Stockholm Syndrome | Harry

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Harry spends almost three hours on the Briana painting. It's dark, and powerful. I'm so fascinated by the way he slaps colors onto a canvas and turns it into something beautiful.

I think I could watch him paint forever. I want to count all of the lines in his hands. His hands that make masterpieces. I want to look into his mind and see his ideas. I want to see everything he wants to create.

And I maybe, possibly like the view I get of Harry's backside while he's standing at the easel.

The sounds of the brush against the canvas, the paint being squirted from tubes, and Harry's feet shuffling back and forth are all I hear whilst he's painting.

When he looks to the left I can see his profile, dots of paints scattered around his face. There's a particularly large glob dried onto one of his curls.

I blush at the thought of washing his hair, running my fingers and green apple shampoo through his wild hair. Silly.

It takes Harry a while to come out of his painting trance. He's covered in black and white and red and looks tired. It's been three or four hours and he hasn't stopped once. Even I feel tired, and I've been sitting the whole time.

He steps back and examines the painting proudly, smiling to himself. I almost want to kiss the corners of his lips.

I jump when he finally speaks, the first time in hours. "What do you think?" He asks.

It's incredible. Dark, and deep, and so full of emotion I'd cry if I looked too long. Looked at all the detail.

"It's nice." I say, simply.

He smiles brilliantly anyways, clearly happy with my answer. "Thank you."

I nod, looking down and fingering at the puzzle pieces still scattered around the table.

He walks over to me, making my heart beat faster. "Sorry that took so long. Bet you're hungry."

He places a hand affectionately on my head, rubbing gently. I shrug. I don't really feel hungry. Just tired.

He frowns, "You're not hungry?"

I shake my head.

He looks annoyed at my lack of words. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." I whisper. I want to fold in to myself and disappear. Harry makes me feel so strange. I've never felt so scared and fascinated with someone.

When I think of him taking me away, think of him calling me "baby" and putting me in a diaper, I feel disgusted. But when I see him painting, calm and quiet and peaceful, I feel it too. I feel as if I'm in the trance with him. Floating. Not thinking, just doing. Beautiful and colorful and happy.

The thought of his makes my stomach swirl, and I don't know if it's from disgust or attraction.

I squeak when he suddenly picks me up, pulling me from my thoughts. I decide to just leave them there, on that chair. I'll deal with them later.

I turn my brain off and relax into Harry's arms.

After we ate together in silence, Harry pulled me into his lap on the couch and turned on some children's movie. I actually found my self getting absorbed into the story, and when I looked up at Harry, he was asleep.

I guess painting for so long is exhausting, and even I was tired with my belly full and warm.

His mouth was parted slightly, head hanging forward. His arms were still tight around my waist, even in sleep.