#mark umbers | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilium-ilia · 1 month ago

Text

tongue on loving wound

simon “ghost” riley x fem!reader | omegaverse!au | alternate universe to In Limbo | alpha!ghost x omega!fem!reader | masterlist

Chapter Two: unravel me until i’m wrapped around your finger

tw: gore, blood, slight pseudo dub-con, is scent intox a thing?, scenting, nudity, light smut

Simon spits the blood out of his mouth before wiping the remainder off on his sleeve.

It lands in a bubbling glob next to Marco’s corpse, marring the floor with a faint pink before it’s overwhelmed by the flood of ichor pouring from his yawning throat. Pearl white teeth peek out from between parted lips, now stained rose, and Simon scoffs at the sight of his canines. Sharp. Whittled down enamel. They’re fake—the mark of an alpha without control.

Closing his eyes, Simon breathes in the scent of a fresh kill. Raw meat, thick in the air, wafting through his nose and plugging it full until his mind is spinning. Pheromones fade and are quickly replaced by decay. Wet foliage and fur caked with dirt beneath a shallow grave.

This is what victory smells like. This is success.

“O-Oh my god, y-you…”

Eyes like burnt umber lock onto you the moment your trembling words burrow through Simon’s brain. Sweet little omega with her back against the wall, knees pulled to her chest, and hands covering her mouth—you’re shaking with wide eyes focused on the scene behind him. Simon glances back at Marco’s body for a split moment to take in the gore and he mulls over how this must look to you. A senseless act of violence. Revenge in its most brutal form. You’ll realize that this is a gift in due time.

“I told ya I was gonna take care of all this, sweetheart,” he patiently reminds.

The moment he steps towards you, your attention snaps to him. Blood still coats his face, wetting his maw, dribbling down to his chest. You know humans used to kill one another like this back before nature was deemed unsightly. Sharp teeth are meant for protecting, for fighting, for piercing sweet scent glands on the tender sides of necks. Still, the sheer carnage before you stuns you into silence.

All Simon can think about is what a good omega you are looking up at him as you curl on the floor. It instills an aplomb that swells in his chest, heating his blood as it pumps throughout his body. You. Yes, you. It feels right. He can’t name why, he just feels the fact of it settle in his bones, a weight he doesn’t mind keeping around.

Kneeling before you, Simon’s hands reach for your throat and you only flinch a little bit when his fingers hook underneath your collar. Faux pink sears his retinas as he thumbs over the polymer. Real leather would be more secure, but this infantizes you. Belittles you.

Teeth gritting, he begins to yank it apart. Plastic and metal strains and creaks underneath the pressure, and you squeak just as the collar splits open, claps coming apart and clattering on the ground. Simon discards it to the side, and your hands are quick to rub your naked throat as you sigh in disbelief. Your skin is ripe and smooth with perspiration, but you can’t help but trace the ghost of your collar.

“Simon, I—thank you—this is—I can’t believe—oh!”

Without warning his nose is in the crook of your neck, crooked curve rubbing at your scent gland. His breath is soft and long as he inhales you. Your gland pulses against his nostrils, white hot blood throbbing beneath your skin, and he huffs. Palms flat on his chest, instinct tells you to freeze as he continues to nudge against you, hot breath fanning against your newly revealed skin.

There’s a pit that pulls just behind his navel when you tilt your head to the side; a snarling beast that compels his mouth to open. He nearly listens to it. That whining dog within him. Yet his nose catches the unsavory redolence of Marco, and how it still taints your skin, leaving you sordid and rotten, and he licks his teeth instead.

“Sweet little ‘mega… you still smell like him,” he mutters into your collarbone.

Blinking, your feet begin to scrape against the ground, body squirming beneath all of Simon’s attention. “I do?”

He nods, then covers your hand on his chest with his own as he leans back to look at you. “I’m gonna fix that.”

“You will?”

Lips still twitching, still yearning for something, Simon leans forward without warning, mouth planting against the center of your forehead. The taste of your skin is muted because of Marco’s blood, which now stains the crown of your head, but it’s enough to satiate the growling in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he assures as he rubs the blood off your face with his thumb. “Gonna take you home ‘n get ya all cleaned up.”

Before anyone can stumble upon the mess he’s made, Simon escorts you out of Tsar Trading and shuffles you into his car before speeding off through the city. Your body is airy in the passenger seat next to him. Limbs filled with helium, skull packed with balloons, everything zooms by in a blur. Hands drawn to your throat, you can’t help but hold your tender skin. How long has it been since you last felt yourself like this without a barrier?

Without Marco’s threatening teeth hovering over your neck?

The dull drum of your hangover worsens the moment Simon pulls into the garage, and reality crashes down around you with the sudden weight of a tidal wave. Marco. Your debt. His corpse heavy on the floor of a grimy pawn shop. A hunk of flesh in Simon’s mouth. The alluring sheen in his eyes as he spat out fresh ichor onto his latest meal.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

The door is open. Simon’s hand is waiting for you. Beckoning. Calling you home. You gently place your fingers against his palm and he brings you out of the garage and into the house. It’s darker than you expected it to be. Windows shrouded with thick curtains, all overhead lights snuffed out with only lamps and secondary lighting to illuminate the rooms—it’s warm. Comforting. A blanket of drowsiness swaddles you the very moment the door is locked behind you, pulling you beneath rocking waves and drowning out the vicious storm you’ve attempted to weather most of your life.

Simon leads you through the living room around his comfortable sectional and coffee table littered with motorcycle parts to bring you into his bedroom. His mattress is huge. Large enough to swallow both you and him for dinner and still have enough room for dessert. Much like the rest of his house it’s dark with plain walls and a strong aroma of tobacco and musk. You breathe in and your brain begins to spin; gyrating until you’re unsteady on your feet.

Algid air greets you in the master bathroom and it acts like water against your face, shocking you back into your body. Simon turns on the spout in the bathtub and runs his fingers beneath the flow, humming to himself as steam begins to waft and he yanks on the diverter until it’s spewing from the showerhead.

“Oh, that was kind of you. You didn’t have to run it for me,” you excuse, attempting to thank him for his kindness despite how gauche it feels on your tongue.

Straightening himself, Simon wipes his hand off on the front of his jeans before his attention is back on you. “Course I did.” Then, he motions at you, fingers flicking up. “C’mon. Clothes off, sweetheart.”

His order restarts your brain and you find your arms absentmindedly crossing around your midsection, guarding your stomach, the most tender part of your body. “What? Like, right here? In front of you?”

“Is that a problem?” he asks with a raised brow. When you stutter through your answer, he puts you out of your misery. Stalking closer, feet moving with purpose, he gently closes in on you, body waiting to smother yours. “I told ya I was gonna clean you up, didn’t I?”

You swallow. “Y-Yeah.”

The blood on his mouth has dried, but the scent is still just as strong. Intoxicating curor like red wine and honey mixed with brutal sweat. All discomfort within you dissipates when he looks at you—when he’s so close that you can smell him. Rewired brain, neurons learning new pathways, doors opening that you always thought were locked shut.

“You’re gonna let me clean you up then, yeah?” he prompts. His lips quirk into a pleased smirk when you nod. “Good omega.”

All shame leaves you the moment you begin to peel your clothes off. Shirt, pants, underwear—it all piles up on the floor next to your shoes until you’re standing nude in the mist, nipples perking in the cold. Simon pulls back the shower curtain and ushers you inside then shuts it before too much water can splash on the floor.

Mindlessly, you stand beneath the pelting drops of water and let it cascade down your body, ignorant to the quiet thudding that hits the floor next to you. The next time the shower curtain moves, Simon is naked. His pallid chest dully reflecting the light still isn’t enough to blind you as you watch him climb into the tub behind you. You inspect him within a single instant. The thick muscles that flex in his thighs, ink spreading along his arms in swirling designs, a fat keloid that digs into his shoulder—

—and of course, him.

You know what he’s supposed to look like. The videos and pictures from your health class ages ago were able to teach you that much at least. Still, it’s different seeing a cock in real life. Flaccid, it hangs lazy between his legs, foreskin stretching over the head and hiding it from view. Speckles of silver attempt to make their presence known from the underside of his shaft, leading all the way down to his puffy knot where it rests as a dormant shade of pale pink.

As he snaps the curtain shut behind him, you distract yourself with mindless swaying while your arms wrap around your torso. Hands behind your shoulders, fingers digging into the anxious muscles unguarded. Simon dips his hand beneath the stream then wipes at his face. Beads of rosy water roll down his abdomen, tracing along his sternum before eventually diving to the tub where it vanishes with the flood.

It isn’t long before his attention turns to you. Shower gel lathering in his bare hands, he guides you how he wants your body and scrubs you clean everywhere he can reach. The side of your neck, down the curve of your spine, between your legs—you giggle when he reaches your flank, nails scraping over your waist, tickling your ribs. He spends extra time on your wrists. Thumbing over the tiny scent gland that lies just over your pulse, he brings it up to his nose after each rinse where you can hear him breathe you in even over the roaring water clogging your ears.

“Do I—erm… do I smell okay now?” you question cautiously.

There’s a long stretch of silence full of Simon nuzzling your wrist before he finally answers. “You don’t smell like anythin’ at all.”

“Oh, yeah,” you say with a sheepish chuckle. “I guess that… makes sense.”

“Do you not have scent glands?” His question is blunt—near invasive. Far from a proper thing to ask, but his need to profile you is nettling too deep beneath his skin. The only person in the world he cannot smell, here before him, and haunting all his waking thoughts. Yet, you are not scandalized. Simon’s curiosity is not the first you’ve encountered.

“No, I have them,” you admit. “They just… don’t seem to want to do their jobs. At first they thought it was late puberty, then a hormone imbalance, then a genetic condition… Now they’re telling me I might just be a little broken with no fix.”

Simon’s eyes narrow at your explanation as if the very notion has him upset. “You’re not broken,” he insists.

Backtracking, you shake your head. “Oh, I know. I guess. I-I mean, it doesn’t bother me. Like, I’ve never had any of the urges everyone else gets. Nesting, or heats, or…” Your tongue is loose, flapping against your teeth before you’ve fully comprehended your words. You stare at Simon as if he’s tricked you—transfixed you—before swallowing down the rest of your explanation. “It’s for the best anyway, I mean, with all that stuff going on with Marco I wouldn’t have the time to deal with biology anyway so… s-so, thank you. For—erm—taking care of him.”

Simon is quiet for a long time. He holds your gaze and it burns, red hot coals shoved into the pits of your stomach, poking at your navel, urging you forward. Instead, you stay still as he pulls your wrist up to his mouth just as his tongue lulls out to lick your gland. It sends a spark through your nervous system. It sizzles along each neuron until something hums to life in the long forgotten slice of your brain and you’re left staring at him with wide eyes.

“Anythin’ for you, little ‘mega.”

When the water shuts off and you’re met with the bite of brisk air, Simon dries you off with one of the largest towels you’ve ever seen. It dances over your skin, down your back and in the crux of your arse. He doesn’t bother to grab himself a fresh one before he dries himself off, then lazily wraps it around his waist. Enervation tugs at your eyelids as you lean down, fingers reaching for your old clothes on the floor, but your movements cease the moment Simon’s hand is on the back of your neck, scruffing you like a mangy cat.

“Nuh uh,” he warns. You yelp as he pulls you back and you spin around to face him with a huff. “You’re not wearin’ those. They reek of Marco, and I just washed you up.”

As if wounded, you wrap your arms around yourself, skin puckering into gooseflesh as you shiver. “What am I supposed to wear, then?”

Instead of giving you any proper clothes to change into, Simon retrieves a spare quilt from the hallway closet, wrapping it tight around your shoulders before dressing himself. Half naked, you sit on the edge of his bed with glassy eyes and scenes swirling in your skull as you’re forced to confront the day's events.

Sharp teeth in tender throat. Fresh ichor spilling like pomegranate juice. The pretty corpse of a pretty man. A pink collar next to pallid fingers.

“Hey.” Simon stands before you, fingers pressing beneath your jaw, prompting you to look up at him instead of your lap. “I’m gonna get you new clothes. Gonna be okay by yourself for a bit?”

Your blink comes slow as you stare at him, nose flaring as his scent pierces through you like a bullet through ripe flesh. “Yeah. You can take the key to my flat, it should be in my pants.”

“No baby, I’m buyin’ you new ones.”

“What?” you breathe. “But I’ve got perfectly fine clothes at home!”

The look he gives you turns your tongue into stone as umber eyes darken into onyx. Lips squeezing tight, you stare at him, hips readjusting on the edge of the bed as you wait for him to speak.

“You’re not safe right now. Goin’ back to your flat is a bad idea while things are too hot, ‘n you’re safer ‘ere with me.” Pausing, Simon’s fingers wander away from your chin and down along your neck, ghosting over that sensitive nook that makes you quiver. “I asked you if you needed an alpha to take care of this for you ‘n you said yes, so you’re gonna be a good pet ‘n let me do this, yeah? Gonna let me take care of ya?”

All fight and urge to argue is siphoned from your marrow, forced into dormancy too deep for you to reach. Everything goes fuzzy as mirth seeps from your brainstem and into your blood. It pumps throughout your body. Everything tingles. You’re warm in his touch. Content. Happy.

“I’ll be good.”

Simon makes quick work of his trip. After gathering your old clothes and throwing them into the bin, he spends his time meticulously gathering everything he expects you to need. Trousers, panties, shirts and pyjamas—he forgoes getting you any sort of bra entirely, not even attempting to eyeball your size. He doesn’t intend on letting you leave the house, anyway. Not until things cool down.

He returns with his arms full of stacked bags that he haphazardly places on the kitchen counter before meandering back into the bedroom. Numbra cloaks the room, nearly obscuring his vision, but he’s still able to make out your form on the bed. As he stalks closer, feet silent on the floor, he notes you’ve slightly rearranged his bedding. Pillows strewn around your body, duvet bunched up in supporting places like you’re in the midst of a bowl.

Eyes closed tight with the quilt pulled just under your chin, you’re fast asleep. He can hear the air in your lungs and how it expels through your nose, soft against the sheets, eyelids fluttering in the midst of a dream. Something stirs within him. A primordial growl that doesn’t quite bubble up in his chest—a content beast purring.

He’s compelled forward, knees dipping into the mattress, movement gently jostling your form but not stirring you into consciousness. This feels right. His body next to yours, back pulled close to his chest, arm caging around you as he digs his nose into the back of your neck. You smell pure. A natural redolence like jasmine. With Marco’s scent expunged, he falls asleep within mere minutes.

A few hours later, he wakes to the feeling of your nose pressed to his flank.

His shirt is rolled up slightly, exposing the soft padding of his stomach during his slumber, but something sears through him. Your skin. Without the quilt to guard your body, you’re leaning against him without a barrier and he swears he can feel the quiver of your pulse. Your sniffs are soft and delicate, near pathetic little things—secretive and tense.

Breathing in, Simon’s legs go rigid as he stretches and you freeze the moment he moves, retracting back into yourself as if you can’t afford to be caught. It’s impossible to hold back the simper on his lips as he sits up, movements slow and careful so as to not spook you. Still, you pull the quilt up under your chin again as his body twists, hands planting on either side of your head. His pupils swallow his irises. Black holes ready to consume you.

“Why’d you stop?” he asks.

Your lips curl inward before you press them against the corner of the blanket. “Stop what?” Simon doesn’t expand on his question, but the rise of his brows gets you to spill. “S-Sorry, you just… smell really nice.”

“You’ve never been this close to an alpha before, have you?” he hums curiously. When your only response is to shake your head, his simper grows into a smirk. Before you know it, he’s lowering himself onto his elbows, body blanketing yours until his neck is presented to you. “Go ahead. You don’t even have’ta ask, baby.”

The speed at which you give in is laughable. Nose against the underside of his jaw, diaphragm forcing your lungs to suck in mouthfuls of him—you dive into him. Arms curling around his neck, you pull him closer and he relents. You nuzzle into him as if you’re trying to dig through his throat with your nose. The longer he lets you explore, the more brave you become with your movements—reeling him closer, tugging on his shirt, legs squirming beneath him.

Then, there’s the pinch.

Dull teeth nip at his collarbone, forcing Simon to pull back with a growl. Teary eyed, you stare up at him, apology already slipping from your mouth.

“I-I don’t know what came over me, I’m sorry,” you spew.

He doesn’t say anything in response—he simply allows silence to shroud the two of you as he reverses the dynamic. His own crooked nose knocks against the side of your neck and you keen so prettily his hips roll forward instinctively as his lips hover over your scent gland. There are times in the past when he’s messed around with omegas like this before, toying with their most vulnerable parts just to feel them melt, but there’s something that’s weaving through his brain that muddles his thoughts.

Jasmine. Ichor on flowers. Fur warmed by the sun.

It lulls his teeth out from between his lips. They’re dry. Thirsty. Screaming for something to wet them, to put them out of their misery. Simon nearly gives in. Tender flesh on full display for him, quivering pulse within his grasp—he pauses. The scent flees just as quickly as it appeared.

Humming, his lips quietly press against your scent gland and—for now—he ignores the tickle in the back of his brain that demands more.

Weeks pass like this. You laze around on any surface you deem soft enough as you flip through the dusty books that lie on forgotten shelves throughout Simon’s home or solve sudoku puzzles in the paper. He tells you this is to keep you safe—just until Marco’s corpse has fully rotted—but by the time the weather warms into spring you’ve already carved your own spot into this house.

Curled up into his side on the couch, nose suctioning to his side, digging into his ribs, wandering up to the pit, nesting in his bed, snoozing whenever you please, smiling more and apologizing less—you’re not sure you want to leave anymore. It’s safe here in the secluded den Simon has built. You tread past windows without the worry of camera flashes burning your sight, you don’t flinch when he touches you—and his smell.

It sows something inside of you. An infinitesimal seed that’s burrowed deep into your gut and has germinated for so long it’s ready to bear fruit. Delicious, ripe with juice and skin so full it shears with the faintest pressure of teeth. The roots burrow so deep that they affect not only you, but Simon, too. He feels it churn through his offals, spearing through all things unnecessary; intestines, liver, spleen.

The feeling haunts him worse when he’s not at home. Far in the depths of Terminus’s maw where a sickening concoction of scents assaults his nose. Even here in the VIP room it’s overstimulating. Sour musk, faux pheromones, greed and bitter lust; it all coalesces until his eyes are watering at the stench. There’s a twitch in his fingers that beg for a cigarette, but he bites the sensation back as the sillage of rosewater pierces through the wall of odor around him.

“There he is. My husband’s favorite delinquent,” Aelin chirps. Simon’s growling chuckle sounds like blended metal when compared with the soft music playing in the room. Aelin grins as she leans against the wall next to him, heels tapping against the lacquered floor. “I do hope he’s taking things easier on you now after that whole mess.”

Mess. He nearly scoffs.

“Marco was a sod. It was a pleasure to get rid of ‘im,” he hums.

“Even without permission?” she questions, inflection curling around each word.

His reply dances on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back. Of course it was worth it. He’d do it a million times over. Without permission, by himself, with a crowd, with his bare hands—the trouble he caused was worth it. Snuffing out the filth. Freeing you from your bonds. The sweet omega sleeping in his bed is just a secondary treat.

“Chip didn’t come with you tonight?” Aelin reroutes when he doesn’t reply.

He shakes his head. “Said she wasn’t feelin’ well.”

“Ah.” An elbow brushes against his side; playful. “She seems to be staying with you an awful lot these days. Hardly even answers the phone when I text. Care to explain how that came about?”

Truth is, he doesn’t. He thinks about your debt, and the secrets you’ve whispered to him about it, and he knows you couldn’t handle bearing your sins to Aelin. Not now, at least. Instead, Simon sighs as he rests the back of his head against the wall, looking at the crowd over the angled curve of his nose.

“She likes the way I smell.”

At that, Aelin smirks.

The rest of the night moves at a snail's pace. Musk is tainted with liquor and hoppy beer, burning his nostrils until they feel void of hair. Simon remains at the edge of the crowd, eyes narrowing at each face that passes him by while something writhes beneath his skin. He thinks of you. Your skin on his. Nose on his neck. Gland in his mouth. It’s as if he has hives on his skin, they itch and burn, setting him ablaze, making him wish he could take his claws and rake it over himself until it stops.

On the ride home he lights a cigarette to cleanse his palette of the filth he’s had to endure through the night. It swirls on his tongue and when he exhales he pushes it through his nose until the only thing he can note is tobacco and the buzz of nicotine. His dash reads 01:33 by the time he pulls into the garage and he’s groaning as he enters through the door, achy feet finally nettling too deep.

The moment he steps foot into the living room, Simon knows something’s wrong.

Thin fabric and glistening springs greet him as he stares at his barren sofa. Each cushion has been stolen away, leaving behind not so much as a throw pillow in its wake. Hackles raised, he carefully steps around the couch, eyeing it warily, as he enters the kitchen. The light is still on—you always keep it this way when you know he’ll be home late—but the island is a mess. Seven half empty water glasses are strewn about the countertop with no method to the madness, and he nearly slips right on his arse as he splashes through a puddle just by the sink.

A piercing dither strikes his chest when he calls your name and he gets no response, sending him spiraling through the house until he’s bursting through the bedroom door. When he flicks the light on he freezes.

You’ve nested—properly. Damn near burrowed. A true hibernaculum. Sofa cushions line the wall and are held together by tucked sheets, and you’ve seem to have raided his spare blankets from the closet. His hamper is overturned, and he sees various articles of his clothing poking out from the medley of fabrics that you’ve buried yourself in. Even from the doorway he can hear your whimpering. Pathetic pules. The squeaking of a mouse or cries of a kitten.

Simon opens his mouth to grab your attention, but just as he does something hits him—a wall of thick air, something hardly permeable, yet strong enough to nearly bring him to his knees. He clasps a hand over his mouth as he stumbles toward you, but it’s not enough to smother the scent.

Your scent.

Jasmine and blood, fresh red oozing out of weeping meat, warm honey dripping onto a waiting tongue, the brine of needy tears spilling from a desperate cunt—

Your eyes flutter open as Simon seats himself next to your nest and the moment your gaze locks onto him, he knows he’s doomed. The sudden onset of your scent leaves his brain devolving until a demanding mantra plays on repeat—take. Take you. Take everything, all your pain and strife, and give, give, give.

“Simon?”

The crack in your voice sends his heart quivering as he leans forward, hands cupping your face. You’re febrile. It seeps through his skin and into his bones demanding that he purges it. “I’m right here, baby.”

“S-Something’s wrong like- like, I feel really weird,” you whine. You reach up to wipe the sweat from your brow only for it to be instantaneously replaced by more perspiration and he has to fight back the urge to lick your fingers clean. “Everything’s so warm and I just- I can’t think straight… I-I’m sorry about your clothes, you just- it’s the only thing that seems to c-calm me and-and oh… Simon you… you smell so nice.”

Each word you speak has his heart thudding in his chest, violent and raging like a storm. Your eyes are so heavy you can hardly keep them open, just peering up at him through heavy lids as you deliquesce in his grasp. He’s leaning forward, lips parting, tongue wishing to taste the delicate scent that teases his nose.

“Did somethin’ happen?” Even his own voice sounds as if he’s under water—too far beneath your current to be saved.

“N-No it just- I felt odd this morning but it just- it came out of nowhere sometime after you left.” You stutter as he breathes in against your scent gland. “Am I sick?”

“You have a scent now,” he admits as the world seems to sway around him. It’s potent. So strong yet pleasant, smothering him in a way he wouldn’t mind asphyxiating.

“I do?”

He hums in confirmation as he begins to traverse down your body. You’re wearing nothing but a dress shirt and a pair of panties, leaving your bare legs to spread wide for him as he slots himself between them. You listen to his touch, chest rising against his face as he trails down to your stomach. Then, he’s pushing at your thighs, giving himself enough room to shove his face against your clothed sex.

Instead of exclaiming, you moan, hips rolling up as he inhales. There’s an intoxicating aroma that overwhelms him, sending all his blood straight to his cock where it aches against his jeans. You watch his eyes squeeze shut before he’s weaning himself off of you, and when he looks up at you, his eyes are warmer. There’s a new fire lit behind them and the sparks are jutting out to meet you—to know you, your skin, the softest parts of you, everything that makes you tick.

“Poor little ‘mega,” he coos as he sits back on his haunches. “Can’t even tell when she’s in heat.”

“What?” Everything you know crumbles around you as Simon’s words attempt to untangle themselves in your mind. “But I- no- I’ve never been in- they said I couldn’t!”

“Might’ve been from the stress,” Simon offers, though it’s hard to think rationally when your scent muddles his thoughts. He attempts to recall any other omega who’s scent had this effect on him, yet nothing comes to mind. Something jovial purs in his chest at that revelation; that you’re special—his. “Owing Marco, workin’ yourself half to death the way you did, might’ve thrown your body into survival mode. Prioritized other functions besides scent and hormones.”

There are tears in your eyes now. Frustration and fear clash head on in your chest, and you’re pawing at your eyes to will them away. “Fuck. No, no, I can’t—this cant—no!”

Simon melts over you, elbows crashing into the mattress as he covers your body with his, sticking close to you despite the heat. “Shh, it’s okay baby.”

“I dunno what to do! I’ve never… I can’t think, I just, it’s like there’s a hole inside of me, and it burns, and I just need it—I dunno what I need! I’m so-”

“Shh,” he coos again. He knocks your hands away from your face with his jaw before he’s presenting the side of his neck to you. Your sniffling slowly fades until you’re breathing deep, nose against his throat, drowning in his scent. “Poor thing. Need me to take care of you, yeah? Need your alpha to help you through your heat?”

You hum, lips reaching up to grace against his Adam’s apple. “You smell… that’s not too much trouble? Helping me? Simon you—my alpha?—you smell so nice…”

The keen in your tone has his fingers curling into your nest while the straining in his pants gets worse. He’s throbbing with want. It rattles inside of him so fiercely he fears you might hear the growling in his stomach.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

“No baby, it’s no trouble,” he assures. “Do you trust me?”

You’re beginning to calm now, muscles no longer tense on the bed, yet still burning just as hot as you were before. But it’s better now. It’ll be enough—until it isn’t.

But he’ll be right here to take care of his omega through it all.

“I trust you,” you eventually sigh.

“Good. Now lay back and let me take care of my mate.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #tolw #in limbo #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod omegaverse

723 notes · View notes

dmitriene · 21 days ago

Text

simon ghost riley knows every nook and cranny of your body better than you could've, despite being born in this shell of thin, sensitive skin, his hands long memorized where to press, pull and carve with stinging, dull nails, how to wrap around his very calloused finger and twist in till you sing with your back rippling in a broken, tethering bowstring line, the blinding lights of black and white playing in front of your fading vision, lips parted open to call him.

a man that shies off any tender touch that comes upon him, has you at his hands none but pliable and always willing, has control over his touch, knows when to squeeze until dents appear in your flesh, and when to soften and smooth his palm down in a stroke, simon knows you better than his favorite gun, better than the strategy for his next mission, keeps a place dedicated for you in the corner of his mind that seems only to grow, or was it that big from the very start.

you feel it, flowing through to stay low inside your warm, full belly, when his chapped, nicked lips linger on some little spots of your skin, a mole here, a birthmark there, a scar, a stretch mark, tender and reverent in the way each kiss travels over your very being, as if worshipping some small, unimportant part of you, small, silly, a part of you that had gone long forgotten, or hated, but loved by his questing mouth, his bleeding heart.

the smell of him, roughened, masculine with smoke, gunpowder, bitter cologne, is what makes your head swim any lingering, hiding thoughts growing hazy and dissipating, the weight of him, heavy with firm muscle and all his bulk, pinning you down, displayed, sprawled for his hungry, sharp fanged mouth, finding the line of your collarbone, making you bare your throat for him, the lip press against your racing pulse, turning you drunk on the sensation, any courage deserting you in the face of the intensity of simon's attention.

simon is the one, to make your kiss swollen lips part in a shuddering, begging keens, to make your teeth's sink sharp and drawing in the pillow of your lower lip, but the sounds won't be silenced for long, spilling raw and honey dripping down his ears as he greedily drinks in every sound, the paint of you, beautifully, willingly exposed to his heavy, coppered umber eyes, each wordless convulsion that wracks your body, pressed flush against his, with sopping slick pooling out from where you're wet, sensitive flesh splits open and stretches to take in every swollen inch he's providing.

he pulls you apart and back together with precised knowledge, fucks in the tight, gooey clutches of your rippling cunt with greed, pulling you on the pulsing length of his fat, curved cock, rough, downward movements to the wiry base of him that makes you gasp, choke on the heavy weight that presses on your stomach, each thrust punctuated by the loud, sharp snap of muscular, ivory scarred hipbones on slowly bruising, burning hot skin.

main masterlist. quidelines.

879 notes · View notes

jjackdawed · 10 months ago

Text

The Jade Winglet

you are welcome to use my designs as long as you credit me :)

design notes:

Moon is a dark almost greenish black color, and has a silver almost diamond shape on her nose and chest. Hatching under two full moons, she has a teardrop on the back corners of her eyes as a mark of her mind reading abilities, and a smaller front teardrop as a mark of a seer. She is remarkably large for her age, a trait she got from her father, but is still one of the smaller members of her winglet.

Not much about Winter's design. He is stocky, has clusters of darker scales on his face, a darker nose, and is remarkably shiny even by IceWing standards. He continues to wear the earring from Qibli, claiming he doesn't trust Darkstalker's magic to be entirely gone without it, when in reality he secretly likes the connection to Qibli and his winglet.

Peril is very large for a SkyWing, and is the tallest of the winglet. Shes very muscular and her scales are abnormally bright and shiny in comparison to the other tribes. She is almost iredescent in the sun and practically glows. She has VERY large, unblinking eyes that are a startling shade of blue (an eye color already uncommon in the Sky Kingdom) and is known for intensely staring people down without meaning to do so. Despite being firescales she is covered in small scars from brief nicks in battle before her opponents perished.

Turtle is very short and stocky in build, and is the shortest of the winglet as he carries himself very low to the ground. Hes very freckled and alongside the golden armband he wears gold stud earrings. His horns are twisted and almost silvery, a trait he shares with every animus dragon. He bares a striking resemblance to his ancestor Fathom, however he is shorter and stockier than he was.

Qibli is lanky and awkward in appearance, with long legs and a thin, gangly body. He is unkempt in appearence, with crooked teeth and freckles and scars covering his body from his rough up bringing in The Scorpion Den (the scar from Cobra being the two slashes on the front of his nose) and is surprisingly tall, taller even than Winter, but because of their differences in posture (Winter's being perfect to a T and making himself appear much larger than he is and Qibli's being nonexistent) he appears much smaller than he really is. Like all SandWing’s, he has a darker patch under his eyes to help with seeing in intense sunlight.

Umber looks very similar to Clay in appearance, with hazel eyes and warm scales. Unlike Clay, Umber is significantly smaller and thinner in frame and is covered in large freckles. He has a lighter patch on his chest, his ears are long and hang down, he has a long scar on his snout and neck, and his right horn has a blunted tip from the battles he fought in the war.

Like Umber Carnelian shares many scars from the battles she fought in the war, most notably being the chunk missing from her left ear and the several long slashes across her face. I like to think that had Carnelian lived longer and Umber remained in the winglet the two of them would’ve become close friends, and eventually Carnelian would’ve become protective of the other dragonets in her winglet.

I struggled getting Kinkajou’s colors right; i wanted to make her bright and include her iconic pink/yellow scales, but i wanted to make her less neon and have more believable tones down hues. I also wanted to include some orange and reds to show her more fiery side.

862 notes · View notes

sirbogarde · 9 months ago

Text

Mark Umbers in Hotel Portofino

Pic from this article :

#hes sooooo #mark umbers #hotel portofino #merrily we roll along

3 notes · View notes

apocalypse-shuffle · 23 days ago

Text

JASON TODD | RED HOOD (generalized canon)

—

“Marks” (Jason Todd x Fem!Reader)

| After you and Jason’s first time together you have some suggestions.

| NSFW, 18+, minors dni, post sex happenings, hickies, bite marks, descriptions of naked bodies - vigilante!reader & curvy!reader

| Goddamn I love this man so fucking much. Also, the reader-insert has waist beads because the imagery came to me and it was too good to pass up.

| The pictures used are just for aesthetics and have no contextual meaning to the story (Pic source: Gotham Knights video game)

| 1k+ words

A yawn cracks your already sore jaw and you let yourself relax, basking in the heat of laying with Jason. Being wrapped in his embrace with your head on his scarred chest was by far the calmest portion of y’all’s night, but definitely no less amazing.

Maybe ten minutes later you sigh before forcing yourself from his bed. The vigilante complicates your plans though, with the way his arms are locked around you.

You scowl down at him from your position halfway sat up. He’s done nothing but slip down your body, head resting closer to his arms on your stomach and the practical muscle that sat beneath.

“Ni— Boy, get off me,” you say, voice light with your mirth as you push halfheartedly at his arms.

Jason cracks one eye open with his cheek squished into your body, forehead pressing lightly into your beads.

“Nah,” his breath puffs warm on your umber skin, “I’m comfortable here.”

His deep voice peters off into a satisfied grumble towards the end and you choke on a laugh. Your stomach shakes and your core aches with the remnants of the workout he just put you through.

“Come on, where could you possibly need to go?” He murmurs the question into your skin, presses quirked lips to you to kiss your soft belly.

You huff out an amused noise, ignoring the way your stomach flutters, and run your hand through his hair. Jason sighs into the touch, melting under your fingers. It’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen; you fist your hand and pull against those loose curls anyway.

You feel a little bad at the utterly miffed look he throws you and give him an apologetic smile.

“I have something to do Jason.”

“What cou—”

There’s a visible second where you watch as Jason pauses, catching himself. He pulls away and sits up till his back’s against the headboard like you just caught on fire. His hair is a mess of wild curls and he’s covered in a sheen of sweat with red kiss bitten lips, by all means the image of post orgasmic bliss. Or he would be if it wasn’t for the way his eyes have hardened and those ruddy lips have twisted into a scowl.

“I mean,” he gives you a one shouldered shrug, “if you want to leave I’m not gonna stop you.”

Your brows go up some and you slip off the bed to stand, crossing your arms in the dim light of the room from the one lamp still on.

“What?”

“You wanna go then go,” he grunts. You don’t think he means for it to sound so thin.

‘Oh,’ you mouth with a nod of your head. “Jay, who said I was leaving, period?”

“You just did.”

His face pinches while he waves a hand to indicate you and you're honestly a bit thrown. Somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that his aloofness on the field could be played up, but the reality is staring you right in the face. You sigh, arms dropping and then crawl back onto the bed.

The faint, tender redness around his eyes after you’d driven him to release made more sense now.

Jason stiffens, your dewy skin sliding up against the pallor of his inner thighs catching exactly how tense and hard his muscles get, but you push past that to peck his cheek.

His glare stutters just a little bit.

You speak slowly now that he’s willing to look at you again.

“I am going to take a piss, Jay. That’s literally it.” You nod to the singular window in the room. “Unless you bodily throw my ass out that window I’m staying until I have to go to work, okay?”

After a beat he nods, watches you hard, assesses. You stamp down your own urge to tense, making sure to stare back calmly instead. Jason’s not going to attack you out of nowhere.

It’s incredibly unlikely at least.

And he doesn’t. Only taking a few seconds in the night’s stillness to search your face then roving around to check the rest of you. You make sure to keep yourself relaxed; which isn’t a hardship since he’s not even alarming you. Hell, you just asked him to make you scream and he obliged with open enthusiasm, it’d be weird if he did.

Satisfied Jason eventually pushes further away from the headboard with another nod. To anyone else, anyone not in y’all’s line of work, his inspection might have seemed inappropriate, even threatening, but you know what he was looking for. You weren’t good enough to hide the lines of deception in your body language from him and he knew it.

Not, especially, when you were stark naked at his hand.

You hum, “We good now?”

“Peachy,” he says and you let some of your pleasure at that show on your face. Hard won progress was often the best progress after all.

He licks his lips then, a slow smile spreading across them in response. There’s a flash of teeth as he grins.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Your lips quirk and you duck your head to hide the evidence threatening to bloom on your face.

“Yeah, you can see me again tomorrow,” you nod. Another thought comes to you in the next second and a grin splits across your face, your dark eyes lighting up. “Maybe I’ll even kick your ass for a second night in a row and everything.”

“You ambushed me,” Jason points out, eyes narrowing playfully.

When you lean into him more he easily welcomes your weight. With your lids low over your eyes and your lips brushing his, you meet his blue, ever calculating gaze.

“And you were impressed,” you murmur over his mouth.

When you quirk a brow, daring him to argue, Jason only chuckles and pulls you into a quick kiss. Or at least it’s supposed to be quick. Jason’s lips are soft, if you run your tongue along his bottom lip you can feel the permanent devit there from taking one hit to the face too many, his body’s warm and his hands on you are hungry. It’s tempting to go another round, it really is, but you’ve got to deal with this or it’ll be nagging at the edges of your mind the whole night.

You pull away.

“Bathroom,” you say pointedly.

Jason lets you go after one more peck on the lips, reclining so he can watch the way your ass moves as you make your way there. You add a little bounce to your step just for him.

So preoccupied with the near miss in the bedroom and how giddy Jason in general makes you feel — his eyes on you, his hands squeezing you, his voice in your ear and that gruff Bowery accent, the fact that you’d be seeing him again — you forget to do anything other than close the door to his attached bathroom before you sit on the toilet.

That oversight is pointed out instantaneously.

Your pussy queefs. There’s a beat of silence where your head snaps up and you stare in front of you wide eyed and then low raucous laughter flutters in from outside.

It barely lasts ten seconds but for the life of you you can’t stop the way your head drops into your hands and how your face heats up.

“That mean I do my job right, Gorgeous?”

Against your better judgment your own laugh bubbles past your lips.

“Oh my god,” you mumble into your palm.

You make sure you finish up there thoroughly though, because yeast infections were no laughing matter, before getting up to wash your hands.

You’re opening the door to leave when something catches your attention.

The telltale bruising of a hickey stamped onto the side of your neck. And another one a centimeter below the first. Then a trail of two more; one on the curve of your right breast and on the skin covering your sternum. Shifting a little more brings to attention a bite mark against the pouch of your stomach next. Your brows raise.

“Hmph,” you hum in mild surprise before aborting your leave to lean closer to the mirror.

About four hickeys in total. Four bruises that he managed to suck into your skin hard enough that they were fairly prominent against your brown tone. Deep in color and just a tad tender to the touch.

There’s only one bite mark though. Supple around the edges, but only a little tender to the touch. It’s clear upon closer inspection that he’d revisited the spot though, the imprint of his teeth vaguely overlapping a few times.

You snort.

“You okay?” Jason asks and your eyes immediately slide to the doorway because he sounded much too clear.

Sure enough in your exploration Jason hadn’t even bothered to slip on his boxers and traveled closer without your notice and was now doing the worst imitation of someone who couldn’t care either way what answer you gave him. Aloof your ass, you’d stalled for nary a minute and he was already by your side with a downturned quirk of his lips.

It was amazing how cute he was for being a man that the descriptor wouldn’t normally be prescribed to, who you’d monitored through coms cracking a man’s shoulder blade in one strike. It was especially difficult to ascribe the word cute to him when he was drawing closer. You’re both naked — because what are clothes when you’ve been inside of and have had someone inside of you? — but your jaw still goes slack at all not-insignificant pounds of your bed partner sidling up to you. Jason’s all thick thighs and torso, corded muscle covered by a layer of fat that’s only noticeable cause he’s not flexing; he was, in short, a sight.

You swallow.

He is a very nice to look at man, and you knew that before you got involved with him, but there was something even better about being able to see him like this; naked and not afraid of it. For your eyes only. Scars and all.

“Uh huh,” you draw out in a sigh that’s far too dreamy before clearing your throat and allowing a tiny coy smile to take over your lips. “Somebody got a little…excited.”

You shove your thumb at the mirror and give him a pointed look. He falters, brows furrowing, but braces a hand on the frame and leans enough into the bathroom that he can watch you in the reflection.

He stays momentarily transfixed. Catalogs each bruise, eyes greedily wandering over the dark newly adorned expanse of your neck and chest and stomach. A smirk plays on his lips.

“God, you look so fucking good like that,” he murmurs.

He snaps out of it when he absentmindedly makes eye contact and sends you an apologetic look.

“Shit, I mean, sorry. I should be more careful next time, huh? That’s my bad.”

“Nah,” you shake your head. “I like the marks, Jay. Some more would’ve been even better, actually….”

His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck prior to him giving you a lopsided grin. “Well gee,” he jokes, “I’ll have to keep that in mind then. I just didn’t want to scare you off our first time.”

You nod, “So considerate, Jay. I’m only telling you for — you know? — next time.”

“Mm,” any leftover sheepishness slips from his face, replaced by that easy smirk again as he enters the bathroom. “What I'm hearing is that you're already desperate to have my cock back inside of you. Is that it, Gorgeous?”

You tamp down the wanton sound that immediately climbs up your throat. Although by the way Jason’s looking at you your attempts at lessening its volume by biting your lip have failed.

He chuckles, eyes lighting up, and grabs hold of your waist beads to pull you towards him. You go with a surprised ‘oof’ as he manhandles you. Once you’re up against his chest he wraps his arms around your middle and shifts to kiss at the side of your neck. Right over a particularly prominent bruise.

You laugh as he noses along the brown of your skin, following the short trail of marks he left. Large hands run down your plush thighs before squeezing and pulling your bodies flush together. You moan softly, head thrown back, as your ass meets his hardening cock.

“Oh fuck…”

“Yeah,” Jason nips at your neck, thrusting into you with a groan, breath leaving goosebumps along your flesh. “Don’t worry, Gorgeous, I’ll be way more thorough this round.”

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!!🫶🏾

Finally posting my back up fic; this one’s a cutie. Just a cozy, sexy little gal.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

294 notes · View notes

jezebelblues · 8 months ago

Text

forsaken | h.s

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

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

world count: approx 17.2k

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

masterlist

Florence, 1583

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dearest Anne,

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

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

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

Your womb is a gift from the angels above.

Until then,

– Desmond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Desmond, for abandoning his family.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But still, he would paint.

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

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

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

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

But she refused to be molded by their expectations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And try as they might, neither could outrun it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. She wouldn’t accept this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet she stood at his door anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#harry styles #harry edward styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles concept #harry styles x reader #harry styles au #harry styles prince #harry styles royal #harry styles fan #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #harry styles fluff

425 notes · View notes

cherienymphe · 2 years ago

Text

Bite Marks & Bruises (Roman Godfrey x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, stalking, period sex + consumption, blood, compulsion

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies

summary: Roman Godfrey is spoiled and arrogant and rude...and he gets whatever he wants.

Your life was over the first moment you stepped into The Godfrey Mansion.

The dark, gothic, and imposing structure was a staple in Hemlock Grove for as long as you could remember, countless stories being passed around at sleepovers about all manner of horrors and mysteries that probably took place in the home. Tales of shadowy figures and howling wolves and low moaning wails like whispers on the wind. None of it was true, of course, lies made up by overimaginative girls with too much time on their hands, driven to pass around falsities out of an unquenched desire to see what the infamous house was really like.

As you got older, such stories became silly to you, aware that it was just a home like any other owned by some rich woman like any other. All of its intrigue lay in its exclusivity, its secretiveness, and with maturity came the lessening desire to see inside some fancy old home. Even as you walked the halls with its inhabitants—Shelley and Roman Godfrey—the Godfrey mansion was just something you thought about less and less.

Until about six months after you graduated.

…and Olivia Godfrey was offering you substantial compensation to tutor her daughter.

It wasn’t an answer that required a lot of thought on your end. After all, you would be relaxing in a beautiful mansion and helping some seventeen-year-old with her homework while getting paid for it. With no desire—and no money—to jet off to college anytime soon, it seemed like an obvious choice. Those silly stories that you and your friends would tell each other under the cover of darkness behind closed bedroom doors were the farthest thing from your mind.

It was cold the first day you walked to The Godfrey Mansion.

It was the middle of November in Pennsylvania—air biting, leaves crunchy, and breeze gentle. Olivia Godfrey greeted you with a smile, her dark hair looking like midnight against her fair skin. The mother of two didn’t look a day over thirty, and you remembered staring at her, feeling so hypnotized by her beauty and wondering how she was old enough to have two children of graduating age. Her thin statuesque frame swayed gently with her every step, hands gingerly flailing about as she gave you the grand tour.

“All of her tutoring will take place up in her room,” she told you, tone rich and poised. “Shelley is so very particular about her space…and I’m trusting you.”

That last comment was said slowly, and she turned to face you as she said it, hands clasped together as her umber eyes connected with yours. Silence followed, and you didn’t need to be a genius to know what she was getting at. You recalled how the kids at school would treat Shelley, how they would simultaneously fear and torment her. Her daughter was protective of her space, she was protective of her daughter, and she was allowing you access to both.

“I understand,” you eventually forced out, nodding.

It was quick, but her cold visage transformed almost instantly, that ever-polite smile on her pink lips. In no time, Olivia Godfrey had turned back around and was continuing to lead you through the mansion. She droned on about the different rooms, making a point to comment on your chances of getting lost should you need to use the bathroom or something.

“Shelley must get all of her rest as growing teens do, so you won’t be staying all hours of the night, but you will be welcome to join us for dinner should you ever choose to.”

You didn’t know if you’d ever take her up on the offer, but you welcomed the polite invite, nonetheless.

You’d been tutoring Shelley for four days when you finally came face to face with him. Roman Godfrey—tall and spoiled and possessing the kind of face every girl you knew would gush over. You’d been in the same graduating class, but you were sure that you’d never talked to Roman once, not until you were in his house and eating his food, at least. You recalled walking to and from school most days, your gaze catching sight of that bright red convertible.

Since graduating, you didn’t see it as much.

After reuniting in his dining room…you saw it all the time.

“Sweetheart, you remember Y/N, don’t you?” Olivia’s articulate speech filled the air as soon as her son stepped through the threshold. “I believe she graduated with you last year.”

She continued after looking to you for confirmation, smiling at her son when you nodded.

“She’s been tutoring Shelley, and she finally took me up on my offer to join us for dinner.”

The dark-haired teenager didn’t say a word at first, slowly making his way to the table. You had never known Roman to look…bad, always dressed immaculate even while wearing the simplest of things. Shelley—a much more outgoing individual than you’d initially believed—had smiled at her brother with his approach. Their mother had started up an entirely different conversation, one you tried to be involved in, but you felt trapped by Roman’s gaze instead.

If you thought Olivia Godfrey was hypnotizing and entrancing in every way, then Roman Godfrey was absolutely paralyzing.

It was hard to look away from him, trying everything in your power to but failing every time. His dark hair was neat and pushed away from his face, perfect and put together even within the privacy of his home. His green eyes didn’t look so green, and you wondered if it was the lighting in the dining room…or something else entirely. When he finally made himself comfortable next to Shelley and diagonal from you, only then did you find the strength to lower your gaze to your food.

Dinner was a talkative affair, Olivia dominating the conversation with the occasional commentary from her son. She pulled you into the dialogue here and there, but with an oppressing gaze weighing down on you, you felt…restricted. It was purely all in your head, you knew that, but you couldn’t fight the thought that Roman was watching your every move—judging you.

You really could not get out of the house fast enough when dinner was over, hoping that your sudden skittishness was not noticeable. Roman’s gaze was something you felt on you even as you insisted you’d make it home just fine. Olivia didn’t fight you too much on it, and you were grateful, and the darkness that met you was somehow less terrifying than vibrant green eyes. It wasn’t until the next day when you realized that Roman wasn’t judging you, at all.

What he was doing was much worse.

“I really don’t mind walking.”

You told him this as he sat in your driveway, that familiar fancy red car taking up residence in it. The sun was out, and he was wearing shades and a thick jacket that made him appear bigger than he actually was. His jaw slowly moved, some gum in his mouth you presumed, and after a moment or two, he slowly turned his head to stare directly at you. Your eyes briefly glanced at his tapping finger against the wheel.

“You’re tutoring Shelley. Why would I make you walk all the way to our house when it’s not like I have anything better to do, anyway?”

He said it so flippantly, almost like this whole ordeal annoyed him, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say that his mother made him park in your driveway. However, Roman never struck you as the kind of guy to do something he didn’t want to do, so his attitude only served to confuse you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and although you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew they were fixated on you.

You could feel the heat of them despite the cold air that surrounded you.

After some time of your short impasse, a slow smirk danced along his lips.

“I could always make you…”

His voice was low, and there was something mirthful in his tone, like the idea of dragging you and forcing you into his fancy car was an entertaining one. Something in you told you that he would despite what you wanted to believe, and something else told you that he’d enjoy it very much. With that thought and a sigh, you finally conceded and made your way to his passenger side.

His eyes remained on you the whole way there.

The ride was quiet, the walk from his car to the door even quieter.

Olivia’s voice rang through the house, inquiring as to if that was him coming through the door. The sound of his voice was answer enough, and you looked away from him when he slowly took off his shades.

“…and Y/N.”

Something about the sound of your name coming from his lips unnerved you. It didn’t exactly roll off of his tongue, something mocking in the way he said it, and you stared straight ahead as you walked down the hall in search of Shelley. You didn’t dare look back, afraid of what might be gaining on you.

Roman was the kind of guy that was impossible to ignore. Not only because he was just that imposing, but also because he simply wouldn’t let you. You’d gone to school with him for years, and it wasn’t until you both graduated did you learn that he was needy and constant in his want for attention. He was disturbingly honest, vulnerable to his desire to say the first thing on his mind no matter how inappropriate.

…and he was determined to get what he wanted once he decided he wanted it.

“So what? You didn’t want to fuck off out of this town and go to college or something?”

He asked you one day as you relaxed—as best as you could within his presence, anyway—in the passenger seat of his car. He wasn’t wearing his shades, and you almost missed them when you looked over to meet his green gaze. It was so intense, and there were moments where you were sure that Roman could see right through you.

“Don’t know what I would go for,” you replied, the cold air whipping against your face.

You could feel him looking at you as you stared through the windshield, and you got the feeling that he wanted you to elaborate on that. Even if you did know how to talk to Roman, you still wouldn’t. He made you uncomfortable in ways you couldn’t even explain, and the worst thing you did was allow him to know that.

There always seemed to be some sick pleasure in his eyes, the green of them glinting with something unknown to you. He watched you like a cat would a mouse, a wolf would a deer, a predator fully amusing itself with the prey it had in its line of reach. Only, Roman wasn’t some predator. He was some guy, you reminded yourself, and you were simply some girl.

At worst, you likened Roman to that of an asshole with too much free time on his hands.

The only person spared from that was his sister.

“You’re good with her,” he commented, turning his car off as it sat in your driveway.

Your hand was on the handle, seconds away from exiting the vehicle when he spoke. His voice had startled you, used to the silence of his unwavering gaze as he watched you exit his car and go into the house. You watched him place a cigarette between his lips, the flame from his lighter brightening his face in the night. The smell of smoke followed soon after.

“Shelley,” he explained, exhaling. “You’re good with her. She likes you.”

You glanced away, squirming in your seat when presented with an actual conversation you could have with the rich boy.

“I like her too. She’s very sweet…and…even funny, sometimes.”

You shrugged when he looked at you, pulling another drag, and the longer he stared at you, the more uncomfortable you started to feel. You looked away, gaze falling to your purse at your feet, preparing to grab it and wish him a good night when he spoke again.

“My mother thinks I stare at you too much.”

His words shocked you, and your eyes widened when you looked at him again. He wasn’t looking at you, now, smoking and partaking in his cigarette. Your own lips parted, unsure of how to respond to that, and he took another drag, loudly exhaling. Roman had a habit of saying anything that was on his mind, so that wasn’t what shocked you. You were shocked because it wasn’t all in your head…

…and that someone else had noticed too.

“She’s right,” he breathed, gazing at you, now, and you swallowed.

His eyes were taken with the action, lowering and resting on your neck for a few seconds too long. It was late and dark, save for the half moon in the sky, but something in his gaze seemed to shift as he stared at your throat, eyes tracing the very top of your chest before they met yours again.

You swore they weren’t as green, now.

“I do stare,” he murmured, looking away and taking another pull—a final pull—of the cigarette between his fingers. “You’re pretty…and I sometimes wonder if you were this pretty in school.”

You didn’t know if you liked where this conversation was going, straightening and looking away.

“School was only six months ago,” you mumbled, finally speaking after some time. “I can’t possibly look that different.”

Roman chuckled then, and it was a genuine sound, and so you didn’t know if he was laughing at you or himself.

“You’re right,” he relented. “I was probably just too busy fucking cheerleaders and paying already rich girls for sex.”

You grimaced, reaching for your purse, now when he stopped you. You were alarmed by the feel of his hand on your wrist, and when you looked up at him from your leaned over position, it seemed that Roman was somewhat startled by his own actions. Like he’d always entertained the thought but never imagined he’d go through with it. He quickly let you go like you’d burned him, and you slowly sat up as he cleared his throat.

“Shelley’s gonna be hanging out with our uncle tomorrow…” he looked away. “They’re close like that, but… That doesn’t mean I still can’t pick you up.”

He said a whole lot without saying much, and you felt your stomach twist. Roman was used to telling a girl he wanted her and then…well…having her. You’d seen it many times, the way they flocked to him and preened at the opportunity to fuck Roman Godfrey, and it wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive…because he was.

…and he knew it.

Roman scared you. Everything about him seemed designed with the key purpose of repelling you. He was too observant, too sure of himself, too…creepy. These weren’t things you could overlook, and instead of helping him, you were sure that his looks didn’t help your feelings. Roman didn’t look real at times—genetically altered even—and it only made you think there was something…inhuman about him.

Something that told you he wasn’t like you…and you should be wary.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you honestly replied, and you didn’t stick around to look at his face.

You held your purse to you as you got out of his car, and you reluctantly looked at him, your sympathetic gaze meeting his even one.

“I’m just here to tutor Shelley…and…we should probably keep it that way.”

You kept your rejection soft, and you turned away from him before he could reply. You ignored the feel of his gaze boring into your back, wrapping your arms around yourself as some half assed protection against the cold. You couldn’t get in your house fast enough, and you swore that you’d been leaning against the door for at least half an hour, waiting to hear him finally drive off.

The first night Roman raped you, it was raining.

Storming, to be more specific. It was odd because it was winter, and Pennsylvania was known for its summer storms. It was why you were even at the mansion so late, Roman refusing to drive in the violent downpour and you unable to walk. Olivia seemed to care neither here nor there about the whole thing, almost annoyingly cavalier about your plight.

“Oh, darling, you know how unpredictable a bit of rain can be,” she’d said, a glass of wine in her hand. “There’s no shortage of guest rooms. Find one for the night. I’m sure Roman can be of some help in that department.”

You hadn’t missed her crooked smile, an almost wicked sight as she softly chuckled to herself. She clearly found her son’s attraction to you amusing, harmless even, while you found it uncomfortable at best. Shelley was the one to help you get sorted for the night, visible eye soft and smile even softer as she pointed out where the towels and such would be.

You hadn’t realized you’d forgotten the problem of clothes until you stepped out of the shower to find some on the counter.

You froze at the sight, sure that you hadn’t heard a soul come in. At least…no one who wanted to be heard, and you grimaced before putting them on. Walking the corridors of The Godfrey Mansion with clothes in hand felt weird, and when you made it to your chosen guest bedroom of the night, you still didn’t relax.

Nothing about the mansion was calming, and the raging storm outside only made it worse. You laid in bed for a long time, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, just waiting for your heart to stop racing and your mind to grow quiet. It felt like forever, but it happened, and when it did, you finally felt your lashes flutter.

Sleep was finally yours.

…and then you woke up.

The sharp stabbing pain had you sitting up in bed, hand pressed to your stomach at the ache you felt deep within it. The familiar ache, and you felt your heart sink, wondering how your night could possibly get any worse. You didn’t need to look at the bed to know that you’d left something behind, only searching for your purse, positive you had an extra pad or tampon or something.

Relief filled your heart, and product in hand, you made your way into the hall in search of the bathroom. So focused on your pain and finding the bathroom, you didn’t mind the dark corridor, at all. Any other night, and you might have been hypervigilant with fear, but as it were, you could only focus on stopping any more ruin of the pajamas you’d been given.

It was a noise from behind you that gave you pause, and as you turned around, all those childhood stories about the fearful Godfrey Mansion came to mind. Every manifestation of what goes bump in the night filled your mind, but as you stared into the darkness, darkness was all you were met with. Telling yourself that an old mansion was bound to creak and groan, you turned away.

…and straight into Roman.

His very presence forced a shriek from your lips, and in your panic, your hands pressed to his chest. His bare chest. You didn’t register it, at first, so focused on trying to calm your heart and relax again. Your hands were empty, your saving grace of the night on the floor, and when you took a step back to pick it up, Roman took one forward.

You paused at the action.

“Roman-.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

The question came out somewhat harsh, and you squinted at him in the darkness. It threw you off for several reasons, but mostly because you didn’t understand what he meant. As best as you could make it out in the darkness, his face seemed contorted, pinched actually—eyes narrowed, lips pursed, and gaze riddled with accusations.

“…what? Roman, what are you-.”

Your words died in the air when he forced himself closer, a strange look on his face as he eyed you. You watched his nostrils flare, another step forward from Roman, and you finally took another back. He was so close, too close, and when you blinked, you remembered that you didn’t have time to try and understand Roman tonight. Ignoring him, you reached down, and as soon as your hand was around what you so desperately needed, another hand was coming down on your wrist.

You reacted harshly, flinching and crying out, and you registered that Roman’s grip was actually…painful.

You were both standing now, Roman still holding onto you, and his nose brushed against yours as he leaned in. His hair, normally so neat and perfectly in place, was kissing his forehead. The dark strands were going every which way, and when his lips parted, a soft exhale escaping in time with a flutter of his lashes, only then did you say his name again.

As if waking up from a dream, you watched his eyes focus in on your face, really focus, and it took him some time to let you go.

Your wrist ached, his phantom touch lingering, and you held it to you protectively. You felt that you could really see into Roman’s eyes, now, and the mansion lit up from a brief flash of lightning. His own eyes glinted, and you recalled that the last time you and Roman were this close, he was trying to spend time with you outside of his sister’s tutoring.

…and you’d turned him down.

When he took a step back, he finally spoke again.

“Looking for the bathroom?”

You wondered how he knew that, but you surmised that it was a good guess. After all, it was the middle of the night, and you were roaming the corridors with a tampon in hand. At your nod, he slowly smiled at you, something mocking in it as he reached out to rest a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s over here,” he told you. “You’ll get lost without me.”

His voice was smooth, tone almost gentle, and it was like that awkward and startling moment had never even happened. His touch was light on your arm as he guided you through the darkness, and as uncomfortable as Roman made you, in your predicament, you didn’t have much choice but to follow his lead. The muffled sound of rain was all that surrounded you, and when Roman finally reached what looked like the bathroom, you relaxed.

“They say sex helps with that…”

You paused, looking at the rich boy, and his visage was serious.

“The cramps,” he continued with a raise of his brows as if you didn’t know what he was getting at.

“So, I’ve heard,” you said after some time, unsure of how to even respond to that.

When you walked into the bathroom, you were shocked by the feel of Roman ripping the tampon out of your hand. The light from the bathroom lit up the hallway behind him, the darkness on the edge of the doorway making him look…ominous. His gaze was unreadable, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“You’re not funny,” you told him, reaching for it, but he only held it out of reach. “Roman…”

You stumbled back when he crossed the threshold, blocking the doorway completely, and irritated and in pain, you were losing your patience for his game. He could be such a child sometimes, demanding attention at the worst moment possible, and you grabbed the tampon with a quickness. Only, Roman held onto it too, and he pushed at your hand, forcing you back in the process.

His green irises glinted under the light.

“Roman…”

You words died in the air when his hand slid to wrap around your wrist like earlier, and you felt your heart…drop.

The way he stared at you, something about it was terrifying, and his eyes started to appear almost unfocused. His hand tightened, and you winced, and you were just about to say his name again when the sound of the door clicking shut reached your ears. You blinked, looking behind him, unaware that he’d forced you both so far into the bathroom with enough room to kick the door shut. Like the first day you came face to face with him again, you felt paralyzed, trapped under the crushing weight of his gaze, and you could feel your heart speed up.

His hold on your arm prevented you from moving when he kissed you.

You were in shock, feeling wholly out of control that you just stood there, unable to quite feel his lips on yours. You felt crowded by him, forced to hold still lest you provoke something impulsive, and you didn’t even register just how painful his hold on your wrist became. You only blinked when the stabbing pain deep in the pit of your stomach reminded you of your plight.

Pulling away, you pushed at his chest.

“Roman, what the hell?”

Your lower back painfully met the sink, and you simultaneously tried to lean away and push him away too. His other hand snaked around your neck, your head harshly pressing against the mirror, and you whined in frustration. His lithe frame found a home between your kicking legs, and your panic seized you when he kissed you again.

Fighting against Roman felt like a lost cause—he was stronger than he looked.

The kiss felt hungry, like he was trying to devour you, and you whined again as he pressed you against the sink more. The hand on your wrist kept your arm outstretched, and he let out a sound in between the kiss that sounded somewhat like a hiss. His breathing was heavy too, and when he finally let your neck go, there was no sense of relief.

You pushed at him as he pulled at your pants, and they were barely to your knees when Roman suddenly dropped. One hand on your leg kept you from moving, the other preoccupied with getting the other out of the borrowed pajamas. Horror and confusion were battling within you, and all you could manage to do was hit at the wall when he dipped his head between your thighs.

Horrifying and bloody circumstances aside, you didn’t want this.

You cried out his name, throat tightening, and your free leg banged against the sink cabinet. One of his hands had a death grip on your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin so harshly you knew it would bruise. He kept it pushed away, practically flat against the counter, the stretch burning in a way that made you wince. However, the feel of his tongue between your legs made for a confusing reaction.

Your head was spinning at the feel of his tongue sliding along your bloody folds, lips completely covering your mound as he sucked at you. Your eyes rolled, and it was hard to focus on the true nature of what was going on. Your toes curled under his ministrations, and your nails scraped against the wall and counter top.

“Roman, stop,” you choked out, heart beating wildly in your chest.

You finally pushed at his chest, whining in both pain and pleasure when he refused to move, only lapping at you harder. Your stomach was tightening for more reasons than one, now, and despite the cold season and cold mansion, you felt so hot. Too hot.

Roman hooked his arm under your thigh, yanking you down further, and you were in too much of an awkward and painful position to properly fight back. When your nails dug into his face, his other arm wrapped around your free leg, forcing that one where he wanted it to be too. You couldn’t even grapple with the full circumstances of Roman with his face between your legs during that time of the month, reaching out at the wall and counter in panic when he fell back, taking you with him.

Unable to move, you were forced to sit on his face, hands pushing against the wall behind him as a means to get free. That tightening in your gut was accompanied with a pleasant burn, now, and your breath hitched, lashes fluttering at that tightening coil, shrinking more and more until it had no choice but to release, making you gasp when it did.

The moan you let out was unlike anything you’d heard from yourself, shocked at the strain in your voice. You couldn’t breathe fast enough, sucking in air with a swimming vision. In Roman’s greedy consumption of you, his hold loosened, and you didn’t hesitate to push yourself off of him. You were still shaking, the remnants of your orgasm gripping you, and your eyes were wide as you looked at Roman. He laid on the floor with parted lips, slowly blinking in wonder as he ran his hands through his hair.

The entire bottom half of his face was covered in your blood.

You felt frozen, unsure of how to even process what had just happened. You were so confused and disturbed and scared, staring at Roman like he was something not of this world, and when you finally shifted, that’s when he seemed to remember your presence, green eyes landing on you with a quickness that made you freeze up, as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your scream rang throughout the bathroom when he lunged for you.

Roman’s bloody face was all you could focus on as he hovered over you, pushing his cock into you over and over again. Every time his hips met yours, your chest arched up against his, back curving and eyes rolling. Roman was so silent that you would’ve swore he was possessed, but there was an awareness in his green gaze that told you he was anything but.

His hands held yours down, dark brown hair hanging into his forehead. On the off chance that he smiled, it was a bloody one, and it scared you more than anything. The bathroom floor was cool against your naked back, and through the haze of Roman’s assault, you realized—with reluctance—that the feel of his cock driving in and out of you was indeed helping with your cramps.

The inside of your thighs were a bloody mess, much like his face, and as disgusting as it was, it was the least of your worries. Roman was a lot of things, annoyingly arrogant above all else, but you never pegged him for a rapist. A freak, maybe, yes, but a rapist? No. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the bathroom, and so focused on the feel of him plunging into you, you couldn’t even pinpoint when the storm had ended.

You cried out, tears spilling over as you pressed your hands against the hood of his car. You kept trying to push yourself up, but Roman’s determined hands kept shoving you back down. The moon was hidden by the clouds, no visible light shining down on his assault, a hand of his twisted at the nape of your neck.

You pressed your nails against his vehicle, and that was when he yanked you back, lips at your ear.

“Don’t scratch the fucking paint,” Roman spat, sounding very mad by the mere thought, and you insulted him several times over behind closed lips.

You’d tried to quit after that horrific stormy night in which Roman raped you on the bathroom floor. You’d given Olivia Godfrey every excuse in the book and tried to gently let Shelley down many times over, but the single matriarch simply wouldn’t hear it. She rolled her eyes in that coquettish way she tended to do, a soft smirk on her pink lips. Or she’d simply laugh you off, a sharp ‘nonsense’ soon to follow.

“Am I not paying you enough? Do you want more?”

“It’s not about the money,” you’d replied.

No amount of money in the world could possibly make up for the sick deviant that was her son.

After he came inside of you, breathless and satisfied, he’d dragged you crying and kicking all the way to his room. Any fight from you was immediately squashed down, and you didn’t know if Roman had snorted a few lines of coke or what, but no one was more shocked than you when he pushed you onto his bed, determined to continue what he’d started in the bathroom.

You’d been a dazed and abused mess when you snuck out in the early hours of the morning, half dressed and still bleeding. It hadn’t been Roman that came for you, but Olivia instead, talks of obligations and Shelley. No amount of refusal had deterred her, and you got the strangest feeling that the older woman fully knew the extent of just how her son felt about you.

You felt trapped.

By kind and sweet Shelley who broke your heart to leave, by Olivia who wanted to spoil her son with his new plaything of choice, and most of all by Roman who decided he had to have something once he wanted it. The last time you’d tried to quit, Olivia merely waved you off with a soft laugh, and when you turned around, none other than Roman had been at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

It was how you found yourself in his car, no choice but to let him drive you home. You hadn’t uttered a word to him since that night, and as you very well knew… Roman hated to be ignored. He was going to command your attention one way or another, and you hadn’t even heard him open his door after you, following close behind until his hands were on you and pushing you down onto his car.

Your forehead grazed the vehicle as he plunged his cock into you, stretching you out in your driveway for anyone to see. The embarrassment of such a thought was what kept you quiet, tears kissing your cheeks as you were forced to take his thrusts. His jeans were pulled down just enough to give him room to fuck you as he wanted, your own pants down around your ankles while he rutted into you.

When Roman came, he pressed his face into your hair, breathing you in with deep inhales. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, and you sniffed, shakily reaching up to wipe your face. Roman remained where he was for a few moments too long, just basking in the feel of you wrapped around him, and after some time, he let out a low chuckle.

It was a disturbing sound.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this pussy since that night…” he breathed, finally pulling away.

You felt him right himself, and he was rough in doing the same to you, pulling your pants up. Once done, he rested his hands on your hips, remaining close and leaning in.

“Quit trying to quit,” he harshly said. “My sister really likes you, and if you hurt her feelings, I’ll make you choke on it.”

You stumbled back when he finally pulled away to make his way to the driver’s seat. You wrapped your arms around yourself, struggling to swallow as you accepted the truth in his words. You believed him wholeheartedly, and you trembled from more than just the cold as you watched him speed away in that fancy red car.

You knew that you wouldn’t be getting much sleep, and you hated how right you were when you were staring at your ceiling hours later. Like the day after that night, you’d scrubbed yourself until you felt raw, but even still, you could feel his hands on you. Those long fingers that were more reminiscent of spider legs than limbs.

Roman Godfrey was equally rotten inside as he was beautiful.

You discovered just how rotten only a week later when he was holding you down for the umpteenth time, a wicked smile on his lips just before leaning down. The sharp pain where your shoulder and neck met made you jerk beneath him, and beneath the cover of darkness, you just knew that the strong smell that hit your nose was blood.

You didn’t think it was possible for Roman to horrify you any more.

…but he did, and you screamed, and he only held you tighter. He was resting comfortably between your parted legs, fitting snuggly inside of you as he made a pulling sensation with his mouth. You squirmed beneath him, fighting and pushing back as much as you could, but he wasn’t deterred. You could feel his hips jerk, a gasp escaping you as he thrust into you to the hilt.

Your hands clawed at his bedding, the sound of tearing fabric reaching your ears above the low moans that left Roman. When he got his fill, you were a sobbing mess, reaching up to clutch your neck as he curved his hips into yours. You could feel some of your blood drip onto you from his mouth, and when his bloody lips met yours, you gagged.

Your disbelief was forced to be suspended with the unfortunate truth that was right in front of you. You didn’t really care about what was possible or not in that moment, only wanting to get away from him. Roman seemed entertained with your struggle, fighting with your hands as he fucked you, a tight grip on your wrist. The other hand danced down your body, light touches and skin grazes along the way.

“Look at me,” he murmured, drunk off the taste of you. “Look at me.”

His bloody hand on your face forced you to do just that, and his calm voice stopped you from shaking. Even in the dark, it was like his green irises were all you could see, and the color was so calming—so soothing—that when he told you to relax…you did.

You felt so at ease as he slowly thrust into you, pulling out until only the tip of him remained before pushing all the way back in again. The feel made you sighed, and Roman sighed too, a soft hum escaping him. Deep in the back of your mind, you were still terrified of the dark-haired boy, but despite that, you just felt so calm.

“Good,” he softly purred. “Good girl.”

One of his hands rested on the headboard above you, the other pressed into the pillow beside your head. You were so relaxed that all you could do was stare up at him as he surged over you again and again, retreating with every pull of his hips and driving forward with every thrust. Relaxed, you were more able to focus on the sound of his cock sinking into you, the squelching noise reaching your ears as your body fought to cling to him and keep him from leaving each and every time.

Dazedly, you reached up to touch your neck again, the smell of blood strong, and as you lifted your hand to look at it, Roman leaned down to cover your fingers with his mouth. The hum that met your ears was one of appreciation, and when you came for the first time that night, you were met with another.

“You’ve had enough?” he wondered, hand pressed into your stomach as he drove his hips against yours. “…or you want more from daddy?”

His voice was low and gruff, strained with emotion as he basked in the tight and warm feel of you. It didn’t really matter what your answer would be for Roman had already decided to fuck you well into the night as he wished. When you came for a final time, his hands were leaving bruises into your hips, and you were ripping his sheets apart.

The woods of Hemlock Grove seemed extra thick and hazardous tonight, as if it was their sole purpose to slow you down and trap you for him.

Bite marks and bruises littered your skin for months before you finally cracked. Months of walking into The Godfrey Mansion with fear, tutoring Shelley and distracted the entire time by thoughts of Roman. Wondering when he’d come to collect you, what corner he might pop out of, when you might feel the brush of his touch along your shoulder. You didn’t stay for dinner anymore, unable to sit across from Roman and have him stare you down as he reminisced on the feel of you coming around him, bleeding and broken.

Olivia Godfrey pretended not to notice Roman shadowing you like a ghost, like a grim reaper come to collect what he felt he was owed. She smiled that coy smile and waved around those waifish arms, all the while nursing a cigarette or a drink, fully aware of what her spoiled son got up to under the cover of darkness when no one could see your abuse at his hands.

Your last period had been your last straw, shuddering at the memory of Roman keeping you prisoner on top of him as he ate you out so long that it started to grow painful at some point. When he finally sank into you—in more ways than one—you couldn’t even try to enjoy it, too overstimulated to the point where you kept trying to get away.

Roman was sound asleep when you ran.

…but he was wide awake in time to run after you.

You truly didn’t even know where you were going, so set on just getting away from the terrifying boy that you just let your feet carry you. The biting air cut at your skin, and the leaves crunched beneath you. It was only moments ago when his voice had rang through the trees, your name bouncing off of the trunks as he desperately called for you.

“I can smell you!”

That fact did not deter you, sure that you could escape him. Every whip of a branch cut into you, and you knew the blood that you felt was the very same blood he smelled. The steep inclines and downward slopes of Hemlock Grove slowed you down, tiring you out, and your chest hurt from your harsh sobs. You had just pulled yourself up a small hill when you fell to the ground.

You were not alone.

“Y/N,” Roman snarled, a guttural edge to his voice that made you cry harder. “Get back here!”

He screamed it so passionately and loudly that it actually made you wince, and your vision was blurred from your tears as you clawed at the ground, fighting to get away from him. His fingers dug into your pants, preventing you from moving as much as you wanted, and despite the fact that you knew no one would come, you screamed for help when he crawled up your body.

He slammed your head into the ground, impulsively, and you saw stars in your vision. He succeeded in what he wanted, halting your movements for a time as you fought to collect yourself. In that time, Roman had already covered your frame, chest completely pressed down on your back. His hand closed around your throat, pulling your head back some.

“Don’t be stupid,” he roughly told you, lips at your ear. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

You clawed at the dirt and leaves as his other hand reached beneath you, sliding into your pants with ease and cupping you. He made a noise of appreciation at the feel, and as Roman told you that you’d never escape him, he sank his teeth into your neck.

In your despair, you accepted this truth.

#roman godfrey #roman godfrey x reader #hemlock grove #roman godfrey fic #roman godfrey imagine

3K notes · View notes