Five Hargreeves Oneshot - Blog Posts

Stain

[Five Hargreeves x Reader]

Summary : You Paint Five.

Warning : None? But feels like there should be. Romanticism?

"I want to paint you."

The words escape past your lips like a shot. Swift and precise.

You have been sitting in his room for the past two hours. The two of you are next to the window, on the floor, reading. Or trying to anyway, considering you cannot focus on anything apart from him.

Something about the sunlight filtering through the window, casting shades of warm hued colors— mixed in a way you couldn't decipher one from another, made him look like a real life painting.

Your hands itch with the need to capture it. To hold this moment in your hand and spill it on a canvas. The thought loads in your mind, and before you know the trigger is pulled.

And here we are.

Five staring at you, confusion etched across his face. As though he's not quite sure what you said.

"What?"

In any other instance, you would have changed the topic. But now, now that you've expressed your wish, you don't want to back down. If anything, it has your desire intensifying.

"I want to paint you," You repeat, this time soft. A plea.

"Wh—"

"Shhh."

He has questions. He always has questions. Right now, you can't see past your desire to paint him. So, silencing him is the best option.

"Please," a whisper.

He considers you, gear turning behind his eyes, contemplating, weighing the pros and cons. By the end of his thought process, his eyes soften, and he nods.

"Alright."

You smile. Biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. "Could you blink into my room, and bring my supplies?"

He huffs in exasperation. Yet, the curl of his lips has a shadow of fondness to it.

30 mins in and you find yourself losing concentration.

It's not that you don't want to paint him anymore. Not at all.

The certain craving you had has subsided now that paint covers your hands. But not entirely, there's still something beneath the surface, a hidden ache of sorts.

That, and Five cannot seem to sit still.

"Stop moving," You order.

"I'm not," he retorts, as he leans over slightly.

Exhaling in annoyance, you decide to take matters in your own hands.

Shifting closer to him, your free hand closes around his jaw in a soft grip.

It works.

He's stiller than a statue, you muse, continuing with your task. A few moments pass before you notice thinking, I would say he's barely even breathing—

Your gaze snaps towards him.

You realize the gravity of the situation.

Lost in your painting, you shifted close to him. Far too close to him. Like closer than appropriate. Oh, you get the breathing thing now, you are on the same ground.

If you were to lean in just a bit, your nose would brush his.

The paintbrush falls off your hand.

You gulp. Eyes flickering between his.

Then something happens. Something magical, like a spell cast.

In a languid manner, he lifts his hand and covers yours—the one holding his jaw—in a grip similar to yours.

Eyes locking with you, holding captive, he makes your hands slide from the corner of his jaw towards his opposite cheekbone. Smearing the pale flesh in the shade of vermilion.

Your breathing quivers. Heart stuttering.

He lets go of your hand.

And said hand, seemingly on its own accord, trails down in a slow move—from cheekbone to jaw before stopping near his carotid artery. The pulse flutters against the tips of your fingers.

He lets out a shaky exhale. His eyes scan your face. You wonder, if they leave stains of blue in their wake. Imprinting you in a way unseen.

Your gaze peers into his. And you find yourself losing touch with everything, as though the world has gone blurry, and it's raining down upon the two of you.

You are lost. Lost in the sun dipping in the ocean of his eyes. Lost in shades of crimson. Lost in this honey glazed moment. Lost. Lost. Lost.

Blinking through hooded eyes, you watch him lean into your left, cheeks a breath away from touching.

"What are you doing?" you hush. Too afraid to speak louder, lest the noise disturbs the tranquility of stillness.

He presses his cheek against yours ever so slightly, the presence akin to a feather's touch. Yet, you feel the paint, from him to you, it seeps through your skin into your bloodstream and sings.

"Painting you," he whispers, voice strained as though the words escaping without his permission, leaning back—cheek against cheek, tendrils of warm crimson.—he spills the color from his being to yours, "in my color."

The words inject euphoria in your heart. It beats wildly inside the cage of your ribs, wishing for nothing more than to break free and surrender itself to him.

This is what you were craving, you realize. The ache dissolves. His confession. His admission.

With him, you wanted the colors of your essence to merge. Mixing the shades until one couldn't recognize him from you, and you from him.

Perhaps, you didn't want to paint him so much as be painted in him.

..................................................................................

A/N :

This feels so unpolished but I'm so tired that I cannot edit and stuff. So, sorry about that. Maybe I'll edit it later.

Out of context gif because using Five's gif felt wrong.

It's not even something like that or anything yet it feels like it. I went through the motions of, should I post it or not. But considering any review helps me improve my writing, I decided to post. Damn maybe I'll delete it later 😭

Still hope you guys like it.

Thankyou! ❤