#a.m. productions | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luv4kozume · 10 days

Text

💋 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 — MATT STURNIOLO

— # ❝ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥…

𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐢𝐧'𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧' 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 ! ❞ 🎧 ₊˚⊹

Homewrecker!Matt x Married!Fem!Reader

Contains: Swearing, hella plot/slow burn, mentions of financial abuse and an unhappy marriage, pet names, flirting, teasing, age gap (reader is 26, matt is 21), drinking alcohol, cheating, praise, spit, handjob, oral (both ways), missionary, leg lock, drunk sex, unprotected sex, creampie. Semi-proof read!

Synopsis: A story in which you and your next door neighbor, Matt, have some underlying attraction towards each other. But there is just one teensy little obstacle standing in the way… your “loving” husband.

Word Count: 7,975

a/n: part of the TRIPLE THREAT EVENT with sienna and maggie!! BE SURE TO READ THEIR FICS TODAY TOO!! 💗💗

a/n(2): this plot popped into my head at the most random time and it was so good that i had to take ‘cheating’ off my guidelines in my request rules??? 🤯

a/n(3): @rootbeerworshiper this was the little plot twist i told you about since the song is about a guy convincing an older woman to get with him (i really had to dissect those lyrics). hopefully i lived up to the expectation of the song lmaoo

*:･ﾟ✧ 💌 *:･ﾟ✧

It was hardly 10:06 A.M. on a weekday and your husband, John, was already starting the day off in a sour mood.

John had worked for a large advertising company and had held the title of the household’s ‘breadwinner’ rather proudly.

Perhaps a bit too proudly.

For the longest you’ve wanted to branch out and have something going on for yourself. However, having the luxury of financial freedom had never been in the cards for you, since he would always dismiss any notion of yours.

He would always say that ‘a woman should stay in the home’ or ‘it would make him seem less of a man if his wife was making money’.

He often hid behind the ‘traditional man’ role, as if that made up for his misogynistic and narcissistic behavior. Not that there’s anything wrong with being traditional, in fact you’d prefer some of those aspects of him.

But in reality he wasn’t ‘traditional’ in the slightest. Just a financially abusive asshole that you had been married to for the past six years.

You don’t even know how you’ve made it this long in the relationship, yet here you were, sitting at your white vanity in your shared bedroom. Face to face with your tired reflection in the dainty mirror.

A white bath towel wrapped tightly across your chest and draped over your thighs. An array of water droplets laid across your chest and shoulders from your previous morning shower.

As John was getting dressed in the next room for a meeting, you were doing your makeup for absolutely nothing.

Your days at home were rather boring. Usually consisting of binging your favorite shows, cooking, or reading.

Recently you had added tanning to the brief list now that it was finally warming up for summer. You enjoyed going out into the backyard and sitting by the pool, taking in the fresh air and a good book in hand. Your husband didn’t particularly like this new activity of yours.

Your eyes dropped down to the various makeup products scattered across the countertop. You grabbed ahold of your eyebrow brush, bringing up to your face and flicking the hairs up with the soft bristles.

“Y/N!” Your husband shouted from the bathroom, the sudden harshness of his voice had made you jump in your seat.

“Yes?” You huff, bringing your hand down away from your face and resting your elbow against the surface.

You straighten up your posture as you heard his footsteps press down into the carpet, making their way towards you in a rush. The bathroom light illuminated in the distance, giving his dark suited silhouette a slight golden hue as he stood in the doorframe frantically adjusted his collar.

“Have you seen my favorite tie?” He groaned in annoyance as if you had purposely hidden the piece of clothing in a form of pettiness.

“No, I haven’t.” You reply shortly before reverting your attention back towards the mirror.

You heard him grumble something under his breath before he started yanking at the dresser drawers in attempt to find another tie. But you chose to ignore his desperate plea for attention.

It was best to not even engage whenever he would get like this, so you completely tuned out his presence and continued your makeup routine. Once your were satisfied with your brows you went in for the primer.

Usually doing your makeup made you feel better about staying home and rotting away, but having his presence so close to you at the moment was spoiling everything. You couldn’t even enjoy yourself with your own husband around.

You couldn’t decipher if you felt more agitated or guilty in this moment. All you knew was that you just couldn’t wait for the very second he’d leave for his meeting and you’d finally have some time alone.

“Found it.” He mumbled, slowly dragging his feet along the carpet towards you. He stood over you as you moved on to the next step in your routine, concealer. He watched as you pressed the product into your cheeks. “You know I prefer you without all that, right?”

This was his lame attempt in striking up a conversation between the two of you. Most of the time they reign unsuccessful and resulted into a petty argument instead.

“I don’t do it for you.” You muttered under your breath, but your were certain he had heard you anyway. You didn’t care either way at this point, why wouldn’t he just leave you alone? Couldn’t he tell that you were upset?

John let out a sigh before recollecting his thoughts, you could hear the gears turning in his twisted head as he articulated what he should say next.

“Are you going to the pool again?” He asked, his tone hinted with just the slightest bit of irritation as he waited for your answer.

“Yeah?” You say, glancing up at him for a spilt second before dropping your eyes down to grab your bronzer. “Why does it matter? You’re out all day for hours at a time and I have nothing to do.”

“Because I don’t like that kid next door.” He snapped back.

“Matt?” You say innocently. The sound of the neighbor’s voice rolling off your tongue so smoothly had him sick to his stomach.

“Yes, Matt.” He retorted in a mocking tone. “I don’t fucking like him.”

“Well first of all, he’s a grown man, not a kid.” You huff out in annoyance. “And he’s just a friendly neighbor, he’s harmless.”

His eyes dropped down to your left hand before bringing them back up to your tired expression before muttering, “Right. Well, make sure to have your ring on while you’re out there.”

Your brows furrowed together and you straightened up in your seat. Your lips parted slightly to speak but he was already stomping down the steps and rushing to the front door.

“I was in the shower..” You mumbled in defeat as if he could still hear you. All while staring down at your bare ring finger.

*ೃ༄

It had been a couple hours since your husband had finally left and you were already starting to feel a lot better. The blazing June sun shone down brightly, giving the pool a shimmery look as a few waves began rippling.

You laid yourself across one of the white lounge chairs your had with a bikini on and one of your favorite books in hand. You had read it at least three times at this point but you just couldn’t get enough of it. Besides, what else were you left to do? At least you were getting some fresh air.

The pages had you lost in trance until the brash noise of a door slamming shut caught your attention. You straightened up your posture, looking over towards the right where the noise had derived from. Just over the brown, wooden fence that separated your yard from your neighbor’s.

The same neighbor that your husband absolutely despised. He had often complained that the fence wasn’t high enough and that he even caught Matt peering over at you while you tan.

The mere thought of that was flattering but you truly believed that everything he did was harmless. Matt never made you feel uncomfortable so you didn’t particularly mind his wandering eyes or suggestive words. Especially when you weren’t getting much attention from your husband anyway.

“Matt!” You shouted with a smile, wrapping your thin covering up over your chest slightly. You extended your arm out to wave at him, grinning ear to ear like a little school girl with a crush when he smiled back at you.

You tossed your book into the seat and slipped into your flip flops. Making your way through the grass to lean over the fence to get a better look at him.

Matt lived alone and it was quite obvious that his entire place lacked a woman’s touch. You often teased him about his backyard, as it was littered with various wild flowers and weeds. Not to mention the overgrown grass that he was in the process of cutting at the very moment.

“Hey, peach.” Matt smirked, rising up from the ground to get a better look at you.

You glanced down at his lawnmower, the old beaten up machine surely had seen better days.

“Finally mowing your grass?” You tease.

“Yeah.” He sighed with a playful shrug. “It looks like it’s about that time, what do you think?”

“Yeah, definitely long over due.” You laugh.

Your hands nervously fell to your side as Matt rested his forearms against the fence. Dirt covered gloves wrapped around his hands, along with a red tee and chain dangling over his chest. You nearly had to squint at the miniature silver horse as it shimmered in the bright sun. His shaggy brown hair spewed out from the sides where his red cap didn’t reach, the bill of it resting on the back of his neck.

His striking blue eyes flickered down to your figure, taking in the way your bikini left little to the imagination. Wrapping around so snuggly in all the right places.

You were fairly older than him— and married. Something that you would often say. But it felt as though you were trying to convince yourself of the fact rather than giving him a gentle reminder.

Personally, Matt wouldn’t give a fuck if you were married, engaged, or single. And he certainly didn’t mind the fact that you were a tad bit older. To him, age was just a number.

He knew exactly what he wanted and he was going to continue pursuing until he got it. You didn’t seem too opposed to this either. He wasn’t an idiot, he caught onto the way you’d blush whenever he was around or how you would find the silliest excuse to talk to him over the fence.

The attraction could be sniffed out from a mile away and he was certain that his feelings were mutual. He just had to pull them out of you. However, he didn’t want to overstep any boundaries. All he had to do was patiently wait for that green light.

But that didn’t completely stop him from dropping ‘subtle’ hints.

“What about you?” Matt nodded his head up with a smirk. “What are you gonna do today?”

“Oh, nothing probably.” You sigh, you could feel your face heating up with embarrassment.

“One of those days again?” He replied.

You nodded, “Mhm, John went out for another meeting this morning. So it’s just me at home.”

“I’m sorry, peach. I don’t like that he leaves you alone in that house for so long.” Matt replied, pursing his lips to think about what he should say next. Whether it was appropriate enough for him to say aloud, “You know I’d never do that to you, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Is all you could mumble out. A shy smile creeping up on your face, earning a chuckle from him.

“How long is he gonna be out for?” He asked.

“He should be back sometime this evening. I’m not sure the exact time since his work schedule is so sporadic.” You explain, trying your best to play off the disappointment in your voice with a laugh.

Matt clicked his tongue in thought, knowing exactly what he desired most at the moment. Just the mere thought of you all alone in that house prancing around in that tight little swimsuit of yours—or better yet, nothing at all—had his dick pressing through the rough fabric of his jeans.

You had his mind racing with lascivious thoughts. However, it would be best if he didn’t voice these ideas, but you were just dying to know.

“What?” You inquired, slightly tilting your head to the side.

“Nothing, peach.” He laughed, dropping his head to hide his flushed cheeks. Matt has mentioned a bundle of scandalous things to you before— to which you always brushed off as if they never happened. However, his sudden meekness this time around had caught you off guard.

What was on his mind this time may have been the most outlandish thing of them all. He didn’t know how you would react, how you would handle such words. It was best to keep them to himself. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel upset or any discomfort from his own doing. He would never forgive himself.

But this didn’t stop you from still wanting to know what was on the brunette’s mind. He could only hope that a watered down version of what he originally wanted to say will suffice.

“I was just gonna suggest…” He began as he sheepishly rose his head back up. His primal gaze locking in with your shy eyes. “…that maybe you could come in with me.” He says pointing his thumb back towards his brick house behind him.

“Just so you won’t be so lonely.” He added in hopes to reel you in, watching you nervously shift on the heels of your feet.

Unfortunately, your mind and your heart were not on the same page, therefore the only correct answer would be, “I… don’t think I should.”

Matt couldn’t help but drop his eyes lower, seeing that your ring finger was still bare. He had noticed that you stopped wearing your wedding ring a couple weeks ago.

You always came up with the most outlandish excuses as to why you never wore the damn thing. Eventually he stopped pestering you about it, assuming that there was a deeper meaning why it was never around your finger. He didn’t want to force that information out of you, he could only hope that you’d tell him in your own time.

The way your smile slowly dropped from your face tugged at his heart, he didn’t like seeing you so upset about it. Maybe he should have articulated his words a bit more carefully.

“It’s okay, don’t beat yourself up about it.” Matt reassured you with a soft chuckle, “I gotta get this thing started, but you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“Thanks, Matt.” You reply.

*ೃ༄

Hours passed since you last spoke to Matt— or anybody for that matter. The sun was beginning to set for the evening, the sky turning various colors of soft yellows and pastel pinks. The golden rays from the source shone through your livingroom window, giving your home’s interior a gentle glow.

You had changed into some more comfortable clothes earlier and were now snuggled down into the plush cushions of the couch with a large blanket draped over you.

The television was on but you weren’t paying it any attention. You tuned out the white noise of the characters speaking as your scrolled through the apps on your phone.

You hadn’t been able to get Matt’s words out of your head, “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

A frustrated sigh seeped out from you. You knew that it was immoral of you to be thinking of another man under your circumstances but there was this longing for him that you just couldn’t shake.

Something about him was just so comforting… so alluring. You wanted to have deep and meaningful conversations with him rather than just brief, friendly talks over the fence.

You wanted to dissect his brain, to learn him inside and out. What he liked and disliked. What he does in his spare time. If he thinks about you as often as you think of him. You craved for his presence and you ached for his attention.

Your phone buzzed in your hands, pulling you out of your thoughts. You felt your stomach churn with dread as you realized it was your husband who had texted you instead of the person you needed the most.

John

‘I won’t be back until late tonight. Going out to dinner with coworkers.’ at 7:12 p.m.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you and John had been out to dinner together.

You weren’t sure if you should be feeling more angry or ecstatic over his message. This was the official green light that your heart had been waiting for since the day you met Matt.

But your brain was screaming the complete opposite. John was your husband and pursuing anything romantic or even sexual with Matt would be cheating. How would he handle that? How could you live with yourself after the fact?

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard to reply to his message, until another notification buzzed at the top of the screen. Butterflies swarmed in your stomach when you noticed it was Matt who texted you.

Matt :)

‘Shameless, huh?’ at 7:14 p.m.

You look up from your screen, eyes now glued to your tv in front of you. His text referring to the show you were watching. You looked out the window over to your right, seeing that Matt was standing on the sidewalk just inches away from the grass in your front yard.

What perfect timing.

He was still wearing the same clothes as before, this time he wasn’t alone though. He had his dog, Trevor, with him. You smile as you point towards your front door, beckoning for him to come meet you at the porch. To which he happily complies.

The heavy door creaked open as you pulled it in towards yourself. A bashful smile crept on your face once you locked eyes with your neighbor, “Hi.”

“Hey,” He spoke, mirroring your happiness. “You changed your mind yet, peach?”

“Maybe.” You reply with a playful shrug. “But… I’d be more comfortable having you come in with me instead of the other way around.”

“What about John?” He asked, his brows furrowing together in confusion.

“He went out to dinner with some of his coworkers.” You explained. “He won’t be back until later tonight.”

“Okay, cool.” He smirked. His eyes flickered down to the ground where Trevor was, giving the leash attached to his collar a gentle tug. “Just let me put Trev back in the house and I’ll be right over.”

You nodded and watched them both step down from the steps of your porch before you shut the door.

*ೃ༄

“Do you drink by any chance?” You ask Matt, your sweet voice coursing through him as it echoed from the kitchen.

He sat perked up on the couch, his back straight up against the cushions and his thighs slightly parted from each other. His eyes shot over to you, your back faced him as you rummaged through your silver fridge.

“Anything you wanna do, I’m down.” He replied, you didn’t have to look at him to know that there was a cocky grin plastered across his face. You could hear it in his tone.

“Red wine then?” You reply, turning around as you waved the nearly full bottle of alcohol in your hand.

His smile only grew larger as he nodded in agreement, his cheeks flushing up to match the same rosy color as the beverage. Your feet shuffled across the floor as you reached up in your cabinet to grab hold of two empty wine glasses.

His eyes never left from you as you made your way back towards him on the couch. The cushions sank in deeper as you plopped down next to him, setting the glasses gently onto the low coffee table in front of you.

Matt grabbed the bottle of wine from your hand, twisting off the tight cap with ease. It was a simple gesture really and you mentally cursed yourself for getting so worked up by it, but you found it endearing.

“Excited, huh?” He joked, feeling your aura practically bouncing off of you as you watched the red liquid pour into the shape of the cup.

“Just happy.” You say, catching a glimpse into his sensual gaze before shyly looking away.

There was no way in hell that you expected Matt to keep his lecherous thoughts and curious hands to himself tonight, especially with alcohol now being thrown into the mix.

It was going to be torturous for him to stay on his best behavior.

*ೃ༄

About half an hour had passed and the two of you nearly drank the entire bottle, both of you now having nearly two full glasses of wine in your systems.

Matt quickly learned that you became a little giggle box the moment you started feeling a bit tipsy. He thought it was the cutest thing and made it a point to continue speaking so that he could hear your voice over and over again.

You sat up on the couch with your knees up to your chest, your fingers still slipped underneath the roundness of the glass. Matt had called it quits just a few minutes ago, his empty cup now sitting on the coffee table.

He could give a fuck less about the alcohol anymore, all he wanted now was a taste of you. He slumped down into the couch, much more relaxed now that the wine soaked its way through his system.

His hair was a fluffy mess now that his hat was finally off. He stared at you intensely with lazy, hooded eyes, grinning ear to ear seeing that you were so happy with just his presence.

“Okay, my turn.” You hiccup, finally setting your cup down for the first time tonight.

“Shoot.” He replies nonchalantly.

You adjusted your seating to where you were little bit closer to him this time. Your legs folding together as you place your jittery hands in your lap, “Why do you call me peach?”

“Uhh.” He huffed out with a bashful smile, his palms coming up to his face as if to rub away the embarrassment he felt. “It’s a long story.”

“I got plenty of time.” You reply, playfully tapping his shoulder. “C’mon, tell me.”

“Remember when we first met last year?” Matt asks, finally drawing his hands away from his face to look you in the eyes again. You nod. “Well, I remember you were in your backyard and you were taking care of your garden. …

…I was like, ‘damn, that lady has a ton of plants’, but I was just so intrigued by you. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. …

…Anyway, you didn’t notice me looking your way until you started watering your little peach tree. You looked up at me and smiled, then you started talking my ear off about peaches. Now every time I see one, I think of you. So I just started calling you that.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest at his words, you never realized that there was a deeper meaning behind the little pet name all this time. You had actually assumed it was for another reason entirely.

“Ohh.” You say in realization, bringing your fingers up to to your flustered face. “I’m so embarrassed…”

“Because of what I said?” He asked, his brows knitting together.

“No.” You laugh. “I thought you called me that because of something else.”

“Why did you think I called you that?” He questioned, a curious smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Because of my butt.” You reply rather bluntly. “That’s why John got so upset when he found out that you were calling me that. He thought you were checking me out.”

“Firstly, John’s an idiot.” Matt slurred out, earning yet another giggle from you. “And second, yeah, I do.”

“Do what?” You ask, your brows furrowing together in slight confusion.

“Check you out.” Matt admitted with a shrug, “You have a nice ass. Nice and round, just like a peach.”

Although the alcohol was running its course through him, he was still in somewhat control of what slipped out of his mouth. The only difference was that his sober mind would have preferred to keep that last bit of information private, in fear of making you feel uncomfortable.

But, you had felt the exact opposite. You had found his slurred, drunken speech flattering. You nervously shifted your weight between the cushions, trying your best to contain this giddy feeling that bubbled up inside you.

Your eyes shot up to look at him as he cleared his throat, hoping that he didn’t accidentally step over any boundaries.

“My turn.” He finally spoke in a raspy voice, ready to change the subject.

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you ever wear your ring?” He asks.

“Well,” You began, drawing in a breath. “That’s another long story.”

“I’ve got time.” He grinned, mocking your previous tone, to which you sarcastically laugh.

“It’s about you, actually.” You reply, hoping that would drive him away from the conversation but it only intrigued him more.

“Now I gotta know, c’mon spit it out.” He chuckled.

“Alright, alright.” You giggled nervously, “We had gotten into a really heated argument a few weeks back…”

All of a sudden a heavy lump started to form in your throat and you could feel warm tears starting to prick their way through the corners of your eyes. No way, you were about to cry in front of Matt.

You raised your hand up to your face, quickly wiping away any forming tears before they had the chance to roll down your flushed cheeks. He took your shaky hand in his and gently started to stroke the top of your skin with his thumb. You took a deep inhale before telling him more.

“I won’t go too much into detail about it, but basically he told me… that I should stop talking to you… because it was obvious that you were just trying to use me.” You choked out, as memories of that night began rushing in.

You saw Matt’s brows furrow together, his face scrunching up in protest. His lips parted slightly to give you a response but he could tell that there was more and let you speak.

“He also said that even if you did… you know… you would regret it soon after because I’m older than you. And that you probably weren’t into that sort of thing.” You mumbled.

“That is the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard.” He blurted out.

“Which part?” You sniffled.

“All of it.” He replied. The cushions underneath the two of you shifted as Matt adjusted his weight between them. He sat up straight now, both of your hands resting in the gentle grasp of his much larger ones.

“Peach, you’re the most kind and generous woman I know, you make my day better whenever I see you. You’re beautiful inside and out, and I hate that you let him stomp all over you like that.” He continued, most of his words were a blur as they sloshed together.

You suppressed a laugh as you caught a whiff of the fruity alcoholic scent that still lingered on his breath, he was drunk as hell.

But you didn’t care, the way he held you close and how his eyes locked so intensely with yours made up for it. He was babbling on and on about how shitty of a husband John was, yet your focus was set right on his lips— the most taunting of pink. You couldn’t help but wonder how they would feel pressing tender kisses into your skin. You want to feel his lips on yours, you needed to know what that felt like.

However, you were soon pulled out of your sinful thoughts once you felt the warmth of his hands vanish. You watched him throw them up in disbelief as he continued on, “I wouldn’t even be surprised if… nevermind.”

“What?” You question, “Go on, say it.”

“Nothing, peach. Don’t worry about it.” He shrugged off, growing embarrassed as he realized just how carried away he had gotten.

“C’mon, Matt.” You whine, your palm falling on top of his thigh. The sudden contact had caught him off guard and you could feel the muscles in his leg tense up below you. His eyes shot up to your glassy ones, hoping that he wasn’t the only one who felt a burning desire brewing inside of him. “Please.”

You could feel him relax a bit once he drew in a sharp inhale, thinking of what exactly he should say next without coming across as too vulgar.

“Does he even..” Matt began, being sure to choose his words carefully. “Does he even please you? Like, really satisfy your needs?”

“Like… sexually?” You muttered, being sure to get the clarification out of the way to make sure that you weren’t misinterpreting his words.

“Yeah,” He replied, his speech started to slur again as he mumbled, “Since he wants to keep my name in his mouth. I’d show you that an old man can’t do your body like I can.”

Matt was rambling again. If he hadn’t stepped over any boundaries before then he most definitely has now. You pulled your palm away from him, resting both of your hands back down in your lap. Shit, he was sure he had fucked this up now.

“Sorry.. I’m just really drunk right now.” He groaned. “You don’t have to answer tha-”

“No.” You interrupt, catching him by surprise. “He doesn’t.”

“Are you serious?” He replied, his brows raising up in shock. You nodded, to which he laughs in disbelief, not even knowing what he should say next.

“You want me to show you?” Matt spoke, his suggestive words came tumbling out as if he had them stored in his mind the moment he walked through your front door.

“Show me what?” You ask, slightly confused by his offer.

“What real pleasure feels like.” He coaxed, “How good sex can feel when it’s with the right person.”

Butterflies fluttered all through your stomach and your mouth went dry, bringing your shy gaze up to his primal look. His eyes spoke for himself, you could feel the desire radiating off of him and the feeling was overwhelmingly mutual.

Your fingers wrapped around his arm as you shifted over, as if there was some magnetic pull that tempted you to get even closer to Matt. Your eyes flickered down to his lips, the tips of your noses grazing against each other’s ever so slightly.

You brought your stare back up to his, feeling tingles trickle down your spine before whispering, “My age doesn’t bother you? You really don’t mind that you’re younger?”

“Of course not.” He coaxed. “I’m a young man, but my dick’s grown up.”

“Yeah?” You reply, inching your lips dangerously close to his. He nodded, “Then prove it.”

The elastic band of the arising sexual tension had finally snapped the moment he smashed his lips into yours. Wasting no time at all as he kissed away at you as if you were to slip away from his hands.

But you wouldn’t dare, you hadn’t felt this eagerness—such passion—from a man in what felt like ages. You were like a dry savanna awaiting for the smallest droplet of water.

You could feel the lust radiating from him as he made sure to show it in every action. That’s when you had finally realized just how long he has desired to have you in his grasp.

It was exhilarating.

You melted into his soothing touch, feeling safe and content in his arms. The soft pads of his fingertips slid up past the hem of your top, his warm palms resting right at the dips in your waist. He was testing the waters, seeing how far you would allow him to go. He’d be lying if he still wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of taking this “too far”.

But it was much too late for that now.

You craved Matt in all the ways imaginable.

One your hands dropped down lower, your delicate fingers grazing along the rough material of his jeans. You eased your palm down, pressing gently against his thigh. You could feel the muscles in his leg beginning to tense up once again.

You pulled a low groan from the brunette as your curious hand inched up closer and closer towards his groin—agonizingly slow.

By his body language and constant noises you could only assume that Matt wasn’t the type to enjoy being teased. But the way he squirmed underneath your touch had only encouraged you to want to do more.

You made sure to swallow each little plea that slipped out from him. Your palm now glued to the growing, aching erection in his pants.

There was nothing left to focus on, no distractions or obstacles standing in your way to keep the two of you apart. You had finally managed to have him all to yourself.

Matt was unbearably hard now. His fingers dug into your skin as he shamelessly started grinding himself against your hand. He knew without a doubt that if you kept this up, he’d have an embarrassing spill that he would never be able to live down.

Suddenly, the atmosphere in the living room grew stuffy and everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. Your bodies were ablaze and your clothes felt restricting against your flesh.

The warmth of his hands disappeared as they slipped out from underneath your shirt. His fingers came to the surface of your top, pinching at the soft fabric of the hem before finally pulling away from your luscious lips.

“Is this okay?” He whispers in a husky breath.

“Yes,” You reply with a huff, “Take it off, please.”

Your top was gone in an instant as Matt eagerly slipped it over your head and tossed it onto the plush rug lying on the floor. His lips curled up into a flustered grin, taken by surprise at the lacy, black bra that squeezed tightly around your breasts.

He would have never guessed that you were wearing such scandalous lingerie underneath your oversized tee. Now having the knowledge that you were wearing it during the entirety of the conversation had his dick twitching in his pants.

He couldn’t wait to get his hands on your baggy sweats to reveal the answer to his burning question: if you had matching panties on underneath.

“You wore this just for me, peach?” Matt whispered, leaving you shuddering as the warmth of his palms traveled up past your ribcage. The delicate material of the lace intertwined between his fingers as he cupped both your tits in his hands.

“I want to take my time with you,” He begins with a muttering tone. His dark strands of hair brushed against your chest as he brought himself down lower, “But you’re making it really hard for me… makes me want to tear your clothes right off.”

You whine at his lewd choice of words, combing your fingers through his scalp. You pulled your bottom lip behind your teeth as Matt pressed sloppy, tender kisses against the swelling tops of your breasts.

You squirmed with each kiss that he gave you, his lips sinking down into your warm, plush skin. He continued fondling them in his hands, being sure to stay a man of his word and take things slow.

Although there was a voice in the back of his mind that screeched at him to claw away at the rest of your clothes he chose to ignore it. You were special to him, he wanted to cherish and savor this moment. And he wanted to be sure that you were aware of that.

His glossy eyes flickered up at you, adoring your rosy cheeks and hooded gaze. He pulled yet another whine from you as he flattened his tongue against your chest, licking a stripe up from your exposed cleavage and stopping right at the most sensitive bit on the side of your neck.

He left a few hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat before pulling away and giving your lips the same attention.

His large hands slithered back down to squeeze at your waist. This kiss was far more hungry, more desperate than before. A heated mess between slippery tongues and clashing teeth.

Even though you admired and appreciated him for taking things slow, you couldn’t take it anymore. There was a burning, itching desire brewing up inside of you that only Matt could satisfy.

Deep down you knew it was awful. You should be ashamed by the way you latched yourself onto your neighbor the moment after finding out that your husband wouldn’t be home. But being with Matt now just felt so right—and so terribly good.

Your hand dropped back down to his lap. Only this time, your hand went straight for his belt instead of the very obvious tent that protruded out from his pants.

Your brows furrowed together, letting out a strangled moan. Growing frustrated as your fingers unsuccessfully fumbled around with the silver buckle of his belt.

You could feel him smile against your lips, amused at how desperate you were to get him out of his pants. He finally pulled away from you, letting go of your hips and brought his hands down to meet yours.

The buckle clinked as he easily unlatched it, you watched as he yanked the leather belt through each tiny loop that was placed around the waist of his jeans.

You glanced down as it hit the floor, joining your shirt. It felt like Matt’s movements were excruciatingly slow, you began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose.

Your heart raced against your chest as he finally plucked the silver button out of the slit and slowly began sliding down the zipper—the satisfying noise ringing in your ears as he did so.

He tugged both layers of his clothes just low enough for his cock to spring out. Your eyes quickly fixated on him, widening at the sight.

He was much thicker than you had imagined, longer too. His tip matched the faint rosy hue that spread across his cheeks, twitching just the slightest as the cool air conditioning spewed throughout the room.

You shift nervously against the couch, your breath hitching in your throat as you notice the thick vein that ran along the side of him.

Matt’s eyes flickered up to your meek expression, chuckling lightly as he spoke, “Getting shy on me now?”

Before your lips could part to give him a proper response, his fingers wrapped around your wrist, slowly guiding your hand down to his dick. A low groan seeped out from him as he felt your delicate touch wrap around him so sweetly.

“It’s not that..” You finally reply, running your hand up his length with a weak, timid fist.

“What is it then?” Matt asked, meeting your eyes.

“You’re just…” You began to say, only to quickly avert your eyes away from him, “…much bigger than what I thought you were.”

“What you thought or what you’re used to?” Matt teased. A flustered expression took over your face as you squeezed around his base at his snarky remark towards your husband. “Sorry, sorry.” He joked.

You loosened your grip around him, bringing your eyes over to his. The same smile still spread from ear to ear, “Mhm. I suppose you were right about what you said earlier, then.”

Your sweet, buttery tone ran all throughout his nerves. You could feel his muscles loosening, finally allowing himself to melt into your touch as you slowly started pumping him. Only for you bring your movements to a halt just mere seconds later.

He watched you with lazy eyes as your knees spread apart, getting into a more comfortable position before lowering your head down towards his lap. Your lips now dangerously close to his aching tip.

You could feel your ears growing hot as Matt never took his stare away from you. Although the view wasn’t all that he imagined it would be, since the majority of your hair swept right in front of what he wished to see the most—your face.

He let out a low huff, bringing his shaky hand down towards your head. His thick fingers looped underneath your dangling strands of hair and gently brushed them out of the way by tucking it behind your ear. You glanced up at him with doe-like eyes and flushed cheeks as you spat out a generous amount of saliva onto his tip.

His nose scrunched up and his nostrils flared out, watching your eyes drop back down to what was in front of you. Clear, tiny bubbles trickled down his member, pooling up around his base. Your hand still slowly pumping him like before, making sure to get him nice and saturated before finally taking him into your mouth.

“Fuck.” Matt cursed under his breath, sinking down into the soft cushions.

His brows knitted together as his teeth drew back on his bottom lip, watching as you took him in as deep as you could. You could feel him tense up below you as he felt your tongue slither against him, slowly bobbing your head up and down. Your lips wrapped around him so perfectly and the warmth of your mouth had his fingers clawing into the armrest of the couch.

“So pretty, baby, so fucking pretty.” He mumbles in a drunken slur, his sugary words encouraging you to slightly quicken your movements.

Your back arched at the slightest, the imprint of your spine dipping down as your ass hiked up in the air. Your eyes fluttered closed, palming the rest of him that you couldn’t fit down your throat.

Matt could feel his pulse pounding into his ears, taken away by all the pleasure. Goosebumps raised up from your skin, feeling his fingertips stroke their way up and down you back in an almost loving manner.

It took everything in him to not thrust himself up into your mouth, desperate to know what it would sound and look like for you to gag around his cock.

But if he were being honest with himself, there was no way he was going to be able to last a second longer with the way you were moving.

His heavy breathing becoming more rapid and his noises came tumbling out. You could feel his veins throbbing against your tongue as you continued—he was awfully close.

“Shit… h-hold on..” Matt whined, the hand that was once on your back now tugging you up by the hair, gently pulling your mouth away.

You peered up at him with glossy eyes, a thin trail of saliva connecting your swollen lips down towards his dick.

“What’s wrong?” You mumbled timidly, wiping away the drool from your mouth with the back of your hand, “Should we stop?”

“God no,” Matt huffed out with a smirk, “I was just wondering if you would be more comfortable on the bed instead?”

“Oh,” You reply, sitting up straight now. You pondered his offer for a moment before agreeing with a nod.

“Yeah?” Matt whispers, a grin starting to grow on his face to which you nod again with a smile of your own. His fingers dug into the couch, looping under you as he lifted you up with ease and carried you towards the bedroom.

*ೃ༄

“Fuck, Matt..” You whine, “..don’t stop.”

Both of your clothes were scattered along the floor in a matter of seconds, not even bothering to shut the bedroom door in the process.

The soft amber light from the lamp gave your nude bodies a golden, angelic-like hue as you were both entangled between your silky bedsheets.

Matt’s large hands were wrapped around both of your thighs, spreading them apart so that his face nestled right where you had craved him the most. His tongue moved in a sensual rhythm, sucking and swirling against your swollen clit.

The alcohol still lingering in his system gave him the courage to peer up at you, his primal stare admiring your flustered face that was twisted up in pleasure. A sense of pride washed over him, feeling proud of himself—and rather cocky—knowing that he was able to make you feel this good while you husband was out doing god knows what.

Your trembling hands made their way towards him, nestling your fingers into his dark, wavy strands. He finally dropped his intimidating gaze, groaning against your core as you tugged away at his hair.

Various moans and cries fell from your lips. Your grip against his scalp subtly grew tighter, but he didn’t mind, in fact it only turned him on more. Your entire body squirmed in his hands, back arching up from the mattress as the elastic band in your stomach threatened to snap at any moment.

Your legs began trembling and your toes curled in against your soles. Your voice now much higher than it was before as you warned him of your arising orgasm.

It wasn’t long before you had released into his mouth, his rough stubble brushing against your inner thighs as they squeezed around his face. Leaving Matt’s cheeks a faint flushed pink, his ears grew hotter by the second as he peered up at you again.

Once you had caught your breath, your legs weakly fell open, allowing him enough space to stay between them as he crawled up towards you. His hands rested on either side of your face as he pressed a few lazy kisses against your lips. You whimpered against him when you felt his tip accidentally brush against your slick folds.

He caught onto your whiny hint, chuckling slightly as his dominate hand slid down between your bodies. His thick fingers wrapped around the base, aligning himself with your entrance before slowly pushing himself inside of you.

Your brows furrowed together as he wrapped his arms around you. A spew of broken moans slipped out from you as he began slowly thrusting into you. Your palms flattened against his back as he nestled his face into the crook of your neck, pressing even more kisses down your throat.

His low groans and soft whines filled your ears as kept the same sensual pace. Your thighs shook with each movement he made before you finally decided to wrap your legs around his waist.

The combination between that subtle action and the sweet sound of your voice ringing in his ears was slowly becoming too much for him to bare. His orgasm already creeping up on him.

He picked up the pace of his thrusts, now lazily ramming his hips down into yours at a sloppy speed. His forehead pressed against yours as his eyes locked into your glossy ones.

He smirked knowing that he was the cause of you feeling this way, that he could fuck you better than your own pathetic husband.

“You’re squeezing around so me so tight, baby. Gonna cum for me already?” Matt breathed out cockily through his quick movements, your nails clawing down his back.

He watched as you struggled to form a coherent sentence before dropping his hand down lower. The pad of his thumb pressing against your puffy clit as he cooed, “I know, c’mon and let it out sweet girl.. you’ve earned it.”

“Oh, Matt.. fuck!” You cried out shortly after, your back arching from the bed. You trembled beneath him as you came for the second time tonight.

Your legs remained low around his waist, assisting him with his messy, drunken movements. His lips pressed down into yours, wasting no time to slip his tongue past your swollen lips.

Your nails dug into his back and your eyes fluttered closed as you felt his warm cum gushing out and spilling into you. Your legs tightened around his waist, gently pushing him further into your core, filling you up to the brim with his seed.

📃 — taglist!

@bluesturniolo333 , @hoesformatt , @mattgirly , @stellarsturns , @mrssturnioloo , @sturniozo , @littlebookworm803 , @only4mattyb , @liz-stxrn , @strawberrysturniolo , @mangoposts , @enyaslover , @1horrormoviewhore1 , @whatever1021 , @mattslolita , @whicked-hazlatwhore , @sturniolopowers , @hercigaretteblush , @lovingmattysposts , @stardustmf444 , @lovesturns , @gigisworldsstuff , @crispylouis28 , @that-general-simp , @lustfulslxt , @ifilwtmfc , @chrislapdog , @sstvrnioloo , @angelic-sturniolos111 , @sturniolosreads , @gamermattsgf , @luvmxtt , @kayannettesposts , @sophssturn , @isabellehoran , @sturnfix , @luvmila444 , @luhsexcbihh , @kvtie444

©️ LUV4KOZUME 🦢

Navigation! ‧₊˚🥂✩ ₊

#luv4kozume #🌺 — triple threat event!#luv4kozume moots #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo #matt x reader #sturniolos #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets #sturniolo x reader #sturniolo smut

619 notes · View notes

thatsdemko · 9 months

Text

without you there’s nothing to live for - l.norris

masterlist

pairings: lando norris x fem!reader

warnings: jealousy + insecurities + fluff + build up(kinda long I’m sorry about that) + some errors here or there

a/n: while I had bits and pieces of this work in millions of other lando drafts I think I have to give credit where it’s due to @userlando and her anons ☺️🫶 I’m in such a shit mood so i figured posting this might make me feel better. enjoy xx

Lando Norris was annoying. a childhood friend of yours that somehow stuck throughout the years and never seemed to vanish. he was like a a piece of gum stuck to your shoe, he just never left.

and while you’re thankful he’s the longest lasting friendship you have; did you fail to mention he could be annoying?

his hands drum against the kitchen island, a distraction worthy of you flicking your pencil in his direction, but he’s too quick the pencil would just end up behind him, so you result in throwing him a very pointed look that shuts him up.

“is that pencil up your ass too today?”

you give him another look before staring down at the empty grocery list you failed to create, because lando has claimed your flat as his flat. the lavish lifestyle penthouse was abandoned at the instant call of your arrival to Monaco, and now all of his expensive taste clutters your space.

“did you put eggs on the list? I need eggs. it’s good protein—“ he shuts up to the sound of you breaking the pencil in half, another annoyed look tossed his way.

lando could be a lot. but there was no one who could keep up with you. there was no one like him in your corner, and while he pushed your buttons you were eternally grateful for his loyalty despite your rather jaded friendship.

“let’s just go to the store? I’ll drive.” he says like there’s another alternative to the store. ever since he got his license and moved in, you’ve never even put your foot on the accelerator. you’ve almost forgot the thrilling feeling of driving.

“eggs have been added to the list.” you finally say, typing up your notes of a grocery list once you were finally able to think straight without lando tapping away or chatting your ear off.

god was he annoying, but you loved him for him.

—

his wallet funds are bigger than what you have. you feel guilty every time he buys, but it’s not like you have the funds to do so. he knows that guilty look across your face when he ends up paying for 10% groceries and 90% female hygiene products. he doesn’t mind, just shoves his card in the machine and says a thank you for the person who bags your things.

“you have to let me pay you back—“

“no, nonsense.” he cuts you off, the conversation goes like it always does. you beg, and beg, to try and wiggle in a payback, but he refuses. all those years of your parents giving him shelter, taking him to races, or letting him play in your backyard it’s the least he could do.

“but the price adds up, and you’re paying for most of the rent—“

“I won’t have this conversation with you. just get in the car.” he says it without letting you have another word in. it’s his turn to shoot you down with pointed looks every time you try to mention money.

“y/n?! is that you?”

lando’s heart nearly drops to his stomach at the sound of that voice—that voice, being your ex boyfriend. he came out of nowhere, like the stalker he is, and finds himself walking around lando’s spiffy mclaren with wide eyes and confusion at your presence with the formula one driver. he must’ve forgotten lando was your best friend.

“you going to introduce me to your new boyfriend?”

before you can protest lando shakes his hand. you can tell by the grip lando has on him it’s a firm hard handshake. one to prove a point about the 2 a.m calls of you crying to your best friend from across the world. he was a shitty man, and maybe showing lando off like that would put him in his place.

“this is lando, you guys met awhile back.” you say.

you watch the two of their eyes glimmer in the sunlight with hatred for one another. lando was the guy you told him not to worry about— and he still was— and he was the guy lando was desperately wanting to kick ass.

“don’t remember that.”

“I actually remember, didn’t you spend half the night snogging another girl?” lando’s gentle reminder makes your ex’s face flush pale. you watch a little smile lift to lando’s lips before you both excuse yourselves to head home.

“my new boyfriend is so cool.” you say in a sarcastic tone once it’s just the two of you in his car.

lando let’s out laugh, and just puts the car in reverse. the simple act makes your head spin. his hand reaching behind the head of your seat, the way his eyes quickly glance on you before he looks back to ensure no one is coming. these thoughts were never present until this run in. would lando be a good boyfriend?

you can’t help but explore those thoughts in the twenty minute car ride home in pure silence.

your mind wanders to the idea of waking up to him in your bed. his legs tangled with yours, lazy soft kisses pressed your cheeks. you could melt at just the thought of it.

or maybe he’d make you eggs. you’d wake to the smell of bacon grease and him shirtless—like he always is in the kitchen— creating a masterpiece meal that you devour in minutes.

what switch has suddenly changed in you? because now when you look at lando, your heart does things it never did before. your head spins of ideas of him as your boyfriend and it’s so sickening you could throw up.

“I’m going to unload the groceries, you’re more than welcome to sit and stare into space for as much as you need.” his words spook you. a little yelp escaped your lips that he’d caught you. your eyes bug wide—like they always are when you get into your daydreams— and mind so full you lose track of time and often forget your surroundings. you had no clue you’d been sitting in the driveway this whole time.

“where do you want the tampons again? I seem to forget.”

“under the bathroom sink please.”

you wonder if you can shove your thoughts under there too. a nap is needed to clear your mind of whatever seems to be boggling it all about lando.

—

a nap certainly did help, however, waking up to lando shirtless in your bed also napping? yeah, all that hard work of suppressed thoughts came right back.

you think about taking your finger and running it all over the divots, curves, and muscles of his body. you think about how much stronger he’s been looking lately and how the little hair on his chin is growing onto you. what is going on with you?

it was common for lando to come in your room and sleep with you. nightmares were rare for you, but they happened more often than you expected and lando always wanted to be there for it. but this was just a nap? why did he have to come in and sleep with you? he could’ve just slept in his own bed, that certainly would’ve helped your heart if he did.

you roll out of bed and tip toe around your bed, until your heart makes you stop. you stare at his peaceful state. the way his curls fall over his forehead, the thick long lashes you desperately want, the soft smile on his lips— his eyes are opening, shit, you think to yourself.

you quickly book it out of the room to save yourself from the embarrassment of him catching you watching him sleep. what a creep you were becoming in the matter of hours. this is why you shouldn’t like your best friend. hell, this is why you shouldn’t let your man best friend live with you. it was destined for one of you to fall in love.

but it was also destined for you to most likely get your heart broken.

lando doesn’t date women like you. you’ve seen his roster of women rotating in and out of your place, none of them looked like you: an average woman with average looks. who’d want that?

a little part of hope lingers in your chest when you see him enter the kitchen. his lips press against your temple as he mumbles a good morning.

“how was your nap?”

“not long enough.” you admit watching him type away on his phone. his elbows are pressed against the granite counter tops, his fingers work vigorously against the screen. a little smile appears on his lips that make you nauseous. it could just be max, but it could be another girl.

almost two hours ago this wouldn’t of mattered to you. you wouldn’t of cared if lando invited a girl over and you stayed locked up in your room, but now all of a sudden it’s bothersome.

“what’s got you all smiley?” you ask, partially out of curiosity but partially to just kill your heart with his response. he sets his phone face down on the counter resting his chin in the palm of his hand, “max is coming over, and so is pietra.”

“exciting.” you grin, though the words disagree with your expression making his face drop with worry.

“are you worried max is going to take your best friend spot? he could never, y/n.”

best friend. yeah, that’s all you’ll ever be when girls like ria and pietra exist. deadly beauty that could put a man in his place. when was yours ever going to show up?

—

you’re tipsy off the expensive bottle of wine max brought. your body is pressed against lando’s for support as you all laugh about something max said. you can’t help but wrap your arms around his strong bicep, resting your head against his shoulder listening to pietra expose Max’s recent mess up.

lando doesn’t take notice in the way you’re seated. he knows you’re beside him based off the heat that radiates off your body. you always got overly warm when drunk, and sometimes a bit too affectionate, but he didn’t mind. he actually loved it when you wanted to be beside him.

“so when did this happen?” pietra points her finger between you two, a bright smile pressed against her lips as she cozies herself up to her own boyfriend.

lando clears his throat. he practically yanks his arm out of your grip leaving you to fall back against the cushions beside him. you hide your face into his back out of embarrassment suddenly becoming aware of how you two look. “oh umm—“

“oh gosh! I’m so sorry. I think it’s the wine talking in me.” she quickly apologizes, a blush filters her face similar to yours.

“it’s not the first time today that’s happened.”

“do tell,” max sits on the edge of his seat listening to lando explain the run in, your face is still pressed into his back. you’re hoping that maybe if you just stay there you would disappear into thin air or end up in your bedroom sound asleep away from all of this.

“I still want to kick that guys ass—“

“wait,” pietra cuts off max, her voice demands all the attention in the room. you pry your head from out of lando and peer behind him at her, “you didn’t even tell him you are just friends? you let him assume that you’re dating?”

lando’s mouth opens and closes. nothing seems to come out making max throw his head back in a laughing fit, “oh god! I owe ria money for this, you like y/n!”

Lando’s face is flushed red, a similar color to the glass of wine in his hands. there was nothing he could say. he couldn’t even protest it when it was true. he hadn’t even realized he never corrected your ex boyfriend, because truth be told, he wanted to be shown off as your boyfriend.

“come on pietra, let’s leave these two alone.”

they leave as quick as they came, leaving only the half full bottle of wine for yourselves. you both sit in silence, no one musters up the courage to speak.

you both get ready for bed like nothing happened. the awkward silence eats you up. you want to speak up and tell him you feel the same, you want things to go back to normal. you just want annoying lando back.

when you finally finish your nighttime regiment, you’re ready for bed. you turn the corner into your bedroom and see the silhouette of lando reflecting against the wall. your night light was on, and he was laying in your bed, cozied up under the covers.

“sleeping in here tonight?” you ask slipping under the covers beside him, he moves himself closer to you occupying the middle of the bed.

“you don’t mind, do you?”

you shake your head curling your body against his, “I like it when you sleep with me.” you say making a sense of pride soar through his chest. he likes the way your body molds against his.

“your new boyfriend will protect you.” he smiles down at you, carefully place a kiss to your forehead before reaching over and turning off your lamp.

“thank goodness he’s here, I can’t sleep without him.”

“you know I’m talking about myself right?” he lifts his neck up, face looking down at you, your eyes closed practically half asleep already.

“goodnight, boyfriend.”

“goodnight, girlfriend.”

tags: @oconso @xcicix @imsorare @weasleyswizardwheezes-blog @monzabee @lpab @frreyaa @motorsp0rt @lovelytsunoda @smoothopz

want to be apart of my tag list? let me know here!

1K notes · View notes

neptuneiris · 4 months

Text

Behind the Scenes (04/05)

Behind the Acceptance

pairing: actor!aemond × fem!reader

summary: there are new changes for you and Aemond, he wants to rectify himself for past mistakes and you get used to your new life with the father of your son present.

word counter: 10.2K (consider it as a christmas gift, love you all❤)

previous part • next part • series masterlist

I'M SO SORRY!

i know the wait has been too much and you don't know how sorry i am. i experienced stress during my last week of uni before leaving for vacation and i got a new job, which consumes my time and i couldn't edit or do any writing, but i managed to find small times to write and that's why it's taken me so long. i appreciate your understanding, really🥺

I would like to wish you all merry christmas and a happy new year, my best wishes to all of you and also to your families, have a great time and God bless you all beautiful people, you are amazing and truly thank you for so much🥰

now yes, enjoy!

warnings: aemond dad melting our hearts and that's it:)

When Aemond told you to please go back to work and stop running away so that the two of you could face all this together, you didn't quite understand what he meant by 'go back to work'.

However, the next morning after waking up and starting to prepare breakfast for Aenar, you received an unexpected call that answered your question.

It's an unknown number so you accept the call with some caution.

"Y/N speaking? This is Michelle Watson, from the Warner Bros studio production department," she says and your heart jumps.

"Hello?"

You speak on the other end of the line, holding your phone to your ear.

It's HBO, who Aemond is working with right now and where you left your job thrown after unexpectedly meeting him again.

Nerves soon set in and you hold your breath, already feeling ashamed for leaving the shooting set like that without saying anything to anyone and creating a complete circus the moment Aemond called your name in the trailer in front of everyone.

"Yes, she speaks," you reply nervously.

"We want to inform you that despite what has happened, we understand it and the circumstances that led you to leave unexpectedly during your working hours," she tells you in a soft and formal voice, "And we will expect you tomorrow without any problem to resume work."

You frown completely, hesitate a little and blink several times in disbelief, not quite understanding.

"I'm sorry… what do you mean by resuming work?" you ask, barely able to contain your own surprise and disbelief.

"Some conversations took place," she explains, "Mr. Targaryen was quite insistent on convincing the production team to reconsider your situation. He advocated on your behalf, explained the circumstances and your entire track record as an excellent professional makeup artist so that you could continue to work with us."

With your lips parted and your eyes wide open, you are speechless for a moment, staring at a spot in your living room with your heart pounding, definitely not expecting to hear any of this after everything that has happened on this day.

You didn't even expect Aemond to decide to do this for you after everything that happened with him and Criston.

And just when you were starting to worry about how you were going to pay the rent for this apartment and even started to make a schedule in your mind to go get a job somewhere else tomorrow or even today.

"So if there's no problem and everything is fine with you, we'll expect you tomorrow at 7:00 A.M."

Completely speechless.

You can't even control your own heart rate.

But in spite of that, you can't help but feel a huge relief run through your entire body, where you still feel overwhelmed by the generosity and gesture of trust they are offering you, but you definitely feel completely relieved and grateful.

"Yes, yes, of course," you hasten to say, trying to control your emotions, "I'll be there. Thank you so much."

They give you a few more details, you ask few more questions and finally end the call, which leaves you with mixed emotions as you silently contemplate that you still have this new possibility of a better life for you and Aenar.

But you also think about Aemond.

And you will also wait to see how Aemond's integration into your son's little life will be now.

You really appreciate this gesture, you know that only he can do something like this with his influence and connections.

And in fact it gives you the confidence that he will keep his word that no one else will interfere in your and Aenar's life, only the two of you will make the decisions.

Arriving at the recording set, you leave Aenar in the nursery and then you enter the corridors of the whole big production, which is buzzing with its usual atmosphere with its twinkling lights, technical equipment with the huge cameras, microphones and all the sets ready.

You honestly feel nervous knowing that tomorrow you and Aemond will be working in the same place again, like in the old days.

But that's why you try to be as prepared as possible and you won't let all kinds of personal matters interfere with your work.

And once you arrive, you take a moment, take a deep breath and push open the door, where that familiar atmosphere once again envelops you.

You don't even know why but your heart is pounding as you walk down the halls and every step leads you to your area, the makeup and wardrobe trailer.

You assume it's out of shame after what happened yesterday.

Unfortunately your entrance doesn't go unnoticed and as you close the door behind you as you walk just a little into the trailer, some curious faces turn to see you, including Jess, who stops her usual routine and rushes over to you, her eyes wide with surprise.

You hug her back gently, feeling relieved and less tense by the warm welcome from Jess who, even though the two of you don't know each other very well, she actually seems like a very nice person and her personality shows you that.

"Ah Y/N, what a relief to see you again!"

She exclaims with her tone full of joy.

"God, I thought you wouldn't come back," she says as she hugs you excitedly, providing you with some comfort.

"I'm so sorry about yesterday," you say with a regretful gesture and you both break the hug, "I shouldn't have left like that and you don't know how embarrassed I feel. I'm really sorry."

"Oh no, don't worry about it," she assures you instantly, making a nonchalant gesture, "That's all in the past. The important thing is that you're back and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it," she comforts you with a small smile, "We have a lot of work to do today and we need to get you up to speed right away."

Jess, full of energy, ushers you further into the trailer while you greet your other co-workers. Then she explains the day's itinerary precisely, pointing out schedules, wardrobe changes and other important details.

All the while you nod, thanking her for her guidance and trying to keep up. In the midst of all the preparations, the huge door opens again and Aemond is now the one who makes his presence known.

Your gaze meets his and you see the obvious and unexpected surprise in his eyes at seeing you again, but there's not much reaction from either of you as instantly the makeup artists call him over and guide him to start prepping him for today's filming scenes.

And Jess also takes your arm, guiding you to the back of the trailer where the dressing rooms are located explaining what you will be doing, forcing you to look away from him.

And you can only feel Aemond's gaze on you until he loses sight of you.

Jess continues to explain to you, but you can't help but think and wonder certain things, like if everyone here, even Jess, knows about you and Aemond... what you once were and that you have a child together.

The behavior of both of you yesterday was very obvious, that's what you would think if you were an expectant one, so surely there must be some speculation.

And at that moment you remind yourself that your priority right now is your work and that the personal should be kept out of your work environment, so you shouldn't even think about it.

Finally you focus on following Jess's directions, putting aside distractions and preparing for the day.

Jess leaves you alone to take care of her own work and you start with yours, where you spend about an hour still in the back of the trailer, where you check and prepare the costumes that already have to be ready for the scenes that will be filmed soon.

When in the middle of everything, you hear some footsteps approaching behind you and thinking it must be one of the other actors or one of your co-workers, you turn around and the first thing you notice is that silver hair.

Aemond enters this section of the trailer a little unsure, without saying anything, while you also watch him without saying anything.

He is ready to record his scenes with that scar on the left side of his face that his character has and he only lacks the costume.

Until finally he speaks first.

You knew that having a conversation with him again would happen soon, so you're not surprised.

But for a moment there is a tense silence and a slight nervousness and insecurity on the part of both of them, where a clash of emotions is reflected in each other's gazes.

"Hey," he says in a soft, low voice, taking a couple of steps towards you.

You try to smile a little in his direction, not knowing exactly what to say or what to do.

"Hey," you wave back.

There is an awkward pause before Aemond again takes the initiative, taking a few cautious and slow steps towards you.

You bite your lips and lower your gaze for a moment, as he puts a hand to the back of his neck and looks so insecure and nervous standing there, surprising you a bit, as that behavior in him is unusual.

He usually always has that confident attitude in everything he says and does.

"I'm glad you're back," he admits to you, his low tone full of sincerity, "It's good to see you around again."

His words and that friendly gesture take you a bit by surprise, and although you still feel overwhelmed by the unexpected situation, you appreciate the way he is leading in handling all of this to start working together for Aenar's well-being, leaving past tensions behind.

"Thank you," you reply, feeling that sense of relief in your chest again, "Oh, hum… and thank you for talking to production so I could come back," you say a little shyly but gratefully, "You didn't have to."

He lets out a scoff in a nonchalant and also absurd gesture, frowning slightly his nose and forehead.

"Please, it was the least I could do," he tells you softly and with a warm tone, "Besides, it was nothing. I was just afraid you'd decide not to come back."

You hum in understanding.

"I thought about that," you confess to him, lowering your gaze for a moment, "But things were going to be easier for both of us with Aenar if I came back here," you explain, "Still, it was a very kind gesture of you."

Aemond nods, his gaze conveying a mixture of emotions that reflect both relief to see you back here, understanding, and also regret for the past that still haunts him. But he doesn't let those thoughts invade him too much at that moment.

Again there is silence in between for a few seconds, when he speaks again.

"How is Aenar?" he asks in a voice charged with a mixture of happiness, nostalgia and longing for his son.

"He's fine," you say in a soft voice, "He's in the studio nursery. Mary takes very good care of him," you add, wanting to reassure him that his son is being properly cared for.

He nods slowly, humming in response, trying to hide the intensity of his emotions in his gaze.

"That's good, I'm glad to hear that," he replies, vulnerability in his tone and gaze.

The air between the two of you still lingers, charged with emotions that neither of you dares to express openly. However, taking advantage of the conversation, Aemond decides to propose something.

He just met him yesterday and can't wait to see him again, to be in his company.

Yesterday's hours were simply not enough. And knowing that his son is well brings him relief and a feeling he hasn't experienced before since he found out he is a father.

"If you want, I can pay for a trusted babysitter for him," he offers and this gets your full attention, "I'm just saying… so you don't always have to bring him with you to work," he says with a hesitation, his tone betraying his insecurity about his proposal.

You remain silent for a moment, not knowing what exactly to say, in fact processing the unexpected offer. And Aemond can't help but feel even more unnerved by your silence.

"I-I… I don't know," you murmur, hesitant.

This nursery in the set is at least in the same place as you and that gives you relief that whatever happens, you can rush to him right away.

The idea of a babysitter strikes you as a mixture of relief and concern.

In the morning you'd have more time getting ready to come to work and it wouldn't be as much of a burden on you, yet you've never left someone to take care of Aenar while you're away.

But leaving him at home and coming all the way here to work, that causes you hesitation, besides the fact that you have to know the person who will take care of your child perfectly, as well as have confidence in her, above all.

"Only if that makes you feel more comfortable," Aemond adds softly, "But if that's not what you want, that's fine."

You bite your lips, feeling uneasy at the thought of someone else caring for your son and having him away when you're working.

"And you know someone who might be trustworthy?" you ask attentively and still with hesitation in your gaze.

"Yes," he tells you immediately, softly, "Rhaenyra has an army of babysitters to take care of my younger nephews. I can ask her for help with that and I know she'll say yes," he assures you.

"And they are professional babysitters?"

"Yeah, yeah, Nyra is also very careful with the selection and the babysitters she has hired have years of experience and so far several of them have worked with her for a few years now."

And after a moment's reflection, you agree.

And as convincing as the information is, still a mixture of worry and resignation envelopes your body.

But you knew that sooner or later you would have to face the situation of balancing your job with the responsibility of caring for your little one, accepting the idea that you won't always be able to have him with you.

"All right," you nod to him, "But I'd like to do some interviews first."

"Yeah, of course. I'll take care of that, don't worry," he says softly, nodding to you and you nod back.

"Thank you, Aemond."

"You don't have to thank me, Y/N, it's for our son. And if he or you need anything, please just let me know."

Seeing Aemond so willing to be a present father and his desire to be involved in his son's life, to some extent relieves you and surprises you a little, clearly because of what happened at first when you found out you were pregnant.

But so far… he has really shown you that he wants to be present and without having Criston and all his team around anymore.

The slight tension in the air is felt again as you and he continue to navigate the terrain of this new dynamic, which feels a little weird and you feel very nervous, though you don't even know why, while he at all times seems unsure.

And in an attempt to diffuse the tension, now you're the one who speaks first.

"Okay," you nod, "And if you…" you try to say a little nervously and with some caution and insecurity, "If you want to go see Aenar at the nursery or even at the apartment, you can," you assure him with a soft tone, "I never said you couldn't visit him and I don't plan to take that right away from you."

Vulnerability is reflected both in your words and in Aemond's expression, who with his soft face and with his gaze full of various emotions, places a small gentle smile on his lips.

"I'd love that."

Your words mean more to him than you probably realize. That sincere gesture of openness on your part, Aemond deeply appreciates.

Just as he appreciates that the conversation has reached a level of understanding and cooperation that neither of you had anticipated, but that you definitely appreciate. It doesn't end there yet, though.

"Can I ask you something?"

You nod, with no problem.

"Sure."

"What will you be leaving work on when your shift is over with Aenar?" he tells you interested and attentive.

"Um… well, yesterday I took the bus," you explain, considering that just yesterday was supposedly your first day, "And I had already planned that if I finished late, I'd take an Uber. Like now in the morning I was running a little late and took an Uber," you reply, trying to explain your transportation routine.

In fact there is nothing wrong with moving this way, many people do it, besides you don't have many options.

But that's what Aemond doesn't want, he wants to make your life a little easier, especially since Aenar lives with you and he doesn't want to risk something bad happening to both of you one day with public transport.

"Well, if you want, I can take the two of you," he also offers without hesitation, "Or if it seems too much, I can ask my driver to pick you up and take you wherever you need to go, without problem," he assures you, "I just don't want you to move that way with Aenar or by yourself."

This new unexpected offer from Aemond also surprises you, that you even think about turning him down, telling him it's not necessary.

Mostly you see it from Aenar's safety side.

But his concern is genuine and also you know that then moving you will start to be a problem.

You know you can't afford Uber every day, the fares aren't exactly cheap and there are other needs you have to take care of, besides taking the bus late could be dangerous.

"Well…" you look at him hesitantly and a little embarrassed, "You won't have a problem with that?"

"No, of course not," he answers you instantly.

You nod in his direction, grateful for his consideration.

"Yes, it's fine and seriously thank you for this too," you can't help but say, "Sometimes transport is complicated."

"Don't worry, it's fine."

He is about to say something else when a third voice interrupts him, entering the same space as you.

"Yeah, I know, sorry, I'm already on it," he assures her instantly.

"Aemond, are you ready now?"

Enters one of your co-workers, watching him intently and instantly with concern at the sight of him still in his civilian clothes.

"For God's sake, why aren't you dressed yet? Your scene is going to shoot in less than fifteen minutes!"

"I'll be back in ten minutes. Hurry up, please," the worried girl says and hurries away.

You instantly at that moment decide that the two of you can talk later and hand him his clothes from the scene he'll be shooting soon and he thanks you, heading for one of the small dressing rooms quickly.

When he finishes putting on his clothes, you quickly help him look perfect for filming the scene.

"I'll be seeing you," he tells you before leaving and you nod.

"Sure."

And from that moment on, over the next few days, everything changes as much for Aemond as it does for you.

He kept his word to drive you and Aenar back home every time your shift ended. And if he was still filming scenes, he would send his driver to take you instead of him, also to bring you in the mornings.

The relationship is cordial and collaborative and while there is no romantic reconciliation involved, there is a determination to build a more stable and secure future for Aenar, as well as prioritizing his well-being above all else.

At work, too, the dynamic between the two of you changes completely. Communication is professional, as it should be, but in every interaction there is a complicity that seems to have evolved.

There is a quiet understanding, a new focus on cooperation and mutual respect that is taking shape.

Also Aemond kept his word to hire a fully trusted babysitter and while he took care of that, sometimes you found him in the nursery with Aenar, keeping him company and playing with him.

At first this caused you some noise and also confusion, since Aemond is under the public eye spending quality time with his son and doesn't bother to hide it, so you wondered if already everyone working here, also Aemond's co-workers, knows that he has a son with you.

Again that sight couldn't help but make you smile with a certain nostalgic look, watching the interaction of those two silver-haired heads in their own world.

But it made you feel happy to see your little boy laughing and playing with his father.

And if so, you doubt that it will come out soon, because working in this production of whatever position, there is a confidentiality contract for everything, even for the personal life of the actors.

But when the shooting of this show is over, everyone is probably going to know about it. Although it seems that Aemond doesn't even think about it and doesn't really care.

So you decide not to ask him anything about it and how Criston and his whole team is going to take it.

You honestly don't know what Aemond has done with him, what they have talked about and what exactly happened for him to leave you and Aenar alone.

And you don't want to know. You've had enough of him and everything he did to you. And fortunately you live in peace and feel safe to have Aemond on your side this time.

And before you can say anything, Aemond steps forward with a soft little smile.

When one day on your day off you find yourself making dinner while Aenar watches his favorite cartoon in the living room and you supervise him occasionally from where you are, there's a knock at the door.

You're traumatized with the thought that maybe it's Criston and something bad is going to happen, but when you open the door you find Aemond with a woman by his side.

"Hey."

"Hi," you try to smile, a little confused.

"Are you busy? I-I didn't know and thought I'd just come over," he says, "And I'd let you know but I don't have your number or-or something."

"No, no, it's fine, I'm just making dinner," you hasten to say.

"I came because I wanted to introduce you to Elinda Massey," he tells you, pointing to the woman next to him and she looks at you with a warm smile, "One of the babysitters Rhaenyra recommended to me to take care of Aenar."

"Oh," you nod, now understanding.

You watch Elinda and she radiates warmth and assurance in her gaze, instantly feeling comfortable with her presence.

"It's nice to meet you, Elinda," you say with a small smile, extending your hand to her.

"Same to you, Y/N," she replies, shaking his hand with yours, "Aemond has told me so much about you and Aenar. I'm very excited to meet him as well."

Aemond beside her nods, his expression calm.

"Elinda is professional and very experienced. I wanted to introduce you to her and thought maybe we could do a little interview together, just to get to know her and see how she gets along with Aenar."

You instantly nod again.

"Oh yeah, yeah, sure, come on in," you step aside, allowing them to pass, "Aenar is watching his favorite cartoon," you say as you close the door behind you.

Aemond instantly walks towards him, making a sound of surprise, catching his attention and Aenar instantly notices him, smiling big at the sight of him, his huge blue eyes lighting up and reaching out his little arms towards him.

Both you and Aemond know Elinda better and you realize that she is a woman who has all the necessary experience and training. Besides the fact that when she approaches Aenar, he instantly laughs and plays with her.

Aemond laughs and takes him in his arms, starting to leave a bunch of kisses on his huge chubby cheeks, making him laugh as he holds him against his chest and speaks to him in a honeyed tone.

And you again can't help but smile as you watch the scene.

There is still that feeling of worry in you knowing that you will have to leave Aenar in someone else's care.

But Elinda shows you so much in so few hours, she tells you about her experience, shows you letters of recommendation, first aid certificates, as well as other care and Aenar has fun with her.

Aemond stays a few more moments in Aenar's company, playing games and watching the cartoons he likes, while you finish dinner and cleaning the kitchen.

The three of you establish a work schedule for her, as well as you tell her some recommendations and observations regarding Aenar.

And once everything is ready and clarified, she leaves and Aemond tells you that he has already taken care of all the payment details with her.

Every now and then you hear how Aemond asks him questions in a honeyed tone and repeats the same expressions he does when he sees his favorite character on TV, and then both start laughing.

Those sounds, the sound of your son's laughter and also Aemond's expressions, unconsciously make you smile and you watch from the kitchen as Aemond makes funny gestures or faces to make him laugh and attacks him with a lot of kisses all over his face or tickles.

Then you walk him to the door once he is ready to leave.

And there the two of them make themselves comfortable on the couch, eventually Aenar falls asleep on Aemond's lap, his back and head against his chest. He cautiously gets up holding him gently and puts him to sleep, while you thank him.

"Oh, right, I almost forgot," he says stopping in front of the door and turns to you, "This is for you."

You see him take his wallet from his back pocket and inside it, he pulls out what appears to be a black card and holds it out to you. This catches your attention and also confuses you, taking the card with that confusion, not understanding.

And only when you take a good look at it in your hands do you realize that it is a bank card.

"It's yours."

He says and you frown more, then raise your gaze to him asking for an explanation.

"I can only send money to it, I don't have direct access. You'll get the PIN from the bank, tomorrow after the shoot, I'll take you to activate it," he tells you, "You know, it's in case you need money to buy something for Aenar or for you, whatever you need."

Then when you fully understand the explanation and the purpose of this, you start to panic.

"Aemond—

You try to say feeling the lump in your throat and your heart starting to pound.

"I know I didn't tell you about this, but please, I want to do it," he interrupts you with a pleading tone so you won't reject him or reproach him about it, "Besides, this is necessary. Sometimes I will have to travel to other cities for shootings or events and I won't be able to see you or him and I want to make sure you don't lack anything. So just accept it, please."

"But—

"Please," he insists.

This really seems too much to you and you have an idea of the amount of money the card must already have. And no… in spite of everything, you don't want to accept this and feel that you are taking advantage of him.

You watch him still with hesitation and worry on your face, tension hanging in the air as you and he stand in complete silence, saying nothing for a few seconds.

You look back down at the card in your hands and Aemond follows your gaze, both of you standing face to face.

And it just seems that Aemond reads your thoughts by the hesitation and insecurity on your face.

"If you don't want to use it to also buy things for yourself, use it just to buy Aenar whatever he needs," he tells you softly, "After all, I was going to do this sooner or later, wasn't I? It's my responsibility to make sure he doesn't lack anything and that's what I'm going to do."

You let out a long breath, beginning to feel less of the weight of the luxurious and clearly exclusive black card in your hands, with his words beginning to soften your chest at the mention of Aenar.

"Fine," you mutter finally, letting out a sigh and raising your gaze to him, "B-but I'll only use it for things that Ae-

This gesture from Aemond is a clear sign of concern and responsibility he feels towards you and his son. And you truly feel that genuine desire that he wants to contribute for the welfare of both of you.

You try to clarify but he quickly speaks up.

"Yeah, okay," he nods at you, "Don't worry. Just… use it."

You nod again.

"Thank you, Aemond."

A slight flicker of concern appears in his gaze and he quickly tries to be able to struggle to find the right words to be able to explain himself so you don't misunderstand him.

"I don't want you to feel like I'm trying to—

"No, no, I don't think so," you tell him softly, with understanding, "This…" you look back down at the card in your hands and let out a sigh, "This is actually necessary and very helpful…. you really don't know how much I appreciated it."

He nods, his expression relieving a bit as he sees your behavior and also as you accept his support.

"Easy, it's okay," he assures you in a soft murmur.

"Also…" he starts to say with some nervousness but definitely more confident, "I wanted to ask you if you have social security for Aenar and you," he says with a serene expression, looking directly at you.

Again silence settles between the two of you but the air is different, calmer and less tense, feeling the mutual understanding.

And Aemond, after the two of you say nothing for another long few seconds, thinks it best to talk at this point about another plan he has in mind.

This also immediately catches your attention and you watch him warily, tilting your head to one side and starting to get an incredulous look on your face.

"You're not seriously thinking that—

"Y/N, please," he interrupts you, "This is no problem for me, really," he insists, "I just need to know."

"But—

"This is also important and I can pay for it."

"But it's a lot of money and I don't think—

"Do you really think I'll let you and Aenar go through life without being covered?" he asks you incredulously, "I can handle this. I really can."

His words continue to reflect that genuine commitment and you, despite your concern, feel something warm invade your chest, especially the gentle and willing way he is looking at you.

After all that has happened, seeing Aemond so determined to contribute to your son's well-being gives you a new hope and opportunity for Aenar's future.

The costs are too much, nothing you could really afford, not even for Aenar, since your salary was not much and had to cover other needs. You couldn't even afford it on your current salary.

You have always worked very hard to try to give Aenar everything he needs. Among them, paying for a social insurance for him, in case of anything.

But you could never afford it.

And that suddenly Aemond is offering it to you so easily, clearly because he can afford it, you feel somewhat overwhelmed and also feel that it is too much.

"And you're completely—

"Yes, I am," he interrupts you again, being very clear and honest with you, "This won't be any trouble, really," he assures you.

You want to tell him thank you, but the words get stuck in your throat. However, Aemond sees the gratitude is visible in your gaze, along with your concern and how you find yourself overthinking it.

So he just gives you a look of understanding and total reassurance.

"I'll be leaving. You need to rest. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

You let out a long breath, bite your lips and nod in his direction.

"Okay."

"Good night," he says softly as he opens the apartment door again.

"Good night. Drive safe."

Lately the days have been more… peaceful.

But as the days progressed, you realized that it was useless to feel that way because when you returned to the apartment, everything was absolutely fine. And also everything is easier when you transport yourself with Aemond's help or with the help of his driver.

Having Elinda as a babysitter, your mornings are easier and she does an excellent job with Aenar, so you have nothing to worry about.

At first you would leave home feeling horrible and your whole body tense, always alert to your phone and exaggeratedly paranoid.

Aemond also one day told you the same thing, that lately things have been quiet, even the recordings have not been heavy for him compared to other days or other jobs.

And for the same reason that he is busy filming, he hasn't attended any events or interviews, that happens rather after he finishes filming a new show or movie and there is still time left for that.

Aemond drives in silence and the soft background music on low volume fills the entire interior of the car while you watch the city through the windows and Aenar sleeps secured in one of the back seats.

So on this one day and for one occasion only, Elinda had an important commitment that she couldn't postpone, so she didn't show up for work and you didn't have any problem, since you can bring Aenar to the nursery on the set.

And now it is Aemond who is driving them home after your shift ended almost at the same time he finished filming his scenes.

He and you haven't talked much during the whole drive, only about work, but even so the silence is comfortable and you can't wait to get home to cook a nice dinner.

The cityscape soon transforms into familiar and somewhat… careless streets, as you approach to your apartment.

He parks in front of your building and watches you.

You know this isn't a luxurious area and there's a lot of detail to look at, but it's what you can afford right now.

And that's just what Aemond thinks as he looks around the neighborhood, hating to leave you and Aenar here when he can get you a much better place. But he knows you'll say no.

"Will you stay here any longer?" he asks you softly, "I mean, will you continue to pay rent?"

"For now yes," you nod to him, "I'm saving up to move to a better place, to an apartment in a different area and that's close to work," you let him know, "It's just taking time because of my paycheck."

Aemond stares at you intently for a moment, thinking and pondering your words, with a thoughtful look on his face, while you make sure you have all your belongings with you before getting out of the car and carrying Aenar.

And just as he is about to speak, a familiar sound interrupts him and his son's crying is heard throughout the car.

You follow him too with all your things in hand, walking over to both of them.

You quickly turn to him to attend to him, trying to calm him down, while Aemond reacts and quickly gets out of the car to open the door to the back seats.

It takes him a little while to unfasten the seat belts, but once he's finished he takes him in his arms and whispers comforting words in his ear to make him stop crying.

"Shh, my little one," Aemond whispers, holding him against his chest and stroking his silver hair, "Hey, it's okay, it's okay," he murmurs, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead.

You move to his side and run one of your hands over his wet cheeks, watching you for a moment with teary blue eyes only to close them tightly and continue crying.

"Either he wants to sleep in his room or he's hungry," you say, stroking his face to try to calm him as well.

"He didn't eat?" he asks you attentively.

"Yes, Mary said yes."

"Then he wants to sleep," he says, trying to wipe the dried tears from his cheeks, "Come on upstairs, I'll take him," he tells you and you nod.

All the while Aemond tries to comfort him until they reach the door of your apartment, but when he lays him down in his crib, Aenar cries more and he carefully holds him in his arms again, trying to soothe him while you quickly stop in the kitchen and prepare a baby bottle, hoping it will help.

And when you hand it to Aemond, he stands gently pacing around the room holding Aenar with one arm while the other hand holds the baby ottle for him against his mouth, hoping it will soothe him and he will fall asleep.

You take the bottle and Aemond carefully lays him down to sleep in his crib, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead to finally let him rest.

Aenar eventually calms down as he drinks from the baby bottle and watches with his blue eyes Aemond above him, who is still gently walking him around the room.

And little by little, wrapped in the safety of Aemond's arms, he falls asleep.

He sits up and turns to you, where you both look at each other without saying anything for a moment, sharing a silent connection.

"Thank you," you whisper to him.

"Don't worry," he says back to you in the same way.

Together you leave Aenar's room without a sound and gently close the door.

That night Aemond drives to his apartment with a new thought in mind, one of which is to always provide a better life for you and Aenar.

That's why, without telling you anything and taking advantage of the fact that it's your day off, he manages to leave the recording set early, he tells you to accompany him to the mall to buy new clothes for Aenar and you accept without thinking about anything else.

During the ride, so far you haven't questioned him about anything and that relieves him, but when you finally pay attention to the streets he is driving through, that's when your confusion appears and Aemond is thankful that you are about to arrive at the real place he wants to take you.

"I don't think there's a shopping mall around here, Aemond," you tell him confused, watching the streets carefully.

You realize that he is actually driving through a private residential neighborhood, with the streets lined with luxurious homes or rather mansions that would catch anyone's attention and you are clearly no exception.

And remembering your locations, you can tell that this neighborhood belongs to the Visenya Hill area, the most exclusive and prestigious area of King's Landing.

"Aemond, where are we going?" you look at him completely confused and questioning.

"I want to show you something," he tells you without giving you any more detail, generating more confusion and despair in you.

"But you said we were going to the mall."

"I know, but I lied to you," he says with some regret and you frown, "If I told you I wanted to show you a house where you can live with Aenar, you wouldn't have come."

"What?"

You inquire in your completely incredulous, serious and questioning voice, watching him with your eyes wide open.

"Surely you're joking," you tell him absurdly, shaking in his direction and watching him completely intently and seriously, really wanting to believe this is a joke.

"No, I'm not," he says letting out a small laugh, watching you for a moment to turn his gaze back to the road.

"Aemond," you start trying to warn him, serious.

"We're here," he announces out of nowhere, alerting you more fully.

You watch with your lips parted and completely attentive at all the windows, as the car comes to a stop in front of an impressive house, whose high ceilings and elegant white columns stand out in the neighborhood.

The front garden with the green lawn, a beautiful fountain and flowering bushes only make it stand out more, besides the elegant entrance, its huge windows and the dimension of the whole house that makes you continue to stare at everything with your mouth open.

In comparison, Aemond looks at the house with a hopeful expression and feeling genuinely happy and excited. But at the same time, he is worried about your attitude and what you will tell him about all this.

At first you refuse to get out of the car, still incredulous and surprised, telling him this is crazy, but Aemond makes you get out and also gets Aenar down from the back seats, instantly on this rare occasion preferring your arms instead of his father's.

"Aemond," you try to say, worried and still unable to believe it.

"Easy. Come," he tells you completely unconcerned, leading you to the entrance of the house.

You observe everything, unable to help yourself, as there is even furniture and everything looks too expensive but too beautiful at the same time.

You watch as he holds the fucking key in his hand and opens the beautiful, gigantic door for you, without giving you a chance to say anything else.

And as you enter, the entire interior of the house spreads out in front of you, illuminated by the daylight filtering through the windows and highlighting every majestic detail of the property.

The simple entrance is large with a crystal chandelier above you hanging from the high ceiling, the living room is spacious and there is also a small decorative fountain. Further on there is another living room that you can observe from the spacious and eye-catching kitchen.

And the entire upstairs also completely grabs your attention, having three huge bedrooms, the master bedroom being the largest of them all, each with its own bathroom and closet.

The bathroom down here is ridiculously large for a bathroom. The pantry is also a ridiculously large room for a pantry.

The garden is lovely and has a swimming pool which, according to Aemond, can be automatically closed off for Aenar's security. There is a laundry and drying room as well.

"It's perfect, don't you think?"

Aemond tells you slightly excited as you walk down the stairs behind him, with Aenar in your arms and who also looks at everything around him with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Work is nearby, my apartment is nearby and Elinda has come to this area to work before, so it won't be a problem," he tells you with that little smile, turning to you, looking with that gleam of hope compared to you.

He clearly expects the same reaction from you and even having already seen the house, you let out a sigh and look at him with a serious and confused expression.

"Aemond, what do you think you're doing?"

"Well, it's for you," he tells you, pointing to everything around him, still not seeing how much this is costing you, "It's perfect for you and Aenar. And a chance for him to live and grow up in a nice, spacious, safe place."

You are speechless for a moment, feeling that heaviness in your chest and your heart pounding as you press your lips together and briefly observe everything around you again.

"Everything will be taken care of by me, you won't have to worry about anything," he assures you softly, "Aenar's room is big, the kitchen is big, there are two living rooms and..." he shrugs, "Like I told you, everything is close by."

"Tell me you haven't already bought all this," you say slightly concerned.

And then all emotion from Aemond slowly fades.

"But why? What is it that—

"Aemond, this is too much," you interrupt him incredulously, shock in your eyes, "How do you think I'm just going to accept this just like that?"

He steps closer, with the slight concern in his gaze, trying to convey calm, but his eye reflects the urgency of his purpose.

"Y/N, please. I only want what's best for you and Aenar. Besides, you said you're moving soon and—

"Yes but to an apartment, not a house that costs millions of dollars," you tell him absurdly.

"Yes, I know, but—" he bites his lips, nervous, "I wanted to do this. I wanted to give this to you and Aenar," he says insistent, "A safe place in a quiet neighborhood, where you can also have your space without having to worry anymore."

You shake your head.

"But—

"Look, just..." he tries to find the right words, trying to work on your willing attitude for not accepting this, "Consider it, yes?" he insist, "You don't have to make a decision right now, for now I just wanted to show you around, nothing more," he says calmly, though you know that behind that calmness is an obvious longing.

"But it's just that this is too much and... no," you look at him with slight concern, "I don't need to consider it because no matter how much I think about it, my answer is no."

"Aemond, this..." you begin to say with restrained sadness, hesitating, "This won't change the past. This won't make it so I can forgive you," you tell him resignedly, "This isn't about me and Aenar, it's about Aenar nothing else and her well being," you tell him in a broken voice, "But this... this house... it's too much."

"Y/N..." he says, taking a couple more steps towards you, wary, "Two years ago, I was the worst shitty boyfriend," he says with sadness and regret, "I had to support you, be there for you completely, I shouldn't have let Criston talk me into his plans, accept in the beginning to hide you and hide my responsibility."

He says as he looks nostalgic at Aenar in your arms.

"And now that you've given me this second chance, I just want to make things right....I want to do what I should have done in the beginning."

Aemond's expression, although he himself tries to remain expressionless, still feels as if he has been hit hard in the stomach when he hears your words.

And all illusion disappears, as well as his enthusiasm.

He resignedly steps back, leaving a space between you and him, not wanting to overwhelm you any more than he already has.

He thought this would be a good idea, that by the time the three of you were here, looking forward to the idea of a new home, you would understand and accept.

But there are still many open wounds from the past and he knows they cannot be healed with these sudden gestures.

"I know, it's just that I-I..." he tries to say with his voice laden with regret and deep remorse," I didn't expect this... a house or an apology to just fix things," he says sincerely and with disappointment, "I just wanted to give Aenar stability and offer you a safe place for the both of you, give you a better life."

Silence envelops you both, dense and charged with mixed emotions.

Aemond tries to find some sign on your face, wanting you to see his true intention, longing for some small indication of hope or acceptance.

And you feel the overwhelming weight of responsibility and emotions inside you. All of this is tempting, though your heart is still scarred by past pain and also distrust. And you are torn between caution and the opportunity to give Aenar the stability he deserves.

Aemond remains silent, respecting your space and your time to process the situation. But the indecision in you is all too obvious.

"Y/N, I promise you that all this is for Aenar and nothing else," he tells you seriously and sincerely, "I promise I won't try anything, except to take care of him and make sure he lacks nothing," he insists, "At least stay in this house until he grows up a little more and if you still think it's too much, we can find a smaller place," he proposes.

His words are left floating in the air, while you continue to think too hard. His proposal echoing in your mind, plunging you into a sea of thoughts, with indecision.

Aemond seems to have put his heart on the table, but your emotions continue to struggle between caution and hope, as you cannot ignore the possibility of offering Aenar a more secure and stable life, which is all you wish for him since you could not give him that at the beginning.

And it is also what Aemond desires, that is why he is so insistent and you see his true intention to give this to Aenar, without any other intentions in between.

But is it right to trust him again? What if Criston and his team try to intervene again? This time they would do it more easily.

Maybe it can be different this time.

You honestly feel like you're taking a big risk by agreeing. It's a big bet to open your life and Aenar's to this new opportunity, but you also see how he's striving to give you something better.

And that's exactly what has you questioning and wondering: should I give this a chance?

"All right," you finally say in a soft voice with a mixture of nervousness, "But only for Aenar."

Aemond looks at you with surprise and hope.

"Really?"

You nod, swallowing hard and Aemond lets out a long breath, visibly relieved and then, avoiding smiling big, takes the house key from his front pocket and holds it out to you, to which you take it a little confused.

"Don't you have to give it to the real estate agent?"

"Actually, I already bought it," he says with a nervous but innocent gesture at the same time, scratching the back of his neck, "Well, I haven't paid the whole amount, but I've paid most of it. So it's yours."

Seven fucking Hells.

You can't help but think as you close your eyes for a moment and let out a sigh, unable to believe it.

The new house soon began to have that warmth the moment you started settling in with Aenar. Every room radiates a sense of peace and comfort that you haven't experienced in a long time.

The move wasn't difficult at all, the only thing you had to transport from the old apartment with the help of Aemond and his driver was your clothes, Aenar's clothes, her toys and her crib, nothing else.

The house already had furniture, beds, decorations and even televisions already installed.

The high ceilings allow natural light to flood in, while the white walls set off the black and gray furniture and Aenar toys, creating a warm and cozy atmosphere.

Aemond builds Lego block forts together with him, buys him toy dragons, cars, stuffed animals and they both watch Aenar's favorite cartoon or movies, getting cozy on the shag carpet or on the couch.

Because Aemond's apartment is close by, his commitment is more accessible, so there is never a day that goes by that he doesn't visit Aenar.

Special moments between father and son are spent in the living room, where toys scattered on the floor become Aenar's playroom area.

Also some evenings the three of you have dinner together, where Aemond offers to feed Aenar and eventually the dining room fills with laughter and smiles as you focus on him.

The backyard also becomes a realm of adventure, where they both even plan picnics and invite you over.

They also both sometimes spend afternoons exploring with laughter and playing with the plastic cars on the lawn where Aenar imitates the sounds Aemond makes from a car.

The new house is filled with happy and warm moments, forming the perfect setting for Aenar to begin to grow up, having both of his parents looking after him.

The proximity of work and Aemond's apartment made the daily routine easier. The routes are short and convenient, allowing more time to enjoy time together.

And above all you definitely feel more at ease having Elinda taking care of Aenar while you are considerably closer to home from the set.

When one day at night, you had already received a message from Aemond telling you that he would be a little late to visit Aenar, as usual, and you replied that it was fine, even though tomorrow is your day off and you have no problem with sleeping late.

But the clock is almost half past eleven at night and you think he is not going to arrive, when just at that moment you hear the doorbell ring and you go to the door, checking from the IPad the cameras of a program that Aemond installed to record Aenar while he sleeps and also monitors in case of anything and so you can make sure he is okay.

And finally you open the door, watching Aemond carefully.

"I thought you weren't coming anymore," you tell him in a low, warm tone, but also worried.

Aemond nods, letting out a sigh.

"I finished later than I thought. It was a hard day," he tells you heavily.

You nod softly and understandingly, stepping aside to let him pass.

"Aenar is already asleep."

"Yes, that's what i thought," he says calmly, "But it doesn't matter, I won't wake him up, I just want to see him," he watches you with tired eye, "You should go to sleep too," he says as he places one of his hands gently on your shoulder, "I'll lock up and set the alarm when I leave."

Hesitation shows on your face for a moment, watching him intently and with a flash of concern.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry," he nods at you with a small soft smile, "Go get some rest, I'll take care of it."

"Fine, but anything tell me, no matter what it is, okay?"

"Okay."

With a soft nod, you both head up the stairs and down the hallway to the rooms, you wave goodbye to him before entering your room and he enters Aenar's room.

And once in your room, you cover yourself with your sheets and thinking that you would fall asleep the moment you were in the comfort of your bed, you suddenly stare at the ceiling for a long time unable to close your eyes and clearly unable to sleep.

He hasn't left yet, as you haven't heard that soft 'click' of the door or his footsteps in the hallway walking away.

You try to find sleep any way you can, but the thought that Aemond is still in the house is what keeps you awake.

And it's not because you don't trust him, on the contrary, you look at the time and feel remorseful and worried that he has to drive back to his apartment so late.

Minutes pass and suddenly you find yourself restless, sleep refusing to invade you. So with quiet steps, you approach Aenar's room, where the dim light of a night lamp reflects through the frame below the door.

Carefully and determined, you gently open the door, first peeking your head and then your body, catching the attention of Aemond who turns his head towards you, sitting near Aenar's crib and gently and very lightly stroking his hair so as not to wake him with a look of affection that does not leave his face despite the interruption.

"Can't you sleep?" he whispers to you, watching you with a soft gaze.

You nod softly, folding your arms as you look down at sleeping Aenar with palpable tenderness.

"It's late and I thought maybe... if you want, you can sleep here," you say with a warm tone but your hint of shyness in your voice is noticeable, as well as your hesitation to suggest such a thing.

It's no problem for you, it's just that he's never slept over before and you don't know what his reaction will really be to you proposing that, whether he'll say yes or no.

"And you're okay with that?" he observes you thoughtfully and softly.

"Yes, of course I am," you assure him completely nonchalantly, "It's totally fine with me."

He nods at you with a gesture, without wiping away his soft little smile.

"Thank you."

And then both his gaze and yours return to watching Aenar asleep in his crib. And Aemond resumes the smile of tenderness on his lips, again sliding his hand over his hair.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" he whispers with a flash of pride in his gaze.

You hum in assent, slowly moving closer toward them both.

"Yes, he is," you reply, gazing at your little one with indescribable love.

A brief silence envelops you for a moment, only hearing the soft hum of the spinning lamp projecting images on the ceiling, creating a peaceful low-light scene of animals and stars for Aenar.

This usually helps him sleep and also calms him down a bit if he wakes up crying in the middle of the night while you wake up and rush over here.

"For a while I imagined how he would looked like, whether boy or girl..." he murmurs in a soft, warm, low, wistful tone, "No matter what you decided to do when you left, I always thought about it," he gives you a meaningful look, guilt on his features and you nod, watching him with understanding.

Aemond clenches his jaw and looks at Aenar again, while you remember those days, where fear and uncertainty lived inside you every day.

You wish you had them, those happy moments that a new mom should experience, but that was not the case for you and yet... you cannot imagine a life without your little boy, it is impossible.

What is supposed to be happy news, was not happy for you and Aemond.

There was no single moment of joy at the beginning, when you learned of your pregnancy. Nor did you experience that feeling the first few months, when you ran away and went back to building a new life.

And Aemond feels the remorse most in these kinds of moments, when Aenar is asleep and he looks at him, not being able to believe and wondering over and over again how it is that from the beginning, he supported the idea of just getting rid of him.

And now he sees only him and cannot imagine a world without him.

Shame overcomes him, guilt also and he even wants to cry with anger as he thinks of all that you must have gone through, without his support, trying to make a living for you and his son, all alone in a new and unknown place.

And he knows that this, allowing you to be in Aenar's life, is a great opportunity that he doesn't deserve and yet you have given it to him.

"I know you said you can't forgive me but... someday can you? For how I reacted and for the decision I supported in the beginning?" he asks you, unable to help himself and needing to know.

His tone is charged with a mixture of regret and longing as you feel a pressure and a slight sharp pain in your chest at his words.

Silence stretches for a moment throughout the room, Aemond respects your silence and though there are many reasons why you should never forgive him for what happened, you still decide to be honest.

"I don't know," you whisper in a low, sad and vulnerable tone.

The words echo through the room, enveloping the space with palpable tension.

Aemond feels his heart pounding, filled with overwhelming regret. He lowers his gaze, unable to bear the weight of his mistakes and your words are like a dagger in his heart, but still, he understands you completely.

He nods with compression, letting out a regret-laden sigh, still gently stroking Aenar's hair.

"I understand," he murmurs with a tone of melancholy and fragility, as well as in his gaze full of pleading and remorse.

"Does your family know about him?"

And you with your sad eyes full of regret, you watch him out of the corner of your eye.

And you see all those emotions in him, all his thoughts reflected in his gaze, trying to stand firm and on the sidelines as he continues to watch Aenar.

You can't help but ask, trying to calm the atmosphere a little, though it's useless, as that slight tension is felt and also that physical and emotional distance from both your side and him.

"I've wanted to tell them, only Nyra knows but I asked her not to say anything," he confesses to you in a low voice, trying to speak firmly but the nostalgia is clear, "Even though I know my mother and siblings will be disappointed in me when I explained what happened two years ago, yes I have wanted to tell them," he nods, "But first I wanted to discuss it with you," he says looking briefly at you over his shoulder.

And now it is remorse that comes to you.

"Tell them, Aemond," you tell him firmly with a soft tone, "They deserve to know."

general taglist:

@imaegonstargaryenswife0 @bellstwd @gibbsgirl7 @toodlesxcuddles @imsoshygirl @croatianprincess @gemini-mama @a-little-roony-mara @mysteris-things @zenka69 @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @duds31 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @eternally-passionate @bellaisasleep @ttkttt @aemshaircare @mellowdreamlandpost-blog @noodle81937 @mooncalvin @queenofshinigamis @n4tforlife @vexladin @dixie-elocin @wotcherpeak @watercolorskyy @shiny-trashs-blog @strangersunghoon @elysian0612 @skzenhalove @iloveallmyboys @cakescupcakesminicookies

next part:

@hypocritic-trash-baby

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen x y/n #hotd aemond #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x oc #aemond x reader #aemond one eye #modern aemond #aemond targaryen angst

573 notes · View notes

hunterrrs · 4 months

Text

Monday morning, the nerves were long gone, her prep work was largely done and the magnitude of the looming moment finally hit Michelle Crechiolo hard.

That night, when the Penguins battled the Philadelphia Flyers, she would become the first female broadcaster to ever call a regular season Penguins game.

When Crechiolo realized that morning that she would be a trailblazer and perhaps an inspiration to other women in hockey, her thoughts drifted to one of her favorite photos — a picture of her when back she was playing in Mini Mites.

“It’s making me emotional thinking about it now,” she later told the Post-Gazette, her voice quivering. “I’ve got the Jofa gloves, wooden stick. I’ve got on a little pink turtleneck under all my equipment. And I’m just posing and cheesing, and I’m missing a tooth. And I’m just so happy to be a hockey player.

“I’m just thinking about what that little girl would say if I told her that I was doing this, doing color commentary on a Pittsburgh Penguins radio broadcast. It’s just so surreal. It really is. I stuck with hockey because I loved it, and it’s led me here. And I just couldn’t be more grateful to be in this position. It’s wild.”

Around 10 a.m. Sunday, Crechiolo received a text message from Leo McCafferty, the Penguins’ vice president of content and production. He told her they believed she would be a great option to step in for Phil Bourque, who was sick. He asked if she would be up for taking his place on the radio broadcast.

“I was like, ‘Oh, hell yeah,’” she said with a laugh. “That was my response.”

When she hung up the phone, she had a brief moment of nervousness, wondering what she had just gotten herself into. But then she just felt “pure excitement.” She rushed downstairs to share the news with her boyfriend, Chuck.

“That’s when it hit me. ‘Oh my god, I’m going to be the color analyst on a National Hockey League broadcast between the Penguins and Flyers,’” she said.

Not only that, Crechiolo is the first woman to do play-by-play or color commentary on a local TV or radio broadcast for any of Pittsburgh’s three big-league teams.

Once Crechiolo calmed down, she went about her business as usual. She headed to UPMC Lemieux Sports Complex to watch practice, then in the locker room she gathered as many “nuggets” as she could for Monday’s broadcast.

Sidney Crosby, Jake Guentzel, Tristan Jarry and Rickard Rakell were among the players who gave her support and advice — or a good-natured ribbing.

When they began broadcasting her quick hits up on the Jumbotron, Crechiolo was anxious about stepping into an on-camera role. But something coach Mike Sullivan said about a player making his NHL debut resonated with her.

“He said, ‘It’s not about putting pressure on yourself. You’re there for a reason. It’s about getting excited for the opportunity, because you’re just doing something you love to do,’” Crechiolo said. “And that was how I felt about this.”

michelle 🥰🥰🥰

#ahhhhhh #the guys giving her advice/teasing her #so good #pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby #jake guentzel #tristan jarry

376 notes · View notes

sickophantic · 4 months

Text

𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 ˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

pairing. stalker!leon / afab! reader

warnings. stalking, kidnapping, noncon, probably other stuff but idkk, read at your own risk

word count. 4,644

note. i like, haven't written anything for ummm half a year,, but i'm super excited about this fic!! started it almost two months ago and i finally finished it :33

Poor baby, haven’t been taking care of yourself for weeks; haven’t been eating or sleeping and barely going out for groceries, always staying inside except for work, leaving the house early in the morning and returning home at 2 a.m. Poor girl’s been coming back so late just for a shower, a quick, shitty dinner or a cup of tea, and after that straight to bed, day after day after day. And of course, Leon noticed what it was doing to you immediately: your sunken eyes from the late hours and the graveyard shifts, the dull skin from all your forgotten skincare, God, all those products collecting dust in your little bathroom, and the way your flesh was starting to cling to your bones, oh you poor thing. He couldn’t have that happen to his angel, absolutely not.

Sitting on the bed, watching you, something broke in him every time he saw you all teary eyed and tired, scrolling through your phone, looking through all your contacts. It’d happen almost nightly, after work and after a shower, all of you but your face hidden in the cold cover of the darkness, your quivering lips and your matted eyelashes limned by the blue light of your phone, your finger hovering over your friends’ numbers as you debated with yourself. He’d see the way your brow furrowed as you weighed the risk of opening up to people who should care about you, but fuck if it actually felt like it. So you’d just sigh, suck in a breath, and set your phone on the bed table and fumble in the darkness to find its charger, before shutting your eyes, preparing for next day’s hell.

He’d watch you breathe for a little while, his own eyes intent on his screen, before he’d shut the app and set his phone down. It was like a nightly routine at this point. He’d come home from the R.P.D., and every day, his heart would soften when he’d check on you, watch you through the cameras he installed and see how lonely and apathetic and pathetic you were. Poor baby had no one. Just made it even more obvious how much you needed him.

When you’d skipped dinner for the third time that week, he decided enough was enough. He didn’t want to, of course he didn’t, but he’d have to take drastic measures. Just, take you away for a little bit. Temporary, of course. Just until you got your things together. He was helping you. You’d see that. That’s why today, he slipped into your apartment with a copied key and stirred something special into your tea.

Sweet thing came home late, rubbing your bleary eyes and yawning, throwing your keys somewhere by the door, slipping your coat off and heading to the kitchen, wanting to microwave your day-old tea. Waited thirty seconds for the microwave to beep. He watched on his phone as you put creamer and sugar in your tea and downed it quickly. You always liked things sweet. You took a shower and stumbled into bed, all sluggish and soft, falling asleep almost immediately.

A few minutes later, the front door opened, letting in the dim, yellow light from the hallway and a pair of silent footsteps. He took his coat off, setting it gently on the rack, slipping his shoes off quietly before stealing into your room. His heart fluttered when he saw you, the only sound in the room your soft breathing and the only movement the light rises and falls of your chest.

He sat next to you on the bed, feeling the way the mattress dipped beneath him, and placed a hand on your cheek, rubbing small circles into your skin. He watched you for a while, resting his arm on your shoulder and gazing down at you, fingers playing with your hair or knuckles grazing across your face, before he smiled. He’d be good to you, real good. Treat you like a princess, just the way you deserved. No more stress, no more hard work. Just smile and look pretty. He wanted you so bad, fuck, even right now, but he promised himself to take it real soft, real slow, real sweet. Just for you, his perfect girl.

His heart almost stopped when he saw your eyes open, eyelashes fluttering, cheeks flushed. He’d been sitting on his bed, admiring your sleeping form, lightly rubbing small circles onto your cheeks with the backs of his knuckles, just like last night. Except, now you were really here, in his bed, with him. Made him want to kiss you and hold you and fuck you, all at once. Couldn’t do that yet, though. But God, he was so excited to see you, couldn’t stop himself from thinking about you, had to pull himself away from work cause he couldn’t get anything done, even made you breakfast in bed. But seeing your waking face not be that of immediate adoration, even though that’d be a little insane to ask for, broke his heart. Seeing your eyes widen and your brows furrow as your mind raced to explain where the hell you where and how this happened made his chest tighten with guilt. Poor baby. He’d make it better, make it all better, pinkie promise.

“Hi, hi.” He cooed, still caressing your cheek. Immediately, you flinched backwards, finally noticing him. But he kept going, keeping his voice quiet, low, like he was talking to a frightened, injured animal. “‘m Leon, okay? Don’t be afraid, just gonna take care of you, sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth to speak, to scream out, to cry for mercy, to beg to be let go, he couldn’t tell, but instead, with a small, cracked voice, you asked, “What?”

He moved his hand upwards, rubbing circles with the pad of his thumb on your temple. He saw the way your eyes were glossing over and the way your eyebrows scrunched and the way your lips trembled beneath him and he felt so terrible for doing this to you but at the same time you looked so fucking pretty he wanted to do it over and over again. Shit. He didn’t mean to think that way, that was so mean. Didn’t mean to, not at all. It was an accident, honest. He sucked in a breath, realizing he’d been visibly hesitating for a few seconds. Remembering what he was trying to do, he reached behind him, grabbing a fork and a plate, still a little warm, bringing a piece up to your mouth. “Just wanna take care of you, baby.” He spoke softly, trying to hide all his earlier thoughts. “It's just French toast. Nothing else in it.” He promised.

You grimaced. "No."

He opened his mouth to try to reason with you, explain that he just made it and there really was nothing in it and you needed to eat, but he could tell you were scared. He swallowed, setting the plate aside. He scooted a little closer on the bed and kept talking, all soft and sweet, “Haven’t been looking after yourself for the past month, have you?” He asked. “Just wanna help you, angel. Don’t need anything in return. No work, no chores, nothing, okay?” He murmured.

He watched your face for a few seconds, expression twisting from panic to confusion to disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?” You whispered, all hissy and teary eyed and confused and scared. “Oh my God, what, you can’t, fuck, what are you talking about?” You repeated, almost incoherent.

He just shushed you gently, placing a thumb to your lips. “Shhh. I told you. 'm just gonna take care of you.” He cooed.

You squirmed uncomfortably beneath him, trying to escape out from under him only to have his wrap land around your throat, pressing lightly enough to hurt only a little but enough to warn you to stop squirming. He hated squirming. He felt bad, really bad for threatening his poor girl, but your reaction was starting to be a little frustrating. He sighed. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. Just gonna keep you here for a little, unless you wanna stay more,” he smiled. “Get you back on your feet, sweetheart.”

For some reason, you suddenly stilled. He noticed, and he also noticed the way your entire expression grew dazed, but he just kept on talking, almost rambling, enjoying your silence and your stillness, kept murmuring sweet nothings to you, his perfect, perfect girl. He was telling you how much he loved you and how long he’d been waiting to take you home and just how God damn excited he was when you interrupted him.

“I’m gonna,” you stuttered. “‘m gonna throw up.”

The sounds of your dry heaving over the empty toilet were the only sounds in that bathroom, echoing, bouncing off the walls. Sick, pitiful noises. Leon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, as you gripped the sides of the toilet like your life depended on it, knuckles turned white from the pressure and the rest of your appearance disheveled. He knew what you were thinking, knew that you were panicking about the fact you’d never met him before and who the hell was he and Jesus was he a psycho? And was he in love with you? Oh God, what was he saying about you not taking care of yourself? Was he watching you? Must’ve been watching you, or how else would he know? He saw you wretch even harder. Nothing came out. He grimaced.

“It’s not that bad, baby. Promise.” He said, approaching slowly. You were sobbing now, not even trying to vomit anymore. Not like you could, anyways. “C’mon,” he asked, tone dropping a little. Your chest rose and fell faster. Frightened little thing.

“Fuck,” you whispered, voice cracking, and he couldn’t tell if it was because he just kidnapped you or because nothing was coming up. You sat back from the toilet, crawling backwards into the corner farthest from Leon, mumbling, begging, crying something like go away go away please please please. You kept on repeating yourself, sometimes stopping to swallow and bringing a hand up to your chest or your throat because it hurt so bad or maybe you just couldn't breathe. He was trying to comfort you, let you know he wouldn’t hurt you and he loved you and it was okay and you were okay, but you just kept curling further in to yourself, crying now replacing the sounds of your dry heaving, face all red and eyes a little puffy and voice completely broken as you begged about something, but at this point you were just incoherent.

Leon stepped forward and you flinched back, and he let out a little sigh, leaning against the bathroom wall and staring at your poor, shivering form, brushing his hand through his hair, completely exasperated, and thinking What am I going to do with you?

- A few hours earlier, he was stirring coffee in the breakroom, absently glancing up at the television, when he recognized a familiar pair of tired eyes. Huh, he thought. He sipped his coffee as he watched your parents crying on live television, almost incoherent, recounting all the details he already knew about you. He felt a little pang in his heart, knowing that he took away these people's only child, only daughter, but it was for the best, wasn't it? He was taking such good care of you, and though you would never admit it, he could see the way you were slowly brightening up, the way life was returning to your drained body. He was doing a good thing. He was a good person.

Now, a little later, with keys jingling in his finger, he whistled softly, listening to the small click as the door unlocked and he slipped inside quietly. It’d been about two weeks since he’d… kidnapped? you. He wouldn’t say kidnapped, maybe taken instead. It’d been two weeks since he’d taken you. Sounds a little better. He pulled his shoes off by the door, debating whether or not to call out to you that he was home. It was dark already, so you were probably hiding, shivering under his blankets and clutching that little bear he’d bought you, as if that’d stop him from finding you. He sighed a little. This was taking longer than he thought it would. Would’ve thought you’d have at least warmed up to him by this point.

There were only two lights on, one above him and the other a little farther away by the dining table, leaving the rest of the room in a semi-darkness. He saw your half eaten bowl on the kitchen counter. He yawned, setting his coat on the rack and slipping his keys into his back pocket. He’d have to hide them later. Remembering an earlier text from Chris, he leaned against the wall, taking out his phone to check his messages. He watched the loading sign, watched it swirl and swirl and swirl around nothing. Finally loaded. He tapped on Chris’s icon and skimmed something about a work party. He yawned again. He’d deal with it tomorrow. He was slipping his phone into his other pocket when he heard your voice, soft and strangely deferent. “Leon?” you asked.

He looked up, a little surprised to see you standing there, your silhouette outlined by the light behind you. He was surprised to see you in one of his shirts, completely oversized on your frame. He realized it’d already been a few seconds, passing by with him just staring at you. It wasn’t a bad thing, though. You were just so pretty, how could he not? When he finally snapped himself out of his daze, he yawned again, “Yeah, baby?”, finding himself walking instinctively towards you.

You were fidgeting with your fingers. Your eyes darted from him to the door, from him to the door. Can’t be asking to leave now, can you? Or maybe you were asking for something. He was about to prompt you to finish what you’d started when you finally spoke up.

“I felt…felt really lonely today.” You murmured, looking down at the floor, at your bare feet on the cold ground. Kicked at the ground a little. “Missed you. Didn’t um…” you trailed a little, eyes wandering slightly upwards. “Didn’t know what to do.”

Huh, he thought. His heart fluttered a little at your words, making his chest feel warm and light. He smiled at you. “That’s sweet. Missed you too, missed you so much.” He said. “Was thinking of you the whole day, angel.” He was standing right above you now.

For some reason, he thought he saw you grimace a little. But it was a momentary thing. He probably imagined it. You finally looked up at him, finally made eye contact for more than a split second. He could tell you wanted to say more, that what he said wasn't exactly what you hoped for. What you did want? He didn’t know.

Looking down at you, he stared in silent anticipation, in absolute adoration. His heart fluttered. Just as he lifted his hand up to brush away a stray hair on your cheek, you leaned into him, wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face in the dip between his neck and shoulder. He huffed in surprise a little, holding you against him as you shivered.

"Really missed me, huh?" He laughed, rubbing circles against your back. He was so happy. So happy he could die.

He held you against him until you pulled away, looking up at him with your perfect doe eyes, asking him to come to bed with you. Nothing sexual, you just wanted someone near you. His heart jumped, and so did his dick, but he nodded, willing to ignore his needs for yours. He promised to join you soon, watching you pad off to his bedroom, needing to go finish some nightly chores. He headed to his office, brain so full of rushing, giddy thoughts that he didn't notice the unusual quietness when he walked or even the strange emptiness in his back pocket.

You were dragging your nails down his skin like some feral animal, nose red and cheeks flushed and eyelashes all wet and matted, tears freely flowing down from your pretty doe eyes. He grabbed you from behind, placing a hand over your mouth to muffle your cries as you sobbed and weakly writhed against him. He held you close to him, hand on your face and an arm wrapped around your waist. He was about to say something, to tell you just how disappointed, how pissed off he was, when his voice caught. A minute ago, maybe two, he'd found you at 3 a.m. in the morning, fucking with his front door and his keys, you ungrateful idiot, yet here he was now, tongue tied. He barely got a syllable out before he stopped himself, cursing you when he realized he was getting all breathy, his face flushing a little, his pants growing tighter. Fuck, was he getting off to this? That’s sick. He was sick. He was getting off to the idea, no, to the sight of you choking. Made him feel all warm and fluffy inside for all the wrong reasons. Actually, he was getting off to the idea of raping someone. Jesus, Leon. Fuck. He was getting off to the idea of raping you. Damn.

He held you against his chest, staggering backwards to lean against the wall for support. He hissed curses under his breath next to your ear, warning you to keep still. He couldn't stand squirming. Made things so much more difficult. It was hot though. God damn. Fuck. Fuck. He wanted to scream. Shout at you, maybe. He didn't know. Hearing your muffled pleas, something stirred within him, pent up and tired and angry, and for some sick reason, he didn't lift his palm from your mouth, instead wrapping his arm around your neck, pressing your windpipe in between his forearm and bicep, hissing in your ear, "Shut the fuck up."

He sucked in a breath, closing his eyes, ignoring your begging and yet at the same time reveling in it. He needed to think. Needed to think about what the fuck he was doing. He felt you hiccup against him, felt your warm tears drip onto his cold skin, and Jesus Christ his dick was harder than ever. He loosened his grip on your throat, hearing you gasping for breath, not even trying to beg him to stop. He slumped a little, guilt climbing up from the depths of his wretched soul. He was still breathing hard.

When did you get his keys? He heard you sobbing apologizes now. How the fuck did you manage to snatch them without him noticing? He was running through all his interactions with you recently, unable to pinpoint when, where, how, until he remembered what happened just a couple hours ago. Oh. Oh.

"Feeling sorry, angel? Or feeling guilty?" He murmured into your ear, fighting to keep his tone flat. He was irritated enough that he had to stumble out of bed at three in the fucking morning, pissed that when he was still rubbing the blurriness from his eyes he found you trying each of his keys and still somehow failing at unlocking a fucking door, but at the same time, he was hurt, betrayed that you had tried to leave him, even entertained the passing thought of escape.

"Sorry, sorry, 'm so, so sorry," you sobbed against him, breathing erratic and your entire body shaking. What a mess. You could barely stand.

"Really?" His voice dropped. "Sorry for waking me up at three in the fucking morning? Sorry for stealing my keys? Sorry for lying to me, for betraying me?" For some reason, he couldn't feel anger at your escape attempt. Not like he wasn't angry, though. No, he was angry, but not because of that. You lied to him. Said you missed him in that sweet voice, looked up to him with those big, innocent eyes, shivered against him and said you missed him, all just for some bigger plan. He was almost disgusted.

He heard your incoherent, pathetic pleas for mercy. He wasn't hearing you out, though. He grabbed you, tossing you over his shoulders and headed to his bedroom.

He kicked the door shut and threw you down onto the mattress, watching you cry and shiver and open your mouth to scream. Nothing would come out, though. He felt his hands fumble with his belt, with his jean's zipper. He dimmed the lights. Maybe he wouldn't feel as bad if he couldn't see your face. Maybe.

He found himself crawling on top of you, slipping his hands up your shirt. He wanted to be mad, wanted to be able to take out his anger on you, choke you and slap you and bruise you and bite you, mark you as his, fuck you so hard you wouldn't ever think of escaping again, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to hurt you, even when you deserved it. At least not that way. He cursed you under his breath as his hands found your breasts, kneading and grabbing and even twisting your nipple between his thumb and index. You cried out, all pathetic, squirming beneath him. His heart softened, just a little.

"Shh, don't cry. Don't cry." He murmured against your ear. He heard your loud swallows, and looking at you, looking into your eyes, he saw your lovely, naïve face twisted into one of pure terror. Maybe even disgust. He felt so bad, but it wasn't his fault. He tried to be so good to you, treat you all soft and sweet, take it real slow, make it romantic, make it easy. But he was just a man. You committed the crime. It wasn't his fault. Not his fault. He heard himself groan a little, even as your hands pitifully shoved against his chest, even as you tearfully begged him to stop. He was just a man.

The bed creaked, and you cried, and his breathing just kept getting heavier and heavier. He tried to ignore the slight tightening of his throat, the just noticeable watering of his eyes. He couldn't hurt you. He couldn't. But he was, he was hurting you in the worst way possible. His heart broke as he watched you flinch, but his dick somehow hardened every time you sobbed, as you somehow tightened with every wince.

He gripped your hips to pull you up against him with each thrust, and at the same time tried to ignore the way you gripped the sheets, knuckles white, face frozen in pain and pleasure and fear. He had to stop himself from crying a little. You felt so wonderful, though, looked so pretty, even now. He leaned his forehead against yours, felt you rock beneath him. "Sorry, 'm so sorry," he murmured with each thrust, voice clouded by lust, apologetic even as he raped you. He still loved you. Really did. But still, he didn't stop, shutting his eyes instead as if that would make all his guilt disappear.

You'd been acting nicer for the past two weeks. Compliant, deferent, soft and malleable. Your voice was always low, sometimes to the point he'd have to ask you to repeat. You didn't say much anymore, not like you did before. There was a heaviness in your movement, like everything you did was a struggle. He'd notice it when you woke up, with the morning light streaming in through the window, his arm wrapped around you, holding you close to him, and you just wouldn't move. He'd brush his nose against your neck, murmuring soft Good morning's and How're you feeling?'s, but you just wouldn't move. You'd sit there like a corpse, cold and apathetic, yet your flesh was still so warm and your skin so soft.

He'd wonder about that while he brewed your morning tea, watching you slump against the dining room chairs, staring out the window, staring into stillness. He'd talk to you the whole time, trying so hard to coerce some sort of response other than your one word answers or your quiet hums, but nothing would come out. Your eyes were constantly glazed over, like an unending cloudy day. It wasn't all bad, though. All those jokes about women existing to be looked at, not to be heard? You were just that. He was just a man, you know.

He came home from work a few hours ago, whistling, keys jingling as he spun them on his fingers. Now, you were curled up together on the couch, your back to his chest, engulfed by the darkness of the early winter night like a heavy blanket, your form illuminated only by the blue light of the TV. He had some random local channel on. It didn't matter. Only you mattered.

After that incident, you stopped squirming in his arms, stopped trying to escape his grip or lose his touch. Instead, you just sat there like a pretty doll, just like you were meant to. You let your entire body weight slump against him, let your head rest in the crevice between his neck and shoulders. He pet your hair, brushing his fingers through each strand, gently detangling. He wrapped his arms around your torso to hold you close to him, and he hummed in contentment. "Missed you, baby." He watched your head slowly perk up to look at him, expression all dazed and dumb. So pretty. "What'd you do today?" he murmured quietly, looking into your glassy eyes and brushing away a stray hair.

You had a neutral expression on your face as you thought the question over. It took you a few seconds to respond. "Slept."

The TV, which he vaguely recognized to be playing a news channel, buzzed in the background. He laughed a little at your response. It made him so happy that you even spoke. "Really? Slept all day, but you still look so tired." He teased, almost commenting on the growing bags beneath your eyes but holding himself back. You just nodded in response, laying your head back down on his shoulders.

One hand rubbing soothing circles on your back and the other still playing with your hair, his mind started to drift. Not to anything in particular, though. He wondered what that secretary at work was writing down, what Chris and Wesker were talking about, just little, curious things. He felt your breathing slow, and he suddenly felt so warm inside, knowing that you could fall asleep against him. His breath right against your ear, he murmured, "Night, sweetheart," and looked up at the TV, noticing a missing person's report.

A random boy returned his gaze. The camera panned to shots of a forest, and a news reporter recounted all the details. Name? Jack Reed. Age? Seven years old. Last sighting? Three days ago, heading into the woods for some reason, somewhere. Leon didn't care. What he did care about, though, was that this meant that the world had already moved on. Everyone had stopped looking. Or at least, the public gaze had already shifted. Now, they were looking for someone new. And the week after that, someone else. And with each passing week, the world would forget about you, and that just left more for him. So he just kept on brushing his fingers through your hair, humming quietly to himself. You were his girl now, his perfect, perfect girl, and maybe he hadn't made it real soft, hadn't taken it real slow, maybe even the opposite, but at least now, he could make it real sweet.

#sicko's #leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #stalker leon kennedy #kidnapper leon kennedy #resident evil x reader #resident evil smut #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x y/n #writing ೃ⁀➷

387 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

MY THREE DEAD, LITTLE DOVES (IV)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER V

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 10.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death, weapons, suggestive thoughts/comments, mentions of sex & intimacy, toxic modeling standards, use of a derogatory word for women, food issues, dead animals, blood, gore, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Nikto is first to wake up, and you find him assembling the blacked form of a gun on your island counter while your wide eyes try to push back the curtain of sleep. It’s not even five A.M yet.

“Your pantry is empty.” He speaks and you blink quickly, staring at his back as the blanket over your shoulders staves off the chill of the penthouse. “No food.”

“Well…” Your voice is raspy from the whimpering you’d done, nightmares waking you up half an hour before you had to be ready to go to work. “I don’t eat a lot. Did you try the fridge? I have yogurt.”

You clear your throat and wonder about the tea you’d left him, finding the cup back where you’d grabbed it the night before; cleaned and dried. Even in your sluggishness, a sheen of smug satisfaction looms above your head, though you had no proof that he’d drunk the tea or just was prompted by his cleanliness to dump it out.

Nikto’s covered face shifts to look over his shoulder, those piercing eyes digging through you. They slash you up and down as his fingers continue to move, moving parts and clicking metal together with ingrained perfection. You watch with hidden impressiveness.

“More.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Alright, then. Are you going to be doing the grocery shopping?” The soldier turns back around and huffs.

“Да.” Your unimpressed look is missed, but you let a smile twitch your lips as it normally would. A tease eases out as you shuffle to the fridge on careful feet.

“Wonderful, Nikto, thank you.” You can feel the glare on the back of your neck as you open the barrier, the chill seeping out as the darkness from outside was pushed back by the single overhead light that the Russian had turned on.

A small lapse in conversation falls as you rub at your eyes, groaning under your breath at the itch before you miss grabbing for your yogurt once. You knock your knuckles to the wrack in the fridge and flinch, but quickly re-situate and drag the dairy product out.

“If you want me to order you a bigger bed,” placing the item on the counter, you rip off the top before you go on a quest to find a clean spoon. “You just have to tell me—I can have one ordered. Mattress too.”

Nikto pauses his work, staring at his own gloved fingers as they still. Even in his seat, he was a large sentinel of mass and brutality; you have to wonder if he ever thinks what other people make of him. Your eyes move up and down his visible form as you grab your utensil with a small breath, your pajamas loose and swaying as you saunter back over to the seat directed across from him.

You wait for him to answer as your fingers tap around the plastic cup, licking your lips before your spoon descends down.

“That is not necessary,” he says, lower than he has before as if confused by your willingness to make him comfortable. You blink up at him, but he glares at his gun.

“I don’t mind,” your voice eases, and you take a bite of your breakfast. “I have the money.”

“Why is it that you have no reservations? No backbone?” Nikto’s words are firm, digging into your mind. His eyes burn like gray fire, a finger twitching over a blackened part that you haven’t the faintest clue as to where it might go.

The gun is placed down next to a cleaning rag that smells of oil as you raise an innocent brow.

“I don’t feel the need to be a constant bitch, if that’s what you’re trying to get at here.” He jerks his head away, shaking it harshly as he grumbles.

You force down a chuckle.

“Hey, Big Guy, I’m just saying that there are more important things than buying you stuff you need—food, a bed,” you shrug, scooping more yogurt. “I don’t know, clothes?” Eyes move up and down again, narrowing carefully. “I’m not trying to judge your style, but you do look like you’re in the middle of an active warzone.”

Half-closed lids stare at you, unimpressed.

“Do you ever stop talking, Whelp?”

“Not really,” you comment, licking your spoon as the pale shade darts down to watch. You point the metal at him as you finish, smiling. “You’re fun to talk to.”

You can imagine him raising a dark brow at that, and perhaps he does, based on the skin that moves from under his mask. But you’d quickly gotten used to his silence, as he only grunted and snatched his rag, rubbing it over the barrel of his gun with firm pressure.

After a minute of you watching while cleaning out your cup, he levels out a response of cold steel.

“I do not need your money…When are we leaving?” Nikto moves the form of his Beretta M9 back and picks up the magazine from the counter, having thoroughly disassembled and cleaned every part for the better half of an hour before you had awoken. He needed to think, and the best place to do that was somewhere silent.

Your constant muttering in your sleep had kept him up, spilling in from the open door.

In many ways, you reminded him of a lost puppy—caught up on your own feet and looking at the world through a lens of false confidence, a sheen of dopey pleasure stuck in your expression. But you weren’t dumb. Not as dumb as he thought you would be when he was informed he was being placed with you.

In fact, your smiling face paired with your fast tongue had been somewhat of a shock. Nikto didn’t like being shocked.

You look at him, your head tilted and your face tight from lack of sleep, eyes beady in the low light. Outside the city was only beginning to wake up, the curtains still closed fast though the steaks of light were cast through like strands of ribbon.

“I usually leave at six.”

“Acceptable.” You hum, cleaning out the rest of your breakfast and licking your lips. Pushing the item to the side, you link your fingers together and lean forward, watching the man push the shadowed length of the magazine into the bottom, a tiny click emanating as it locks in. The bulk of Nikto’s fingers caress the grip

You open your mouth but pause, closing it once more. The words of your mom from years past remind you to keep your elegance, and never stoop to ask pointless questions, but one from yesterday was beginning to flare up once more.

Did Nikto see color? Did he find his soulmate already?

You can’t imagine the man having a significant other, truthfully, but you weren’t heartless like that—it was entirely possible.

Those pale eyes miss nothing, and as the M9 disappears into the holster on his meaty thigh from under the table, he clips out through his accent, “What is it, Girl?”

Your eyes snap up in surprise.

“O-oh,” you huff, “nothing.” He stares blankly, spine rail-straight as you come up with a quick way to change the subject. “Have you eaten yet?”

He watches a moment longer before he grasps his rag and folds it neatly into a square, flattening down the edges—you hadn’t yet noticed, but the journals and random objects on your island were all separated and placed neatly atop one another.

Nikto stands and places the fabric into one of his many pockets, moving his grasp over the various straps along his body that tighten the loose material; checking, assessing for flaws. “I have said—you have no ingredients.”

That makes your head perk up.

“Ingredients?” You pick up your garbage and move to toss it away. “You cook?”

There’s a meaningful pause as if he doesn’t want to tell you about himself. Eventually, there’s a low sigh. Perhaps the warmth of your attitude and the easy way you spoke made him forget his stern muteness; it certainly seemed like it.

“Да. Yes.”

You mutter under your breath, raising a brow. “Wasn’t expecting that.” A low grumble behind you makes your face hide a smirk.

Your hand places your spoon in the sink as Nikto takes out a small journal from his back pocket, flipping through it before he finds a blank page. There’s a flash of a pen before a roughly scribbled-on paper is torn out and slid to you. Picking it up, you send a curious glance to the soldier as he begins speaking formally.

“You need говядина, баранины, рыба, картофель, свекла, лук…” He kept speaking, listing off ingredients as if a checklist for an infiltration team—you run your eyes down the perfect Russian script on the paper, amused. You couldn’t read any of it, unfortunately, or understand exactly what he was saying, but you expected it was the basics.

Your soft laugh interrupts him, and his eyes dart over as he tenses.

Raising the paper, you ease out, “I can’t read this,” you slide it back over, “I’ll leave it in your hands, okay? You said you were going to be doing the shopping anyway.” Your eyes shimmer, before you back up and begin walking away to go get ready. As you pass him, you lean in and flirt. “I think I should buy an apron, too, Nikto. One with a strap that tightens around your waist. Make you my big bad live-in cook.”

Chuckling at his annoyed growl, you pull your blanket closer and begin back upstairs, hand sliding along the back of your belongings until the banister can take your weight.

“I am not your cook,” Nikto barks from the island, boots taking him to stand at the bottom as you gently place your feet down, his clenched hands pulsing in insult.

A distraction, indeed.

You send a laughing glance over your shoulder, not responding as you make it to the top. Without another word, you look him up and down before you disappear into your room, stepping over your yards of fabric.

Nikto glares, his jaw under his mask clenched in deep annoyance. No, you weren’t dumb—but this would have been easier if you were.

Your hand closes your door and locks it, doing the same to the one that connected the soldier’s room to your own. Instantly, your smile drops.

Eyes blinking slowly, tension pulls itself back into your shoulders—infecting your muscles gradually until you press your palms into your eyes and take a deep breath. Leaning against your bed frame, your body rumbled with hunger, and the shaking of your hands got worse the longer you stood.

You were afraid.

Afraid to go outside, afraid of the looks you would get. Afraid of another gift, or even something worse this time around. Bodies hang in the back of your mind, charred. Jewels like starlight, tinted with black blood.

Sighing aggressively, you shake your head and clench your eyes shut.

“It’s going to work itself out,” you tell yourself, going to unlock your phone and find the text from Aly that had gone through last night.

Room 32A w me today! Same photographers as always.

You take a shuddering breath, fighting back the panic. “It’s all going to be over soon.”

Nikto stands downstairs with his arms crossed and his feet apart, gazing at the colors around him with unblinking eyes. He wasn’t the type of man to make comments about this, the mash and clash of shades and hues. But the entire time he’d been here his hands had been itching to re-organize; at least make it seem like this place had some form of structure. He’d tried his best with his own room, but there was only so much he could do.

His piercing blues side-eye the taxidermy deer head on the wall, narrowed to a point of distaste. The man wouldn't be surprised if you’d even named the thing as well.

Nikto grumbles to himself in Russian, muttering about everything from food to the job itself—itching at the sliver of pale skin from between his gloves and the sleeve of his compression shirt under his bracers.

“We will get this done quick,” he growls under his breath in English for practicing sake. “Keep the girl safe and put a bullet in the man at first sight, yes?” Even he has his doubts, and in his gut, he feels this mission will take far longer than anyone thought it would. Just his luck, he was here—missing all the fun. Nikto clenches his biceps tighter, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. “Be back at Base soon.”

If only.

Far more prolonged than he would have taken, you come back down with a small smile on your lips just as he was about to stomp upstairs and demand to know what you were up to. You wear a simple button-down, and the man sees the hue of cream in it as your black dress pants swish around your ankles. He watches closely as you descend, making sure your legs don’t attack themselves and make you meet your end before he has the chance to spill blood.

“Have you been standing there the whole time?” Your eyes blink at him, and Nikto finds himself studying your face, seeing how the shirt sinches at your waist as you have it tucked into your pants. The swell of your hips that are shown off nicely in pleated cotton. A cross-body purse with the words ‘Coach’ hits off your left thigh with every pass of your uneven steps.

Pale eyes slink down your body slowly, and Nikto hums in the back of your throat.

“Nikto?” His gaze turns hard and he snaps his studying vision back to you with a heat in his veins.

Your face scrunches with interest as you wonder what shoes you should wear out. “You with me?”

He scoffs, arms lowering slowly as you slink past, the perfume you’d put on drifting into his nostrils like a vapor of lust. The man cracks his neck and looks back at you as you bend over near your end table, fishing out small black stiletto boots with a tiny heel to them.

Everything you do is layered with extensive thought, down nearing the layer of perfection besides how you drop one of the shoes to the ground with a soft curse before snatching it up.

“Heel?” Nikto ignores your question for one of his own. “You are going to kill yourself.”

“I will not,” you level him with a dry stare. “I’ll be hanging off your arm, Mr. Bear, there’s not a chance in the world I would fall.” He sighs and you chuckle, slipping on the boots with one hand on the wall. “Besides, I work at AMA of all places—showing up without looking my best and potentially getting photographed on the way there would send me on a one-way trip to unemployment.”

Your mind wonders if anything like this was sticking with Nikto; the stack of rules and regulations that was sitting on your head like a rock. While his were probably more life and death, yours were no less strict or strenuous. Everything was routine.

You were nothing but a gear in the machine, but now you were responsible for an entire section if these next few photoshoots went well.

Nikto doesn’t comment, but he slides out a low, “Your hand is shaking.”

“Dystonic tremors,” you respond easily. “Result of brain trauma. They don’t go away, only lesson for a bit.” Standing to your full height, you grab your black double-breasted coat and slip it on. Your soft face tilts to him, a twitch to your lips catching Nikto slightly off-guard at your apparent uncaring attitude to the entire thing. “Let me tell you, my signature is nothing short of crazy-looking lines and slices.”

The small, airy, huff that emanates from under his mask is all the reaction you’ll get to that, and you chuckle before you grab your keys from your purse. All of your make-up took time, especially when you felt about one minute away from losing your cool, but you were both still on schedule.

“Oh,” you say as you slip your key into the slot by the door, calling the elevator. “Be ready for the pictures.”

Nikto blinks, fingers twitching. “Pictures?”

“Just…” you sigh, looking at him, “just try to look less…” Your hand vaguely gestures as he stands there, large shoulders and bulging muscle leaking from behind his kevlar. A vibration in your throat leads to a general sound of, “Eh.”

Pale eyes glower as the sunlight streams in through the closed curtains behind the two of you.

“That means nothing to me.”

“No, I don’t want to be mean,” you wave a hand as the ding signifies the elevator has arrived. You unlock the dividing door and step through as Nikto follows, apparently not needing anything more than what was currently on him. Judging by the combat knife at his thigh and the bulk of his phone and wallet in his pocket, you imagined that really was all he needed. And no one could forget the Beretta, either. There were extra magazines strapped to his vest.

“I do not care about your opinions of me,” the Russian spits. “I am here to do my job and leave.”

Your eyes slide to him as you once more punch your key in and press the button for the lobby.

“I never said you weren’t. You’re just, well,” you pause, “I think you might…scare people.”

You’re leveled with a blank and expressionless look. A frown grows on your face. “Don’t stare at me like that, I’m being honest.”

“I am aware.” His feet shift, hands going behind his back to cross in the perfect image of a killer waiting for an excuse to pounce. Nikto looms beside you, accent harsh. “I am not meant to look anything but.”

You stifle a long sigh.

“If you just lost the get-up, or maybe changed into a suit and lost the mask I could—”

“Нет!” The bark is louder than any before it, and you find yourself flinching immediately, head snapping in his direction as one hand goes to clutch your purse. You suck in a harsh breath of air, blinking quickly.

Burning eyes seer through your flesh and bone, enraged by the prospect as you begin to shrink subtly away, your body leaning more to one side.

A tense silence strangles your throat.

“O-okay,” you whisper, eyes wide as you stare in shock.

The man says nothing and snaps his head like a wolf to look away from you, poking holes through the metal of the box you’re both stuck in together as his biceps jerk in an involuntary reaction. After the outburst, you clear your throat and stand up straight—arms moving to cross themselves over your chest.

But Alyona always said you were too kind for your own good. Or just too trained.

“I’m sorry,” you explain, not looking over as you stutter. “I didn’t know it was a sore subject if I had I…I wouldn’t have brought it up. I apologize, Nikto.”

He says nothing and the entire ride has fallen into a thick atmosphere of uncomfortable thorns; the vines dragging across your skin as it tingles with unease.

I’m getting too comfortable, your eyebrows pull in on your face, lips tight. No more Yefim.

But why was it so easy to speak to Nikto? To poke and prod; to flirt and find the bulge of his body attractive to you. He bled raw murder—sociopathy in the lines next to his eyes making a perfect backdrop to a mask that would look natural speckled in blood. You could imagine him clearly behind the sights of a gun, and even as you envision yourself in the crossfire, the thought doesn’t make you panic.

Why?

Your mind flashes to the memory of him sitting in your kitchen, his large hands caressing the side of his weapon, finger digging into the metal as the material of his gloves bunches. With a frantic blink of your eyes, your face suddenly gains a deep heat to it—throat going dry.

What was happening to you?

You should be terrified down to the bone of this man. So why were your clothes suddenly too tight on your body? Why could you smell the scent of his body; rotting wood and gun oil mixed with sweat from under the kevlar? It was sinking into your nostrils until you had to move a hand up and rub at your nose, chest holding weight.

The Russian side-eyes you.

Nikto stays as still as a statue as the elevator comes to a slow stop, a ding of the door as it pulls back making you snap out of whatever strange trance you were in. You leave quickly, feet walking as fast as they’re able past a suddenly stiff Isaak.

The doorman squeaks when he sees the soldier—those pale eyes darting to the front desk instantly as Nikto follows after you with his canid-loping. Isaak’s body shivers before you exit the building, placing your keys back into your purse with a slow breath to calm yourself.

Yet, it’s not soon after that the looks start up from passing people, and then after, the quick pulling of phones and the lighting of recognition in eyes.

The car is unlocked with a beep from Nikto’s key fob, and you wonder how or when the vehicle got here in the first place.

You puff the collar of your coat and move along the ashen streets until a heavy hand claps on your shoulder. As you snap your head up to look at Nikto, he’s already pushing you away from the concrete ground and instead to a parked car sitting stationary a few feet away.

Camera flashes make your eyes go buggy for a moment, hand slashing the air to connect to the soldier’s wrist to help steady yourself. He grunts next to your ear, sending a fast and sharp command in Russian into the cold air that makes even your back go straight for a second. People halt, their faces shocked and loose before they slightly back up.

“Inside,” the man grumbles, and he releases you as his grip extends to the back door, opening it as his head turns to scan the crowd. You blink up at him slowly, steadying yourself on the frame.

“What did you say to them?” There’s a flash of something across his visible flesh. Amusement?

“It does not matter. Quickly.” You huff and slink inside, carefully slipping into the leather seats before the door is closed behind you with a puff of air. In the relatively still silence, you move a hand and brush against the tiny wound from the explosion, looking out the window and across the multitude of jeering faces.

Like an audience, you yourself the attraction at the zoo, you can’t stop the dark thoughts in your head about who could be out there; locking onto male faces with sneers and others with wide wonder. A man with a beard is taking a video of you, another leaning over to someone at his side and whispering something—they both smirk at each other and snicker. One more just watches, silent, a large jacket over his shoulders and his hands in his pockets.

You stay stuck in your hammering heart’s throws, hands going to rest in your lap and clench over one another.

He’s not out there, your inner monologue reasons, moving your head forward swiftly to try and calm yourself down. He isn’t. He would never come here—and now with Nikto, there’s not going to be any more attacks.

But whoever was doing this wasn’t right in the head, for whatever reason besides they were obsessed with you.

Nikto enters the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him. You don’t comment on how he looks far too large to be driving such a normal car, moving to click on your seatbelt as he does the same. As time draws closer and closer for when you walk through AMA’s doors, your anxiety grows like a rising tide.

Jewelry and bits of glass. A bomb under the floorboards.

“Nikto,” you speak as the car pulls out, one of the man’s hands on the wheel and the other resting on the grip of his M9. His eyes move from the reflection in the mirror, meeting yours before they return to the road. As always, there were few cars out. “You know about the,” you take a breath. “The gifts, right? My mom told you?”

“I have been informed, Да. Драгоценности.” You listen to the harsh words, the grating Russian, blankly. Nikto pauses, before pushing out stiffly, his hands on the wheel twitching. “Jewelry.”

You nod, watching him. Your lungs tighten.

“What if this time it isn’t?” This time you get a longer stare, a small grunt of air.

The Russian doesn’t do comfort—he’s not some man who pretends that isn’t what is most likely going to be the case. But he wasn’t in KorTac because he didn’t know what he was doing, either. He would let you go where you needed to go and do what you needed to do, as long as he was an ever-present black shadow beside your pale contrast. Some corrupting demon.

Nikto could adapt and learn faster than anyone, could look at a situation and react accordingly. Call his actions cocky, because maybe deep down they were. He was arrogant in the pride of his skills. And, yes, blunt. Even to a woman that piqued his interest as you did.

The man shifts his gaze away. “It won’t be.”

—

Nikto parks the car on the street, right in front of the doors to your agency. With a nervous glint in your eyes, you let him get out and open your door, standing behind it as you shimmy out. Boots meeting the ground, you make sure you have your bearings before you take another step away. Brushing down your coat and picking off random bits of dust or dirt, Nikto prods you along after the vehicle is locked.

Here, at least, the crowd was slightly subdued, seeing that now there were a few days between you and the explosion at the bakery. Though, it wasn’t vacant.

Journalists wait for you, and Nikto has to use that same tone from before to clear a way for you like a guard dog, snarling fangs and all, as fast Russian is thrown into your face by glaring men and women.

You politely smile and wave a hand as if to try and tell that you can’t understand, nor do you want to participate. “S-sorry, I don’t know what you’re asking me.” You’re met with hard looks up and down; disgusted comments that you don’t need to know the language to fully understand. Your body slightly curls into itself.

Maybe Mom was right about me leaving. Nikto shoves out a hand and all but barks at a man who had come too close for his liking, threatening him with his fingers tapping the grip of his gun.

Who would have known that a former FSB would be so feral, you think to yourself sarcastically. But that wasn’t to say you weren’t thankful. Nikto being scary was perhaps the best thing to come out of this.

You swiftly walk through the front doors, where the journalists and all the other eager ears can't come in, and immediately feel the need to sit down and take a breath. Nikto walks backward into AMA, shouting behind him and waving a hand—eyes from all over lock onto the two of you.

A sheepish smile peels your bloodless face back as the ladies at the front desk pierce you with unimpressed stares.

“Ah…Здравствуйте,” your Russian is still stunted and broken, but you get the formal greeting across even if it makes your vocal cords pull on themselves. The two look at each other and shake their slate heads lightly and what little confidence you had shriveled.

Nikto successfully pushes off the strangers from the door, his appearance and authority so uncanny to them that they send horrified glances to one another and back away. Not without a few choice words, of course. When he casually walks back to your side, you look up at him and innocently open your mouth.

“I don’t think you’re saying anything kind, are you?”

“No,” he glances down at you, shifting his feet as his arms cross. “Why would we?”

You let your small smile crinkle your eyes at that, a tiny chuckle. Nikto’s gaze darts down to study it with a gradually fading tension before you walk forward.

“You don’t like paparazzi?” You’re trying to distract yourself from the event that draws closer and closer as your jerking feet take you to the front desk. Yet, Nikto stays beside you, and you use his body as a guiding point to remain on a semi-straight path.

“I do not like anyone who gets in my way, Woman.” His response is lessened in brutality, but it is nonetheless formal.

But you have either blocked out his response or wiped it from your damaged brain because you furrow your brows at the women at the front as they do nothing. They’d always passed you the box, but now they just stare blandly as your heart rapidly pounds against your ribcage.

Nikto spares you a glance, speaking in fast English. “What is it?”

You frown, palms sweaty. “They usually give me the package right about now.”

The Russian huffs, immediately commenting in his native tongue to the two. They scoff at him and utter something, one giving you a final glance once over as if you were on fire before they both go back to typing at their computers.

It’s a moment before you get a translation. Nikto’s eyelids tighten.

“They have nothing.” Your head perks up, shock filling your senses.

“They…” you trail off, studying the ladies as they ignore you, but not a second later a stomach-tightening fear holds you hostage.

A change in pattern? Your throat clears itself as your name is called from across the lobby, over seating where Yefim and the others had waited for you not days prior—alive and well. If you weren’t too focused on not flailing over, you could have imagined their ghosts sitting there, ready to walk you home.

“Oh,” breathing out a slow response, you take a small step back and ignore the curious look from your ice-like guard.

“Seraph!” Alyona’s voice calls to you, and as you slowly pass Nikto, feeling a bit lightheaded, before her hands grab your arm and you’re pulled into a tight hold. “Солнышко.”

You take in the scent of clean clothes and warm fire and instinctually sag forward.

“Aly,” you sigh. The arms squeeze you tightly, slightly shaking you back and forth until a firm kiss is pressed into your temple.

Alyona pulls back after a few seconds, grabbing you by the cheeks and tilting your head to the side to stare at the tiny mark there—barely noticeable anymore.

“There, you see? Almost gone, Seraph, just like this entire situation will be.” She smiles as a way of reassurance, her hair straight as a line. “It is good to see you in person again. I missed my friend, and I apologize for being unable to come and see you. Nikifor was too worried about me.”

“And I’d never hold that against him,” you shook your head, feeling her hands fall from you softly. “You didn’t have to come over for me to know you were worried.”

“Ah,” she scoffs, eyes delicate along her angled features. “But it would have made me feel better, no? I’m selfish.”

Forcing a smile, you skip past the greetings and get to the point in a quick whisper of shock and fear.

“There isn’t a gift.” Her face goes concerned, stuttering without knowing what to say before her head swivels the open lobby. At the people who might be listening.

“That might not be bad,” Aly hurriedly says, only sending Nikto a strange glance before putting a hand on your back and moving you down one of the hallways to your changing rooms. “You do not know that it is a horrible thing, Little Солнышко, I promise you. Maybe the monster has finally come to his senses now that the authorities are opening a case on him.”

“It isn’t that simple,” you try to hold onto the thread of your sanity as your Russian dog follows at your heels, listening but not showing it behind his blank stare. “I-I’ve been reading up on it, stalkers just don’t stop especially after something like that—he’s already gone too far.”

“Shh,” Aly firmly hushes you, gripping you closer to her as men and women pass by, some pausing to try and speak before they’re gowled away by Nikto. “No, no, why would you look up things such as that? Seraph it’s not that simple—this cannot be explained away by papers or studies. This is a bad person, and that is the end of it. We need to have patience and keep steady.” She tries to tease you back to your soft malleability. “Come now, I know you have trouble with that, but I think your good friend here is well enough on her feet to hold you. I have no trouble with it, yes?”

You give a damp chuckle, licking your lips and looking anywhere but at her.

“I’m scared, Aly,” you admit, and you don’t see Nikto’s vision fully focused on you. “I don’t want to be in public right now I–”

Your breath hitches and you’re quickly reminded about your makeup, and how hideous you’ll look if you mess it up right now. A hand raises and covers your mouth, your shaky breath hitting the digits as you try to restrain your tears.

“Easy,” Alyona mutters, patting the back of your back softly as she takes a quick left, pulling you into a side room and closing it before Nikto can slip inside. He knocks on the door immediately, but with a heavy order in Russian, Aly has you alone in here with a flick of the light.

It’s a storage room, larger and holding mops and buckets.

“Explain,” the woman whispers. “Talk to me. No tears now, my Seraph.”

You suck down a deep breath, hands shaking violently, and even a bit painfully as the nerves pinch and tighten. Aly’s hands cover yours, squeezing them as you hiss.

“Speak,” she urges. “It will make you feel better.”

“I don’t know what to do,” your throat tightens. “I-I got a text last night and I haven't told Nikto about it.”

“Text? From…from the—”

“Yes.” Your eyes dig into hers. “I feel like I’m being hunted. Like…like every turn I make there’s something else around the corner; people's faces scare me, I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

“Seraph…” Aly’s face scrunches, pain etched in her expression.

“I can’t go to sleep without seeing their bodies,” you whimper, and the woman already knows who you’re talking about. “I can’t sleep, Alyona. I’m so tired, and my mom, she…she just…” You shut yourself off, moving back a step and waving your hands. “I want to be able to tell her things, but I can never get the words out—she’s,” the large shadow of boots from the crack in the door spread along the white floor. “I wish I could speak to her as I speak to you, I want to lean on her for support through this.”

A tear leaks down from your cheek and you quickly wipe it away, stopping your rant for the final time.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, tone changing. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t put that on you.”

Aly takes you into a hard hug, arms around your waist and holding firm.

“Lord, Солнышко. Do not apologize to me.” You both stay there, and it gets harder to hide your ragged breath. She sighs and rests her head above yours. “You are too good, Seraph. Too good for this.”

She holds you, harder than you can remember anyone doing since you were little. Staring at the door and Nikto’s shadow, the conversation shifts to him as if a piece of paper in the wind.

“And about the beast? I am not sure I like him yet.” A meaningful pause. “I know I said not to fuck him on the first day, but if the size of him is anything to go by…”

You laugh, taken aback by the shift in her tone. The woman smirks as if a plan had worked out.

“I’m not going to fuck him, Aly. Christ.”

“I am just being honest, yes?” Her eyes shift to the door. “I have Nikifor, of course, but even he isn’t as monstrous as that. If you do choose to get into bed with him,” you groan, mood lightning. “You’ll need a wheelchair after he’s done rutting into you like a—”

“Alyona!”

From the other side of the door, Nikto taps his foot on the floor slowly, his arms crossed and his glare stuck into the far wall as heavy laughter spills out from under. He growls, annoyed, and speaks to himself in his native tongue as he’s been doing a lot lately. Nikto watches people pass by without moving his head as if a toy as his eyes slide when a shadow darts one way.

His mind moves to the lack of a gift, and the Russian’s guarding form tries to figure out the next move while the two women hide away. No gift was a strange turn of events, but he wasn’t about to try and say he was an expert in stalkers—his only job was to keep you alive and let the authorities track the animal down.

Nikto’s brain remembers the sheer panic that had washed your features and grunts to himself, thighs tensing.

The only thing he could call you was strange, and already from only knowing you for less than two days, he had attributed that fact to you. Strange. Attractive, obviously, as there was no getting past that. But strange. Not like the women he’d been around in his life before—you apologized for things like asking about his mask. No one had ever done that before.

Nikto’s hidden throat bobs in a swallow as a large group of photographers walk through the hallways, speaking to one another about an upcoming photoshoot. Your name and your friends being mentioned make his attention shift back, his neck tilting to follow the group and listen in on the fast Russian conversation.

“...Explosion?”

“The two are popular…”

“—See how many shoots they have lined up, Fedorov says the calendar is booked!”

“He has them ready to ship out to parties as well…guess who’s going to get a raise now that the whores are even more famous? Us!”

The soldier’s eyes narrow violently, heart jerking to the pulse of disgust.

“Fools,” he scoffs, slicing his head away as the laughter spikes up from the group.

The door behind him opens, and his pale eyes blink as he casually steps to the side, his arms still crossed as his neck bends to you as your form walks through the entrance.

His chest slows at the sight of your red-rimmed eyes, the color hitting his pupils instantly. Still, he keeps his tongue, only studying you for a long moment as you sigh under your breath.

“Sorry about that, Nikto,” you spread a kind look over your face like butter. Again with the apologies.

“Who is this?” A finger is motioned to Alyona as she elegantly walks out, looping an arm through yours. Nikto already knew, of course, but he wants it from you.

Your friend surprises him and speaks first with a haughty tone, inspecting him as she speaks.

“Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova,” an icy brow is raised. “You are?”

Nikto tenses, and the pair size the other up like bears. You elbow your friend in the side lightly, amusement hiding the still nervous lines along your forehead.

The soldier pushes out slowly, “...Nikto.”

Alyona huffs. “Just Nikto? Никто?”

A stiff grunt. You watch the Russian’s visible skin go tight with blatant irritation.

“Alright,” you mutter gradually, feeling the tension that had formed. “We all need to get going. We have to get our schedules, Aly.”

“Right,” the woman sighs. “Busy week.”

“Busy month,” you grumble, but you slide her a thankful look. Alyona hums and lets her expression soften.

“I will need floor plan,” Nikto interrupts, and you nod without a beat as Aly walks with you down the hall, unwittingly following the same path as the photographers that the masked man had seen not minutes prior.

“I’ll get my manager on it, you’ll have one by the end of the day.”

“Copy.”

Aly utters into your ear as she guides you slightly faster. “He’s…”

You puff air. “Scary?”

Her eyes tell you all the answers you need and you let out a tiny, defeated sigh in response.

—

You wear a silk robe as you lounge in the studio's seat, your bare legs crossed over themselves as everyone waits for Alyona to change out of her previous clothes. Closing your eyes and letting them rest from the constant white light from above, the skimpy pajama set under the silk was nothing short of insulting.

But this was what you signed up for, after all.

You can’t even recall the brand that had paid for this, too caught up with your neck hairs constantly pointing up in caution. There were many people in the room, and you only took solace in the few that were familiar to you—certain photographers you’d seen around including your own, and the other women here with you for when the space was free.

But none even looked at you beyond a smirk and a quick whisper to their friends.

Well, none but Nikto.

He turns his gaze away only to scan the room, and then those orbs always rove back like a security camera; if you weren’t so on edge, you’d find it funny—cute even. Like a little robot of obsidian death. Across the divide, you send a quirk of your lips as the front door opens.

“Let us get this over with, yes?” Alyona’s outfit is the color opposite of yours, and you snicker at the fact she must have walked from the changing room without putting on her robe to get here.

Pajamas had been too nice of a word, the reality of it was tight lace and restraining straps along your thighs, making the skin move away and your ribs go inward. See-through tights and horrible little bows at your navel and in between your breasts.

Lingerie.

Your fiery friend's words from days before had been a prediction it seemed, because you had dates lined up for intimate apparel for an entire three days; today was the only joint photoshoot as well. You felt like a puppet.

Standing, you untie your robe and slip it off, folding it over your arm before placing it down on the chair. White, of course, is the color that was chosen for you, and black for Alyona. Padding over to the plain backdrop, carefully dodging the ring lights and the camera equipment, you speak easily as eyes dig into the both of you.

Envious or lustful, it didn’t matter to you. You just wanted this to be over so you could go home.

“This is the first thing that they put us into?” You have to ask, plucking at the line of elastic that pushes up your breasts uncomfortably as you grimace. “We almost get blown up and I’m getting shoved into lace?”

“Just think of the money, Little Seraph,” Aly reminds blandly and you frown. “Money, and then we can fill our days with whatever it is we choose after we get wrinkled and they finally let us go.”

Nikto no longer stares.

His head is stuck to the door, tilted away from the scene of you and the blonde, from the flashes of the camera. You wonder at his hulking shoulders before your photographer’s fingers snap for you to look at them, and you do so with a practiced face of no thoughts and curve your body to fit beside Alyona’s.

This continues for multiple hours, different sets, and the same dead mind that it takes to successfully pull the look off. No one wants you to think, to show real emotion—they want a manufactured image, and so you give it to them. It’s the only thing you can do right, and even then it had come down to a fifty-fifty draw with genetics; a brawl of metabolism and walking on nails.

A model tries to speak to Nikto, and you find your gaze slipping over as she does—her flapping lips moving but the man’s interest not shifting for a second. You tilt your head from where you sit on the floor, surrounded by soft fabrics like feathered blankets that tickle your open skin. A nest, nearly.

The soldier's body pivots, and he fully turns away from the model and faces you head-on. You furrow your brows as the woman’s face goes a deeper shade of gray—angry. She spits something at him before marching away like an angry cat.

You meet Nikto’s face and your lips part in question, one arm keeping you up as your legs are folded. Alyona is off on break, so at this point, it has come down to only the photographer, your guard, and the few other models in question. As you study each other, the man’s hard eyes never soften, never even ease away from a dead nothingness as they slide down—just like your ‘perfect’ face.

You feel his gaze caress you like he had his gun, and with a tingle in your flesh you can suddenly imagine him doing the same to you; taking you apart bit by corrupt bit until you’re left shaking for another reason.

Clearing your throat, you instantaneously tear your eyes off him and his seemingly widening stance before you can see him do the exact same. The camera ahead of you flashes, and the unimpressed Russian words that come your way make you hunch.

“Apologies, Fédor,” you ease, nodding. “I was distracted.”

The dark eyes of the photographer only soften slightly, but the professional knife returns. Yet, before the next burn of the flash into your retinas, there's a commotion from out in the hallway.

Your head snaps to it, the pound of footsteps and the call of fast words, but arms are already grabbing you, the camera taking a shot involuntarily as the sudden slam of the door makes Fédor flinch.

Nikto carries you by your waist, and you yelp in shock at being so easily manhandled away. Your feet are set back down and your robe is tossed to you as you scramble to snatch it.

An immovable stone is leveled in front of you, and you gaze widely at the soldier’s back as the bulk of Nikto’s hand is placed on his M9.

“Keep behind me,” he grunts and you stutter out a rapid affirmative as you hurry into your robe, tying off the strap. Your head only slightly peaks out from behind him as your palm lays flat on his back.

Nikto tenses but says nothing at the action as the door opens quickly.

Your manager is pushing his way through the confused and annoyed employees, barking and snarling at anything before he can finally shift his body and find you. In his hands, he holds a large wrapped box.

“You!” He booms in loud English, and you take a swift inhale as your pulse soars.

Nikto’s body straightens as the man moves closer to you two, but the soldier doesn’t let him come any closer than three feet before he gives a cold, and firm word.

The raging manager tries to lock eyes with you, moving his legs back and forth and divulging into his native tongue. You wished that learning Russian had come easy to you because you would certainly be less scared and nervous than you are right now. Everyone watches, and people from the hallways even peek inside to listen.

Whatever it is the man is saying, it’s certainly interesting, because many cover their mouths with their hands and widen their eyes.

“Nikto?” You ask quietly.

“Hush,” is all he responds with, but his hand falls from his weapon and that alone makes your clenched digits on the back of his kevlar loosen a smidge.

You glance at all the searing eyes and look to the floor, confidence shriveling even at work. Your face burns with embarrassment as the barrage continues on, but inside of your chest, you enjoy how quick the Russian was in his actions to keep you safe—far faster than you could be with your internal injuries.

Nikto talks to your manager lowly, with no emotion in his tone as his mask tilts down. One last growled word and glare, and the finely dressed man points back at you before he shakes his head, shoving the parcel into Nikto’s hands. He turns and leaves, trailing smoke as he shoves through the crowd in the doorway.

Everything is deathly silent, and you feel entirely left out of the loop as dread grows.

There are so many eyes here.

Your body shivers, but you do the best you can to look collected—your hand dropping back down to your side as the whispering starts back up. Vision sneaking from one gray blob to another, your jaw clenches when the paranoia once more leaks into you, as if an old lover trying to claw its way back into your heart.

What’s going on? Your brain hurts.

Nikto utters to you, holding the package firmly in front of him. “Get dressed. We are leaving.”

“What’s in the box?” Your voice is tiny, face imploring him to answer even if you don’t exactly want one.

You know who it came from, and morbid curiosity would be the end of you. It should be burned, tossed away, and hidden. But how would you be able to catch him if you didn’t have evidence?

Nikto glances over his shoulder at you. He pauses. Repeats. “Get dressed.”

It doesn't take much convincing.

You’re trailed by him even for the short walk to the changing room, your voice kindly asking people to move out of the way. The only reason they do is because of the black void behind you, of course, but the important part is that they move regardless.

“Nikto,” you speak out in the hallway, the man corralling you so that his body is nearest to the foot traffic and your hand slides along the wall. “I-I can’t just leave, I still have appointments lined up until the end of my shift. There’s the dress fitting and the makeup change at two, before I have the—”

You continue on, but the soldier is back to his muteness; great walking form only holding the box in one hand while the other is resting securely on his M9—you guessed that would be a pattern like the use of ‘we’ in his sentences.

He stops you with a grunt. “We are getting you back to your property. I need to be in contact with security team.”

“Security?” You halt outside the changing room door, holding out a quivering hand. “Nikto, I need answers. What made my manager act like that? Why aren’t you showing me what’s inside that box?”

“You do not need to see it,” he explains blankly. “Unimportant.”

You flatten your lips, not speaking while a group passes by behind him. The both of you eye them, but you continue after they leave, dark shadows in the corner of your vision.

“If it’s about me, then it’s not unimportant—I will not be kept out of the loop. Not after Yefi—” Your voice fizzles, but you shake your head and slow your pulse. “More people are in danger than just me if there’s going to be another public attack. I need to know what’s going on at all times. My mom won’t let me know about the active investigation, but as long as you’re working under me,” you take a breath, “then I order you to.”

Nikto’s pupils tighten, lungs in his chest stilling. It’s a battle of wills that takes place, and you’re not exactly one to win those.

Before long you’re being pushed back into the room behind you with a growl, and you blink quickly as those who had been in the hallways all look on with wide and shocked expressions as the door shuts behind Nikto’s back. You’re left standing as you steady yourself when the Russian lets go.

“I do not take orders from you.” He spits, visible flesh swimming with irritability. “Remove that from your mind, Whelp. I am here to watch after you, nothing more.”

Again, outward confrontation was never your strong suit.

“And I’m trying to watch after myself,” you say in a low and even tone. “Three people are dead—I’m making sure that no one else is going to get injured because of me.”

Teeth snap, a hand waved in exasperation.

“That is brainless. Others would not care about you, given the same situation.” You're looked down at, and you can envision a sneer on his lips easily. You frown and cross your arms.

“You’re rude.”

Nikto blinks quickly.

“What?”

“You’re rude,” you say again, nose in the air. “Mean. Ill-mannered. Impudent, if you will.”

The lights of the room buzz over your head, white on every surface. It’s funny, really, how this building cloaks itself in a veil of perfection and purity when the complete opposite is going on. And no one seemed to be doing anything to make it easier.

“You do not know how to keep your tongue behind your teeth, Woman,” Nikto bites, hands over the box clenched tight. “I am doing you a favor, but you are intent on biting the hand that feeds.”

You don’t respond, glaring softly with a tapping finger over your robe.

Nikto’s eyes flash, chest rumbling. But he looks like he made up his mind with no real care at all for what this might do to you—if you were acting like this, fine, he would give you what you were asking for.

“So be it,” he snarls, accent harsh and brutal.

The box is shoved into your arms and the man turns on his heels and stalks out. You watch him go, licking your lips and sighing slowly as the door slams.

Your neck carefully bends downward, and you delicately run your fingers over the bare cardboard, feeling the bumps and the bends in the material. The interaction left a sour taste in your mouth, but you could worry about your people-pleasing nature later, this was far more important.

One more shaky breath, and you’re placing the package on the pale top of a vanity, sitting it in the middle between makeup brushes and a notepad. You used this room more than the others, so you supposed you could call it yours in a strange ‘I’m always seen here, so it’s mine’ way. Like an unassigned-assigned seat in a university.

“He wouldn’t give it to me unless it was safe, right?” Your voice echoes, but you know the answer. Nikto valued the mission above all else, anything to get there was wasted on him.

The wide eyes of the crowd were blooming in the back of your head, your brain pulsing. Unconsciously, one of your hands goes back to rub at the base of your skull, fingers lightly dragging up and down to itch at an irreversible scar hidden in your hair.

Shaking your head, you pull back and rub your digits into your sweaty palms. The hair on your arms stands up, and, hot in your robe, you undo the strap and let the garment hang open.

With a steadying breath and tingling nervousness, the back of your eyelids explodes with gray fire as you pull at the top of the box, the cardboard slipping away from one another. Now or never.

You see the dead-eyes first, and the feathers after.

A hand snapping to your mouth, you cover your sharp shock as the image of three dead doves lay mutilated in the confines of plastic bags. Across the front of the material lay three names in quivering English script.

Petya.

Aleksandr.

Your horrified gaze locks onto the last, its tiny wings broken and legs ripped from its body of white purity. Ripped in half. An angel of wind and clouds, stuffed into a cage with its dark blood sloshing around in a bag of murder.

Yefim.

The others had been burned, feathers curling and ashy beaks open wide.

Tears sting behind your eyelids, mouth perpetually open to the pure disgust you feel—the sword that pierces what little you’d built yourself back up.

You don’t know how long you stay there, staring, but while you’re trapped in your terror, Nikto has already called the investigators he’d been told would be heading your case and informed them of more evidence in curt sentences.

Maybe the cameras had picked up someone walking into your manager’s office, where the package had been left.

In his mind, he called you foolish, and he truly did mean it.

How pig-headed could you be? And yet at the same time, he knew from your interactions that you were unused to this harsh city’s climate. People here didn’t care about you, and they wouldn’t. Even the man he had just hung the phone up on seemed eager to get back to the cigarette that Nikto had heard being lit up instead of helping the Western Woman and her Consul mother.

While the soldier had his reservations as well, he cared little for semantics. He had a job, and he would see it through. Nikto didn’t concern himself about you or your feelings; he didn’t care about your fear. You were someone he needed to watch like a pet, and he would. What else would he do?

To keep you alive was the only priority, and alive was an easy thing to make happen. He knew alive very well, and the gray area in between it.

Nikto was born and bred for this, and he was nothing but a cliff-face with the dig of a climber’s hook stuck in the side, his own stubbornness butting heads with the mountain goat that was you and your melting eyes. That smile.

That body clothed in tight lace.

Nikto growls to himself and slams a hard fist to your door twice.

“Девушка! Hurry up!” His ears twitch to the sound of muffled sobs and his hand freezes above the door before a third strike can boom over the hallway.

He blinks slowly.

Arm lowering, he scoffs to himself before his hands cross his chest, the weight of his shoulders barring down as a janitor slinks past, pushing a cleaning bucket. Nikto picks up on the green of his eyes as they lock with his, and the two are locked in with one another until the soldier’s lids narrow dangerously.

The man pads on and turns a corner.

When your form graces him once more, the man has brushed his kevlar of nonexistent dust, eager to leave this place for a more secure area even for just the time being.

He does not mention the glossiness of your eyes or the panicked, and not well handled, swiping of your mascara streaks. You’re back in your normal clothes. Nikto only takes the box you wordlessly offer him, and the contents inside that he had been made aware of prior.

It was your decision—he’d tried to tell you.

“Good,” he utters, not glancing at your quick lungs. “Come.”

He walks, and after a swaying moment, you jerkily step after.

Your pulse is so loud it drowns out the comments people make as they look at you, no longer a kiss on your cheek or a pat on your shoulder—now it was distrust and caution. What if something happened to them while you were around?

I’m not infected, your brain tries to ease you, your vision a dark tunnel that stays stuck to Nikto’s wide back as he carves a path. This isn’t my fault.

Three dead little doves to call your own sit in a cardboard box, and the realization of no letter strikes you like a punch to the gut.

“No letter,” you mumble, arms crossing and fingers digging into your biceps. “Why wasn’t there a letter?”

Your body stumbles out of the front doors, the ladies at the desk calling to you in confusion, and Nikto unlocks the car; opening it. Without another word, you get in.

This isn’t my fault.

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

447 notes · View notes

mangogobibiboo · 6 days

Text

: KISSES WITH LIP PLUMPER ON : (Bluelock)

Bachira Meguru, Rin Itoshi, Nagi Seishiro x Reader // Warnings: Nothing I can think of, Reader wears makeup // Word Count: 900+

SYNOPSIS: BOYS REACTION TO YOU KISSING THEM WITH LIP PLUMPER ON

Lip Plumper: A lip product commonly used before applying lip gloss or lipstick to add volume to the lip. It causes a "slight tingly sensation." (IT BURNS LIKE HELL AND HURTS EVEN MORE IF YOU GET IT ON ANY OTHER BODY PART!)

NAGI:

Nagi was napping (shocking)

It was a sneak attack

He looks so cute sleeping

You were getting ready for yet another 8 a.m. lecture (RIP)

When you peeked over to the bed again, you couldn't help but get a warm feeling in your chest

How can a man be 190cm but still be so precious?

You couldn't help yourself!

You give him a small peck on his cheek to rush out for class, leaving him still sleeping

When you get back home around noon, you still find him lying around in bed, tapping away on a game console

Still so cute

You go in for another small peck, but he dodges

So strange, and then he turns to you with a pout. "You woke me up this morning."

and you see

and angry red blemishes on his cheek, vaguely in the shape of your lips

YOUR POOR NAGI

it takes many hours of lazy cutting and some purging of your makeup cabinet to make it up to him.

RIN:

He was being difficult.

This man was a tower and refused to lean down so you could give him a little peck on the cheek.

It was his fault, really!

How were you supposed to know that he had finally given in and was about to lean down as you went up for another attempt?

And your lip-plumper-soaked lips landed...

his

EYE.

He looked like he was going to kill you. It took a second to kick in, but when it did, you hadn't even heard the curses that flew out of their mouth when he was on the field.

"What the fuck was on your mouth" he spit at you when rubbing his eyes out in the sink.

You were concerned, but you couldn't help but laugh a little.

It wasn't every day you saw your calm and composed boyfriend act so "lukewarm."

BACHIRA:

It was his fault

But you can't even blame him!

Bachira loves showing you affection. You get at least 100 kisses daily pecked onto various body parts.

Today, you dared to give him only 56 kisses (he counted—_—). You might as well have told him that you never loved him.

You were almost done getting ready for a small outing with friends from uni.

He wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed you not once, not twice, not even three times. He full-on started making out with you.

You completely forgot what was on your lips in the flurry of kisses.

He pushes off of you with wide eyes.

Dashing to the sink to feverishly wash out his mouth.

"I'm so sorry, Megu, you surprised me!"

He looked at you dramatically. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you? I should have known you don't love me anymore."

He is so dramatic. ISTG

After a lot of reassurance and promises of cuddles, you left for your night.

Weirdly, when you came back, you caught Bachira trying on your lip-plumper

A/N: I'm alive. I will have some longer stuff coming out soon, but enjoy this for now!

151 notes · View notes

moonchildstyles · 8 months

Text

ephemere

élan part three: when the night comes crashing down harry is the only one there for y/n.

wordcount: 22k+

cw: descriptions of a panic attack, unwanted advances against our y/n (nothing too intense), and her dad is veryyyy mean in this one

—————

"Good morning!" Dom—(Y/N)'s stylist, and the most important person of the day—sung as he swept through her apartment, a team of people following behind, "We have so much to do today, are you ready?"

(Y/N) sleepily shut the door behind the last person that trickled in. "Yeah," she yawned, forcing herself to keep her eyes open after the lingering blink she gave.

Today was early enough already with the fact Harry had come over an hour prior, and now her apartment was full of half a dozen others that were way too happy for the early hour. (To be fair, it was just before ten a.m., but she didn't love to get up any earlier than that when it wasn't a pilates day).

Tonight was finally the night of the 132 Gala. She'd prepped as much as she could this week—an esthetician visit the other day, waxing studio visit the day before, a touch-up and trial run appointment with her hair stylist earlier in the week—but so much of the process had to be left to the day of.

"Just yeah?" Dom teased, imitating her sleepy voice, "I thought you'd be excited to see me today."

"I am, I am," (Y/N) argued, trudging towards him with her sleep shorts rustling against her thighs, "I didn't sleep well last night, but I promise I'm excited. Just a little tired."

She wasn't lying about her late night, the small hours of the morning having been the only time she managed to sleep. A letter had been sent to her apartment the night before, plaguing her mind a little too deeply.

It had only been a matter of time, she knew when she saw the official publications posting about her secret rendezvous with Harry at the country club. (Her favorite was the subline on one article, saying that (Y/N) was insisting he was only a bodyguard but how could she resist a body like that? As invasive as it was, it was still rather clever). Now that less real drama was circulating about her, rumors had taken the helm and that seemed to draw her admirer out much more often; less concrete answers seemed to draw them out. They seemed to feel a need to rewrite them to fit a specific mold they had for her, one (Y/N) never really understood the parameters of. It gave her a spike of anxiety in the pit of her stomach now whenever she picked up her mail, worrying that something too heavy to be friendly would be slipped between the bills and other pieces.

"Well," Dom chirped, clapping his hands together, "We'll just have to make sure no one can tell!"

With that, the day turned into a bit of a whirlwind. Many of these big events deteriorated into such, too much going on for (Y/N) to properly focus on one thing at a time.

At least there was a photographer Dom brought along to take photos of the whole process. One more person running around her apartment.

Her hair was the first thing to be started on, the one thing that was going to take the longest. Ensuring everything was perfect, a wash was made to start the day, plenty of products and serums applied before everything was dried and brushed. The natural texture of her strands was altered, her stylist wrapping them around hot and heavy curlers. Earlier in the week at the trial, extensions were added to her hair, adding to the weight on the top of her head. Though she loved the look it would achieve in the end, everything looking effortlessly glamorous with big curls and draping strands, she almost erupted into a migraine from the tension.

At least once the rollers were in, though, she caught a break from her hair stylist. Done was all the tugging and pulling from the various hot tools and hairbrushes, now she could just sit there and concentrate on ensuring her scalp didn't throb before she had a chance to feel pretty.

While the curlers cooled enough to truly curl her hair, her nail tech pulled up a seat beside her. Carlotta was her usual warm self, pleasantly chatting with (Y/N) until a light silence settled between them. Applying and filing her nails were comforting motions, knowing that her set was coming together. It didn't take long for the paint to come out, sparkling pearls to be added to the pastel pink French manicure to match that of her dress. Her fingernails looked every bit like the princess set they had been calling it before Carlotta made her exit for the day, her job done in one go compared to the others that would stick around for final touches.

After a quick break for snacks, her hair was ready to be unraveled and her makeup ready to be applied. The photographer began her closeups then, the camera shuttering as her hair fell in large curls around her face, her makeup artist prepping her skin. Dom periodically checked in, ensuring things were going according to their plan all the while he was coordinating garments and creating problems just to fix them a moment later. Around her, members of the glam team began to pull out their phones, their own cameras trained around the space to document their own experience getting her ready.

(Y/N) sat quietly in the middle of it all, eyes closing when instructed, head tilting when needed, body still in her silken robe.

For hours on end, Harry was like a statue in the corner of the room—silent and stoic. When things began to get hectic, Dom tried to kick him out, only for Harry to ignore the attempts and stay right where he was. He wouldn't be going anywhere no matter how hard Dom tried.

—————

"Everyone out! She needs to get dressed! Everyone out!"

(Y/N) could see Dom was moments away from ripping his hair out, the time making him more than stressed. Styling her hair took longer than expected, draining an additional half an hour from their prep time. Dom timed things meticulously, the schedule written down to the minute to leave her to be on the carpet at a fashionable time—not too early, not too late. This was going to through everything off, and Dom was already feeling it.

The second her hair was finally pinned into place, a layer of hairspray going across the strands to keep anything from moving in any direction, he pulled her into her bedroom where she was to be dressed. Everyone was to be shooed out of her space then, Dom directing them with an agitated tone.

On their way out of the previously quiet room, (Y/N) slipped away from Dom and offered her thanks, hoping they didn't take her stylist's tone too personally. They would still be needed for finishing touches, and she didn't want them stepping out on account of her stylist. Especially since she loved them for their regular services, anyway.

Quietly padding back to her bedroom before Dom became more agitated, Harry became her ghost once more.

"I'll wait outside here for you, okay?" Harry murmured, looking at her with a clear gaze as he stopped in the threshold of her bedroom.

"You don't have to," she told him, lingering in the doorway. She could promise she would be on her best behavior if he needed her to.

Harry shook his head, a curl falling over his forehead. "I'll be here."

With that, she was pulled into her bedroom with the help of Dom's assistant, her grip much more delicate than that of the stylist.

The process of squeezing her into her garments began then. Shapewear and the proper undergarments pulled over her body, her form smoothing with rounded curves. (Y/N) held her breath with every swath of fabric wrapped around her body, more and more of the look piecing together the closer they got.

"Careful," Dom told her, helping her step into the molten pearl of the Vivienne Westwood dress of her dreams. His assistant held the gown with utmost care, ensuring there was no way there could be a rogue crease or an unwanted footstep on the hem.

(Y/N) stayed stagnant, allowing them to zip her into the corset. Dom took over as his assistant began to shoot photos, documenting the way the tight corset adhered to her body. The top was tighter than the original fitting, alterations stiffening the boning and pushing her breasts up high on her chest. Her cleavage was deeper than she ever thought it could be, the swells pushed up and almost spilling over the neckline. The body makeup her artist applied sparkled in the lighting, highlighting the soft parts of her body in a sunny glow. The draping of pearls as her sleeves dripped down her biceps, strategically broken strands having been added during alterations to allow another string to hang down the length of her arms. The high slit was just as scandalous as she remembered, a breeze settling over her bare skin.

She felt gorgeous.

Glancing in the mirror bolted to the wall across from her, she saw the vision come together. Her hair was perfect, bouncy and full, tickling her collarbones with soft brushes. Her dress glimmered like molten pearl on her body, clinging to every curve and edge. Her makeup glittered in the gentle light, delicate sparkles on her eyelids with soft pinks airbrushed across her cheeks and lips. Everything was dewy and light—she looked like a cross between a celestial body and a mermaid inhabiting the waters of a moonlit lagoon.

There was a level of giddiness rising in her knowing that there were going to be countless photos of herself dressed this way. For the first time in a really long time, she looked forward to the torrent of cameras and flashes that would be pointed her way on the Gala carpet.

That serenity didn't last for very long, though, before Dom found another detail to begin to worry over.

"Where is the purse?" he muttered, voice sharp as he rifled through the bag he brought along with him.

"The purse?" his assistant, chirped, stepping back once the proper photographer had rejoined them, his camera flashing to catch (Y/N) in a candid moment.

"Her purse. The purse. The one (Y/N) is supposed to be carrying on the carpet in less than an hour." Dom was seething now.

"It's not in there?"

"If it was, I'd have it already," Dom snapped back, his arms almost elbow deep into his endless bag of everything.

The level of chaos in her apartment ratcheted up a notch in that moment. Now was not the time for something like that to go wrong. Not when—as Dom listed out—finishing adjustments to her makeup needed to be made, final touches to her hair, and someone needed to help her put her shoes on so she didn't bend and crease the dress. Not to mention the photoshoot Dom planned on having (Y/N) partake in before she left for the event, photos to be taken for his portfolio.

"Dom—I can—"

(Y/N) was quickly cut off as he shook his head, his long hair flying around his face. "No, you are not doing anything! Where is everyone?! We don't have time for this."

His assistant scuttled away then, gathering each of the members of her prep group to accomplish each of the things Dom was beginning to fret over.

"Henry—Harris—Whatever your name is, can you please help instead of just standing around?!" Dom shouted through the now cracked door of (Y/N)'s bedroom.

A beat passed before everyone—including Harry—stepped into her room. Carlotta had an extra file in hand, her hair stylist a comb and a bottle of hair spray in his apron pocket, and makeup artist with a gloss in hand. Harry held nothing but a raised brow over the way Dom spoke to him.

Each of the artists and techs descended upon her then, each quietly assessing what needed to be perfected before they were off. (Y/N) didn't have a chance to see what Dom was commissioning Harry to help with before she had to blink her eyes shut, her makeup artist fluffing a brush of glitter on her eyelids.

"Find her bag, and someone put her shoes on, please! We won't have time for pictures if we keep this up!" Dom rattled off, "The event is almost over at this point! Where the fuck is her bag?"

As much as (Y/N) loved Dom, it was moments like these she wondered if the stress of preparing for events was worth it.

Murmured voices of his assistant and a deep voice (Y/N) thought could be Harry, adding to the chatter of the room. The sound of her door creaking happened before the dull roar finally settled.

"(Y/N)?"

Chancing a blink of her eyes open, (Y/N) saw Harry standing before her, just behind her makeup artist, with the box of her Manolo Blahniks in hand.

He met her gaze over the shoulder of the artist swiping more gloss over her lips, his eyes dropping imperceptibly down to her mouth before ringing back up once more.

Before he had a chance to say anything, Dom traipsed back in, his cheeks decidedly redder than before. "Help her with her shoes, we need to go!" he shouted, Harry not even bothering to look back.

He was hesitating—waiting for her permission. There was an unspoken line they'd put in the sand, one that kept each other at arm's length; (Y/N)'s aloofness, and Harry's professionalism the key administers. He wouldn't come any closer if she didn't want him to.

"It's okay," she told him, her makeup artist pausing as her lips moved.

With that, box in hand, Harry wormed his way in-between the various artists and stylists warmed around her. Bending to one knee, he knelt before her with the pristine white box just off to the side. She could feel his eyes on her when he made the first touch, a hand on her ankle. Unwilling to disturb the makeup artist tending to her face, and the stylist primping her hair, (Y/N) wasn't able to meet his eyes despite feeling them trace her face.

The photographer's camera shuttered at a rapid rate, but (Y/N) knew these photos were going to be the kind that stayed in the archive with her.

His thumb grazed the bone in her ankle as she shifted her weight, helping him slip the first cream colored pump onto her foot. The custom pump had a ring of pearls that were to be attached around her ankle. (Y/N) could feel the brush of Harry's fingers over her skin as he latched the stones around her leg, his touch decidedly more gentle than she could have expected from someone who's entire job centered around the rough use of them.

"Let me go grab a setting spray, hold on," her makeup artist murmured, dropping her hands from where they were separating her fluffed lashes and diffusing the color on her eyelids. With that, the woman scurried away, leaving (Y/N) the freedom to finally shift her eyes.

Glancing down, she saw Harry on his knees, a furrow in his brow as he concentrated on helping her balance on the teetering heels. It was like he knew she was watching with the way he peeked up, the fan of his lashes a frame around the green of his eyes. His hand faltered for a split second when she met his gaze.

The rest of the noise melted away for that moment, (Y/N) only taking in just how delicate the shoes looked in comparison to Harry, how gently he was treating her. How pretty he was. She wondered if Dom had ever considered taking Harry on, prepping him for this event instead; he'd fit right in with the models and celebrities that would be on the carpet.

Despite her eyes following his movements, (Y/N) hadn't been paying attention when he had finished slipping her shoe on, the pearls latched around her ankle. She teetered where she stood, a slight gasp leaving her lips.

In an instant, Harry was there, standing to the full of his height in front of her. He steadied her, his grip on her arms firm in his hold but gentle in his touch.

"Alright?" he asked, gaze skipping down her features for just a moment.

(Y/N) almost thought he sounded breathless.

"Yeah," she answered, the word low between the two of them as if there weren't a handful of others around. "Thank you."

Harry only nodded, his hands lingering for a split second longer before they fell away from where he had them on her biceps.

In the back of her mind, she could hear the way the photographer seemed to be capturing every second of the interaction. Camera flashes and the lens shuttering added to the chaos.

The same time Harry was backing away, her makeup artist returned with a glimmering bottle in hand. She was flustered, immediately stepping back into place in front of (Y/N), leaving only a sliver of a view of Harry over her shoulder.

(Y/N) had her eyes glued to him as he approached the entrance to her bedroom, his previous post having been just outside. She saw as he lingered, his head down as he shifted his weight as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to step forward or step back. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"Close your eyes for me," her artist instructed.

Hesitating before doing so, (Y/N) just barely caught the way Harry seemed to look back at her.

A loud commotion burst into the room then, (Y/N) flinching where she stood with her eyes closed.

"I found the purse!"

It took a moment for Dom's voice to register. (Y/N) had completely forgotten about the purse.

—————

(Y/N)'s fingers skipped over the pearls dripping down her arms, keeping her gaze forward as they rushed through the New York streets. Beside her, Harry had changed into an all black suit while she was commandeered for photographs at Dom's request. He kept his gaze solely stretched out the window. He hadn't looked at her since that moment in her bedroom, the space between them on the bench seat just a hair larger.

"When would you like me to come for you?" Sully asked, breaking (Y/N) from her over-analysis of how many inches of space was supposed between two people in a working relationship that had also shared a somewhat intimate moment just an hour earlier. At least, (Y/N) thought it was intimate.

She recrossed her legs, shifting in her seat. "Um, I'm not sure," she murmured, noting the way Harry didn't break his staring contest with the window even at this disturbance, "I don't want to say too long, but Francesca will probably want to go to an afterparty."

"Okay, just give me a call about thirty minutes before you're ready. I'll make it as soon as possible, but you know how these places can be."

A smile stretched across her glossy lips as she nodded her head. "Got it. Thank you."

She wondered if Harry knew how many shades of green were in his eyes, if he saw the same tiny blonde hairs threaded through his dark curls that she did. She wondered if he knew how gorgeous he was. She hoped he didn't know that she was still thinking about the way he looked up at her when he was on his knees before.

Despite the sun having set and sunk below the horizon, the city was still bright outside the windows. (Y/N) wondered how many of the other vehicles passing around them were also heading to the Gala.

Peering through the front windscreen, the gallery came into view. The large building that was usually splashed in black and white with 132 on the front in primary colors, had been transformed to allow a tent to be set up up front, shielding the public from the massive red carpet laid out underneath. From here, she could spot the overflow of people, bright lights shining from under the white tent. At least a fourth of that light had to be from the crowd of photographers and publications that had made it inside the event.

Coming to a smooth stop in front of the event, Sully put them in park but didn't make any move to usher her out. From the curb, she could see those set up along the carpet, ready for interviews or photos. She could even see Francesca towards the end, nearest to the entrance.

Her fiddling with the pearls of her dress resumed, anxiety spiking. Her crossed leg swung.

For the first time since leaving her apartment, Harry turned to look at her. His eyes stayed fixed to her face, not daring to skate anywhere else on her body.

"Ready?"

A faux-natural smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Mhm," she hummed, glancing at Sully through the rearview. It was too crowded for him to help her out of the car as usual, she knew that. She would have to settle for a smile through the rearview to settle her through the night. "See you soon?"

"See you soon, sweetheart," he confirmed, his eyes gentle as he met them through the glass.

With that, Harry took his leave first, scooting out of the car with her small purse in tow before reaching back inside to offer her a helping hand out. It felt like a movie the way she could hear the snapping of cameras and dull roar from the event. The shadows around him lengthened, backlit by the fluorescent bulbs.

Rubbing her glossy lips together, she put her hand in his and followed him out onto the sidewalk.

Harry was dropped into his element then second they were faced with the budding crowd waiting to be herded onto the carpet. He had to have been familiar with events like these as he let go of her hand only to place his palm on her upper back, ushering her through the bodies. It was a form of a greenroom that was waiting at the entrance of the carpet, another tent with event coordinators ensuring pacing out the carpet. He didn't let her stop even as some familiar faces gave her small greetings.

Dipping his head down, (Y/N) could feel the tip of his nose brush the draping strands of hair by her ear. "'M going to stay a step behind you the whole time, okay? If at any point you want to be done, jus' look at me and we'll go. I'll be with you."

Drawing away just enough to match his gaze, there was that earnest intensity she'd seen only once before at the pilates studio.

"Okay," she said, giving her head a minute no, unwilling to remove her gaze from his.

With one final push towards the head of the line, (Y/N) could spot the event coordinators clustered around the entrance, earpieces in and tablets at their chests. She watched as they ushered someone onto the carpet—a model she remembered from a trip to Milan, but couldn't place his name—cameras flashing the second he made it to the first pose point.

Harry's hand was a warm weight on her back, grounding her as she forced herself not to pick at her nails or fiddle with her dress as she attempted to sike herself up for her own upcoming turn. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of the familiar coordinators perk up when he spotted her, one of the ones that had been assisting the event for the last handful of years. The coordinator—Monty—brought the lapel of his blazer to his mouth, muttering something into the covert microphone, before (Y/N) felt extra eyes on her.

With a bright smile on his face, Monty pushed their way through the clusters of people, stopping right by she and Harry.

"Ms. (Y/N), how are you this evening? You look gorgeous," Monty greeted her, his eyes obviously shifting from her gown to the petite pearl bag in Harry's hands. His brow raised just that much more at the sight.

"Thank you so much, Monty," she bubbled, knowing the version of herself he would be expecting and slipping into that role, "How are you? Busy, I'm sure."

"You have no idea," he exaggerated, the words ending with a boisterous laugh (Y/N) joined in on. "Are you ready to walk?"

"As ready as I can be," (Y/N) offered, shaking her head as she gestured down to her shoes, "Didn't get a chance to break in my shoes at all, and you know how the Vivienne corsets can be."

"We'll get you through as fast as possible, then," Monty laughed, smiling a little too bright, "You know, when we got your RSVP, we made sure to stock the bar extra just for you."

It was meant to be a joke, she knew that, a rib at the way she was apparently always drunk whenever she went out. She was sure it was supposed to be something meant to entice her into being that much more excited to get the carpet over. Nonetheless, she couldn't help the way she wanted to roll her eyes and huff a sigh.

Still, she laughed along, leaning forward as if she were doubling over in laughter. The photographers ate it up. "You know me so well," she told Monty, taking in a deep breath, "Thank you."

Casting a look towards the carpet, Monty double checked his tablet before he looked at her with a mild smile. "Ready to go?"

Following his gaze, the patrons in front of her had dwindled down to none, leaving her the next on the chopping block.

Feeling a tad bit stiff after the last interaction, (Y/N) still nodded her head. "Of course."

Harry was a silent pillar beside her as they followed after Monty. She wished she knew what he was thinking.

A beat passed, Monty waiting for a cue, then he looked to (Y/N) with that practiced smile. "Go ahead, Ms. (Y/N). I'll see you in there."

(Y/N) waved her goodbye, stepping carefully into the mouth of the event, the carpet shifting under her feet into something luxurious and soft. At her back, Harry stepped up.

"I'll be right behind you," he murmured, a quiet reminder, before the chaos erupted.

No doubt the media recognized who was at her back, cameras fluttering with flashes burning her gaze. She smiled effortlessly, stopping to pose and look in whatever direction she was called. She stood out against the stark white and deep black of the carpet, the attendees meant to be the color in the gallery for the night. Around her, others were posted up giving their own poses to the cameras facing them, some having brought friends or dates to chat with in between.

(Y/N) hoped she would see Francesca or Emma soon.

Traipsing through the carpet, (Y/N) stopped and pose at ever juncture instructed, blowing kisses and showing off her gown at every stop. As nervous as she was to have so many eyes on her—many wanting some kind of slip up to be able to report on—it couldn't knock how excited she was to have herself immortalized in a look like this. That couldn't take away how pretty she felt.

Harry was a silent soldier behind her, never wavering as the hall had shouting photographers, shuttering cameras, and chatter from the various attendees. He followed her carefully, a delicate pink bag hanging from his hands that were clasped at his front. He stayed far enough away to ensure every shot only captured her, but close enough she could turn to face him and give him whatever signal was needed to get out of there.

Going down the carpet, (Y/N) grew used to the feel of eyes all over her, beginning to revel in the way her body and look was being appreciated by the attendees. While she didn't love the sound of her name being shouted across the carpet, she didn't mind when it meant she was going to be posing for a photo that she would be happy to see floating around the internet.

Scaling the plush staircase trailing further down the carpet, the mass of the photographers thinned leaving only a few here and there to snap the final photos before guests were led into the gallery, with a few publications waiting for a moment to catch an interview. Scanning the few, (Y/N) tried to spot the one interview she was scheduled to make for the night.

Catching sight of a bright blonde head of hair, (Y/N) inched towards her hoping the woman was who she thought it was. It took a moment for the interviewer to turn around, the strands of ultra straight blonde hair fanned around her familiar face. Relief hit (Y/N), then—she didn't have to stand in the middle of everything hoping someone noticed her and gave direction.

"Hi, (Y/N), how are you?" The interviewer, Gwen, greeted her with a bright smile, leaning over to give her a light hug around their immaculate gowns.

Noting the camera that was definitely still recording, (Y/N) ensured her own tabloid smile was fixed to her face, her voice pitched and pleasant. "I'm doing well, thank you! You look amazing, Gwen," (Y/N) bubbled, stepping back to admire the embellishments on the gown.

She wasn't surprised, really. Gwen was the yearly reporter for the major fashion magazine that sponsored half of the attendees at the event. They were one of the few legitimate publications that printed stories about her and reached out for articles about her looks or to be featured in segments on their website—even if there were hate comments flooded on her features.

Starting off like the rest of the interviews that had been conducted that night, Gwen asked who she was wearing and rattled off questions about the inspiration behind her gown. (Y/N) answered pleasantly, attributing everything to the collaborative effort with her stylist and the handful of others that helped her prep for the night. Standing just off camera, Harry stayed back but she could feel his eyes on her as she spoke with Gwen.

More than once did Gwen's eyes shift from where (Y/N) stood, peeking over her shoulder to find her bodyguard. (Y/N) hated to think what she might be assuming at that moment, the kinds of questions that might be swirling. Tomorrow, when all of the analyses of this moment were circulated through the public, she was sure people would assume that there was something more going on in the moment, that Harry was doing something just off screen that would somehow confirm that he was her affair partner and secret boyfriend.

"But, yeah, we wanted something classic for the hair, but it definitely took a lot more time to get there than it looks," (Y/N) ended, brushing those stray strands out of her face.

Waiting for the next question to come, (Y/N) saw the way Gwen tossed a glance towards the producer that was standing behind the camera. Something was exchanged in that look.

Keeping the energy up, Gwen turned back to (Y/N) with her practiced smile. "While I have you here, (Y/N), we do have to ask," she said, lowering her head with a glint in her eye as if she were just a girl friend gossiping over brunch, "We see you've brought a guest with you tonight, can you share with us who that is?"

She was definitely fishing, trying to glean something out of the interaction. Even magazines like this couldn't be completely free from rumors and gossip, she guessed.

Staying in character, bubbly and bright, (Y/N) looked behind her with a giggle. (Another scene that was going to be overanalyzed, edited and clipped to show the "truth"). Waving to him to step forward, she hoped Harry would play along for just a couple of minutes. Hesitant, Harry took a careful step forward, inching into the view of the camera with her purse swinging in his grip.

"This is Harry," she bubbled off, gesturing to him as he gave a reserved smile to the camera before tipping his head down so as to not garner any more attention, "I know he's been pictured with me a lot recently, but he's just my bodyguard. I think there's been a few different stories floating around, but that's the truth."

Gwen paused for a second, certainly rattled by the soft denial she was given for details. In an attempt to recover from the fishing, she joked, "And, is that your purse or his he's got?"

"His, but he let me borrow it for the night," (Y/N) played along, hoping Harry wouldn't mind taking ownership over the mini beaded bag in his grip.

Gwen joined in her laughter, sounding a little more than exaggerated with the way she reached out to grab (Y/N)'s arm as if to steady herself.

"Well," she started once recovering, "it was so much fun talking with you, (Y/N). We'll see you inside."

"I'll see you inside, Gwen," (Y/N) reciprocated, giving another small hug as a goodbye.

"Hopefully, we'll both be at the same afterparty—I'd love a chance to see you let loose," Gwen laughed.

"Right," (Y/N) answered with a peal of laughter, stepping out with a wave as Gwen's next interviewee was set to step up to the plate.

Taking in a deep breath and shaking out her hands, (Y/N) was grateful to be out of view of any cameras. Only a stitch remained off the carpet before she would be ushered into the event, but there was a moment of reprieve in this moment.

Close behind, Harry stepped up beside her, his eyes clear when he matched hers. "Alright?"

"Yeah," she breathed, fluttering her lashes with a shake of her head to get the stray hairs from her updo out of her face, "I didn't expect anyone to ask about that. Sorry."

"'S okay," he murmured, scanning over her features, "Want to wait a second before we go in?"

(Y/N) nodded her head with a mumbled yeah. Harry didn't push her as she lingered in that space in-between, allowing her space as she calmed her rattled nerves. It wasn't until she heard the sound of others approaching, more people to clock her with her shaking hands and stressed demeanor, that she decided she was ready to move on.

"Let's go," she murmured, eyes downcast as she spared a few more moments before she was to be on again.

"Y'sure?" Harry checked, reaching his hand out to hover between her shoulder blades. All he needed was the reaffirming nod from her before he was helping to usher her inside.

The hosts of the event were the first to greet her as they stepped into the gallery, familiar faces (Y/N) had seen year after year. Harry's hand on her back was warm and weighty, keeping her on track as he took the blame to usher her through the interactions as soon as she received their seating tickets and were wished a good evening. She was grateful for him getting her through, still feeling a little bit too exposed after that interview.

Entering into the gallery space that had been renovated for the event to feature round dinner tables and a stage for the hosts and donors to be honored for the night. Matching the carpet out front, everything was left as black and white, the guests being the splashes of color as if they were the artworks for the night. The decor came in the same monotone hues only the cocktails and drinks breaking up the greys on the table.

"Did they seat you with me?" (Y/N) asked, passing Harry his ticket for the night.

Giving the paper a small glance, Harry kept most of his attention on getting her through the clusters of people standing about. "Think so," he murmured, a furrow on his brow.

Peering over the large curls on her head, Harry guided her through, finding their table. Lucky for her, despite being a bit later than she had scheduled, her father and his associates hadn't arrived yet. That allowed her to peek at the seating chart, lips thinning when she saw she'd be at her father's side through the night.

"Can I have my bag?" (Y/N) asked, looking at Harry just a step behind her. He didn't hesitate to pass off her tiny purse. Still embarrassed by what happened on the carpet and thinking about the dull way he confirmed he'd been seated next to her, (Y/N) bit at her bottom lip before turning towards him. "It's okay if you don't want to stay tonight. I know this stuff is really boring, so if you'd rather—"

"No. We've been over this," Harry said, his voice stern as he matched her gaze, "Wherever you are, I am."

While she knew this was all a part of his job—his following of her, his determination—there was something that bubbled behind her ribs. Even if there was no other reason he would spend time with her, at least there was someone always at her side; she wasn't going to be alone in these moments as long as Harry was there.

"Okay," she nodded, biting back a smile. Peeking over his shoulder, (Y/N) spotted Emma and Francesca settled around their own table, chatting away while others breezed past their table with small greetings. "I think I'm going to go talk to my friends before my dad gets here, but you can go get a drink or something if you want. If anyone asks for any payment or anything, just say it's on me."

While she knew there was a high possibility that he wasn't going to take her up on the offer, he only nodded at her before she was sending off towards the girls.

Growing closer to their court, (Y/N) could see Stavros at Emma's side, with Francesca thankfully alone—it was always a good day when she didn't bring some billionaire or to come hang out in hopes of commandeering his yacht for the weekend. They had leaned close together, chatting over the table while Stavros absently stroked his hand up and down Emma's arm, his gaze shimmering as he gazed at her profile.

Franny was the first to spot her approach, her gaze lifting and posture straightening. "(Y/N)!" she cheered, Emma turning in her seat with a matching smile, "You finally made it!"

"You look gorgeous," Emma gushed, her own glimmering dress surely a Stavros original.

"Thank you," (Y/N) smiled, taking a free chair at Emma's side to slip into the conversation, "You guys look so pretty, too."

At that, Emma couldn't seem to help herself before launching into the origin story of her dress, introducing Stavros and his genius mind as the one behind her high couture sheath dress. Francesca had clearly already heard this tale, her gaze checked out as she pulled her phone from her purse.

"Did you bring anyone, (Y/N)?" Emma pressed, no doubt having already seen Harry at her table and fishing for more information.

Shaking her head, (Y/N) felt the ends of her hair tickling her collarbones. "No, just Harry."

"Just Harry?"

A smile spread across her cheeks at Emma's prodding. "Just Harry," she parroted, unwavering despite Emma's tease. Turning to Francesca, (Y/N) shifted the conversation, "Has your mom called again since she visited?"

It only took a roll of Fran's eyes to tell (Y/N) everything she needed to know. "It's not if she's called, it's how many times."

With that Francesca started on the epic that was the amount of phone calls, FaceTimes, and voicemails left on her phone with her mom still insistent that being a gallery owner is all her daughter could ever want. Following along and allowing her laughter to flow freely, (Y/N) slipped into herself as she sat with her friends. Seeing the event photographer fluttering about the tables, she was grateful that this moment could be forever immortalized—a time she felt like herself with her best friends.

Unfortunately, also from her peripheral, she could spot her father and his friends having seated themselves at their table. His showmanship in terms of his boisterous laughter that had to be at a volume just higher than the rest of the crowd was what gave him away. Harry was also seated though he was decidedly less interested in the conversation than the rest of the table, his gaze shifting to where she sat more often than not.

(Y/N) couldn't help but to scoot in further to her borrowed table, despite knowing that she was only pushing off the inevitable. She was going to have to speak to her father anyway, especially with her place setting residing next to him. Nonetheless, she preferred to put it off as long as possible. She was having a good time at this point, no reason to cut it short.

Being spared only a handful more minutes, (Y/N) knew she couldn't steal this spot forever when she saw one of the hosts start making rounds before edging towards the stage. She was sure the rightful owner of this spot was waiting for her to leave, anyway.

Finding a pause in the conversation, she began to stand with a careful hand ensuring the slit in her dress didn't open too wide. "I'd better go sit down, guys. I think everything's starting soon."

Francesca gave her a pout. "You'll come see us after dinner?"

"Of course; you think I'm going to stay over there all night?"

Both Fran and Emma let out a laugh, Stavros awkwardly joining in despite most likely needing a translation of what she said from his girlfriend.

Sharing quiet goodbyes, (Y/N) pasted a smile on her face as she made her way back to her own table. At some point she must not have caught, Harry had gotten up and was now returning with a couple of glasses of water in his hands. She watched as he placed them beside their individual plates then took the spot beside her father. A pinch took her brow.

Their table was full of exclusively her father's friends: two men she recognized from the country club, one of their wives, and Harry. The rearrangement would leave her to sit between Harry and the man's wife, a step removed from her father. Not that she was complaining, though.

Without missing a step, (Y/N) approached the round table with her hands folded in front of her, tiny bag on her wrist. The sound of her heels clacking over the floor was muffled under the dull roar of the chattering ballroom.

Silently, she took her rearranged spot. Scooting in, no one acknowledged her, her father instead holding court as usual. At least here, he was one of many important fish, so she didn't have to deal with people fawning over his facade.

Peering at the name cards she had spotted before, (Y/N) saw her's and Harry's cards had been swapped. Harry had been stationed at the table the whole time, she couldn't imagine anyone had a moment—even her father—to move the places around without him noticing.

Eventually, just as she was about to pull out her phone and do anything to entertain herself, she heard her name come from her father's mouth. "You look nice, sweetie" he complimented, his investor meeting smile lighting up his features.

"Thank you," she answered, her own features arranged in a practiced expression, "You look nice, too."

Just like that, he moved on, replacing his attention to now land on Harry. It was a replay of the day at the country club, another round of praises being offered to her "handler" and all the amazing work he's done for (Y/N). Tuning it all out, she instead focused on the ice in her water glass, smiling when she heard a laugh around the table and zoning out otherwise.

It wasn't until there was another joke made at (Y/N)'s expense, that she was brought back to the surface with a discreet brush of a hand against her knee. Blinking back into the moment, she saw Harry looking at her, ignoring whatever else was going on.

"Alright?" he murmured, eyes flittering about her features, "Do y'want me to get you a drink?"

The beginnings of a smile touched at the corner of her lips, her mouth going lopsided with her lipgloss glittering in the light. "I'm okay, but thank you," she muttered.

If she was being honest, she was on the brighter side of okay in that second. It was nice seeing someone ignore her dad for once and offer her some attention.

Harry only gave her a quiet nod before seamlessly slipping back into the conversation. Her attention followed him, watching the way he interacted very differently than only a couple weeks prior at the country club.

He was stiff in where he sat, features closer to a flat mask than the more languid expressions she was used to seeing him give her father. His jaw was tight, his forearms coming to rest on the lip of the table, his hands an inflexible bundle over the fine china of his plate. He was taking up space, shoulders broad and eyes solid. Following his line of sight, she saw him fixed on the man sitting at her father's other side.

(Y/N) only recognized him from the country club, specifically during her last visit a couple of weeks back. He wasn't notable by any means, but he was one of the couple that spared her a lingering glance even when her father was promoting Harry to the rest of the table.

Maybe, he was the reason Harry was in such a rotten mood when he met her in the maze. One of the few times she wished she had stuck around her father's drinking table, if only to know why Harry was insistent on shooting this man daggers.

"Right, Harry?" her father jested, most likely looking for Harry's confirmation to a deprecating joke at (Y/N)'s expense.

Blinking in the direction of the man, Harry barely spared a glance to her father.

"Right," he deadpanned.

It was the expression on her father's face, obviously thrown off by the lack of enthusiasm on Harry's part, that had her hiding her smile behind a sip from her glass of ice water.

Perhaps this dinner wouldn't be so bad.

—————

With dinner plates cleared and trays of mini desserts being distributed throughout the room, (Y/N) took her first chance at escape.

Others had started milling about, socializing with drinks in hand before the afterparties that would no doubt last well into the night. It was easy to slip within the masses, the wife of one of her father's friends being one of the only that could have spotted her disappearance. The men at the table were too distracted to even acknowledge her mumbled excusal to go to the restroom—including Harry, even if half of his attention was still placed on the sharp looks he was giving to the man across from him.

Emma and Francesca happily welcomed her back to their table, a couple of other girls they occasionally clubbed with also having pulled up a chair. From where she sat, she could still spot her father's table, his back facing her. She was able to relax then, feeling comfortable around her friends, even when she spotted the photographer from earlier meandering through the tables once more with the camera to his eye.

They bubbled over the surprise performance over dinner, an impromptu concert from one of the celebrities in attendance, with (Y/N) hoping they ended up at the same afterparty as her so she could get a chance to ask who designed her gown. Francesca shared the person she now had her eyes on, a man she recognized from touring galleries with her mom who was now seated only a few tables away. He was an artist, she decided, way more romantic than any guy with a yacht. Emma and Stavros were very much ready to head to the afterparties with the way they could barely finish a sentence before sealing their lips together.

"I'm going to go get a drink, do you guys want anything?" (Y/N) asked, standing from her spot with her tiny purse hanging from her wrist.

Chatters of denial spread over the table, many of the girls having their own drinks or refraining until the afterparties. (Y/N) shot them a smile before turning on her heel and making her way towards the bar.

The bartender was busy lacing together elaborate themed cocktails for the string of other patrons waiting, leaving (Y/N) to lean against the counter, arms folded on the bartop. She watched the show, enthralled with the mixing of ingredients while in wait.

Suddenly, she felt a hand touch the small of her back, the boning of her corset stiffening against her skin. (Y/N) jumped where she stood, her breath coming up short. Turning to face whoever spooked her, she recoiled when she saw it was the man that Harry had been shooting daggers at across the table.

He didn't even look at her as he flagged down the bartender, raising his voice to call across the long bar. (Y/N) stood there, her brain a little too muddled as she watched him speak over her to order a duo of drinks.

All of her father's friends sucked, but never once has any of them so blatantly disrespected her in public like this. He couldn't wait a few more minutes to get his whiskey and gin and tonic?

(Y/N) started to pull away then, shaking off his hand as she slunk away from his hovering body. He didn't let her get very far, his hand flexing on her back as he stepped along with her.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, a megawatt smile on his face, "I saw you standing here alone and figured it was my chance to finally talk to you."

"Oh," she sounded, unsure of what to say. More than anything at the moment, she was now annoyed that there was another order before hers, just wanting her cranberry juice-heavy cosmo in her hand.

"I'm Barron," he told her, dipping his head down as if it was loud enough he needed to whisper in her ear.

"Nice to meet you," she smiled, her expression practiced, "I'm (Y/N)."

"I know," he flirted. (Y/N) swore her eye could have twitched.

Just in time, the bartender reached over with a whiskey on the rocks and a crystalline gin and tonic. "Here you are, sir," the bartender smiled, placing both drinks on coasters in front of Barron.

Thankfully, he removed his hand from her back to lean across the bar, relaying the tab information, his voice a little too boastful when spelling out his last name. (Y/N) felt she could breathe easier almost as soon as his hand left her form. Now was her chance: order her drink, and get back to her girls as soon as possible.

Instead, she saw as the bartender stepped away, relaying back to his previous customers as Barron passed the gin and tonic towards (Y/N). "Here you go, sweetheart."

Though she was startled, (Y/N) kept her practiced smile on as she stepped back just enough. "No, thank you. I was actu—"

"I insist," he cut her off, speaking above her with another push of the drink and coaster towards her. His hand returned to her back, caging her in with her front still against the bar. This time, he pressed his palm against the bare skin of her back, his fingers dipping low underneath the scoop of her corset. Unpleasant goosebumps erupted over her skin. "Your dad said you would need someone to keep an eye on you tonight, and I can see your bodyguard is a little busy at the moment. I can take care of this for you instead."

Her jaw felt tight. Peering over his shoulder, she was able to spot Harry sat with his back facing the bar, just as she left him with her father.

"Well," she started, chest expanding as she pulled in a deep breath, "Thank you for the drink. My friends are waiting for me, but it was nice to actually meet you."

Expecting his hand to fall from her, (Y/N) attempted to make her exit. Instead she was offered a stronger grip, his arm a bar across her back. "At least let me talk to you," he laughed, as if he couldn't believe she was trying to slip away, "I got you a drink, I think that's only fair, right?"

"Oh, I mean," she floundered, reciprocating with a polite laugh, "I should probably get back, though. After I got a drink we were planning on leaving for some afterparties, so."

He barked out a laugh, bringing his whiskey to his lips as he took in a deep sip. The ice clinked within the glass as she shook his head. "You know, your dad did say you were a bit feisty, but I didn't think you'd be like this."

Shifting her weight, (Y/N) would have done next to anything to crawl away from this moment. She didn't like the idea of him asking about her to her father; she dreaded to think what kind of stories were told or publications discussed that could have brought up the topic of her being "feisty".

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the photographer meandering close by. All it would take was a slight struggle, a slight raising of voices, and that camera would no doubt be up to his eye with a high definition photo of the moment splashed across the internet by the end of the night. That wasn't even taking into account the amount of cell phones around the room that could be trained in their direction in a moment's notice.

As annoying as this man was and how much she was itching to leave her skin over his touch, fighting him further wasn't going to be worth the scene it would cause. Especially not with her father right there; it would be too easy for this man—his friend—to turn this whole thing around on her without any argument from her father.

All she could do was hope Francesca or any of the other girls noticed she was missing for longer than it could possibly take to grab a drink.

"Come sit with me," Barron commanded, urging her to roll underneath his arm so he could guide her to a nearby table with vacant chairs. Swallowing, (Y/N) followed along, her smile tight. "Don't forget your drink."

Her smile grew that much tighter over his words.

The chilled glass was slick against her palm.

Barron pushed her into a seat, his hand finally leaving her skin and leaving an overly hot point on her body. Sinking into her chair, (Y/N) tried to create as much space as she could between them, even with the way he leant across the space to enter her bubble. Her hand clenched around the gin and tonic glass.

"See, not so bad, is it?" Barron teased, taking another sip of his quickly draining glass.

"Right," (Y/N) let out a humorless laugh, "So, how do you know my dad?"

This was a trick she learned to get these men off her back. They loved nothing more than to talk about themselves and the things they thought deemed them important. Barron seemed all too excited to talk about his business prowess that led him to her father's "inner circle", surely exaggerating the amount of acquisitions he headed to get him where he was.

"But, I can't lie," he said, lowering his voice and smirking at her, "I told him I wanted to meet you a month ago, and we've started talking a lot more since. He told me you were having some troubles, and I had a feeling I might be able to help you."

Reaching across, Barron settled his too warm hand on her knee, his fingertips denting into the soft flesh of her thigh.

(Y/N) felt her chest tighten at the touch, the way he looked at her over the rim of his glass, as if he were doing her a favor. She was sure he thought she should be grateful to feel his hand on her skin, like this was the first step to getting her through her troubles.

Her grip around her glass tightened.

What was she supposed to do now?

She felt trapped. He scooted closer to her over the floor, his hand sliding over her thigh. He even stuck his foot out, playing footsie as if she looked open to flirting.

Swallowing, she let out a strained laugh, bringing her glass to her lips for no other reason than to buy herself a moment's reprieve.

She couldn't decipher what would be worse: staying in this situation or causing a scene that would no doubt have her father locking her down in a remote cabin for the winter?

With the amount of cameras in the room, if she flipped the way her bubbling anxiety urged her to, there was no doubt the last vestiges of her reputation would be burned to the ground. Everything was bad enough already, but there would be no recovery from a documented outburst like the one she could feel brewing.

A forced laugh fell from her lips, "I guess you could say that." Glancing through the room, she tried to spot Harry. Maybe, he had miraculously turned around and could see what was happening. If she caught his eye, he could put a stop to this.

He told her all she needed was to look at him, and he would be right there. He could take her away from this. He told her—promised her.

Suddenly, she felt that overly-hot hand that had been on her leg pinch her chin. Barron redirected her strayed attention, forcing her to look right at his smug face.

"Eyes on me when I'm speaking, babygirl. It's respectful."

If not for the fact she was close to having an anxiety attack, (Y/N) could only imagine the amount of rage she would feel at his condescending words.

Instead, all she could feel was his hand too close to her throat, the absolute view of his eyes he was forcing on her. Her skin felt too hot, though she swore goosebumps were rising. Her stomach churned, the corset feeling way too tight around her lungs.

"Sorry," she swallowed, almost choking around the word though she could tell he didn't even notice.

In as casual of a way as she could muster, she pushed his hand off of her chin, disguising it as a move to flip her hair over her shoulder. Barron instead settles his hand on her shoulder, fingering the pearls draping over her skin.

"Good," he said, seemingly pleased with her feigned obedience, "I want to hear about you, though."

"What do you want to know?" she forced out through a high smile.

Her heart jumped into her throat, clogging her airways with every brush of his fingers over her skin. She was on the verge of a panic attack.

One of the only times she ever would have wanted a bodyguard and he's not even here. If her father could shut up for two seconds, Harry could have done the job he was hired for.

Instead, (Y/N) was left with a pit in her stomach, something that she swore could eat through her dress and absorb her as if it were nothing. How was she supposed to breathe when her organs had to make way for the blackhole in her stomach? How was she supposed to think clearly when her instincts urged her to move along, with nothing else managing to make an impression on her brain?

This man was pushing her too far. He was touching her too much, looking at her too closely, talking too loudly.

She needed him to stop. She could barely feel her hands, her toes, her lips. No amount of air in her lungs was enough.

(Y/N) hadn't even realized Barron was talking until his voice was cut off. A decidedly gentler hand settled on her opposing shoulder.

"There you are!" Francesca greeted, bending down to (Y/N)'s level with her eyes widening just enough when she made eye contact, "I'm about to head to the bathroom, could you come with me?"

Without a second thought, (Y/N) released her chokehold grip on the gin and tonic, looking Barron in the eye as she took in the first semi-normal breath in the last handful of minutes. "Sorry, I'll be right back."

Francesca took (Y/N)'s hand in her own, scurrying to the bathroom in record time. Stepping over the tile floor of the single stall restroom, (Y/N) felt a tingle in her hands, her gaze unable to focus while Francesca locked the door behind them.

"Hey, what's going on?" Fran questioned, stepping behind her with a cautious hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

All it took was a flutter of (Y/N)'s lashes and a stuttered breath before everything she was holding back spilled over. A whimper sliced from her throat, her vision blurring.

"(Y/N)?"

Spinning on her heel, she couldn't help the way she braced herself against her best friend, Francesca collecting her into a hug as if she might collapse at a moment's notice.

"I-I don't know," (Y/N) cried, tears slipping down her cheeks, "I—Fran—I'm—Thank you."

Nothing falling from her lips made much sense, everything too mushy and half-baked as she sputtered. She didn't know how to articulate how uncomfortable Barron was making her feel; how much she wanted to crawl out of her skin, how she felt trapped, how she knew what he did wasn't all that bad—even compared to her own experiences—but she swore she hadn't felt so unsafe since that night with Damien Moore. How was she supposed to get all of that out between gasping breaths and tingling lips?

Francesca was her pillar at the moment, keeping (Y/N) upright as she held her. "Okay, it's okay," she tried to soothe her, despite her own voice wavering, "I didn't even know, (Y/N). I'm sorry. I would have helped you sooner, if I had."

"It's okay, it's okay," (Y/N) parroted, sniffling, "I-I think my dad told him to talk to me."

Francesca muttered something under her breath, which sounded a lot like a string of curse words though (Y/N) hoped it was actually a hex against her father.

After tightening her hug, Francesca began to pull away from (Y/N)'s melting form. "I'm going to be right back," she told her earnestly, "I'm going to grab my bag and call my driver, and we're going to leave, okay? Your dad isn't even going to know."

"Okay, okay," (Y/N) repeated in a broken voice, nodding her head, "Thank you."

Francesca left with a concerned look over her shoulder.

Circling the drain, (Y/N) couldn't stop pacing around the bathroom, the clack of her heels echoing in her ears. Her mind was running way too fast to keep up. There was no focus she could give to anything when she swore her corset was strangling her. The spots that Barron's slimy hands touched her dirty, gross and sticky in a way only the longest shower could hope to erase. Her head was too muddy, swimming too far away, for anything to make sense.

Striking through it all, she remembered her father was out there.

God, she was going to be in so much trouble. There was no way she could talk herself out of this one, and with how fragile she felt at the moment, she couldn't imagine making it through a scolding of his like she usually did. Not like this.

What if he blamed Harry, even? What if Harry was roped into her orbit of trouble, being blamed for the fact she had a breakdown in one of the most inconvenient places? Her father would no doubt reject the fact that he was the reason behind Harry's distraction.

The idea made (Y/N) crumble that much more. These were her problems, and now Harry might be held accountable for the fact she couldn't suck it up over a couple of lingering touches and condescending words. As if she didn't know how to handle it already.

Memories of this man's hands on her body—along with a quick montage of others in his place before, including Damien Moore—were a thick ocean in (Y/N)'s head. The illusions were only cut with the scolds of her father, lists of things she'd done wrong and could never recover from.

Through the depths, she could hear distant voices. They were having a muffled argument on the other side of the door, that much she could collect. Every other detail was lost at sea, (Y/N) too busy crumbling by the sink with her breathing too short to be good for her health.

Suddenly, the voices were much closer, a firm tone telling their partner that "I need to see her, let me in!" She knew she recognized that voice, that firm tone and grumbling accent. (Y/N) knew who was on the other side of the door, but nothing could properly register in her head.

The door burst open a second later (or it could have been a handful of minutes, time wasn't real in the moment to her). Both Harry and Francesca tumbled through, Harry's brow furrowed and eyes hard while Fran's were boiling in anger.

"(Y/N), I tried to tell him to—"

Francesca's voice filtered through the bathroom, though (Y/N) only saw the way Harry assessed the situation. His cool demeanor never wavered as he catalogued the crumbling mess that made her up. The only thing that gave away the fact that this was out of the norm of his routine was the furrow to his brows and determination setting his jaw.

Taking broad steps over the tile, Harry met her by the sink, his hands gathering hers from where they were fumbling and picking at her middle.

"Hey, hey," he murmured, his voice somehow louder to her than Francesca's in the background of the moment, "Why aren't y'breathing, (Y/N)? What's going on?"

"I-I want to leave, Harry, I don't want to be here anymore," she rushed out, her tongue tripping over itself with salty tears traced the shape of her lips. "I don't w-want him to touch me again, I want to go home."

A tick appeared in Harry's jaw. "Okay," he nodded, features composed as he slipped his hands out from hers to settle them on the curve of her waist. Before (Y/N) could have any kind of reaction to the touch, Harry was lifting her to sit on the edge of the sink, the slit in her dress splitting to reveal one full leg with the other still draped in the silken material. "Before we can do that, I need you to breathe with me. Okay?"

"I-I can't," she whined, the tenor of her voice echoing in the otherwise silent room. From the corner of her eye, she could see the silhouette of Francesca paces away, quietly watching on.

"Okay," Harry soothed, his hands taking hers once more, "But I need you to try. We can't go anywhere until you try."

The idea that she would have to stay here even a moment longer made (Y/N) choke up even more. How could he ask her to do the impossible like this? She just wanted to leave and Harry was making her stay here, pressuring her to breathe as if he thought she could actually manage that.

"Harry," she cried, her voice broken.

He shook his head, a stray curl falling from his tousled head of hair. "Just for a minute, yeah? Then we'll leave, I promise."

When he didn't dare to break the eye contact he was making with her, (Y/N) couldn't do anything but nod her head to his wishes.

"Copy me," he instructed, taking in a deep through his nose, holding, then exhaling through his nose. When he didn't see (Y/N) doing the same, he repeated, "Gotta copy me, (Y/N)." A pulse of his hands around hers gained her attention.

"Okay," she peeped, nodding with jerky movements.

Another round of structured breathing came from Harry, his chest expanding with his perfect lips forming an "o" when exhaling. (Y/N) copied him as best she could, her chest straining against her corset and her lips feeling sticky with tears when she blew out. Harry stuck with her even when her lungs stuttered and she sobbed through the exercise. It wasn't until she was able to make five full breaths in a row that Harry relented in his pressing.

"Feel a little better?" he asked, eyes searching her face.

(Y/N) took stock of her state, noting the tingling in her fingers and toes had relented, leaving only the aches of a panic lingering in her body. Her head felt a little bloated and her chest tight, but she was doing world's better than she was only a handful of minutes earlier—even if that wasn't a necessarily hard bar to cross.

She nodded.

Using his gentle grip on her hands, Harry guided her off the counter, steadying her back onto her heels. (Y/N) had her eyes on her feet, watching the sparkling of her shoes against the immaculate tile of the floor. She really, really, really hoped tonight wouldn't ruin these shoes for her.

Stepping back into (Y/N)'s line of sight, Francesca looked just as concerned as when she had left the first time. Her purse was now in hand with her phone clutched between her fingers. "Let's go back to my place, okay? I can make sure my driver can be here in five minutes, then we'll leave and we don't have to talk to anyone else."

Francesca reached out a friendly hand, intending to take her from Harry's hold and back to her like they planned before he tumbled into the bathroom. (Y/N) didn't even realize that she was shying away from her best friend until she felt Harry's hand settle on the top of her back with his arm curling around her.

"Fran—I—," she floundered, unsure of where her voice went but not trying to find it, "I want to stay with him, I'm sorry."

Though (Y/N) expected hurt to touch Fran's features, she instead only saw a look of surprise raise her brows and widen her eyes. "That's okay," Francesca reassured her, "Don't be sorry. Just text me when you get home, okay?"

"Okay," (Y/N) nodded, her hair tickling her bare skin.

Taking a tentative step forward, Francesca held her arms out. "Can I hug you before you leave?"

(Y/N) didn't say anything before she collected her friend in a clumsy hug, cheek against her shoulder with their hair creating a mess.

"I'm sorry, Fran," (Y/N) repeated in a hoarse whisper.

"Why are you sorry, don't be sorry," Francesca reminded her, "I just want you to feel safe, that's all." Pulling away, Fran matched her gaze, a soft smile falling on her mocha lined lips. "You look so hot tonight, so you better still post pics."

It was the way Francesca looked at her so earnestly as if what she was saying was just as important as solidifying her plans to make it home, that had (Y/N) spilling with a huff of laughter. "I will," she sniffled, her cry-swollen mouth, "Love you."

"Love you, too."

Francesca parted with her after another squeezing hug, (Y/N) turning to find Harry with his eyes on the ground waiting for her. He peeked at her through the fan of his lashes, noticing her eye on him once more.

"Ready?"

All it took was (Y/N) nodding her head before she was reaching for Harry once more, allowing him to take her under his arm and bundle her to his side.

"We're going to have to fast, okay?" he murmured to her as he pushed the door to the bathroom open, Francesca lingering in the restroom.

"Okay," (Y/N) repeated, staying still as he peered around the secluded hallway in search of anyone else lurking around the space.

Once he determined everything was clear, he started her in the direction of the ballroom. (Y/N) stiffened under his arm. Her father was out there. So was Barron. And over a hundred cell phone cameras and a trained photographer with a high quality camera for moments just like these.

"I know," he crooned to her, the tip of his nose brushing her hair from where she had her eyes trained on the ground, "But 's the only way to get out. There's a back way, we jus' need to get through by the bar, then we'll be alone again. I promise."

As much as she wanted to stop in her tracks, hide a little while longer, she allowed Harry to guide her steps down the hall. If this was the only way out, she was going to have to endure.

The dull roar of the Gala filled every space in her body the second they stepped back under the chandelier light of the ballroom. (Y/N) kept her head down, hoping that if she caught anyone's eye, she could at least spare herself the humility of them catching her ruined makeup and swollen eyes. She clutched Harry's hand cupped around her waist. Her anchor.

Harry guided them through the space, dodging most of the crowd as he took a swift turn, (Y/N) doing her best to stay steady on her feet. His steps didn't falter once. Until they did.

(Y/N) stopped in her tracks when Harry skidded to a stop, something in their path that she was trying not to panic over. She kept her eyes trained on the pearly hue of her shoes as if she could pinpoint every hue that glimmered off of the expensive fabric.

"Harry, what's going on?"

Almost jumping out of her skin, (Y/N) whipped her head up to find her father and Barron standing in their way. Her father spoke through gritted teeth, Barron's cheeks too red and eyes too glazed as he didn't even try to hide the way his gaze clung to her form. It's as if he forgot everything that led up to her fleeing from him and now returning with ruined mascara.

(Y/N) flinched back on instinct. His eyes were almost as bad as his touch.

Harry was a firm cage around her, keeping her steady as he ignored her father. He dismissed them as he tried to get around them, finding a path between a pair of tables. Her breathing caught in her throat when she saw her father try to reach for her, his hand like a wolven claw meant to drag her away.

In a moment, Harry had twirled her away, putting her out of range while he acted as a solid wall between them to her.

"Do not touch her," he gritted out, an undertone to his voice she'd never heard before. He was looking her father right in the eye as he spat out his command, taking him on without a wavering second.

Her father, taken aback, almost stumbled on his feet. "Excuse me?" he let out.

Ignoring him once more, Harry shot a sharp look at Barron. The man recoiled as if he had been struck.

Harry didn't linger a second longer as he took through the tables, getting them back on track as soon as possible. (Y/N) could feel eyes on her, no doubt cameras following suit. This was a moment publication and gossip blogs would rather die than leave out. Tomorrow was going to be a shitshow with the notifications that would blow up her phone, but she couldn't find it in her to care at the moment.

She only focused on Harry, keeping up with him and keeping her hand in his on her waist.

Eventually, they stepped into the back hallway. (Y/N) recognized it from the times she'd visited 132 during a regular exhibition; it was the best way to sneak in and out when she didn't want to be spotted.

Pushing open the heavy door after the hallway forked off into two different directions, Harry pulled (Y/N) into the fresh night air. Though the sky was clear, not a single star could be seen above their heads, the lights too bright to see anything in the heavens. The alley behind the gallery was big enough to allow protected trucks full of art pieces large enough to be considered murals to make through, the space clean enough. Cigarette butts were on the ground, and a dumpster resided on the other side. Still it was enough to please that of the higher clientele that visited the 132 Gallery, though (Y/N) wasn't sure she would care if she were stepping through piles of garbage at the moment.

She was out. The gallery, her father, Barron, the cameras were all behind her.

That knowledge alone allowed her lungs to open just a hair more, the rush of oxygen almost choking her.

"Sully's on his way, okay?" Harry told her, his grip on her lessening now that they were alone, "I told him it was an emergency and he said he'd make it as soon as possible."

"Okay," she gasped, nodding her head as best she could through her muddied mind.

"Yeah," she breathed out, her lungs shaky but nothing like before. She just needed to think about every intake, which was a feat in its own, but whatever helped.

A beat passed, Harry surely keeping track of her breathing. "Thought we stopped crying?" he murmured after a moment, closing in around her with his hands settling on her biceps.

Raising her hand to her cheek, (Y/N) swiped away a stream of tears she hadn't even been aware were leaking out.

"Me too," she whispered, her voice watery with a pinch to her brows.

Through the vignette of her tear-clumped lashes, (Y/N) could see the barely there smile on his features. "You've got all that pretty makeup on, remember? Can't keep crying like that when Sully gets here," he crooned, his voice more gentle than she ever thought he could manage.

He thought her makeup looked pretty. Maybe he wasn't saying that she looked pretty, but it was still enough to loosen her muscles just enough.

A watery smile fixed itself on her lips. "Yeah," she let out, the word floating on a delicate huff of laughter.

From behind Harry, a bright beam of light outlined his silhouette. The sound of tires popping over the pavement and the purring rumble of a car engine filled the alleyway. Harry looked over his shoulder, leaving (Y/N) with only a view of the cut and hinge of his jaw, looping curls on the back of his neck.

The car stopped beside them, Harry not wasting a second before he was gathering (Y/N) in his arms and pulling her into the back of the SUV. She was first in, with Harry following behind her over the leather bench seat.

(Y/N) couldn't look at Sully when she settled, avoiding the reflection of his gaze in the rearview mirror she was sure that was pointed in her direction. As soon as the pair of them were buckled in—Harry having done hers—Sully was off. They were seamlessly incorporated into the city's traffic, the route back to her apartment, one he knew well and (Y/N) hoped he could quick work of.

Harry, having forgone the usual buffer he placed between them, shifted in his seat with his thigh pressed against hers. In the back of her mind, (Y/N) knew this should feel like it was too much for her, that she should be shying away from his touch after the gross feeling Barron left her with, but she didn't feel that instinct to revolt. Instead, he was like an anchor, the steadying pillar that followed her about and ensured there was no way she could drift away from shore.

"Alright?" he whispered, ducking down to peek into her line of sight, "Almost back home."

She nodded, her brain feeling numb though she was sure there were still tears dripping off her cheeks. Now that the initial wave of panic passed, exhaustion was moving in. She would find out soon if there was going to be an aftershock, a tremor that would wrack through her when the night rushed back to her clear mind.

Sinking into her seat, (Y/N) tossed her watery gaze out the window. Only a couple of hours prior she was in this same spot, though with perfected makeup and her skin buzzing from anticipation and excitement. Now she only buzzed with the feeling of oxygen reentering her bloodstream.

God, she couldn't wait to get out of her clothes, and get the pins out of her hair.

No longer caring, she got a head start and began shakily unraveling her shoes from her feet. Her fingertips fumbled over the latch on the string of pearls around her ankles, but it didn't take long for her to kick off her pumps and curl her knees to her chest. Harry silently reached down and took the Manolo's from the floor, his fingers hooked in the top straps.

When (Y/N)'s building came into view, Sully rolled to a stop just outside the entrance. (Y/N) finally chanced a look at the rearview mirror, her driver's soft eyes matching hers through the glass.

"Thank you," she peeped, voice broken.

Sully simply smiled and nodded at her.

Behind her, Harry urged her out onto the sidewalk with a careful hand on her back. She didn't think twice about her bare feet landing on the burgundy carpet rolled out on the sidewalk before her building, keeping her mind focused on getting up to her apartment. Harry lingered for a moment, the rumble of his voice saying something to Sully, before he was joining her.

"C'mon," he murmured, grabbing her hand in his.

Much like he had at the Gala, Harry directed her through the lobby, her hand in one of his with her shoes in the other. He didn't let her linger on what the doormen could be thinking, seeing her with tear stained cheeks and bare feet with her designer gown. He took her straight to the elevator and input the code to her floor.

For the first time since landing in the bathroom with panic in her chest, (Y/N) noticed the small detail of elevator music.

Following after him, Harry took her to her apartment, using the key she'd given him weeks ago to let them in. He let go of her hand once they crossed the threshold as he lingered back to lock the door behind them. Looking around her apartment, the rug under her feet, (Y/N) couldn't pinpoint what triggered her, but the sprinkling of tears leaving her eyes elevated to a full downpour.

Her breathing came out in a stuttered pace, a whimper swirling from her chest. There was that aftershock.

Oh, how this night was derailed.

In an instant, Harry is there. His arms looped around her, his instincts taking over as she was pulled to his chest.

"Hey, hey," he crooned to her, "What's going on, what happened?"

(Y/N) only shook her head against his black suit-covered shoulder. She didn't have a real answer to that, and wasn't interested in digging through the events of the night to give him a full picture at the moment.

Instead, she focused on his hold. She could feel the bump of her heels on the small of her back, but that didn't keep him from keeping her in a grounding hold. Though he was touching her in the same places that Barron had—her back, her arms, her leg, her chin—Harry's touch didn't feel the same at all. She didn't recoil or expect a film to be left on her pores.

She all but melted into him, her muscles liquifying like the tears from her eyes. Harry held her up without a second thought, just as he had the rest of the night.

A pinch took knitted her brows together at the thought, her eyes squeezing shut as more tears fled from her ducts.

Never did she picture herself needing him the way she did tonight. He was so calm and strong, keeping her from falling to pieces on the bathroom floor. (Y/N) loved Francesca with her whole heart and knew she owed her a phone call before the night was over, but she didn't think her best friend could have controlled the situation and her breakdown like Harry had.

He stopped her father from touching her, Barron from talking to her. He knew the precise way to make it out with the least amount of disturbance possible. Even letting Sully know to pick them up as soon as possible wasn't something that had even crossed her mind, but that had to have been one of the first things he did when he realized her state.

She hugged him tighter, her arms around his middle.

Drawing away just enough to look down at her, Harry scanned her with sparkling green eyes. "Do y'need to breathe with me again?" he asked her, the suggestion gentle and quiet as if there were people around to overhear.

"N-No," she said, shaking her head, "I just—... Can you stay with me f-for a second?"

In response, Harry homed her back into his chest. "I've got you," his voice rumbled his chest under her cheek.

Though it was more than clumsy with missteps and stilted movements, Harry led her to the staircase that ran up to her room. From there, he sat her on the bottom step, with him following closely after. She huddled up to him, Harry's arms curling around her as she sat with her dress splayed around her.

She didn't know how long she sat there, one of Harry's hands on her shin with his thumb moving in a soothing circuit over the bone, her face in his neck, but no time seemed long enough. The only reason she even dared to begin to pull back was the itching feeling of her clothes wrapped around her body.

"What do you need?" he asked instantly, ducking down into her space. From this view, she saw a collection of freckles across his nose, faint.

Swallowing, (Y/N) felt her hair sticking to her wet cheeks, the chunks of desecrated mascara surely mixing with the strands on her skin.

"I don't want to be in my dress anymore," she said, her voice as loud as she could manage without breaking. "It's too much."

"Okay," he murmured, giving a small nod, "Okay. I'll help you up to your room, and then y'can change into your pajamas."

The idea of him leaving her being in her bedroom had the lump in her throat thickening. She could barely keep her hands steady and he wanted her to be by herself?

"I-I can't do it by myself," she whimpered, too far gone to feel embarrassed about asking her bodyguard for help like this.

"Y'need my help?" he pressed, looking for verification though his gaze didn't waver from her own.

(Y/N) simply nodded her head.

His lips thinned but he gave her a confirming dip of his chin before he started helping her stand. He kept his hand wrapped around hers as he pulled her up the steps, (Y/N) following pliantly into her bedroom.

With a toss, Harry left her shoes in a heap somewhere in her room, but his attention was firmly laced on her. He kept her bedroom door open, the light from the hallway seeping through.

"(Y/N)?" he voiced, his voice firm, "Can y'look at me?"

Turning her gaze, she found him looking directly at her as his hand slipped away from hers. She almost wanted to reach for it back, unwilling to let go of that tether.

"You're okay with me helping y'undress?" he prodded, reiterating the same question she thought she already answered at the bottom of the stairs, "I need you to tell me if you're sure. I'm not going to help unless y'mean it."

"I-I can't do it by myself, please," she told him. Not once had she made it in or out of this dress by herself, and she couldn't fathom doing that now when her eyes were swollen with tears and her hands fighting off tremors. "I don't want to wear this anymore."

he looked at her for a beat longer, gaze matching her own. Whatever he saw in there must have been enough for him to give her a small nod. "Okay. Tell me what to do."

"Just get the zipper," she told him, facing her back towards him where the scooping line of her dress made it that much harder for her to reach the tiny mechanism.

Silently, Harry stepped behind her, her hair already up and pulled away when she reached towards her. The hook at the top of the form was the first to go, his fingertips brushing the same swatch of skin Barron had violated. Taking the zipper down, every tooth that was pulled apart allowed her lungs to fill deeper with air. (Y/N)'s eyes fluttered closed at the feeling, her dress loosening around her shoulders.

Pressing her hands to her chest, she kept the bodice of her dress up once Harry reached the bottom of the line.

"Can y'breathe better?" Harry murmured behind her, his words fanning across her skin. His breath felt cool against her skin.

"Uh-huh," she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing into a gentle slope, "Thank you."

She heard him murmur a good in response though he hesitated where he stood. "Do y'need any more of m'help? Or do y'want to be alone now?"

The idea of Harry leaving her, setting her to be alone in the dark of her room, the city skyline dusky out the window. She feared his hands were the only things keeping her from falling apart.

"Help," she answered simply.

Wordlessly, Harry assisted her in pulling down her dress, her back facing him as it became an ethereal puddle at her feet. Dom was going to kill her when he found out she let the gown touch the floor.

The nude forms of her shapewear and barely there bra was all that was left on her body as she kicked away her dress, the corset now structureless and folded with pearls a mess around.

(Y/N) didn't even think before she was pulling down her shapewear, the compression just another layer too much.

"I—" Harry coughed from behind her, his voice cutting short, "I'm going to get y'some clothes."

Her skin heated when she realized the way she had so carelessly began undressing in front of him. She was so used to having a team be there when she prepped and redressed from this, the shyness accompanying undressing and pulling layers off her body no longer lingered in moments like these. But, Harry wasn't a member of those teams, and this obviously wasn't the kind of thing he had anticipated when he obliged to stay and help her. She hoped she hadn't scarred him with the way she was almost completely nude in front of him.

At the same time, she couldn't curb the urge to get these pieces off of her body. She wanted to be rid of the night, the touches, the layers of herself that fell victim to her father's pressures to stay perfect at all times. The sooner that could happen, the sooner she would feel like herself again.

By the time Harry returned from her closet, an oversized shirt and a pair of her pilates shorts in hand, she was down to her thong with her hands holding up the push-up cups of her bra. She almost jumped out of her skin when she saw him move out of the corner of her eye, his steps faltering before he trained his gaze on the ground.

"I'll leave these here for you," he mumbled, the set of clothing being dropped on the edge of her mattress. He brought his knuckle up to brush against the tip of his nose, "I'll be outside your door. Come find me when you're done."

When the door shut behind him, (Y/N) was sealed away by herself. Her room became a vacuum, the air sucked out in a way that only felt calm.

Left in only her underwear, she allowed her bra to drop to the floor as she fell back on her mattress. She stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling with the light of the city filtering through her balcony in hazy beams.

This is her apartment. She's in her bed. She was in her skin. Her clothing was waiting at the end of her bed.

(Y/N) eyes fell closed as relief flooded through herself at the mantra. Everything around her was hers. No one could take any of this from her. This peace was hers to hold.

Tomorrow she would be worried about the stories that would be spun, her father's reaction to everything that had transpired, what consequences would follow this breakdown. But that was for tomorrow. Tonight, she was going to relish the sense of safety, that for a second she worried she would never experience again (that panic in her tummy was rooted deep).

She needed to text Francesca.

While she would have preferred to give her a call, there wasn't enough energy in her body for something like that.

Instead, (Y/N) lethargically redressed into her pajamas. Her top slouched around her form, the neckline wide and sleeves draping. Her shorts were well worn and stretchy from the many pilates sessions they accompanied her to. Taking her phone after she was settled into her skin, she typed out a text to Francesca.

thank you for helping tonight. harry got me home a little bit ago so I'm alright. I love u so much fran thank you thank you thank you

The second she pressed send, the confirmation that the message was delivered popping up, (Y/N) dropped the device among the folds in her duvet to find Harry.

Whipping the door open, she found Harry just outside her bedroom door. His suit jacket had been discarded somewhere in her apartment, his tie missing as well. Now he was left with the top couple of buttons undone of his shirt and his shirt sleeves now loose around his forearms. The tattoos she spotted the first day they met were back on display, roses and mermaids and bugs and script.

That peace she found in her bedroom strengthened at the sight of him.

"Y'alright?" Harry asked, his posture straightening from where he had leant against the wall.

"Yeah," she murmured, stepping over the threshold, "I-I can breathe, finally." She swallowed, taking in the state of his messed hair and flush to his cheeks. She knew what the night looked like from her end, but she could only imagine the kind of trouble he went through. "I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head, lips thinning at her apology. "Don't be sorry," he affirmed, reaching a careful hand out, "C'mon."

Laying her palm in his, (Y/N) was ready to follow wherever Harry wanted to take her. She padded after him as he escorted her to her bathroom, the space littered with beauty products and a bay window showing off the light of the city through the frosted glass.

"Let's get your makeup off and hair down, yeah?" he asked her, meeting her eyes through the glass of her mirror as he flicked on the overhead lights.

"Yes, please," she nodded, her voice heavy with fatigue now that the come down was beginning to settle in. "I'll start with my makeup if you'll get my hair?"

"Sounds like a plan," Harry murmured, a shadow of a smile touching the corners of his lips.

A comforting silence settled in the air, Harry concentrating on breaking the hold of the can of hairspray that was used on her styled hair. A furrow appeared in his brow from where she spied him in the mirror.

"Let me know if I hurt you," he mumbled, picking bobby pins out of her strands. He only worked with gentle hands, fingertips brushing her scalp.

Now it was her turn to feel a curling grin tease the corners of her mouth. "Okay."

Pulling her removal balm from her drawer, she spread the oil across her fingertips and began shedding the layers of ruined makeup from her skin. In the back of her mind, she wanted to care about Harry seeing her with raccoon eyes and greasy skin, but she was sure he'd already seen her much worse earlier in the night. Nothing could scare him away at this point, even if she knew it was more for job security than anything that had to do with her. Besides, she didn't mind showing him this part of herself; he was her safety net tonight.

More and more of her strands broke free while (Y/N) peeled her lashes off, a damp cloth being used to get the removal balm off of her skin. Her pores and blemishes were on display once more, her skin breathing after being caked under powders and rivers of tears. Her scalp felt sore with every bobby pin Harry took out, a pile accruing on the counter.

"Can I ask what happened back there?" Harry piped up, breaking the silence that had settled like a fog over the room. His usual deadpan tone softened into something malleable and soft, gentle to her ears.

(Y/N)'s lips thinned at the question. She knew how to answer the question, but it was more of a matter of if she wanted to hear the answer after already living it. She bought herself time as she swiped her face with an extra cleansing water, her reusable cotton pad soft against her skin.

From her view in the mirror, she saw as he kept his eyes trained on her hair, fingers tracing through the strands comb out the twirled mess made earlier in the night.

"I know y'might not want to tell me because we aren't... friends, but even as someone who's meant to look after you, it would help to know just so I can protect you better next time," he mused, his voice gentle.

"Franny didn't tell you?"

A beat passed. "I want to hear it from you, (Y/N)."

Harry kept her steady when her weight shifted on her feet. His hands in her hair dropped to settle on her biceps, his eyes returning hers in the mirror. She felt his eyes scanning over her face. Whatever he found there had his jaw hardening, his resolve strengthening from where he stood behind her. "You're not there anymore, (Y/N). It's all over, don't forget."

She nodded her head, taking in a wavering breath through her nose. "Right, um," she started, her fingers fiddling with the sewn edge of her cotton pad, "It was that guy, at our table. The one sitting on my dad's other side. He found me at the bar when I was getting a drink, and he just didn't really listen. He bought me a drink and kept wanting to talk to me even when I was saying I wanted to go back to Emma and Francesca."

With his hands resuming in her hair, Harry listened along. "Right," he murmured, his voice now holding an edge that had previously been melted away. She had a feeling he knew bits and pieces of this story, and it only made it that much harder to hear it from her mouth.

"He kept touching me, and talking to me like I was stupid. It wasn't that bad, it just felt wrong—it made me feel gross." She swallowed around her dry throat, grateful for the lack of makeup on her face, her tears now welling over clean lashes. "I tried to leave, but I knew people were around and my dad would have been so mad if I made a scene. I tried to find you but I think my dad was talking to you so you couldn't see me, and the girls were busy, and there was a camera guy going around and taking photos. I couldn't... I let him keep touching me, but I was getting so nervous and it was all too much."

With her hair finally down and free from the style it was put in, Harry noticed the shine of her tears falling down her cheeks once more. He didn't hesitate before he was spinning her around, looping his arms around her to collect her to his chest.

"I know, I know," he murmured to her, her own hands curling in the fabric of his black shirt, "'S over now, though, right?"?

"Right," she breathed, voice a bit hoarse.

His hand petted her hair, the strands fluffy now that the hairspray was broken but still holding the heat style she was given. She couldn't wait to wash her hair when she had the energy, already missing the natural texture.

"Y'said it was the man sitting beside your dad? Barron?"

"Mhm," (Y/N) whimpered at the sound of his name. "I guess my dad had told him I needed to be taken care of, and I think he told him other m-mean things about me."

Her words dissolved into a string of sobs, Harry going tense against her. She couldn't help herself, sniffling and crying against his chest, her breathing coming in erratic puffs. She felt guilty, feeling him tense around her. She didn't mean to upset him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled, pulling away to look at him with a crinkling sniffle of her nose, "To-Tonight has been a lot. Thank you for helping me."

(Y/N) attempted to unravel herself from his hold, only to be stopped by his arms caging around her middle. "It's okay, don't apologize to me," he told her earnestly, matching his gaze to her blurry one, "Thank you for telling me, but I want to make something very clear right now."

Nodding, she looked up at him, watching as he ducked down into her space, crowding around her with intensity in his eyes.

"If y'ever feel uncomfortable or like you're in danger, for whatever reason—I don't care if you think it's not that bad, or your father will be upset, or whatever reason you think is good enough to stay in that moment—you are going to leave." His words were a command hiding behind a gentle tone. He was unwavering in his stance, that much she could glean. "I don't care what you have to do, what kind of 'scene' y'have to make, come find me if 'm not right there. Whatever will make you feel safest, that's what I want you to do. Don't ever feel like you have to put up with anything that upsets you for whatever reason.

"You matter more than whatever cover story or photos someone could make up. Okay? Don't ever think it's the other way around."

(Y/N) couldn't hold back the tears that fell down her cheeks, her skin stained and chin dripping with every drop. Her father had never said or even made her feel like putting herself first was an option, that she was the one variable in these stories that deserved a bit of protection. There was even a brief period of time when she had a publicist, and he never said anything close to what was coming out of Harry's mouth.

Everyone else around her had always shared the importance of what those around her thought, what could be said about her, the kind of stories that could be splashed across the pages. Her feelings, her safety, herself was always at the bottom of that list.

"Okay?" Harry prodded, his hands on her back flexing with fingertips denting the planes of her back, "Do y'understand what 'm saying?"

"I do," she choked out, lips quivering. Even blurry through her tears, dressed in all black and exhaustion on his features, Harry was the most gorgeous person she'd ever seen. An angel in the frosty light of her bathroom. "Thank you."

Harry only tugged her closer to his chest, cupping her back of her head where she snuggled in and allowed tears to run from her eyes.

(Y/N) clung to him tighter.

—————

Waking in her bed, duvet in folds around her with her pilates shorts chucked on the floor beside her discarded gown, (Y/N) blinked her stiff eyelids open. She couldn't be sure what time it was when she stalked to her bedroom, only remembering the ache in her muscles and stuffy nose. Harry had stayed with her all night, soothing her through the bouts of tears and being there when all she needed was to not be alone.

Stretching out of her bed with her feet hitting the floor, she couldn't remember if Harry had stayed after she fell asleep. She was barely aware of her own body when she shed her shorts and flopped into her bed, too exhausted to even crawl under the covers.

Stepping over her cold floor, (Y/N) crept out into the hallway, peering down the bend. Just barely, she could see a folded suit jacket and the first strands of curling brown hair from where she could spot the end of her couch. The closer she came to the living room, the closer she came to letting a smile settle on her features.

How he could manage it, she didn't know, but it was very much in his character to sleep with his brows pinched and arms crossed over his chest. He didn't look like he was resting particularly well, his suit jacket acting as his pillow as he threw himself into an odd shape to lay on her couch.

He stayed.

A heat bubbled under her skin at the thought. Despite the wringer she put him through the night before, he stayed here. Though she wasn't exactly sure how she would navigate the conversation that would have to occur when he woke, how she would handle knowing that he saw those most vulnerable parts of her, at least she knew she wasn't alone.

Letting him stay where he was, (Y/N) silently moved past him to her kitchen. She could start to say thank you by making him breakfast, she decided. If anything, it might be a good enough distraction to push off the conversation a bit longer when he woke.

She fell into her element as she pulled out the ingredients, feeling her muscles relax and joints loosen. Trying to be as quiet as she could so as to not disturb the sleeping beauty on her couch, she pulled the dish together as she went. Slices of toast were warming in a butter skimmed pan while she raided her spice rack. From her fridge she pulled eggs and chorizo, cheese and hashbrowns until she came up with a scramble. A rich and lemony hollandaise started on her stove, her apartment filling with toasted spices and the sizzling pop of the chorizo looking. She hoped he would appreciate the extra shred of manchego she stirred in.

With her mind running around the kitchen, timing and anticipating everything, she felt okay. She knew there had to be more than a handful of notifications on her phone, too many articles with her name tagged, and her father scheming her punishment, but, right now, she was content in living in this moment. She could wash her hair later, answer her phone calls, and explain to Dom that she didn't mean to let the Vivienne gown wrinkle on the floor. Before then, she would allow her only consequences to be the ache in her bones and the crust in the corners of her eyes.

Adding the final seasonings and beginning to plate everything, (Y/N) shifted her attention to the other consequence laying on her couch. She really hoped he liked what she made.

Adding the hollandaise over the hashbrown bowl, (Y/N) finished up with adding the slices of crusty toast to the rim of the bowl. She placed them on her rarely used dining table, hesitating at the chair beside where she determined Harry would sit before backtracking and placing her own serving in the seat across.

Now was the hard part.

Padding over the rug, she made her way to the couch, Harry's restless form still stiff where he laid. With the top buttons of his top undone, the tan skin of his chest was on display, the necklace she had noticed time and time again, the pendants finally on display. The faces of a duo of birds inked on his chest peeked out, matching the dark black of his outfit. He even fell asleep with his shoes on.

He did all that work to make sure she was comfortable—getting her out of her dress, helping her take her hair down, reminding her to wash her makeup off—only to fall asleep with his suit jacket as a pillow and his event clothes wrapped too tight around him.

Crouching beside him, she sat on her folded knees. His profile was on display this way, the line of his nose and curl of his lashes highlighted through the sunny window.

Using a gentle hand, she cautiously settled her palm on his tensed shoulder. "Harry," she murmured. She gave a minute shake to his shoulder.

Harry woke up with a start, his reaction much quicker and more drastic than she had expected. He sucked in a big breath, his eyes flying open as he sat up, his hands reaching behind to prop himself up. She could see the recognition settle over his features, his eyes frantically searching over her face with his mouth in a soft gape.

"(Y/N)," he breathed out.

Having sat back some when he startled, her hands in a bundle in her lap, she blinked up at him. "Sorry," she started, "I just... I made you breakfast, if you were hungry."

Disoriented, he ran a heavy hand through his hair as he shifted where he sat. The suede cushions fluffed up, the fibers mimicking waves around him. "Yeah?" he asked, moving to sit properly with his feet on the ground and knees wide apart.

Still on her knees, she looked up at him, his hair a mess and chest heaving as he caught his stressed breath. She opened her mouth to say something, but every thought was ripped from her head when her front door was flung open.

Whipping around, she almost jumped out of her skin when she saw her father stepping inside. His face was twisted in anger, wearing a suit too nice for this early in the morning, and his eyes as daggers trained right on her.

He stomped over the threshold, coming towards where she was still folded on the floor.

"Dad!"

Ignoring her voice, she saw him finally take in the scene. For the first time he seemed to realize Harry was there. With (Y/N) on her knees in front of him. His clothes were a rumpled mess, the same ones from the night before. His chest rising and falling from his startled good morning, hair a stressed mess.

(Y/N) could practically see his blood pressure rising through his body, his hair standing on end when he returned his gaze to hers. He was seething, taking his assumptions from the scene before him.

"Are you fucking kidding me, (Y/N)?" he hissed, his hands practically shaking at his sides. He towered over her, even from where she sat feet away. "What do you think you're trying to do to him!?"

Scrambling to stand up, she was already shaking her head in denial. This wasn't the kind of scolding she was going to be able to sit through.

"What? I'm—No, that's not—"

He shook his head, his jaw stiff. He seemed to bite his own tongue, stopping himself from saying anything more. "We will have to talk about that later," he cemented, "Because you need to tell me what the hell you were thinking last night."

While she knew this was coming, she honestly expected more of a phone call. She thought he would be too angry to even look at her. He'd never been angry enough to burst into her home and yell at her there. He much preferred his home turf, where he controlled all the power.

Swallowing, she tried to calm her racing heartbeat. "I know it looks bad, but I promise I didn't mean—"

"I don't want excuses!" he shouted, cutting her off despite the fact he was the one that invited her to talk in the first place. "I'm tired of you embarrassing me every chance you get! I always knew you'd be crazy like your mother, but I didn't think it would be this fucking bad."

(Y/N) recoiled at the mention of her mother. He rarely talked about her unless in punishment, but he hadn't said anything so blatantly evil about her.

She didn't know what to say. This is why he never told her about the racing in her heart and the stress that filled her without permission. She didn't want him to think of her as crazy, something that needed to be medicated and put away. But, she supposed now, he didn't need to know that information to say that about her.

Her father took a menacing step towards her, his expression that much more angry after her silence.

In an instant, Harry was sliding between them, his back facing (Y/N) with his height obscuring her view of her father. "Sir," Harry started, a warning to his tone that had to come from years of dealing with pests.

It was her father's turn to take a step back, (Y/N) just barely catching the way he rolled his eyes. Harry's interference only set him off further, it appeared.

Speaking around the wall that was Harry, he yelled to (Y/N), "How am I supposed to trust him now, after I saw what you were trying to do to him. What did you do last night that convinced him that you needed protecting from me when you're the problem!"

Harry took a step towards him, a hand out as if to soothe a vicious animal while barring him from coming any closer should he attempt. "Sir, I think it's best if you step outside for a moment."

Ignoring Harry's plea, he only craned his neck to ensure (Y/N) could see him when he yelled again. "I always knew you'd end up a whore," her father seethed, "But you only seem to like it best when it's a way to get back at me."

With that, Harry didn't hesitate before grabbing her father by the arms and twisting him away. He escorted him out the door of her apartment, pushing him over the threshold with a slam of the door behind them.

Muffled shouts started on the other side of the door, her father's voice the one that was raised. She couldn't pick out individual words, but she figured that was probably for the best. She didn't need to hear any more of what he thought of her.

Staving off a replay of last night's breakdown, she sunk to the floor, her legs a tangled puddle underneath her. Her hands shook in her lap, matching the cadence of her lungs as she fought to keep her breathing even.

Suddenly, a loud bang against her door rang through her empty apartment. Tears filled her eyes.

The blaring noise was compounded with a stretch of silence. The low timber of Harry's voice rose then, though his was layered with the typical composure he always had, even in the face of someone as unreasonable as her father.

The silence gave too much room for her thoughts to grow, her head bloated and heavy.

In an odd way, she was grateful he was as angry as he was. He was too upset, his vision too red, to say anything properly damaging. If he had been thinking any clearer, she worried she would have a plane ticket to Sweden in hand and all credit cards in her name shredded.

While this morning was bad, it definitely could have been worse, she decided.

She couldn't be sure how long she sat on the floor, waiting for whatever would emerge back into her apartment, but soon enough the doorknob twisted with the hinges gliding open. Harry was the only one to step inside, her father missing from the hallway when she glanced around.

His cheeks were red, hair in an even sorrier state than before, but he kept that same calculated set to his irises. He didn't hesitate to crouch to her level, his brows pinching as he met (Y/N)'s eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked, intensity laced through his voice.

(Y/N) nodded her head, stray hairs curtaining around her face. "Sorry about everything he said. I-I don't know where he—why he—"

Harry shook his head, his jaw ticking. He dropped his gaze from hers as he shuttered them in a lingering blink. When he dared to glance up at her once more, he said, "No, don't apologize for him. I jus'... (Y/N), I think 's best if I go home, now."

Instinctively, she wanted to question him. She wanted to investigate his reasoning and attempt to make him stay. He was her solid pillar, the buoy keeping her afloat. She worried what she would do without him for the first time in twenty-four hours.

But, she couldn't blame him. Her father just accused her of trying to seduce him to wriggle into his head, with whatever else he shared behind that closed door. She could only imagine just how uncomfortable he was now in her presence, both his employer and client having varying breakdowns in front of him.

"Okay," she settled, dropping her eyes to her hands. At least the tremor stopped. "Thank you for staying with me last night."

Giving a curt nod, Harry stood to his full height. He moved silently around him, stoic as ever as he collected his suit jacket and cell phone. His footsteps seemingly echoed in the otherwise silence of her home.

She wasn't even sure if he looked at her again before he slipped out the front door, leaving her alone.

—————

Dad

I have a flight scheduled to take you to Paris in a week. You can't be trusted here to stay out of trouble, even with Harry's help. You will be staying through to the winter, and I hope you take this time to reflect on what you've done and how you plan on fixing your attitude.

Harry will be accompanying you, but I expect you to keep your relationship strictly professional with him. Don't squander this time away, (Y/N).

I will check in soon to ensure things are going well.

(Y/N) felt heavy reading her father's string of texts.

Today had been enough of an obstacle already, and now she had to plan to be out of the country well after Summer had ended.

She didn't bother to type a response, only reacting to the top message with a thumbs up.

Falling back on her bed, the mattress bouncing under her spine, she stared up at the ceiling.

She was going to have to call Francesca.

—————

"Is there anything I can grab for you, Ms. (Y/N)?"

A pleasant smile curled over (Y/N)'s lips, the bags under her eyes shielded by the heavy pair of sunglasses perched on her nose. "No, thank you."

The flight attendant scurried away at her dismissal, all too eager to practically sprint away. While this crew wasn't especially friendly with her, always seeming a little too scared of her, there was definitely a difference in how attentive they'd started for this flight. They'd no doubt seen the articles that had been swirling for the last week.

She couldn't blame them, honestly. Reviewing the articles herself, she was painted as an out of touch socialite, a woman who flipped out after a perceived slight. There were photos of her speaking to Barron, the moment having been described as the final moments before the blowup. The drink clutched in her hand was blown out of proportion, insiders and onlookers dishing out how she'd been drinking the whole night despite those two sips of the gin and tonic being the only alcohol she partook in the entire Gala.

The men around her were painted as heroes, including Harry. Her father and Barron were trying to talk her down from her drunken antics, urging her to calm and remind her of the cameras watching. Harry was doing the chivalrous thing and helping her out of the event before she stumbled around and humiliated herself more than she already had. Some sources even became so bold as to claim that the reason she snuck away to the bathroom for so long, others checking on her, was because of a drug problem she was hiding behind closed doors.

All of it was her fault. She was being unreasonable, and rude. Untamable and embarrassing. Crazy, even.

The webs were spun so well, including the official photographs along with blurry photographs posted by anonymous social media accounts. Every story looked worse than the last.

Even knowing the truth, seeing those photos gave (Y/N) a deep sense of humiliation she couldn't shake.

Seeing an outsider's perspective, the way she clung to Harry with messy hair and swollen eyes, crying over him and using him like some kind of shield. She couldn't believe he had stayed with her after the way she acted—and those were only the things that occurred in public.

If that wasn't bad enough, after the fashion magazine's interview was posted along with the event's photos and stories, Harry was now having articles written about him. People were digging into his private life, hunting down any kind of hint of who he was, what he meant to (Y/N). Most likely, some were even hoping to get into contact with him and earn and exclusive. She couldn't blame him if he took someone up on the offer.

It was all her fault.

Maybe that was why this past week, she hadn't heard from him at all. To be fair, she hadn't gone anywhere, preferring to keep out of the public eye while the gossip circulated. Francesca met her at her apartment instead, helping her with everything; they packed a small bag to get her through her traveling, cried, bitched about her dad, and had a two day sleepover before (Y/N)'s exile began. She was the only one (Y/N) told, knowing it would get to the rest of the girls in a matter of time, only after she had disappeared for a good few weeks.

That left (Y/N) with a small go-bag, a full wardrobe and duplicates of her favorite things already waiting at the French penthouse, sweats on her form and embarrassment too deep to coax Harry into interacting with her.

She felt stiff where she sat, imagining what the stew crew was whispering about her just out of earshot, imagining what Harry was thinking about her as he refused to even glance at her despite the orientation of their chairs. She couldn't relax in her skin. She was too in her head to manage something like that.

Though (Y/N) was happy to get out of New York, these circumstances were killing any joy she could tie to the change in scenery. Paris was one of her favorite places in the world, her penthouse securing a special spot in her heart, but her father wanted to turn it into a prison. he wanted to ruin another safe place for her. It sucked.

And, the one person she was too embarrassed to even properly look at, was the one person accompanying her through it all. Her new roommate was the same guy that she was being accused of sleeping with out of anger at her father, out of her rampant sexual desire that kept her from staying with any one person for too long, or a cute decoration that was placed around her to give her clout. At least that's what the rumors swirling around were.

Heaving a sigh and crossing her legs, (Y/N) wanted to be surprised that Harry didn't even flinch in her direction, instead she felt just a sting of hurt behind her ribs.

—————

"You know where the house is?"

"Yes," Harry answered, his response curt as he shifted the car into drive.

(Y/N) couldn't blame his short reply, she wasn't being particularly warm either.

Instead, she silently settled into her seat, conflicted on how to feel. She'd never really travelled without a driver. Even if it wasn't Sully since he stayed in the city with his family, there was always someone else that took care of her wherever she went. This time, it appeared Harry would be in charge of that.

Most likely at her father's request, she figured. Now there was no reason for her to be away from him for even ten minutes. Her babysitter extraordinaire.

Shifting her gaze out the windscreen, she took in the emerging city. It had been a while since she was away from the lights and the skyscrapers, the crowds of tourists. While Paris wasn't quite as quant as the movies made it out to be, it was definitely different from that of New York. There was more breathing room.

Her dad always thought it was too slow, too boring, a place to spend a single day in before moving on to something much newer and exciting. Maybe that was why it became one of her favorite places, her first request when she was old enough being that she could find a penthouse in Paris. She knew he wouldn't want to follow her here.

Harry drove like an expert through the winding streets, a GPS screen hooked up to show him the way to her penthouse, though she doubted he needed it. He kept his gaze shifting through the cycle of peering out the window, checking his mirrors, and glancing in the rearview. He didn't waver in his routine, as if (Y/N) wasn't even there.

The familiar lead up to the neighbourhood of Saint-Germain had (Y/N) sitting up. She couldn't wait to lock herself away in that top floor penthouse.

Taking advantage of the free space not too far from the entrance to the building, Harry pulled in in one smooth motion. The click of the gear shifter settled them into park. He pulled the key after a beat, finally shooting her a fleeing glance.

"I'll grab the bags and follow you," he directed, not waiting before he was pushing open his door and stepping out onto the street.

She followed suit, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head.

Upon her first deep breath in, (Y/N) wondered if she had been away for long enough to convince herself the air really did smell like butter and wine the way poets always described.

There were still a good amount of tourists given the neighborhood's proximity to various landmarks, but this place was worlds different in comparison to the city. She hoped her father knew she was enjoying her punishment.

Harry, with their bags in hand, waited for her to take the lead. She gave him a careful smile before she breezed past him, leading them to the entrance of her building. This place was much different than that in the city, no doorpeople around and only a small bank of two elevators beside the various mailboxes.

Once in the lift, she entered them in to be taken to the top floor. Harry was a silent pillar beside her, his luggage and her duffle bag in hand. She swallowed around the silence.

The top floor was all for her, the space being bought by her father by the time she was twenty. Knocking down the walls, the three separate apartments were turned into one big space that was gutted and turned into an immaculate penthouse. (Y/N) fought to keep as many of the original features as she could.

Stepping inside the space, her efforts were rewarded with the sight of the off-white walls, texture embedded in the slabs. Wrought-iron fixtures were littered throughout, the original doors and biggest kitchen left as it was. Everything held the air of romance, the space a lot more intimate than small than what she had in New York. A trio of different balconies were stationed on the outside, those terraces offering views of the Eiffel Tower.

It was lovely. That was the only way she could describe it. The kind of place that deserved to be draped in roses and lit exclusively in candlelight. Late nights and Burgundy wine with silk dresses.

Harry followed her as she stepped towards a plane of French doors, the glass frosted to keep prying eyes out. "This is my room," she told him, voice detached, "But down that hall are a couple of spare bedrooms and bathrooms, so you can pick whatever one you want."

Dropping her duffle on the floor, he gave her a single nod. "Okay."

With that, he turned on his heel. She watched as he started down the hall, leaving her with a single syllable.

She needed to say something. As distant as she was acting because of her embarrassment, she couldn't not acknowledge what happened. Every time she looked at him, she saw those photos of her clinging and crying on him, her mascara a mess while he looked at her with sympathy. She saw the way he tended to her hair in the mirror, using his fingers to break the hold of the hairspray and gently pick out the bobby pins holding the style in. She saw him defending her against her father.

"Harry?" she peeped, eyes fixed to his back.

"Hm?" He stopped, looking at her over his shoulder.

Taking a step towards him, her hands a fumbling mess behind her back, she swallowed. "I wanted to say thank you again for last week. Especially after everything. And for defending me," she started, her gaze dropping to the middle of his back, "I'm sorry I acted that way, and how I have been acting. I know I can be unreasonable, so it means a lot that you stayed with me and still came here with me. I hope this isn't too bad of a place to be exiled."

She tried to go lighthearted, ending with a breathy laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Harry only looked at her with a pinched brow, his arm dropping the bag he had slung over his shoulder. "I... I don't think I understand."

Clamming up, (Y/N) felt too exposed. She waved him off, shaking her head in hopes of dismissing all that she shared. "Don't worry about it," she said, "Just thank you for looking out for me, and I promise I'm going to make your job as easy as possible while we're here. Hopefully, I'll be able to get you home before the holidays."

A silence settled between them. Harry didn't offer any kind of response, only his eyes following her. She shifted her weight where she stood, her fingers knotting behind her back.

She inched towards her room, the space feeling too heavy as her words hung in the air.

"I think I'm going to unpack and take a nap," she murmured, offering a barely there smile, "We can order food later if you want, but I don't plan on doing anything, so the rest of the day is yours."

With that, she slipped between her open French doors, the warmth of her room enveloping her once she sealed the rest of the penthouse out. She didn't want to see if Harry was still standing there, watching her with eyes that were too observant.

She took in a deep breath, shifting her gaze through her bedroom. Her eyes landed on the open drapes to her balcony. Outside, the Eiffel Tower shimmered.

—————

ephemere is the French words for a fleeting beauty; a summer love, a shooting star, greatness gone too soon

this part is def one of the longer ones of the series so thank you so much for getting through it! sorry for any mistakes and if you have any ideas or thoughts please send them in!

#writing #harry #harry styles #harry one shot #harry imagine #harry blurb #harry au #bodyguard harry #harry x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles au #bodyguard harry styles #love on tour #pleasing #harrys house #as it was #satellite

909 notes · View notes