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violettduchess · 1 year

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Leonardo request: he and mc break up (he breaks up with her so she will go back to her time and she does), and now it is her time and she runs into him after she has been back in her time for a while and he has lived through the years until he has finally caught up with her

if it is a happy reunion or painful because she is with someone, I leave up to you!

A/N: Here you go, lovely Bellerose. Thank you for your request!

Leonardo x female Reader

I had to pick a hair color for the reader in this, which I usually don't, so I apologize if that bothers anyone.

Word Count: 3157

You would think there is nothing that can rival the beauty of a moonlit lake, a sky littered with silvery stars, the soft whisper of grass as it's ruffled by a gentle wind. But the enchanting scene surrounding you is nothing compared to the glow of Leonardo’s golden eyes, the softness in his smile, the feel of his hands as they hold yours. His gaze lights a warmth inside you that spreads slowly like honey, sweet and delicious. He leans down and you rise to meet him, lips already parted in anticipation.

It is not what you imagined.

It is so much more.

He tastes vaguely smoky, evoking the comfort of a fire on a cold night. And sweet, but not excessively so. More like chocolate and hazelnuts, rich and earthy and absolutely decadent. As he wraps his arms around you and pulls you close to the shelter of his body, you find another word to describe what kissing him feels like: home.

Leonardo extends his hand, helping you up into the carriage. The door closes and soon you are rolling over the uneven cobblestone streets, away from the concert hall. He’s tucked you under the protection of his arm, unable to resist the urge to hold you close. Even at night, when you are curled up in his bed, he needs to touch you. Maybe it’s only his ankle over yours or his hand on your back, but you are his lifeline to finding joy in the endless, weary march of time and he wants every single moment possible to be filled with you.

Your sigh pulls him out of his reverie and he turns to look at you. Your sparkling diamond earrings swing gently with the swaying of the carriage as you look out the window and at the darkened city that rolls by outside of it.

“Cara mia? Is everything ok?”

It takes you a moment to tear your gaze away from the glass, shaking your head as if clearing away cobwebs.

“I’m fine. It’s just….” You trail off and he frowns slightly, nudging you with his lips to your temple.

“It’s just?”

He feels the way you sigh again, with your whole body, a wave passing from you to him. Whatever you’re feeling weighs on you heavily.

“The song Mozart played. ‘Sonata facile.’ My mother taught me to play that on the piano. And she knew it because her mother taught her. And I just always thought….” You lift your shoulder in a small shrug, glancing at the darkness through the window again. “I just thought I would teach it to my children someday.”

His heart feels like it's been dropped with sudden speed into a frozen lake, splintering as it crashes through the ice. Grateful you’re not facing him, he takes a moment to compose himself before speaking, his tone deceptively casual. “Children were a part of the plan then, yeah?”

Your earrings swing, glittering even as you speak in a quiet voice, hushed like dusk as it settles across the sky. “I was an only child with parents that were often away on business. That could be….lonely, sometimes. So I promised myself that I would have lots of children so there would always be noise in the house. And so they would always have someone to play with.”

It is impossible for him to miss the flash of sadness that crosses your features, subtle like lightning too distant to be bright but unmistakable nonetheless. Long fingers of cold wrap themselves around his heart. What you have dreamed of for yourself is something he cannot give you. Something he will never be able to give you.

Even as you sigh again, nestling closer to him, resting your sweet cheek against his shoulder, he can’t shake it.

And spends the rest of the carriage ride avoiding the sight of the darkness outside the window.

The dishrag hits the marble counter with a satisfying whack. Untying your apron, you bid Sebastian a good night as you make your way out of the kitchen, your steps hurried as you make your way towards Leonardo’s room. Worry had been gnawing at you ever since you returned home from the concert last night.

He had been unusually quiet, almost distracted in a way you were not familiar with from him. You asked him to unhook your gown and there was no provocative curve of his lips, no low sensuous murmuring. He had simply undone your gown and then proceeded to undress himself, the motions perfunctory, almost careless. It was only when you had joined him in bed after removing your jewelry and unpinning your hair, when you had slid your arms around him and pulled him to you, stretching yourself under him like a cat in its favorite patch of sunshine, that he returned to you, lowering his head to claim your lips, his hands coming to life as they slid their way over the curve of your hips, across the span of your ribcage before finally sliding up into the expanse of your soft auburn hair.

And even then, when he made love to you, it had felt….different. He was slow, exploring the entire expanse of your body, deliberately lingering, as if committing every part of it to memory. True, you had only been intimate a handful of times, but the times before this were electric, your body feeling like it might overload and burst like lightning, illuminating the whole mansion with the force of your radiance. But last night you were embers, glowing with the warmth of his slow, tender attention. And when it was over, you lay with your cheek against his heart, its steady rhythm lulling you to sleep.

He’s not in his room. Or the library. Or the dining room. Or the salon. You pause at the bottom of the staircase, wondering if you should go knocking on the doors of some of the other residents when Arthur approaches, a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of dark fudge in the other.

“Hello luv. A bit late to be wandering ‘bout the place all alone. I’d offer you my company but….” His blue eyes are alight with mischief. “I’m afraid ol’ Leo might not be pleased with it.”

“Do you happen to know where he is? I’ve been looking everywhere for him.”

Arthur pauses, already a few steps up and gestures with the fudge to the top of the stairs. “Last I saw him he was visiting Comte.”

You thank him, pass him on the stairs and hurry towards the sitting room Comte uses on this floor. Your knocking gets no answer so you boldly enter. It’s empty. Disappointment shadows your heart and you are about to leave when you notice the door to the small balcony is open.

He’s there, alone, forearms resting on the smooth stone of the balcony railing, a lit cigarillo between his fingers. The balcony faces the mansion’s gardens and he’s staring intently out into the dark as if he might be able to find some answers there.

“Leo?”

He turns, startled and then breathes out when he sees it’s you. “Cara mia.”

Frowning, you make your way to his side. “Is everything ok?”

He is silent, wrestling with a decision he needs to make. You wait, letting him battle it out internally, watching the thin plume of smoke from his cigarillo as it rises, twisting and turning as if anxious and unsettled.

“The door to your time will be opening again in two days. Maybe…..you should use it.”

His words are so unexpected you wonder for a moment if you understood them.

“What……why would you say that?”

You can hear the tremor in your voice, the aftershock of his suggestion jolting you.

His jaw clenches, his gaze still searching the dark and silent gardens.

“Maybe you would be happier there. Could live the life you always dreamed for yourself. See your family again. Your hometown. There are a thousand reasons.”

You reach out, placing a firm hand on his arm. “And one very big, very stubborn one right here.” His breath shudders from his body as you pull, forcing him to turn towards you. “I made a commitment to you, Leonardo. We discussed this. I’m staying.”

He tosses his cigarillo over the railing, its small glow swallowed by the night. When he finally meets your gaze, the conflict in his beautiful eyes makes your heart ache. “Cara mia…..I cannot give you a family. I cannot promise you safety. I-”

Your hands reach up to cup his face, your grip determined. This is no time for gentleness. He needs to understand. You speak slowly, each word carefully weighed and measured.

“I want to stay with the wonderful, funny, intelligent, kind man that I have fallen in love with. For as long as I can. And there is nothing that can change my mind.”

He holds your gaze as you hold your breath, waiting. Finally he nods and you echo his gesture, nodding back in response. “Ok….” you whisper. “We’re ok.” You step into the circle of his arms, burying your face in the soft, rich fabric of his clothing.

He holds you close, but his eyes remain open, once again returning to the impenetrable darkness of the gardens.

The next day he’s gone again but you try to keep yourself busy and ignore the uneasy feeling that keeps scratching at your heart. The sun sinks to its rest and the moon rises, cold and pale among its nest of stars, and still there is no Leonardo. No other residents have seen him and worry flashes in Comte’s golden eyes when you ask if he knows where Leo has been all day.

Your thoughts are heavy, each one hammering a different worry in your mind as you make your way up the stairs and to his room. He’s bound to come back from wherever he is and then you’ll be waiting.

It’s far into early morning when Leonardo returns, pushing his way through his bedroom door and stumbling inside. You sit up in bed instantly, sleep having only caressed you and never quite fully taken over.

“Where have you been?” You can’t keep the frustration out of your voice or block the sound of your thrashing heart in your ears. “I’ve been worried!”

His movements are slow, radiating something unusual. Something that slowly begins twisting your stomach into an uncomfortable knot.

“A man can go out, yeah? Without a thousand questions.”

His voice is thick, perhaps with drink, perhaps with something else. Either way it sends a cold shudder through you as you slide out of bed.

“Leonardo…..what’s going on? This isn’t like you.”

He turns, his eyes liquid amber, unnaturally bright in the soft orange light of the lamp you left burning low.

“Then maybe you don’t know me as well as you think. Maybe I’m not the warm, intelligent, kind man you have fooled yourself into believing I am.”

Hearing your own words thrown back at you like daggers nearly sends you staggering back to the bed. A hand reflexively rises to cover your heart as if you had really been pierced by some wicked blade.

“That’s not possible. I know you. I know who you are and–”

He growls, closing the distance between you quicker than you can draw a breath. He does not lay a hand on you, instead pinning you in place with the force of his heated glare.

“I am a pureblood.” His voice is low, the words dragging over your heart like plow teeth across the earth. “I am eternal. You are a minute, yeah? A second in an endless succession of days and nights. A blink of an eye.” Your lips part but before you can even see if you are capable of sound, he continues. “I am dangerous.”

“You would never hurt me.” The words slip out, small and unsteady, but born of the conviction that still lives in your aching heart.

His eyes close a moment, freeing you from the pain of his excruciating glare. And then with a snap of his head, his fangs protract and he growls, the sound more primal than anything you’ve ever heard from him. A primordial fear skitters down your spine, sends goosebumps across your skin. He’s changed the framework from lovers, to something much more sinister: predator and prey.

“Get out.”

You don’t know if you sob or if you simply turn and run. The way back to your own room is a blur of shadows. It is only when you have closed your door, have turned the key in its lock, that your legs turn to water and you sink to the carpet, your breath coming in uneven, painful gasps.

He has never threatened you before. You never thought he would.

Now the only sound you hear is the cracking of your heart as it splinters into a thousand tiny pieces.

The next day, when the door to your world opens, you walk through it.

He is not there to say goodbye.

Epilogue: 21st century London

The vintage bookstore is a popular one. Some people are milling about the coffee bar, deciding how they want their caffeine intake today. A handful of children are sitting on large, oversized bean bags, excitedly flipping through colorful books. There is a low buzz of people’s talking, an undercurrent of appreciation for stories and writing and reading that he is happy to be around. He is somewhere between the New Releases and Staff Favourites bookshelves, thumbing his way through a copy of “Love in the Time of Cholera”, when the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. He still doesn’t know what exactly caused him to lift his gaze from the page. Perhaps the hand of Fate caught his chin and pulled.

He is not prepared for the sight of you. He has not seen you in over one hundred and thirty years. But now, as if by magic, there you are. For the first time in a century his heart leaps with emotion, hurriedly and haphazardly clearing away the cobwebs of loneliness that had settled there, delicate yet incessant. He steps behind the bookshelf, forcing his eyes closed. They want nothing more than to drink in the sight of you, an oasis in the desert of desolation he himself had created when he pushed you away that nightmarish evening.

The one where he had made the decision that he would not destroy your dreams by selfishly keeping you all for himself, robbing you of the chance to build the life you imagined for yourself.

So he did what he deemed necessary to make you leave.

You had stepped through the door that led back, your heart broken. And he had been the one swinging the hammer.

Time is a merciless teacher. Its harshest lessons were taught in the black heart of night, that gaping pit of time when no one could hear the rattling sound of his remorse, the anguished cries of regret. It was then, before the relief of morning’s pale light, that he understood what he had done. While he had, at the time, seen his intentions as noble, all he had truly accomplished was to destroy the chance at happiness you had been so freely and adamantly offering him.

He breathes out slowly.

He has been given a chance. A gift. He must not squander it.

His golden eyes open and he peers around the bookshelf. You look the way he remembers. A bit older, maybe, but it's the same face that has visited his dreams countless times, the one he has kissed every angle of and traced with devout fingertips.

The cold of a London winter has left your cheeks tinged pink, your hair dotted with tiny snowflakes that are slowly melting, glistening even in the book store’s artificial light. You look enchanting, like a fairy tale character from one of the children’s books on display.

A knot has formed in his throat and he swallows against it, trying to ignore the twisting of his stomach and the roaring of his heartbeat. Leonardo da Vinci, for the first time in centuries, is nervous.

He’s about to step forward, to say the name that hasn’t crossed his lips in ages except for anguished whispers in his sleep, when something brushes past him, lightly bumping into his leg, and then haphazardly carrying on, barreling forward towards its destination.

“Mummy!!”

You turn and your face is alight, as bright and warm as summer. Dropping down, you open your arms and catch the cannonball of a little girl, pulling her close to you.

A man with a sleeping baby strapped to his chest brushes past Leonardo, offering a polite “Pardon me” before he stops in front of you, his shoulders dropping in relief.

“I’m sorry, darling. She saw you and took off like a shot.” He sounds slightly exasperated as he approaches you and his wayward daughter who has now thrown her small arms around your neck.

She has your soft auburn hair and bright, intelligent eyes.

Leonardo’s heart is quietly crumbling in his chest.

You stand, lifting the little girl up along with you, much to her delight. “Did you find a book for the plane ride, Cara?”

This is what he wanted for you. So why does it hurt so much?

She nods, brushing her hair away from her face enthusiastically. “Yes!” She turns. “Show her, Daddy.” Your husband smiles, his warm golden-brown eyes softening at the sight of you two. One hand absently pats the soft baby carrier and its sleeping passenger while the other holds out the book. Your daughter reaches over, taking it.

Your husband looks a bit like him. Same brown hair, same golden eyes. Leo’s heart continues to break.

“Oh, a children’s guide to the most famous paintings in the world. What a good choice.” You slowly set her down and she reaches for your hand.

“It has all the best ones in it, Mummy. Including your very favorite, the Mona Lisa!”

There is now nothing but dust.

You smile, running a hand over her hair. “I can’t wait to look at it with you.”

As you wait in line to pay for the book, the small bell above the bookstore chimes, announcing another patron exiting or entering. You don’t know why you glance up toward the door. There’s nothing to see except the receding figure of a man in a long brown duster as he crosses the street, arm raised to hail a taxi.

Your gaze lingers, inexplicably drawn to him, until your daughter tugs on your hand.

“Mummy?”

Jolted back to the present, you shake your head to clear the strange, momentary fog, offering the woman at the register an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry. How much for the book?”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikemen leonardo #ikevamp leonardo #leonardo da vinci #leonardo x reader #angst #broken heartstrings #ikemen fanfic #ikemen fanfiction #otome fanfic #violettwrites

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xsavannahx987 · 2 years

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The roar of sirens and flashing red and blue lights made their way through the crowded streets at great speed. Mia held her brother's hand tightly, her eyes fixed on his closed ones as the paramedic on duty gave a heart massage. "Come on boy! Don't give up!" she murmured to get Cullen's heart beating again. Mia was stunned, almost petrified at the sight of her brother not responding to the massage, and the steady sound of the EKG rang in her ears. "Don't leave me," she whispered, tightening her tapered fingers around Cullen's helpless hand, cold and bloodied. The stretcher was running fast through the corridors of the emergency room pushed by the two paramedics and the noise of the creaking wheels rang out like a sinister dirge. "Male, 30, gunshot wound. Heart arrest in ambulance," shouted one of the paramedics to the doctor on duty who had hurried to join the group. "Surgery, quick!" the doctor answered helping to push the stretcher where Cullen lay helpless, respirator over his mouth and the conspicuous blood stain on his shirt. "Wait here!" Mia was told that she was trying to get through the door of the operating block. Left alone in the corridor she let herself go to total despair for fear of losing her beloved brother, killed because of her.

The sky had begun to darken when the cell phone rang. Travis's name flashed on the display. "Hey heartthrob! What stories?" I answered cheerfully on the phone, but Travis's voice immediately dampened my enthusiasm. "Hailey ..." Hearing my name in a grave tone erased the smile from my lips and a cold shiver ran down my spine. "What's going on Travis?" I asked without noticing that my hands had begun to shake. "... I don't know how to tell you ..." Travis temporized and I realized that something very serious had happened if he could hardly say it. "Please tell me what's happening!" I whimpered sensing a sixth sense in my head that suggested the answer, but that I tried with all my might to silence, hoping to make a mistake. "... Cullen ..."

The hospital seemed to me a destination miles away, as if I could never reach it and it was moving further and further away from me. I was anxious. Travis hadn't given me explanations over the phone. He preferred to talk about it in person, but all I knew was that Cullen was in the hospital and that his condition was not good. I know Travis did it so as not to worry me too much, but not knowing exactly what had happened made me very anxious and driving clear was a challenge. When I finally reached my destination and parked the car I ran at breakneck speed to the emergency room entrance, my heart pounding in my chest and my lungs starting to run out of oxygen. I saw Travis sitting in the waiting room, his head bowed and his eyes blank. My attention was immediately captured by his blood-soaked hands and terror assaulted me totally. "Travis ..." I stammered feeling the unmistakable feeling that my body was leaving me. My friend ran to support me and helped me sit down. "Where is?" I asked with the heart pounding in my throat. "What happened?" Travis took a deep breath, took my hand and recounted the sad episode that had involved Cullen.

The intervention was long and the waiting for news was unnerving. I often walked up and down the corridor trying to control the incessant flow of thoughts. Travis often went outside between a cigarette and a phone call and tried to commit the time. Many times I was tempted to go out and smoke myself, although I had never lit a cigarette in my life, but waiting was driving me crazy. "Still nothing?" Travis asked, returning. "No. Who were you on the phone with?" I asked to distract myself for a moment. "It was Liberty. She and Summer went to Cullen's house to play Branson until Mia comes in," Travis replied, putting his cell phone in his trouser pocket. "Poor Branson. He'll be scared!" I said thinking of the trauma that such a small child would have to face. "Luckily he wasn't there. Summer and Liberty are letting him play and have assured him that Mom will be home soon and that his uncle has had to leave for work," Travis said. "Better this way. It is not the case to tell him that his uncle is in the hospital" I concluded, feeling the knot in my stomach that it was tightening more and more. We went back to sit in the waiting room which was beginning to empty and we waited again while the sky was filled with stars and a warm wind moved the branches of the trees beyond the windows of the emergency room door.

"I'm sorry big brother! It's all my fault! I should have listened to you when you told me not to marry Kevin! Don't leave me ..." Mia whispered in a voice choked with tears, her hand gently stroking her brother's matted hair while in the dim room the beeps of the machinery rang incessantly. The surgery had succeeded, the doctors had extracted the bullet, but Cullen's left lung had collapsed and a deep internal bleeding had nearly killed him on the operating table. The doctors were confident, but it was too early to dissolve the prognosis. "Your brother now just needs to rest. We put him in a medically induced coma so that the body can heal. We have to wait and hope that there has been no neurological damage" was all that the surgeon communicated to Mia outside the operating room.

"Can I come in?" I asked, slowly opening the bedroom door. "Hailey ... I'm so sorry," Mia murmured when she saw my figure silhouetted in the doorway. "It wasn't your fault, Mia," I replied as I walked over to the bed where the only man I ever loved lay. "I'll leave you a little alone. Call me if ..." but she didn't finish the sentence. "You take it easy. I'll stay here! You kiss Branson for me." Left alone with Cullen I let the emotions overwhelm me and the tears came out uncontrolled. My heart seemed to tear through my chest as I squeezed his hand and prayed inside that his fingers would intertwine with mine. "Come back to me ..." I murmured in the silence broken only by the incessant sound of the machine that marked the beating of his heart.

#thesims4 #ts4 #sims4 #mysims #gen1mint #nsb #not so berry #notsoberry #nsb challenge

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maximoffwitch · 2 years

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Who’s Cutting Onions?

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

warnings: none?

summary: You come home to find your girlfriend in tears…

word count: 755

a/n: inspired by this pinterest post! also sorry i’ve been mia. school and just life have been getting in the way....anyways hope u enjoy this :)

"Good job today, (Y/N/N)," Nat slapped your back, as you gulped down your water. The redhead had been whipping you back into shape after you'd gotten mildly injured, or seriously injured, depending on who you asked, on your last mission.

"Thanks, Nat," you offered her a smile. "I'm going to go take a shower, but after, you want dinner? Wanda said she's cooking, and it's probably gonna paprikash."

"Uh, I'll pass," Natasha chuckled, pulling a hoodie over her head.

"What, why?" you frowned at the rejection from your best friend.

"I'd rather not be the third wheel of you and your girlfriend's date," she explained, before adding, "and I don't think Wanda would like that either."

"You know Wanda wouldn't mind," you tried to persuade the older woman, but she shook her head.

"(Y/N), it's fine," Nat laughed at your pout. "I'll eat with you guys another time. Plus, I may or may not have a date of my own tonight."

Natasha smirked, as she headed towards the door, leaving you in her dust, your jaw hanging slightly ajar.

"Wait, what? With who?"

"Go shower, (Y/N)," she threw over her shoulder, already too far ahead of you to catch up, "you stink."

"Fine," you mumbled under breath in defeat, already turning towards the elevator.

After showering and changing into a pair of sweatpants and your favorite hoodie, which was technically Wanda's, you entered the kitchen, already drooling at the smell of whatever your girlfriend had thrown together in the pot on the stove. Before you could sneak up behind her and wrap your arms around her waist, your smile dropped when you heard the unmistakeable sound of Wanda's crying, marked by a quiet sniffle.

"Wanda?" you hurried over to your girlfriend, cautiously hover your hands over her in case of any injury. "Are you okay? What's wrong? Did you cut yourself or burn yourself?"

"(Y/N), baby," Wanda sniffled with a wet laugh, as she turned towards you, "I'm fine."

You frowned, tilting your head. "But you're crying, love."

"I know," she groaned and set the knife down before bringing the back of her hands to her eyes.

"Wands," you carefully removed her hands from her face, replacing them with yours, as you used the pads of your thumbs to catch the falling tears, "what's wrong?"

"It's just the stupid onions," she huffed, rolling her eyes.

"Onions?" you were now even more confused, your mind still clouded by the worry for your girlfriend.

"Yeah," Wanda nodded, an amused smile playing on her lips. "I'm trying out this new recipe, and it calls for four onions."

For a moment, you simply stared at her, as you put the pieces together.

"You're crying because of onions," you deadpanned, earning a nod from the brunette.

"Oh, thank god," you let out a relieved sigh.

"Excuse me?" Wanda glared at you, lightly slapping your arm with her towel.

"Ow," you pouted, rubbing the spot where she'd whipped you, causing her to playfully roll her eyes. "I just meant thank god it's just onions and not something else. I mean, I thought something bad had happened."

As you revealed the last part quietly under your breath, Wanda softened.

"You were really worried about me, weren't you?" she stepped towards you, loosely her arms around your neck, as she played with the baby hairs on the back of your neck.

"Of course I was worried," you admitted, as you leaned your forehead against hers. "I don't like seeing you upset."

Wanda smiled softly before connecting your lips for a quick but tender kiss.

"I don't like seeing you upset either," she rubbed your noses together, pecking your lips once more before unwrapping herself from your embrace and moving back to the cutting board, "so go pour us some wine and let me wine and dine you."

"Or," you slyly took the knife from your girlfriend's hand, nudging her out of the way with your hip, "I finish cutting the onions, and you go pour us some wine."

"Fine," Wanda willing moved away from the counter, knowing there was no use in fighting you on this.

"Hey," you called over your shoulder, "this wouldn't have happened if you'd worn the goggles I got you for Hanukkah."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled, a hint of a smile peaking through.

Although you yourself started crying not even a minute into cutting the rest of the onions, you'd do cut all the onions you had to if it meant Wanda never did.

———

taglist: @when-wolves-howl @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @togrowoldinv @alexmxff @likefirenrain @amasimpformilfs @crescent-witch @iliketozoneout @fxckmiup @inluvwithfictionalwomen @chelleztjs18 @mediocre-writerr @milfloverslut @fayhar

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel imagine #my writing

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words-etched-in-her-skin · 2 years

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Ahem.. I have no ask for this as it was a birthday fic written for a dear friend 👀 Transfem!Sal x Bratty Reader x Donna.. I.. ahem.. hope some of you will like it! ♥️ Gonna put it all under a cut since I know not everyone is into ships like this.

“Aye… if yeh’d jus’ behave, luv.”

You could feel the smirk that Sal had curled across her lips from behind your backside, a wholly sinful look decorating Donna’s face as she toyed with the end of the black leash that held you. The two of them had been teasing you relentlessly for well over an hour now - a retribution you had undoubtedly brought upon yourself. You had been bratty - exceptionally so - with the fact that it was your birthday only forcing your brattiness to an even higher level.

“Make me.”

You said the words again without a single thought, with nothing more than the utter need of seeing just how far you could push the both of them. A deep growl moving through Sal’s throat like a rumble of thunder as she forcefully grabbed onto your hips - pulling your backside firmly against her. Her dual cocks, firm - hard - throbbing against the thin lining of your underwear as she held you in place.

“I said behave.”

Sal’s growl moving through her throat and across the flushed skin of your neck as she leaned further down, sinking her fingernails into the soft flesh of your hips - puling you back again.

“Fuck-!”

You closed your eyes for just a moment, resting your forehead on the soft sheets of Donna’s bed until the unmistakable scent of her danced over you - forcing your eyelids open. The sight before you instantly making your mouth go dry. Every inch of the doll-maker's beautiful olive skin laid out before you.

“Come now, cara mia.” She practically purred, giving you a coy little smile. A single leg swaying teasingly as she shifted herself just enough to expose her glistening folds - the effects from flustering you ever so prevalent in the dim lighting of the room. “Behave for us, tesoro.. and I’ll let you taste.. all of this.”

She smirked, biting her bottom lip before spreading her legs wider for you - the indulgent musk of her almost overwhelming as it rolled over you in waves, forcing you to curse under your breath. A slight whimper across your lips as she pulled on your leash - bringing your head just inches from her core.

The sound of Sal’s chuckle.. the length of her womanhood sliding up and down the slit of you - soaking the thin fabric of your underwear with your own desire.. the smell of thick arousal in the air.. well, it was all almost too much to handle

“Fuck, okay! I’ll behave.. I’ll be good.. just, fuck!”

Sal chuckled again before firmly striking your backside - the width of her hand leaving a deep crimson across the skin of it. “Heh, sound a lot better if yer begged fer it, luv.”

At that you could only whimper, crying out as Donna yanked on your leash a little harder. The deep musk of her quickly enveloping your senses - breaking any last bit of reserve that you had left. You wanted them - both - and badly. To be utterly stuffed by Sal while tasting the finest of Italian cuisines herself.

“Fuck! Just.. please?"

"Aye."

It was more of a growl than a reply, more of a warning than a reward - with Sal's fingers gripping the hem of your underwear and roughly pulling them down. Another yelp from your lips as the palm of her hand met your backside once more, helping to spread your cheeks and part your folds as she readied herself against both of your entrances.

"Gonna follow yer pace, sweetheart. Yer tongue stops an' so do I."

You only cursed, nodding quickly before settling yourself down at the doll-maker's core. The sweet juices of her already trickling down in anticipation.

And oh, how you moaned. Muffled deep into Donna's soft folds as soon as you took her into your mouth. Sal's cocks sliding into you slowly at the same time - sufficiently filling you. Her hips still, cocks throbbing inside you until your tongue swept over Donna's clit. A movement that was quickly rewarded by a hard thrust.

"That's it, cara mia. Quella è la mia ragazza brava." Donna whispered.

You whimpered into her, sucking on her clit before lengthening your tongue deep inside of her. A profound heat moving across your body as your core and ass stretched deliciously around Sal, the width of her cocks filling you with each thrust - heated slick dripping down your inner thighs as she drove them firmly into you.

The collar around your neck pulled a little tighter as Donna strengthened her grasp, tangling her fingers in your hair. Her meticulous hands holding your face in place as she rolled her hips up into you, moaning softly. The sweet sounds that fell from her lips, the soft grunts that rolled across Sal - all building your arousal to unforeseen levels. It was all you could do to taste.. to feel.. to smell. An intoxicating blend of musk prevalent in the air. Donna's desire covering your mouth and face as the length of Sal's womanhood dove deeper and deeper in - compelling you to lengthen your tailbone and widen your legs.

"Heh.. greedy lil' slut, are yeh?"

"Mph-"

You responded the only way you could - moaning into Donna as your flattened your tongue against the slit of her and slid it up to her clit. Her hips jerked, tightening the grasp she had on your hair as you wrapped an arm around each of her thighs - pulling her closer. Her soft whimpers growing in volume as you lavished over every inch of her dripping core.

Sal's pace picked up - feeling her twitch inside you as Donna's breath started to hitch within her throat.

"Mh.. you're so good, tesoro." The doll-maker's lean body writhed as she moaned - her hips moving in unison with Sal's.

You had never felt so full before, so utterly claimed. There wasn't a single cell within you that wasn't completely overcome with desire … with want.. with the absolute need for release. A deeply prickling heat starting to move across your body as Sal's cocks drove mercilessly in and out of you - throbbing against your walls.. against the heated flesh that separated them - her own desire seeping out ever so slightly.

She slapped your ass again - hard - pulling a sharp cry from your lips that vibrated agaisnt Donna's clit, forcing her to moan.

"Aye.. tha's my good slut."

She knew how wet it got you when she called you that - when she took you however she wanted - using you in whatever way she seemed fit only to leave you a breathless mess beneath her.

"Cara mia.. I'm so close."

Donna's voice was so coated in need it almost made you whimper at just the sound of it. Your tongue picking up it's pace as Sal's hips did the same - moving slightly more erratically than before. Her dual cocks hard inside you. Juices coating your your inner highs and up to your ass, dripping from your core unhindered with each pump of Sal's womanhood. A deep shudder rolling across your body, forcing you to pull away and mutter a single, breathless word.

"P-please."

Sal only growled, picking her pace even more - her fingernails sinking deep into your skin as she pulled you back roughly against her, panting.

Donna's climax was first, spilling heatedly into your mouth as the orgasm swiftly overtook her. Her sweet juices warm like honey down your throat as you drank her in as much of her as you could. Her taste wholly addictive - coating your tongue and invading your senses. The profound heat and pressure in your core building to an unbearable level, ripping one whimper after another from your needy lips as Sal kept her pace.

Donna's movements slowly coming to halt just as you could feel Sal's hips jerk from behind - her cocks twitching deep inside you as her thick desire squirted out from them, sufficiently filling you. Forcing a tidal wave of heat across your body as your own pleasure finally crashed over you - slick arousal gushing out and soaking the mattress below you with each jerk of your hips. A screamless curse buried deep into the doll-maker's thigh as you bit down onto it, riding out your pleasure until Sal finally began to slow her pace.

"Holy.. fuck.. Sal."

She only chuckled in response, releasing her grasp on your hips. Donna's breath starting to even out as she leaned over, unhooking the leash from your collar before promptly falling back against the bed. A wholly wet sound, a slight gasp as Sal slowly slid her still throbbing cock from your body, leaving you with an utterly empty feeling.

"Heh... is yer birthday, after all."

"Well then, Happy fucking Birthday to me."

She chuckled again as you took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as you lowered your overly flushed body to the bed. Donna's steady breath in front of you and the feeling of Sal's warmth as she laid against your backside, her strong arms swiftly wrapping around you - holding you close against her firm body long after the minutes on your birthday had passed.

#birthday fic #anonymous #resident evil village #genderbent sal #donna beneviento #transfem!sal x reader x donna #im #ahem #i really hope some of you enjoy #because fuck #ldjdjdkssjsjjsk #re8 fanfiction

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treason-and-plot · 3 years

Photo

Raj asks them all to keep their eyes and ears to the ground concerning Warren’s proposed development, and to try and think of ways to thwart his plans. He politely vetoes Spencer’s suggestion that he ‘gut him like a fish,’ while Cookie gives a trill of nervous laughter.

“Warren obviously has friends in high places, so we had better tread carefully,” says Raj. “But I agree that this entire saga has the unmistakable stench of corruption about it. We just need to find the source.”

The rest of the meeting is about the launch party on Friday night, four days away. Mia staves off boredom by thinking about which position she’d like to try with Raj first. She’s still tossing up between the Butter Churner and the Reverse Cowpoke when he announces the meeting has ended. She tries to escape without speaking to anyone but Spencer blocks her way.

“Hey, Bubblehead,” he says. “I’m going to make it my mission to find out the truth about why Isaac got fired. Just letting you know.”

“That’s awesome, Spence,” she says. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to the museum. My poor mother’s been working there by herself all morning-“

“Spence, leave her alone,” says Julia, popping up behind her. “What do you care about Isaac, anyway? You didn’t even particularly like him.”

“Nah, he was a softcock,” says Spencer. “But what I do care about is being forced to work with selfish bitches who always put their own needs first and don’t give a shit about the rest of the crew. They’re a fucking liability.”

“So are stupid idiots who get drunk on the job and make other people clean up their messes for them,” says Mia.

“Touché, Spence!” says Julia. Spence’s whole face twists into a sneer and he pushes past them to go and talk to Cookie. “I’m really sorry about what an arsehole Spence is being today,” says Julia. “And yesterday. He’s just… he’s going through some stuff.”

“It’s fine, he doesn’t bother me,” says Mia. “I’d love to chat, but I really do need to get back to the museum-“

“Can we have lunch?” says Julia, the words coming out in a rush. She gives Mia an unsteady smile.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Mia says. “I usually have my lunch break around 1 o’clock.”

“Great!” says Julia. “Meet me at my car as soon as you’re free. We’ll go somewhere really nice. My treat!”

#Mia #Julia #Raj #Spencer #return to isla paradiso #5 years later #ts3 #sims 3 story

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wevegottogetaway · 3 years

Text

El Patrón

I’m so excited to finally be posting this piece. I’ve been working on it for the past few days and it’s been consuming my mind. If you like angst, smut, art student Harry, and great plot twists, this story is for you, so buckle up, cause you’ve got 13700 and then some waiting for you! And on that note, I don’t thing I have many words left in my brain... so, hope you enjoy xx

TW: smut, fool language

After her first day back to classes, Y/n is not surprised to see Harry Styles’ lanky frame standing behind the bar of Bottom’s Up. She hoped that he would bugger off to work some place else but alas, all her summer prayers were unanswered. For yet another semester, she would have to endure bartending by his sides, trying with all her might not to jab a corkscrew at his throat every time he opened his gob. Granted, she could have switched jobs herself, but the pay is too good to turn down and the bar sits literally right around the corner from her place; a match made in heaven if you ask her. Besides, she’s been mastering the art of tuning out the insufferable green-eyed prick for two years now, so what’s one more? Of course, knowing it is likely to be the last - having just kicked off the final year of her psychology major - makes the news easier to stomach. And with any luck, the fool did some sort of soul-searching over the break and came back a changed man.

"Well, well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her delightful presence again. Knew you couldn’t stand to live without me, y/l/n." Harry greets her with a smirk as he looks up from his phone.

Well, some much for change, but luck has never been on y/n’s side anyway; she knew it was wishful thinking to entertain the idea of a pleasant or even tolerable Harry. "Shut it, Styles. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit," she quips back and goes straight to the employee’s locker room to dispose of her stuff and swap her top for one bearing the bar’s logo. Once done, she takes a brief look in the tattered mirror still hanging by the door to readjust her ponytail, before joining her co-worker behind the counter. The bar is rather quiet for now, clock having not chimes 6pm yet, but y/n expects the place to be soon crawling with students drinking the classes’ return off their mind.

The next few minutes are spent in unexpected peaceful silence, y/n prepping for the upcoming rush while Harry idly sits by, not lifting a single finger to help her out. Admittedly, he’s completed all his pre-shift duties during the last hour, but y/n doesn’t think it warrants the smug look painted on his face as he watches her battle a jar of olives with an old opener and a concentrated frown. So peaceful silence was a bit of a stretch, maybe.

Then to make matters worse he decides to taunt her, "I see you’ve grown zero muscle strength over the break. Too busy vegetating on the beach?"

The surge of anger triggered by the provocation is enough impetus for her to crack the can open, but it doesn’t stop her from turning to face him, "I see you’ve grown zero neuron in that thick head of yours. Too busy making people miserable instead?" she counters with flaring nostrils and a look of disdain hardening her features.

"Ah, still got a feisty mouth on you. ‘Was worried you might turn soft on us." Harry sasses back, but y/n doesn’t bother telling him off this time. No matter how strong her comeback, he’ll just brush it off with that smile of his that irritates her to no end. That’s the thing with Harry, the bastard has the thickest skin of all, he’s downright unattainable. And believe it or not, bad-mouthing doesn’t come naturally to y/n, he just seems to draw it out of her, perhaps as the trigger of some kind of survival instinct. Time and time again she’s tried to come up with a quip that would leave him speechless, tail between his legs, but he always has a wittier reply to throw back at her. For so long they’ve been playing this debilitating game of ping pong and she has yet to claim a point to his countless wins.

It’d been the case since their first meeting on that dreadful Friday two years ago. Y/n was about to embark on her second year at uni and decided to get a job so she could afford her own place instead of the dreary dorms she’d gotten used to. Bottom’s Up had seemed to be the perfect choice, a 2 minutes walk from the sweet little apartment she’d just visited a few days prior. She’d been excited for her first shift that night, air still warm from the Indian summer sun drawing a plethora of eager students to come enjoy their last day of freedom. Her happy jitters had quickly dissolved once she’d made her way in the staff-only area located behind the bar though. There, she’d walked in on a very frustrated Harry vociferating at a lost-looking colleague, "how many times do you have to fuck up before doing your bloody job, Steve? Stop sitting on your lazy ass, or I swear I’ll-"

She’d come to this Steve guy’s defense then, furious at the tall curly hair jerk for bullying his way around, "stop it, you asshole. You can’t talk to people like trash, who do you think you are?" Granted, she didn’t know it at the time, but the lost look on Steve's face was in fact pretty standard for the amount of weed in his system; nor did she know that the lad could actually win the Olympics of lazy asses hands down, should such a discipline be appended. It was too late to call off the hostilities though. War had been declared, and aside maybe from that one time he had graciously accepted to cover for her when she’d had a trip to Brighton planned for one of her classes, no truce had ever been reached. Besides, she’s sure it was more so because he was low on cash rather than to fulfill the hidden desire to help her out for once in his life.

Now, as she finishes wiping her work surface with a wet cloth, y/n wishes more than ever to be teleported in a parallel universe where she doesn’t have to work with the bane of her existence, much less see his annoyingly handsome face four times a week. (Also, exams would only be optional in this alternate reality of hers, but that’s another fantasy for another day.) Mainly, she’s just glad she doesn’t see him around campus ever, the art building standing all the way across from the psychology department. At least she’s Harry-free the moment she steps out of the bar; she’d probably have a nervous breakdown if she had to put up with his antics outside of work.

***

A month in the new semester, the novelty of it all has finally worn off to make way for routines to settle in. Y/n’s weeks now consist in a well-practiced cycle of sleep, study, eat, work and occasionally go out with her best friend Mia. Her shifts at Bottom’s Up still prove to be challenging because of the company she’s forced to keep but things seem to have calmed down at the bar too. Students are now less inclined to party the week away, mainly indulging during the second half of the week, but more importantly, Harry appears to be less of a smug bastard and more of a sulky sod. For some reason, the lad has been stuck in a sullen mood, constant frown wrinkling his forehead. He has reverted to distant one-word answers as though he is saving a dictionary worth of words for whatever conundrum is going on in his brain. Y/n doesn’t mind though, and almost welcomes the transition if it means less digs taken at her expense.

Now y/n finds herself on her way to the campus library for a much needed paper-writing cramming session (the assignment is due the following day and she barely has two thirds of the work completed). After a quick stop by the coffee shop down the block, she finally strides in the lobby of the library, ready to dive nose first into the riveting matters of cognitive psychology. She’s already so focused mulling over concepts’ definition in her mind, that it takes her a minute to realize something is going on.

It’s nothing major really, no big fire rushing around the premises or fist-fight breaking the crowd into a frenzy. No, just everyone seemingly hushing and gasping, bewildered expressions etched upon their faces as they keep pointing towards the nearby study room. Truthfully, y/n might have been completely oblivious to it, it she weren’t a psychology major; but reading people’s feelings and interactions is kind of her thing, so she does notice the bubbly energy infiltrating the usually quiet space. What could possibly have them so intrigued, she wonders as more students come out of the room with the same looks of wonder.

Her confusion is finally quelled when she steps into the study room in question and her eyes fall on what has everyone so engaged. On the wall to her right, between two sets of shelves brimming with decades-old books, hangs a life size canvas of audacious shapes and bold colors. Not one seems to have been left out, the painting seemingly transporting the viewer in a psychedelic albeit appealing trance. It’s full of contrasts, an embodiment of serenity and boldness at the same time, and y/n can’t stop ogling the masterpiece for the life of her. The amount of passion is so obviously overwhelming, yet she can feel all of the artist’s emotions underneath each of the brushstrokes.

After another minute of wondrous observation, her thoughts are interrupted by a foreign voice. "El Patrón? I wonder who that could be," the stranger wonders aloud, and her eyes immediately drift off to the bottom right of the painting to catch the small but unmistakable signature: black cursive letter spelling the two words withholding the real artist’s identity. The mystery only adds up to the appeal of the work and y/n already feels a bubbling feeling in the pit of her stomach at the idea of ever finding out what beautiful soul is responsible for such mind-bending work. She hopes this won’t be last she sees of it.

***

It’s Friday night and unfortunately for y/n, she’s stuck at work with her least favorite person in the world. It’s all the more unfortunate that Harry seems to be back to his usual annoying self, his thoughts finally free from whatever trouble had plagued them, and eager to fall back into nuisance mode. Less unfortunate for y/n and much to Harry’s discontent, Mia decided to stop by and keep her company. Though she feels slightly sorry for her having the act as her buffer for the night, y/n figures she’s more than making up for it with every free cocktail she keeps sliding towards her friend. Their conversation is scattered at best since patrons keep interrupting them for a fresh pint of ale, but as the night slowly dies down they manage to talk longer than 20 seconds.

The manager of the bar has long clocked off and gone home, as per usual on Friday nights, leaving both her and Harry the pleasure to indulge in a few drinks of their own. They don’t do it every week and always keep it low-key of course; Mia’s tonight presence mostly accounting for y/n’s partaking while Harry just likes a nice glass of tequila when the week-end comes around and there’s nobody to tell him off about it. One thing they never do though, is drink together, like two friends celebrating yet another week they survived at uni. Come to think of it, the only thing they do share is a job position and their never-ending bickering. Cheers to that, y/n takes another sip of her gin martini in sarcasm.

She’s brought back to reality by Mia as the tipsy brunette lets out a loud gasp before she inquires in a slightly high-pitched voice, "y/n! totally forgot to tell you, went by the library today and you’ll never guess what was there!"

"Oh my god, you saw the painting too, didn’t you" y/n answers, excited at the idea of discussing the whole thing with her best friend. Truth be told, the majestic work of art hasn’t left her mind since she’d first seen it a few days before.

"Yes" Mia squeals in confirmation, "I mean, it’s kinda impossible to miss. I wonder how they got it there without anyone seeing."

Y/n has wondered the same thing and she came to one conclusion, "they probably sneaked in last Sunday after the library closed, it’s the only time the building is empty," Mia humming in agreement. The campus library is opened 24/7 all days except on Sundays, so realistically speaking it is the only window of time that would allow for such an experiment. Whether said experiment required an actual break-in or was conducted in full legality remains a mystery but that is just bygones in y/n’s eyes. She’s much to mesmerized by the work to give a damn about how it got there in the first place.

"Oi y/l/n! What are you two fawning over this time" Harry chirps in the conversation, uninvited as always, and y/n hates how condescending he just sounded.

"Not that you could ever understand something with substance, if your lack thereof is any indication, but it’s none of your damn business," y/n spats out dismissively but Mia’s Margarita-induced brain seems to have forgotten all about their concerted hatred for piss-taking bartenders.

"Harry, you’re an art major aren’t you? D’you know who’s behind that beautiful painting at the library?"

Y/n tilts her head back in a sigh at her friend’s behavior before turning to watch the puzzled look on Harry’s face. He seems to silently gauge the both of them; for what, y/n doesn’t know, and then his whole expression switched to a blasé look. He shrugs in disinterest, "who cares? ’s just one more Banksy wannabe who’s trying at it too hard ‘f you ask me."

Y/n takes it as a personal offense, her admiration for the painting outweighing any instinct she has of avoiding the brazen man taking a sip of his tequila on rocks across from her, "of course you’d say something like that. You’re just jealous you’ll never compete with his talent."

Harry raises a brow at her accusation, "and how would you know since you’ve never seen any of my work?"

It’s a valid point, but not enough to rebut her. "Doesn’t take a genius to know a shallow mind like yours could never create something as deep and transcending. That would require actual emotions from you Harry and we both know the only emotion you’re capable of spreading is irritation."

For once she’s confident she’s gonna have the last word, but in true Harry fashion he just gives her a bored look as if to say ‘is that all?’ towel thrown over his shoulder, "right, and here I thought talking to people like trash was a bad thing. You should really take a page out of your own book, y/n, wouldn’t want anyone to think you’re as big of a jerk as I am." Then he turns back to face the room full of customers, and tends to one disheveled looking guy slurring out an order.

Y/n barely registers the friendly "alright Joe, but ’s the last one," Harry rasps out to the guy, her ears are still ringing from the last words he’d said to her. More specifically, the little truth they held despite how much he deserved the backlash, and y/n absolutely loathes the way her throat seems to be closing in on itself. She’s afraid she’s turning like him, bitter words at the ready and always trying to outdo his own taunting spiels. Before anxiety can settle in her bones though, she swallows back the knot tightening in her airways and goes back to serving customers and conversing with her friend.

***

The next time it happens, she expects it even less. A couple weeks have passed since her gruesome interaction with Harry at the bar, and along with her doubts, all thoughts about art have seemed to vanish from her busy mind. She’s had a few tests occupying all her free time and now that they’ve been done and over with, all she can think about is calling Mia up to plan their next night out; she needs a few drinks that she didn’t make for once.

She’s about to take her phone out of her pocket to send her best friend a text, when she enters the lecture hall of her Monday experimental method and research design class. The déjà-vu feeling that creeps up her spine stops her from completing the action, and y/n frowns at how her fellow students seem to be all entranced in deep conversation, exchanging baffled looks with one another. Even the sleeping kid that sits at the back seems to be more alert than during their last fire evacuation procedure test.

It’s then y/n turns around to see what is hanging at the front of the room, covering the large board. This time, the colors were carefully handpicked by the artists, flashes of pink and yellow dancing along to a frenzied rhythm of salsa as their union creates powerful jets of oranges across the canvas. It vaguely reminds her of the pendant she wears on a daily basis, rose gold laurels wrapped around a delicate sunflower, an orange topaz incrusted in its center. The painting is of abstract nature much like the last one, but the movements of the brush still bring her mind back to the jewel presently nestled between her collarbones. How odd.

The piece is slightly smaller than the last but no less impressive, catching the attention of even the least artistic eye. The sensibility of the artist is so distinct, intentions clearer and more in touch than most people with their own. For a second, y/n thinks she’s glad the pieces have only been ones of unadulterated happiness and colorful bliss so far, because god knows how heart-wrenching the outcome would be if all this uncorrupted honesty was used to fill canvas with pain.

As the professor enters the room, everybody settles back on their seat, and wait for the chap’s reaction. "Well, that sure is something. It seems we have a bit of a mystery painter on our hands, don’t we; and a talented one at that," y/n’s professor smiles at the class as he pulls a computer out of his satchel and places it at top of the front desk. His words make her look back at the artwork, this time settling on the small signature reading El Patrón on its corner. And it’s all it takes for Y/n’s obsession with the anonymous artist to be back in full force.

***

That night she can’t stop raving about the painting as she starts closing the bar after a long and tiresome shift. She’s got a shoulder pressing her phone to her ear, Mia on the line, while she absentmindedly sweeps the floor. Normally the exertion of the job would have her stifling yawns and her bones aching but tonight her voice is perky as ever as she recollects the pinnacle of her day, "you shoulda been there Mia, it was gorgeous. And same as last time, like you’d be minding your business, doing your thing and then boom, it’s there. Damn, this guy is a genius."

As she comes back around the counter, Harry makes sure she notices the roll of his eyes. He’s been wiping and tidying the bar space after making sure everything is stocked up for the next day, all the while listening to her drone about El Patrón and his stroke of genius, praise after praise falling from her lips. She completely brushes off the patronizing gesture and that’s perhaps what irritates him the most. She’s barely acknowledging him or his stunts with all her attention placed on the mystery painter and well, Harry quite likes riling her up. Doesn’t do it out of spite, but merely because he likes the way it ignites a fire in her that he’s seldom seen in people. But now, all her fire is directed elsewhere and he doesn’t know what to think of it.

***

Over the next month, the rumors around El Patrón spread like wildfire as more and more of his works are found scattered around campus. Much to y/n’s delight, she always seems to fall upon them as though they’ve been placed specifically on her path. It didn’t start as obvious though; the first following pieces hung in common areas around campus such as the lunch hall or the student center but as time went by they tended to follow her whereabouts somehow. Y/n knows she’s probably fabulating but when she’d stumble across two absolutely stunning pieces in the lobby of her gym and at the entrance of the psychology building, she couldn’t help but feel deeply attached to them. And the possibility that this mystery artist might have the same attachment to her, only fuels her obsession further, sending her reeling with all but one nerve-wracking question: who is this guy?

And it’s not like she’s the only one pondering over their identity either. Hell, the genius has literally everyone on campus under their spell, trying to uncover the enigma of the year. Everyone seems to be determined to find clues, easter eggs hidden within the paintings that could lead them closer to the truth. El Patrón has effectively turned the whole uni into a large-scale game of Cluedo, people speculating left and right and swapping theories about who it can or cannot be, what year they are probably in, or whether they have an accomplice. Nobody has ever executed such a tour de force in the history of campus, and it has everyone one edge, y/n included, desperate to be in the loop.

The fact that each painting is more beautiful than the last and always seems to connect with her in personal ways doesn’t help her daydreaming either. Take the one she found at the gym for example, for a few second she’d sworn she was looking at a familiar piece of the English South Coast, dark hues of blue fighting dots of white, reminiscent of the way foam always seems to top even the most raging waves as they crash along shores. She’d only had to close her eyes to feel the wind blowing her hair in a thousand directions and the sand engulfing her feet, making its way between her toes and every crevice of her skin. She was still in the middle of her gym when she reopened them though, her sport bag straddling her shoulder as she kept gaping at the painting in adoration.

Her suspicious keeps nagging at her head, the desire to unveil the identity of her beloved artist getting stronger by the day. The feeling is almost unbearable when she spots yet another work of his across from Bottom’s Up. The coincidences keep piling up and the more she mulls it over, the more she’s convinced this mystery guy is talking to her. Damn, is it possible to have a crush on someone because of their work? After months of this cryptic scavenger hunt, she’d dying to know if all her theories are right and the fact that she has no way to find out, is positively killer her.

That’s why when she stumbles across a flyer for a midterm exhibition gala hosted by the art department as she waits in line at her favorite coffee shop, she doesn’t think twice before jotting down all the info. In a week time, most of the uni’s art students would be gathered up in one place to present their term’s work. The chances are too high for y/n to pass up the opportunity, her guts telling her he’ll be there. It makes sense doesn’t it? Surely, this El Patrón ought to be an art student if not a teacher. How else would they have access to all the campus amenities most of the paintings were found in?

As she goes to pick up her coffee from the counter, y/n walks with a newfound spring in her steps; she really can’t wait for this gala to happen.

***

Y/n stands at the entrance of the art building, a black floor-length long-sleeves open-back dress hugging her curves in all the right places. Her heart speeds up at the nervous jitters crawling underneath her skin, and the million question swarming her frantic mind. What if he actually doesn’t know her and doesn’t give a damn about her thoughts on his work? What if it’s actually a woman and she’s been hiding a man’s pen-name to consolidate her deceit? Is she about to make the biggest fool out of herself by coming to this exhibition? She doesn’t know anyone here, nor has she ever been to this kind of event before but she’s decided this guessing game has run its course. Maybe this all thing has nothing to do with her and that’s okay. All she really wants is to have a chance to tell this exquisite mind how remarkable their work is; the rest be damned.

Y/n slowly makes her way inside, and after a quick stop at the coat room to dispose of the unnecessary garment, she is finally greeted by a room full of dressed-up people roaming and chatting around, champagne flutes in hands. How cliche, she thinks with humor, before picking up a glass of the bubbly beverage. It’ll help sooth the nerves, she reasons as she starts walking around the place to observe each of the displays. Despite not having had a glimpse of her number-one painter yet, she finds herself having a good time. Most of the work offered to her is engaging in one way or another; some pieces quite provocative is their depiction, others straight out pushing the limits of 2D, with structures coming out of the canvas as though they were about to grip at the viewer.

Turning at a corner, she comes across his art before she sees him, having almost forgotten art was supposedly his thing too, and she realizes she actually knew someone here apart from the mysterious painter. She takes a brief look at his tall frame, the baby blue suit over his crisp white shirt fitting him perfectly. A black tie is completing the look, and it makes y/n waver for a second. She’s never seen him dressed in anything other than jeans and the bar’s t-shirt every employee is supposed to wear on call. Granted, even that he can make work better than anyone else she can think of, but that suit is something else altogether.

Her eyes shifts back to his work, not wanting to waste too much time on his appearance; she is here on a mission after all. She can’t deny his painting is good as much as she wants too. It’s made of a perfectly executed optic illusion that has her pause for longer than she intended to. The colors are picked wisely only adding to the entrancing design, tempting the viewer to reach out to the painting to convince themselves that this is fact a pretty subterfuge and no reality; the frontier between both worlds much too hard to distinguish. Just like for the rest of the exhibition, a single plaque hangs underneath the canvas, introducing the title of the piece above the name of its artist: Fine Line by Harry Styles. Damn, the bastard had to be talented…

"Is it as depthless as you thought it would be?" A hoarse voice interrupts her inner thoughts. She knows it’s his at the first word and already she regrets ever thinking positive things about him.

"Funny, I would have shared a compliment but you just had to go and open your stupid mouth," she bites back as she fully turns around to face him. She can feel is eyes shamelessly scanning her body, sending her nerves on overdrive. She wants this exchange to be as curt as possible, she’s got important matters to tend to.

"Here for you mysterious bloke, I presume?" he inquires in a taunting voice.

"What’s it to you, anyway?" y/n dodges the question with another, hoping it’ll steer the conversation toward its end.

She’s answered by rosy pouting lips, a hand on his heart in faux vexation, "ouch, was just hopin’ you’d come to see me, and now you’ve just crushed my dreams, love."

The pet-name is not lost on her and Y/n has had enough. In own gulp she downs the rest of her champagne and forces the glass to his chest for him to hold as she makes her way past him, "just leave me alone and go be a pain in someone else’s ass, Harry." She doesn’t wait to see if he’s following her as she marches across the room in long and purposeful strides.

Something in the corner of her eyes catches her attention right then. Halting abruptly, almost making someone walk right into her, she turns her head to the side and that’s when she finally sees it. A whole part of the wall has been dedicated to his work, a shrine of his most outstanding pieces randomly hung against the white surface. Y/n recognizes each and every one of them, but then her eyes take in the extra work added for the exhibition: next to each of the pieces are displayed a bunch of photos capturing the students’ expressions as they first discovered the paintings. Dozens of faces lighting up in amazement, widening eyes and finger pointing at the unexpected intrusions; some show confusion and puzzlement while others simply behold laughter and animated conversation.

In the center of the wall, a video is projected. It’s a compilation of those same moments but this time captured on tape. The sound was removed, but as y/n takes in the faces of her fellow students she can almost hear the sound of their laughters; she’d been there for most of it after all. She thinks the idea is amazing, El Patrón has managed to make the viewer a permanent part of the art. The paintings are marvelous of course, full of emotions and passion, but the mysterious artist has gone one step further by also displaying how those emotions had reflected back on the audience. It is an ode to art, to the power of sharing, and proves art is limitless; not owned by museums, not bound between walls and certainly not restricted for trained-eyes only. Because art isn’t all about beauty, it speaks for the need for sharing that human have but often forget, and this is a perfect reminder of it.

The next tape playing has her eyes doubling over the video, a small gasp escaping her lips as she takes in her own figure. It was taken the day she found the painting at the gym and unlike all the other videos she’s alone. No group of students by her side elbowing her in disbelief, or sharing a puzzle look with her. Just her doe eyes gleaming at the painting, lips slightly parted in pure wonder, as she studies every inch of the canvas. And the feeling that this might mean just as much to him as it does to her comes back crashing on her. She’s not paranoid; this artist his using her as some kind of inspiration, she’s sure of it. Random cannot be this accurate, it would defy any laws of statistics.

After the slideshow finally moves on to the next video, y/n looks around in the hopes of finding the man that has wormed his way into her heart. She’s imagined it a thousand times over during the past week. A young man would be discretely standing on the side, watching the evening pan out and waiting for her to find his work. Then they would make eye contact and he’d make his way over to greet her and share more of his beautiful mind with her. That’s the happily ever after she’s hoped for since that first painting in the library, but alas everyone around her seems to be engrossed in conversation about this and that.

"I thought he would be there too," the unexpected voice makes her jump. She recognizes the student from that first day, she’d also be intrigued by the mysterious man.

"I know, all of his work is here, he has to somewhere around," y/n tries to convince herself. She hasn’t given up yet, she won’t let herself unless she goes home tonight empty-handed. Only after that will she stop searching, she promises herself. If he doesn’t show up tonight, then that’s because he doesn’t want to be found.

The girl next to her has the same disappointed tone when she explains, "you’d think so, but I’ve been asking everyone around and nobody has a clue still."

Before y/n can come up with her own rationalizations, someone starts speaking in a microphone, asking for everyone’s attention. It’s a man in his early fifties making a speech about the whole reason behind the exhibition so y/n pegs him as the head of the art department. "Thank you all for coming tonight, it is always a pleasure to see so many of you supporting our young talents. As you may know, tonight’s exhibition signs off our students’ final work for the semester, and will also see one of them receive a one-time collaboration with a renown art gallery in the city. Now, before the judges finish deliberating, let me tell you a bit about the topic of this exhibition which, by the way, serves as the main criteria for this contest. Our artists were asked to work around audience engagement and crowd reaction. The task was to produce art that would prompt an active response from the viewer and go beyond a passive experience. I hope this info helps this event take all its sense, I’ll let you all meander for a couple more minutes before we announce the winner. Thank you for your presence."

Since she has a couple more of minutes, y/n decides to take advantage of the fresh insight she was just given about the artwork and goes around the exhibition one more time. The whole thing does take on a new meaning, now that she knows what was going one in the students’ mind as they first got their assignment. But what has her in awe really, is El Patrón’s coup de maître in all of this, because unlike any other applicant here tonight, he’s had the strongest reactions from the public for months now and had even documented it. So really, in a way he’s already won, no bias to blame. The amount of work and planning behind such a tour de force surely has exceeded everyone’s expectations and secured the number-one position for the still-to-be-revealed artist. In the pocket, as they say.

"Alright everyone, without further ado we are going to announce the lucky talent selected by the judges tonight," the head of department speaks up again. "On behalf of the whole department, I would like to salute each and every one of the students that presented their work tonight. Skills are certainly not scarce among you all, and as always it gives me great pleasure to see you all grow into yourselves alongside your craft. As you know, there can only be one of you coming up to this stage tonight and I must say, this semester has proved to be full of surprises. Never in my 26 years working here have I ever seen something of the sort, so ladies, gentleman, I have no idea who is about to join me now, but please give a warm round of applause for El Patrón!"

The room explodes in loud cheers as people clap their hands in honor of the mysterious artist. Y/n probably the loudest amongst them all, is still craning her neck in every possible directions trying to catch sight of anyone moving towards the stage. The standing ovation quickly fades into silence as everyone realizes nobody is coming to claim their prize. The usual hushing following any of El Patrón’s stunts is once again spreading across the room to match people’s incredulity at the situation. It was one thing to keep their identity a secret, as it was clearly a crucial condition for the plan to work, but now that it is all over and done, prize ready for the taking, it doesn’t make much sense.

"Mister El Patrón? I think you more than deserve to drop your mask and receive your prize," the host reiterates in hopes that the much awaited artist comes out of his lair, but he’s met with the same result. Perhaps he’s not here after all, or perhaps y/n was right to think he might not want to be found, but regardless a strong feeling of disappointment takes over a body. He won’t be coming, she knows. No matter how many times the host calls for him, he won’t be coming.

She lets out a long sign in frustration then, she really thought tonight was the tonight. But now that the evening is coming to its end, tears pearl at the corner of her eyes and she just wants to go home and forget all about El Patrón. Aren’t artists supposed to be dark and twisted anyway? Maybe she just dodges a bullet, she tries to make herself feel better, but no amount of sarcasm can save her from the painful pinch at her heart. As she comes to term with the fact she won’t get any more answers by staying (and possible ever), she decides it’s her cue to go.

On her way to the exit, her eyes fall upon Harry’s slightly hunched figure. He seems deep in his thoughts, eyes fixed towards the floor though he’s not looking at anything in particular. For some unknown reason, y/n is not irked by his presence like she usually is. He’s just lost a great career opportunity so his preoccupied disposition is understandable. Feeling as though she needs to end the night on a different note - whether positive is yet to be determined - she approaches him slowly as not to startle him. "Your painting is really good. I’m sorry you didn’t win, but you should still be proud," she softly tells him to cheer him up. At least, one of them might get to go home in higher spirits.

He looks up at her then, curls bouncing on top of his head, as he aligns his two glistening emeralds to her own gems. He seems quite surprised to hear her voice, probably rightfully so since he can count on one hand (scratch that, one finger) the number of times she’s actively sought him out for conversation. She can tell he’s debating whether to say something or not, as they keep their eyes locked. It’s probably the longest and only civil exchange they’ve ever had, and somehow it manages to soothe some of her sorrows.

Y/n likes this reflective side of him, she realizes. Not that she wishes him any torments (at least not tonight) but his quietness makes him look vulnerable in that beautifully human way for once. That’s twice he’s proven her wrong about the assumptions she had on him, tonight: first his talent, now his character; she doesn’t know what to make of it. Silently, she accepts the timid smile and light nod he offers her in gratitude, before making her way to out at last.

***

Two days after the night of the exhibition, y/n still has a hard time to let her grievance go. Her mood has yet to upgrade from crappy at best, and the fact that all the artwork has been removed from their previous spots is not helping much. Of course she knew they had been put down for the big night, but her heart still missed a beat when she went to the gym only to find the walls of the lobby bare of any craft that would liven up their otherwise dull and colorless structure. Just like her state of mind, she’d joked. And y/n is not one to throw pity parties, especially to herself; but then again, she’d never fallen under the charms of a faceless virtuoso because his art brought to life parts of her that she’d believed otherwise dormant, only to be metaphorically stood up at the end of the process. So really, what does she know anymore?

Now that she’s back at work, she revels in the constant effort she has to provide. The ever-growing list of task to complete gives her mind reprieve and focus, but she still hasn’t budged from her unusually distant and withdrawn self. Even harry’s own standoffishness hasn’t caught her attention; a week ago, his awkward demeanor would have flashed red flags all over her radar. An unfiltered narcissistic prick he could be, but y/n has never known him to be anything even resembling reserve; apart maybe from that one fate-less night not even 72 hours ago when she found him on the outskirts of the attention even though she knew full well that he is more of center kind of guy.

As they’re about to start closing, the awkwardness becomes more palpable by the second. They’ve skirted around it during the whole shift, the steady solicitation of customers enough to ignore the growing tension; but as the last of the patrons finally make their way out of the bar, an eery silence settles in their wake, making them both want to crawl out of their skin. Even the heavy-served drinks they’ve indulged in, despite the absence of their respective motives, hasn��t help assuage the strain between them. Instead, they start their usual routine in overrated silence, y/n in charge of the floor while he tends to the bar. Then before long, Harry bursts the uncomfortable bubble they’ve locked themselves in, voice void of its usual teasing tone, "so, what’s got you so grumpy?" he inquires.

"Please don’t start, Harry. I really can’t be bothered tonight," y/n sighs in response, failing to recognize the note of concern in his question and thinking she wouldn’t survive another bickering session. It hasn’t been the lad’s intention though, so her false accusation has his thick skin itching against his will. To be honest, Harry’s never taken much offense from any of their past squabbles no matter how hard she’d come at him, but this one he can’t brush off. Not when for once, he’s trying to be decent, dropping the attitude he knows rubs her the wrong way and she responds by telling him to get lost.

"Fuck sake, I wasn’t tryin’ to start anythin’" he berates her for lashing out unjustifiably, "you need to take a chill pill." The hostile reaction as her pausing mid-swipe in the middle of the room. He was always so unbothered by everything she said, she hasn’t expected him to be so hard on the defensive (or even know what a defensive is in the first place).

Still, she doesn’t appreciate the same chastising tactic he’s used on her countless times, especially because given his serious temper, she knows he means it for real now. "Oh I’m sorry Harry, I didn’t know what sympathy actually sounds like coming from your mouth," she quips back in sarcasm.

The response makes him livid, "you tell me I’m a jerk every chance you got, but you sure know how to be a bitch, y/n" he spats before finishing wiping the counter. As his hand reaches the end of the surface, he finds his half-empty glass of tequila, most of the ice completely melted through the amber liquor by now. He takes one long sip in a vain attempt to calm his nerves but the alcohol merely tingles the back of his palate and warms its way down his stomach. His mind is still burden with frustrations he doesn’t know how to alleviate; the end of term, the exhibition, his career’s future, and y/n’s stubborn nature all wreaking havoc in his tired brain.

"Shut the fuck up, Harry. I didn’t ask for your attention," y/n retorts, trying not to expose how bruised her heart is. While he’d mocked her plenty during the past two years, he’d never resorted to calling her names, unlike her; so the insult does more damage than she’s willing to admit, even coming from Harry. And to think she’d thought of him as a half decent being not three days ago…

"Right, I forgot only anonymous bastards are worthy enough of your attention," he replies before checking the shelves behind the bar to make sure they’re stocked enough for the next shift. "And even when they turn out to be cowards, you still choose them over the people that are actually around you. You need to open your eyes and wake up, it’s pathetic."

Y/n has almost finished cleaning her area but at this point, she’s ready to call it quits and run as fast as she can, away from him. "Go fuck yourself, you don’t know anything you’re talking about," she manages to croak past her swelling throat and quivering lips. The man in front of her is breaking her heart even though he’s never had it in his calloused hands, and y/n doesn’t know why.

"Fuck this, ’m done," he quite literally throws in the towel, leaving it in a bowl on the counter before making his way back to his drink. In a swift movement, he grabs the bottle of tequila to pour himself a new one. "You keep blindly mopin’ about your precious painter, I don’t care, you’re probably right anyway," he says before chugging the bitter spirit in one go and slamming the bottle of tequila down on the counter in a loud bang that has y/n jump in fear. "I don’t anything about bloody anything," is all Harry says as he locks eyes with hers, before making his out of the bar, not bothering to put the bottle back to its rightful place.

Y/n is still trembling from the exchange, and it takes her a hot minute before she can finish what she was doing. As she resumes wiping the floor with shaky hands, she tries to even her breath out. Why had he been so hurtful? What could have possibly impelled him to utter such malicious words? The questions are still reeling in her mind as she twists water out of the mop for the last time. Once the floor is spotless and all the tables are no longer sticky with spilled alcohol, chairs stacked up onto them upside-down, she makes her way back behind the bar, checking that Harry didn’t leave any of his duties unattended before his theatrical exit. She spots the bottle of tequila sitting lonely on the counter but just as she goes to reach for it, she freezes.

It’s a cold shower pouring over her body all at once then, dots finally connected as her eyes read over the label of the fat bottle she’s seen him take out of the stack countless times before. Everything that happened for the last few months falls into place and suddenly there is no mystery left to be solved. ‘You’re probably right, I don’t know anything about bloody anything’ Harry’s final words keep playing on a maddening loop in her head.

Y/n takes in the small bee design printed under what is unmistakably the last piece of the puzzle she’s been craving to complete: one word that has her stomach churning in a myriad of emotions she can’t possibly untangle. Anger, relief, surprise, fear, curiosity, warmth and more, are all rushing through her in one colossal wave, because printed on that bottle in black capital letters is the brand of Harry’s favorite drink: Patrón.

***

The next day, y/n navigates through her classes purely on autopilot mode. She doesn’t quite remember picking the floral blouse nor the light-shade pair of jeans she’s wearing, and barely recalls the brief conversation she had with an old lady during her bus commute to campus. One thing she sure as hell hasn’t paid one iota of attention to, is the behavioral psychology class she’s just got out of. Two hours she spent pacing up and down every twist and turn of her mind only to come out more lost than she’d started. Add to that the fact she’s running on 4 hours of sleep, she’s quite simply a recipe for disaster. Fortunately for y/n, she isn’t due at work tonight, having called sick this morning, because sleep-deprivation aside, she still has no idea how she’s supposed to face Harry.

The revelation of the night prior is still something she has trouble wrapping her mind around, as it goes against every constructed opinion she’s made about her life. Harry is Patrón, she’s pretty sure. Harry, the allegedly conceited asshole she’s been bickering with since their first minute spent together, is the mind-blowing painter that had taken residence in y/n’s heart since the first time she set eyes on his art. The two characters have yet to fully merge into one in her mind, despite the fact it makes perfect sense to her.

The Brighton painting, the one inspiring her necklace, it was all true. And with that revelation comes two intimidating truths y/n is kind of scared to delve into: one, all this time she’s been right to think she is the muse behind this all scheme; two, if Harry is the mystery painter, that makes her Harry’s muse more specifically. And that’s the part of the equation she struggles the most with, because up until last night she was pretty positive that the twat despised her (the night in itself being prime evidence of that) but now she doesn’t know what to think.

It’s like there are two versions of Harry battling in her brain, splitting her heart in halves; the one that made her miserable at work for years and made her cry last night, and the one she’d gotten a glimpse of at the night of the exhibition. The one that hid a fully blossomed bouquet of emotions behind teasing banter to protect a diamond-rough talent that had the power to touch just about anyone’s sensibility. The one that had her wrapped around his finger in awe with that beautiful mind of his. The question is, can she or will she see this Harry the next time she’s facing him or will all their bad-blood history come crashing down on her instead? Y/n doesn’t think she’s ever fit more the definition of having mixed feelings about something.

On her way home, she makes sure she doesn’t fall asleep against the bus window, despite yawning every thirty-seconds. It feels like the trip is taking forever, she almost lets out a cry of relief when the automated voice finally announces her upcoming stop. Once she’s thanked the driver and stepped out of the bus, she’s met with a gust of brisk air, instantly blowing her hair all over her face. She draws the lapels of her coat tighter around her shivering body and starts making her way towards her apartment building.

It doesn’t take her long to complete the walking distance to her place and tread her way up the stairs, but the sight greeting her in the hallway of her floor almost sends her down on her ass. Because right across from her door, is Harry hanging yet another one of his chefs-d’oeuvre. He’s dressed casually in his usual jeans and t-shirt ensemble, with a thick grey hoodie covering his broad upper-half in a feeble attempt to combat to cold weather raging outside. As he reaches in the back pocket of his jeans to retrieve a sharpie - no doubt to apply his trademark signature - the movements of her feet on the laminated floor catch his attention. Spinning around in a jolt of surprise, he realizes too late that he’s been caught red-handed. There was no going back this time, but he doesn’t necessarily see it as a bad thing.

There is a short moment where they are both just standing in front of each other a few feet apart, as their eyes bounce back in silent conversation, before y/n softly breaths out, "so it is you." The weight of her words has him swallow in nervousness, "of course it’s me," he replies in a gentle tone. A smile pulls at his lips when he realizes she’s not running for the hills or bursting out in a furious rant.

"I just…how? why? I mean, you gotta help me understand Harry, cause I’m pretty fucking lost over here," she blurts out with wide doe-eyes begging him for answers. Her obvious jitters earn her a soft chuckle., and for a hot minute all he can bring himself to do is study her snuggled figure and the way she keeps fiddling with her keys. It’s so endearing to him, if they were at his place, he would have offered to make some tea. The thought has him hesitantly looking at the door across from them, "can we maybe talk inside?" he inquires, beckoning his head towards her place. "I know I haven’t given you much reasons to let me in, but I promise I’ll explain everythin’," he feels the need to convince her, " after that, you can kick me out if you still want."

The last bit has her smile timidly, "yeah, let’s go inside. I wanna hear what you have to say," y/n admits as she steps to the door and unlocks it. She’s intrigued by how gentle and well-mannered the man following her to the living room seems to be, light years away from the rowdy lad she’s come to know.

For a second, y/n is worries about the state she’s left the apartment before she rushed to classes this morning, but her apprehensions quickly go away once she takes in the sight of her rather tidied living space. A velvety throw blanket is covering the couch in a makeshift comforter from the way she spent the night on the couch, and apart from a few class notes scattered across the coffee table, everything seems to be where it’s supposed to be.

They both discard their top layers on the armchair adjacent to the couch, Harry slipping his hoodie off above his head in one swift gesture, while y/n simply lets the sleeves of her coat slide down her arms. He brushes his hair back into submission with one swoop of his hand, before sitting down on the couch and directing his attention back at her. She decides to leave some distance between them, taking the other end of the sofa and the move desperately makes him wonder what thoughts are running through her head. The only way to uncover them however, is if he starts talking first; and so he does.

"So uhm," he starts clumsily, clearing his throat, "remember the first day we met, you walked in on me telling some stoner guy off," he watches closely as y/n nods. "It was our first ever conversation and we fought through the whole thing. I was pretty pissed when it happened, not gonna lie, but once I got home and slept it off, I thought it was really cool how you’d stand up for that random guy." The admission has her eyebrows raising but he keeps going, "and okay maybe, just maybe, I found it a lil hot, the way you tried to put me back in my place."

He stops to make sure he hasn’t offended her, "tried to?" she challenges instead, Harry laughing at her objection.

"Right, maybe you did. My poin’ is, no-one really calls me out on my bullshit, so it was kinda refreshing that you did. But then the next day, you were still mad at me, an’ we bickered that time too. It felt like you’d already made up your mind about me. So in a way, all I had left was doin’ this thing where I push your buttons and rile you up. Know it doesn’t make sense, but it was the only way you’d interact with me so I kept doin’ it, because being jerk-Harry was better than having nothin’."

He pauses for a minute and waits as y/n swallows all the information. All this time he’s been teasing her just to have some sort of connection, no matter how perverse, while she thought he just hated her guts. When she shares this thought with him, he shakes his head with a smile, "never hated you. If I ‘ad, I wouldn’t have bothered talking t’you."

Suddenly, her chest feels lighter, as though all this months of anguish had evaporated from her mind, now that she knew their rocky relationship was the result of miscommunication, "sound logic, Styles," she replies in good humor. Then she remembers the El Patrón’s fiasco so she urges him to go on.

"My final. Right. Well as you know, we were given the assignment at the beginning of the semester, and I came up with the idea of creating this alter ego that would plant his work around campus. I thought by taking people’s by surprise I was guaranteed strong genuine reactions. People are always more opened when they don’t expect it. Like if I had just brought my paintings on the night of the exhibition, the same people wouldn’t have reacted that way, probably because they’d know they’d be observed so they would have adjusted their behavior accordingly." They both know he’s getting slightly off trail, but watching y/n so enthralled with his words makes it hard for him to stop. Fact is, for month she’s dreamed of meeting and picking at the brain of this mysterious painter, and now that he’s sitting on her couch, walking her through his thought process, she finally feels like she is.

"Anyway," he resumes the storytelling, "I started with that painting in the library and it worked so perfectly, I knew if I followed the plan I would have somethin’ really good. But then you just had to go on an’ rave about the paintings without knowing they were mine, and it was killin’ me inside. Because I knew if there was a real chance I could change your mind about me, I’d do anythin’. But no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you. Couldn’t jeopardize my final… so I tried to tell you through the art. I started painting stuff that made me think of you and placed the pieces in locations I knew you’d pass through. It was the only way I could tell you."

Harry’s confession had Y/n’s heart beating so hard in her chest, she can almost feel it thumping through her ears. Her next question is on the edge of her lips, but she takes her time tracing each of Harry’s graceful features until his eyes catch hers, "tell me what, Harry?" she asks barely above a whisper.

His response comes in three bashful steps: first his lips curve into a shy grin that has him look down with rosy cheeks; then his hand inches its way along the soft fabric of the couch to gently hold her fingers, thumb grazing over her knuckles; and as he looks up from their joined hands to connect their gaze once more, he finally spells it, loud and clear, "tell you that I like you, y/n."

The sentiment sends her own emotions reeling in a tornado of passion. This is it, this is what she’s been half-knowingly wishing for, and now that she knows the truth in full, she’s ready to embrace it. Her eyes twinkle in bliss, a growing smile illuminating her face as she squeezes his hand in a silent invitation to slide closer to her. Harry is much happy to oblige, and once he’s sitting directly next to her, knees grazing her own, he cups her face with one of his bear-paw hands. A few strands of hair are caught in the cuddling gesture, but none of them care. Harry just keeps smiling at her, waiting for her next move, and his beam grows two sizes wide when she mirrors his affection. "I like this side of you," she whispers fondly, as her thumb draws slow circles across the skin of his cheeks.

Harry closes his eyes at her words, "this is the real me, I promise," he reassures in an almost pleading tone, vulnerability seeping through. And y/n feels like she’s lying down on cloud nine really, because dropping his fortress of pretentiousness is all she’s ever want from him. With a hushed ‘okay’, she finally brings her mouth to taste the rose-tinted flesh of his. It starts off chaste and slow, lips dovetailed in perfect symbioses like they are made to cohabit, but quickly the kiss heats up to a full on make out session. "Show me, then", y/n mutters out when they part for a breather.

Harry slowly nods his head, before helping her straddle his lap and y/n immediately brings both her hands to his neck once she settles her hips against his. The friction already had them deeply inhale, trying not to work themselves up too fast, but Harry doesn’t think he’ll have much self-control when it comes to y/n. Already he can feel his cock fattening up inside his brief, the tingling sensation making him roll his hips up into hers. Their lips are back in a sensual duel, tongues tentatively taking their turn to lick their way inside the other’s mouth. Every now and then, he teases her bottom lip with a graze of his teeth, and the move as her tugging the root of his hair at the back of his head every single time without a fail.

He loves discovering all the quirks and tells of her body, thinks he could spend hours on hand learning every single one of her curves and memorizing each of her special spots. The smell of her fragrance infiltrates his nostrils as he dips his head to her neck to plant open-month kisses along her skin. Head angled towards the ceiling to make room for his ministrations, y/n can’t do much but let her hands scout any expanse of skin accessible to her. She starts at his shoulder, squeezing the flesh to feel out the strong muscle laying underneath, before making her way down his tone arms, then to his hands currently holding onto to her waist. She gives them an affectionate pinch at the same time she presses down onto him with a deep moan, and Harry retaliates with a buck of his own.

As he starts kissing down the exposed skin of her cleavage, y/n finally drops her head to place a tender kiss to his hairline. One of her hand is back at his neck, holding him firmly to her chest as he licks at the valley of her breasts down her sternum. The other worms its way underneath his shirt from the neckline, nails grazing down his back in soft enough pressure not to leave any marks.

Harry’s descent is obstructed by the soft material of her blouse, so he takes the garment off of her in one swoop, and places his hands back on her newly exposed body, rubbing up and own the skin. As his mouth goes back to the supple flesh of her breasts, y/n increases the pace of her hips grinding on his cock. The sensations seem to be not enough and too much at the same time for her; the heavy material still covering their most sensitive parts in the way of her pleasure, while Harry’s work has her going into overdrive under his velveteen mouth and calloused fingers. She starts kissing her way up from his shoulder to the edge of his jaw, and Harry revels in the sound of her moans tickling his ear.

Done with the excess of fabric between them two, y/n grips at the top of his shirt and pulls it upwards, leaving him shirtless. "Fuck, I didn’t know you have so many tattoos," she babbles against his lips, while her hands smooth over the ink.

"Plenty you don’t know about me, love," Harry chirps as he bask in the praise and the feeling of her skin of his.

He then circles one arm around her waist to bring them chest to chest, and the contact has y/n once again intensify the friction between their crotches. "Wanna find out," she murmurs against his neck while she grinds on his clothed member, "Harry, please take me to bed."

He jolts at the quick bite she delivers to his neck, the impish gesture her way of saying ‘now’ but before she can make her way out of his lap to bring him to her room, he presses her back down with both hands on her waist. "Nuh uh, y’not goin’ anywhere. Want you to come once, b’fore I take you to bed, pet," he says, smoothing his hands over her ass to guide her rocking motions. The term of endearment sounds so innocent yet dirty all at once, it sends a chill down her spine. Nobody had called her that before.

"Can’t," she shakes her head, "can’t feel you through the jeans."

"Alright then, stand up," he calmly asserts and she doesn’t hesitate to comply, standing in between his spread legs, in her flimsy bra and jeans. "Take ‘em off then, ’s what you want no?" he sends her a tantalizing look and bites at his lips as he watches her peel the pants off her legs. He can’t help the light squeeze he gives himself through his own jeans, as y/n stands in front of him awaiting his next instructions. "Come sit on my thigh now, think should be enough to make this pretty pussy tingle in all the right places, no?"

Y/n’s insides are already twisting in a knot as she settles back on his lap and lets the rough material of his jeans against the softness of her cotton panties spread a prickling sensation through her pelvis area. Quickly, she resumes undulating her hips, gripping back at Harry’s neck to pull him in a languid kiss, pleasure vibrating against their lips. It is not long before her pace picks up, and her eyes shut at the intensity of her bliss. "That’s it, pet. Already makin’ a mess of me. You’re doin’ so well," he coaxes her with his words.

As promised, y/n feels the lips of her sensitivity start to throb at her impending release, the sensation making her clamp her thighs tighter around his meaty limb. As her knee now presses against his bulge, Harry cries his sudden pleasure out in her mouth, and that’s all it takes for her to let her orgasm consume her. She unravels on top of him, one of her hands shooting to cup at her pussy in an attempt to quell the overwhelming throb. Harry draws soothing caresses down her back as he look at the sticky mess she’s left in her panties, damp patch matching the one tainting the material of his jeans. "All ruined, just as they should be," he smirks at the sight before giving her a sweet kiss.

Flushed skin and blown pupils, she slowly regains her breath, "take off your pants and take me to bed now?" she requests.

"You’re quite demanding for someone who’s just gotten off," he keeps taunting her. After all, winding her up has always been one of his favorite thing to do, and dare he say in the past two years, he’s gotten quite good at pushing her buttons. Now he’s got new ones to figure out and play with, the thoughts has him pulsing in his jeans.

Y/n doesn’t relent in her advances, she’s never been one to bow at his mockery, "thought you like how bossy I could be. Something about the way I put you in your place, if my memory serves right."

"Anytime, anywhere, you’re the boss of me, love. But this," he cups at her cunt, adding pressure on her clit, "this is mine to have. Understood?"

Y/n’s about to combust from all the desire firing up every one of her nerve-endings. His words might be the strongest aphrodisiac she’s ever experienced, she can’t wait to see what more tricks in has up his sleeves. "Now get up and show me the way to your room, pet," he softly commands before leaving a peck on her cheek.

They both get up from the couch, and y/n guides them both down the hallway to her room, her hand wrapped in his tightly. Once they’re standing by the bed, Harry is surprised to face a patient y/n, biting her lips and awaiting his next directive. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more turned on in his life, "undress me, love" he murmurs against her skin after kissing her forehead.

His jeans are quickly discarded but before his boxer briefs follow suit, y/n can’t help but tease him in reprisal, "looks like I’m not the only one who made a mess in their panties."

He lets out a boisterous laugh while she smears open mouth kisses along his stretching jaw, "mmm, I’d rather make a mess somewhere else," his innuendo causing her to gasp while he works the strap of her bra. Once she’s gotten rid of his last piece of clothing, his cock springs up, free of it’s confines, dollop of pre-come already pearling at his tip, and sticking to the skin of his stomach.

With a gentle grip at her hair, he has y/n’s head tilted backward, to let his mouth make its way towards her already pebbled nipples. Since she can’t look down, y/n blindly reaches out to wrap her hand around Harry’s thick shaft and starts massaging him in languid strokes. "Your hand feels so fuckin’ good around me, pet, I wanna fuck you so badly," he hisses around her nipple, before kissing his way back up to her lips.

He starts backing her towards the bed in small steps, but she brings a hand to his chest at the feeling of the edge of the mattress brushing against the back of her knee, "wait, wait, wanna taste you first," she insists and Harry doesn’t think he could ever say no to that face, no matter how much he wants to just sink home inside of her in this moment.

"Fuck, you’re killin’ me, love," he pinches at her waist and lays his forehead against hers, "you want my cock in your pretty mouth, before I drive it home in your cunt, is that it?" She nods, eyes turning into two lustful fireballs. "Okay, love, but y’ can’t keep it on your tongue fo’ too long, cause I really need to fuck you, alright?"

Y/n hastens to lower herself when he bids her "right then, on your knees and open wide fo’ me," and her brows furrow in confusion as she watches him stray from her spot. Picking up a plush cushion from her bed, he places it on the ground for her to knee upon, "there love, want you to be comfortable," he runs his fingers through her hair, and her heart grows three sizes bigger at how tender he can be in amidst his filthy ways.

Sensually, y/n brings her lips around the crown of his cock, her tongue teasing its way across the salty skin. Once she’s licked up all the previous mess, she starts working her way down his cock, hand stroking at the base. After bopping up and down a few time, she removes her month from his swelling cock, and lets a string of spit fall down onto its head and make its way to his balls. "S’right, pet. Get me wet," Harry rasps in appreciation. Now that she’s got him properly slicked, she goes back to pumping his hardening cock and takes him into her warm inviting mouth, determined to have him all the way inside. She feels her throat expands to accommodate his thickness, and the pressure makes Harry tighten his hold in her hair, "fuck, that’s it, love. Take me good."

Muscles already tensing up in preparation for his climax, when y/n’s hand finds his full and swollen balls to roll them together like dice, he is quick to calm her zeal, "Christ pet, you gotta stop before I can’t help myself," but his tone hardens when she defies his demand, "come on now, s’enough."

Once she pulls off, the sight of her flushed face and puffy lips induces an animalistic groan to come out from his chest, as he thumbs through the wetness coating her chin. Taking the hand resting on his hip to guide her up, he captures her lips in a searing kiss, the taste of his arousal blending in their mouths.

His hands come down to knead at the flash of her ass, before he scoops her up and on the bed with a quick flex of his biceps. "Harry, please," she whines in impatience, hands gripping at his sides to pull him down against her. His rock hard cock slides against her clothed pussy, pins and needles cruising along their skin and only fueling their eagerness.

"Need me in your belly, pet?" Harry keeps working her up, as he slides her soiled panties down her legs, "need me to fuck you so good, you forget I was ever a jerk?"

She’s putty in his hold, legs wrapping around his waist to feel the pressure of his member on her bare lips , "yes, yes, I wan’ it," she pleads.

Harry would love to tease her further, have her writhing and proper begging underneath him, but at this point it would be self-torture to even consider. Instead he pumps at his shaft to give himself some relief, their sex so close his knuckles graze at her clit every time his fist comes at the top. "You ready?" Harry utters softly while spreading and skimming her cleft with the head of his cock. It has y/n gripping at his hair, a series of delirious ‘yes’ tumbling form her mouth, so he doesn’t wait a second more to push his tip past her threshold and begins his descent in her warmth. "Fuck, t’feels so good. So wet, and tight, and warm," he thinks out loud once he’s stuffer her full, balls pressing against her ass.

Y/n whimpers against his lips, urging him to start moving to quell the building pressure coiling in her belly. A slow roll of his hips finally gives her reprieve causing her to moan in gratitude. She’s already so close, it baffles her how this man could have her coming apart at the seams without doing much. His thrusts starts gaining zeal then, betraying his own yearning to take the final leap. "So tight, love. Can feel you squeezin’ me, are you close already? Is my girl gonna cum fo’ me again?" he grunts in her ear while he pounds into her dripping cunt. Y/n doesn’t offer a response, too caught up in a daze of bliss, but her clenching muscles is all the answer he needs to start nudging his thumb at her clit. A several flicks across the sensitive bud later, her orgasm is pulsing through every bone and fiber of her body, walls hugging Harry’s cock so tight, it has to pause his hammering.

Waiting for her to catch her breath, he peppers delicate kisses along her cheek, "was that good, love? Think you can give me another, uhm?" he asks when she’s regained some of her senses. The pressure at his groin is growing more and more the longer his cock remains unmoving entombed within her vice, and the luscious agony must be written all over his face, "yes, Harry, wanna be good for you" y/n cups his jaw tenderly.

He nods at her approval, "good girl," delivers a sweet earnest kiss to her pouty lips as he pulls out and spins her around to lay on her stomach. His hand brushes the hair off her skin so he can sew a string of kisses at her shoulder blades and neck. Painfully red, his cock is propped between her buttcheeks, "can I take you like that?" he punctuates his inquiry by rolling his hips backward, tip lingering at her soaked entrance. Y/n clutches the sheets firmly, as she murmurs a faint ‘please’, back arching at the thrills consuming her mind.

Harry plunges in her wet core in one smooth swing, hand digging at her hip to keep her steady as the other one interlaces with hers to lay on the mattress above her head. Unforgiving lunges have y/n cinch around him, face buried in the sheets and muffling salacious wails of pleasure, and he doesn’t think he’ll be able to steer from his end for much longer. He slows his cadence to steady and firm strokes, slipping a hand around her waist to polish her swell.

A million tremors spark off the onset of Y/n’s climax as she shudders in a firework of ecstasy. Harry doesn’t relent until he’s worked her through completion and can no longer stop the coil in his loins from snapping. His release fills her in several spurts of wet warmth before he flops down next to her, positively fucked out.

They both lay unmoving in comfortable bliss for a few minutes, before y/n plops her head on his chest and an arm around his torso, her leg sneaking in between his. "Well, here goes two years of sexual tension," Harry says jokingly, fingers drawing abstracts design on the skin of her back. It might just be his favorite canvas to paint on from now, he muses before chastising himself at the onslaught of filthy thoughts tagging along. A playful slap on his abdomen takes his mind out of the gutter, "don’t ruin the moment," y/n says in fake admonition before placing a tender kiss on the spot she just abused.

"M’sorry, love. M’just really chuffed to be in your bed finally," the last word reminding her that while she’s struggled to come to term with her feelings for him, ransacking her mind for a possible change of heart, he’d only seen her in but one light. The revelation still has her floored and giddy, "can I ask you something?" she asks as there was still one question pacing back and forth the pathways of her mind. Harry hums in acquiescence, "anythin’ love, by brain is yours."

She feels his hand cradling her skull followed by a small peck to her forehead, and she smiles at the gesture, "why did you stay away that night at the exhibition when you got the prize? Why not coming forward?" It’s been bugging her brain since it happened. Although she didn’t have much insight on anything at the time, most of the pieces of the puzzle fell in place after the big reveal; but this, she still can’t make sense of.

Harry lets out a long breath, organizing his thoughts, "two reasons," he starts off tiredly. "One, I kinda like having this secret business going on, and like, as long as nobody knows, I am in control of how and when it happens, you know? And the moment I let go of that, I can’t go back." He searches her face for any hint of confusion but she’s just patiently listening. "Two, when we bumped into each other at the gala, I got convinced you’d never see me differently regardless of how good a painter I was; and that had become a big part of who El Patrón was."

It’s the first time she hears his alter ego’s name from his mouth and with how flowingly natural it sounded coming out of his lips, y/n suspects that it’d been a conscious decision on his part. She recalls their interaction that night, the way they fell in their usual ways of ping-ponging vindictive words until one of them has enough and leaves the premises (usually y/n). A lump starts forming in her throat at the recollection of all the other fights they’ve had and how they’d all been pointless wastes of time and energy, now that she knows she is meant to be in his arms. She wishes things could have been different but the warmth of his body around her overweighs her regrets. They’re here now, looking bright toward the future, and it’s all that matters.

"I’ll keep your secret if you want, be the Lilly to your Hannah Montana," she tells him lightly before they both laugh at the silly reference.

Happiness and glee has Harry tightening his hold around her shoulder, "nah, I don’t wanna play double-agents anymore. I wanna be the guy who gets the girl." He dips his head to catch her lips between his own, reveling in their newfound intimacy. Turning her face against his chest, Y/n impresses her bashful smile on his swallow-tattooed skin, before she lays a trail of pecks tickling the area underneath his armpits, "well, you got me now."

➪ Masterlist

#harry styles one shot #harry styles fic #harry styles imagine #Harry fic #enemies to lovers #angst #so much angst #smut #I didn't think I could be this filthy lol #uni au #artstudent!harry #art #harry fanfic #harry styles writing #reader insert #harry styles au

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readerinsertfanfiction · 3 years

Text

Petit Four

Fandom: Ikemen Vampire

Character: Leonardo Da Vinci

Prompt: Leonardo is not taking any chances and brings out some old superstitions again. Happy birthday @mezzy303!!!

Warnings: Mentions of food.

Word count: -1k

Masterlist

Leonardo found himself at a crossroad that day, a little frown apparent on his face as he wondered what had moved him to be so silly. He prided himself to be steadfast and confident, not easily moved by superstition or trend, never persuaded by the masses and his unchanging ways.

Yet, here he was, box in hands and an assortment of petit fours. Some square, some round, all with their own charm and decoration, but only one contained a present. A sign of good fortune, if you managed to pick the pastry containing the present. It had fallen into fashion with the couples in Paris, as they believed that if a red string was found first it meant that the couple was destined to match.

A silly thought indeed, for how could a man made product determine the wants of a heart? Leonardo would have dismissed it if it hadn’t been for your eyes sparkling and shining at the prospect of sharing so many sweets. It was a delightful look, accompanied with that unmistakable look of hope in which you secretly may have wanted to participate in this trend. Somewhere Leonardo had done the same, for he had indeed gone out to buy a box of petit fours, even selecting some extra just to make sure.

“Mia cara, you there?” he announced himself before entering your room, the box steady in his other hand as he carried it inside. Night had fallen and midnight was approaching, marking the turn of the day in which you would grow older by adding a year to your age. To an immortal like Leonardo it was an insignificant change, one that he had witnessed so many times before and was to witness many times to come without it meaning anything. But with you Leonardo wished to make it count as he set the box down.

A momentary look of confusion set in your eyes first, staring at him first as you looked for answers. But you had already come to know Leonardo as a man who never gave answers and your eyes turned towards the box, recognising the packaging of the bakery you had heard much shop about, the same one you had mentioned to him before. The one with the superstitious item on the card.

“Want to try?” he asks and you throw your eyes up again, the lid off the box now as the neatly arranged petit fours are on full display. There is a question in your eyes once more as if pleading with the man to give you the answer of the right pick. But Leonardo smiles as he shakes his head, indicating that he had no clue either. He just hoped he had picked right.

Your fingers hesitantly reach over to one of the pastries, hovering over before moving to another. There is a moment in which you pause and close in before retreating, as if contemplating before you release a sigh.

“Will you feel discouraged if I pick wrong?” you question him and the pureblood is a little stunned at the question, wondering where he had picked up an image of being superstitious. It is hidden by a smile, as he reaches out to brush your ear with the tip of his fingers, as if reassuring you wordlessly.

It is with another deep breath that you finally pick a pastry, a spoon cutting through the layers of decoration and through the cake before revealing its content; delectable, sweet and…

Leonardo doesn’t realise that he actually releases a sigh in relief, not having realised either that he had held his breath before a thumb runs over your cheek, tickling your attention upwards to him who is still watching you so intently as you return a beaming grin, relieved as well that it had gone so well.

“Happy birthday, mia cara,” he tells you finally, finding that time had moved on indeed beyond the hour that had kept you both captive.

A needless worry, as it turns out. For the rest of the box all held the same gift and surprise within. Your laugh that followed after had indeed made Leonardo feel a little silly, but he found it worth all the while.

#ikemen vampire leonardo #ikevam leonardo #ikevamp leonardo #ikevam #ikevamp #ikemen vampire #ikevam x reader #ikevamp x reader #ikemen vampire x reader

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ri-ahhh · 4 years

Note

Wild sex with Grayson mid hike

Yes. Please yes. Spotting a little niche surrounded by brush around a slightly hidden curve, just far enough away from the trail that you probably won’t get caught, but close enough that if someone maybe had the same idea you’d be able to hear and quickly compose yourselves.

He’s got you facing away from him, your leggings pulled down just far enough to access your pussy and the waistband of his shorts stretched so he could pull his dick out. All it took were a few heated kisses to mingle with the idea of the setting the two of you are doing this in for him to be hard already. He swipes his hand up your pussy, grinning when he feels you soak his fingers, clearly just as excited by this escapade as he is.

Grayson sticks two of those fingers in your mouth to muffle your moans when he nips your ear and pushes into you, filling you up with one steady thrust. Your eyes roll back, and he wastes no time getting to work. His other hand braces against the rock you’re facing, and his cheek presses against yours so his hot, restrained breaths mingle with the puffs of air you let out through your nose as he pounds into you. The noise is unmistakable, you realize, but the sounds of the morning wildlife rising with the sun do well to mask some of it.

Not that you really give a shit at all at this point. You’re in that drunk-like phase where nothing matters other than the way Grayson is fucking you, and your sex-fogged brain says to let them see; there’s definitely some Brad that will pass by on this trail that could pick up some stroke game tips, or a Jessica that needs to know what getting good dick really looks like.

Grayson grunts that tell-take grunt that lets you know he’s close, and his calloused hand slips down the front of your leggings now until he lights upon your clit. You squeak around the digits you’re sucking in your mouth, and his cock pummels your pussy so fucking perfect — your foot does an x-rated version of mia thermopolis’ pop as you cum hard.

Your vision blurs and your legs shake as you bite on his fingers to hold back any shrieks or cries or moans that your body is desperately to let out. Grayson’s breath hitches and he’s quick to wrap a helpful arm around your middle so you can stay upright as he nuts deep inside you almost immediately after.

The two of you stay like that for a while, or at least what feels like it. Despite the location you’re in, Grayson can’t resist pulling his wet fingers out of your mouth, leaving a sloppy trail of saliva on your cheek as he turns your head to indulge him in a few deep kisses before he’s pulling out and fixing your pants for you.

You turn around just in time to see him tuck his cock back in his shorts, and you smile at each other with a look that says “did we really just do that?”

You re-enter the trail cautiously, and Grayson takes your hand when you both see the coast is clear. You don’t make it very far down the path, though, before a couple of things become glaringly apparent.

“Can you give me a piggyback? My legs aren’t working right.”

Grayson looks at you and guffaws, pride seeping from every pore as he stops and lowers himself enough for you to hop on.

“You should have pulled out, too. I’m, like, uncomfortably wet right now. Should have tried to piss in the bushes.”

“I didn’t want to disrespect nature like that, babe.”

You slap his chest with a scoff. “Good to know you think some dead leaves are more important than the comfort of my vagina.”

“Chill, I’ll lick you clean in the car, yeah?”

#i wanna fuck him on a hike #dolan twins #grayson dolan #blurb #g blurb

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itsapapisongo · 3 years

Text

Soul Nemeses! | WINWIN

Starring: Winwin ft. Hendery

Genre: Comedy | Superhero

Concept: Supervillain!Winwin (The Lobe) | Superhero!Hendery (Freakazoid)

Word Count: 2,786

Prompts: “Stop screaming, it’s just me.” + “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”

Notes: The following is (1) an absurd short-story for the @ficscafe’s dialogue prompt event and (2) a writing exercise to get into a headspace where I can be as silly as possible. Freak Out! is a story I’m very excited for and this was a way to explore the characters and their dynamic. So, without further ado, I genuinely hope you enjoy this VERY SPECIAL EPISODE of Freak Out!

Taglist: @stayinzencity @mother-hyucker @lebrookestore @doievoir @du0tine @naptaemed

All is well in Way City.

Which is to say it’s really not and something is about to happen to disrupt that all-is-well feeling across town. Because a day can’t go by without some burglar, mad scientist, or supervillain indulging in their burglary, mad science, or super-evil shenanigans.

Thus we turn our attention to a deserted, discolored, and depressing city landmark: The Daebak Fair. Once it used to be the kind of place that burst with laughter and excitement, where money flowed every weekend and kept the owners’ pockets heavy and full. People couldn’t get enough of it until, well, they got enough of it.

So much so that it became free real estate for any villain that felt like using the abandoned fair as their lair. This changed, however, when Winwin decided he didn’t feel like sharing. He bought the place, and officially made it his holiday lair. And it’s here that our story takes place.

What once used to be a house of mirrors is now a workplace where a plethora of patented inventions specifically designed for destruction are built, reserved-engineered, dismantled, and kept out of his rivals’ hands.

With all the bells and whistles removed, the lair is quite spacious. Having decorated the place himself, Winwin has hung stolen paintings all over the walls and set tables for dissection, welding, engineering, and even, if he was ever in the mood, arts and crafts. The whole thing has Mad Scientist meets Bob Ross vibes and it’s both odd and endearing.

Winwin is currently dismantling his latest invention—a large crane-looking thingie fitted on the roof a modified golf-cart—out of boredom and frustration after being foiled once again by that red-wearing, annoying, ne’er-do-well freak of a nemesis.

“I can’t believe him,” Winwin grumbles, shaking his head for the nth time. Seeing as he’s alone, he says this to no one in particular. “I craft the perfect plan and he finds a way to thwart it!”

Who would have thought that Freakazoid would have convinced him that creating a gas capable of turning people into clown zombies to do his bidding would be the stupidest masterplan ever? Winwin felt like he was failing as a villain, not challenging his nemesis enough. He had wondered then and still wonders now if he’s losing it, if he’s gone soft yet he knows he’s not, knows he hasn’t.

So why does this recent defeat grind his gears? Why has Freakazoid gotten to him? Though Winwin knew not to take their rivalry seriously, he sometimes did. It’s standard hero-villain stuff—to hurl insults and humiliate one another—yet something felt off.

He stops working and thinks back to their encounter.

CUT TO: HOURS AGO, IN A COLD, TALL, AND VAGUELY EUROPEAN MOUNTAIN

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Freakazoid had said, hanging off the side of a snowy cliff, for their confrontation had taken place in a cold, tall, and vaguely European mountain. With an impressive leap and a landing, he stood in front of Winwin and pointed a finger at him. “That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard of! People don’t like clowns, dummy! People are terrified of clowns! Ever heard of It?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—’tis a good plan!”

Freakazoid rolled his eyes, scoffing.“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh,” Winwin replied, feeling instant regret for lowering himself to his nemesis’ childish argumentative skills. “It’s a brilliant plan!”

“No, it’s dumb, dumb, dumb!”

And then they debated like adults for a minute or two—

(“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nuh-huh.”

“Uh-huh.”)

—until Freakazoid clicked his tongue and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Pack it up, big brain,” he told him, not unkindly but definitely disappointed.

“Why should I? I already have a small zombie army at my disposal.”

“Small clown zombie army at your disposal.”

Winwin groaned in exasperation. “Yes, yes, that.”

“You’re doing this out here in the middle of nowhere. There aren’t even that many people around so I wouldn’t call it an army. I’d call it a small terrifying crowd.”

“Oh.”

Freakazoid nodded and crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side. “Did you even think this through?”

Winwin suddenly found himself speechless. Genuinely and anxiously speechless. He didn’t have an answer other than “I don’t know” and he hated resorting to admitting he didn’t know anything. He was the most brilliant supervillain in all of Way City—the Lobe, some called him—and admitting ignorance was (1) not on brand for him and (2) his worst nightmare.

“I don’t—I’m not sure—I—”

“Alright, you.” Freakazoid shook his head and gently guided him away by his elbow. “Pack it up. Get out of here.”

“But—”

“No butts, not tiddies, not ding-a-lings,” said the hero, his pout a judgemental feature in his face. “I expected a lot more from you. Clown zombies? Aiya.”

“I—” Winwin’s eyes widened and he felt them welling up with tears. “You’re right. I think I’m overdoing it. I might be overtired. It’s the best I could do on such short notice.”

“Turn off the cloud.”

And so he did. Winwin turned to see Freakazoid—lean, clad in red, black domino mask concealing his identity, his insignia that of F and an exclamation point on his chest, his black hair, slicked back as always, haswhite streak in the shape of a bolt across it—grimacing back at him. For a second, Winwin thought he could hear the world’s tiniest violin play a sad tune for himself as he pouted and got on the modified golf-cart he’d driven around the mountain to spread the gas around.

“Hey, big brain,” he heard Freakazoid call after him, the hero’s voice distant. He noticed it had softened somewhat. “It’s a dumb plan but I know you can do better.”

“Thanks, Freakazoid,” Winwin mumbled as his nemesis gave him a thumbs-up.

The moment was ruined the moment the idiot in red opened his mouth again—

“Now, git!”

CUT TO: NOW, BACK TO WINWIN’S LAIR

“Can’t believe I cried in front of him,” Winwin says, cringing.

“Yeah, me neither,” says a familiar voice.

Startled, Winwin squeals then yelps. A wrench flies off his hand as he falls off four feet to the ground and lands squarely on his bottom. He groans, and feels the back of his head throbbing. Opening his eyes, he blinks once, twice, thrice until he makes out the unmistakable silhouette of his nemesis looking down at him. Freakazoid couches and leans in so close, Winwin can feel his breath against his forehead.

“Stop screaming,” the hero says, “it’s just me.”

“Stop scream—are you serious? You nearly gave me a heart attack, you imbecile!”

“I know but that’s no reason to scream your lungs out.” Freakazoid offers his right hand and a half-smile. “Time to go upsies, big brain.”

Winwin glares, refusing the offer for help. “I don’t need your—” he begins but is cut off when he’s lifted off the floor. It’s both rough and gentle, in that he feels he’s taken several tight turns in a roller coaster without whiplash and is suddenly standing upright without imbalance. “Thank you.”

Freakazoid waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t.” Winwin scoffs then wags a firm finger in a gesture of warning. “Nor shall you mention that I cried all the way up there in those cold, tall, and vaguely European mountains.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Freakazoid raises a hand, making a gesture that’s supposed to imply his discretion. He frowns then tilts his head with a shrug. “I mean I would dream of it so I might come up. Like, cards on the table, I might tell some of my dream friends about it.”

A beat as Winwin glares, turns to a camera that’s not there, and rolls his eyes.

“Are you quite finished?”

“No, not really—”

Winwin sighs and turns, picking up the wrench he dropped and returning to his work. “Why are you here, Freakazoid?” he asks, his voice laced with despondency.

“Oh,” is all Freakazoid manages to say. Winwin hears him clear his throat and take a step forward. “About that. I came to apologize, big brain. Didn’t mean to be, well, mean to you. It’s just that—” he pauses and the villain can practically see him shrugging. “—I think I’ve been a bit overworked too.”

“Was it your idea to apologize or was it Sgt. Qian’s?”

“That’s neither near or far.”

Winwin groans, doing his best to not roll his eyes or rub his face. “Neither here or there,” he corrects him.

“Exactamundo!”

“Did you come here to aggravate me?”

Freakazoid deflates, looking forlorn for a second before he clears his throat and the usual and insufferable aura of confidence that encompasses his very being returns. He smiles sheepishly and rubs the back of his neck.

“Come on, big brain, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that—” Freakazoid groans, throwing his head back like a teeanger not wanting to admit he’s responsible for some wrongdoing. “—it was such a good plan!”

Winwin’s eyes widen as he takes a step forward and squeezes Freakazoid’s shoulders. “Come again?” he queries. “It was a good plan?”

“I mean—duh!—zombies I can handle but clowns? Geez. Ugh. No. Nightmare fuel.”

“So you did like it?”

“Like it? No, bud, I absolutely, definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, love it. Let me tell you, Lobe, it’s—” Freakazoid motions he’s kissing his fingers then wiggles his left hand as if to say mamma mia. “— diabolical.”

Winwin feels warmth spread across his cheeks and immediately clears his throat, looking away to avoid giving Freakazoid any satisfaction or a glimpse at his embarrassment. He laser-focuses on taking apart a component from the machine, cautious not to tinker much with the cylinder that contains the clown zombie gas, and pretends he’s not giddy with excitement and validation.

Then, just as he’s going to turn and give him his thanks, Freakazoid open his mouth and yet again ruins the moment—

“It’s diabolical, but stupid.”

Winwin mutters angrily under his breath, every fiber of his being urging him to reach for that knock-out gas he’d been working on for the past few days—or, perhaps, that disintegrating rifle that has been gathering dust for God knows how long—yet relents when he sees the look of concentration in Freakazoid’s face. The hero looks like he’s seriously considering why he feels Winwin’s plan was, in his words, diabolical but stupid.

And the villain, overwhelmed with both anger and vile curiosity, crosses his arms, taps his foot, and grits his teeth.

“Go on . . .”

“It’s—how to put this lightly?—immensely stupid yet awesomely evil in that you didn’t think it through but it has potential to really ruin my day if done correctly.” Freakazoid throws his arm around Winwin’s shoulder, pulling him close. “See what I mean, old chump?”

“You and I are not chumps.”

Freakazoid gasps and pouts, dramatically putting a hand on his chest. “And here I was thinking you were my nemesis,” he whispers in a low, wheezing voice. “I thought we were soul-nemeses.”

“I mean—” Winwin blushes again and his eyes widen the second he realizes Freakazoid notices his blushing. “We are nemeses, yes, but we are definitely not chumps.”

“Could we ever be chumps?”

Winwin sighs, rolling his eyes. “I believe so.”

“Ah, big brain, I knew you cared!”

“Yes, yes, caring.” The villain nods and pushes his nemesis off himself, “You’ve apologized, insulted me yet again, and tried to be my, as you say, chump. I believe that’s enough banter for a day.”

“Touché.” Freakazoid smiles. “I’ve made plenty of shameless jokes at your expense today.”

“And I’m certain they won’t be the last.”

“You know me,” the hero blinks, pointing a thumb at himself. He glances at the contraption built on the roof of the modified golf-cart and a glint of curiosity and mischief appears in his eyes. Despite wearing a domino mask, Freakazoid could be inexplicably expressive. “Whatcha up to?”

“Dismantling this heap of scrap metal.” Winwin turns so fast that it’s impossible for Freakazoid not to notice the frustration apparent in his face. He smacks the wrench against the roof of the cart and winces when it slips out of his hand. “Damn it.”

“Here, let me help,” Freakazoid offers, guiding Winwin away from the cart. “I need some space.”

Before Winwin can protest, a gust of wind pushes him back. He blinks to see nothing but a blur of motion and a shower of white sparks moving around the golf cart. It’s so fast that he glimpses at Freakazoid’s silhouette twice before the hero stands next to him, wiping his hands with a dirty rag. It reminds Winwin of a mechanic finishing up a check-up on a car in desperate need of maintenance.

“There.” The hero throws the rag over his shoulder. “Doneso.”

“How did you—” Winwin blabbers, flabbergasted at how thorough Freakazoid had been. Every piece is laid on a table that hadn’t previously been there, each component perfectly classified, and all the parts that were supposed to be tossed away neatly put on a trash bag. “How’s that possible?”

“Come on, brainy,” Freakzaoid scoffs, clapping Winwin in the back and making him yelp and glare at him. “We’ve been at this for a while now. If I can think of it, I can do it.”

“That’s not a very reassuring thought.”

For a second, Freakazoid’s smile disappears and a haunted look passes through his eyes. “I know,” he whispers ominously. Then he’s flashing that bright and infuriating smile of his as nothing has happened. “Anyways, I gots to get going.”

That stops Winwin dead on his tracks. Usually, after some crime-spree or being foiled and getting away, Freakazoid would burst in wherever Winwin was currently laying low on, say his cheesy heroic lines, and promptly deliver him to the authorities—which was always, without fail, to Sgt. Qian—and they would call it a night.

Here he is, apologizing, acting like Winwin hadn’t enacted yet another brilliant and evil plan—even though he had deemed it dumb—and being overall far more obnoxious than usual. Yeah, something’s definitely off tonight.

“Whoa, whoa, aren’t you going to take me in?” Winwin protests and instantly groans when he notices his hand on Freakazoid’s forearm, like a lover begging their other half not to leave. He lets go and sheepishly clears his throat. “You might have thwarted me today but I still turned a couple of people into clown zombies. That has to be a crime somewhere.”

“Definitely a crime somewhere, but they’re all good now. All they needed was some fresh-air. No harm, no foul.” Freakazoid shrugs then grimaces. “Although, no, not really. A couple of people were traumatized so there was some harm involved.”

“You see?” Winwin cackles and offers his hand, waiting to be handcuffed. “Take me in!”

“Not tonight, brainy. I’m all tuckered out and Kun invented me out for ice-cream. We can do that tomorrow, though.”

Winwin opens his mouth then closes it, narrowing his eyes in disbelief. “That seems awfully irresponsible.”

“Oh, it is.” Freakazoid snorts, turning to leave. “But I’m getting some ice-cream and Kun’s paying.”

“If you don’t take me in now, Freakazoid, I’ll come up with a worse plan tomorrow and enact it without mercy.” Winwin poses, raising his hands above to display his collection of inventions and devices solely designed for destruction and chaos. “For I live to oppose you. So it is written. So it shall be done.”

The hero blinks, holds his chin, looking pensive for a second, hums, then shrugs with an impassive expression. “I don’t think that’s legal, but we can work around it.”

“I—” Winwin raises and lowers a finger, deflated.

He could reschedule, postpone some things, advance others before he unleashed absolute chaos on the city. He knows can make it work. It would be business as usual.

With a mental note to not start his rampage before dinner time, he slowly and painfully rolls his eyes and huffs, “Fine. We’ll do it tomorrow then.”

“Goodie!” Freakazoid claps, pulling Winwin close for a hug. “Ice cream today. Possible disaster tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Winwin replies through gritted teeth.

“Okey-doke, brainy. See you tomorrow.”

One second, Freakazoid is there. The other, he’s gone in a blinding flash of light and a gust of wind that vaguely smells of chocolate. Winwin is left alone, despondent, and secretly impressed. He sighs and rubs the back of his head, feeling the area bruised and sensitive to touch.

Giving his lair the once-over, he slumps on a chair and pops his lips.

“This is my most humiliating defeat,” he grumbles.

A minute later, he decides to call it a night.

And, for the first time this week, all remains well in Way City.

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devilbat · 4 years

Text

Quarantine Online

A/N: sorry I have been MIA for months now. A lot has going on in my life and Depression sucks, making it hard to write, so forgive me.

Tom Hiddleston x Reader

Warnings: Just fluff

Summery: dating is hard it's even harder when a Pandemic happens..

The picture you stared at only showed a well-toned lean body in a well-tailored suit. Most of the photographs showed the same, never his face. His name was Tom 39 years old, living in London. Though he dose travels a lot for work. Shakespeare fanatic, runner, enjoys cooking, long walks with his dog when he's not running and lots and lots of dancing. Six foot one, six foot two on a good day. Who was testing the waters out there, but will be the perfect gentleman and very respectful.

His profile stated as you looked through it. He had messaged you right as you thought about giving up once again. Everyone on these dating apps only wanted one of two things. Nudes or sex nothing more. No connection, no relationship, not even a friendship. Sure, you were offered friends with benefits.

That was something you were not looking for. Did it not state in your profile that you weren't going to do any of that. Do men even read?

The few dates you have gone on all ended up a bust. Then the quarantine happened right as you were getting yourself out there. So it was conversations via text. But soon you were ghosted far too many times because you wouldn't send nude.

You were all about to shut down your account when this man named Thomas H. sent you a message. You weren't even sure why you click on the email from this man without a face. Here you were reading what he had to say.

Y/n,

My name is Thomas, but naturally, I go by Tom. I'm sure you might not even respond to this as there is no face to this profile. With my job and for my privacy would be one of many reasons why. But I thought I might give it a shot. And I have to say I'm quite mesmerized by your beauty. You are quite lovely, and I'm sure you get that a lot. But I genuinely mean it. I was a bit fascinated by your profile as I read it, might have had chucked at a few bits of it. I would like to know more about you.

Like what type of nerd are you? Marvel or DC?

Star Wars or Star Trek? And of course, I'll answer any questions you might have for me. As well I would not ask for any pictures of you clothed or nude as I would like to get to know you as I'm hoping you wouldn't mind getting to know me without the nudes as you put it. Ehehe.

I genuinely hope to hear from you. But understand if I don't.

Sincerely, Tom.

Ps, I do hope this quarantine hasn't made you gone completely bonkers.

Usually, you wouldn't have responded, but something about him told you not to pass this up. What was the worst that could happen that already hasn't happened on an online dating app? Well, there was always the fact he could be a serial killer.

Hello Tom,

You may have messaged me in time I was about to give up on this site and return to my habit. Marvel all the way. I would hope you would agree or we can't continue talking. Though, I can't deny that DC needs to just stop with Batman movies. The should have stopped before George Clooney. Though I will give Christian Bale props, he did a better job than Clooney.

As for Star Wars and Star Trek? That is a tough one, so I'm just going to say both are good. But let's face it. Captain Kirk is the better star fleet Captain. Sure Picard is excellent as well. But anyone after them just doesn't do it for me. Ha ha..

And it's all about Baby Yoda. If you are not a baby Yoda fan, you're just wrong. Yes, I'm one of "those" girls.

Coffee or Energy drinks? I would say I dabbled in both. Pancakes or waffles? Yes, there is a difference. I'm a waffle girl myself. Well, that is all I can think of right now.

Y/n.

You hit send before setting your phone down on the table next to you as you yawned. Maybe it was an early bedtime, not like you had anything better to do. You puddled around your usual routine before bed. A loud ding brought you back to your phone.

"That was quick." Recognizing the chim of the app all too well. Grebing your phone, forgetting your face cream as you were curious about what he had to say—settling into bed, getting comfortable before you opened your phone.

Y/n,

I'm delighted to hear from you. If I'm quite bold, and for starters, its tea for me. With two sugars and a splash of cream. As for waffles or pancakes, I'm French toast kind of man, duh. Lol. Though you can't beat a good old fashion English Breakfast and a side of Earl gray. Eheh.

I'm quite a fan of marvel though it is a rather vast universe. What movies/comics praytell do you prefer?

Sorry love to disappoint, but I'm going to say Doctor Who I am British. The tenth and the eleventh doctor. I do hope you've seen the show. I used to watch the reruns of the original with my father when I was a young wide eye lad. I am a fan of both Star Wars and Star Trek. And there is nothing wrong with liking a baby Yoda. He is exceedingly loveable.

It says your new to England, where are you from originally? How long have you've been here? Seen any of the sights England has to offer?

That's all for now.

Sincerely, Tom.

Emails went on for weeks talking back and forth first on the dating app than via text. You were the one to leap by giving him your number. After hitting send your phone vibrated with a text.

Unknown number: Hello love, this is Tom. I'm delighted to receive your text.

More weeks had passed. Still, you had yet to see his face though he did send you photos of random things during the day. You did the same as your toes sticking out from the bubble bath. Then you got a text of his toes sticking out from under the blankets. The two of you would watch a movie together. The quarantine was still in effect. Each of you would pick a film out every other weekend and sit back and watch it—text throughout the movie.

Y/n: Omg did she just run up the stairs like a dumb big boobed bimbo!!! She makes the rest of us look bad.

Tom: Eheh, you said it darling, not me. Though I think she might survive this.

Y/n: Wanna make a beat? I think she will die within the next few minutes.

Tom: Oh, it's on. Now, what do I get if I win?

Y/n: Whatever it is you want cause mister you are going to lose.

You both patiently wanted to see what happens next. The movie ended, and you waited in annoyance for Tom to respond to gloat about being right. And to see what he desired for his spoils of war.

Tom: Well, Love, it looks like I have won this round.

Y/n: It seems you have butthead. What is it that the winner wishes for?

Tom: Did you just call me a butthead? Eheh. Hmm, let's see. How about a Skype date? I figured it was about time to reveal myself.

Y/n: Tom, I just meet you. I'm not sure I'm ready to see your eggplant. Haha.

Tom: I probably should have rephrased that better. My face love, my face. Eheh. Tomorrow at 7 pm?

Nervous was an understatement. You had cleaned your whole flat even if you were going to stay on the couch, laptop resting on a large pillow setting on your coffee table. You sat playing with your hair, unsure if you wanted it up or down. A chim from your computer startled you from straightening out your dress you finally had settled on. Soon a well-tailored suited chest came on screen.

"Hold on, darling, trying to adjust this blood screen." The deep British, very attractive yet somehow familiar voice rang through the computer speakers. You only assumed it belongs to Tom.

You watched the man attempting to fiddle with the view, cursing ever so quietly. Making you giggle relaxing a little bit more. Your laughing came to an abrupt halt when Tom's face came into Focus. Your jaw dropped. And now the unmistakable "ehehe" came in to play as you stared at none other the most eligible bachelor in England none other than loki himself Tom Hiddleston.

"Darling, I think your drooling." Tom teased point to the side of his clean, shaved face. Tom fidgeted with his now raven-colored hair.

"Oh, I-I," You stammered out, trying to compose yourself.

"Didn't see this coming did you?" Tom smiled, wetting his lips with that blasted tongue of his.

"Well, no. I wasn't expecting Tom

Hiddleston."

"Is that a bad thing?" Tom spoke up.

"Oh, no, no. I would be an idiot to say it was. Hey, wait a minute. I've told you that, that, that. Shit." You muttered.

"That I was your hall pass if given a chance. Eheh. Well, it looks like you'll have had wasted your hall pass privileges. You only get one and can't use it on someone if you are already seeing them."

"You know, sir, you are still a butthead." You stuck out your tongue at the man.

"You do like calling me that. Why are you calling me a butthead this time?" Tom grinned.

Your time with Tom was extraordinary, the two of you talked throughout most of the night. He told you things you never knew about the actor every woman pined over. Here you were, the one woman out of a billion he seems to fancy.

"Well, love." Tom cooed as he watched you try not to nod off to sleep. "I should let you sleep."

"I'm sorry." You muttered sleepily.

"Do not apologize, my dear. I should be the one to apologize I've kept you up most of the night.” Tom smiled softly. He watched as you rub your eyes, a shy smile softly graced your lips. Making Tom’s heart flutter.

”Perhaps, my dear, would you like to meet for coffee at the cafe that opened back up?” Tom hummed in high hopes.

”Hmm, I don't know.” You smiled, trying hard to look like you were contemplating though you were going to say yes. To hell with this virus, it was Tom Hiddleston asking you to coffee.

”I mean, I'll wear a mask and stay six feet if needed.” Tom added quickly.

”No, no, there is no need for that. I don't mind unless you feel like it's needed.” You pipped up—Tom grind like a fool shaking his head no.

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston one shot #fluff #quarantine online

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firefliesintheskyline · 4 years

Text

(Me, prompting myself under the shower : What if we take the popular “person A is drunk and asks person B to be their partner, person B laughs and answers by saying they are married already (without saying they are actually married to person A) and person A pouts” and add “what person B doesn’t know is that person A sees them interact with person C and thinks they are the significant other”)

So, I guess… enjoy???

(Now on AO3 !)

INTOXICATED (Nicky x Joe + the Immortal Family)

Their last mission in France had been extremely successful, so Andy wasn't entirely surprised to find 2 cases of champagne in front of their safe house. She had to admit that, while at first she had been very reluctant to give Copley the address, taking the risk to share the information had paid off nicely more than once. He also really didn’t need to know that this was only one of the half dozen properties they had in Paris and its surroundings.

“Well, I guess we are in for a big celebration tonight!” Quynh was enthusiastically emptying the first box and passing the bottles over to Booker, while Nile and Joe were already heading to the kitchen to get some glasses.

“Don’t start moping, Nicky,” Andy gave him her signature half smile, “you don’t have to drink, if you don’t want to.”

Nicky looked almost offended by her suggestion.

“Just because I have a very low tolerance, it doesn’t mean I have to refrain from alcohol entirely, Andromache.”

She shrugged, completely unbothered.

“If you say so.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

From her spot on the sofa, Andy let out a self-satisfied smirk when she noticed that Nicky was curled up into the armchair, looking comfortable and completely gone.

“Hush, love,” Quynh pinched her very lightly on the arm, “stop making fun of him. After all, you where the one who instigated the drinking.”

Andy gave her a pointed look. “I merely told him that he didn’t have to, if he didn’t want to.”

“Because you knew exactly what his reaction would be,” Quynh retorted, looking back at Nicky with fondness in her eyes, “I still don’t get how he could be the fiercest warrior in the room and yet be totally unaware of the tricks you play on him.”

“I didn’t play any trick,” Andy shook her head, “and you know it. He knows it. Nicky has been too tense lately, and I need him to loosen up a little.” She got up, heading for the kitchen to refill her empty glass. “And you can call him the 'fiercest warrior in the room’ only once I’m gone from this world.”

Quynh laughed quietly and scooped closer to Nile, who was lazily trying to engage Booker into an art debate. The frenchman was mostly content to listen, while resisting the urge to drift off to sleep.

Joe, who was sitting right next to him, was about to pitch in as well, when suddenly Nicky decided to get up from the armchair and drop himself unceremoniously into his partner’s lap.

“Hi.”

The room went quiet for about half a minute, before Nile tactfully started talking again, soon followed by both Booker and Quynh. However, it didn’t stop them from taking turns to glance back at the couple every once in a while.

“Well, hi to you.” Joe wasn’t used to Nicky being openly affectionate in front of their family, and wasn’t sure if he should indulge in this. He didn’t want Nicky to feel mortified the next morning. Still, he put his hands very lightly on each side of Nicky’s waist. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Nicky tilted his head on the side a little, looking at him with lust. “Would you care to join me?”

Joe was a little flushed by the situation, but couldn’t help the soft smile that escaped his lips. “I have to say, your proposition sounds extremely appealing, but if you think you can get my pants off of me that easily…” he trailed off, winking.

Now it was Nicky’s turn to feel embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” He took a deep breath and lowered his voice. “You are very handsome. And I want you. Very much. And I think your body wants me too. So, if you accept to be my lover, I can bed you and make sweet love to you. Or rough love. Both. I think I would enjoy both very much.”

It took Joe a whole minute to register all the words that came out of Nicky’s mouth. His Nicky, who was always shy with words (but never with gestures), who took months to actually voice his love for Joe at the beginning of their shared journey, but was now apparently propositioning him in the middle of a room full of people.

The same Nicky who, in the meantime, was getting worried by the lack of response. “Please be assured that this wouldn’t be a one time occurrence, I wouldn’t dare deflower your body without promptly making an honest man out of you…"

At which point Joe couldn’t help it and burst into laughter. “Well, that is very noble of you,” he said, and then, just because he wanted to see how far he could push it, “but unfortunately I’m already united in wedlock.”

The color drained entirely from Nicky’s face, making it very clear that this was not the answer he was expecting. Joe immediately regretted his words, and was about to add more concerning the obvious piece of information that Nicky was missing, when he got distracted by Booker, who was laughing hard at one of Nile’s joke, squeezing Joe’s arm with both of his hands in the process and putting his forehead on his shoulder. “Did you hear it? Man, that was hilarious.”

Joe faintly registered that Nicky was moving from his lap and slopingly getting up, but didn’t want to be rude to the rest of his family. “I’m sorry, I was not listening, would you mind repeating it?”

While Booker was making himself more comfortable into his side, Joe vaguely noticed Nicky leaving the room, but decided to stay and listen to Nile before following him and explain the misunderstanding. Or at least that was the intention, spoiled completely by Nicky who came back in the room almost in a rush and vehemently slapped Booker with a glove.

For the second time of the night, the room went very, very quiet.

“I demand satisfaction!,” Nicky exclaimed in a loud voice, slurring only slightly and making sure that the attention of everyone was on him, “this man has been distracted in frivolous conversation for the entire night, and when I decided to make a move on his beloved, only then he reminded himself of his duty as a husband! But tonight, we will end this,” he said, his fierce eyes on Booker, “I challenge you to a duel.”

Nile was, surprisingly, the first one to break the silence. “Is this a regular thing?” she said, uncertain on how she should feel about the whole situation.

“No, it is not.” The mischievous light in Andy’s eyes was unmistakable. “Ladies, let’s go get the popcorns, we can’t miss this for anything in the world.”

“Boss, you can’t be serious,” Booker called after her, but was clearly ignored. He straightened himself up. “Nicky, come on, I’m n—“

“Not. Another. Word.” Nicky looked at him pointedly in the eyes, before dropping on one knee and taking Joe’s hands in his. “You have to forgive me, I have acted out of pride, without even asking in which direction your heart was pointing…"

“You. It was pointing at you. Tonight, tomorrow, always. I would always choose you,” Joe didn’t hesitate for a single moment, and was rewarded by Nicky’s beautiful smile.

“Well, let the challenge begin!” Nicky pointed at his sword and at Joe’s scimitar, set on the wall on a corner of the room. “We have the weapons, now we just need some… space.”

“I’m glad our backyard is huge,” Quynh took the blades and started walking outside, “chop chop guys, we don’t have all night! Some of us want to use the early morning hours for better activities.” She winked at Andy, while Nile was rolling her eyes, clearly over their not-so-subtle flirting.

They were followed by Nicky and Joe, while Booker was contemplating the idea of making a run for it and loose himself in the Parisian night. He shook the thought out of his head and joined the rest of them outside, aware of the fact that sometimes his family could be too goddamn much.

“It’s going to be a duel to first blood! Since, well, death wouldn’t stick anyway…” Quynh clapped her hands, excitedly, “good luck to the contenders!” she yelled, before going to sit next to Andy and starting to eat the popcorns with way too much enthusiasm.

Nicky was about to reach for the sword, but Joe pushed the scimitar in his hands instead. “A token of love,” he whispered tenderly, before giving Nicky a light kiss on the cheek.

Booker took the sword and sent a clearly exasperated look in their direction, but couldn’t help the little smile on his lips. He really did admire the lengths these two would go to keep their love alive, he just wished they didn’t need to involve the entire family on a regular basis.

Andy gave the signal, and soon enough they started to fight. In a normal situation, Nicky would have had the upper hand, but he was still heavily inebriated, and only his consummated skills as a warrior made it seem like he was doing perfectly fine. He shielded himself from a couple of blows and was about to strike, but he got distracted by Joe’s anxious stare and tight grip on Nile. That was all Booker needed to make a cut on his forearm.

Cheers erupted from both Quynh and Andy, who run to Booker and started clapping on his shoulders, while Joe rushed on Nicky’s side. “My love, are you alright? I should have not given you the scimitar, not after you had so much alcohol…”

Nicky put a hand on Joe's cheek, stroking him softly. “Don’t you worry for me, vita mia. The only thing that makes me sad is to be parted from you.”

“No one will ever part us, hayati. I belong by your side.”

“Even if I lost to him?” At Joe’s strong nod, Nicky pushed the issue further. “You would leave your husband for me?”

“In a heartbeat.”

Nicky looked triumphant, and pulled Joe in a fierce kiss, before taking his hand and walking back into the house, leaving the others behind.

“I say one week.”

Nile, who had been distracted by Nicky and Joe’s epic act of love, turned her head at the other three people left there, looking utterly confused.

“What are you guys talking about?”

They completely ignored her.

“Very optimistic of you, Booker. A month,” Andy smirked, looking entirely confident.

“Oh please, Andy! It’s wasn’t that bad,” Quynh was shaking her head, clearly unimpressed, “I’m not even sure it’s going to last more than 24 hours.”

Andy started laughing very loudly. “None of you has known Nicky for as long as I did. He has a serious problem with holding grudges.”

“Guys,” Nile tried again, “what are you betting on?”

Booker took pity on her. “How long before we’ll have to leave them alone in the house to avoid the noises of celebratory sex."

“I’m pretty sure they are doing... ‘that’ right as we speak?” Nile loved her new family, she really did, but she still wasn’t comfortable with the amount of intimate information that were often shared as an off-hand comment.

“Definitely not,” Andy was looking straight at her, “Joe would never take advantage of a drunk Nicky. Even if I honestly doubt Nicky would have any objection.”

Nile shrugged, “Well, then tomorrow morning.”

“That’s when Nicky is going to wake up and remember.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Joe was awakened by the morning sun, and he stirred lazily while keeping his eyes shut. He didn’t remember the last time he had been in such a good mood right at the beginning of the day. After the duel, he and Nicky had sat on the bed for a long time, making out like a couple of teenagers, until Nicky had wanted to push it a little further and Joe had gently stopped him, pressing him to lay down on the bed. They had lazily curled into each other and had been fast asleep only moments later.

But now they were both sober, and Joe was very well intentioned to take his sweet time and make love to the perfect, gorgeous man who was laying by his side.

Except Nicky was not by his side, and suddenly Joe realized that his arms were empty. He moved his hand up and down the other side of the bed, until his fingers brushed along other fingers. He tried to reach for them, but after a gentle squeeze, the other hand left his. He opened his eyes.

His Nicky was looking at him with something that looked like… disappointment.

“Nicolò, come back to bed.”

There was no answer. No reaction.

“Light of my eyes, moon of my life, can you tell me what is wrong?”

Nicky kept glaring at him, much to Joe’s dismay.

“Tell me again how you would leave your husband… in a heartbeat?” Nicky’s statement was followed by a heavy sigh, and a shake of the head. “I didn’t think you such a cruel man, Yusuf.”

Joe’s eyes widened, in alarm. “Nicky, I was talking about… him! Not you! And even by intending you as my husband, which was by the way absolutely not what was happening, I would have still left you… for you!” Joe knew he was making absolutely no sense, but he had just woken up. And he and mornings didn’t necessarily get along.

Nicky shook his head again, clearly dismissive. “I’m deeply hurt, my heart. Someone bats their eyes at you and suddenly you forget all about your husband.”

“You were batting your eyes at me, not just… someone!” Joe was slightly starting to panic. “I wouldn’t notice anyone else if they tried to bat their eyes at me!”

“If you say so.” Nicky got up from the bed, and only then Joe noticed that he was already dressed up. “I’m taking a walk with Nile. Let’s see if when I come back, you’re going to be here, or if you have just decided to run away and leave your husband in a heartbeat.”

Nicky exited the room without another word, content to just leave a loudly groaning Joe on the bed. He made it to the kitchen, where Andy was drinking her coffee.

“How long?”

“A month.”

“Never going to happen,” Nicky was fighting the urge to smile, “I am merely trying to make a point. My instincts are already screaming in protest."

Andy rolled her eyes.

“Fine. But at least wait more than a week, I don’t want to lose to /Booker/.”

“I said this morning,” Nile approached Nicky and touched him lightly on the arm, “and by the look of it, it feels like that’s what you want to go for.”

“My dear, dear Nile,” Nicky covered her hand with his own, “let’s go quickly buy you something with the money that our brothers and sisters are going to owe you.”

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(originally written for @percivlgraves birthday

(Notes:

1) this is my first fanfiction in almost seven years, hopefully it’s not too bad;

2) this is my first fanfiction in english E V E R, please don’t be too harsh, I swear I’ll try to improve!!)

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