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percervall · 4 months

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I'm not a woman (I'm a god)

Pairing: Toto Wolff x Horner!reader Words: 3194 Warnings: Greek Mythology AU, descriptions of misogyny and sexism, Christian Horner is painted the villain, implied age gap (both are legal adults), smut, masturbation, p in v, loss of virginity, no beta we die like my sanity during f1 silly season

In which you claim what's rightfully yours

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As the meeting progresses, you can’t fight the urge to speak up any longer. Had you still been at RedBull, you would’ve; you would have bitten your tongue until it bled because your father didn’t much care for your opinions, as he called it, despite the fact you had spent years on getting your Masters and then spent another three years on studying all the strategy calls the team had ever made to see where things could improve. No, your father allowed you to sit in those meetings just so he could keep an eye on you. But you are no longer under his watchful eye and scrutiny; Toto Wolff made sure of that. Oh, people like to say that you were stolen from the RedBull garage, your father playing the role of victim like he was born to do so, but nothing could be farther from the truth. You weren’t stolen like the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix; no, you chose to be claimed by Mercedes and their team principal. Thus, here you are, part of Lewis’ team as a strategy engineer, about to do the one thing your father always reprimanded you for: speaking out against a figure of authority.

“Are you going to say what’s on your mind or do I have to make do with your facial expressions?” Toto drawls, making your decision for you. You can feel your heart beating against your ribs as nerves flutter in the hollow of your chest.

“With all due respect, sir,” you start, the room breaking out in a mocking chuckle but you will not let that deter you, “With all due respect, but this strategy will cost you points. You are all so sure that this race will lead to a safety car while experience tells us that the chances of that happening this weekend are 2% at most, and all safety cars deployed in the last six years have been due to car malfunctions. If you want to end up in the points, I would propose a two stop strategy, allocating at least two sets of mediums for the race on Sunday and forgoing softs all together seeing as how much they suffer from tyre deg at this circuit.” The room is dead silent when you finish. Toto’s eyes remain on you, his face a stoic mask.

“Check my numbers if you want,” you add, growing in your confidence the longer this staring contest continues. Toto looks at one of the other engineers, eyebrow raised with a silent command. You hear someone frantically typing as they run the numbers. Leaning back in your chair you take a sip of your coffee, willing your hands not to tremble despite how nervous you feel. Whispers of she’s right flitter around the room as more people join in with re-running your calculations. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling smugly at being proven right four times over.

“Very well, Ms Halliwell,” Toto says, silencing the room once more. “We’ll try your set up with Lewis’ car and stick to what was already decided on by the senior members for George.” This is as much of a win as you are going to get right now, and you will gladly take it, but there’s a twinkle in Toto’s eyes that has your stomach in knots. You’re not sure whether it’s pride or awe; either way, it fills you with a feeling you can’t quite place yet you know you will crave it for weeks to come.

When Sunday rolls around, you pray to whoever will listen that your numbers check out. You have gone over the statistics of this grand prix so often that you could probably recite them in your sleep at this point. Had it been any other race, you would have accepted whatever outcome, but this one means more. You need Mercedes to do well here in Austria, but more than anything you need your father’s team to suffer the consequences of their misogyny and ignorance. As you walk into the garage ahead of the race, your heels clicking against the cement, your eyes lock with Toto who gives you a slow smile as his eyes rake over you, taking in the way the stark white fabric of your team issued blouse and your tapered black trousers show off all your assets; you know you look delectable, and you know he knows it too. From the moment you met him for your job interview (which you landed under false pretences, using your mother’s name), there’s been an undercurrent of tension. It should’ve made you cautious, fearful even, of powerful men in powerful places, but Toto has been nothing but gracious, always indulging your retorts and meeting you tit for tat, a flirtatious game of cat and mouse that you’re enjoying immensely.

“I want you next to Bono during the race. You decided on the strategy, it’s only fair you get the recognition –whether it works or not,” Toto tells you. Nodding your head, you put on your headphones and take your place at the centre console. No more hiding in plain view, your father will see exactly what you are capable of –what you could have given him. Fighting the urge to chew the skin around your thumb, you keep your back straight and shoulders back as the race starts. You keep an eye on the weather satellite, scanning for any changes that could mess with the chosen strategy while listening to Lewis’ feedback for Bono, making suggestions for minute corrections to the set up of the car. Bono graciously forwards your ideas to the driver who slowly but surely climbs his way through the field. The RedBulls are still leading the pack, but you’re certain that your father’s confidence will be his downfall. As you had predicted, there is no need for a safety car during the race and, judging by the call to pit by your father’s golden child, they had been betting on one by using the softs at the start of the race.

“You were spot on with the tyre deg stats,” Bono tells you and you can’t help but smile wickedly back at him. There’s five laps left, and both RedBulls are on the hard tyre, which will never warm up in time to benefit from their longevity. George seems to be suffering a similar fate while Lewis is fighting with one of the McLarens for P2. Your eyes remain glued to the feed of Lewis’ on board camera as he begins the final lap. He is quickly gaining on the McLaren and in what can only be described as a masterclass, overtakes it to secure a P2 finish. Lewis’ radio message doesn’t even register; all you can hear is white noise as it dawns on you that you have shown everyone just what you’re capable of. It has whetted your appetite for more –for destruction.

The team is celebrating a podium finish as if it’s a win, and you suppose to them it most definitely feels like one. You’re standing on the edge where the garage meets pit lane, watching them with a smile on your face when Toto comes to stand behind you.

“I want you front and centre when Lewis climbs that podium. You have earned this accolade and should be rewarded as such. Let your father see what he’s done,” he murmurs, voice low. It sends a shiver down your spine but you manage to nod in agreement.

“Good. Oh, and as part of your reward, I think we should celebrate accordingly in private, wouldn’t you agree? The choice is yours, take it or don’t. No hard feelings either way,” he adds, chest brushing against your back as he leans closer. Swallowing thickly, you nod once more, not trusting your voice as heat pools low in your belly at the insinuation. You can feel him slide something into your back pocket and you don’t have to check to know it’s the keycard to his hotel room.

During the podium celebrations you stood front row, eyes steadfast on the podium with a smile so wide, your cheeks ached. You can only imagine the tales Crofty and Martin are spinning about you; no doubt making inferences about how distraught your father was to have his only daughter working for the rival. Let them spin their fairy tales, you had better things to get on with –or, more accurately, a better man. Sliding the key card into the lock, you enter the hotel room of your boss. Once you take this step, there’s no turning back, but you are willing to eat the proverbial pomegranate seeds.

Toto turns around when he hears the lock click and you lean against the door. He looks incredible; sleeves of his shirt rolled up and a few of the top buttons are undone.

“Wine?” he asks, picking up the bottle from the desk.

“Yes, please,” you respond, accepting the glass he hands you. Toto smiles, and it’s so sly, bordering on debauched, that it has you squeezing your thighs together.

“Still some manners left in you. I wonder how long that will last,” he muses, raising his glass at you as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

“They claim you have stolen me from RedBull, much like they claim Hades stole Persephone,” you say, straddling him before taking a sip of your wine. He can’t help but laugh when he sees the twinkle in your eyes, one of his large hands coming to rest on your hip.

“Oh, Meine Liebe, we both know you were not some prize that could be stolen. You saw the hell they created for you and thus you fled so you could set the world ablaze.” His use of a term of endearment is not lost on you, and you crave to hear more of it.

“Stolen or not, I am here. What are you planning on doing to me?” you ask him, holding his gaze.

“Oh, I plan on doing everything, darling. Every depraved fantasy you could think of and more,” Toto says as he puts his glass on the nightstand. You grow hot all over at his words. Despite your sharp wit –and even sharper tongue, if your father’s word is anything to go on–, you are about to enter previously uncharted waters. Of course you heard stories from your female friends while at University, devoured smutty book after smutty book, but actually doing any of it? Your father would dig himself a grave so he could roll in it if he ever knew what his little girl was about to do. The nervousness you felt earlier today is back in full swing as you try to find the words to tell him your biggest secret.

“I-.. I’ve never done this before. I attended Oxford so I could live at home, remain under his watch,” you confess, not even able to say the words out loud. Toto studies your face, filling in the blanks with how your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“No man has ever touched you?” You shake your head as you bite your lip.

“Have you touched yourself, darling?” Toto asks and while he says nothing that could be construed as dirty, you gasp as if he has. Nodding your head, you can’t help but roll your hips against him, inadvertently grinding your pussy against the hardened bulge in his trousers. Toto swears under his breath, gaze darkening as he tightens his grip on you.

“Will you show me, Liebling? Will you show me how you make yourself feel good?”

Even if you wanted to, you’re not sure you could ever deny this man any request; not when he asks so caringly, as if your pleasure is the sole purpose of all of this. Breathlessly, you nod, letting Toto take your wine glass from you while you strip out of your work clothes. As you slide your blouse down your arms, you hear Toto groan as he takes in your figure clad in nothing more than your pale lilac bra and panties. It’s not the sexiest set you own, but it’s one of the few that doesn’t show through the white fabric. Before you lose your nerve, you climb back on the bed, eyes locked on Toto who leans against the footboard of the bed. He gives you a look, so openly full of desire that it makes your head spin and your pussy throb at being the object of his lust. Closing your eyes, you lean back into the pillows while your hand wanders. You can almost pretend you’re alone, your brain quickly supplying all the sordid fantasies you would never dare to say out loud. As your fingers inch under the elastic of your underwear, you can’t help but bite your lip as your hips writhe on the sheets. The tip of your pointer finger rubs against your clit and you gasp at the sensation, head thrown back. You’re already so sensitive, it won’t take much to send you over the edge. Applying the slightest bit more pressure, you begin to rub tight little circles, letting out the neediest whining noise.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Toto groans.

“Please,” you whisper, lifting your head so you can look at him. His legs are spread and he palms his bulge while he watches you pleasure yourself, and that sight alone sends your head spinning.

“Let go for me, darling,” Toto orders gently, and who are you to disobey him? Your body arches, head thrown back as you come undone under his watchful eye.

When you open your eyes, you can see movement to your right. Sitting up on your elbows, you watch how Toto strips down to his underwear, and walks into the ensuite. You can feel your cheeks heat up when you spot the foil packets and the bottle of lube in his hands. Toto drops them on the bed before climbing on. Hovering over you, he brushes a strand of your hair back behind your ears.

“I want this to be enjoyable for you. Please tell me when you feel uncomfortable, tell me when something makes you feel good.” You nod, breath caught in your lungs. Toto smiles so tenderly at you that it makes you forget about everything else. He moves his hand from your cheek, down your neck to your bra strap.

“Can I take this off, Liebling?” he asks quietly. You can only nod, too enthralled by him to form words.

“Need to hear you say it, darling. I will always need to hear you,” Toto murmurs.

“Yes,” you whisper, swallowing down your nerves about him seeing you naked. He gently unclasps your bra, moving the straps down your arms before pulling it away completely.

“Beautiful,” he says softly, his eyes taking you in and you fight the urge to cover yourself up. Toto’s hands caress your skin, as if he is trying to commit every line and curve to memory. You arch up into his touch as he cups your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple and it sets something alight in your core. Toto’s hands move lower, fingers curling around the elastic of your panties.

“What about these?”

“Yes,” you reply quietly, lifting your hips to help him. He sits back on his knees, hands sliding down your thighs and his fingers are so close to where you’re aching for him, it makes you whine. Toto chuckles, moving his body over yours once more.

“You want it so bad, don’t you Liebling?” he murmurs in your ear, and the only reply you can form is a quiet uhu. He smiles against your skin, pressing a chaste kiss to your jaw before moving away to fully strip. Biting your lip, you watch him tear open one of the foil packets and roll it down his hard cock. Anticipation and nerves flitter low in your stomach; he’s definitely bigger than the vibrator you have hidden away in the back of your closet.

“We’ll take it slow, okay? You decide how far we go, you’re in control,” Toto reassures you, moving closer so he can lean down to kiss you.

“Okay,” you whisper before his lips are on yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair while he drags his cock through your folds and over your clit. Toto moves his lips down your neck, kissing and sucking gently, sure to leave marks. Your body seems to have a mind of its own as your hips grind against him and you feel a desperation taking hold of you.

“Please,” you sigh.

“Tell me Liebling, what do you want?” Toto murmurs.

“Please.. Need you- need you in me,” you all but whimper, “Fill me Toto, please..” He groans against the skin of your neck at your request. Toto fumbles blindly for the lube and applies a generous amount to his cock and your pussy. Biting your lip, you lean up and watch as he slowly, so very slowly, sinks himself inside of you. The stretch has you panting and you feel how you clench around him. He holds you close, letting you adjust to the sensation of being filled completely.

“Need you to move, Toto,” you moan, fingers clawing at his back.

“Doing so good for me, darling. Taking me so well, fuck..” he groans against your skin as he sets a languid pace, and while it’s slow, his thrusts are so deep.

“Ha-harder.. I can take it.. Please..” you whine, Toto eagerly complying with your demand. The only thing you’re able to do is cling to him as he keeps fucking you, whimpering every time he hits a spot inside of you that brings you just that teeny bit closer to the edge.

“Need you to cum, darling. Can you do that for me?” he asks as rubs his thumb over your clit.

“Uhu,” you whisper meekly, unable to form a single coherent thought as you feel your orgasm approaching.

“Close.. Toto… Please.. Need.. Need to-..”

“That’s it. God, you look so beautiful, just taking my cock like this. Come for me, darling.” And with that something snaps, your body arching as you feel your pussy clenching around him in waves. Toto keeps fucking you through it, chasing his own release, but you’re too far gone to pay attention. He keeps pressing kisses to your temple and hairline as he carefully pulls out, making sure the condom stays on. The loss has you whimpering.

“I know, I know,” Toto coos, “I’ll be right back. Did so good for me, so proud of you.” He gives you one last kiss before getting up to dispose of the condom and returns with a flannel to clean you up best he can. He throws it down by the side of the bed, and takes you in his arms. Your body feels completely boneless and you try to stifle a yawn.

“Take a nap, Liebling. We’ll get properly cleaned up in a bit.” Nodding you allow sleep to pull you under as Toto whispers sweet nothings against your hair.

written as part of @footballffbarbiex’s kink bingo challenge

It's not the 10k fic I joked about, but I finally managed to write the Greek Mythology AU I've been thinking about since early last year. Wanted to get this done and up before more information comes out during this delayed silly season, so if things feel rushed, it's because they are. This fic was heavily influenced by Bea Fitzgerald's Girl, Goddess, Queen; if you love retellings of Greek mythology, please check it out

Please let me know what you think; you comments, tags and likes mean the absolute world to me! 💜

#f1 fanfic #toto wolff smut #toto wolff fanfic #toto wolff x reader #toto wolff x you #kink bingo challenge

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hiraeth-sonder · 1 month

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Indulgent Solicitude - Paraíso

Boothill x Reader

Maybe love really can happen in a bar, albeit something has to go wrong somewhere, right?

//The things that damned cowboy is doing to me needs to be studied. Lyric excerpts are from Virgen by Adolescent's Orquesta

¿Cómo evitarlo? Tú corres por mis venas

Eres la rosa más bella, mi alma es toda tuya

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

“Why, hello there.”

A man’s voice fills your ears above the sound of idle chatter and soft music playing from the old record player. Playfully liliting, a smile comes across your painted lips as you bring your glass to drink from. You pretend to not notice, ensuring you savour each and every drop of liquid that passes through your lips. The last remnants of your drink remain upon your tongue when you finally deign to face him, meeting steel grey eyes and dark brows quirked up in mettle.

“Hello there yourself,” You hum, eyes trailing his as he approaches you by the bar.

He grins as he positions himself by you, your legs crossed on the bar chair with his form by your side. Under the moody lighting, it brought a warm glow to his complexion, mellowing the usually harsh glint of cold metal. There was a roguish aura to him, something that told you that you wouldn’t quite like to get on his bad side yet you couldn’t help yourself, never could when it came to situations like this.

A low rasp tinges his voice, one that makes your breath quicken, just the slightest, “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

Less of a question but more of a rhetorical offer, a few credits are clasped between two lithe fingers even before you could respond. Your eyes shift to the shelf behind the bartender, not quite finding anything that piques your fancy. You decide you’d let him pick, just to see whether he knows you as much as he thinks he does.

“Knock yourself out.”

He calls for the bartender and orders some drink you can’t quite make out, but based on his confident poise, you can only assume it's something that’ll fit at least one of your tastes. There’s a tired glint in his eyes, but he doesn’t complain and gets to making whatever it is that is meant to please you. Your companion only leans against the bar as he cocks his head, sharp teeth peeking from behind that smirk of his.

“So what’s a pretty thing like yourself doing all on ya own?”

“Just looking to burn some time,” Smiling, you bring your drink to your lips as though to hide your amusement, “What about you?”

“Well, I thought I might be leaving with you tonight,” Your companion murmurs with an equally amused smile, a kind of mirth in his eyes.

A genuine laugh seems just to tumble out, you only lean closer towards him with a teasing mutter, “Buy me a few more drinks and I’ll consider it.”

The two of you share a knowing look, and he wraps an arm around the back of your chair, the smell of the bar clinging to him, warm and boozy. Though it seemed that to others, what was clearly comfortable banter and intimacy had come across as unwanted soliciting, for footsteps tapping against wooden floorboards sound ever closer from behind you.

There is a tap against your shoulder, then a somewhat nasally voice reaches your ears, “Excuse me ms, is this man bothering you?”

You barely glance past the man’s way, not bothering to give him more than the curtest moment of your attention, “Not at all.”

“Are you sure?” The man affirms, face scrunched in mock concern as he steps closer and closer, far too much for you liking and certainly quite visible on your face. He gestures towards your companion, “I’m certain a fine lady such as yourself would prefer the company of someone less… brash.”

At this, the ranger actually quirks his brow in vexation, pulling you closer towards him as you match his pique. His voice lowers, “Got a problem with me flirting with my partner?”

The conversation doesn’t even die down, merely continuing as this random stranger suddenly notices not only your bosom body language, but the (empty) holster on his thigh. When combined with your obvious scowl, there’s little room to argue.

“O-of course not, you two have a good evening,” He raises his hands in surrender, backing away before scurrying off with his tail between his legs.

The moment he leaves, you turn to Boothill as you try your best to not burst out in laughter. With the way that guy was looking, he almost looked like he was going to absolutely shit his pants.

“That’s twenty-one to five.”

He rolls his eyes, albeit with the overfond quirk of his lips, it's a bit hard to take his disappointment seriously. “Maybe if you weren’t so amazingly gorgeous, I wouldn’t keep losing.”

“Your censor,” You very helpfully point out.

“Y’know what I mean.”

From behind the bar, the bartender only rolls his eyes. This isn’t the first time some unlucky idiot tried making their own advances, and it sure won’t be the last. Just what kind of couple pretends to not know each other at a bar and makes bets based on whether one of them will be ‘saved’? If it weren’t for the fact that two of you bring in good business and were actually decent customers, he’d have you kicked out by the third time you pulled this stunt.

‿︵‿︵‿୨ ୧‿︵‿︵‿

Olvida eso, de verdad te lo pido

Es que yo soy tuyo, cuerpo y alma, cuerpo y mente

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr #hsr x reader #hsr boothill #boothill #boothill x reader

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theriverbeyond · 9 months

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Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, by pipstrelle/ @neornithes

Endpaper art: Grody Maritime Necromancy by @iris-of-the-lambs

Being the journal of Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus, chronicling the journey of the Emperor's warship Cenotaph on its hunt to slay an immortal Resurrection Beast.

or: THE MOBY DICK AU!! This fic has been an all time favorite of mine for so long, I am so excited to finally have been able to bind it!

Title font: AquilineTwo

Body font: Garamond

333 pages

Faux leather cover (Skivertex) with hand-embossed gold foil

Progress pictures/process under the cut!

The concept behind this fanbind is based on this specific special edition of Moby Dick by the Easton Press:

I did a TON of things for the first time on this bind much of it largely by winging it.

making the hubs (bumps on the spine)

first time rounding and backing (ft secret other binding project I can't show yet) + printing it off in the library

installing the FANTASTIC endpaper art (SOOO nervewracking), plus a close up shot of how I got the center crease to land JUST to the left of Harrow's face, which I'm super proud of.

foiling for days!! using the Easton Press edition as a guide, I mocked up a cover in MS Paint, then printed it off so I could foil it down. my hand was cramping but it was SO worth it!

and finally some unboxing pictures from the lovely writer!! so happy it arrived home safe and sound

#the locked tomb #fanbind #fanbinding #bookbinding #trb.txt #raxheim binds #THIS WAS SO FUN TO MAKE #excited to finaly post abt it!!!

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wrathofrats · 1 month

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idk why but I thought you may like the idea of Aurora, when she's new to performing publicly, fears that the fans may see her as "the innocent one" or something similar due to her being Very Obviously Smol in comparison to the other ghouls, ghoulettes, and of course, Papa. Being, y'know, a demon, she instead decides she wants to be the raunchiest one on stage...

So she decides to try and sneak a flash of some kind to the crowd during a ritual and it may go a bit further than she intends :]

I hope this is ok!! I modified the request a bit bc I was having thoughts and ideas. It’s maybe a bit misogynistic, dew and Swiss really teasing Aurora over the whole innocent thing. But I am a gay woman so I’m allowed to perpetuate sexist stereotypes and if you disagree you’re also sexist. (THIS IS A JOKE) but know the banter is in good fun, they’re obv all some kind of poly bonded pack thing so auroras gucci.

Or aurora decides to throw her panties into the crowd, and things don’t exactly go her way (based on that panties on dews guitar gif you know the one)

“I’m not doing this with you right now dew” Aurora grumbles, batting his hands off of her.

Dew looks too smug. Like hes won some secret game that Aurora doesn’t know about. A mischievous glint in his eye that makes Aurora want to kick him in the balls to hopefully neuter his perpetual horniness.

It’s their own little tradition at this point in the tour. Swiss and dew and whoever else was bored would come hang out in the ghoulettes dressing room while they pinned their hair to fit neatly under their helmets and to apply the black face paint. Dew usually showed up to steal cumulus’ never ending supply of bobby pins, and swiss was there to help with smearing the paint onto everyone.

“Iighten up your highness” dew laughs, backing away from her with his hands up as if he didn’t just wrap them around her body to grab at her waist. “You’re not this prudish when you come knocking at my hotel door”

“I’m not a prude,” Aurora grumbles. Swiss and dew giggle to themselves as Aurora swipes her hands at them to make them back up from where she’s placed herself on the counter. She can feel cirrus’ glare through the mirror, directed at the two idiots that are currently still laughing among themselves.

“You’re telling me you’re not ms ‘don’t mention sex around the other ghouls! They can’t know I’ve fucked you!’” Swiss teases, his voice pitching to mock auroras. “Come on princess, I don’t know why you demand to be seen as so innocent.”

Aurora wants to scream at them to leave their dressing room already. Dew and Swiss can tend to be idiots while they’re separated, but together? Aurora isn’t sure how they manage to lose brain cells when they combine.

“I just didn’t want anyone knowing I’ve fucked you, I don’t care about anyone else”

She’s not innocent like Swiss says, is she? Sure she’s smaller, tends to be more reserved in that regard, but Aurora thinks it’s unfair to call her innocent of all terms. She could be worse sure, not tending to go as far as humping the stage or groping her bandmates like dumb and dumber, but she likes her little act. She likes her swishy cape and little dances with her tambourine, and how she twirls and -

God maybe she is a princess.

The boys continue to laugh, mostly shoving each other around at this point. Aurora can hear cirrus yell at Swiss to shut up and help her with her paint, even now lost in her own thoughts. Ideas come and go, staring at her lap and swinging her legs. She’s not innocent. She’s just as bad as the rest of them and they all know that. The fans know that too, right? She’s a demon, a fucking creature from hell.

She’s not innocent.

She hops off her perch to shove her way past dew and into the bathroom to pull her uniform bottoms off. Her idea is probably stupid, will probably get her reprimanded and placed on whatever terrible chore imperator comes up with when they get back. But the reactions from the other ghouls, especially Swiss and dew, will make it worth it.

Aurora quickly takes off her panties and pulls her uniform back up, cringing at the feeling of the rough fabric against her. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but the weird insecurity of not wearing underwear makes every sensation feel tenfold.

A 5 minute call sounds through the rooms. She grabs her underwear and hastily puts them in her pocket before running out to get in her position.

Her movements are meant to tease. Hands running over her body, jutting her hips behind her hoping Swiss will look back at her. She wants him to come on her platform, wants him to take her on the innocent act she’s been offering. She wants him to smell her through her uniform.

It’s just an extra personal part in her plan. She tries not to bounce giddily as he does notice and run behind the different set pieces to come walk up into her space. He can feel his breath on her neck as he approaches her, his all too wide smile trying to intimidate her, mock her after their conversation earlier.

Auroras lucky Swiss is good at improv, and an even better performer. Barely reacts as she shoves him to his knees. Even grabs her thighs and mock drags his tongue along her legs. Hes fucking obscene, she should’ve known the reaction she would get like this.

The real reward is the way she can see Swiss’ mouth twitch as he shoves his face right next to her cunt. He can smell her, would nose against the outline if they weren’t still performing in front of thousands of people, honestly she’s sure he’s forgotten considering the way his face turns into a snarl. Aurora is positive she will pay for this later, but for now? She couldn’t be happier.

The second phase of her plan comes once Swiss leaves. She eyes the audience carefully, eyes her bandmates to wait for the perfect opportunity. Dew turns to mess with rain, while phantom moves to mess with the audience on his side of the stage. All the ghouls are occupied, not paying attention.

Aurora pulls her panties out of her pocket, balling them in her fist so they can’t be seen through her hand. Hastily she throws them towards the crowd, praying they make it to their destination.

Whatever she prayed to however, is not listening.

They land directly next to dewdrop, right by his feet as he steps back onto them. He pulls his foot up, eyeing the black fabric in confusion. She watches in horror as he swings them around his finger, looking back at her as if he knows they’re hers,

Before hanging them on the head of his guitar. Displaying them for the whole crowd.

#hastily throws this down #hi #I know this was sent forever ago I’m so sorry #the band ghost #ghost #nameless ghouls #ghost bc #fanfic #wrath writes #aurora ghoulette #swiss ghoul #dewdrop ghoul

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fairyoctopus · 30 days

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i think we need simple eye types. just like. closed eyes and no eyes

vial of serenity, vial of peace, vile of blindness? of echolocation? who knows.

they look bad but its just a quick ms paint mock-up.

#i want them..........................

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thefaeriecreek · 1 year

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doing some mock MS Paint art of my boyfriend. he’s wearing a tanktop cuz it’s a modern au :0

#revali #botw #botw revali #breath of the wild #loz #he's such an asshole i love him #i would do anything for him #i miss him so bad #i wanna scritch his cheeks and kiss him on the beaky beak #art #thefaeriecreekart

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adore-laur · 7 months

Text

FAÇADE

— a lustful enemies to lovers au set in the 1880’s 📖

Blair Lancaster unabashedly loathes Mr. Styles.

He always licks his slender index finger before flipping the weathered pages of a romance novel. She internally sympathizes with whoever is doomed to take home the book that had been in his filthy grasp.

He loudly clears his throat in the hushed space of the library far too often for her liking. She is beginning to wonder if he caught the fatal consumption disease and has a secret scheme to spread it across the city.

He viciously studies her and the other women like a predatory bird hunting its unguarded prey. She compares his calloused hands to the talons of a hawk and his blatant staring to their beady little eyes.

Perhaps Blair does not entirely loathe him. The feeling is more akin to a deep-rooted dislike for the man who supervises the alcove filled with women crammed around a small, oval table. No seats are provided, leaving them to stand on their aching feet for an unsuitable number of hours.

At the public library in Boston, New York, women are strictly required to segregate themselves from the men by sitting in the alcove if they wish to read books or write letters. Reading, however, proves rather bland when they are all given books about how a lady should properly act or ones that revoltingly mock their intellect.

Yet there is a more covert reason why they are confined to the alcove.

Library loafers is the coined term. Women have only recently been allowed access to the library, and there is a concern that they may be in danger from the men who lurk and loiter around the bookshelves and desks, leering at young ladies who just want the freedom of absorbing printed imagination.

The hickory walls are decorated with paintings of foreground femininity, yet the intended purpose is a façade.

See, the nook is still visible to other sections of the library. It resembles a shadowbox for the male gaze or a stage of sorts so they can observe the moral spectacle of well-behaved women. That is why Blair Lancaster detests the man sitting on his chair, more like a throne, flicking through pages of a far more exciting story than the one she holds. Mr. Styles is the one who polices their behavior, making sure no one is stepping out of line or provocatively reading something they are not supposed to.

Well, Blair enjoys pushing that limit every once in a while out of sheer apathy.

Whenever the book she reads starts to bore her to death, she ponders ways to aggravate him. In the past, she sighed dramatically after turning each page for ten whole minutes until he had to snap his fingers, warning her to stop. She has also pretended to fall asleep with her head on the table, purposely reaching her arm out to knock the book onto the floor with a loud thump, resulting in him huffing and picking it up for her. In one instance, she purposely gave herself a paper cut and dripped blood onto the first page of the book she was given so it would have to be thrown out. She could tell by the look on Mr. Styles' face that he knew she had only done it to be a pain in the neck.

Today, she decides to clear her throat every time he does. Only four other women are in the room, and Blair knows they like it when she breaks the quietness to bring entertainment to the dull atmosphere.

"Enough," Mr. Styles commands after her third act of mimicry.

She smirks and continues reading the same sentence repeatedly until she becomes bored. After a few minutes pass, he clears his throat again, and she does the same.

"Ms. Lancaster, may I have a word with you?"

Blair subtly rolls her eyes. She hates it when he treats her like a schoolgirl in detention, lecturing and speaking down to her as if she is inferior.

"What is it, Mr. Styles?" she asks as she walks over to him, feigning innocence to pester him even more.

He stares at her intensely. "Do you fancy being expelled from this library?"

"I think there is something in my throat," she says with a dramatic pout. "The book I was given is quite dusty."

He hums monotonously. "I must say, that was a terrible fib. I expected a better excuse from you."

Blair's lips twitch as she fixes the collar of her dress. "I do not fib, Mr. Styles. Allergies are dreadful this time of year, have you not heard? Or maybe you and I have caught…” She leans forward to theatrically whisper, “The consumption disease."

"Your hands fidget when you lie." With an unimpressed look, he jerks his chin toward the table. "Behave. Otherwise, you will be kicked out."

The conversation, if it could even be called that, dies quickly as Blair returns to her spot. Her remaining time in the alcove causes drooping eyes and raw, bitten nails. There is nothing she could possibly do to make time pass any faster, so she watches the grandfather clock until it chimes when the small hand ticks to the number twelve. Blair promised her father she would be home for lunchtime, so she sets the book she only read two pages of in the wooden bin, then gives Mr. Styles an icy glare before leaving the library.

On her stroll home, she reminisces about every encounter with him today. Every facial expression and unspoken word that was told with each glimpse. She buries the invasive thoughts that dangerously cross the streets of her mind. However, at dusk, he creeps in her brain's crevices like noxious venom. When her satin curtains are drawn, and the burning sun says its farewell, Blair cannot help but think about him after she blows out the candles beside her bed.

His eyes of marjoram green that cast her discreet glances only she noticed. She wonders if she will ever get close enough to find specks of gold in them or if they crinkle when he laughs, lighting up with radiance that has never been revealed to her. There is a chance they soften when he reads a particularly romantic line in a novel, perhaps of a private touch or confession of love.

His long fingers that flip through the worn pages of said novels. Blair wonders how they would feel slowly trailing along her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake, or how they would feel in her mouth, the pad of his thumb erotically settled between her teeth. There is a possibility they would stretch inside another part of her body so deeply that her entire soul would ache with pleasure.

His pink lips that pout and glisten in the sunlight filtered through the clerestory windows of the library. She wonders how they would form around certain words or if they feel as soft as they look, pillowy and sweet if she were to taste them. She will not taste them, but it is nice to dream about the flawless physicality of a man such as himself.

Mr. Styles may be unbearable and shrouded with arrogance, but that does not dismiss his obvious allure. He is nothing but a pretty face that haunts her at nightfall, hung high in the gallery of her mind like the moon in the starlit sky.

He is a complicated façade.

A spring thunderstorm has blown over the newspaper stands and matted down Blair's curls as she traverses up the slippery brick steps of the library again. Violent rain hits the cobblestone streets, which are filled with umbrellas over heads and coats over the less fortunate as they all maneuver to the closest shelter.

Blair has forgone any protection from the storm, so she passes through the familiar threshold with a saturated dress and dripping strands of blonde hair that appear a shade darker due to their wetted state. As she looks around, she finds the library completely barren of townsfolk except for a stout man who bustles up to her and huffs a displeased breath when he sees the puddle of rainwater forming by her feet. She hopes he overlooks the trail of muddy footprints she left behind.

"Good evening, Ms. Lancaster," he greets with a formal cap tip. "The unfortunate weather has sprung a leak in the alcove ceiling, so you will be relocated to the main room for the day."

Blair nods, attempting to hide the eager smile that threatens to pull at her freckled cheeks. It will be alleviating to not have to tolerate being confined in a stodgy room with Mr. Styles. She prays she will have the whole room to herself so she can conceive a plan to sneakily grab a horror fiction book while the thunder rumbles outside.

She follows the man who, if she remembers correctly, is the chimney sweeper usually found by the stone fireplace, soot dusting his forehead and coughing up a storm stronger than the one currently shaking the bookshelves. Speaking of which, the first thing Blair notices when she enters the candlelit room is that the bookshelves are all locked up with hexagonal metal cages. The flickering flames dance off them menacingly.

She furrows her eyebrows when the man's presence is no longer felt beside her. Then, she feels someone else's burning gaze. A sudden flash of lightning conducts her attention to the other side of the room, and simmering rage immediately courses through her veins.

Mr. Styles is sitting on the windowsill with his legs crossed over one another. His jeweled fingers delicately hold a book as relentless rain pelts the windowpane behind him. He wears a silk shirt with small, puffed sleeves the color of ballet slippers—or perhaps the shade of the blush that spreads across his cheeks when Blair catches his not-so-subtle glance at her pebbled nipples under her soaked dress.

Blair's first step toward him creates an echoing creak on the wooden floor. "What business do you have being here?" she asks bitterly.

He smirks before licking his index finger and flipping the page of his book. "Have you forgotten that this is my place of work?"

She swallows down disgust. "I would rather sit in the alcove and let the leakage slowly drown me than be here with you."

He looks up amusedly, running his eyes across her figure. "From how you look like a sopping mess, it seems as though you already have."

"A bit preposterous coming from a man with puffy princess sleeves."

A hummed and humorless laugh sounds from his closed lips. A cup of tea is steaming on a porcelain saucer next to his thighs. The sight of the brown liquid coats her throat with warmth.

Blair is quiet as she treads closer and walks her fingers along the top of the leather couch. The popping and hissing of the nearby fireplace fill the dead silence, its blazes of orange releasing glowing embers that beautifully fizzle out on the kindling.

"I presumed you would be the only one here today," Mr. Styles mentions after an elongated and intimidating pause.

Blair stands next to the fire, hoping it dries her dripping dress. "Yes, well, a thunderstorm is quintessential weather for reading. Is it not?"

"I will not argue with you there." He stands, replacing his book with the saucer. "This tea is for you. I figured since you will be stuck with me in this room, I shall attempt to make it as pleasant as possible."

She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "You made tea for me?"

His throat bobs. "Walking here in the rain is the quickest way to become ill, Ms. Lancaster. You should know better."

"Is it poisoned?"

The click of Mr. Styles' boots becomes muffled once he steps on the oriental rug she stands on. "No. I am not as cynical as you make me out to be in your head."

She pushes her wet bangs away from her forehead. "Do you know what is cynical?"

"Divertis-moi, ange de la pluie."

Blair ignores his French, which she does not understand. She has heard him use the language countless times before if any immigrant women are misbehaving in the alcove. His fluency and intelligence spark envy, but she will never admit it to his face.

"It is cynical that I come here every day and do not have the freedom to read what I desire," she says firmly. "Some days, I do not want to read in my dreary bedroom, so I seek serenity in a library that does not even respect me. How cruel, yet I still come here for a view other than my pathetic lawn!"

All Mr. Styles does is clear his throat while setting the tea down on the fireplace mantel. Blair wants to pour the scalding liquid down the back of his neck.

"What am I supposed to read if all the books I yearn for are locked away?" she adds defeatedly.

He twists his rings and bobs his head to a red book on the couch. "I was instructed to provide The Scarlet Letter."

Blair examines the chipped spine and faded cover. "I have not read that one yet."

"Veiled misogyny is what fills the pages. I find Hawthorne to be glorified as an author to a ridiculous degree."

"How promising," she mutters. "I suppose it is better than reading about everything I should do for my dutiful husband when he returns from war."

Mr. Styles looks at the floor and scrunches his nose before asking, "You have heard of Jane Austen, yes?"

"What?" Blair blurts confusedly. "Of course, I have. No one captures blooming romance quite like her."

"And did you see anyone else in the library when you arrived?" he questions further while taking a step closer.

"N-no," she stutters, scanning the empty room. "Only the chimney sweeper."

"Then follow me."

In the blink of an eye, Mr. Styles is halfway up the spiral staircase in the corner that leads to a place Blair has never been allowed to discover. She carefully grabs the tea and a stray candelabra, then catches up to his long strides. Eventually, she is led to the top and down a dark, narrow aisle where books upon books line the walls. Some are even stacked high on the floor.

Mr. Styles takes a silver key from his trouser pocket and unlocks a shelf on the left. He briefly peeks at her. "It will be our little secret, hmm?"

Blair marvels at the various romance and gothic titles that reveal themselves when she raises the flame. Wuthering Heights, Little Women, and Vanity Fair appear to have been gracefully worn over time and through use.

"I was once told by the owner that there was nothing important up here," she tells him as her fingertips trace the spine of Persuasion. "I never quite believed him."

Mr. Styles stands behind her. She can feel his steady breaths on her neck. "I apologize on behalf of him. He is not a charming man, that one."

Clark Bennett is his name. A tall, middle-aged rich man who set the misogynistic rules in place. She sees him roam past the alcove on rare occasions, silently inspecting the women through his monocle. Never one to initiate conversation, yet always the one to give disapproving glances. It angers Blair how someone could be so despicable. The other women are too afraid to speak out about the abhorrent environment he has created.

So, Blair turns around and looks at the man she despises but is the only one who seems to care about what she has to say.

"Mr. Styles," she begins, lifting the candelabra to light his face, "I feel unbearably suffocated in a place meant for comfort. As a woman, I cannot even read in this library without arbitrary rules that bring me unfathomable misery and rage. Having to sit and read sentences with no emotional attachment to me is torturous. Surely, I do not sound ludicrous."

"You can call me Harry," he responds.

She scoffs at his blatant disregard. "Did you listen to a word I said?"

He nods. "Yes, Blair. I realize this world hinders your ability to prosper as a woman, but I cannot change the rules. I do not have the authority, so please accept my offer of letting you read something other than shameful, discriminatory novels. Is that all right with you?"

She takes a sip of the herbal tea, now lukewarm, before saying, "Is this a trick to get me in trouble? I will not be fooled, Mr. Styles."

"Harry," he corrects. "And no, I am not a scoundrel. There is no reason for me to con you."

"There are plenty of reasons. Money and praise can make a man do evil things."

"Do you take me for a man who would do evil things?"

"Yes." She takes another sip. "I take every man for a schmuck. You are no exception."

He leans his head against the bookshelf and smiles handsomely. "A schmuck?" he repeats humorously.

"A cretin," she continues, enjoying herself very much. "A muttonhead. Personally, I like to call men ratbags."

Harry's eyes crinkle when he lets out a loud cackle. So they do crinkle. What a sight to behold!

Blair blows a strand of hair out of her eye. "This is not a laughing matter."

"Oh, but it is." He pushes his body off the shelf and towers over her. "You fascinate me with your unwavering temerity."

"Is that why you stare at me in the alcove so often?" she daringly inquires. "Because I fascinate you?"

Harry inhales slowly and deeply. In French, he says, "I stare at you because of your ethereal beauty. I cannot help but count the freckles on your cheeks or watch your eyelashes flutter as you flip through the pages of those terrible books. Does this answer your question, beloved blue eyes?"

Blair blinks twice, shaking her head. "You are speaking nonsense to me. I do not know any French."

"I spoke the truth. That is all you need to know."

She sets the tea and candelabra on the floor before smoothing her dress. "Anyway, I would very much like to read Jane Austen. There is only so much time in the day, yes?"

"Of course," he whispers. "You seem particularly interested in Persuasion."

"Is it good? I have not gotten around to reading it yet."

Harry takes the book and offers it to her. "You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope," he quotes from memory. "That alone should convince you."

Blair absentmindedly nods, becoming distracted by the gold necklace he wears. The pendant is a cross symbol, one relating to Christ. Her curiosity grows as it glimmers from the quivering candle flame beside her feet.

She lays the cross on her open palm and asks, "Are you religious?"

His sloped nose almost touches hers from close proximity. "Moderately. I sin, but I see no redemption in asking for forgiveness. I suppose you can interpret my level of religion however you may."

She stares at his lips a second too long before meeting his eyes. "What sins do you commit?"

He covers her hand with his own. Blair feels his calloused thumb brush over her knuckle. "My sins are sensuellement privé."

"What does that mean?"

"It means they are done in private, curious girl."

Her skin grows warm. "Very well, then. I will not ask further questions."

He removes his hand and locks the shelf as Blair picks up her tea and sets it on the flat surface of her new book. He clears his throat, but it does not bother her as much this time.

"Let us read, shall we?"

III

The field of jasmine flowers is in full bloom, as is the month of May.

Budding dogwood trees sway under the cloudy sky as Blair walks to her favorite open patch of land to sit against the tree trunk and read a book like she does every Friday afternoon. The bottom of her white dress skims the dirt path weaving throughout the flourishing meadow. Her lace parasol shields the top of her head in case the sun peeks out.

She has been coming to the serene area for months, sometimes needing an escape from the four walls of her bedroom. She can bring the books she has received on her birthdays. Although she prefers to read in the library, she is slightly more fond of nature's quiet atmosphere.

Once she arrives at her signature spot, where the line of dogwood trees provides the perfect amount of coverage over the jasmine bushes, she stops when she sees someone already there.

Her blood boils. Mr. Styles, now known as Harry, is sitting against the gnarled trunk of her favorite tree with his ankles casually crossed while he reads from the book in his lap. He wears a ruffled, cream-colored blouse with a black vest over the silk fabric, and his matching flared trousers are provocatively tight against his muscular legs.

His eyes shoot up from his book when a twig snaps underneath her feet. He then raises it to block his face, and Blair almost laughs at the childish action. She is seething with rage because how dare he invade the only place she can get much-needed peace and quiet?

"What are you doing here?" she interrogates, a slight growl in the back of her throat.

"Reading," Harry replies flatly, still not showing his face.

"Yes, but why here? This is my spot."

"I usually only come here on Wednesdays when I do not work, but I was told my help was not needed at the library today. So, here I am."

Blair grinds her teeth. "Can you go elsewhere?"

He sets his book down and glances behind each of his shoulders. "Did I miss a sign on my way here that said: Blair Lancaster's Designated Reading Spot?"

She gives up arguing and sits against the prickly bush across from him. She is thankful he is not talkative, so finishing her book in his presence should not be a problem.

After a few minutes of unpleasant silence, she feels his gaze on her, but when she looks up, his eyes dart back to the pages before him. She subtly tries to read the title, but his attractively large hand envelops the front.

"The Portrait of a Lady," Harry murmurs as he noisily turns a page.

Blair quirks an eyebrow. "Pardon me?"

"The book in my hands," he says, finally showing her the cover. "It is the new novel written by Henry James."

"I did not ask."

He exhales a laugh through his nose. "Well, you keep looking at the cover, so I thought it would be gentlemanly to save you from straining your eyes so much. Getting cataracts at a young age would be no fun."

Blair brushes off his sarcasm and opens her own book. Harry immediately leans forward and snatches it straight from her loose grip.

"Give me that back!" she exclaims, her mouth parted in shock.

He lifts it above his head and opens it. "What does the brash Blair Lancaster read when she is not provided chauvinist books in the alcove?"

She stands and puts her hand on her hips. "That is nothing of concern to you."

"Venus in Furs," he reads from the spine with a drawl and growing smirk. "This is quite an erotic choice, chérie."

Her cheeks redden as he flips through the pages filled with risqué words of desire and submission. "Give me my book back, or I will scream until the flowers wilt."

Harry ignores her as he dramatically reads, "And every man — I know this very well — as soon as he falls in love becomes weak, pliable, ridiculous. He puts himself into the woman's hands, kneels down before her. The only man whom I could love permanently would be he before whom I should have to kneel."

Blair takes the opportunity to yank her book from him while he is distracted by his immature ways. "I truly pity your wife and children for having to live with your irritating nature," she says exasperatedly.

"I do not have a wife nor children, so you are wasting your time pitying the foolish illusion you have created in your head."

"Well," she says with a bitter laugh, "it is no surprise that you are not married. I think I would burn myself alive if I had to share a life with you."

"For someone who speaks so ignoble of me, you think about what it would be like to be around me quite often," he responds smugly.

"You are an insufferable man, that is all."

"Menteuse."

Blair draws her lips back in a snarl. "It is a terrible shame you have a handsome face that is nothing but a façade for who you actually are."

Harry slowly stands and shoves his hands in his pockets. "And who am I, Blair?"

She exhales and looks up at the wispy sky. "A lonely man who sits in the alcove and makes sure the women there are miserable. A boring man who does nothing but be a nuisance to everyone around him."

Harry steps forward and jerks his chin up like he's desperate for a challenge. "Go on."

"I detest you." She leans in close so he hears every word. "Every dratted thing you do or say gets under my skin."

He quickly glances at her mouth. "Do you use such foul language around your mother, Ms. Lancaster?"

She clenches her jaw and turns around, beginning to walk down the path she came from. "You make me furious!"

His footsteps in the weeds get closer, so she speeds up. Even the sound of his boots stomping on the plush grass aggravates her. The way he can never let her have the last word, or how his eyes tell a different story than what comes out of his pretty mouth, will be the death of her.

Blair thinks she is far enough away from him, but suddenly, two large hands clasp onto her hips and stop her in her tracks. Her book falls to the ground, and she is left breathless.

"If I make you furious," Harry murmurs deeply in her ear, "then you make me a fucking madman."

His chest is pressed against her back as they inhale and exhale heavily, butterflies flying around the flowers and hidden cicadas chirping in the meadow.

"You test my patience, and I pretend it provokes me," he continues, flexing his hands. "It does the opposite, Blair. It makes me lust for you."

She lets Harry's confession seep into her skin like pleasurable poison. "I... you are reprehensible. I cannot stand it when you tell such insolent lies."

He presses his nose into her neck. "You render me weak. I think about you until I ache."

Blair swallows roughly when his damp lips trail along her pulse point. "Every word that leaves your mouth is concocted to debilitate me."

"Your blue eyes are an ocean I would gladly drown in."

Her knees almost give out, but she persists. "I will stuff my book down your throat if you do not stop blathering."

"You would like that, I reckon."

"Jesus wept, I hate you!" she shouts as she releases herself from his spell and continues walking.

He grips her wrist and spins her around. "Look at me when you say you hate me."

"I hate" — Blair points her finger at his chest — "you."

Harry takes three of her fingers and brings them up to her bottom lip. "These," he whispers, eyes locked onto her mouth. "I could write endless poetry about them."

"Stop it this instant."

He moves one of her fingers to trace the freckles dotting the apples of her cheeks. "The most marvelous constellations should be envious of these."

Her eyes soften, much to her distaste. "Please," she says, not knowing how she intends the word to come across.

"Tell me what you want, mon rêve céleste."

"I want you to shut your mouth."

His knuckles brush her collarbone. "Do you? Or do you want me to use my mouth for something else?"

Blair steps away from him. "How dare you assume that!"

"Quit looking at my lips, then."

"I am not! Quit analyzing me!"

"Your cheeks are pink. Why is that?"

She feels like fire is encompassing her. "Because..."

Harry bends down slightly to be at eye level with her. "Look at me, Blair."

Her walls crumble at that moment when she sees nothing but lustful hunger in his eyes. She gives in because if she goes down, let it be in a blaze of flaming desire. She cannot bear the thought of not touching him at least once in her lifetime, as much as she hates to admit the fact.

Blair unclasps the button by her cleavage, never breaking eye contact with him as his posture straightens and his prurient gaze gradually lowers. She maneuvers the dress over and down her shoulders, letting the loose garment pool at her feet. Harry drops to his knees before her, pulling down her chemise and gently removing her ivory-colored slippers.

"Lie down," he commands gruffly.

She obeys, the budding flowers surrounding her naked body as her blonde hair fans out on the grass.

Harry spreads her legs open and places his forearms next to them. "How do you need me, Blair?"

"Your fingers," she responds. "Please. I need them inside of me."

He tuts mockingly. "Not even a minute ago, you were telling me I was reprehensible, but now you beg like a whore."

She should slap him for his degrading language, but it only fuels her internal fire. Her hips desperately lift to meet his knuckle running along her inner thigh, and he moves it up even further until it reaches the coarse hair growing around her pelvis. She is already dripping with arousal. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most.

"Harry," she says breathlessly, her body writhing when his mouth brushes her clit. "God, just touch me. I beg of you."

"Say my name like that again, and I will do whatever you ask of me, darling."

"Harry," she moans while arching her back.

His fingers finally stretch her open, two knuckles deep in her pulsating walls, creating a burning sensation throughout her body. She had dreamed about how deep they would go, curling and thrusting to bring her inconceivable pleasure. It feels better than she imagined, and she sees stars as his thumb applies pressure to her clit.

"Blair." Harry uses his free hand to grasp her jaw. She opens her eyes and gets lost in his fervent gaze. "Who else has touched you? Hmm? Tell me."

He hits a particularly deep spot that has her whining like a pleading idiot. "M-many others, however, they all left me empty and unsatisfied."

"Did they make you wet?" He presses his warm hand against her lower stomach. "Did they leave you with a lingering ache right here?"

"No, but do you know why?" she responds, the pressure of his hand unraveling the knot of her forthcoming orgasm.

"Tell me all your secrets, flower."

"They never used their mouths," she admits. Harry looks up with impure eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip. "Fingers can only provide so much pleasure, but a pair of pink lips like yours could make me fall apart completely."

"Is that right?" he breathes out.

She bites her lip with a blissful smile. "There is only one way to find out, yes?"

"I suppose so."

He takes his fingers out and spreads her thighs further open, her arousal sticking to her sweaty skin. The second his tongue licks a long stripe from her opening to her clit, Blair cries out for all the birds and bugs to hear. He laps up her wetness like sweet syrup on a delectable dessert. He kisses and nips in all the right places like he has known her body for ages, latching and sucking her most sensitive areas until she is clenching around nothing. Low, guttural groans and whimpers leave him when she grants him a raspy moan and hooks her legs around his body.

"I need— I have to release, Harry. It aches."

He hovers over her and rubs slow circles onto her lower stomach. "Let me see your eyes while you fall apart from underneath me."

Blair looks at him as his words push her off the edge. She releases, her body trembling and twitching from the strength of it. Harry sits back on his knees, untying the frilly bow from his blouse and using it to clean the remaining arousal around her inner thighs. After that, Blair stands on shaky legs, panting with tingling skin as Harry grabs her chemise and dress and helps her put them on.

"Do you still hate me?" he whispers in her ear, clasping her buttons gently. Blair can hear the smug smile in his voice.

"Maybe a bit less than yesterday."

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. "What if I did this?" She is taken aback when he kisses her deeply, holding the sides of her neck and making her stumble a bit from the forceful passion. "Blair?" he says as he pulls away. "How do you feel now?"

"I dislike you." Another kiss, one that sends heat spreading across her entire body as butterflies go wild in her stomach. She pulls away this time and tries not to show how fond she is of him. "All right, I tolerate you."

One more long kiss, ending in several pecks until she lets a smile take over her flushed face. "Je changerai d'avis un jour." (I will change your mind one day.)

Blair groans. "Will you ever tell me what you are saying?"

"No need." His thumb strokes her cheekbone. "I can always teach you."

"Pardon?"

"At the library," Harry elaborates softly. "I give French lessons every Monday in the study room. There should be some time slots open if that is of any interest to you."

She contemplates briefly before saying, "I think it would be an adequate way to spend my day rather than in the alcove."

Harry whistles and looks around incredulously. "Is Blair Lancaster admitting she would not mind spending time with me? Am I dreaming? Have I lost my bloody mind in this meadow?"

"Enough," she mutters. Her protest ends in a squeal when Harry slightly nips at her neck. "Stop it! That tickles!"

He grins like a fool and bends down to pluck a jasmine flower from the cluster surrounding her feet. He then grabs Venus in Furs and flips through it for a minute until he stops at a specific page toward the end. Blair watches him lay the flower horizontally, the thin stem acting as an underline for a quote.

You have corrupted my imagination

and inflamed my blood.

#harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles au #harry styles x oc #harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles #enemies to lovers #historical romance #adore-laur #façade

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yuyan · 11 months

Text

The art of love

Kaveh x gn!reader (highschool au)

Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Tags: artistic/academic reader, bickering, academic rivals to lovers (but art class), Kaveh can't write essays, sumeru classes = honour classes, mild swearing

"Her nose is a little off-centre," you said absentmindedly.

"I know!" Kaveh said, "I'm fixing it."

"Just saying," you said in a sing-song voice.

"Shut up and focus on your own painting."

You let out a laugh and continued painting the hair of your character. Art class would be a peaceful class with the lo-fi music the teacher plays and quiet chattering as ambient noise, if it wasn't for the two of you's constant bickering.

"Thats not how you paint hair," Kaveh said, side-eyeing your piece.

"I'm literally blocking in the shadows. It's nowhere near done," you replied, agitation seeping into your voice.

"Weeeeeeeell, if you ever need help, I'm always here," Kaveh said. The light and cheery tone was clearly mocking you and made you want to pluck his hair out. "After all, I am the only one here who truly likes art," he added, swiping baby pink paint on your right cheek and leaning in so close, you'd kiss if you moved even a millimetre in the wrong direction.

Suddenly, he fell back, off his chair and many eyes gazed at the two of you. You still had your arm extended from when you shoved him away from you and Kaveh was on the ground, a little stunned.

"Aww are you blushing?" Kaveh mocked, referring to the paint still on your cheeks. "You know it's quite rude to push someone, believe it or not, this elite academy's uniform is quite expensive. Though it probably isn't worth a dime in your eyes," he mumbled the last part.

You wiped the paint off your cheeks aggressively while Kaveh picked himself up from the floor.

"You too!" the teacher yelled,"I don't care what's going on between the two of you but it needs to stop, you're both sumeru students for archon's sake!"

"But-" Kaveh dropped his head and just nodded, stopping himself while you simply ignored the teacher and turned to face your painting.

The two of you were the only sumeru students in your art class. Your other "scholarly" classmates had left when they got chance, talking about how "art's a waste of time anyways" or "I have other more important things to do." They probably gave your head teacher so much of a headache that she just let them change. Poor Ms Nahida. Most of the students in your art class were from the mondstat and Inazuma stream with some from Fontaine as well.

"You know you can just quit like all of our other academic classmates, are you just doing art to prove you're better or more cultured than them?" Kaveh asked. "It's no point, they think it's useless and I hate people like you who do it even though they don't like it. Go back to them and receive praise for being top of the class like a dog again." ("Class" refers to the sumeru stream which has roughly 150 students—your grade alone—and is the top 14.29%)

"Who says I don't like art?" you replied coldly.

"Well-"

"If you payed attention in language arts, you'd know it's a rhetorical question," you cut him off. "Anyways, why would I want to go back to them? They're stupid anyways."

"After you finish your painting, please write an essay on it, it'll be 50% of you final grade," the teacher announced.

Kaveh groaned. Hearing the bell ring you packed up and left for lunch.

The cafeteria was bustling with noise. Everyone excitedly talking to their friends, exchanging gossip or complaining about the huge load of work they had. Most sumeru students came into the cafeteria and left, too busy perfecting their assignments or doing an extra research project either for fun or extra credit. It wasn't uncommon to see students score above 95% in the sumeru stream so to be the top of the class

"I'm gonna fail," Kaveh said, slumping across the table.

"I'm sure you won't, art is your best subject after all," Tighnari reassured, eating his lunch.

"We have to write and essay and last time we did that, I just passed!" Kaveh shouted. "It dragged my overall grade to a B!"

"Stop shouting, you're so loud," Alhaithem said, turning the next page if his textbook.

Kaveh's biggest weakness were essays, analytical essays. He could analyse just fine and find the meaning easily but his structure, poor vocab and ability to never know how to write and explain something, led to him only just passing because of his analysing skills. To anyone else in the elite academy, Teyvat high, his skills would actually be quite good but he was in the sumeru stream and to get into a special architecture degree in the university of teyvat, he'd have to suffer in the sumeru stream. Unfortunate.

"Just ask (name), they're in your art class and is top of our grade," Cyno said. "And-"

"If you say one more horrible joke, I'm going to throw you out of this cafeteria," Tighnari warned.

"Fine..." Cyno said.

"Like they'd ever want to help," Kaveh said, "plus, I hate them."

"Don't you have a crush on them?" Alhaithem said.

"Shut up!" Kaveh shouted, "as if!"

Cyno raised one of his eyebrows while Tighnari mumbled a "whatever you say."

"I don't like them like that, they're just..."

"Cute? I guess but," you pondered, trying to find the right words.

"Oh so you do like him," Dehya smirked.

"Omg! (Name) has a crush on Kaveh!" Nilou squealed, all giddy. "How cute!"

"As if," you said, rolling your eyes. "And you didn't even let me finish my sentence! I can't find the right words for it," you said, the memory of this morning flashing in your mind. "Annoying? Yes but no...Dumb? No not really...Ah! Obnoxious!"

Your friends' eyes slightly widened, their eyes fixated on whatever or whoever was behind you. Swiftly, you turned around, only to see kaveh.

"Well hello to you too," he huffed.

"What is it?" you asked.

"Could you help me with the art essay and in return I'll... I'll leave you alone?" His heart ached at the sight of the twinkle in your eyes when he mentioned the last part.

You thought back to art class. You had left in such a hurry when the bell rang, you forgot your pencil case. When you had went back to go get it, you heard voices coming from inside the classroom.

"Kaveh, you have to lift your grades," your teacher said. Kaveh merely nodded. "You have so much potential but your writing grade keeps dragging you down, please put an effort to improve it this time?" You saw Kaveh clench his fists as his whole body stiffened. You couldn't see his face but the look on your teacher's was a disappointed one.

You'd seen Kaveh poor his heart into every essay whether in art class or not and he'd always just pass. It was like nothing he did could get him over that C. Stepping back from the doorway, you watched Kaveh come out with hot, angry tear in his eyes. He hadn't even notice you and just stormed off to the cafeteria. As soon as he came out, you went in, greeting the teacher, took your pencil case and left.

The journey to the cafeteria wasn't long but it had you thinking. Should you ask if Kaveh wants help? Or would he see it as condescending? You two clearly weren't on the best terms.

Coming back to reality, you nodded and you saw a soft smile grace Kaveh's lips. "You have my number, does the library after school work for you?" you asked.

"Ah yes," Kaveh said, smiling like an idiot.

You had Kavehs's number since he was friends with your friends and you all exchanged numbers but the encounters after that weren't the most pleasent to say the least.

The day went by fast and with the final ring of the bell, you made your way to the library, shooting Kaveh a text when you reached there. The library was two stories and with endless categories and books from fantasy to ancient languages. You secured a small booth in the corner of the library. It has a whiteboard to the left, a decent table that had a comfortable booth seat on each side.

"Hi," Kaveh greeted.

"Hi, let's start?" you asked.

Kaveh nodded in response.

You two started to plan each of your essays, discussing the meaning behind both you and kaveh's painting. The atmosphere was tense and you held you tongue for the sake of a civil study session. Kaveh accepted each tip you gave him, begrudgingly.

The study break ended 20 minutes ago. Refining your plan, you scribbled notes down to the sound of kaveh's typing. You looked up, only to see Kaveh still texting away. He'd been text for half an hour now and each time you told him to stop, he'd just say "I'm almost done."

"What is so important that has you texting for the last half an hour?" you asked, rather impatiently.

"Nothing, just heard that Sam got her hair pulled out." Kaveh said, putting his phone down. (I'm sorry if your name is Sam)

"She got into ankther fight?"

"Yep."

"Serves her right, she's always been a bitch."

Kaveh laughed and you tilted your head to the side, a smile creeping onto your own face.

"Would you like to hear how it happened?" Kaveh asked.

"Yeah, that girl has been causing drama since her first day. Of course I want to know how karma caught up with her," you said.

"Ok, so..."

Time pasted fast as the two of you gossiped and chatted, work casted aside. Playful insults were thrown carelessly and eventually the librarian had to kick the two of you out because it was closing time.

The next day rolled around and both of you found yourself working on your essays, starting the first draft. Typing away, words flowed as you wrote about the composition, line quality and colours used in your piece. Finishing the first draft, you sighed as you saved it and glanced over to Kaveh who was dead asleep.

"I knew this would happend," you muttered. Your grey cotton blanket covered him while you snuck a small pillow under his head, careful not to wake him.

In return, you took his laptop and found he'd finish your first draft before you so you started editing it. Making little notes with the comments feature and giving feedback to pass the time.

"Hmm...how long have I been asleep for?" Kaveh asked, sturing from his slumber.

"Good morning sleeping beauty, you've been sleeping for just over an hour," you said, neatly placing your books and pencil case back into your bag. Kaveh watched you pack up intently. His eyes were still droopy with exhausten and his hair was fluffy and messed up. "I was going to wake you after I finished packing up but I guess there's no need."

You gave a sweet smile that made Kaveh melt into a puddle of water. He couldn't stand how adorable and innocent your smile was and how your eyes reflected it. The slight rosy tint to your cheeks was all it took for Kaveh to want to squish them and pepper them with kisses. He swore over and over again that he wouldn't fall in love with you no matter what he did yet here he was, completely whipped. Simp was an understatement.

"I also finished editing your essay and made notes on what I changed gave feedback so you can refer to it in the future," you said,"if you don't understand it, I can explain it tomorrow but I have to go now so bye." You saved and took your leave.

"Oh, oh ok, bye," Kaveh said, waving back with one hand while the other rubbed his sleepy eye.

Two weeks had gone by, the two of you either meeting everyday after school or the day after if it one couldn't make it. A week after your final meeting, all assignments and exams had been completed and handed in. Everyone let out a sigh of relief as the final week before summer holidays arrived. The final week was mostly preparation for next semester's topics, cleaning up and receiving marks back.

It'd been a week since Kaveh last spoke or argued with you. With the two of you sharing every class except one elective, it was easy to spot the two of you arguing with each other. Whether it was malicious or playful, no one really knew. The two of you didn't even know but an unsettling peace had made itself home in your classes. One that unsettled everyone because it must've meant something really bad happend, right?

You saw Kaveh receive his score on his essay, the look on his face showed he was estatic. In an instant he looked at you with a big heart-warming smile that made you smile even on your worst days but then he shut his mouth as if he remembered something and reluctantly turned away. It made your heart ache and all you wanted to do was scream at him that he didn't have to ignore you, despite the promise he made.

Kaveh: I got a full score!

Tighnari: Congrats!

Cyno: Nice, did you tell (name)?

Kaveh: Oh um...

Alhaithem: Did you forget Kaveh said he'd leave (name) alone if they helped them?

Alhaithem: Good job on your essay Kaveh.

Kaveh: Thanks

Cyno: Sorry, it slipped my mind.

Kaveh: Its fine.

Alhaithem: Well if that's all, stop texting in class, there's still ten minutes left.

Kaveh: Art teacher doesn't care and you're texting in class too!

(Read by Alhaithem, cyno and tighnari)

Kaveh: Don't leave me on read! Urgh!

Throughout the day, you caught Kaveh glance at you from across the class multiple times. Each time, his eyes would widened slightly and he'd whip his head back so fast you thought it might fall off one day. What you didn't notice was the small pout on his lips as he continued taking notes and the bright red that dusted his cheeks and ears.

Everytime you approached, he'd walk away. If you walked in the same room as him and he couldn't escape, he'd talk to someone, making small talk.

"What if he's seeing someone else and moved on already!" Nilou shouted from you left.

"Thats not helping nilou and I doubt that loverboy would move on so quickly," Dehya said from your right while you shrunk.

"Sorry," Nilou said.

"Its fine," you said, pressing the button underneath the traffic light. "This is where I part," you said with a smile,"Ill see you two tomorrow."

"Oh ok bye (name)!" Nilou said.

"See ya," Dehya called out, already walking the other direction.

"Hey wait Dehya! Wait for me!" Nilou shouted, chasing after her.

You looked to the ground and wondered for a moment. Kaveh had been ignoring you purposely and you even tried leaving a note one time on his desk saying you wanted to talk. Perhaps he really didn't like you and just said he'd leave you alone because he thought itd been a win-win for the both of you. Killing two birds with one stone. Getting a high score and also never having to talk to you ever again. Before you knew it, small tears escaped your eyes and you sniffed while furiously wiping the tears away. "No, no that can't be true. I-" words got caught in your throat. Words that wouldn't have been spoken to anyone in particular. The traffic lights beeping went off signalling for you to cross. You looked up staring at the green man start to flash red as you finished crossing.

"Whatever! Its fine!" a voice yelled. "Its not like I love them anyways!" a very familiar voice yelled.

You turned the corner, to see a blonde man standing next to his silver haired friend. Never would you have expected to fall in love University or that kaveh's words would hurt you so much but as you stood there and watched Kaveh's and alhaithem's retreating figure, as you watched Kaveh list all the things he hated about you, small cracks turned into big cracks as your heart started to fall apart and you couldn't be bothered to pick the pieces up.

Part 2 || Dont read part 2 if you don't want comfort and just want an angsty ending. || Requests: open

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