her hands’skin.

Minsh’s head tilted sideways, then the other way.  “Perhaps… or perhaps not, Your Majesty, but… this is not about producing an heir.”

Her hands stilled.

She turned in her seat, turned away from the mirror on her vanity.  “What do you mean?”

The look he turned on her—it fell so soft.  “You are unhappy, my queen.”

Her nostrils flared.  Tears already stung.  “It is of little import.”

His chin pressed upward, pressed his lips together.  “I respectfully disagree.”

“There is no suitor I wish to marry.”

“I did not mean to suggest you should choose a suitor,” he said.

She shut her eyes to turn forward again.  She would not see what the mirror had to show her.  “It would be selfish of me.  Presumptuous at best.”

“Then you know who I would say to ask.”

She remembered to continue treating her hands.

“… Please, Majesty.  Go to him.”

“I ought not.”

“I beg you.  I beg you on your own heart’s behalf.  Ask him.”

“He could not possibly say no should I ask.  I- I know my own heart.  I would be arrogant to assume I know his.  He refused once and has endured much.  I cannot ask him to endure a marriage he may not want.”

“…Go to him, then,” Minsh said, his voice a whispered plea.  “Please, my dear.  For my sake if not for your own.  I… cannot bear… do you know, Your Majesty, how long it has been since you smiled?”

“I smile every day,” she said with a scoff.

“You pretend to smile.  That is not the same thing.”

She lowered her moistened hands, fingertips on the many hair-thin lines upon them.

---

She rode alone but for her rapier and her ever-present bow, though none but her knew of it.

Should she fall, it would be of little import.  The kingdom rested in security, its heirs established should need be.

Need would likely be, she told herself.

She reached Ordon at sunset, osmotic reds, golds, and oranges on the horizon, an issuance from the Sun’s farewell, the sky blooming fall marigolds.

She dismounted near his house, its windows dark.  She did not knock.

She led her stallion around back, finding a willowy girl of perhaps twelve years filling troughs with water.

“Ayla?” Zelda asked.

The girl turned, nearly dropping her large bucket.  “Your Majesty,” she said, voice high and breathy.

Zelda tried to smile.  “I… was hoping to see your father.”  Not speak with him.  No.  He would do any speaking.

The girl looked down, holding her bucket in hands suddenly pressed together at her front.  “He… at this time of day, sometimes he goes to the Spring.  He…” she paused, then shrugged, eyes flicking back up to Zelda’s for a moment.  “He doesn’t want us to see him be sad.”

Zelda’s eyes stung.  “I understand.  Thank you.”

“I think he would like to see you, Your Majesty.”

A short puff of air left Zelda’s nose.  “Alright then, Ayla.  I… shall see if that is so.”

She found him there.

The firefly lights once more, though they’d gathered not only above the water, but above him, swirling in a whirlwind of impossible slowness, far nearer to his hair than she’d have thought, especially since he sat.

The large log hadn’t been there all those years go.

Perhaps he’d placed it.  Perhaps he’d sat there with his wife, arms about each other.  Or perhaps he’d moved it after her death.

Or perhaps it wasn’t him at all.

Yet there he sat upon it, his fingers threaded through each other, his mouth rested upon them, eyes shut in immobility.

She approached with as much quiet as she could manage, but the slight turn of his head said he heard her.

“I’m okay, Ayla,” he said, turning-

-then saw her.

His shoulders fell as he straightened, half-turned on the log to watch her move, so like all those years ago, she moving to stand where the fireflies would reveal his countenance.

Shock.

Shame flamed her face.  She clasped her hands loosely before her, her arms straight and head bowed, and closed her eyes.

She should not have come.  She had intruded upon him.

One does not spend more than twenty years with a dear friend and fail to come to love them every bit as earnestly as the sudden strike of unexpected passion.

He doesn’t want us to see him be sad, the girl had said.

He still grieved his wife.

Minsh had meant well, but she would not stay.  She turned from the spring to leave him in peace.

He rose at her first step.  “Wait,” he said.  She stilled as he approached her, stopping only a few feet to her side.  “Please…”

“Forgive me,” she whispered to the cool grass, its color the ever-blue of blanketing twilight.  “I traveled here at the request of my chief advisor.  I ought not have.”

“…Why?”  The subtle sounds of the shimmering spring nearly drowned his question, consequence all but lost in even so little noise.

Her feet shifted.  “I have intruded upon you.  It was most inconsiderate of me.”

A breath passed.  “I meant why did he ask you to come here.  Your majesty,” he added, with a softness entirely different from quiet—a tone she had not heard since they parted ways all those years ago.

It brought tears to her eyes.  The blanket of sky fell nearer to ground as she considered the dent her thumbs made in her skin.

She could not tell him.  She’d promised herself she would not.  She would ask nothing of him.  He owed her nothing—quite the reverse.  He had saved her from the grip of pure evil, and yes, she’d aided him in battle but she could just as easily have gifted him her magic, allowed him to wield the bow of light.  She had wished to redeem herself.   She had done that, at least.

And what if he did owe her?  Would she hold a debt over him, compel him to bed her without love?

No.  She would die first.

“Forgive me,” she said once more, her voice wavering with resumed steps, hurried, fervent, toward the gate, near black in absent sun despite the thrum of thousands of lights behind her.

“Princ- Your Highness, please, please wait!”  He jogged after her, coming to rest with bare feet shoulder-width apart in her direct path.

She hadn’t noticed at first, his shoeless feet, his trousers rolled up to the knee.  She supposed he’d waded into the sparkling spring with the last rays of sun.  With barely any light remaining, she couldn’t tell whether his skin glistened with moisture.  She found herself staring at the arch of one foot, waiting for a sharp glimmer of reflected light.

His hands met before his stomach.  “I’d hoped to see you again,” he said.

Why? she didn’t ask, hope a selfish thing.

His hands twitched toward her, then stretched outward, palms up.

She considered them.

She so wished to take them.

“Please,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes once more.  Any choice to be made here must be his.  She held her own hands out, palms down, and waited.

His warmth on them drove a sound from her as her chest curled in, constricting her lungs, her face tight and pinched as she refused to believe.  That would not be fair to her should she be mistaken.  She would cease to be capable of sight—need to trust to her horse entirely to carry her back north, toward home.

Her fingers rested in a gentle curve over his; his thumbs each settled on her knuckles.  He remained that way, still, as crickets played a few bars of their nightly music, then stroked her there softly.

She bit her lip.

“I thought of you,” Link said.  “A lot.”

She shook her head.

“It’s true.”

She opened her eyes just enough to see their joined hands.

“I… I loved my wife.  So much,” he said.

Zelda nodded.

“But my mind would drift toward you,” he whispered with the barest tremor.  “And… then… you didn’t marry.”

Her first tear fell.

He gathered both of her hands in one of his, then used the other to brush that drop from her skin.  His hand lingered there, curled against her cheek.  “Why didn’t you?”

She promised herself she would not say, but she couldn’t help but look at him.

Her eyes must have grown accustomed to the low light.  The look on his face—as though they were young again.  As though he’d just taken her hands, so like this, to explain—to tell her no.  He seemed every bit as anxious now as he had in that moment.

“Was it me?” he asked.

Her face could not be stopped.

Her upper lip lost slow ground against her lower, propelled by her weakening chin, her nostrils flaring and everywhere around her eyes threatening to pinch them shut.

It only took a few moments for liquid to flow freely on her cheeks, finding that hand of his and then his shoulder as he pressed her to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said—high and tremulous.

She felt his chest shudder, his own moisture striking her hair and shoulder.

He stroked her hair.  Many strokes—long, soft—lingering.

She couldn’t explain it.  Didn’t know why this felt more like coming home than returning to her castle ever had.

She barely knew him, in truth.

She could count the number of times they’d spoken on her fingers.

She didn’t understand.

They sniffled and breathed soft, fluttering puffs of air against each other—his chest, her hair.

“You had to hurt one of us,” Zelda said.

His arms tightened around her.

“It did have to be me.  We’d barely spoken.”

“That doesn’t mean it hurt any less,” he said.

She pressed her face harder to his shoulder.

He began walking them back toward the fireflies, the spring, their embrace unbroken, his feet nudging hers step by step.

She smiled against him.

He didn’t stop until they reached the very edge of the water, its nightly shivers.  He pulled back and turned her gently to the side, hands on her biceps, stepping so all those little lives lit their faces.  He smiled at her—it compelled her to touch his face, the corners of his eyes where they reached for his temples.

Crow’s feet.

He let her feel him, that smile growing sad as he watched her expression flicker.  “Not what you remember?” he asked.

“It’s not that,” she said.  “I simply recall… my father.  His eyes had lines like these.  They appeared not long before he passed.”

He caught her hands in his and kissed the backs of both sets of fingers.  Her breath caught then, too.

“There’s time,” Link said.

“Does that mean- does it mean you will-“ She wished to ask so badly.

“Will marry you?” he asked.

She just stared at him.

“I will if you still want me, Zelda.  I… come here to think.  About a lot of things.  But lately, I keep thinking, maybe I’ll ride into Castle Town.  Maybe I’ll ask for an audience with the queen.  Maybe… maybe I’ll see if she still wants me after all this time and after I hurt her so badly.”  The eyes he turned on her were full of something.  Not remorse, no—he’d already said he loved his wife—and not pity, either.  She wasn’t some helpless creature.  She could have had any of countless husbands.  She nearly took one.

She just hadn’t quite let go.

That was it—in his eyes.  He hadn’t quite let go, either.

“I still want you,” she said, some tone in her voice seeming to stimulate the hovering insects near her to fluoresce in echo of her words.

That hand of his which had stroked her cheek returned.  The other followed it.

His face drew nearer.

She had kissed a man.  One man.  A few times.

Never Link.

The muscles beneath her navel quivered.

His lips touched hers, so soft, so gentle, yet sweeping, a meeting of more than the outermost surface, and in a moment the tips of their tongues touched.  They met three times before Link deepened the kiss.  Zelda leaned into him, snaking her arms around his neck with a high sound riding on a sigh as her body relaxed into his, as his hands found her waist, then her hips, his fingers splaying to feel more of her.  When he pulled back, both their eyes lay more than half lidded, fixed on each other.

“I have them too,” Zelda said.

“What?”

“Crow’s feet.”

A puff left his nose as one side of his mouth turned up.  “I like them.”

She blinked, watching his deepen the more his smile did.

“So do I,” she said.

---

Follow this link for my masterlist.

[bouquetofgarnets]

Step into a serene countryside scene with this cross-stitch pattern, featuring a quaint village road, rustic cottages, and a majestic church with golden onion domes surrounded by vibrant fall foliage. The peaceful setting is reflected in the soft puddles on the dirt path, capturing the essence of a crisp autumn day. Perfect for cross-stitch enthusiasts, this pattern adds a touch of nostalgia and charm to your collection. Ideal for creating wall art or a heartfelt gift, this design offers a stunning combination of intricate details and warm colors.

[barbatos-sama]

so in my modded playthrough i have 163 mods, although keep in mind a lot of mods have required dependency mods that don't do anything on their own, they're usually called library or core mods, so not Every mod in that count is a unique mod that adds new stuff. like for example my mod that adds biomes has three dependency mods that do nothing on their own, they're just required for the main mod to run.

anyway tho it's still a lot of mods to have regardless ajdjf

my main goal right now (besides blowing up and acting like i don't know noboday) is creating a waystone for my spawn. my spawn by the way is a super cute flower forest, as in a new biome that has giant pink and purple flowers all over. i always try to make sure i have a cute spawn when i play this game because i just wanna make my house At spawn, its easiest that way. if you die and your bed is obstructed you just end up at your house, and you always know which way your house is cause it's at 0,0. anyway tho a waystone will allow me to teleport around the world, most villages have waystones so if i have one at my house i can teleport to any village i want + teleport back, which will make exploring a lot easier.

more long term goals tho are that i wanna catch one of each color butterfly and put them in a glass dome, my mod that adds animals has four different butterflies i think, blue orange yellow and white. also it adds snails so i'll put a few snails in there too. and then i also wanna make an orchard because i have a mod that adds tons of crops/fruit trees, so i want a big orchard with every fruit tree plus a farm with every new crop.

so far i haven't even made a house yet tho lol, just five furnaces and two chests sitting on the ground. it always takes me forever to actually make a house in this game.

[enfyswanders]

Manchester, Part 1: July 1-4, 2024

I love Manchester for its stunning architecture and its prominent queer and alternative scene. The town seems to have a good sense of humor, and there's some fantastic shopping available, including a whole multistory shopping center of queer, artsy, and alternative shops. I was pleased to see a lot of folks wandering around wearing office attire while sporting brightly-colored hair, tattoos, and piercings.

But the architecture. It's so pretty!

When I got off the train at Piccadilly Station, there was a big sign saying, "Welcome to Manchester: Home of the Bee Network!" and lots and lots of other signs for the Bee Network. None of them said what the Bee Network was, though. I had to Google it. (Tl;dr: it's their revitalized public transit system.)

I stayed at a Motel One, which is a newish German budget hotel chain, and dang was it swanky. Entering a Motel One is like walking into a chill lounge. There's a bar, lots of comfortable space to sit, chill music playing, and disco balls hanging from the ceiling. My room was well-appointed and felt like something I'd have at a much more expensive hotel.

My one big complaint about Motel One, and why I ultimately changed my reservation for Glasgow from a Motel One to a Premier Inn, is that their beds are awfully firm, which my curvy hips really don't like. I woke up in pain most of the nights I stayed at one.

At this point of the trip I was pretty firmly into a routine: Rest the first day I arrive at a new place and buy a few groceries for breakfasts, then find every bookstore and queer shop in walking distance, then look for any tourist sites or shopping that interest me generally.

So, my first full day in Manchester, I sought out the Gay Village (noted on Google Maps as such). It was pretty easy to spot.

And they even have an Alan Turing Memorial:

A short walk from the Gayborhood, there's a giant coffee shop/queer bookshop that I was super pleased carried a copy of my book. (I signed it discreetly. I usually ask a shop's proprietor if they mind if I sign it, but they were all busy.)

I also bought some new threads, thanks to the recommendation from my friend Molly to check out Lucy & Yak, which was extremely my shit in terms of style and comfort:

My final evening in Manchester, I took in a fantastic local production of The Importance of Being Earnest at the Royal Exchange Theatre, which is one of the coolest theatres I've been in. The building is this giant Art Deco-ish affair, but built in the middle of this huge domed atrium there's this industrial cylinder made of yellow pipes, and that is where the actual stage and seats are located.

It's theatre-in-the-round style, and the set was gorgeous:

I was really impressed with the acting as well. It was such a fun experience, and cemented my belief that I need to make more time and space for live theatre back home, in my day-to-day life. It really feeds my soul.

Giggles from this part of the trip:

[travelingare]

📍Santorini Greece.

Minogiannis Valantis Captures the ethereal beauty of Santorini, an island that epitomizes the allure of the Greek Isles with its dazzling whitewashed buildings, blue-domed churches, and breathtaking sunsets.

on the cliffs overlooking the Aegean Sea, Santorini is a masterpiece of nature and human artistry.

The island's captivating charm is not just in its iconic architecture but also in its volcanic landscapes, ancient ruins, and the deep blue waters that surround it. From the stunning views at Oia to the vibrant streets of Fira, Santorini invites you to explore its myriad of colors, flavors, and sights. Santorini's vineyards, known for their unique grape varieties, offer a taste of the island's rich culinary heritage, paired beautifully with the fresh seafood served at the local tavernas. The beaches, with their distinctive black, red, and white sands, provide a serene escape under the Mediterranean sun.

The island's history is as layered as

its stunning caldera, from the ancient

city ​​of Akrotiri to the traditional

villages that dot the landscape.

Santorini is not just a destination? it's

an experience that captures the

essence of Greek beauty and

hospitality. Whether it's wandering

through its cobblestone alleys,

sailing into the sunset, or simply

soaking in the panoramic views. Santorini leaves an indelible mark on the heart.

For those enchanted by the serene beauty and romantic ambiance of the Greek Isles, be sure to follow @minogiannisvalantis for more breathtaking visuals of Santorini's unforgettable landscape.