#nail velveteen

[msbyslilbimbo]

Gojo has a thing for tickling >:(

It’s probably a little something, something he accidentally discovered when he was a teen and harassing poor Suguru because he was just so helpless and looked so pretty laughing and squirming.

And let’s be real- if Suguru did mind, he didn’t say anything.

But it’s just something that has this weird twist on him, a branch of foreplay that keeps him in an act of dominance that may not have even needed to be there.

Like now.

The feeling of you writhing on top of him has his head spinning wildly, hips moving and shifting and lips battling has him in his own paradise he could happily get lost in.

Lips battle for dominance, tongues lacing to tease and teeth clacking against one another for feral carnality and lust. It's a miracle he's able to hold his own, you're a goddess incarnate, especially now as you're draped on top of him, tits bouncing with each slurp against each other filthily.

“I fucking love you,” he murmurs, teeth sinking into your lip.

When a massive paw clamps down on your ass to make you moan, blunt nails gripping the plush of flesh in his hands, Satoru is thrown off when you let out a breathy laugh.

Quiet, and easy. But still, a laugh.

He pulls back in confusion.

Your eyes are blown with pleasure and your lips are glossy with spit, but the way your body is tense tells him everything he needs to know about your little reaction.

"What's wrong?" You pant.

"There's no way."

"No way what?" You're a pretty liar, he'll give you credit there.

"There's no fucking way," he sneers, sinking his teeth into his own lip as his blue eyes look you up and down. His fingers briefly tickle you again, and you whine and giggle a hiss out.

"Don't-"

"Is this pretty little ass ticklish too, babygirl?”

"It’s not!" You say petulantly.

"You're not really in a position to lie to me, are ya?" He teases, letting his fingers slowly start their rhythmic tickling once again, and you let out a string of giggles despite yourself, whatever you could try to conjure into a lie being outed as such.

“Satoru!” You squeal, head bumping against him as a way to make him stop. Your nerves are electric with each scritch of his fingers along your sensitive ass and back, fingers fisting locks of his fluffy hair to ground yourself from the electric feeling. "Stohohop it!"

"Liar's get tickled, babe. You know the rules."

“Toru-!” You whine, shoving his chest while his fingers continue to skitter over your lower back and thighs. “I can’t- ha!”

“Need you to use your words, babygirl,” he chuckles, landing a loud spank to your ass. That, immediately, has you replacing your giggles with moans to sing in the air, but the moment is cut off when he just tickles you some more.

"Th-This-This isn't sexyyyyyy!" You groan around laughter.

"I have no clue what you're talking about, this is fuckin' hot."

With your gyrating hips over his, you’re met with his own anatomy reacting to you, stiff and firm under your writhing victimization. His eyes are blown with pleasure, hazy and leaving all coordination to his fingers. His teeth sinks into his lip.

Fuck, he's so turned on it's painful.

“A-ahHA-Re you fuhuhucking ha-AH-ard?!”

“I’m not not hard,” he snicker. He leans down to sink his teeth into the juncture of your throat, making you whine. “Fuck, baby.”

“I chahahant come like thIHIHIS!”

“You’re a fat liar.” Once again, the hands stop tickling you, and one of them darts straight between your legs to stroke the new, surprising wet spot on your panties. You mewl happily as the sensation, and he smirks, “you like this too, don’t you?”

You can’t say anything, he starts tickling you again, this time moving up to your sides and stomach and making you whine and cackle loudly, but one hand stays buried between your thighs, slipping past your underwear and slipping two fingers inside of your velveteen walls through the soaked lace. Your arousal is shrouded in laughter and whines, seeping through your panties and staining the fabric of his pants. “Holy fuck.”

“Satoruuu!” You whine.

Your hips, in search of something to feed the throbbing between your hips, grates against his, the zipper of his pants slotting almost too perfectly between your legs to nip at your clit, and you whimper in delight as you’re finally getting the relief you need in addition to the feeling you’re getting with this…. Sensation.

“Gonna cum-“

“Told you.”

“Dont w-HAHA-hahahanna!” You plead. “Not like this!”

He smirks and sinks his teeth into the meat of your bouncing breast, another sing of pleasure passing your lips.

“I don’t think you have a say in it, doll.

“Gonna make you love cumming like this.”

#my number one kink and boy ndbjbbjda #love him so muchhhhh #hot honey//tickling #gojo satoru #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru jjk #gojo #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo imagine #gojo jjk #jjk #jjk smut #jjk imagine #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #18+ content #minors dni #smut #not safe for minors

[moonchildstyles]

retrouvailles

élan part six: y/n goes on a date, harry finds out a secret, and something shifts.

wordcount: 15.5k+

—————

"Y'think I did alright?" 

(Y/N) swore her cheeks were going to ache for the rest of the day with the way her wide smile stretched over her lips. 

"I think you did really well," she told him, her voice laced with warm amusement though she was far from teasing. 

She was being honest, really. Hearing Harry speak in the small amount of conversational French he knew to her new nail tech as well as the receptionist of the salon she'd found today, was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen. While his accent was improving, she cherished the flourish he still gave to his e's and the care he gave to his consonants. 

"'M getting better, huh," he pressed, sounding a little too proud. 

"Your accent definitely is," she mused, spotting the entrance to their building not too far ahead from where they were strolling down the pedestrian walk. 

"Good," Harry responded simply, the edge of a dimple pressed into his cheek, "I've been practicing." 

Somehow it was possible, but (Y/N)'s smile widened. "I've heard." 

He wasn't exactly the most quiet as he recited simple words she'd taught to him after he thought she fell asleep. He preferred to sneak out onto the balcony, and practice with the light of the Tower shimmering in the distance. She liked hearing his voice like that, just a hair muffled through the door and his improper French. 

It didn't take long before Harry was holding open the door for her to head inside their apartment building. No one other than the doorman was occupying the small space. (Y/N) offered a fleeting smile in his direction, her attention captured by the grandiose display on the desk counter. 

In a crystalline vase, cut expertly to allow waves of rainbow light to glimmer over the warm eggshell walls, was an oversized bouquet of roses. The petals were deep spirals of velveteen red, deep dark in the center before going crimson on the edges. They had unfurled perfectly, not a single speck of discoloration or wilting. The stems were a healthy forest green, strong with clipped thorns as they held the large blooms in place. Interspersed between the roses were glossy leaves of emerald greenery and stark white puffs of baby's breath. It was full and large, stuffed and heavy with more immaculate roses than (Y/N) thought could exist in the world. How the vase wasn't toppling over from the sheer size, she wasn't sure. 

They were gorgeous—pristine. (Y/N) even slowed her steps some to caress her eyes over the blooms for a moment longer. 

Nonetheless, their synced steps eventually landed her at the doors of the lift. Harry, at her side with his own attention pressing forward, entered the code for the lift to take them upwards. 

Just as she took her eyes away from the bouquet, the doorman suddenly shouted through the lobby in accented English, "Wait!" 

(Y/N)'s steps faltered, the elevator doors having parted open. She glanced over her shoulder, feeling his shout being directed to her though she couldn't imagine why. 

The doorman looked at her with wide eyes, his brows raised. "Mademoiselle?" 

"Oui? Comment puis-je t'aider?" she trilled, watching as he stepped closer with her to catch up. 

From the corner of her eye, Harry's security instincts kicked in, stepping closer to her as a form of barricade. 

Eyeing Harry, the doorman slowed feet away, keeping that space between as (Y/N) peered around the broad of Harry's shoulder. 

"Les roses," he started, gesturing towards the towering bouquet, "Elles sont pour vous, mademoiselle."

"Pour moi?" she pressed, her brows pinching. 

"Pour toi. Ils vous ont été déposés il y a une heure."

"Oh," she sounded, allowing her gaze to wander back to the glamorous roses behind him, "Merci."

Taking it upon himself, Harry took the flowers from the counter, keeping himself between (Y/N) and the doorman as he moved. Offering nothing more than a quiet thank you, (Y/N) helped him into the waiting elevator, Harry having held the doors open in case he had to usher her through. 

Once alone in the lift, (Y/N) couldn't help but to run a finger over the blooms. Harry watched intently, observing and cataloguing as if he had something to be suspicious over. Truthfully, she couldn't completely blame him. She couldn't think of anyone who would send flowers to this address for her, especially something this grandiose. 

In the back of her mind, a niggling panic arose. This wouldn't be that admirer of hers, right? 

Silence followed them into their apartment, (Y/N) speaking up as she held the door open for him to slip through with the tottering vase. "Is there a card or anything you can see?" 

"Yes." Harry's voice was clipped as he answered. Nothing more was offered. 

She waited for him to set the bouquet down before she searched through the stems, finding the small card amongst the greenery. The slip was heavy, made from embossed cardstock—definitely more than what a regular florist would offer. 

Flicking it open, the writing inside was a shimmering black, inky and definite. The writing was elegant, scrolling and scripting, handwritten with a lilting hand. 

       Even before meeting you in person, I know these roses pale in comparison to your beauty. See you soon. x

        Elliot 

Every beautiful thing about the note was cancelled out when she read that name. 

That was the man who was tasked to take her out for dinner in a few days, her father's friend. 

"Oh," she sounded. 

Harry was silent at her side. He must have been able to spot the details when she couldn't.

"They're so pretty," she said, folding the card away, almost pouting at the roses, "I'm sad he had to be the one to send them." 

A beat passed before Harry spoke again, "I don't trust them."

Canting her head, she tried to see what he saw in the flowers. "What do you mean? They're gorgeous." 

His arms coming cross around his chest, Harry stayed firm in his stance. "I don't like it. He shouldn't know your address before he's even met you. Taking the time to find a florist in Paris, finding something this extravagant, I don't know. I don't trust them." 

"I mean," she started, tipping her head in the other direction, "I'm sure they're fine though, right?" 

"I don't know," he answered shortly, "I'm going to have to think about it. We might have to get rid of them." 

Peeking from the corner of her eye, she saw the pinched expression marring his features. He almost seemed offended to be looking at the roses. 

Her features dropped some at the idea of throwing out the bouquet. "Oh. I like roses, though." 

Harry's face pinched further at her words. 

—————

Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, (Y/N) forced herself out of her room, letting a shiver run up her spine at the cold floor under her feet. Through her bleary gaze, the first thing she saw was the streak of red that was the bouquet of roses sitting on the kitchen counter. 

It took a couple of blinks before she realized that the flowers on the counter were very much not the same as the bouquet she received yesterday.

This bundle was significantly smaller, only a dozen compared to the fifty or so blooms from the day before, only small clusters of baby's breath added in. The same vase was being utilized for this bouquet, the white ribbon that tied the stems together still included and now dipped in the water filling the vase. The red was brighter, a couple of the flowers not quite as open as the ones she'd seen before, the greens on the lighter side. 

Propped against the vase was a slip of pink paper taken from a notepad (Y/N) usually wrote their grocery list on. 

She didn't lift her eyes from the bouquet as she approached, the morning light seemingly making the blooms glow. Reaching for the note, her features softened, rounding and curving into a quiet smile. 

      Good morning. I know these roses aren't as nice as the others, but I hope you think they're just as pretty.

        Harry

His letters were blocky and absolute, none of the flourish the other man had left on the note. She definitely liked these much more than the flowers she received before. 

Brushing her fingers over the soft petals, she attempted to bite back the wide grin that threatened to take over her face. With the note in hand, she spun on her toes, searching for Harry as if she missed him in the space. 

Spotting him through the windows of the balcony doors, she didn't waste any time before she was crossing the living room to join him in the morning air. 

Knocking on the glass, she stepped onto the balcony as Harry looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Morning," he murmured, eyes glancing towards the note clutched in her hand. 

"Good morning," she chirped, shifting her weight on her feet with that fluttering feeling lingering in her tummy. 

"Y'alright?" he asked, noticing the way she couldn't seem to stay still.  

Looking at Harry now, all she saw was the man that picked out those flowers waiting for her inside. He picked her a bouquet that was worlds better than the grandiose arrangement she saw the day before, if only because it came from him. She liked his note much better, too. 

"I am," she said through her beaming smile, "Thank you for the flowers." 

Harry minutely perked up though his features stayed straight-laced. The grip on his mug tightened, his eyes brightening that much. "Yeah? Y'like them?" 

"I love them."

For the first time since she'd met him, (Y/N) watched as a small smile landed on Harry's lips. The glances of dimples she gained and the ghostly smiles that disappeared before she had a chance to truly take them in were all blown away with the way he allowed that small grin to mold his features. He gazed up at her with that smile on his lips for a moment before he cast his eyes out towards the Parisian cityscape. He brought his free hand up to knuckle at the tip of his nose, his smile partially hidden behind his hand. 

"Good." 

—————

(Y/N) read, and reread, and reread her father's coaching text at least five times before the message began to sink in. 

The first couple of messages were the usual host of guidelines, imploring her to not drink, to stay on her best behavior, to act lady-like (code for: don't try to sleep with him, because she was a whore, of course), ect. She rolled her eyes at first, reading those rules like they were supposed to be pasted to the fridge for a kindergartener to follow. It wasn't until the final message came through that her attention shifted to something serious. 

Dad

      And, Harry is to stay back tonight. He's already a distraction to the media, and shouldn't be there when you're meant to be on a date with someone who is able to handle you just fine. 

The plan all week had been for Harry to accompany her, be right at her side through the whole night no matter what. Not only because he didn't particularly trust her father's circle of friends after the 132 Gala, but also at (Y/N)'s request. That plan had been the only reason she hadn't fought tooth and nail to get out of this stupid date—the whole reason she hadn't done something equally as idiotic to get her father to cancel the plans in favor of punishing her. 

Just thirty minutes ago, sitting in front of her vanity to get ready to go out with another man, Harry had been on her mind. She wondered if he would like the red lipstick she slicked over her mouth, or if he would think it was too much. She wondered if he would like the bounce of her hair or if he would think it was too big. She wondered if he would think of those roses he bought for her when he saw the red of her dress. 

Now, none of that even mattered—if it had mattered at all in the first place, anyway. 

Harry was going to drop her off, and leave her to her date. 

The idea had (Y/N) deflating where she sat on her bed, her shoulders holding a defeated slope. 

She didn't want to get up, she didn't want to face this night. Tempted, she half-typed out a text feigning food poisoning to her father, a quick fix to get out of this whole thing. 

But, she knew better. Delaying this would only cause her more grief. Her father might even follow through and fly out to Paris himself to keep an eye on her. 

Falling back against her mattress, bouncing against the springs without a care for her hair, she heaved a sigh. She was going to have to leave her room and paint her face with a famous smile, but afterwards, she could forget it all happened. It would be over and she could return to her Parisian bubble that consisted of pilates, nail appointments, the farmer's market, and Harry. 

She just needed to get through tonight. 

Steeling her resolve, (Y/N) reacted to her father's text with a thumbs up and shook him out of her head. With her heels strapped to her feet and phone thrown into the bag hanging off of her wrist, she pushed the double doors to her room open and stepped out into the living room. 

Sitting on the couch, waiting with phone in hand, was Harry. He glanced at her over the top of his screen only for his scrolling to pause, eyes widening through the frame of his lashes. (Y/N) saw the trail his gaze made over her form, skipping through the curves she fit into her rose-red dress, the minute slit on the side that allowed the fabric to flare around her thighs. Her accessories came in complementing hues, pearls in her ears with glimmering gold shining against the red. 

A beat passed before he seemed to become aware of himself once more, clearing his throat as he made a move to put his phone away. 

"Y'look... really good," he started, his voice strained as he stood to the full of his height, his gaze dropping down to his feet, "Are y'ready to go?" 

"Thank you," she answered, decidedly less chipper than she would have expected after hearing his compliment. Her father's text was taking up too much space in her head for anything sweet to slip inside. "My father texted me while I was getting ready." 

"Yeah?" he asked, beginning to inch towards the door though (Y/N) lagged behind. "What'd he say?"

Following him in minute steps, (Y/N) swallowed. "Has he talked to you today?" 

"No," he answered shortly, pressing open the door for her to meet him at the threshold, his gaze heavy on her as she obviously stalled. "Why?" 

"He—Harry—" she struggled to find the words, hoping it didn't come out as pathetically defeated as she felt, "He said you're not allowed to come with me tonight." 

Harry stopped. His steps halted, his expression going blank as he looked at her. 

"What do you mean?" 

"He thinks you're a distraction for the media. If you were in any more pictures with me, especially when I'm supposed to be on a date with someone else, that would only cause more drama." 

Slowly, Harry closed the door to her apartment, sealing them inside for a moment longer. His hand flexed around the doorknob. 

"He thinks that?" Harry pressed after a beat, his tone sharp. 

(Y/N) silently nodded her head for confirmation. 

It only took a moment longer of that silence before Harry was undoing the work of shutting the door. Determined as ever, he pulled it open, beckoning her to follow after him as he stepped into the hall.

"I don't care. 'M going with you." His words were absolute like cement, unwavering and unmoving. "'M not leaving you with some man who you've never met before, and couldn't even bother to call y'before tonight—yet, he got your address to send 'flowers'." 

"Harry," she called, following him out into the hall, "I—We can't." 

He didn't budge, standing beside the elevator, the down arrow lit up showing the lift had already been requested. "I don't care, (Y/N). 'M not leaving you alone—your dad can get fucked." 

Her steps stuttered as she moved to catch up with him. Never had she heard him be so explicitly mad at her father—or explicit, at all really. No one ever really became angry at her father the way she did, let alone express it so bluntly. No one had ever seen the things that she had when it came to him. 

Nonetheless, (Y/N) still couldn't let him sabotage himself. 

It was just like he said earlier in the week. Her father's wrath wasn't worth wriggling out of a few hours of discomfort—for she or Harry. 

"Harry, no," she tried again, staying where she was when he tried to herd her into the requested lift. The sparkling panelling in the back of the elevator acted as a mirror, showcasing her and Harry in its reflection. "I can't let you do that. You'd lose your job, then you really would have to l-leave me here." 

She hadn't expected the way her tongue tripped over the word leave. She hoped Harry hadn't noticed. 

Harry's jaw squeezed, a hand coming up to knuckle at the tip of his nose as his gaze fell to the floor. "'S not fair," he murmured, "I can't leave y'there."

"I can't let you do anything else, though," she reasoned with him, dropping her voice to match the volume of his own, "My father would be so angry with us. He wouldn't let you stay here with me." 

While that explanation was the truth, she had a feeling Harry would never be the one that was in proper trouble with her father. It would somehow make its way around to be her fault; that she had poisoned Harry's mind. That could be the only reasoning as to why he would comply with (Y/N)'s wishes over her father's. But, he didn't need to know all of that. He just needed to stay put, that was all she asked. 

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze flicking up in a glance at her. "(Y/N)," he murmured, the syllables of her name cradled in his voice. 

"I know, but I promise I'll be fine. And, if I'm not, I'll call you right away. After this is all over, you can take me home, and we can try to watch a Julia Child episode again." A careful smile touched at the corners of her mouth then, hoping that lighthearted act would rub off on him. "I'll try not to fall asleep this time, either." 

While his mood didn't seem to be particularly lifted at her plan, it was enough to get the hinges in his jaw moving again and the stark set of his shoulders loosening. Only after a lingering pause did she hear the grumble of his voice once more. 

"Okay." Picking up his chin, he matched her eye contact head-on. "You promise me you'll tell me if you're uncomfortable?" 

She knew what he was asking her, the night of the Gala flashing through her head, too. 

"I promise." 

With a single nod of his head, he flattened his hand between her shoulder blades and herded her into the lift.  

—————

Harry maneuvered the car through the now familiar streets of Paris, taking her to the expensive location her date had requested. 

Elliot, she thought with an internal cringe. She was going to have to actually call him by his name, instead of referring to him as some guy. 

With the Eiffel Tower glimmering only a few miles away, (Y/N) wasn't surprised to see the restaurant that had been chosen for the night. (It was a terrible tourist trap, nothing particularly special that could justify the price other than the view of the Tower from the patio). It was just the kind of expensive nonsense her father loved to partake in when he visited, the same seemed to go for his friend. 

The car was still running as Harry did nothing more than step on the breaks as a means for parking. All he needed was to hear her word and they could be out of there in a split second. 

"I'll be back at nine to get you. No later," he cemented, his lips a thin line as he laid his sharp gaze on the eatery. 

"Yes, no later," she parroted, pitching her voice into something lighter in hopes of tricking him into a better mood the same way she'd done for herself. "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

"Okay." 

With her hand on the door, (Y/N) hesitated. She didn't want to leave him now, especially not when he was so obviously on edge. She didn't know how to ease him other than promising again and again that she would get into contact if she needed him. 

She just wanted him to know that she was far away from this date, too. That if it were up to her, this wouldn't be going at all, that she was miles away in their apartment. 

Without overthinking it, she pushed the door open with the most prominent thought in her head slipping through her lips: "I wish I was doing this with you, tonight." 

(Y/N) could feel Harry's eyes on her as she climbed out of the car, leaving before he had much of a chance to offer any response. 

—————

This man—Elliot—is her father. 

He is almost an exact replica of her father inside and out, this man just has a better hairline and faker teeth. 

The similarities started the second it appeared he didn't know how to stop talking, going on and on about himself. He didn't know how to pair wine, despite boasting about the vineyard he supposedly owned here in the French countryside. ((Y/N) had to keep herself from wincing when he suggested starting the night off with foie gras and a deep red wine). He loved France, and wine, and charity, he'd said. 

So, he was a liar, too. Just like her father. 

No wonder he thought this would work out—that she would like him. Her father loved himself so much he couldn't imagine this date not being perfect with the similarities he shared with Elliot. 

(Y/N) hid her frown behind her wine glass, listening as he made a fool of himself and the foundations he ran. (Supposedly, of course. With the way he spoke of them, they sounded more like cash grabs than anything real, a set of others running the operation while he was nothing more than the figurehead and beneficiary). He didn't even notice just how disconnected she was from this conversation, though she couldn't be surprised. To notice anything at all would require him to stop thinking about himself for longer than a breath.

"See! I knew you'd like that wine," Elliot boasted, looking pleased with himself as he ran a hand through his graying hair, "Your father said you were a drinker, so I had a feeling you'd enjoy this." 

A part of her bubbled close to overflowing, wanting to spit at him that she actually hated the wine—it was too prickly and bitter, and overall just shit—but she tamped it down. It was enough to get her father red in the face if he found she was drinking against his rules, she didn't need to add on the fact that she blew up in this man's face over it. Nothing quite like a drunken rage to get her on the front page of a tabloid tomorrow. 

Instead, she offered a sickly sweet smile after taking in a large gulp of the horrendous wine. "Yep," she falsely beamed, "That's me!" 

He didn't even blink at the bitter tone to her voice, the scathing sticky sweetness that laid underneath her words. 

Her savior came in the form of a scattered waiter approaching the table, his footsteps echoing a bit too loud in the otherwise empty restaurant. (Another small flex on Elliot's part—he'd bought out the entire eatery for the night, leaving them alone with nothing but the limited waitstaff and kitchen workers in the back). 

Their waiter—whose name she wished she caught before Elliot had rudely cut him off in favor of ordering terrible wine—offered a painted smile, a bit too perfect to be authentic as he all but tripped over himself for a flawless service. In accented English, as her date didn't know any kind of real French, he asked, "Are you ready to order your mains this evening?" 

Before (Y/N) could do anything but smile, Elliot was chomping at the bit, speaking in broken French as if to impress her. 

He boasted that he would be ordering for the both of him, that he knew what she wanted. The waiter looked on with wide eyes, taking down the order in his little notepad. (Y/N) looked on unimpressed, listening as Elliot ordered himself a steak, commanding it to be cooked way too much, with a sauce that was much too rich for the white wine he was supposedly planning on pairing it with. She dreaded to hear what he thought she would like, especially with the way he flitted his dark eyes to her with bouncing brows, as if she could be anything other than enticed through this interaction.

In another move that was so terribly like her father, Elliot ordered her a chopped salad. Dressing on the side, as well. 

(Y/N) had to rein herself in, keeping a bubbling peal of laughter from leaking out. If not for the fact this was really happening to her in this moment, she would have loved to hear a story like this in a comedy routine. 

"That will be right up, sir. Thank you," the waiter praised, giving a small bow of his head before he turned to scurry away once more. (Y/N) envied him for his ability to eke out of the room. 

Though, before he could make it too far away, (Y/N) stopped him with a gentle hand on his forearm. She extended backwards in her seat, catching his attention. 

"Miss?" he murmured, "Did I miss something?" 

"Oui désolé. Il n'a pas commandé correctement pour moi," she answered, noting the way his eyes widened at hearing the fluent French slip from her mouth. 

Pulling out his leather notepad, he nodded his head, "Oh, mes excuses. Que puis-je mettre à la place?" 

"Pas de soucis, merci," (Y/N) smiled, hoping to ease some of his nerves and make it abundantly clear that she knew she was too good for the man sitting across from her, "J'aurai le penne au salmon à la crème Parmesan, s'il te plaît." 

The waiter nodded, looking a touch more comfortable as he spoke to only her, writing down the new order after putting a definitive strike through the previous. With a promise to return to check on them shortly, he disappeared into the reprieve that was the kitchen, leaving (Y/N) to suffer on her own. 

"I didn't know you knew French," Elliot said from across the table, forcing her attention back to him. There was a pinch to his brow, tightening his already Botoxed features. "What did you say to him?"

"Hm? Oh," (Y/N) sounded, feigning confusion as if she had no idea what she'd just done, "I ordered for myself. I think he thought the side salad you got was for me." 

Clueless to the fact that she was amusing herself at his expense, his furrow deepened. "It was for you." 

"No, thank you," she said, sticky sweet and unbearably kind, "I actually really love the pasta from here. A salad isn't enough for me." 

Elliot tripped his eyes down her form, glazing over the red dress she picked with Harry in mind. "You couldn't listen to me for tonight?" 

"Oh," she canted her head, blinking her eyes owlishly, "I didn't know the salad meant something to you. Just a misunderstanding then, I guess." 

It was eerie the way he looked exactly like her father as he took in a deep sigh, as if he had reason to be disappointed in her. Freud would be too happy seeing as how her father set her up with a man just like himself. 

"It's alright, sweetie. Keep that in mind for next time, though. I've got you now—you don't need to worry about reading the menu and ordering for yourself anymore." 

In an attempt to keep herself rooted to her spot and not stomping outside the door, (Y/N) tightened her grip on her wine glass. She wouldn't have been surprised if the stem broke under her palm. 

"I definitely will," she laughed, feeling a hair away from delirious at this point. 

Pleased with himself, Elliot sat back. "I feel like I've been talking about myself all night," he laughed, shaking his head as if his arrogance was a silly oversight, "I've been meaning to ask about something I read." 

(Y/N) had to keep her eye from twitching. "Really? What was it?"

"That boy you've been pictured with," he started, his voice much too loud for the quiet space. (Y/N) had to consciously make an effort to keep her jaw from clenching as he referred to Harry as a boy. "Your dad said he was your security, but I wanted to ask about him myself." 

Buying herself some time with a calculated sip of her wine, she swallowed down the acrid taste before asking, "What do you want to know?" 

"Is he your boyfriend? Or whatever you kids call it now," Elliot bluntly pressed, "I read you cheated on Mr. Moore's son with him. Is there any truth to that?"

"No," was her immediate answer, "He's just my security guard." 

In the back of her mind she knew those words didn't fit correctly in her mouth. 

Elliot raised a challenging brow. "That's the truth?" 

Forcing herself to do nothing more than grow stoic at his idiotic pressing, (Y/N) met his eyes directly without wavering. "I know the stories can be convincing, but this is what I'm telling you. It's the truth." 

This was her version of biting back, dropping that tabloid bunny facade with placating smiles and the willingness to accommodate to be whatever person the one in front of her wanted. She couldn't outright slap him, so she'd have to settle for not being the naive butterfly he wanted. 

Giving a slow nod, (Y/N) watched as her date ran through what she'd told him. He didn't seem to even understand that she was pushing back on him, his ego too large to see much else. "Okay," he settled, "Well, if this continues between us, I want to make it clear that I would prefer him to leave Paris." 

(Y/N) sat dumbfounded for a beat. 

Elliot continued on, "He's not needed if I'm here with you. I also believe he's taking advantage of his position in getting to touch and 'protect' you. You don't need him around." 

Through gritted teeth, (Y/N) asked, "You think so?" 

"Mhm," Elliot hummed, a bit too proud, "He's taking advantage of you as far as I can see. He takes from you since you can't overpower him—it's a hard thing to notice when you're the woman being taken, but it's obvious to others." 

Swallowing, (Y/N) forced her jaw to unclench and a deep breath down her lungs. 

She was livid. Truthfully, she couldn't care less what this man thought of her in any way—another way he was similar to his father—or if he chose to demean her for the rest of the night. But, when it came to Harry, the only innocent person in this whole stupid mess who'd done nothing but protect her to the best of his ability, that was where she was going to draw the line. 

This night was over. 

"Right," she answered stiffly, forcing her features into something kind and unwitting, "Do you mind if I run to the ladies room really quickly?" 

Already pushing out her chair before he had a chance to say a word, (Y/N) only half listened when he told her to hurry back, he didn't mind waiting for her. 

With her bag on her wrist and phone in hand, she typed out a message in quick strokes. 

      please come get me

Firing it off to Harry took all but a second, long enough for her to reach the kitchen, 

While it felt impossibly rude to step inside, she had to put her plan into place before Elliot realized she hadn't headed towards the bathroom at all. 

A member of the kitchen staff stopped in their tracks when they saw her, a bright streak of red in the middle of the otherwise stainless steel and clean white of the kitchen. 

"Mademoiselle? Vous cherchez les toilettes?" 

"Non, j'avais en fait une demande, s'il vous plaît." she started, keeping herself on the fringes of the space as to not touch something she wasn't meant to.

The staff member cast his gaze around for a moment, the rest of the kitchen slowing to a standstill when they noticed her. Only the sizzling of a pair of pans remained, the space hot from the running ovens and foaming butter. 

"Comment puis-je t'aider?" he asked after a moment, no one objecting to the idea of her newly timed request.

"Y a-t-il un moyen pour que tu emmènes mes pâtes avec moi ? En plus d'ajouter pavé de saumon à la plancha pour que je le prenne également ? Je sais que c'est la dernière minute, mais j'ai changé de plan." 

"To-go?" he answered in accented English. 

"Oui," she cemented, time ticking the longer she had to explain herself, "Je dois aller aux toilettes, mais je peux les récupérer en sortant par l'arrière, si ça te va."

It was then that—what she assumed was—the kitchen manager spoke up, her hair tied up under a pristine white hat. "Oui. Nous pouvons préparer cela pour vous en dix minutes, mademoiselle." 

"Merci," (Y/N) chirped, backing out of the kitchen before she could become any more of a distraction. 

Next order of business came in the form of tracking down her waiter, who was tucked in an alcove around the bar, the single ticket for their table hanging from the processing computer. After the shock of spotting her in the backroom wore off, (Y/N) settled the tab—including the fish entree she just added—with a swipe of her father's credit card. A hefty tip was left for the staff, in hopes of making up for the absolute waste of time everyone involved had gone through for the night. 

Checking the time on her phone as she scurried to the staff restroom (with permission from the waiter), (Y/N) didn't doubt that Elliot was either too absorbed in himself to notice she was still missing or he was beginning to realize she was taking too long for this to be an innocent trip to the ladies room. Nonetheless, she only had a handful of minutes left before her order would be ready, and Harry had to be on his way by now. 

As if he was living inside her head, the second she closed the door behind her, a call came through her phone with Harry's contact written boldly up top. 

"Hello?" 

"Are you okay?" he fired off, ignoring her greeting, "Did something happen?" 

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she eased, leaning against the bathroom door, "I'm a little annoyed and was almost bored to death, but I'm okay. I knew this was going to be a bad night, H, but it's been terrible, honestly." 

"I'm outside, okay? I parked out back, but you'll see me," he rushed off, his voice a low rumble through the speaker. 

(Y/N) reared back. "You're already here?" 

"Yes." 

A beat passed in the quiet of the bathroom. "Did you come from the apartment?" 

"No." She could hear a sigh come from the other line. "I didn't go back—I stayed here." 

"Oh," (Y/N) sounded, having no right to feel a small smile bloom on her features at his admission. "I'll be out in a second. I need to grab something really quick." 

"Okay. I'll see you in a minute." 

Hanging up first, (Y/N) doubted he would unwind until she was sitting in that car with him, away from the annoying bug that was Elliot. 

Scurrying through the restaurant in hopes of staying unnoticed by her date, she thanked the kitchen staff once more for the impromptu request she made before grabbing her orders and pushing through the back entrance.

The night was dark, only bits of warm light coming from the Eiffel Tower in the distance, tourists roaming the streets with roses in the wind. Searching for Harry's car, it only took (Y/N) a couple of steps around the building to spot the black sedan with its lights on bright. 

Her steps quickened, heels clacking over the concrete as she eagerly met him. The doors were unlocked and ready for her to climb in. 

"Look what I got for us!" she bubbled, fitting herself in the passenger seat with the boxed meals in her lap. 

With his features only lit up by the dash lights and whatever was able to seep through the tinted windows, a furrow darkened Harry's brow. His gaze lingered on her face before dropping to her lap as she buckled up. 

"Is... Is that your dinner?" 

"It's our dinner!" she chirped, "I got you something while I was there." Finally cataloguing what exactly she had run out with, her grin only widened. "I think they gave me his too, actually." 

At that, a huff of laughter left Harry's lips, the tension in the car melting as he shifted into drive. (Y/N) watched as his features softened in the low light, dimples present and eyes softening. 

"He doesn't know you left, does he?" 

"Nope," she trilled, "He'll figure it out soon though, I'm sure." 

Harry only laughed again, eyes trained on the road though she didn't miss the way he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. 

"That bad?" 

"Oh, yeah," (Y/N) heaved, shaking her head. "My father is going to be so mad, but I don't even care anymore." 

(Y/N) could feel her muscles unwinding the farther they made it from the restaurant, dropping her head back to lean on the stiff rest. She genuinely didn't care if her father woke her up with degrading messages or a promise to visit her penthouse. She wasn’t going to sit by while Elliot degraded Harry for the sake of looking like an alpha. 

The familiar route back to the apartment whizzed outside the windows until a bright idea blinked in (Y/N)'s head.

"Wait," she chattered, sitting up straight in her spot, "Turn around. I have an idea." 

—————

The Eiffel Tower shimmered in front of them, warm dinner in their laps with a sturdy bench under. 

The lights of the attraction were reflected back on Harry's wondrous eyes, his food left to cool in his lap as he was too distracted with the sight in front of him. (Y/N) was the same though her gaze was on him.

"Worth it, right?" 

Harry didn't hesitate to pull his eyes from the Tower, casting his gaze to her with a lingering trace over her features. He paused on her lips for a heartbeat before he matched her eyes once more, the familiar beginnings of a lopsided smile touching the corner of his mouth. 

"Definitely." 

—————

(Y/N) barely bat an eyelash when she saw the heavy envelope as the only piece of mail in her box. She politely thanked the doorman before taking it back up to her apartment, already dismissing its contents despite the curiosity bubbling in her fingertips. She wondered what kind of photos would be inside. 

The media apparently hadn't caught a hold of any kind of story about her date. It'd been three days and there was nothing being posted online other than a random blog post claiming to have seen her dressed in red climbing into a black car. Nothing mentioned a romantic candlelit night, or a scorned billionaire cursing her name for embarrassing him. The only reason she knew her father was aware any of what transpired that night was because of a text he'd shuttled off to Harry, cementing that (Y/N) wasn't to go anywhere without him. (Quite the punishment, she'd joked). 

Otherwise, there was nothing out there about the incident, nowhere for this person to collect photos and scratch out a narrative. She also would have remembered seeing someone with a heavy camera in the empty restaurant, but she couldn’t recall a single moment a lens had been pointed in her direction, including the meal she and Harry indulged in by the Tower. 

Safely inside her apartment, the water running as Harry took his morning shower, (Y/N) took a risk and opened the flap to quell her curiosity. Inside glossy photos awaited.

While she never particularly enjoyed seeing photos of herself in this context, usually fluctuating between fear and indifference, she'd never been so unnerved as this moment. Given, she didn't typically open the letters sent to her, so she didn't have much to compare it to, but she had a feeling this was the worst that had even been sent her way.

Shining in the morning light, were photos of her from the moment she stepped out of her apartment to the time Harry took her home. She was a gleaming scarlet streak in every photo, some shots having been zoomed in on her body, on her legs, on her lips. This person caught her entering the restaurant, Harry conveniently cut out before the view shifted. Through the window, she had been caught with her glass of wine, blankly looking ahead at Elliot as he spoke of himself. This person had even caught her devising and executing her plan, the camera having craned and peered around every corner and every fixture to get even a small sliver of her form. This person followed her to the spot Harry picked her up, to where they sat at the Eiffel Tower with their dinner. Those shots were decidedly blurrier, taken from a larger distance, but it was still clearly the pair of them gazing at each other before gazing towards the Tower. 

Harry's face had been scribbled on in one shot, the same way Marc's had been in the package previous. 

She didn't dare to look at the words written on the back, already collecting what kind of narrative this person would force this time around. They seemingly were turning on Harry now, instead of just ignoring him. 

Leaving that single photo where it laid, with both she and Harry gazing skyward towards the point of the Tower, (Y/N) didn't have it in her to leaf through the rest of the stack. 

Suddenly, having missed the sound of the water cutting and the silence that followed, she heard Harry's bedroom door open, the swoosh of the air as he entered the common space. She scrambled to pack the photos back into the envelope, trying her best to not sprint towards her bedroom. Her hands shook as she gathered everything to her chest, the photos a messy pile she hid with her back facing the hallway Harry was emerging from. 

"Morning," he greeted her, his voice that low grumble it always was in the morning. 

"Good morning," she chirped out, her steps hastening that much more as she slipped inside her bedroom, the door open just a crack. 

"Did y'still want to go to the farmer's market today?" Harry called, his voice carrying as she lingered in the living room.

"Sure!" she trilled, wrenching open her vanity drawer, "Or—um—I was thinking we could finally visit the Lourve today, or whatever. I'm fine with anything!" 

Harry didn't respond then, (Y/N) only hearing her bubbling heartbeat pounding against her chest. Why did she think it would be easy to hide the letters under a pile of palettes? 

It took a handful more seconds before she had everything safely tucked away, the drawer being pushed shut before she sat back on her heels and breathed. That was a little too close, she decided. 

No more opening the letters if she could help it—especially while Harry lived with her. 

Peeking out of her bedroom decidedly more relaxed than when she went in, she swept a hand through her hair. "Did you have anywhere you wanted to go, though?" 

Harry stood with his back to her, his shoulders tensed and head bowed as he looked towards his feet. He didn't lift his head as she spoke, keeping her behind him.

A beat passed, still no acknowledgement. 

"Harry?" she called, stepping out from her bedroom entirely. 

Harry turned slowly then, revealing he was looking at a slip of paper in his hand, his brows in a furrow and lips set thin. 

Sunlight coming through the windows glinted off of the glossy coating of the page in his hand. Her heart dropped. 

"What is this?" 

Swallowing around her tongue, she tried her best to slip into a role she hoped would fool him. "What do you mean?" she asked, voice light despite the heavy pit in her stomach. 

Chancing a look at her for the first time since she left her room, Harry's eyes were sharp, a warning expression she hadn't seen since he pulled her from the pilates studio in New York. 

He held the photo up for her to see, showcasing a shot of her escaping through the back of the restaurant with a giddy smile and stolen dinner. 

"Who took this?" 

Her facade crumbled that much, sinking and sinking like her heart in her chest. 

"Um—I—I don't..." 

"(Y/N)," he warned, his voice low and lethal. He wasn't Harry at the moment, this was the man tasked with her safety who'd just found a secret that changed everything. 

"I don't know," she rushed out, deflating as she kept her eyes low so as to not match his own, "I don't know who took it." 

"Then, why do you have it?" 

"Someone sent it to me." 

A tick hugged the hinge of Harry's jaw, his grip on the page tightening. "What do you mean?" 

(Y/N) floundered then. Her mouth gaped with words she knew she wasn't going to say, the air sucked out of her lungs. Nothing wanted to roll off of her tongue—nothing would.

"(Y/N)," Harry sternly interrupted her swimming thoughts. His sharp tone matched his eyes. 

A shallow breath prickled in her lungs. 

She'd never had to speak on this before. There was only one other time she had gained the courage to confront the fact that someone was stalking her, sending photos and letters and expressing devout affection and depraved ideals about her. There was only once she had voiced these fears before, and it had been shot down immediately by her father. She was told to let it go and be grateful; she was meant to be happy that she had a fan, someone to admire her. 

She didn't want to be called crazy again. 

Because she wasn't, right? This was something anyone would be scared over, right? 

Taking her shaky hands into a bundle at her middle, (Y/N) tried to find the words. 

"I don't know who sent it to me, but it came with a letter and other pictures."

Harry stowed over her words for a lingering moment, (Y/N)'s shuttered gaze keeping her from gauging his reaction. For the first time ever, she didn't want to know what he was thinking. 

"Someone sent you pictures of you we don't remember being taken, and a letter," he reiterated, his voice a deadpan rumble as the story came together. 

She'd never heard these events spaced in someone else's voice. 

"Yes." When he didn't immediately say anything (Y/N) felt her blood pressure spike. "Harry," she tried, his name heavy on her tongue, "I-I wanted to tell you, I promise. I was going to, but my father—he... I thought you wouldn't..." 

Harry paced the room silently. He took his time before settling heavily on the middle cushion of the couch, the discreet photo of her being clutched in his grip. 

"Tell me now, then," he commanded, gaze fixed on the photograph, "I don't care what your dad said or what you thought before, this is something I need to know about." 

Her fingers were a fiddling mess as she stood still in the middle of the room. "I don't know where to start," she whispered. 

Fracturing his line of sight from the picture, Harry cast his gaze out the windows, taking in the skyline they'd called home for the better part of two months. His free hand landed heavily in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. 

"Start wherever—anywhere. I don't care, I jus' need to know." 

(Y/N) sucked in a shaky breath. She'd never felt so lost before. 

How was she supposed to wrap up years worth of ominous letters and unwanted photographs? How was she supposed to put it all in a story that didn't require them sitting here for hours and for (Y/N) to dissolve into tears more than a handful of times? 

"Is this the first one you've gotten?" Harry pressed, taking her silence for the need of guidance. 

"No." 

A heavy sigh lifted his shoulders. He finally craned his neck back to the living room with her, though he picked only a spot in the room to focus on. He didn't dare catch her eye, yet.

"When did they start?" 

Prattling around the timeline, (Y/N) tucked her bottom lip between her teeth. "A couple of years ago, I think?" 

Though his features stayed completely stoic, she knew there was something in her answer that had his shoulders tensing and nose flaring. 

"This person has been taking photos of you and sending them for two years?" 

"Kind of," (Y/N) reasoned, deigning herself to sink into one of the arm chairs beside the couch, her back stiff despite the inviting cushions, "I think sometimes they take pictures they find online since a lot of them match up, but sometimes it's like this one. I used to think they were selling stories and pictures to publications and posting them, but some of the stuff they sent started getting really weird a year ago." She took in a breath, thinking about the one piece of information that she hadn't the courage to read since the first time. "They send letters, too. About me." 

"Do you have them? The letters." 

"Only the couple that have been sent here." 

Harry's voice was low, seething, as he spoke, "Let me see them." 

Hesitating where she sat, (Y/N) stayed stiff in her position. She didn't want to grab the letters, honestly. She didn't want anyone to see them if she didn't even have the courage to fold them open. 

A niggling thought in the back of her head had her staying put: What if she was overreacting? What if Harry read these letters and saw what her father saw? That she was nothing but a paranoid, ungrateful girl. She wasn't sure if she could survive something like that. 

"(Y/N)," Harry started, his voice bringing her back to the surface of her swimming thoughts, "I'm asking as someone who's supposed to keep you safe. Please let me see these things." 

Her voice was quiet as she agreed with an okay. Her footsteps were the only thing that could be heard as she padded over the floor, going to her bedroom with the burning drawer being her destination. Rifling through the pile of palettes and trio envelopes hiding underneath. She collected them as if they were burning, her fingers gingerly grasping them. 

She blindly handed over the envelopes, sinking back into her seat as she felt her heart in her throat. As much as she didn't want to watch, she couldn't tear her eyes off of Harry as he paged through the photos. She barely registered the slideshow of photos as he leafed through them, already having seen the blurry shots and odd angles, the lengths this person went to just to capture a sliver of her body. 

"Have you read the letters before?" Harry asked, his voice low and calculating. 

"I did once," she explained, "But, after that, I never did again." 

Harry didn't waste a moment before he pulled out the letters, the blurry photographs now nothing more than a kaleidoscope of her face across the coffee table. She made a point to shift her eyes to him then, unwilling to really see the breadth of this person's admiration for her. 

(Y/N) looked on as he reached for the most recent letter first, his gaze quickly scanning over the page before he forced himself to grab for this next. The whole time, she watched as Harry reacted to whatever was typed on the page, the way his muscles bunched and his features flattened into something severe and angular. The way he pinched the paper became more aggressive, something tight flexing into his fingers. 

She chewed on her bottom lip, her curiosity peaking. "Wh-What do they say?"

It took a moment before he tore his glazed eyes from the page, flicking to meet hers through the fan of his lashes. "Do you really want to know?" 

Weighing her options, (Y/N) wasn't sure, really. "Maybe?" 

Harry shook his head, folding up the page before dropping it atop the others. "They... pay attention to you a lot. There's a version of you they like, and really care about. It's all they talk about." 

"What do you mean?" She worried her fingers in her lap, the edges of her acrylics being worn dull. 

Swallowing, Harry tried to keep a straight face as he looked over the evidence sitting in front of him.

"They really like you, and have decided they know who you are because of that," he tipped his head, taking in a sigh with his hands clenching and unclenching. "They're... This person isn’t right, (Y/N)." 

Her heart sunk at his words. The rising sun outside lighting the city while she felt the darkest she had in a long time. 

"It's that bad?" 

He didn't offer an answer, the pages in front of him now feeling like poison permeating through the room. 

The silence that sat between them felt like a third roommate, heavy and unforgiving. 

"Harry?" (Y/N) murmured, quiet compared to the silence, "What do we do?" 

A heavy hand was passed through Harry's curls, nails catching his scalp with his fingers messing the swirls. "I don't—," he breathed, shaking his head, "Fuck—I don't know." 

(Y/N) finally saw something cracking in him—that stoic facade that veiled whatever was bubbling on the inside beginning to slip. The uncomfortable feeling of having no definite way to get out of this situation rained down on him. She saw the way he peered out the windows of the apartment as if he would catch someone right then. She wouldn't put it past him to scour the whole place, hoping to ferret out anyone who could have slipped under their noses for so long. 

"Fuck," Harry murmured under his breath, the curse heavy on his tongue. His knee began to bounce where he sat. 

Swallowing around her dry throat, she didn't know what to say, what to tell him. While there was a part of her that felt vindicated knowing that he wouldn't react like this over nothing. This threat was real and not just something she made up in her head and used as a reason to be dramatic. 

The other part of her felt guilt over keeping this secret from him. He wouldn't have been blindsided if she had just followed her gut and told him from day one everything that was going on behind closed doors. Maybe he wouldn't have taken the job then (the idea stabbed at the soft parts of (Y/N)'s heart), but he wouldn't have been struggling as he was now. 

"Harry, I—I didn't mean to, I'm sorry," she tried, unsure of what she was saying or feeling but wanting to give him something. 

He waved her off, shaking his head with his unfocused gaze on the floor. "Why didn’t your dad want me to know?" 

"He said it was a waste of your time to worry about it," she explained, feeling embarrassed despite the fact she had nothing to do with her father's decisions, "W-When I told him about it, he said I needed to be grateful, that I needed to be happy that someone admired me enough to follow me and everything. He told me I needed fans like that since I wasn't very popular anyway." 

(Y/N) couldn't look away as Harry curled in on himself the longer she spoke. The knuckles of his clenched hands were a burning white, his shoulders heavy and broad. 

"I fucking hate your dad," he mumbled after a beat, his voice a seething breath, "So much." 

She looked at him with wide eyes for a moment. Then, she couldn't help the huff of laughter that pushed between her lips. 

She'd never heard anyone say that before—at least anyone that wasn't herself. It was relieving in a delirious kind of way. 

Because she fucking hated him, too. 

Harry looked up at her, something quizzical in his gaze. 

"Sorry, sorry," she got out in-between giggles, "I've just never heard anyone say that before about him—usually I'm the only one that sees him this way. It's—I don't know why I'm laughing, but." 

There was no room to continue with the way laughter began to pour out of her, eyes tearing at the feeling in her chest. The feeling that there was more than just herself on her side. 

A lopsided smile worked its way onto his lips as he watched her. "I've seen enough to know I hate him, don't worry." He shook his head, dimples thumbed into his cheeks. "I only keep this job for you." 

Despite the delirium fueled amusement coating the room, (Y/N) almost melted at the genuine way he spoke to her—spoke about her. He meant what he was telling her, without a doubt. 

"I really didn't mean to keep this from you," she told him once she settled down, a deep breathing inflating her lungs, "Before everything, I thought you were on his side, so I didn't want to waste our time. I don't think my father even wanted you to really be my security guard at first, so." 

"That's why y'said what y'said the first time I went to your place," Harry pieced together, gaze warm on her skin. When she only nodded her head, his gaze dropped down the column of her throat. "At first, I can't lie, I believed the things he told me and what I'd read about you," he acted ashamed to admit as much, "But, that was because I didn't know you. It didn't take very long to realize that you are very different from what everyone said.

"I hope you know that. If more people took the time to know you and used more than a fraction of their brain" he continued, conviction running under his words, "no one would believe those stories. The people who do know you, know that you're worth more than any of it." 

Maybe now wasn't the time, with a coffee table full of deranged letters and creepy photos of herself, but (Y/N) couldn't help the flutter of her heart in her chest. Harry, even if he was giving her a hard truth, was never anything less than genuine. He believed every word he was saying to her, and that made her want to believe it, too.

"Thank you," she smiled at him, the curl of her lips small and shy. 

Harry allowed his gaze to linger on her for a few moments more before he must have remembered the gravity of the situation as she did. He forced his eyes to land back on the matter at hand: the letters and photos dedicated to her. 

"'M going to take care of this, okay?" he murmured, all amusement draining from his tone, "'M going to do everything I can to figure this out and make this person stop, (Y/N). 'M going to keep y'safe." 

"I know you will," she answered in a heartbeat. There was no question in her mind about his ambition. 

(Y/N) allowed her gaze to wash over him as he focused on the photographs. She doubted Harry knew, but he was becoming her safe place. She trusted him more than she trusted almost anyone—more than Francesca even. A pressure in her chest developed the longer she sat with the realization. 

"Harry?" 

"Hm?" 

Suddenly her posture was stiff once more, bottom lip chewed swollen between her teeth. "Could—Or, I guess, would you mind—Can I hug you?" 

The mossy green of Harry's eyes, flecks of sunflower yellow, blinked up at her. She saw every minute expression on his features before they softened and curved into a gentle smile. 

"C'mere," he told her, leaning back against the cushion with his arms open. 

It was on instinct the way she moved, bundling herself into his arms with her legs curled up underneath herself. She was a ball against Harry's chest, his arms a forgiving loop around her body. His palms spanned the planes of her back, one between her shoulder blade and the other lower as he warmed her skin through the sleep shirt she was still wearing. With her head tucked into his neck, she felt him relax around her with his nose grazing the top of her head. 

She felt safe in his arms—forgiven, and trusted. He believed her more than anyone she'd ever known before. 

"I've got you, okay?" 

(Y/N) squeezed herself tighter to him.

—————

Taking her hand out of the UV lamp, (Y/N) settled a gentle palm on Harry's arm. 

"It's okay, H," she murmured, "You can relax." 

He was startled at her touch, his mechanical scanning of the nail parlour ceasing for a moment. 

"Sorry?" he muttered in response.

He'd been like this every time they stepped out of the house since he was clued in on the letters and photos. At the farmer's market, he was suddenly suspicious of anyone who dared to bump into her, any vendor who haggled with her for a moment too long, anyone who so much as looked at her with interest in their gaze. He had mistaken small black bags for high quality cameras, his eye constantly peering out for a lens pointed in her direction. Her pilates class was just a level below that intensity given that she wouldn't allow him to follow her into the studio, forcing him to wait outside with bated breath for her return. 

(When she had joked that she would keep an eye out for someone with a movie camera and a shirt with a photo on her face, he hadn't exactly laughed, but she thought it was funny).

It seemed the nail parlour was no different. The familiar techs and other staff who had begun greeting her after her second regular visit were now suspects in Harry's mind. No one was to grow too close to her, only her given tech when it was time for her appointment. Everyone else had to pass the wall that was her bodyguard before they had any hopes of even breathing in her direction.

"I was just saying that I'm okay, you can relax," she reiterated, squeezing his arm with her fresh set of nails glimmering in the light. 

"I know," he deadpanned, going back to surveilling the scene, "'M jus' doing my job." 

She tried to be gentle as she spoke to him, remembering the way she felt the first time she saw those envelopes of her photos. She had grown paranoid as well, double checking every street, every blurry face, every lingering interaction. She was nowhere near as comfortable with the information as she was now, and that paranoia was where Harry was currently living. 

"If you hadn't noticed them before," she reasoned, voice forgiving as her nail tech made the final touches on the set of cherries painted on her fingertip, "I don't think that's going to change now, and that's okay." 

Harry shook his head, a stray curl grazing his forehead. "I wasn't looking before. I am now." His words were definitive, the same way he spoke to her at her apartment with the photos strewn across the coffee table. "'M not going to let this keep happening, (Y/N)." 

(Y/N) didn't know what to say. 

It was still an odd feeling to have someone worry over her—someone who cared to the degree Harry was declaring. She didn't know what to do, how to act, under these conditions. It had always been her and her alone that carried these kinds of burdens. 

Reaching under the table, Harry settled his hand on her knee, the warm skin of his palm felt through the rips in her jeans. He gave a squeeze. "Let me take care of this. I've got it." 

Her nail tech tapped her hand too soon to inspect the paint before going under the light, forcing her gaze to stray from Harry's and the way his eyes glimmered over her features. Just before she looked away, she swore she saw his pupils dilate, honing in on the shape of her lips. 

—————

It took close to two weeks for the photos of her on her date with Elliot to surface, the angles and shots already familiar to her eyes. They were exact matches to that of the ones that were now carefully stowed in Harry's room. 

(Y/N) didn't exactly care about this specific leak, having expected it two weeks prior, anyway. Her father had to have known about all of the details of the ditch anyway, and if he hadn't said something already, he wasn't going to. She had nothing to worry about when it came to this story making its way to the press. 

Except for the string of international paparazzi that now seemed to make it their mission to follow her everywhere she went. 

She couldn't blame them, really. There was nothing that made ad revenue or sold magazines more than a tumultuous love life, so the hope of catching her on a date—a high profile one at that—was too enticing for many photographers to let go of. Whatever paid the bills, she guessed. 

That was why she wasn't particularly surprised to look over her shoulder and see a string of loitering paparazzi waiting outside the restaurant she had Harry had escaped to for dinner. She even recognized one from back home. 

She didn't try to cover her tracks too often while in Paris, just for the fact she was more unknown here than in New York, but that didn't always mean she went unnoticed. The idea of working through the small string brought her back to her drunken stumbling from the club. She hoped it wouldn't be anything like that. 

(Y/N) hadn't realized how long she'd been distracted by the peering cameras until she felt Harry's hand land on her own. Whipping her head around she found he had abandoned his crostini topped with melty brie to focus his attention on her. His eye contact was unwavering. 

"'S gonna okay, alright?" he soothed her, "'S only a few. Nothing we can't handle." 

"I know," she answered, curling her hand under his, "I just... Now that I've actually looked at some of the pictures being sent to me, I don't like seeing so many cameras on me like this. I don't like that they're taking pictures of you, either." 

Harry sat patiently listening to her, only pulling his hand away from hers to prop his chin up on a white-knuckled fist. Something always ignited in him when she mentioned the gifts from her admirer. His gaze skittered outside the eatery, silently taking in the faces of those smoking and loitering on the sidewalk. 

"You think it could be any of them?" 

The thought hadn't really crossed her mind. She figured it would be a good disguise, to blend in with people who would of course be carrying around cameras and would be looking for her on nights like these, but that didn't explain why she'd never seen a paparazzo-esque person trailing her when no one else was. 

"I don't know," she answered honestly, a small shrug lifting her shoulders, "The picture quality is always pretty good, so I guess it could be someone like that, but I guess I always kind of figured it's easier to follow me unnoticed if they were using their phone camera." 

Humming his acknowledgment, Harry didn't pull his eyes from her awaiting fans. While she didn't know everything about what his expressions meant or what was going on in his head, she recognized this moment. The gears were turning the longer he stayed quiet, a plan being laced together. 

"Do y'want to see if we can go out the back?" 

Considering the option for a moment, she ultimately turned it down with a shake of her head. "We'd still have to pop through the front to get to the car, anyway." 

"I can go alone and bring the car around for you?" Harry offered, trying to meander a way around the inevitable. 

"They know your face now, you know," she looked at him sullenly across the table. That was something she felt the most guilty over, taking away his privacy and splashing his face across the internet and whatever magazines chose to print him. While he wasn't always the target of the shots, he was a person of interest now. 

A beat passed, Harry returning his eyes to her with something softening behind the moss. "You really want to go through them?" 

"I don't think we have much of a choice," she laughed, the sound lacking humor. 

Harry looked at her with his features melting and curving into something soft—understanding. "We'll make it out jus' fine, alright?" 

The smile that tugged the corners of her lips was genuine. She didn't doubt him for a heartbeat. "I know." 

—————

After settling the tab with discarded plates full of the crumbs of brie-heavy crostinis, their dinner of appetizers being left behind, (Y/N) braced herself for the trek outside. 

"Ready?" Harry asked, looking to her intently as she cinched her jacket around her waist. 

"I think so," she nodded. It was now or never, no point in hiding out and sipping wine until they became bored around midnight. 

"I'll be with you," he murmured, just as he attached himself to her side, the waitstaff eyeing them. 

(Y/N) offered a quiet smile of thanks, feeling a bit exposed knowing they were watching so intently. She couldn't blame them—they had garnered quite a bit of attention tonight, it was practically a given.

Approaching the door together, she didn't think twice before she fisted her hand in Harry's coat, ensuring he stayed close to her as she dropped her chin to face the ground. Harry took that as his cue to wrap an arm around her waist, protectively leashing her to him. 

Pushing open the door with a stiff hand, Harry led them to the handful of waiting photographers. It was when she saw the pulsing lights bleaching the corners of her vision did she begin to regret her choice of putting her head down. This position could easily be spun into one of annoyance, and rudeness. That she thought she was too good to even look at these people. 

"(Y/N), (Y/N)!" a pair of the photographers began to shout as they followed she and Harry toward their car. 

(Y/N) kept her head down, ignoring the calls to her attention. She didn't need to give them anything, all she needed to do was follow Harry's guiding steps to get her out as safely as possible. 

"Okay?" Harry murmured, bending down to press his lips to her ear, drowning out the noise of her name and shuttering of cameras. The flashes went on faster at his intimate touch though he didn't let it stop him from soothing. 

Nodding her head, she could feel a small smile touch Harry's lips against her skin. 

"Almost there," he informed in a gentle tone, "Jus' gotta go slow so they don't try to chase us or get too close." 

"Thank you," she mumbled, fist in his coat unfurling until she pressed her palm against the line of his waist. 

"I've got you," was his simple answer back. 

She didn't have a moment to find comfort in Harry's words before an accented voice was shouting once more, unsatisfied with her ignorance. 

"(Y/N), are you a cheater?! Does your boyfriend know you went on a date with that old man?!" the photographer provoked, spewing out any word he could think of that might draw a reaction from her. 

(Truly, the one reaction he may garner is one of (Y/N) bursting into laughter after the declaration of Elliot being that old man. She couldn't have said it better herself).

While she detested the running rumor of the summer that she was a cheating, wicked woman, she wasn't going to let it get under her skin. She'd proven time and time again that Harry was her security official and nothing more, and there was no way this person would accept another dismissal of the theory. It was better to keep quiet and allow them to print about her deafening silence over the accusations. 

"(Y/N), we want to know the truth! Did you have another affair?!" The photographer pushed after only silence was offered, his camera now being shoved into her space as he gravitated a little too close. 

The rest of the string—including the familiar New York paparazzo—had seemingly taken a step back, photographing the new show that was emerging with their aggressive colleague. 

Harry pressed forward, quickening their pace in hopes of breaking away from them faster. He was stopped only when the man jostled (Y/N) at his side, his camera being shoved under her face as if he could catch a shot despite her evasiveness. That had her stumbling backwards, Harry steadying her as best he could before he was stepping up. 

"Give her some space, man. Back up," he sternly commanded, his arm a tightrope around her waist. Flashbulbs were going crazy over the interaction, catching (Y/N)'s blunder and the standoff that was appearing between the two men. 

Seemingly disregarding Harry's warning, the paparazzo tried again, sidestepping the wall that was Harry's blocking form. Maybe, he didn't understand, (Y/N) reasoned. English wasn't always the easiest language to understand even if you could speak it, especially given Harry's accent. 

"S'il vous plaît, laissez-moi un peu d'espace," she piped up, hoping the translation would blot out the grey area. Sometimes these people needed to be told before they remembered basic personal space standards and manners. 

This time, when he pushed through, once again asking (Y/N) if it was true that she's slept with all of her father's friends, that it was clear there was no language barrier pushing him to be disrespectful.

They were this close to the car, just steps away from allowing (Y/N) into safety and speeding away. Of course it could never be that easy.

Harry let go of her only for him to step in front of her completely, blocking the photographer from achieving any kind of shot. 

"Step back," he ordered, his voice a deep grumble as he enunciated every syllable, "Give her some space." 

The way the paparazzo reacted seemed less about getting pictures of (Y/N) and more about standing up to Harry. He scrambled around, reaching his camera over the breadth of Harry's shoulders as if to prove he could get what he wanted despite any kind of intervention. 

Inching slowly towards their car, Harry did his best to pave the way for (Y/N) to follow and slip away. Nothing seemed to deter the other man, however. 

"Step back," Harry ordered again, placing the palm of his hand flat against the other man's chest. 

While it wasn't necessarily a push, the force Harry gave behind his palm was enough to get the other man stumbling back. French profanities left the paparazzo's mouth as he tripped over his own feet.

This was Harry's opportunity as he reached around and grabbed (Y/N). She was quickly steered towards the unlocked car, Harry pushing her inside the second the door was opened wide enough to head in. 

Everything moved quickly then, the other paparazzi seemingly focusing on Harry and the way he conducted himself against the other man. He rounded the front of the vehicle and threw himself inside, the flash of cameras and a distant angry voice following his moves. 

Harry didn't waste a second before he peeled away from the curb, setting them away from the chaos. (Y/N) barely had the capacity to buckle herself in with shaky hands. 

That was worse than she expected, honestly. Never had the Parisian photographers been so blatantly disrespectful, shoving cameras in her face and asking ridiculous questions. 

This was the most physical Harry's ever been forced to be in front of her, most people heeding his size and station in favor of actually challenging him. 

"Are you okay?" she asked, the world whizzing past them with Harry's foot pressed deeply against the gas pedal. 

His knuckles were white around the steering wheel. 

"He wasn't listening." 

(Y/N) swallowed, spying the cutting angle of his jaw and the blaze in his dark eyes. Maybe she should have taken him up on his offer of bringing the car around for her. She could have avoided this whole thing if she wasn't so stubborn. 

"I wasn't sure if he could understand you at first," she shakily recounted, "but I told him to back off in French, too. I don't know why he didn't listen. He didn't hurt you or anything, right?" 

"'M alright," he answered, shaking his head with his lips rolling between his teeth, "I jus'... I don't like how people talk to you, (Y/N)." 

He flexed his hands around the wheel, the leather squeezing under his grip. She didn't know how to soothe him, what advice she could give. "You just can't listen," she told him, sharing the only thing she'd learned on her own through the years. 

A beat passed, nothing more than the feel of the tires grazing over the asphalt sounding through the cab. Harry twisted and turned, moving like an expert through the streets.

"I don't know how you do it," he told her, voice quiet and losing that edge he'd had gained outside the restaurant, "'S like there's a new lie every day—it makes me so angry. These people don't even know you and all they do is call y'names and think the worst of y'every chance they have. Why don't y'say anything?" 

It wasn't accusatory the way he asked her, even if he was frustrated. He was just one of those people who couldn't imagine what it was like to allow abuse from others without biting back. She wished she could be like that. 

"I guess I'm used to it," (Y/N) shrugged, feeling the backs of her eyes beginning to burn, "People have been taking pictures of me and saying things since I was in high school, so I don't think it bothers me like it's supposed to. I've learned it's a lot easier to let people think what they want because no matter what kind of apology or correction I make, it's never going to be seen or believed as much as whatever was said about me in the first place. I just have to be okay with it, and let what people say go." 

By the time she finished, she felt those tears well up in her eyes, stinging and hot. Every blink she gave trying to hold them back only jostled the pool, blurring her vision. 

"I don't like that you're used to this, (Y/N)," Harry answered, his voice feeling a level of mourning she understood. 

A joyless smile molded her lips into something uneven. She shrugged. "Me neither, but what can you do, right?" 

Tonight would spur something new in the media, photos no doubt being caught of Harry's altercation with the paparazzo and (Y/N) fully expected someone to have been able to secure a photo of her with these tears in her eyes. She could already imagine the kinds of narratives that would be built around these moments, the kind of things people would believe about them both now. 

But, what could she do, right? 

Silently, Harry unhooked a hand from around the steering wheel and gently laid his palm on her knee. The split in her long skirt allowed his skin to press against her own, fingers curling around the cuff of her knee in a comforting squeeze. He didn't have to say anything to let her know that he was there, he was here for her and he trusted and believed her more than anyone she'd ever met before. 

He didn't have to say it for (Y/N) to know that he really did care for her, even outside of what his job called for. 

Wiggling her fingers under his palm, (Y/N) hugged her hand to his. Her fingers filled in the gaps between his own, painted fingernails glinting in the city lights. 

Harry held her hand the whole drive home.

—————

As expected, two days after the altercation in front of the restaurant, a fat envelope full of photos and a letter she wouldn't read, arrived at the Paris penthouse. 

The media had already spread their own photos about, including shots of her tearing up on the car ride home, leaving her curious as to what the admirer was going to show her that she hadn't already seen. 

It was an odd feeling to not immediately go and ferret away the letter, to hide any evidence of the fact that his life wasn't completely normal. 

But, Harry needed to see this. If he was so willing to give her such trust and believe her without question, she was going to have to give him something back. 

"Is that another letter?" Harry asked from where he had emerged from his bedroom, the entrance to the hallway now full of his broad shoulders and scowling face. 

"Yeah," (Y/N) sighed, chest heavy. 

Moving towards her, Harry asked her carefully, "Can I see it?" 

She wordlessly handed it over. She didn't want to see the content anyway, especially seeing as the other was beginning to turn on Harry. She didn't want to see what kind of marking they left on the photos of him. 

It was a quiet ordeal, watching Harry pluck apart the envelope and peer inside. He scanned the photographs, seemingly the most upset when he reached shots of her crying in the car beside him. It was when he reached the letter that something shifted in his demeanor. 

He was always calm and collected, calculating each step and each reaction. But, she saw cracks then as he read the contents of the folded page. His cheeks were red, bottom lip cuffed between his teeth with nose flaring. He looked moments away from shredding the page apart himself. 

She was sure he would have if he hadn't instead indelicately folded it before slamming it on the kitchen counter. 

"We're not doing this anymore," he cemented, voice sharp and unforgiving, "You are not doing this anymore—putting up with this shit anymore." 

Leaning over the pile in front of him, he dropped his head into his hands, his fingers creating angry trails in his hair. 

"Harry," she started, her voice cushioning the sharp blow of his own tone, "I know it's hard, but I don't know if there's anything we can do about this. We don't know anything about who's doing this." 

"I don't know what to do," he grumbled, his hands tightening against his scalp, "But, I'm not letting this person take advantage of you and say these awful things about you any more. 'S not okay." 

She didn't know how to tell him that there wasn't anything that could be done to help her, honestly. That there was no way she could conceivably stop this person until they messed up and gave her some kind of information to get a restraining order filed. Until then, there wasn't anything that could stop them. 

"I know it's a lot," she tried, downplaying the same thing that used to give her nightmares when it first began, "But nothing really serious has happened, yet, at least. It's just another person taking photos of me, really." 

 "I don't like it!" Harry suddenly burst, whipping his head up to match her eyes with his own fiery gaze, "You shouldn't have to go through this! I don't understand why everyone thinks it's okay to degrade you, and mock you, and invade your privacy all because your shitty dad lets them! I don't fucking like it, (Y/N)!" 

In a final standoff with the rage bubbling inside, Harry swept his hand heavily over the counter, collecting every piece of evidence and splaying it across the floor. She was sure he wanted to do more, do anything to let off the steam billowing inside him, but there wasn't anything he could do without leaving damage on their home. 

Everything stilled then, the mess on the floor and Harry's breathing heavy in his chest. (Y/N) stood in the stark calm of the kitchen, watching with wide eyes and her hands a fumbling nest. She watched as he looked down at the mess of photographs and the despicable letter that set him off. 

"I don't know how to fix it." His voice was gentle like a whisper, matching the breeze that filtered through the city outside the window. 

Carefully creeping over the floor, bare feet padding over the tiled kitchen, she met Harry around the cooked counter. He didn't look up at her, even when she collected him into her arms and nestled him into a hug. 

"You don't have to fix it, H," she told him, mumbling against his skin as he slowly unfroze around her, "I don't know if this is something that can be fixed. It's just a part of my life at this point, and I don't want you to be upset over it." 

"I want you to be safe," he told her, voice thin when he succumbed to her hold and buried his nose into her hair and wrapped his arms around her just as fiercely. 

She could feel the hard planes of his chest pressed against her own soft curves, Harry fitting himself around her. Every breath he took was matched by her, his nose skimming the top of her head in a soothing pattern as if the motion were for himself only. He was furled like a tight rose, keeping a bumblebee safe from whatever was lurking outside the petals. 

"With you, I am." 

That had Harry pulling away from her then, his eyes matching hers with dilated pulls and a slack jaw. 

"You feel safe with me?" he asked, keeping his hold on her tight so as to not let her stray too far away. 

"Of course, I do," she smiled at him, her hands pressing into his back, "You're the only person that's ever actually been there for me. Like, you actually care." 

While her tone was lighthearted, encouraging, Harry was erring on the serious side. He didn't match her smile, his features left in softened curves and slacked muscles.

Every detail, every expression, every fine point of her was catalogued with his eyes. (Y/N) wasn't even sure if he was really breathing as he did this, the world having stood still the longer he gazed at her. 

When he finally met her eyes once more, the slightly pinch marred his brow, his eyes down turning into something gentle. 

"I do care about you." He swallowed, raspberry lips wet by his tongue. "I don't know when, but I don't think anything I've been doing has been because of my job for a while now." 

Heart hammering in her chest, she felt breathless looking up at him. She still saw that same beauty she spotted in her father's office all that time ago; the mole by his mouth, the sandy stubble on his cheeks, the spotting of freckles on his nose, the cut set of his jaw, the whirlwind of green in his eyes. There was something softer lingering now, something she never could have imagined landing on the face of her security guard. 

She found similarities in this moment to the way he had gazed so wondrously at the Eiffel Tower glimmering at night. He looked at her like she was one of the greatest creations in the world, deserving of romance and praise and commemoration.

"Really?" she breathed.

The way he nodded at her started out small, his gaze dipping to her lips before something frantic kicked in. "Really," he asserted, his hand on her back traveling up her spine and over the base of her neck, "Can I—Can I kiss you?" 

(Y/N)'s answer came in the form of her nose bumping his, mouth placed just off center, hands clutching at the soft fabric of his top. Harry seemed taken aback for a moment, stunned into stillness before he came to life under her kiss. 

The hand that had been traced up her back to the base of her neck turned into a steadying hold, allowing him to support her as he towered above. She tipped her head back as he slotted his lips between her own, kissing her top lip delicately despite the ravenous way he held her. The soft sound of sighs, lips parting and meeting again, filled the room. The very tip of Harry's nose grazed the apple of her cheek as he tipped his head, deepening their kiss with a taste of his tongue over hers. If not for the fact her eyes were already closed, she could imagine the kind of blissed expression she would show off for him. 

Pressing her back towards the kitchen counter, (Y/N) followed Harry's guidance, never pulling her lips away from his own. It wasn't rough the way he grabbed her, placing her on the ledge, only eager excitement flooding his movement. (Y/N) understood completely, immediately reaching for him once more after she was steadied and safe on the counter. 

Her thighs parted to let him stand between, his hands pressing against the round of her hips as he took advantage of his spot. It was (Y/N)'s turn then to clasp her hands around the back of his neck, feeling the baby hairs and heat of his skin. She sighed into his kiss.

She hadn't kissed anyone sober in so long, let alone someone she deeply cared about and who she knew cared about her as well. This put everything she'd experienced to shame. 

Harry put everyone else to shame. 

Happiness flooded her system. 

(Y/N) smiled against his lips, her hands going rogue in his hair as she slipped her fingers between the curls. Harry matched her with a clinging hold on her hips, a grin blooming on his features. He pulled away only when their mouths couldn't actually press together through the breadth of their smiles. 

"Happy?" he asked her, grinning lips just a breath away from her own with his nose nudging delicate against hers.

"Uh-huh," she sighed, chancing her eyes open just a sliver, just enough to see what he looked like when he'd just been kissed by her. Her hands in his hair roamed until they settled a warm hug around his neck. "You make me so happy." 

Harry drew away from her before she was enveloped in his hug once more. His face was in her neck, his arms a cushioned cage around her middle. She swore she could feel his heart beating in time with her own, both racing. 

The kind of silence that only fit when you'd just been kissed in the middle of Paris descended over the flat. This silence full of mushy feelings, lip prints, and synced breathing. 

"Even if I can't fix everything, 'm going to take care of you." His words melted across the column of her neck, the brush of his lips feeling more intimate than when he had helped her undress after the Gala. "I want to make you happy, sweet girl." 

Her eyes fluttered closed as he tucked her chin against her shoulder, cheeks stretched wide from her grin. "I know you will." 

Harry hugged her tighter. 

—————

retrouvailles is an untranslatable French word that describes the feeling of re-meeting someone, the joy of seeing someone you missed even if you didn't know you missed them before

eeeeek!!!!! thank you all so much for reading this part was def fun! sorry for any mistakes and please let me know if you have anything fun to share about the story!

#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 #harry styles x reader #love on tour #pleasing #harrys house #as it was #satellite

[kinq-sleazee]

A Night In - Black Reader x Yuuji Itadori

TW! AU, manipulative reader, kinda toxic reader , yandere reader if you squint, yuuji wants to hang out with his friends but reader is sad ☹️, oral (m) receiving , vaginal sex

Bringing that sweet persona full force you fall to your knees between his spread legs and bite your lip. Meekly gazing up at him with doe eyes and a pout. He always looks so good from this angle—towering over you like a god. Big muscles and powerful hands that could end you in an instant but the puppy like trance that befalls him as you present lets you know that he would never.

Who really has the power here ?

His shorts lay discarded in the corner. Thick cords of muscle flex and ripple under the slow drag of your nails on his flesh. His breath hitches as you pepper sweet kisses up his toned thighs. Leisurely, you suck at the skin. Painting the canvas with darkened marks of passion. Yuuji moans lustfully, placing a hand and cupping your cheek to which you meet with a kiss on his palm. You love his hands. They’re so strong and beautiful. Those hands have helped bring peace and justice to world and normally you’d spend time servicing them deep in your throat but there’s something heavier that’ll settle against your tongue tonight. The object of your desire lies between his thighs too heavy to stand. Thick veins circle the girthy appendage with a purpling mushroom tip leaking pre. On instinct your tongue darts out and you can’t help the lascivious moan that tumbled in your chest. Yuuji’s brows furrow and his perfect lips part slightly revealing sparkling white, and deadly sharp, teeth. God he looks so beautiful—if you could stare at him all day you would but right now you have a job to do. One long strip from the base of his cock to his engorged tip has him rutting forward and whimpering your name. He hisses in pain laced pleasure when your nails break the skin of his thighs at the same time your wet cavern engulfs him.

Yuuji melts into the sofa , literal putty in your hands as you Bob your head on the top half of his member. Your tongue swirls around his dick, spelling your name as if an enchantment. A low grow bubbles from his chest and you dare a glance at his face. Stray strands have fallen in his face, stuck to the beads of sweat forming. His lip is bruised with trickles of blood spilling in the corner from how hard he’d been biting them. God—he’s captivating. Deeper. Deeper. You urge yourself. Swallowing more and more of his massive length while your fondle his balls and dare let you fingers graze past his perineum. He jolts at the feeling but that’s for another time. You suck hard. Swirling your tongue around the tip before pulling off with a pop to spit the mixture of saliva and precum before shoving the entirety of it down your throat. Saliva drips down his heavy balls and you feel them throbbing in your hand a tell tale sign that he’s close to cumming. He does his best to warn. A strained “b-baby”, and a garbled cry of your name is all he manages before spilling his seed in your mouth. Allowing him no time to recover you pull up and sink down his fat cock. The painful stretch of it bullying into your unprepped pussy almost made you scream but you wouldn’t dare spill the liquid delight resting on your tongue. Big hands grip your cheeks slamming your pelvises together. You tangle your fingers into red strands as you pull him into a cum filled kiss. He moans at the taste , swallowing his own seed like a debauched whore. You’re so close now. The delicious curve of his cock is nestled in your womb and every twitch sends shockwaves to your gspot. Yuuji is babbling affirmations of love and praise beneath you but your too far gone to hear him. Instead you focus on the feeling of his silky strands between your feelings and his dick rubbing against your velveteen walls as you cum. He joins your climax— shooting ropes of cum until you’re both left spent and panting.

Who doesn’t like a good night in ?

#itadori yuuji #yuji itadori #jjk itadori #itadori smut #itadori x black!reader #itadori x reader #jjk yuuji #yuuji x reader #yuuji x black reader #jjk smut #jjk x black reader

[bihansthot]

First person smut drabble, threesome, p in v sex, cunnilingus, Bi-Han x wife!reader x Sareena

I’m just going to post about this because I’ve spent all day thinking about

eating Sareena out after Bi-Han pumped her full of his icy cum. I want her overstimulated and whining as I lick and suck every drop of his cum out of her sweet, syrupy pussy.

I lap at suck at her soft walls, savoring the extra salty, slightly bitter flavor the addition of Bi-Han’s cum imparted, a flavor I was very familiar with. It makes me moan and I flush in embarrassment as I can feel my pussy dripping with arousal as I hunt down every trace of cum from my girlfriend’s pretty pussy. Eventually Bi-Han recovers from his orgasm and gets hard watching me, his wife eating his girlfriend out and slowly pushes his cock in my dripping slit and fucks me so slowly, driving me mad as I try and focus on Sareena’s pleasure. Soon all three of us are just whimpering messes, I’ve always had a talented tongue and Bi-Han would never admit it of course but Sareena and I have heard him make noises that would horrify the cryomancer if anyone knew.

After what seems like forever Sareena finally cums with a moan of my name, her sweet nectar flooding my mouth making me moan obscenely as I act like the good girl I am and clean up my mess. I’m not far behind her, Bi-Han’s perfect cock filling me up over and over as his cold fingers strokes my clit. I whine against Sareena’s sweet cunt earning an exhausted, overwhelmed whimper from the demon as my vibrations reverberate through out her perfect body. Bi-Han gives a low warning he’s not going to last much longer in my silken heat as he starts to thrust harder, deeper. My arms can no longer hold me up as I topple against Sareena as she scoots down a bit so I can rest against her taut stomach, her sharp nails dragging through my hair as she encourages me to cum for both of them. I can no longer hold my orgasm back as Bi-Han seems to find the perfect spot inside me over and over as his cold fingers dance in tight circles around my clit. My muscles lock up as my eyes flutter close and rolls back into my skull I moan his name loudly as wave after wave of pleasure course through my body. I feel light headed and weak, drunk on pleasure as the evidence of my orgasm drips down my thighs.

“What a good girl you are, first treating Rini so sweetly and now your tight little pussy milking my cock, just begging for me to fill you with all of my cum,” he groans as both hands find purchase on my hips. His pace doesn’t really increase just the intensity does, fucking into me hard and strong.

“She’s been such a good girl, she deserves a treat,” Sareena echoes the cryomancer’s sentiment as she continues stroking my hair lovingly.

“Please Bi-Han,” I whimper, trembling from the cold and my lingering orgasm.

He stills and lets out a deep moan as I feel his icy cold release splashing against my velveteen walls, I whine and moan his name as he fills me. My cum slut kink on full display as if it wasn’t obvious enough from insisting on cleaning up our girlfriend.

“Oh god, don’t spill any, please,” I plead and shiver from being chilled from the inside out. Bi-Han acquiesces to my request and makes no move to pull out as he pants softly and lets his cock soften in my spent pussy. Eventually he slips out and lays down next to Sareena, pulling her warm body close as I continue to lay half on top of her.

“Honestly, whose wife are you?” Bi-Han asks in faux annoyance as he sits up and heaves me to his other side leaving himself happily in the middle, pleased as a cat with cream.

Sareena leans across Bi-Han to pull my heated blanket up and across my body before pressing a chaste kiss to my lips, “both of ours, Bi-Han.” She titters softly before snuggling against the cryomancer, her demonic body giving her plenty of resistance to the cold.

I blink tiredly, trying to stifle a yawn feeling warm and comfortable curled against the cryomancer’s perfect body, the cold of his body fighting the electric blanket. My body heat and the blanket seem to get the job done as the chill fades and I drift into a contented sleep.

#mortal kombat #bi han #sub zero #mk sareena #bireena #bi han x reader #bi han x you #sub zero x reader #sub zero x you #bi han x sareena #bi han x sareena x you #wife!reader #tw smut #nsft #ns/fw #w4w #wlw #p in v #drabbles #smutty drabble #first person pov #self indulgent

[valkariel]

Puppet Princess

All battle jobs have equivalent optional lvl 80 jewelry. Wearable all classes without jewelry.

Head: Glossy WInner's Crown - aldgoat brown Body: Clown's Top - pastel pink Hands: False Nails - default Legs: Woodland Warden's Skirt - marsh green Feet: Velveteen Gaiter - marsh green

Earring: Peach Blossoms Neck: The Emperor's New Necklace Wrists: Edenmorn/Edenmete Wristlet of Casting Right Ring: Augmented Crystarium Ring of Casting Left Ring: Edenmorn/Edenmete Ring of Casting

Main Hand: -- Off Hand: --

Fashion Accessory: -- Minion: -- Mount: -- Location: #AmarisStudios - Aether/Gilgamesh Lavender Beds W3 P54

Shader: Faeberry Bloom

#ffxiv #ffxiv glamour #ffxiv au ra #ffxiv black mage #eorzea collection #AmarisStudios #valkariel ilmarë #au ra #raen #black mage #casters #all classes #pinks/roses #greens/teals #golds/yellows #no mogstation items #uses seasonal items #uses limited items #cute glamour

[00127am]

FIVE OF DIAMONDS : a financial change is coming

@ rollthedice detective chittapon leechaiyapornkyul can't seem to beat you, the vision casino's own high roller, at any game of cards (or any odds of gambling for that matter). but he can stop your repeated attempts to rob the vision's vault. ⤷ word count 1.2k

🃅 🃅 🃅

Contrary to popular belief, it’s extremely hard to focus on the game of poker when the insufferably confident woman to your left had just given you a proxy kiss only a few minutes prior. And it’s even harder to focus on winning said game of poker when your heart is beating a mile a minute with each subtle movement of her frame (Ten attests that it’s nothing more than the thrill of the game, certainly not any such feelings he has for you). 

Any and all luck the detective previously had, he can feel slipping away with every fraction of a second spent fantasizing about recalling your stunt.  

You, on the other hand, were certainly right about your odds. Always managing to skip three steps ahead of all of the other opponents (himself included) and play if off like they’re the ones in control. As if you barely have a sense of how to play the game. It’s a clever strategy and you’re certainly a good actress with the way you’re fumbling with the cards and anxiously scratching at the surface of your nails. But if it’s anything like your game of baccarat, then he’s positive that your attitude will change in the blink of an eye when you sense that your opponent is out of good plays. Especially when Ten has a sinking suspicion that the only reason you’re ahead in the first place is because you’re a card sharp. 

He began thinking it during your first game with him, after all, the chances of you surpassing Ten’s own skills at the game is a million to one. And (with no offense to you, of course), the detective doubts you could beat those odds. Your cheating is an outlier in his equation, a probability that he simply cannot count for. You’re an unpredictable gambler, someone who’s poker face never wavers nor falls (no pun intended). Ten just can’t figure you out. Nor can he seem to best you. 

And, oh god, it’s driving him up the wall. 

So much so that he can barely recall the rules of poker. So much so that every shift in his direction from you has his head spinning. It’s getting on his nerves. You might just be the most aggravating woman that the detective has ever had the displeasure of meeting. He throws down a two pair with an aggressive flick of his wrist. His nimble fingers toy with the rest of the cards, slipping between and over his nails in practiced precision. His eyes never look down towards them, peripheral always focused on you--leaning against the table with a hidden enthusiasm, one covered up with the exaggerated biting of your lip and the faux nervous twitch of your eyes. 

If you noticed his continual glances in your direction, you didn’t outright show it. But he knows you did. He can tell with the way your fingers trace the edges of your chips in an agonizingly slow pace. And the way you have your jaw tilted in that alluring show of arrogance, the same one that makes him grit his teeth. Ten knows from the way your tongue snakes out from your mouth and slides slowly across the bottom of your top lip before darting back inside like it was nothing more than his imagination. And from the fashion in which you have yourself propped up against your seat, dress pulling tightly against smooth flesh. The split hem of the fabric creeps up at your thighs, high enough to reveal the jut of your hip bone before it curves down to cup your- the detective snaps his head back up to the table, the tips of his ears flushed a handsome red. 

Your lips blossom into a knowing grin at the reaction. He tosses a four of a kind onto the velveteen felt top with a scowl. 

You raise. Ten follows suit. 

Your free hand makes its way to palm at the venomously tinted cocktail an onlooker brought you (no doubt persuaded with that grating, charming intonation of yours) before raising it to your lips. You drink it eagerly and elegantly, sparse blue droplets spilling from your lips and slipping down your chin. There, they leave an excruciatingly stagnant trail of nearly transparent kisses declining the length of your throat before they’re just about all swept away with the absent minded swab of your handkerchief. Droplets of alcohol that he’s embarrassingly jealous of, wishing instead that it was his mouth pressed against the expanse of your neck--making your pretty lips part in something other than delight at his continued discomfort. You dab at your wetted lips, careful not to remove any wine colored lipstick. Ten clenches his fists, knuckles turning a blanched white. 

You raise again. The detective mimics. 

And then his attention is directed to the movement of your figure, leaning over him on the table as you laugh at something the man to his right said. You’re doing it on purpose, dangling yourself right in front of his eyes. Eyes which can only watch and hands that can only remain pressed against the poker table in a manner which is anything but composed. Your eyes have become upturned crescents, hair falling to the front of your face as you lean a bit farther, standing on the tips of your toes. You’re wavering a bit in your stature, a motion which nearly forces his hand to raise to your form. Delicate fingers digging into your hip and holding you steady as he kneads at your flesh.

But he doesn’t. 

Too afraid that if he did, every shred of self respect would leave his body faster than he’d blink. Or that his hands (and their weight) would reveal something that he’s much too unwilling to admit. Something that you already know, as much as he likes to pretend you don’t. He’s not quite sure how long you were leaning before him (twenty-two seconds but who’s counting), but to him, it lasted an eternity. 

But then you’re leaning back, eyes sliding to his own in a manner that Ten could find almost familiar. A look that causes his stomach to lurch, butterflies fluttering up to his throat where he swallows them down with an irritated gulp.  And Ten is forced to return to the game (as much as he can) as you sit, perched upon your swiveling throne as you offer him a seemingly distracted apology, one intertwined with underlying teasing tones. A phrase he exchanges with silence, for the fear that he’d accidentally blurt out exactly how he’s imagining you. 

You toss down a royal flush. Ten slides a straight against the table. 

Wait… what?

As previously mentioned, it’s not often that the genius detective Ten Lee finds himself awestruck and more importantly, wrong. It’s even more seldom that he finds himself in this situation twice. By the same woman nonetheless. 

The detective scrambles to regain his wits in an instant, snapped back to reality by the jangle of the clips being slid in your direction. You won. Something that Ten didn’t exactly expect despite his inattentiveness. Specifically because last time he checked, he was the one holding the royal flush-- not you. But it seems his entire deck was swapped with nothing more than a skilled trick of the hand during an all too distracting act. Or magic. Something that he would rather believe than the fact that he got played by a conniving con artist sitting no more than three feet to his left. One staring him down with cat-like eyes, a pile of chips which could fill a bag, and his own lighter sitting atop your winnings. Spoils of war. A trophy. 

Your words are nothing short of an invitation. 

“Better luck next time, Detective,”

taglist. @yangasm @misted-dream @wooluvsworld @evilsailorsenshi @yeosangsbiceps @222brainrot @scinclaitnoir thank you for supporting roll the dice ♡

@ previous @ home @ next

🧾 © 00127am 2024

#⏱ wake up! it's 00127am! #🃁 roll the dice #nct #nct fanfic #nct imagines #nct scenarios #nct x reader #nct u #wayv x reader #wayv #nct wayv #wayv imagines #wayv scenarios #ten lee #ten wayv #ten x reader #ten lee x reader #ten imagines #ten chittaphon #ten fluff #chittaphon leechaiyapornkul #enemies to lovers #ten fanfic #ten nct #ten lee fanfic

[tatterings]

OC's as obscure references

I got tagged by @elveskissing to share more about my spicy warlock boi Rylmyr Torett so here goes.

ANIMAL: Ermines/stoats.

COLORS: Red and gold.

MONTH: April

SONGS: I mean, he has a whole playlist…. Link here

NUMBER: 19. (heehee it's the number of people upon whom he aims to get revenge)

PLANTS: Venus fly trap, Sarracenia pitcher plants. Aka both carnivorous plants

SMELLS: Incense, Amber, Sandalwood

GEMSTONE: Garnet

TIME OF DAY: Sunset/dusk

SEASON: The few weeks as winter melts into spring, specifically. But spring in general.

PLACES: The velveteen-upholstered armchair at his former brothel that was flooded by sunlight in the early mornings. Campfires around which his friends (altho he won't admit they're friends) have gathered. The underdark (specifically not Menzoberranzan though).

FOOD: Anything savory and extravagant for appearance; but honestly he fucking loves the comfort of soups/stews.

DRINKS: Black coffee, green tea. Water? never heard of it.

ELEMENT: Fire, specifically from the hells.

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: Gemini.

SEASONINGS: Chili flakes, cumin, cilantro.

SKY: At sunset, when the clouds look like cotton candy.

WEATHER: Enjoyable; sun on his back, but a breeze that keeps it from being miserably scorching.

MAGICAL POWER: All of them; he's a warlock, after all.

WEAPONS: Walk softly and carry a big stick. (Quarterstaff)

SOCIAL MEDIA: If it existed around his time he'd be a makeup/fashion influencer, no question.

MAKEUP PRODUCT: Smoky eyeliner, false eyelashes, nail polish, lipstick.

CANDY: Anything sour.

METHOD OF LONG DISTANCE TRAVEL: Portals when feasible, carriage if not, horseback if he must (though he'd begrudgingly accept a piggyback ride and LOVE IT), walking but he'll bitch the whole time.

ART STYLE: Art nouveau

FEAR: Being powerless/helpless.

MYTHOLOGICAL CREATURE: Phoenix

PIECE OF STATIONARY: leather-bound notebook

THREE EMOJIS: ✨🖤💃

CELESTIAL BODY: Mercury

Tagging @bloodlessbhaalbabe and @weatherbane for their OC ooeygooey goodness

#bg3 #tav fanart #tav bg3 #tav #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #my tav

[angelosearch]

Another old poem! Wrote this in 2013 about my childhood dog. She passed later that year and I got a tattoo of her so she'd be on my lap forever.

“She’s not a dog. She’s a Creature.”

My Creature—she is chubby. She is not small. Condensed, concentrated. She is fat—round as a pig as she waddles barely above the ground. Rolling skin swollen by table scraps and sleepy afternoons, but not jiggly. Stout and proud, almost muscle. Almost, her short legs moan. Not quite.

My Creature—she is lazy. Her head is too heavy to carry. It  rests on bags, boxes, baskets, stray feet— anything within distance. Sitting in the sun, she splays her chicken legs improperly. She begs. Attention. Food. Let’s go to bed. Bed! Even when awake, she in some stage of sleep.

My Creature—she is ugly. Two bulging brown orbs set disproportionately in a graying, velveteen face. It’s squished, the nose forced back into the snout, forcing up mountains of ripply wrinkles. Forlorn, her jowls sit in a perpetual pout above a nonexistent neck.

My Creature—she is funny. Barks aren’t barks: muted, stuck-throat, squeakish. They shake her entire body upright, bouncing her spiral tail. Excited, she runs around the house—twice—the floor unforgiving to her nails. Yet, she snores all the while. Chewer of tinsel, frog-chaser, head-tilting comedian.

My Creature—she is mine. Put a blanket over the warm, vibrating lump: she’ll fall asleep. Waking, she’ll snatch hands and pull them to her fawn fur. Her kisses are rare, punctual presents to the sad, the confused, the lonely; she nestles beside them in the dark, if only to steal the pillow.

The tattoo (needs touching up at this point)

#poetry #Pug #Tattoo #Dog #Old writing archive project

[randomingoftherandomness]

Me again! Ehehe

I've been thinking about female!Yuanzhi 🍋🌶

Fam. I love it when we are working on some kind of same wavelength 🥰

Tags: Gong Shangjue x Gong Yuanzhi, Rule 63!Yuanzhi, Cheating, Stepmother Yuanzhi, Stepson Shangjue, Come Play, Creampie, Breeding Kink

🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋🌶️🍋

—

The feel of her skin is velveteen smooth and Shangjue can’t look away from the obedient way her thighs fall open at the slightest nudge of his knee between hers.

There’s no resistance to the way she welcomes him and the thought that he’s staked his claim on her in every single way that counts thrills and delights him.

Yuanzhi is the devil wrapped up in a daydream and Shangjue is her most ardent worshipper.

The tv is put on to that Kardashian show, volume set to a low hum in the background. The living room windows let in only the molasses thick summer heat. They really should move this somewhere with a door and a lock, but Shangjue knows his little whore has probably been aching for something to fill her up since she woke up on her powder pink sheets this morning.

Why else would she not be wearing any panties under the sundress that Shangjue had bought her?

“Be quiet if you don’t want to wake him up.”

Yuanzhi licks her petal soft lips, running a line of spit over his thumb in her mouth, drawing him in as she reaches down to pull the hem of her dress higher, showing off her slender form and soft belly, hitching her hips to bare her naked pussy.

This surprises Shangjue and he can’t say he’s not pleased. “For me?”

Pulling his thumb out of her mouth, he kneels between her thighs, hooking her legs over his shoulders. Pushing back her pussy lips, he takes his time to touch and feel, leaning in without needing any confirmation of consent to taste, mouthing at Yuanzhi’s secret flower, licking, dipping his tongue to taste and trace.

Shangjue licks in deep, chasing the taste of his own seed that he’d fucked into her the night before.

He hasn’t meant to, but in his defence, the condom had broke when he’d been caught up in the dirty talk she’d whispered in his ear about how she can’t wait for him to fuck her raw and breed her good.

Well, that’d happened earlier than anticipated.

She’d passed out cold, twitching on her bed, and Shangjue couldn’t bear to wake her to tell her how the wetness leaking out of her is more than just her own slick.

He’d cleaned her out as best he could then snuck off back to his own bed.

This morning when he’d sat at the dining table, all he’d thought about when he saw his young step-mom bounce in to drop a kiss to his dad’s cheek and a cheery, knowing good morning to him, was how much he wanted to rail her on the tile floors of the kitchen space and pack her full of his cum.

And now they were here.

Dad’s asleep upstairs. Knocked out cold after his eight hour red eye, shuffled along by the sleeping pill he snuck along the cocktail of vitamins his dad takes.

And here he was, fucking Yuanzhi raw, swallowing every weak sound of protest with his lips. Reaching down the front of the dress, he frees her breast, squeezing and thumbing at her nipple. She pulses around his dick. He feels his mind fuzz out at the way she digs her blood red nails into his scalp, dragging him in.

There’s no lie in the way she bounces back against each and every single one of his brutal thrusts. Pussy gripping him tight, Shangjue thinks he does a little death at the way she squirts, making a mess between them while she makes little punched out moans as he screws her into the plush family sofa. Right where his dad likes to sit.

“Shangjue…” She slurs, drool slick lips parting on a sigh. Her eyes roll to the back of her head when he pushes in deep the way she likes it. “Shangjue ah…!”

God, she’s perfect.

He has taken her in the backseat of his car, fucking her out by the playground two streets over. She has damn near sucked his brains out through his dick in the changing rooms by the beach. He has blown her back out in the mall toilets. Yuanzhi has even let him finger her in the cinema during a trip to the city where they’d spent a weekend pretending that they’re a normal couple in love.

“Shangjue, I’m close…”

She’s barely older than himself. A pretty virginal thing his dad had picked up from the secretarial pool. The same young thing that had obediently held herself open and let Shangjue fuck her in her wedding dress mere minutes before she was to walk down the aisle to his dad, then again in the honeymoon suite while his dad was blind out drunk from the wedding wine.

He had promised himself that it was only a momentarily lapse of judgment.

That had last for as long as it took for him to fuck her in the airport toilet before they left on their honeymoon.

Shangjue kisses her, humping her heat as she rides out her climax. Chasing his own high, he tangles their tongues together, licking in until he runs up against the backs of her teeth.

Her weak sobs are like the sweetest sounds and Shangjue comes to the sight of the tears in her eyes.

He pulls out of her and winces when he spies the thick drool of come that oozes out of her pulsing hole.

“Sorry…” He mumbles. Startled when Yuanzhi merely giggles.

Shangjue is only a bit dumbfounded when she tugs him down to sit and throws her leg over his hips, straddling him. With another kiss, she reaches back, throwing her head back when she rocks her pussy over his half hard length, making a bigger mess between their bodies.

“It’s about time I get a baby in me,” She purrs, curling her fingers around Shangjue’s neck. “Are you ready to be a daddy?”

Shangjue feels himself throb against her in response.

#gong shangjue x gong yuanzhi #shangzhi #juezhi #my journey to you fic #gab writes stuff #I mean. at this juncture…

[sinvulkt]

This, You Protect by owlet ( @vmohlere )

The mission resets abruptly, from objective: kill to objective: protect. Completed, 64k words.

*** ** * ** ***

Chapter 4:

No Chair. “Give me that cup.” The fingers tighten. “Velveteen. Give it to me.” Comply. “Arms in front.” Assessment: amateur. Comply. Two zip ties are placed around the wrists. Assessment: idiot.

Chapter 9:

The dumb ass sniper tries to stab the metal arm. "Shit," he says. "Yeah," Barnes says. "I found something," Romanoff says, and disconnects the line. The metal arm connects with the sniper's temple, and the guy drops like a sack of skulls. Calculation: kill? Advantage: one less jerkwad in the world. Disadvantage: any possible intel lost. Not that Barnes has the time to both interrogate and protect Captain Deathwish. But Rogers might like to do the honors. GOOD JOB Hey, thanks. "Where the hell are my sketchbooks?" Rogers says to his empty apartment and his super-excellent eavesdropping protector. It's a bitch and a half getting back down to street level, but Barnes makes it in time and is hiding in the stairwell of the garden apartment across the street when Rogers emerges, a garment bag in hand. "What the -" Rogers frowns at the front stoop, then looks up the block, down the block. Barnes has to cover his grin with the flesh hand to stop from laughing at Steve's hilarious confusion. Steve prods the guy with his foot. He peers up the street and down again. It is so great. He pulls out his phone. "9-1-1 operator, what is your emergency?" "Ma'am, this is Steve Rogers. Yes ma'am, that one. I appear to have an unconscious HYDRA operative on my front stoop. Yes ma'am. Tied up with his own jacket. There is a gun, ma'am, but its barrel is currently at a 90-degree angle. I guess I need ... the FBI? No ma'am, I have no earthly idea." So great.

Chapter 16:

Stabbing civilians is mission-noncompliant. Breaking civilians’ limbs is mission-noncompliant. Screaming at civilians is mission-noncompliant. Frightening civilians is … on the verge of acceptable. Except that no one seems much bothered by his snarl. Six people snarl back. It is. Disconcerting.

Chapter 17:

Query: mission-compliant to nail Rogers’s feet to his apartment floor. DENIED Too bad.

#Summary: #Mission Imperative: CONTACT #Barnes: refuse. #fragments of imagination #ao3 #fic rec #fanfic snippet #fanfiction #fanfic #captain america #marvel #the winter soldier #bucky barnes

[clwngasm]

𝐐 . *  ― [ 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍 ] a quick , stealthy , and impromptu kiss snatched in secret .

@jizzlords

𝐀 . *  ―  𝐇𝐎𝐓 𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇 , 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐔𝐙𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 * !* a splendor lingers even in the backrooms . lascivious in a lavish luxury . bathed in jewelled shades . 𝐻𝒾𝓈 colours , rich purples , reds &&, blues feast on 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 bones !

fingers fidget , he awaits the 𝓈𝒾𝓃 . wrapped among velveteen drapes . 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐬𝐨𝐧 in their wash . his cheeks echo their flush 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 . rosey swathes 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 through pallid skin . painting cheeks posey 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒌 in their heated ink ! their master , the artist , feet away on stage serenading . tones toe curling in their 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓎 . ( he had little choice but to 𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐫 *!* && , he does , like a man starving . the sin on stage a treat , a thing to be 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 * ! * ) he isn't the only one to notice ; a crowd hushed in a lust y lullaby . no cheeks avoid a heat . no eyes avoid a stage . a crooning wraps all up in a silken cocoon they have little choice but to 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 !

tones fade out , a crowd sings in their displeasure , craving 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 . the sin leaves the stage .

limbs quick to close a height difference . the difference which still 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒕𝒔 knees at times . fingers clutch quick , latching to lapels . 𝓃𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓎 nails imbed , biting in to the fabric in little crescent slithers . pulling the sin 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒓 . till 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 , but breaths separate them , in a shadow he can feel the curl of it ; a 𝓈𝑜𝒻𝓉 tickle beneath a nose . 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭 ; frenzied mouths meet . nothing delicate in a greeting . ( it's dirty , f i l t h y && desperate , a 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝑔𝓇𝓎 thing ! ) mouths greedy against each other ; drinking in the other , the taste of a beelzebub special 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 on lips like a thick syrup . 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 ; to draw apart only to crash back together *!* ( something inevitable among collide ! ) fingers climb to a mane . ( 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 && p u l l i n g . ) demanding the sin closer , needing him under his 𝐠𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐬 hands ( he's a 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝑒𝒹 born thing after all * ! * ) to consume as much of 𝑜𝓏𝓏𝒾𝑒 as possible . ( to feed on him bones && all , to skin him with all but a tongue ! )

𝑜𝓏𝓏𝒾𝑒'𝓈 fingers curled at a waist , their grip 𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 ; a set of water-coloured sapphires && violets to be worn through a set the thought flushes him . a heat throbs , thriving between 𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐬 , flushing lower. a fervid thing , which riots through veins !

a tongue treads a seam , pressed between lips . 𝒶 𝓂𝑜𝒶𝓃 , a soft wanton thing hums . as lips part , allowing a tongue to slip inside .

❝ 𝒇𝒊𝒛𝒛𝒂-𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊 ! two minutes to stage time ! ❞ vocal tones a 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 , ( fucking cock blocking 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉 * ! * ) he pulls back , fingers pulling one last time . before combing out the strands he mussed up tenderly .

❛ i'm , - i'm 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 barb ! ❜ ( he isn't , 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 ! maybe later with any 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌 * ! * ) he pants in to the column of a neck , chest heaving with the effort . teeth grazing the soft delicate flesh there . 𝚗 𝚒 𝚙 𝚙 𝚒 𝚗 𝚐 , before 𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 a tongue over , soothing darkened flesh .

eyes drowsy in a 𝒅𝒆𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 . t h i c k , feathered lashes 𝚏𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 ! a voice barely above a 𝓅𝓊𝓇𝓇 ❛ catch you later . 𝒃𝒊𝒈 - 𝒅𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒚 ! ❜

💋 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 * ✖ *

#jizzlords #answered #( asdfghjkl this got long ) #( unholy plays in the background)

[aknightonthetown]

The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson : Part 2 - Religion Part 1

While in the previous part I discussed the basic details of Stevenson’s childhood and what led him to take up writing; this time I wish to discuss his relationship with Religion. In the next Part I will continue discussing how his relationship with Religion changed as he got older. Stevenson’s family were devout Presbytarians (a Calvinist branch of Protestantism) but not overly strict in adhereance to Calvinist principles. His childhood Nurse (Alison Cunningham) was a much more fervently religious follower, her mixture of Calvinism and Folk Beliefs being an early source of nightmares for Stevenson.

As Stevenson aged he began to move further away from his upbringing. While he already wore his hair long, he began wearing a velveteen jacket and rarely attended parties wearing traditional evening dress. When attempting to dodge University Lectures he would visit Pubs and Cheap Brothels (within a strict allowance). He even formed a club called the “Liberty, Justice, Reverence” (LJR) club with one of the core tenents of it’s Constitution being “ Disregard everything our parents have taught us”. In 1873 Stevenson’s father (Who I realised I failed to name in the last Part, Thomas Stevenson) discovered his membership in this club and asked Stevenson questions about his beliefs. Stevenson bluntly told his father that he was an Atheist, and had abandoned the families religious views. In a letter to Charles Baxter he discusses this, talking about how it devastated his parents and "I think I could almost find it in my heart to retract, but it is too late; and again, am I to live my whole life as one falsehood?” (It is believed by some that this fear of having to live his life as a lie is part of what inspired his fascination with Dualities that appears throughout his work). I will quote the end to his letter to Charles Baxter as the end of this part as I believe it sums up his view at this time and also is just a genuinely devastating read (to me at least). “They don’t see either that my game is not the light-hearted scoffer; that I am not (as they call me) a careless infidel. I believe as much as they do, only generally in the inverse ratio: I am, I think, as honest as they can be in what I hold. I have not come hastily to my views. I reserve (as I told them) many points until I acquire fuller information, and do not think I am thus justly to be called ‘horrible atheist’ […].

Now, what is to take place? What a curse I am to my parents! […] O Lord, what a pleasant thing it is to have just damned the happiness of (probably) the only two people who care a damn about you in the world. […]

What is my life to be at this rate? What, you rascal? Answer – I have a pistol at your throat. If all that I hold true and most desire to spread is to be such death, and a worse than death, in the eyes of my father and mother, what the devil am I to do? 

Here is a good heavy cross with a vengeance, and all rough with rusty nails that tear your fingers, only it is not I that have to carry it alone; I hold the light end, but the heavy burden falls on these two. […] 

Don’t – I don’t know what I was going to say. I am an abject idiot, which, all things considered, is not remarkable. – Ever your affectionate and horrible atheist,

R.L. Stevenson “

#jekyll and hyde weekly #R.L. Stevenson History #Was gonna do ALL of Religion as 1 part but there is a lot to talk about

[hookedonapirate]

Sneak Peek—Lady Cassidy's Lover

This is a sneak peek of the Lady Chatterley's Lover AU I'm working on.

Note: Lady Cassidy's Lover is a working title and may change. Despite Emma's last name and marriage to him, this is not a swanfire fic and is ant-Neal.

Sneak peek is rated M for detailed nudity.

Every day, Emma goes through the motions, brutally aware that among all the nothingness is this empty treadmill of what Neal refers to as the integrated life—the extended period of two individuals cohabiting the same home. 

That is how he defined their marriage! 

And he wonders why she had fallen ill. The stark realization that her husband is merely a shell of the man she once knew—or maybe he never truly was who she thought he was—the realization that he will never show her the love and affection she so badly craves is enough to make any wife sick to her stomach.

Mrs. Bolton had prescribed rest and fresh air, and now that Emma doesn’t have to take care of Neal every second of the day, it feels as though a huge weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She feels a sense of freedom she hasn’t felt in a long while. And now she is using that freedom to go for a walk by herself. Not that Neal could go, even if he wanted to.

It had rained, the grass blades glistening with droplets, and the paths are too sodden for his wheelchair, but now that he has a caregiver to tend to him, he has no reason to keep Emma cooped up inside all the time. So she goes out alone when she can, walking or riding her bicycle, visiting the creek and reading her books on a tree stump.

Today, however, Neal wants her to stop by the gamekeeper's cottage to see when the baby pheasants will hatch.

Butterflies form in her stomach in anticipation of seeing him again. 

As she emerges from the forest on the north side and sees the keeper’s cottage in the distance, it appears to be uninhabited from afar. But as she makes her way toward it, smoke is rising from the chimney and she can spot a well-kept garden of flowers in front of the house.

The backyard is enclosed by a low stone wall, but before she reaches the gate, she spots the gamekeeper undressing, unaware of her presence just beyond the wall. 

Her breath catches, and she stands frozen, her feed seeming to be nailed to the ground. 

The keeper's velveteen breeches slip down his legs, and once he pulls them off, this beautiful man is standing there naked, his perfectly round butt on full display. Emma is finally able to move her feet enough to dart behind a tree so he won’t catch her staring at him, and she peaks around the tree trunk, her heartbeat spiking in her chest as she watches him.

He turns to fill a bucket with water, his flaccid penis swaying softly as he drags a wet rag over his face. He scrubs the cloth over his broad, muscular shoulders and arms, through his chest hair and down his hard stomach where a dark, thin trail leads her eyes below his waist. 

She grabs onto a twig to keep herself steady as he scrubs at his manhood and the dark curls there. She bites her bottom lip, her heart pounding, cheeks hot. Tossing the rag into the bucket, he uses his hands to lather his heavenly body with soap, making sure not to miss any inch of skin. Not that she blames him.

She had no idea what a god he was underneath all those fabrics.

When she’d last seen him, he was fully dressed, wearing trousers and a jacket, not allowing her to see much skin, but now it’s all there in front of her.

There’s usually nothing out of the ordinary about a man washing himself. She had witnessed Neal clean himself several times after she helped him into the bath, so why did the vision before her make her weak in the knees? Why do her hands itch to replace his own, itch to feel every inch of rough skin and the hard muscle underneath.

It's improper to watch him like this. Very improper. She is a married woman and he is her husband's servant, for heaven's sake! But it's been a while since seeing a naked man has made her feel flustered, and she can't seem to peel her eyes away. Honestly, she's not sure she has ever felt this flustered over seeing a naked man.

He lifts his leg onto a low stool and runs his hands over his thick, muscular legs and firm butt before switching to the other leg and repeating the process. Her breathing picks up sharply, her center swarming with heat as he wraps his soapy fingers around his shaft, stroking his hand up and down, his cock sliding through his fist.

The twig snaps when she grips it a little too tightly, and realizing he had heard the sound, she throws herself completely behind the tree before he looks her way. When she dares to sneak another peek, she's relieved to see she has not been caught. He continues where he’d left off, lathering his balls and caressing them softly, making sure they are thoroughly cleaned.

She has to turn around briefly, lest her legs decide to give out on her, breathing coming quick and shallow. A few moments later, he is rinsing off and wrapping a towel around his waist.

She waits while he goes inside and gets dressed (and while she regains her bearings so she won’t be so flustered) before she goes over and knocks on the door of his cottage to...

What exactly was she sent here for?

#cs sneak peek #captain swan #lady chatterley au #cs ff

[elisaenglish]

An Hour After Cardinal of Sin

Plumed in disarray, blood smears the vestibule where lips conspire to love. A haunted processional had its bride unbedded under velveteen and opaque stars. But she, of queens and auguries, presents her own poetic march—free of earthly satellites, faithful as those flares demand, the consummation of herself in fires conjured crimson.

She kisses as that tinder spark, your wild, forgotten hues enraptured. Ceremony claims the past; she is your eternal moment—and she’s murdered every devil, nailed them to the riven path, scorched as of your scars, alight this temple by candescent arch, fleshed by those she has for you entombed.

#writing #love #desire #rebellion #meaning #all eternal things #love in a time of... #a murmur of fire #passion play #stripped and bare #feel you on the inside #heart of darkness #oh my goddess #the myth of her #this is how it goes #probably should've been a poem #elisa english #elisaenglish

[caligoascendant]

Been musing about the nature of your handle. How it evokes the language of astrology, and then defies it. Rather than a pattern of cold lights defining someone's fate from birth, you are the darkness that silences its prophecies.

Yet even so, you carry in your darkness a light of your own, a warmer light. A person can benefit from different lights in different ways, can they not? I think of a glowing green angler's lure, the shine of a precious pearl, the searing, invigorating heat of a phoenix's heart.

And you- every light in Theatrum, every spark, even the moons above, dances to the tune of your sunlit shadow- even if they do not know it yet.

What a beautiful sight you are. How easily you rose to prominence in my heart, how seldom you set below the horizon of my thoughts.

As Radiant as I may be, darling, your own eversplendid observations help me to shine the more.

Though a beacon I may be, to ward off the darkness of prophecy and despair, I truly am nothing when there is not someone to behold me in earnest.

In earnest you are, always a delight! How honored I am to be your muse! Your light in the darkness, to drive you to new heights and new lands!

As for the contradictory nature of my handle, well...you certainly nailed it well! How can I not spin a clever little message into something as meaningful as a name?

I'll say it's one of the few times I, unassisted, was able to truly and properly bequeath a fitting name. Though...I wonder what levels that say to me since it is something that relates to my own identity!

My nickname as Caligo, though, comes from that handle and it was a very sweet thing to be given to me. After all, introducing myself as Fatescar tends to weave conversation and first impressions a certain way far more than the presence of a velveteen pitch man covered with golden runes and wearing naught but a flowing tattered cape.

#IC #Online #ask #scolopendragonfish

[csmeaner]

Anybody have an image of the supoosedly trashy ass new Cham pride adopts I've been hearing about? Chams blocked me from their group years ago because I made a furry chameleon adopt and they interpreted it as an offbrand -__-

here they are and they're just about as bad as you'd expect

probably the best one and that's a stretch because it's a fucking floatie but at least it has the cham stuff to resemble one. the next ones won't be so easy on the eyes

i don't know what made this designer think to draw a fucking sea lion, slap literal paint on it with yassification nails, and call it not only a cham but a pride adopt. it's just a fucking sea lion

enjoy your fucking velveteen rabbit, loser. or winner i guess because at least you won some trade fodder from this shitshow

why are these just mammals with pride colors slapped on

finally. a cham. a pretty ugly one with over saturated colors that strain your eyes to look at but at least it looks like a cham albeit bottom of the barrel. the hearts feel egregious and especially last minute pandering. the green and blue were actually a nice mix but candychameleon of course had to bump up the saturation and ruin it because the bitch can't see

nvm turns out it was on a base with the same 20 second paint job of hearts and beginner level design sense. the paws annoy me the most because they're striped and it's just very tacky. the colors were also a soft, pleasing pastel that candy shat on. and then two primary colors of blue and yellow to really steal the color focus from the pink and make it hard on the eyes.

literally a sandwich with a gay flag stuck in it. ah yes. the gays™. i heard they also enjoy sandwiches. which seems to be mostly bread, a few wisps of green stuff, rectangles of yellow, and red buttons. not even a good sandwich. fuck you

no

almost comforting to go back to the usual of an adopt that uses only the flag colors, which were made for a flag, and try to stretch them onto a whole body. looks like some purple gargoyle over the demisexual flag so instead of being a shitty pride adopt it just looks like a shitty cham adopt. swirl in the tail tacked on because they clearly forgot what they were trying to make chicken leg looking motherfucker

gay holo-robo. strategically designed to pander to the two biggest interests in chams: gays and robots. from the fact the lineart's still black, to no shading at all, to the goddamn rainbow nails they had to add extra green and blues in it's such a thoughtlessly lazy idea

fuck there's more than 10

#design shitting #chimereons