#i hate this scene with every fiber of my being

[unhingedmarvelandclassicwhobuff]

Throwback to this hysterically tone-deaf scene that very nearly made the final cut of Endgame.

In case you forgot, Tony did the following to these people:

Bucky was beaten within an inch of his life

Steve’s image was tarnished and his heroism stifled

Sam was shot point-blank when he gave up his freedom to help Rhodey

Wanda’s parents were killed because of his criminal negligence, her brother was killed by his creation, her freedom was taken because of his stubborness, delivering the Time Stone to Thanos rendered her sacrifice meaningless, and his refusal to undo the Blip led to all the trouble she caused afterwards.

Peter was blackmailed, groomed, neglected, and manipulated

Strange was forced into an impossible situation because of his refusal to turn the ship to Titan around

Bruce was strongarmed into helping create a murderbot, and then Tony sided with Thaddeus Ross to hunt down people like him

Clint, the man in the fucking thumbnail, is the guy whose secret family was exposed to Ross by Tony.

WHY THE HELL DID ANYONE THINK THIS SCENE WAS A GOOD IDEA?!?!?!?!?!

I was planning on waiting until the 4-year anniversary of this scene being released, but I’m feeling particularly spiteful today.

[mvmnbnv]

Maybe I'm nitpicking but fuck it idc

The way they have vi on her knees with a less than confident expression while going down on cait is giving submissive, docile, and desperate and it bothers me...especially with her line of how she doesn't care about the fling and how she's been so desperate for cait to the point of it making her look dumb as dogshit

That scene was humiliating the more I think about it. Like don't get me wrong, her expression and demeanor is fine...just in a different context. Not one where she's literally loyal to a fault like a dog to someone who treated her like shit and has yet to acknowledge it. Not one where it makes her look so grossly desperate she's fucking her in a prison cell, the same cell her suicidal sister left her in because she didn't want to ruin her life or whatever. Like....they just turn her into a slobbering dog over this dictator who hurt her and has yet to apologize correctly

[dayydreams-s]

🧍🏻‍♀️ why tf does alex have icing on his hand before they even stumble into the cake

[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.”

[zweigsangel]

gif credits

are we datin'? are we fuckin'? are we best friends? are we somethin'? in between that? i wish we never fucked, and i mean that. but not really, you say the nastiest shit in bed, and it’s fuckin’ awesome. childish gambino.

what were you and rafe? good question. you hated him, or at least, you thought you did. you despised him with every fiber of your being. but all that hatred evaporated the moment his cock was inside you, pushing deep inside your tight cunt as your bodies were pressed together. in those moments, everything else vanished—your thoughts, your anger, even your sense of self. it was as if the very act of being with him consumed you, burning away everything else until there was nothing left but the two of you.

he wasn’t just your best friend. he was more, and yet, somehow, so much less. because best friends don’t do what you and rafe did. they don’t kiss each other like you did, those bruising kisses that left you breathless and aching for more. they don’t touch each other like you did, his hands leaving a trail of heat wherever they went, as if he was branding you, claiming you as his own. and they don’t look at each other the way you and rafe did, eye-fucking each other from the corners or a room.

you’d always been close, too close, maybe, but there was a line you both knew shouldn’t be crossed. yet you crossed it, again and again, until that line blurred, then disappeared entirely. “who cares, a’ight? ‘m good, you’re good, fuck the rest.” he’d say, voice low and rough, whenever you hesitated, whenever that small, sane part of your mind screamed that this was wrong. and for a second, you’d want to pull away, to stop whatever twisted thing you two had become. but then, he’d look at you with his deep blue eyes, he’d pull you closer, his breath hot against your soft skin, his long fingers between your wet folds, and all those doubts, all those second thoughts, would melt away, leaving you with nothing but the need, the raw, aching need that only he could satisfy.

“it’s jus’ a casual thing. no feelings, nothin’ official. we just fuck, tha’s it.” those were his words, laid out so simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world. that’s what you two had decided, or at least, that’s what he decided, and you went along with it. deep down, you knew you couldn’t say no to him, not when he looked at you with that calm confidence, the kind that made it clear he always got what he wanted.

you told yourself it didn’t matter, that you could handle it, that keeping your feelings out of it would be easy. but every time he touched you, every time his lips met yours, that resolve wavered. it wasn’t just the physical pull; it was the way he made you feel, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered in those stolen moments.

for you, it was never just casual. not when he’d rest his hand on the small of your back as you walked around together, a gesture so intimate it made your heart stutter. not when he’d let you lean your head on his shoulder, his fingers gently stroking your hair, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. it was never just casual when, at parties, he’d get jealous the moment another guy got too close, despite the fact that there weren’t supposed to be any feelings involved. “i’m jus’ protecting you. that’s what friends do, right?” he’d say, and you’d have to bite your tongue to keep from rolling your eyes right in front of him. and you, well, you never made a scene when you’d catch him in some dark corner with a random girl, their lips locked, because after all, “remember? no feelings.” you’d remind yourself, swallowing the bitterness that crept up your throat.

but the way he talked to you when you were together, when you were wrapped up in each other, told a different story. “your pussy was made f’me,” “so tight, fuck,” “you take my cock s’well,” he’d groan in your ear, and in those moments, it didn’t feel casual at all. it was in those words, in the way he touched you, that you could hear the truth he’d never admit to. but you buried that truth deep, because acknowledging it would mean confronting what you both pretended didn’t exist.

“don’t you think we could, y’know, make this official?” you asked him one day, your body still naked under the covers as you watched him get dressed. you’ll never forget the way he turned, the look in his eyes just before his anger flared up. “what the hell is wrong with you? we already decided what this was... all’f’this!” he shouted, throwing his arms up in frustration as his voice grew louder. you sat there on the bed, one hand clutching the blanket to cover yourself. “well, i just thought that after all this time, maybe we could give it a try!” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

but he didn’t let you finish. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving you alone in the suffocating silence that followed. and in that moment, you hated rafe cameron more than you ever had before. the hatred burned through you, sharper and more intense than anything you’d felt in all those months of pretending, of pushing down your feelings just to keep him close. the sting of his rejection was like a knife twisting in your chest, cutting deeper with every passing second.

he didn’t call for a while, and you didn’t either. you thought about blocking him, your finger hovering over the screen, but something held you back. you couldn’t explain why. perhaps you should have done it, cut him off before things got messy. but you didn’t. and then the late-night messages and calls started coming in, his voice slurred, stumbling over words. he was drunk, lost, reaching out to you in his most vulnerable moments. and every time, without fail, you answered.

“need you. s’much. ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry. please," he mumbled, his breath ragged and you could hear sloppy, muffled sounds on the other end of the call. the phone call felt like a heavy, suffocating fog, the noise on the other end a disjointed symphony of desperation and self-pity. you despised yourself more than you despised him for falling for the same broken promises again, for allowing his slurred and drunken apologies to penetrate the defenses you'd built. after a long, painful pause, you replied, "come over," your voice trembling slightly as you spoke.

and he did, slipping through the bedroom window and collapsing onto you. his damp lips found your skin, your neck, jaw, your plump lips. the mingled stench of smoke and alcohol enveloping the room like a suffocating blanket. “missed you so much. missed your little pussy,” he slurred, his breath hot and uneven as he hovered over you. you gripped his shoulders tightly, the contact eliciting soft, desperate moans from your lips. every touch, every movement sent waves of sensation through you, as if he was the only one capable of making your feel like this, as if his cock was made to push deep into your sensitive spots. the intensity of the moment consumed you, blurring the lines between need and guilt.

and the morning after, as you laid beside him, the early light creeped through the window highlighting the features on his face. you were staring at him, as if you wanted to say something that had been festering in your mind. he caught your gaze and, sensing the weight of your silence, muttered with a touch of annoyance, “don’t even start with that bullshit.” he got up, gathering his clothes in a hasty manner, while you did the same, slipping on your panties and a loose shirt. “fuck you. i’m so stupid for letting you always have the upper hand,” you said, your voice laced with frustration. “maybe it would have been better if none of this had ever happened, if we’d never started fucking.” you couldn’t hide the mix of regret and anger in your words, each statement a reflection of the turbulent emotions that had been building up.

“oh okay. yeah, maybe,” he commented, rolling his eyes and turning his back to you, only to pivot back around and come closer to you. “wait, what? no, no, no,” he began, a strange, almost amused little smile spreading across his face. he lifted his arm, his hand gently brushing against your cheek as he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “no one is like ya. no one talks to me like you do. fuck, i don’even know how to explain it,” he murmured, his voice low and husky, sending shivers down your spine.

of course, you thought, the memories flashing vividly in your mind. because no one rode him like you did, his large hands gripping your hips tightly, his fingers digging into the flesh to guide your movements. up and down, up and down. “you’re so big,” you’d stammer, your sweaty forehead pressed against his shoulder, your manicured nails clawing at his back as you moaned. no one else knew the exact spots to touch him, your delicate hand stroking him from tip to base with just the right pressure. “just like that. fuck—” and you knew you were the only one who could make him moan like that, like a total slut in a porn. his head resting against the headboard of his bed as his fingers teased your breasts, circling your hardened nipples.

"you fill me so good," you’d whimper as he slid in and out of you against the door, your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, your breath hitching as you clung to him. he was too impatient to make it to the bed, his need for you too overwhelming to wait. every movement was urgent, driven by a raw desire, the wooden door rattling slightly with each thrust.

and all those moments, all your words, your phrases, echoed in his mind as he looked at you, because he didn’t want it to end. the fear of things becoming serious was there, gnawing at him—he didn’t want that. but the fear of losing you, of losing the pleasure you brought him, was just as strong. "then i guess you'll have to find another bitch who makes you feel this way," you said, your voice sharp, cutting through the tension in the room.

"i know you don't want that. i know you too well by now," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear as his tongue teased the sensitive skin of your earlobe. and just like that, he fucked the attitude out of you, because no matter how wrong it was, you couldn’t stay away from him. it was maddening—the way he knew exactly how to unravel you, to pull you back in when you were on the verge of walking away. you hated how easily he could do it, how his touch could make you forget all the reasons you should leave, but you were addicted to the feeling, to him.

[writerblue275]

How Heartsteel would react catching their S/O singing/dancing to “Paranoia” (to their part if applicable)

Inspiration: Me being a dancing/singing/lip syncing fool every time I listen to the damn song, especially while I’m cleaning my apartment.

Genre: Headcanon

Category: FLUFF

Gender: Gender Neutral Reader

TW: Swearing

^^(How did they get this GIF of me dancing?? 😂)

General things:

Setting the scene, let’s say it’s the first time they’re coming home after the song has released so they’re really getting your reaction to the finished song for the first time.

Ok let’s be clear, all of them would be so flattered and would love this.

Having a supportive partner means EVERYTHING TO THEM.

So even if I don’t put “it means a lot to them to catch you doing this, etc…etc…, it’s still implied.

Aphelios:

He’s had a long day in the studio working with Yone on the next album’s instrumentals after doing a debut music show, so he’s very ready to be home with you and to take it easy tonight.

Grins under his mask as he opens the door and hears “Paranoia” blasting on the Bluetooth speaker he got you for your birthday. He knows how much you love to jam to music!

Sneaks to wherever you are, not wanting to disrupt you and absolutely wanting to grab a photo he can send to Alune (after swearing her to secrecy [not that she would send the photo of you to anyone anyway! You and her are good friends too]).

Manages to get an excellent photo of you using the duster as a microphone, a smidge of dust on your cheek.

You’re so absorbed in your “performance” you don’t notice him at all.

Right after you mime the *ding ding ding* of the bell in Sett’s verse, your smart watch buzzes with a text message.

“I hate to disrupt your award-worthy performance, but what would you like for dinner? (Also you have a little dust on your cheek, cutie.)”

When you spin around and finally see him, he’s spinning his mask on his finger and giving you a sly grin, winking as you gasp in surprise and blush at being caught.

He grabs a tissue and gently wipes off your cheek before giving you a gentle kiss hello.

(I have a headcanon that he would primarily communicate to his partner using sign language)

*Signing* “I’m glad you enjoy our work, love!”

Seeing you love something he put so much effort and time into really brings him a LOT of pride and will continue to motivate him.

He helps you clean and asks you more about your thoughts on the song.

You were in the studio while he worked so you’ve heard parts of it, but you and him agreed that you shouldn’t hear the finished song until it released to the public. It was your suggestion actually. He was ready to let you listen to it early but you wanted to experience the full excitement of waiting for their debut just like everyone else.

Which he LOVED.

Ezreal:

This litTLE SHIT (said lovingly)!

Smug man #1

He will NEVER LET YOU FORGET THIS.

The SMIRK he has when he walks through the front door and hears the all-too-familiar intro to the song.

And when he hears you RAPPING along with Kayn’s part??

NO WAY is he missing this!!

He immediately makes his way to wherever you are and positions himself so he can see you without you seeing him.

Phone camera is at the ready.

Starts recording a video right before the pre-chorus begins and his part starts.

He can’t help but smile as you switch to lip syncing, clearly wanting to hear/focus on his voice.

You’ve told him many times how much you adore his singing voice.

(And he’ll never admit to anyone how much hearing you say that means to him but that’s a different story)

It takes every fiber of his being to not reveal himself while he’s recording.

He’s about two seconds from giggling.

Records through the end of the chorus before stopping the recording and immediately sending the video to the Heartsteel group chat with all the members and Alune. They all love you so he knows they’ll love seeing the video.

He puts his phone away and plans to sneak up on you. (Lmao sneak up? I mean flash.)

This man is an EXPERT at surprising you.

Flashes right behind you before the second pre-chorus starts and starts singing, bursting into laughter as you let out a surprised scream.

He gets a well deserved pillow to the face for that.

Later Yone texts you and tells you that he’s “glad you like the song enough to sing and dance to it throughout your daily tasks.”

And Aphelios hits you with the “:)”

And Ez gets another pillow to the face before bed.

Followed by a kiss because he is POUTING.

Kayn:

This SMUG motherfucker!! (Again, said lovingly!!!)

Smug man #2!!

Comes home to you cooking dinner for you and him, using the spatula as a mic.

Does THE shoulder lean against the door frame (y’all know what I mean, especially if you read romance novels) and just watches you with the biggest shit-eating smirk on his face.

That smirk only get bigger as the song ends and restarts and you don’t change it, telling him you’ve had their song on repeat for who knows how long!

If anything, you’re getting even more into it, starting to dance a little more now and adding some little ad libs while he raps.

Ex: “If you try to step to me, it’ll be the last time” You *in rhythm*: “FUCK YEAH”

He absolutely loves it.

Honestly you’re making him fall in love with you all over again.

Also gives him the idea to ask Alune if you can help make up the fan chants (although he’s sad because he knows they’ll have to be a bit more PG)

Can’t help himself as he lets out a chuckle, giving himself away in the process.

Holds his hands up peacefully as you spin around, ready to throw the spatula if needed.

“Sorry baby, I’m afraid you can’t use me for target practice.”

“God Damnit, Kayn, you know I scare easily! How long have you been home?”

“There’s a reason I stayed over here instead of startling you over there where there are a bunch more kitchen utensils you could have reacted with. And to answer your question, enough time for me to understand how much you seem to enjoy our song.”

You playfully, roll your eyes, shake your head, and smile as he comes over and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing you hello.

He’d definitely tell the guys what he saw, but he wouldn’t film or photograph you (this time 😉).

K’Sante:

I get such immaculate vibes from Heartsteel K’Sante.

Like I’m a BTS fan (woot woot ARMY) and I get very very similar energy/vibes from K’Sante and RM.

Like I do not know what it is, but I would trust K’Sante with holding/watching my drink at a club if I needed to run to the restroom. He has that sort of good energy.

I suppose it’s the…safe? energy??

Absolutely hilarious to use that word considering the batshit things they did in that movie studio.😂

But you know what I mean!

And being in a relationship with someone who has this sort of energy would be A++++.

(I know this is a bit of a tangent but I swear it’s relevant to the topic)

K’Sante’s part in “Paranoia” has that same sort of energy to it. (It’s so hard to explain what I meannnn)

And when he catches you singing and dancing along to his part, the bridge of the song, while you’re folding/putting away laundry, I think he’d watch you for a couple moments.

But only a couple.

He’d make his presence known a bit earlier

Because then I think he’d come join you! ☺️

He’d start singing with you and encourage you to keep singing with him.

He’d gently pull you a little closer to him.

And obviously the slower paced part of bridge doesn’t last forever, but even then I think he’d still dance with you once the song ramped up with you (hard to explain but think casual dancing with a partner at a club/bar).

It would be so FUN??? Such a fun sweet moment between the two of you.

He’d of course then help you fold the laundry.

“It’s only fair since I distracted you from it for a bit!”

You’d keep listening to music with him as you both get some chores done around the house.

Definitely making sure to take time for more dance breaks (duhhhh).

Sett:

(A/N: I love the entirety of “Paranoia” but something about Sett’s verse makes me absolutely FERAL!! THE LYRICS. THE VIBE. THE INSTRUMENTALS. PerFECTION! ØZI fucking nailed it.)

When I first started thinking about this, I thought that Sett would be smug guy #3.

Now I’m not quite so stuck to that idea.

Oh don’t get me wrong, he’d definitely hug you and tease you once you saw him watching you and blushed a deep red.

But they would mainly be half-hearted teases.

And internally? You know this man is melting about you and how lucky he is to have you as his partner and how much he loves you.

Sett clearly has such a soft side for the people he truly loves and cares about.

Have you seen how much he adores his Mama???

You are like the only other person who can really bring that soft side out of him.

And catching you already having the lyrics to his verse down 100% is something that would bring that out of him.

Speaking of his Mama…

Sett would absolutely take photos or videos of you.

But they’re only going to one person.

That’s right, to Mama.

We’re going to assume that his mother really likes you and you really like her. (You think this man is going to be with someone his mother doesn’t get along with? BFFR)

Though let me say I think she’d be very easy to get along with.

Like I definitely don’t think she’s the mother-in-law from hell I keep seeing stories about on TikTok.

But anyway, he just wants to show off his favorite person to his other favorite person (who also adores his favorite person).

And little do you and Sett know but that just inspired Mama to knit you a sweater that matches the beanie she made that he wore in the MV. As like a holiday present!

(I’m so sorry this one was admittedly a little self-indulgent but I think it’s so cute!)

Yone:

Oh this man.

Obviously everyone has worked extremely hard so that Heartsteel can debut. Everyone has had late nights and long days on little sleep.

But as Heartsteel’s main producer…

(Not to mention band mom!!)

Yone really had a record number of late nights at the studio.

Reworking a passage over and over and over….

And OVER

Until it’s right (or until Aphelios/Alune drag him out of the studio at 3am telling him to work on it tomorrow with fresh ears).

And he’d never tell you, but you know he’s felt really bad about all those late nights. All those nights he wasn’t with you.

Potential dates missed because of deadlines.

Not that you were angry with him or anything.

You love him and you know how much pressure he’s put on himself.

And the last thing you want to do is potentially add more pressure on him.

In fact, you and him made a routine the past couple months. Whenever he’d have to work on the weekends, you’d come over to his studio each night during the weekend and bring a movie/couple episodes of a show and takeout.

And he gladly lets you pull his attention away from work for other media and cuddles.

(I feel like in private Yone would be more cuddly than one might expect of a stoic man like him.)

But during these media breaks??

This tall man was like a damn koala the way he cuddled you (not that you were complaining).

So seeing you sing and dance to the song he produced…

Even though the production of this song meant you often went to bed alone….

Was so fucking cathartic for him.

It made him feel like every sacrifice was worth it. Just to see how happy you were to dance and sing to the song he put so much of himself into.

His expression would be so soft as he watched you.

And after you noticed him and gave him a smile, he’d come over and give you a hug, burying his face against your neck.

You are his MUSE, and don’t you forget it.

Ahh thank you for reading! This is my first bit of creative writing in over 5 years, so apologies if it’s not great!

Shout out to @coco6420 for telling me on my main account to not stop myself when I talked about being tempted to post headcanons for Arcane/Heartsteel. Well here we go. 😂

[blindmagdalena]

Hello!

Wonderful "Eat Your Ego, Honey" got me wondering:

what would happen if Homelander was interested in a stripper?

She's known for her dancing and, he sensed, her secret superpower/-s. Would he be furious that a girl dances in front of some "dirty" men? Would he torture her for being afraid of him? Would he be uncomfortable with the smell of her sweaty body?

I literally see scene of meeting: she's dancing to gothic metal in the dim lights of the room; Homelander is freaking out, jealous and horny (because he feels like she's having a blast dancing).

Thanks for your fanfics, I adore it! Because of your headcanons I fell in love with Homelander and decided to watch the series...

anon. the absolute RABBIT HOLE you sent me spiraling down with this ask is genuinely insane. firstly tho, thank you!! i'm so happy you enjoy my work and have been inspired to watch the show! i hope you love it as much as i did.

okay, now, onto the meat of this. i can't imagine Homelander ever being in a strip club, but i absolutely can see Vought having a dancer supe who performs at shows! and then i started thinking about what kind of powers she might have.

(this got long. strap in.)

and okay. bear with me here. i have the FAINTEST memory of a kids show (something like goosebumps or are you afraid of the dark) where they told a monkey-paw type story of a girl who wished that everyone would like/love her. and of course this turned out to be a fucking nightmare. people were obsessed with her automatically to a scary degree and she was eventually swarmed and maybe killed by the aggression of the adoring crowd? i don't remember.

but that made me think about her power being something of that nature. a chemical that compels people to adore her. when she sweats, and that sweat evaporates off of her skin, it fills the air people in the vicinity inhale it. it's what makes her dances so incredibly popular! but too much exposure to her powers can cause, uh... scary side effects in people. make them deranged. obsessive.

she hates it. it's destroyed all the relationships in her life. it's pretty much inevitable that she'll eventually effect the people around her, and it either freaks them out to the point they break contact with her or creates a completely inauthentic infatuation with her. it's impossible for her to know if anyone actually likes her, or if they're just under the influence of her powers.

she, like Homelander, would know what it's like to be "loved" in the most hollow sense of the word.

how cut to Homelander who's present at one of these shows where she's dancing and oh my god something smells incredible. downright intoxicating. it calls to every fiber of his being and he follows the scent of it until he's close enough to the stage, and it shocks him to his core to realize it's a person.

except! Homelander is so fucking chock full of V himself that he's not wholly affected by her... idk, pheromones? whatever you want to call her aura of effect. but he IS intrigued by it. by her. by the way her body moves and how she seems to have cast a SPELL on the entire audience.

he expects he'll be able to get a chance to speak with her after the performance, but bafflingly, she gets the FUCK outta there as soon as her set is done. naturally he has to follow!!!!

and okay i just had so many ideas for this! i even thought of One Single Friend she has who's a fellow supe and, due to his own powers, he's immune to her effect. i haven't figured out how exactly. maybe he doesn't breathe the way normal humans do. or he has some kind of innate filtration that makes him immune to gasses and things. his supe name is something stupid like... The Filtrator.

speaking of which her supe name would probably be like. Enchantress. something that alludes to the charming effect she has. but her friend knows how her powers work and he playfully calls her The Perspiren. perspiring siren. 😭😂

anyways i think they could have a lot of really interesting parallels! and of course Homelander would be intensely possessive of her, but he's also a HUGE exhibitionist and i think he would get off on knowing how badly everyone wants someone that's his.

he wouldn't ever physically hurt/torture her, but he would of course become violent if his possession of her were challenged or threatened in any way. if anyone touched what's his, or presumed they could take her. anyone she showed interest in would definitely wind up dead.

can you tell that i thought WAY too hard about this.

idk if i would make this an oc or a reader fic. i feel like this could definitely work for my first proper supe!reader fic! it's got a ton of potential. thanks so much for sending this!

[openphrase123]

i just finished this fic! it's good!

and because it's all done i want to like... be a LITTLE self indulgent and talk under the cut about some miscellaneous things that i ran into while writing it. don't click the readmore if you're interested in the fic and haven't read it yet i'm about to spoil the Whole thing.

also there is an epilogue to this fic now - go read that before this post if you're getting to this before the update!!

so!! i haven't written fanfiction in like FIVE YEARS. it's been a while! part of that is because i was doing original stuff and part of it was i was in a creative slump. so isat kind of dug me out of that and i owe it my thanks. i've been able to do a crazy amount of original work since starting this fic, it's brought back my creative discipline. in like seven years when my video game comes out you can thank isat for that probably

i originally set out thinking this was the only fic for isat i was going to write. and then as i was writing this i fell deeper into it. i kind of got out of isat a little disappointed in how it ended?? but now that i'm here i'm like ah it's fine. just cause i would have done something different in dev's position doesn't mean it's bad. it does mean i can write a bunch of fanfiction exploring things i wish had been tackled more in the game though LOL

i said this in one of the chapter authors notes but i DID start out curtain call hating loop with every fiber of my being. (as in i liked them as a character UNTIL the act 6 reveal which i thought was lame) and then i played through the game a second time knowing the loop twist and went "oh nvm this makes sense" so a lot of the loop stuff in this fic was actually written twice. originally i was just gonna have them soulmerge with siffrin and not be present at all but then i was like. no. i do want to keep this lighthearted and that's too depressing of an end for loop. i do have a loop postcanon doc so i'll go repay them for their slapdashed involvement in curtain call someday

i'm in a weird position with curtain call in that i wrote the themes and major conflicts Directly After playing through isat the first time. before i could really marinate and analyze the characters fully. so there are a lot of scenes and points where i think i wouldn't characterize certain people like that if i were to rewrite this from scratch? however i don't disagree with what i've written either - it's just an interpretation that i don't necessarily think is my favorite anymore.

neither is any of the worldbuilding i did for any of this - it works for curtain call and i think it was nice but i don't necessarily think it's my current interpretation of what the culture and people were like? i like the wishes being permanent thing, i like the language stuff, but i'd probably go in a different direction if i went through this again

i do actually still think "the forgotten island was destroyed by a volcano" is my solid headcanon explanation of what happened to it. in my heart. i think like - with siffrin as a character especially it's very important that he's always missing something, that it's not idyllically happy for them at the end of everything. so even if he can remember more from their own past, it's - you know - there's no way to go back. only forward.

in the vein of this i probably could have killed siffrin/loop's entire childhood family but i did not. mostly because i did think it was fun for him to have to explain all of those cultural taboos they broke to survive. which, of course, was not a big deal - any good parent would rather their kid be alive than lawful - but what is isat other than a vehicle to make siffrin work through every moral compulsion and spiral they experience

i had a thought halfway through writing the fic that i was stepping on the very good and beautiful odile friendquest by making the island real and having a lot of siffrin's personality dictate how it went. but i ultimately decided on keeping siffrin very close to their country, more than odile is to vaugarde, because siffrin actually DID live on the island when he was a kid and that i think is a Different type of "longing for your country" trauma than odile's. i think they can still drink over the feelings together though

writing bonnie is very fun but very emotional for me. the bonnie&siffrin age gap (preteen to late-20s) is the exact age gap between me and my niece so every time i need to sit down and write something for them i think about her and how much she's a little baby growing up. this has nothing to do with bonnie it just makes writing bonnie really hard for me

if the entire history of my ao3 account was not an indicator, i'm a very big fan of writing romance, but i did not want it to take over curtain call at all. i also could have left out sloopis entirely and almost did, but thought "you know. with the way loop functions in this fic. i should at least let that be open ended" cause sharing a body with a version of you who is dating some other guy is gonna get messy no matter what. it's just not necessarily something i had time to or the urge to explore here. think of it as a fun spiritual nod to the fact that isafrin is technically open ended in isat (<- cop out answer)

i think i'm pretty vocal in how much i am absolutely insane for the flashback "happiest i can remember being" conversation. who let them do that. i think a lot of how i worked with mirabelle and siffrin's relationship in this fic kind of revolved around that. important to me that it ends with mira checking in on him and getting the answer she was looking for all along <3

overall i'm happy with curtain call. glad i am done with it though. there's so much that's running in with it at once. i'll probably wait a month and reread the whole thing to myself front to back before i start having fond memories of this. i mean it's always gonna be the fic my nephew was born during and i'll always remember having a panic attack in the airport right after posting chapter 7 but it's gonna be weird letting this one sail off into the ocean of the internet. however feel free to ask anything about the fic, i wrote this in a lil hurry on a bad day and probably didn't cover everything

goodbye, curtain call!! i love you!!!!! i'll miss you!!!!

[looks both ways, waiting for most people to leave]

also. if you've read this far. i hope it's not too gauche of me to link my personal project. if you've read over 100k words of this you might enjoy the game i'm developing? i've been working on it for almost a year but i just started the devlog last month. it's still in early baby stages as far as a full video game goes but if you liked this you'll like the game when it comes out (similar nickname culture, timeloop trauma, petty interpersonal drama, very stupid jokes, natural disaster angst)

also there isn't a lot on the devblog yet, i've mostly been doing programming on it, i JUST started visdev i'm sorry if it's uglyyyyy (FOR NOW)

anyway i'm trusting you with that link. i'm going to use my professional name on that project when it airs don't cross the wires pretty please just pretend that's a butch-y cis woman's game <3 guard the closet door babeyyyyy

[hannie-dul-set]

❥ HOSTILITY — na jaemin.

p — NA JAEMIN x gn! reader. g — suggestive, stageplay! au. w — making out, swearing, reader tells jaem to k himself, reader spits on jaem's face and he does something...questionable. 438 words.

note — this got the most votes in the poll so here's another one where jaemin is an asshole and a weirdo bcs for some reason y'all seem to enjoy it as much as i do 😭 i'm p sure that my vampire jaem fic will be trapped in gdocs hell for long time, so take this as compensation. tagging — @alwayswithjaemin @cerealdreamwriter @tyongff-ff.

“i fucking hate you.”

na jaemin’s lips are hot on yours, a sickening flame that you want to tear yourself away from. “i hope you drop dead.” his shirt wrinkles in your fist and you groan into his mouth. “fuck you, you’re the worst.” a squeak escapes your lips when he pulls on your hair. you’re about to cuss him out but he cuts you off with another kiss.

“i get it—” he huffs, “—you can’t stand me—” teeth gnashing, tongues wet, “—but do the both of us a favor—” hungry, animalistic, “—and look at me like you wanna fuck me instead of wanting to bury me alive unless you wanna repeat this scene over and over again, yeah?”

to the eyes watching from below the stage, it may seem like a passionate moment between the characters you’re both playing, but to you it’s a set designed by hell. you want to strangle him when you wrap your arms around his neck for a breather. you want to twist a knife into his throat instead of leaving a nest butterfly kisses. 

“good,” he whispers, a wet trail from your earlobe to your jaw as he places a heavy hand on your hips straddling his lap. “last one. close your eyes.”

“eat shit.”

you throw yourself off him with a gasp when he bites hard on your bottom lip, teeth scraping against the swollen muscle and you look at him with so much abrasion and repugnance that he only laughs.

“alright, good job! let’s have a water break. be back here in ten!”

you hate na jaemin with every fiber of your being, and you won’t let him off so easily for nearly making you bleed. a nasty sound erupts from your throat. your spit lands on his cheekbone when he ducks down to grab a water bottle, which consequently drops back on the floor with a loud noise. you snicker. he’s looking at you like he wants you dead. you attempt to shove past him but jaemin yanks you back by the wrist with a staggering strength and you warn him with a sneer.

jaemin’s grip tightens around your wrist. you’re sure it’ll leave a bruise. he wipes your spit with your own two fingers and puts them in his mouth. his teeth sink into your skin. your fingers burn against his tongue. “what the fuck is wrong with you?” you exclaim after pulling yourself out of his hold.

“my bad,” he mocks, a smug look on his face. “thought you were aiming for my mouth.”

“fuck you.”

“save it for the play.”

“go kill yourself.”

“after you.”

HOSTILITY. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[princessvickie]

PERSONAL STRIKER HEADCANNONS ♡‧₊˚

(general, romantic, physical.)

note : ahh i’ve been wanting to write about him for a while :,3333 my little snake dude !!!-!-!!—!! i freaking love him sm !! might write about him and my oc sooooown;)) this isn’t proof read sorry:(

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR HELLUVA BOSS EPS IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY WATCHED THE SHOW.

General

୨୧ I feel like Striker would be demisexual/romantic. He’d probably only be intimate with somebody after he put his whole trust and faith in them. It’s implied by S2 Ep4 that he’s lost the people that he cared about before, so It’s an explanation for his hostility. I also think he’d be Bisexual like js look at that one scene in Harvest Moon like i know he was trying to manipulate Blitz butttt;))..

୨୧ Loves mud fights and fist fights, won’t elaborate on this;).

୨୧ While rewatching Harvest Moon Festival, Striker looks a bit old fashioned and traditional compared to the other Imps. So i believe that he def gets his style from watching old western movies when he has the time.

୨୧ Constantly trying to get money for business phones, but he always breaks all of them in a fit of rage (a little canon).

୨୧ Fucking loves Bombproof with every fiber in his body and treats him like a baby in private, also I feel like he’d own more horses and call them his family.

୨୧ FAWKING LOVES HORSERIDING COMPETITIONS!!!! he almost always wins and then shows off Bombproof but never lets anybody touch him.

୨୧ Bombproof is def his main way of transportation but he’d probably have to drive a car once in a while. (he’s absolutely reckless and his vehicle is literally on life support and barely even working)

୨୧ His gold tooth is a souvenir and shines insanely bright.. he also wants to lose more teeth to replace them with prosthetic gold ones.

୨୧ Decent penmanship, despite his reckless and crazy personality. It’s not the best.. but at-least it’s legible…

Romantic

୨୧ In the scenario that he’d be in a relationship with somebody, he’d probably be a bit harsh/ or even cruel at first. He hasn’t experienced that type of shit in a while so he’s grown to know intimacy as a stranger. Striker has a tough shell.

୨୧ Once he’s warmed up to that person, he’d be super overprotective. He doesn’t want to lose another person, and to experience that grief again. Striker wouldn’t be the perfect partner because he still has some flaws within his personality due to being previously scarred, but he’d def ensure that the person he’s romantically involved in is comfortable and reciprocates the same feelings as well.

୨୧ Overall, Striker’s a bit inexperienced with romantic concepts but not completely unfamiliar with it. He wouldn’t mind showing affection, such as occasional cuddles or words of praise.

୨୧ also extra if he were to be your roommate, he’d be extremely messy.. like look at his lair shit is everywhere 😭.

Physical

୨୧ DEF MORE ROUGH AND MESSY HAIRRR. Work gets in the way of his personal hygiene and sometimes he forgets to cut it, making it grow a bit longer. Also fighting takes a lot of effort so no doubt it’s messy 😭.

୨୧ Longer gloves, maybe even normal non-fingerless ones. Striker kills people for a living and he’s legally wanted so I don’t think he’d leave his fingerprints behind that easily.

୨୧ Doesn’t always fight with his jacket, sometimes fights get messsyyy and he doesn’t have the time to keep washing it.

୨୧ okay sorry if I get bashed on this but I prefer norman reedus as his va.. NO HATE TO EDDD I FREAKING LOVE HIM BUT I LIKE THE HIGHER, RASPIER VOICE..

୨୧ snake-imp. Personally I don’t believe Striker to be half shark but everybody has their own headcannons. I also think he’d possess more animalistic features, such as moving around more snake-like and slithery.. def does this to confuse his targets,, like one moment he’s here and then u blink and he’s literally gone.

୨୧ honestly I feel like he’d have more scars on his body, especially his forearm/general arm area. He’s a literal assassin it’d be a little unbelievable if he didn’t have any remarkable scars.. and I also feel like he’d have one specific scar he’d show off and forget about all the other ones he has. but this is just my humble opinion!!!

[rs-hawk]

Do you have any writing tips? Even if it’s not necessarily for smut?

I won’t be touching on tips for smut at all on this post but I can make a separate post for it if y’all want.

My Top 10 Writing Tips

Love all your characters. Yes, even your antagonists. Hell, especially your antagonists. Even if they’re evil for the sake of being evil, if you want a 3 dimensional character, you have to acknowledge that they’re more than just evil to someone. Their mother. Their friends. Their dog. You have to think of their motivations, and honestly?-acknowledge that every character you write has a part of you in them. Maybe just your anger, your fear, your trauma, but love them for that, and it’ll shape them and your works in ways you never thought of.

Don’t reread your work too often! It’s hard (so very very hard) but when you have to crank out 2k words a day every day of the month but 2 it gets easier. Lol. Fr though just keep chugging along. You can reread later. You can edit later. Just get it done.

Don’t edit too much while you’re still actively writing. I know that’s hard, I really do, but if you keep rewriting, you’ll never be able to finish. You’ll keep writing a handful of scenes over and over again until you hate it, your book and yourself for “giving up”. You can edit later.

Write for yourself. It doesn’t matter how good of a writer you are, how beautiful or eloquent your style, if you hate it with every fiber of your being, it’ll turn to dust in your hands. I consider writing work, and when people enjoy themselves at work, not only do they do better, but the consumer enjoys it more. Think about it. If you’re at a restaurant and the workers are laughing and smiling with each other and seem genuinely happy, you’re more likely to go back than if they’re miserable, on the verge of tears and seem to hate being there, right? The same is true for your writing. Readers will enjoy it more if they can feel how much you enjoyed creating it.

Don’t just write. Listen to music. Get up and go for a walk. Text/call a friend. Watch a TV show. Pet your cat. Experience something. It helps you write but it also reminds you that hey, you’ve been here like eight hours. Get something to drink. Take a screen break. Go outside.

Be comfortable while you write. I’m not going to lecture you on posture because I’m currently laying down with my legs drawn up under me, my upper body turned and my phone in the air because I’m trying to put enough pressure on my lower back to pop it. Anyway, even if you can’t stay in one position long, switch. Listen to your body. A “proper” posture can end up hurting you if you don’t ever relax or if you’re putting too much pressure on your lower spine. It’s okay to lean. It’s okay to lay down. It’s okay to sit cross-legged. Just not at the expense of your body. Be aware, and don’t forget to get up and stretch!

Take breaks. Eat. Drink. Stretch. Go to the bathroom. Some people need them scheduled, and that’s fine, but also listen to your body. If you need to use the toilet but you don’t have another break scheduled for an hour, just go. Pause your timer or delay your alarm if you want, but take care of yourself.

Don’t be too rigid with your “starting” plot. We know most of us have that one scene or one character in mind we want to write, so we create a plot around them. That’s fine and I love it, but your writing is like a living creature. You might change while writing it. Your characters and ideas might change while writing it. Let them change. Let you change! You can edit later.

Remember it’s not a race. Just because you see some people dropping 3 novels a year, or 5 Tumblr posts every day doesn’t mean you’re not good enough. No one can write what you write. No one can create what you can create. Your work deserves to exist and be judged on its own merit. Not compared to anyone else’s, even if it’s you five years ago who could crank out multiple posts daily. It’s okay.

Don’t expect anything. Start writing because you love it. It makes you happy. It itches that part of your brain that no other hobby does. That no other love does. I’ve been writing for about 15 years now. I don’t know who I am without it. I have tried giving it up, moving past it, doing other things, but I always come back. Nothing else makes me feel the way writing does. I have gone years without writing, but when I start writing again, it’s like a high. I can go for hours, and I have! I have been lucky to be able to monetize my work, but it took 10+ years and was only because I got goofy about werewolves on a PTR app. You can’t go into the arts and expect to make money right away, or ever. You can hope, and do your best, but don’t only do it because you think you’ll make a living. It’s a sad but real fact. Capitalism makes us think we should only do stuff we can make money off of, but that’s a lie. You can AND SHOULD create just to create. Humans are meant to make art, and if writing is your canvas like it is mine, write to create. Fuck capitalism. Your art existing is enough reason to create it.

[kymanismydrugy]

I love how all it took was seeing Cartman getting assaulted and that’s when he tweaked and Jeresy’d out. Eh, but maybe I’m overthinking it and he was already about to, but near the end of the episode what the hell was that!? Everyone should know this scene, especially if you’re a fan of Kyman. For two people who say they hate each other with a fiery passion they sure are touchy with one another. And I mean, Kyle wasn’t even trying to stop it. I know damn well if the person I hated with every fiber of my being touched me like that, I’d damn push them away. But he didn’t, now this is me being delusional. But in the episode the entity, why are you even trying to walk him to the area that you want to be at Kyle? He can walk there on his own 🙄 Also when Kyle introduced Eric to his cousin Kyle, he said and I quote, “He’s my friend-ish.” Like, that’s still something if you hated someone why even say that??? I wouldn’t even introduce them to said person. In dear celebrities Kyle seemed more worried about Cartman not caring about his bloody shit more so than his baby brother being possessed by M.J. Literally, they weren’t even fighting this ep, just Kyle being concerned. Like I’ve been saying if you hated someone so much you wouldn’t be that concerned??

[sillygoofyqueer]

I have been summoned by the newest chapter of losing hope :3

Not much happened but I’m taking this as a “I will give you fluff both after and before things go to shit”

Jingyi being Jin Ling’s reluctant friend is honestly pretty hilarious and I can’t wait to see those two start to get close because I feel like that’ll be like “I hate this person with every fiber of my being but if you make him cry there will be nobody searching for your body and no body to find either.” Especially after they realize the type of environment he was in his entire life in comparison to their childhoods. They’re goofy and I love ‘em.

Wangxian being shameless is always amazing (love that it’s LWJ doing it too!) but Wwx missing his sword. Jesus, that made me sad. It’d be interesting to see how suibian communicates with Wwx because in canon we know that the swords have spirits but that’s never really expanded upon. Especially since suibian sealed itself. It’d be nice to see them communicating with their weapons (also imagine suibian mother henning Wwx? Or even Wwx thinking of suibian as a sibling/parental figure? The angst for that would be great especially combined with the scene of Wwx giving away his golden core. Both of them would know Wwx would never be able to properly use suibian again and wow that would hurt. Also I’d imagine since Jiang cheng can also use suibian, suibian does care for him much like Wwx but also it’d be funny if it didn’t particularly like him. Like, the entire time Jiang cheng uses suibian it is fluently cursing at him.)

Jingyi picking up on LWJ pining/flirting is very funny but probably not as funny as it will be when sizhui realizes that A) they’ve both been pining for each other for almost two decades B) 100% they are not in a relationship even if they’re totally shameless with each other and C) they both SOMEHOW have NO IDEA that the other likes them back. The facepalm when that realization sinks in will be funny :3

As always fuck JGY.

Also as always, your writing is amazing four and I wish I could give you more Kudos <3333

Remember to take care of yourself and take breaks!

Just...just picture me holding you close right now. That's it, that's the sentence.

Now, I don't know what you meeeaaaan, there is barely any angst in my fic whatsoever and there will never be anymore angst-...*checks timeline doc*....for nowwww....In all seriousness though, I can't actually remember/decide if there will be any angst next chapter, but oh boy if there was wouldn't that be silly. Wouldn't that be sooo goofy? Guess we'll never ever ever EVER know. I was feeling soft and silly, and this was more of a filler chapter, so I was like, "fluff be upon ye" I guess.

Jingyi and Jin Ling are going to have a very interesting friendship - Jin Ling's been raised differently because Wei Wuxian has kind of been a part of his childhood, so I wonder if that will affect how he builds/views relationships with other people - what do you MEAN I can't foreshadow in my post, who said that?! Anyway, I can't wait to think about it from Lan Sizhui's perspective; dude feels bad for Jin Ling because it is OBVIOUS that this poor guy does not know how to talk to people and if he is befriending what everyone labels as a dangerous criminal, then he is in severe need of friendship. Then there's Jingyi in the background, barking like a chihuahua every time Jin Ling does something that the Lan doesn't like until they devolve into fighting.

Ever since I learned about sword spirits, I've always wondered how Suibian would interact with Wei Wuxian and how they work together. I read one too many SVSSS fics where sword spirits hold a big value in them and it was all downhill from there. Think about it - Wei Wuxian had a lot of people who knew him in Lotus Pier, but he was never truly vulnerable with anyone (except maybe Jiang Yanli, but even then, it wasn't much) because he didn't want to sound ungrateful. So, imagine a Wei Wuxian who found solace in ranting to Suibian. Now imagine a Suibian listening and soothing in their own way. You see my vision, right? Imagine losing that when he needed it the most, during the Burial Mounds. Imagine finally being able to get it back after years of unforgettable trauma and torture, when he desperately needs someone he can rely on without second guessing everything to do with human duality. That doesn't exist with a sword spirit - Suibian just cares.

[pensivegreen]

Whispers In The Dark - Prologue

Aaron Hotchner x BAU!reader

Note: not canon, diverges from storyline. Slow burn. Also, my first time attempting to actually write.

TW: typical criminal minds description of crime and criminal behavior, brief mention of age insecurities

WC: 1.2 K

Walking into headquarters on Monday mornings never gets old; it’s been three years, and every time your posture straightens with the confidence boosted by the purpose your job gives you. With a black coffee, you step off the elevator towards the bullpen. JJ had called earlier, informing the team to head straight to the conference room for nine.

“Good morning, Munchkin,” the well-meant nickname falls from a grinning Morgan, always chipper in the morning.

“You do realize I’m average height, right?” Raising an eyebrow at Derek, you place your bag down on the desk. Unlike everyone else, your desk isn’t littered with pictures or anything really personal. The surface mirrors your professional and tidy nature, with only a pumpkin-shaped mug hinting that you have a personality and interests.

“Baby doll, you are the shortest in the team and ooze sweetness to people in the field. Hate to break it to you, but you earned that nickname,” Derek rattles off, meandering over to your desk. Patting your head to finish his sentence, not in a taunting manner but in hopes of comforting.

“Derek, JJ is only like an inch taller than me,” you swat Derek’s hand away, smirking back at him, “and you’re making me rethink being nice to you.”

Feigning hurt, Derek places his hand across his heart, “You could never.” Banter is needed in this line of work; if you allow the horrible things you see to consume every fiber of your being, you won’t last in life. Unlike most people, you learned at a very young age to “flip a switch”, being tossed around as an orphan causes you to thicken your skin early. Turning off your emotions allows you to physically get through things; not creating any emotional ties to what you experience. Then, when you finish for the day, the switch is hit once again, allowing life and work to never mix.

Spencer strolls in, always the most punctual of the group. “Hey, we only have two minutes before the briefing,” he informs both of you before walking by and up toward the conference room. You and Derek exchange a glance before collecting your coffees and following after Spencer. Entering the doorway, JJ, Spencer, Emily, and Rossi are already seated at the table. Settling for the open chair next to Emily, you glance up just as Hotch walks in. 

Your boss was actually the man to offer you a job at the bureau after you helped him with a case. With a master’s in behavioral neuroscience and working on a Ph.D. in criminology, you were asked to join the local sheriff’s office as an investigator at the age of 20. This caused many of your fellow officers to be standoffish and cold, rightfully so, but within a year you had earned the respect of the small-town officers. And within another 2 years, you were inviting the BAU to your town to help solve a case, leading to Hotch to take a liking to your work ethic and abilities.   

“JJ, are you ready?” Hotch’s deep voice penetrates the room, mixing a gentle timbre with a stern tone. You can’t deny the moment you met this man he enamored you. His presence dominating but caring creating a level of protectiveness that you just ate up. 

“Yes sir.” JJ is up in seconds, passing out case folders before standing back in front of the TV monitor. “Over the past six months, five women have been found dead in remote areas near downtown D.C. All the victims are short females in their 20s and attend Strayer University.” Everyone’s eyebrows raise at the specifics, noting the nearly identical nature of the women.

“How are we just hearing about this when this has been happening practically in our backyard?” Emily asks the million-dollar question everyone ponders.

“I don’t know, but these scenes are gruesome. What these poor girls went through is hard to even think about,” JJ continues with a grimace as she flicks through the crime scene photos on the TV, “medical examiners report that each woman sustained prolonged torture before being finished off by strangulation. In some cases, sharp force trauma to the lower abdomen was found.”

“The amount of organization and fixation this unsub possesses is unique, indicative of a preference and a specific trigger for the unsub. The fact that the victims are abducted in areas where they feel relatively safe suggests that the unsub is familiar with the environment and possibly blends in easily. Also, the nature implies a level of patience and predatory behavior.” Spencer verbalizes an analysis without lifting his eyes from his case file.

“But why the extreme torture if the plan was strangulation and dumping?” Rossi questions the interesting nature of the case. “Those who torture usually hold on to their victims until the torture methods result in death. Then they bury them, trying to hide the bodies, not flaunt them.”

You once worked a case with a similar pattern of violence when you were a criminal investigator. Closing your file, you answer the lingering question, “The pattern of torture before murder indicates that the unsub derives satisfaction from the control and pain inflicted on the victims. This suggests a sadistic personality with deep-seated anger or resentment, likely stemming from past experiences. The victims being left in remote locations might indicate a desire to prolong the discovery, giving the unsub a sense of control over the investigation. Also, I have a feeling he wants them to feel humiliated even in death.”

Everyone nods in agreement at the possibility, but JJ takes it one step further, “You’re right there.” The screen flickers to a set of five images, “these were recovered from each scene. None of the family or friends of the victims claim that they belong to the women.” Five near-identical charms carved out of wood are presented on the TV.

“The unsub probably has a history of being rejected or humiliated by women who fit this specific profile either romantically or as an authority figure. The meticulous nature of the crimes suggests an organized offender, possibly with a high IQ, who plans his abductions and murders in detail. He knows the college and surrounding area very well.” Hotch fills in the missing blanks of what we all hypothesize to be true about the offender. “Good work JJ. Since we are only an hour’s drive from D.C., we won’t be taking the jet. Everyone be ready in 30.”

With Hotch’s final word, everyone gets up to prepare to hit the road. You move slowly, filled with a nagging feeling after the briefing. Typically, you don’t get bothered by crime scene photos, but something about staring at those girls and seeing yourself has you feeling off. You try to shake the feeling as you grab your to-go bag, not wanting to seem out of focus in front of everyone. Although you have made your place in the team, you don’t want to leave room for any glimmer of doubt to arise. You are young compared to them, only 26 with three years at the BAU under your belt. You know how others talk about your age and quantifiable experience, and you don’t want your actions to create a space for these rumors to come true.

[master-of-stupidity]

Fuck it gonna put all my Tangled rants into a single thread that I'll just continue on if needed-

Oldest to newest btww (also spoilers most of these r about Eugene btw ik ik I'm a lil autistic spare me 💀)

That one part of Bruno is Orange but Eugene coded-

"Did you hear about that Father

Sent his own infant son away

And said "It's to *dangerous* for

you to stay so, I had to *save* you" "

I may be cringe but I am FREE

Yo omg ok so my brother is singin a Into the Woods song while I look at Tangled stuff n it made me remember a scene from the play where Gothel yells at the Prince "Rapunzel can think for herself!" n like- dude Cass said the same thing in Cassandra's Revenge to Eugene! Ooo girlll-

The way I would kill so many ppl if it meant getting a series about Lance n Eugene as kids like broooo imagineee-

Its crazy how like I'll be enjoying my day than suddenly I'll see a post of a mf going "Hey what if Eugene thought he was a yr younger cuz he was like a rlly scrawny kid?" Yeah ok sure n what if I hit u with a *metal pole*

My tangled ocs r so random its hilarious- like it goes from a bodyguard,a greedy businessman,a ringleader,n than that one serial killer who turns ppl into meat pies like how did we get here???? 😭🙏

I just remembered like just a few days ago my brother randomly said "vase" while playing Fortnite n my ass just said "vAHse" just to fck w/ him n like that kinda reminded me of that one scene of Eugene n Cass like damn they were sibling coded frrr lmao I miss em

Wdym there was a scrapped Eugene n Lance childhood episode??🧍And WDYM it's literally everything I ever wished for and more???????? 😃

Would love to see Eugene n Martin Kratt interact solely to see Martin be appalled n slowly lose his mind over how Eugene knows jackshit about animals 💀🙏

I think the Eugene genderbends look so weird to me because none of them kept the infamous goatee like cmon man don't be a coward give that girl some facial hair 🗣🗣

I should not be relating Heather's music to scenes from Tangled the Series yet here we r 😭

Omggg thinking about how Eugene proposing to Rapunzel in tts came from his abandonment issues n him literally not being able to see a life without Rapunzel omgg shut upppp leave me ALONEEE

Literally despise with every fiber of my being how the writers of the shitty Wreck it Ralph 2 movie had fcking RAPUNZEL of all ppl say "Do ppl assume all ur problems were solved just because a big strong man showed up?" They fcking HATEE the movie Tangled *so much* bro istggg

OMFG THE VOICE OF KING FREDRIC FROM TANGLED IS MR. FCKING KRABS WHAT?????

The way I wanna be bold n talk more about the "Over the Corona Walls" ep- esp about Staylan n Eugene n all the icky implications of that but I'm also so scared too cuz I fear ppl won't take me seriously or think I'm overanalyzing too much 😭🙏

Lowkey not over the fact Eugene was willing to trap himself back in an abusive relationship, "leaving" the one person he HAS died for n would die for again, all to save his best friend like bro don't TALK TO MEEEE

As u can tell I am totally normal n not at all ill about Eugene or this show 😁

What if I gave Eugene like- slight wedding trauma after the whole "Beyond the Corona Walls" incident??? I think it'd be kinda cool n in character ngll 🤭🤭

No but that prompt for the unaired Lance n Eugene episode STILL makes me so fcking ill bro stg can't STAND those mfss bro 😭😭

"And if I gave up on being *pretty* I wouldn't know how to be ALIVE" is SO Eugene coded idc idc idccccc

You think if I put Eugene Fitzherbert in The Amazing Digital Circus he'd be a walking dumpster fire considering he needs an identity to function n in TADC u like- quite literally don't have one??? 💀

Was listening to an audio last night n now I kinda wish we knew like- what Eugene's mom was actually *like* in a way considering I don't think her character was ever explored :((

Why is this plushie literally Eugene Fitzherbert omgg I want it nowwww

To the ppl who only see others as their pfps lowkey rlly hope y'all just see me as jester Eugene Fitzherbert cuz that'd be rlly funny n I'd love that 💀🙏 like yes I truly am just Eugene in a jester fit yappin my ass off on twitter dot com LMFAOOO (btw follow me @/theratbatjester)

[wrestling-zoomies]

Adam Cole going on about the way he hates MJF was niggling at the back of my head and it was reminding me of something completely unrelated and suddenly I realized what it reminded me of. "I swear with every fiber of my being Max EVERYBODY hates you. I hate you Max. I hate everything you are and everything you stand for, I hate the way your voice sounds. I hate the way that your face looks. I hate the fact I have to share a building with you." Then I was like oooooooooh, I know what this reminds me of.

This reminds me of the 10 Things I Hate About You poem scene, there is no way in hell I'll ever be able to watch this promo without laughing ever again.

Same energy.