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xalygatorx · 7 months

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Unbound | Chapter 20, "Oathbreaker"

Áine Ts'sambra—a wayward half-drow bard with a painful past—has her world upended when she's snatched up by a Nautiloid ship and furnished with a tadpole to the brain. In her journey to remove the infestation before it can turn her and her newfound companions illithid, she not only finds that their solution has more layers to parse through than she can count, but that a particular vampire in her party does as well.

Unbound is an ongoing generally SFW medium-burn romance based in the world of Baldur's Gate 3 between Astarion and a female OC. Any NSFW content will be marked in the Warnings section. Contains angst, fluff, explorations of trauma, spice, graphic fantasy violence, and a guaranteed happy ending.

For anything additional on what to expect (and not expect), check the preface post.

Summary: Áine explains her past connections to Moonrise Towers and Ketheric Thorm to their companions as her anxiety mounts at the prospect of returning. She’s met with pushback from Wyll, which triggers her into anger before she can stop it. Áine meets with Jaheira again privately, explaining her hesitation to face Ketheric again and how she fears that she might sabotage the mission if he somehow recognizes her. Considering making the journey alone to spare her loved ones, Áine finds herself in a conversation with Halsin as he tends to the comatose Flaming Fist. The former Archdruid offers her comfort and perspective.

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!OC

Warnings: Angst; descriptions of feeling triggered and trauma-based anxiety; forced shared flashbacks via the tadpole connection by the illithid tadpoles (it’s an assault on the group but primarily on Áine); fragmented traumatic flashbacks that imply past violence, abuse (physical and verbal), and include grief (Áine); descriptions of pain and blood; suicidal ideation if you squint; lightly proofread

Word Count: 8.3k

Listening to: Funeral Bell - PHILDEL

A/N: The section that includes the forced flashbacks is written in a way that may be, but hopefully isn’t confusing (and if it is, I’m sorry). It’s meant to convey when Áine is fighting the connection and managing to break through while we’re experiencing the vision along with the others. She regains control toward the end of the flashback sequence, which is why the text interruptions go away. (I like to mess with the format in stuff I write, so I'm just back on my bullshit really.)

I was going to wait to post this because it's only been a couple of days since the last post, but I have a horrible headache and I could use the dopamine. That said, the next chapter will take more time since I haven't even started it yet.

Every moment between her confession to Astarion and the next time their companions roused was spent restless and uneasy. At times, even panicked. It was both too familiar and entirely new, this crushing, leaden weight in her chest.

She only noticed her heartbeat had started to pick up again when her beloved vampire stirred beside her from a light reverie he’d only just slipped into. Guilt ate into her stomach when he woke and studied her in the muted light that worked its way through the canvas draped around them. Áine met his eyes, her lashes fluttering as he brought a hand up to smooth her hair from her face and his fingertips left cool, soothing trails against her cheek.

“Sleep, darling,” Astarion murmured encouragement as he leaned in, a breath away from her lips. He brushed his nose against hers and she instinctively leaned in closer, secured in the cradle of his arms.

“I’m sorry I keep waking you,” Áine whispered back, bridging the gap to kiss him gently. “You can rest, love, I’m okay.”

“Not without you,” he grumbled, dropping his head forward and nuzzling into her neck. Áine smirked, carding her fingers through his curls and letting her hands brush the tips of his ears. A soft groan eased from Astarion’s throat, lost amidst her pearly strands. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t know what you mean, little star,” Áine murmured back unconvincingly, kissing his crown as she continued her gentle ministrations through his locks.

Instead of arguing with her, he chuckled. “I do rather like that, you know,” he mumbled and she could swear she heard a bloodless blush in his tone.

Áine smiled. “The endearment or me playing with your hair?”

“Both,” Astarion admitted, a content sigh fanning across her neck. “Would you like to know what else I like, darling girl?”

“What else?” she asked.

“When you endeavor to rest those lovely eyes,” he said as he leaned his head away from the curve of her neck to peer down at her again, bending his elbow up to prop his head on his hand. “Instead of trying to lull me back into meditation so I stop fretting over you.”

The bard gave him a small frown. “I can’t sleep. There’s no reason we should both suffer for that.”

“I’m not suffering to stay up with you, Áine,” Astarion sighed. Despite his frustration, he couldn’t help but admire the little doe-eyed look she got just from hearing him say her name. “What can I do?”

“You can let me lull you back to reverie so you stop fretting over me,” Áine teased him.

“Darling, I truly don’t know how I’m supposed to do that,” he pointed out, getting a little annoyed. “You hardly touched your dinner and you aren’t—”

“Can you blame me?” Áine asked point blank. “After what I’ve told you, wouldn’t it be stranger if I slept peacefully and made merry without a care?”

Astarion’s lips thinned. “You seemed to be doing fine earlier, all things considered,” he mused, wondering if he was just not as talented at reading her as he’d thought. Then again, he hadn’t known quite what to look for earlier before he’d known what these lands meant to her. He’d had little more than her upset heartrate to read during their talk with Jaheira.

“Fighting out there came back like second nature. I didn’t have time to overthink it,” Áine said. “And this inn, these people… They’re new to me. It hadn’t sunk in yet, I guess.”

“And now?” Astarion asked.

“Now…,” she murmured, her gaze flickering down from his to consider his question before she met his eyes again. “...I’m scared.”

“You?” Astarion mused, a doubtful crease forming between his brows. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

“I don’t know that fear and bravery are mutually exclusive,” Áine said. “At least they never have been for me. Astarion, I’m… I’m terrified.”

“Of?” he urged.

Áine’s throat worked as her features pinched in a feeling he knew immediately and intimately—shame. He frowned when her eyes left his again, favoring his collarbones so she didn’t have to see whatever she was afraid to see in his stare. The vampire sighed and adjusted their blanket more snugly around her, scooping her closer until he had her nestled against his chest. Only when he felt her relax a little did he urge her again. “Talk to me, dearest.”

“You have enough on your heart without me adding to it,” she mumbled against his chest.

“What heart?” he teased her, earning a disapproving grumble from the woman he held. “How many times have you suggested I do the same—that I talk to you—while assuring me that my baggage imposes nothing on you?”

He still didn’t quite believe her when she said that. His trauma followed him like one of the wraiths they’d fought. More nefarious than an ordinary shadow, wailing and clawing at any spark it could snuff out. Someday she would realize he wasn’t worth it, but she seemed to not have discovered that just yet. He’d enjoy it while it lasted.

“A few,” Áine relinquished in a muffled tone.

“Then afford me the same,” Astarion instructed, resting his chin atop her head.

Her warm sigh sank into his skin as she let her arm that wasn’t angled beneath her rest across his waist. “It’s not the same thing, not really,” Áine said, “but this, to me, feels like being back at Cazador’s front steps would to you.”

Astarion couldn’t help the way his body stiffened at her words, but he gently shushed her when she started to apologize for bringing it up. “No, it’s… That certainly puts it into perspective,” he said. Something in him flared just at hearing his sire’s name on her voice, at knowing how frightened she must be if that were the case. He was mulling over the logistics of just keeping her bundled up in here with him for an eternity when she spoke again.

“Do you think they’ll hate me?”

His brow bunched and his eyes flickered down toward the top of her head, but he didn’t pull back to look at her. “Who?”

“Our friends,” she replied. Her voice was small but steadier than before and completely serious. He couldn’t fathom it.

“Why would they hate you?” Astarion asked.

Áine exhaled a breath she’d been holding and it felt like her words started spilling out with it. “Because I’m not the bard they thought they met,” she said, her quiet voice cracking. “I’m not who they signed up to follow into this mess. I’m not ‘good,’ I’m not a hero, and I’ve done…terrible things.”

“You’re also a liar.” Áine tensed at his words, but the patterns he was tracing along her back didn’t cease. “You’re lying to yourself right now, for example.”

“Astarion, I’m—”

“Serious?” he finished for her, rolling to his back and pulling her with him. She lay atop him and he cupped her face in his hands. “I know you are. It baffles me.”

“What baffles you?” Áine asked.

“How you could possibly think anyone would hate you, my love,” he murmured, smoothing the pad of his thumb over her lower lip. “Have you met our friends? Everyone has something categorically wrong with them. If anything, it makes me feel a little better about tricking you into being with me to know you have a few skeletons of your own.”

She scoffed. “You didn’t trick me.”

“Keep thinking that, darling,” he purred, pulling her down to kiss her forehead, then her nose and her cheeks. He spoke in jest, but wasn’t that what he did? Wasn’t that why this little slice of peace he’d been afforded wouldn’t last?

“I don’t know how you don’t hate me,” Áine admitted.

Astarion snorted. He couldn’t help it. It was all he could do to not throw his head back and laugh in her beautiful face. “I’m sorry, my sweet,” he snickered when he met her eyes. She was embarrassed and exasperated that he didn’t seem to be taking her seriously again. How could he take her seriously though? It was the most absurd statement he’d ever been obligated to respond to. It was the very statement he should be presenting to her, but was too selfish to point out the obvious lest she see the light and go.

When she tried to shift off him and escape his teasing, he hemmed her in with the frame of his legs, tightening them on either side of her hips. Astarion gave her a scolding look and nodded. “Well, go on. Why should I hate you?” he prodded.

He could see that he’d disarmed her. Áine hesitated, worrying her lower lip. “Well, I… I gave you the wrong impression, too.”

“What impression is that?” he asked.

“That the version of me you met is all there was,” Áine supposed, her brow pinched with the effort to put her anxieties into words, to make them sound remotely rational. Her wide amber eyes bore into his as she said, “I meant it when I said I’d done awful things, Astarion. I… What if I’m no better than…”

“Than?”

“Than the people who hurt you?”

As soon as the words were out, he felt the shudder run through her frame like her body was an extension of his. Astarion sighed and tucked her against him, rubbing her back as he felt her tears dampen his shirt. “On your worst day,” he murmured, “you couldn’t come close.”

“You don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t want to be that person again. And she feels so close here.”

“Shh, shh,” he hushed her soothingly again, content to hold her while she cried. Gods, she’d managed to soften his heart in their time together. It overwhelmed him to realize it at times. It was ever less terrifying, but unnerving all the same. When she quieted some, Astarion murmured against her hair, “Neither of us had a true choice in the end. But especially not you. You must know that.”

“Sometimes I do,” she murmured, sniffling. “But sometimes it feels like I could’ve done so much more than I did to get away.”

“You can’t punish yourself forever, darling, even if that’s true,” Astarion sighed. “I would be curled against the floor of my tent every night if I clung to every awful thing I’ve done, every mistake I’ve made, every time weakness won over.”

“It’s different for you,” Áine said, her voice kind as one of her hands came up to trace along his jaw. “You had no choice at all. You were compelled.”

“And you were a child, Áine,” Astarion said in a hard voice not meant for her, but for the world that hurt her. That hurt them both. “Children aren’t meant to know what’s ‘best’ or ‘good,’ that’s what parents are meant to teach. You’re casting judgment knowing what you know now and not considering all you didn’t know at the time.”

Áine pondered his words. “Is that how you think of yourself, too? Even if it’s different?”

“Yes,” Astarion said. “Granted, I don’t have the moral compass you do to misguide me, but anything I actually feel sorry for in that time falls into the same line. I did what I had to do to survive and so did you. They’re not our sins.”

Cautiously, Áine snaked her arms around him again, almost as if afraid he’d disappear. He could relate to that feeling, that need, that fear. He tightened his arms to try to help extinguish it. Astarion felt her breath on his neck when her lips parted, but she thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, burying her face against his shoulder instead.

Finally, when she did speak, she said only, “Thank you.”

Astarion didn’t hate her. He forgave too much when it came to her, in her opinion, but she supposed she was the same with him. She adored him. How could she fault him for anything he’d done before just to endure the hell he’d suffered? She supposed she should just be grateful that he looked upon her with that same forgiveness.

Áine guessed that the others wouldn’t be so understanding. She was soon to find out.

She and Astarion had stayed up when she still hadn’t found sleep, quietly talking until they heard their companions stir. That leaden feeling had returned to her gut the moment she heard them rouse and her lover had distracted her momentarily with kisses when he felt her heart start to hammer.

“And you’re wrong, by the way. You are the bard we met. This is who you’ve chosen to be, not what you were made to be. Weren’t you the one who told me something like that, darling? Afford yourself your own advice.”

The corner of her mouth quirked a little as she ran his words through her tired mind a few more times. She stared into the dancing campfire flames for a few moments more, listening to the hum of conversation around her, before she forced herself to speak. “I have something I need to clear up,” Áine said.

The crosstalk quieted and she felt eyes on her. That had been the goal, but now that they were there, she felt every burning stare. Any gusto she’d drummed up wilted like the flora outside the moon shield. It was already starting. The end of what she’d built. All because of what she’d been born into, what she’d existed within and endured for her first 45 years of life. Because of all she’d done before she’d known things could be different.

No going back now.

Áine cleared her suddenly dry throat. “Ketheric Thorm,” she said, the words poison in her mouth. “I know him.”

The silence stretched for what felt like an age. Finally, Karlach broke it. “What do you mean you ‘know’ him?” she asked.

The bard shifted through her discomfort at Karlach’s wary tone. She scraped through the nausea in her gut to find her voice again. “I was born into the covenant he keeps, that he uses,” she explained, already finding it more difficult to explain the truth of her past to all of them than it had been to explain it to Astarion down by the lake. She wasn’t surprised, but she was finding it quite tough to even get the words past her lips. “I was oathbound. Just like the rest of my family. And now I’m not. But I’m telling you this because I’m still concerned. There’s a very real chance that he may recognize me if we come face-to-face with him at Moonrise. Or at least put two and two together. Half-drow aren’t exactly common as far as I know.”

“So you were a paladin then?” Gale asked, seeming more like he was just trying to get his facts straight than that he was doubting her. She still occasionally caught him tiptoeing around her, careful not to fall into her poor favor a second time, but she didn’t think that was why he was being careful now. This just felt like Gale being Gale. When she nodded, Gale asked further, “And now you’re oathbroken? Is that where your power came from in the Underdark? That you used to defeat the spectator?”

Áine nodded again. “That’s right,” she said, appreciating the understanding look in his eyes, holding to it like a lifeline. “That’s also why we’ve had a knight hanging around camp. He’s…well, he’s sort of the authority over broken oaths. Mine reinvigorated when I used its power and brought him back to me.”

“You know that makes a lot of sense,” Gale mused, chuckling. “I’m embarrassed to not have put that together.”

“How long ago were you oathbound?” Halsin asked, his features twisted with concern.

“I left ten years ago,” she said, “and before that…well, I served for about 20 years in all.” Gale’s straightforward curiosity had reminded her that not all questions equated doubt. Of course they would have questions. That rationale helped her more quickly recognize the source of Halsin’s concern and she added, “Long after you would have fought him if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Praise Sylvanus for that,” he sighed emphatically, looking aggrieved. Relief lanced through Áine that she was correct. “Even if you’d been on the opposing side, I feel nothing but relief to know you weren’t somewhere on that battlefield.”

Áine smiled, her gaze shifting when a small, kind-looking Flaming Fist approached Halsin, asking if he’d come with her. Áine supposed it had something to do with the unconscious fellow in the inn when he excused himself to follow her. He couldn’t be too concerned or suspicious of her if he was content to leave their circle now, Áine figured.

“So the fear of being recognized is paramount?” Shadowheart asked, looking only somewhat concerned as Áine met her eyes.

Áine nodded. “I’m going to speak to Jaheira as well, I think, about that,” she said. “I’m afraid of sabotaging our infiltration if he knows my face. I want to say that it’s unlikely as I would have only been in front of him for my initiation in a group of other new blood, but there exists the possibility. It’s also possible that someone I’m related to or that I trained with could be there, too.”

“And how likely is that do you think?” Shadowheart asked.

“Given what we were used for, unlikely,” Áine speculated. “If operations are the same, he has his own separate guard for Moonrise. Or maybe he’s using cultists for that now, too.”

“There’s always a disguise spell,” Gale suggested. “Although I would be shocked if there weren’t wards around Moonrise to unravel such enchantments. Maybe if we—”

“And you are truly oathbroken?” Wyll asked, interrupting Gale’s ramble. Áine missed the edge to his voice but Astarion, lingering nearby and listening, caught onto it and bristled.

“I am,” Áine said simply and without a sliver of doubt.

“You did well to separate yourself from such an evil,” Lae’zel commended her, unbothered by Áine’s past and far more concerned with their next move. Áine cast her an appreciative look.

Wyll’s tone was not missed by the bard a second time. “I find it…hard to believe if I’m honest.”

The remaining party stilled, curious glances cast sideways at Wyll. Shaken by the sudden statement and confused by his meaning, Áine dumbly asked, “...What?”

“Hear me out,” he requested. With a gesture toward the horns protruding from his skull, Wyll said, “As we’ve all gathered by this point, I am also pacted. It’s a different situation, it’s true, but the base of it is the same. And I know how constrictive these agreements are. How hard it is to escape it, let alone find oneself again.” He rose from his seat, his hands resting against his hips as he looked down at Áine. Even if he didn’t mean to cow her, he was succeeding in her current headspace. “And I’m just not so sure that it could be possible to do that under this supposedly invincible undead entity that is General Thorm.”

“On what grounds?” Áine asked, a dangerous waver in her tone as she also stood, hurt by Wyll’s claims and unwilling to sit while he loomed over her.

“It would have a horrific cost,” Wyll said with absolute certainty, not noticing how much he’d triggered her with his words. He gestured first at himself again and then at her. “A cost that, frankly, unlike me, you don’t appear to bear.”

Áine barked a cold, humorless laugh. “Not all of us get off as easy as a set of horns, Wyll,” she snapped, something unhinging within her. She tried to keep it hemmed in, horrified when the reciprocating spark of hurt and anger she saw flare in his good eye felt almost gratifying. “You… You would really doubt me? After everything we’ve been through?”

“Now, we’ve no need to fight amongst ourselves,” Gale imposed cautiously. His eyes darted between Wyll and Áine but also fleetingly to Astarion, who looked more prepared to intercept by the second.

Ignoring him and the tension in their circle, Wyll pushed further. “It’s not you, I doubt, Áine. Not really. But you’re not exactly doing much in the way of convincing me otherwise, are you,” he said, his question not a question at all. “Though I hate to say it, it’s more suspicious that you—”

He was plucked from his tirade and his train of thought as a sensation akin to a hard tap thudded within his head. The disturbance sent a ripple through all their tadpoles. The only one who didn’t look confused was Áine, who instead looked shaken to her core. Wyll took in her expression and began to ask, “What’s wr—”

He couldn’t get the words out before it happened again. The next intrusion was shattering. Wyll rocked back on his heels, his hand going to his head as he steadied himself. The shockwave of the vision that bled open in his mind’s eye reached the rest of the group with lesser force. For an instant, they feared the takeover of the Absolute or an onset of ceremorphosis. However, the sights that filled their minds were somehow even less familiar.

At least, they were at first.

The feelings came first. Unfathomable grief. Barely contained rage. Survivor’s guilt in its most basic form, sometimes an echo and sometimes a squall. Abject terror. Shame. A horrible, ever-present emptiness. All of it washed along the branches of their intertwined minds, traceable from what could’ve only been Áine’s memories, her heart, spilling over.

The bard clutched her head, her nails digging painfully into her scalp as if she could claw inside and dissuade the parasite behind her eye from its onslaught. The feelings, the memories, the panic had hit her like that gnoll back on the Risen Road, knocking the air clean out of her lungs until all she could do was scrape her breath back inside and try to keep her footing. She’d not anticipated this, hadn’t given a single thought to the damn worm, and her tadpole wriggled as if it knew, thrumming with the energy of her mind’s attack, and it had latched onto the others before she could conceive of how to stop it.

All she could do was drag back anything within her reach and augment the pieces that would hurt her most, the ones she would rarely let herself see clearly, much less the ones surrounding her, their parasites feasting on her memories as they bubbled to the surface unbidden.

Suddenly, no one present was themselves. No one save for Áine, who in that moment would have been anyone else. Behind her, as she struggled to stay standing and not sink to her knees, Astarion’s sight, too, was blanketed by memories not his and swept into this shared vision he shouldn’t have been privy to and yet couldn’t resist. Dully, he could feel Áine’s will flex against the tadpoles’, but her attempts to stop the illithid violation of her mind held all the power of a fish flopping against dry land, drowning in air.

It wasn’t Astarion alone who wanted to help her, who wanted this to stop, but none of them could move, could resist. Instead, they bore witness while their unwilling performer swallowed her screams.

Stonework underfoot studied by a bowed head. The tip of your worn boot is where your eyes focus because to raise the head is to look upon the oathsworn and it’s simply not done. You’re a worm beneath his feet and you will acknowledge the ground from which you’ve come while you swear your oath on your knees.

Your voice—her voice, younger and strained—aligns with the other initiates’ intonations in the memory. You are numb. In this war, there has never been golden propaganda or the promise of glory for a bit of your blood. This is expectation incarnate. You were born to do this, only this, to serve and die for your general. There was never a moment of ‘giving up’ because you were never provided an alternative to flee to. You’ve no notion of freedom to relinquish.

“I swear fealty to the undying general and those who faithfully follow, my life for the Thorm bloodline, my bloodline for his.

“I will uphold the laws beset by my oathsworn master. I will be a bastion to he who would see unjust gods fall to ruin. I will suffer no charlatans, none who may interfere or prevent our cause. None who would rise against his final word.

“No one will stand in the way of my fulfillment of my oathsworn’s will, be they beast, monster, or noble. I take responsibility for ensuring the return of Ketheric Thorm and his bloodline to its previous glory.

“My life for the Thorm bloodline, my bloodline for his. I will bear the brunt of any chaos that this task creates. He speaks, I obey.”

The scene changes. The years blur as they wind back and fly forward in this vision. It’s the vision’s manifestation of Áine fighting her tadpole and theirs as well for control and losing. Áine’s nose started to bleed and they could all feel the warm runny trail, could smell the sickly sweet copper when it hit the cupid’s bow of her lips. Despite no sound passing her lips in the physical plane, they can all hear her scream in their minds when her tadpole burrows deeper, sinks its teeth, and twists.

Battles rage wherever you go. Big and small. Ceaseless. Between your allies scraping for respect or with your ordained enemies fighting for their lives. Selûnites. Sharrans. Any who have wronged the general are at your disposal. You are at his disposal. Your life is forfeit if you refuse. You have grown up under the unnegotiable teachings that to break your oath is to die, slow and horribly and in dishonor. No gods will claim you. You will be a far-flung soul to be plucked from painful purgatory by hungry, greedy devils bound for Avernus. You will suffer. Better to live and suffer and have some semblance of control over your agony.

The doubt begins to sink in much sooner than the resolve to flee. Oathbound, the underbelly of your family’s dealings is no longer hidden from you if it ever was at all. It’s not as if you ever had a choice in your “decision” to swear fealty. It becomes clearer as you age why you were born, half-elf cannon fodder for a selfish cause that traces back to one man who refuses to stay buried. Who refuses to let his family rest. Who rallies against every deity that refuses his twisted, blasphemous demands and purges their acolytes in retaliation.

Something shifts when you turn 45. The specifics are clawed back, leaving notable gaps, but you’ve been in service for 20 years and something finally snaps. You must leave. There’s no other option. You know that you will die trying—your oath will kill you when it breaks if your family or even Thorm himself doesn’t kill you first. But you must.

You can hear your breaths loudly in your ears in the quiet of the field you run through. The scenery is blurred but you can see the skyline of Baldur’s Gate in your periphery. The sky is milky with dawn. It’s a far cry from the cursed lands you just left behind. You might just make it past the outskirts before your oath’s bonds begin to be tested. You’re doubtful you’ll make it much further, but it ultimately doesn’t matter.

You hear the arrow before you see it, but it takes that long to realize what it is. There’s someone with you for just a second, but the bearer of the memories uses her depleting strength to rip them away. The arrow sinks into the ground where they would have been running. You keep running, hoping it’s a staggering shot and no more, but you know the truth. It was meant for you and it missed—it wasn’t meant for you, it never missed—and you keep running. The pounding of your heels is a lone staccato now. It always was.

You feel your oath begin to shudder. It feels as though your ribcage is being hinged apart. You slow, hearing a shout, hearing threats. You’re not worried about yourself. There’s not much point now anyway. It’s over. You feel yourself give up like you’re a visitor in your own body.

You turn to look back. It’s a mistake. The figure of a hulking drow male stands at a distance, another smaller male that could be one of his brothers near him. The larger of the pair holds the bow, another arrow already knocked into place. It’s aimed at you. He calls you back like a wayward animal.

Your eyes fall to the ground near him. A human woman sits in the grass, something nothing slung in her arms no no no no no no no

You steel yourself to return if it means he won’t hurt her. She looks so unbearably small. Heavy streams of tears fall down her face and splash onto what she’s holding. You refuse to study it because, if you don’t acknowledge it, it won’t be true there’s nothing there, STOP STARING AT IT!

She looks up at you. You anticipate blame. It’s your fault that he’s dead gods he’s dead she’s going to die too why can’t you save her you tried to run, knowing what would happen. And you still went.

Her lips part on a scream. It’s a scream that haunts every nightmare you have. That haunted you when your broken oath reached out to you through the Weave when you were practicing magic with Gale. Sometimes it comes to you while awake, sudden and sharp and senseless and spurred by nothing.

“ÁINE, RUN!”

You don’t turn away before the archer commands the other drow to slam his sword through her back. But the instant you see it, the instant you hear it, you run. Faster than you ever have. It’s a miracle you can even move, that you have the clarity to follow her instruction. Your pace is breakneck and would result in injury if you misstep even once. You don’t care. You’d rather die than be placed back in formation now. There’s no going back. You have nothing to return to. Death is preferable. You’d realize it always has been if you were ever honest with yourself, but you’ve been too scared, always too scared. You had something to lose back then. The fear dissipates with your worldly attachments, the only ones that have ever mattered.

The first arrow finds its home in your shoulder. The second hits closer to your heart and almost sends you to your knees. You do double over, but your legs don’t lose the pace you’ve set. Your built momentum keeps them loping forward until you regain enough of your focus to start surging them forward on your own again.

Your shoulder is broken, there’s no doubt. The muscles are shredded around the carved flint heads. They’ve skewered through your flesh and are protruding out your front. You clutch your useless, injured arm and keep it drawn against your side so it doesn’t slow you down. Adrenaline postpones some of the pain, but not all of it. You feel like you’re burning alive.

You have the frame of mind to duck down and change position and it’s only because of that that the third arrow misses. You fell into old battle maneuvers without thinking, perhaps triggered by your injury, and you’re surprised it works against the drow hunting you. The arrow impales the ground where you would have been otherwise. That one may have been the one to kill you.

Instead, you think your oath might do that.

You buckle your knees and skid down a slope that descends into a curve that goes past the treeline. You curl into the dirt as you fall, briars scraping the back of your neck and your scalp as you disappear beneath them. You’ll hide there until you’re sure they no longer pursue you. Or you’ll be found and dragged back. Your shoulder screams when you fall on it and you almost bite through your tongue to remain silent. You’ve stomached worse pain before but not many times, not like this.

Your oathbreaking is a different pain. It’s a wretched, angry thing that held heavy in your chest for the past two decades and now comes undone like a lightburned wraith. It rages in your bones, ravaging your insides and making your mind feel as if it’s melting from your ears. Distantly, you hear the male drows’ voices bark more threats and then a quieter exchange. They’re fading. They’ve lost you in the thicket or they assume you’ll die there, wherever you’ve ended up. If you survive your injuries and your oath, perhaps you’ll survive it all. But for what purpose now?

You shimmy out from under the bracken an indeterminable amount of time later, your teeth grinding as you can’t help but snag the arrows on the roots, against the soil. You ache to get them out of where they’ve torn you asunder, but logic and years of training remind you that you need to wait until you can staunch the blood flow. Right now, the arrows are all that keep you from bleeding out and you need to appreciate that they’re of use to you for the time being, no matter how much they hurt.

The twisting agony still rages in your chest and you stagger to your knees when it finally reaches its peak. Just as swiftly as it riled and ruptured in your chest, it dissolves like splintering ice. Not just broken, not quite, but almost melting. Collecting. Reforming into something new.

“You have broken your oath, paladin.”

The gravelly voice startles you. Your first thought is the drow, but you’ve never heard a voice like this before. Your eyes lift by an increment to find blackened pewter boots decadently laced with gold patina and travel upward into the incandescent stare of something far beyond your understanding. It’s a knight, you think. But it’s unlike any knight you’ve ever seen.

He inclines his head to you, fire blazing within metal. “We have much to discuss.”

The vision shattered as Áine finally wrenched herself from the connection, breaking its center with her hard-fought departure. Freed as well, her companions each in turn shook their heads as if the vision could be cleared more quickly that way. Eyes instinctively wandered back to the half-drow near the fire who was staring into nothing as silent trickling streams of tears and blood grew stale on her face.

The first to push through their daze and act was Wyll. “Gods, Áine, are you—”

“Leave me alone,” the bard whimpered hollowly, blood under her nails as she finally withdrew them from her hair and quickly stumbled to separate herself from them.

When she hurried past where Astarion stood, rooted to the spot, he instinctively reached out to catch her in his arm. She dodged around him without a second’s hesitation, her gait quickening as she disappeared past the inn.

“Leave her be, she’lak,” Lae’zel hissed to Wyll when he tried again to call Áine back. The pain she’d felt through Áine’s memories still lingered like a specter in her chest and repeatedly triggered a vicious “fight” instinct that she was trying to stamp back into submission. “She will return when she is ready.”

“Lae’zel is right,” Shadowheart decreed despite looking desperate to follow the bard, herself. Her eyes shone with grief-born pain, an interesting expression for a true Sharran to wear. “Did you… Did any of us cause that?”

“No,” Wyll said with complete certainty, heads shaking to echo the same sentiment around him. “I don’t even think she did it. It almost felt like she was fighting it the entire time.”

“Then the tadpoles just…did it on their own?” Karlach asked, her brows creasing at their middle.

“So much for having a ‘guardian’,” Gale remarked. It held the air of a quip, but genuine suspicion sharpened his tone into something that bordered an accusation.

Their aforementioned guardian remained uncharacteristically silent.

The icy water off the shore of Last Light was all that pulled Áine back inside herself. She’d undergone a lot in her life, most of it physical, but that had been a new level of the Hells she’d experienced. She felt turned inside out and violated, like she’d had hands all over her and inside her, too, pulling out whatever they could the moment they’d smelt blood.

Áine let herself sink just enough below the lapping tides’ surface to unleash the scream she’d felt building in her for the better part of an hour now. It ricocheted in her ears, muffled, and expelled where no one else could hear or be perturbed. For the briefest moment, she considered not resurfacing. Even so, she’d hardly finished that dark thought before she was swimming back up.

Her head broke the surface and she cupped the water to clean her face, idly wedging the dried blood and skin from her scalp from under her nails as she walked back up the shore. She’d just reached up to wring the water from her hair when she spotted just the person she’d earlier intended to speak to.

“Jaheira?” Áine called, getting the High Harper’s attention. “Do you have a moment?”

Jaheira regarded her with curiosity as she approached, taking in her soaked appearance but also the look in the younger woman’s eyes and the defensive hunch of her shoulders. “You should ask instead if I have a towel,” she quipped before raising her hand. With a small flourish, the moisture left Áine’s clothes, leaving them perfectly dry and her hair just a little damp. Áine murmured her thanks and Jaheira inclined her head. “I assume though that wasn’t what you needed?”

“Not exactly,” Áine said, winding her wet locks into a haphazard bun at her nape.

“Then I have more than a moment. Some even say I have a few moments,” Jaheira said with an edge of humor, nodding for Áine to walk with her. They made their way inside the inn, found stools at the nearly vacant bar, and sat down. The building was filled with the hum of several conversations punctuated by the strum of Alfira’s lute. “What’s on your mind?”

Áine did her best to summarize everything she’d just told the others, from the covenant sworn under Ketheric to her former station in it and then to her concerns about how it would affect their infiltration of Moonrise Towers. Jaheira remained silent throughout, nodding occasionally to indicate that she understood what Áine was saying and she was listening as intently as she seemed to be. Jaheira had known about the covenant, but she had not known that it was part of—but not all of—what fed into his life force.

“Surely it must be more than the covenant,” Jaheira suggested as Áine paused to take a drink of the water she’d been served by one of the tiefling children playing bartender for kicks and the occasional coin. “Your bloodline is many but their binding would not create the power that I saw at the gate.”

“It wouldn’t,” Áine agreed. “There were whispers of some sort of relic that he kept. That it was the primary source of his immortality, maybe the healing you saw too. But we were never privy to what it was or where it was. That was always handled far away from any of our dealings.”

“I see,” Jaheira said, her mind already flying through possibilities. Coming up short, she turned her attention back to Áine and her predicament. “Well, you are right to be concerned,” Jaheira reasoned. Áine felt palpable relief that she was hearing her and hadn’t jumped to any conclusions. If anything, it made their newly established alliance feel less tenuous after their talk the day before. “However, it may not be such a bad thing.”

“No?” Áine inquired, encouraging her to continue.

“You have that parasite in your head, after all,” Jaheira said. “By all accounts, you should be under the Absolute’s control. Perhaps his ego would be his undoing. Picture—in the instance he does recognize you, he rests on his laurels thinking that someone who disobeyed him, who broke the oath they took to his cause, has been dragged back by a worm. It may disarm him even further than we anticipated.”

Áine had to admit that she hadn’t thought of it like that, but she was right. It was certainly a possibility. Jaheira smirked. “Tread carefully, of course, but I will be most interested to hear how he reacts,” the druid said. “Or better yet, what he accidentally gives away.”

“I understand,” Áine said, absently nodding as she pondered Jaheira’s points. She gave a more certain nod when she went to stand back up. “Thank you, Jaheira.”

“Thank you,” Jaheira said, inclining her head to Áine before taking their half-pint bartender up on his second-time-offered tankard of mead.

Áine retreated from the bar, not quite ready to return to camp but needing to come to terms with what her next steps would be. Jaheira was right—it almost behooved them if Ketheric recognized her, if he was smug over his regained control over one of his oathbroken. Perhaps his only oathbroken. She wasn’t sure if anyone else had done the same before or after her. But it did make their arrival to Moonrise that much more dangerous as well.

In truth, she remained terrified. Of being back where her darkest memories originated, in Ketheric’s shadow, and also for the safety of her newly chosen family. Then again, maybe the unexpected way her parasite had regurgitated her trauma into their brains would have dissuaded them from carrying on with her. The thought was irrational, but it did pick firmly at her brain from the moment of its inception. Áine’s eyes wandered into the side room as she passed it en route to the entrance of the inn, wondering if Halsin was there. The lure of a friendly face who hadn’t just seen some lightly edited replays of her worst memories unfold was more than enough to alter her path.

He was indeed still there, seated by the unconscious man from the Shadowfell and leaning in close as if to hear something the man was speaking in his sleep. Áine wandered into the room and to Halsin’s side.

“How is he?” she asked as she drew near, not wanting to startle the druid.

“He simply won’t wake,” Halsin sighed. “It’s a miracle from the Oak Father Himself that he’s even alive. That he’s coherent.” He looked up at Áine, but only slightly—seated, he was nearly eye-level with her. “There must be a way to wake him. He dreams of Thaniel, the very spirit and heart of this land. He may know what’s happened to him if we can find a way to rouse him.”

“Do you have any leads?” Áine asked, glancing between Halsin and the lingering Fist who’d come to fetch him from their circle earlier.

“Only what was on his person when we found him wandering the wilds,” the Fist said, “which wasn’t very much, I’m afraid.” The man began mumbling again and his barely discernable words almost sounded like a poem. Áine’s brows creased at the middle with pity.

“Would you mind if I looked through it?” Áine asked. The Fist presented her with a tattered rucksack and a couple of bits and pieces she had to assume were in his pockets. As she parsed through it all, she found a faded missive that she had to study hard to make out. She saw a name—Art McCullough—and something else. “...Where is the ‘House of Healing’ relative to here?”

The Fist pulled out her map and carefully spread it out on the end of the bed. Áine passed the missive to Halsin for him to read while the Fist showed her where they were and then where the House of Healing was. Áine committed the route she showed her to memory. She’d add it to her own map once she retrieved it with her rucksack before she set out.

Halsin’s hope looked rejuvenated by her findings and Áine felt apprehensive of this turning out to be a dead end. It was the only lead she could find, but she hated the idea of disappointing him.

“It’s on the path to Moonrise, so there’s no reason not to take a look one of the times we’re en route,” she said, scratching the back of her neck as she retrieved the missive from his outstretched hand and pocketed it.

“Thank you, my friend,” Halsin emphasized. “You have the whole of my gratitude and my aid if you should need it. You and our companions, both, but that goes without saying.”

Áine’s lips pursed and her eyes found the floorboards when they began to burn at the corners. How could she possibly have more tears left? “I… Well, I might be going to Moonrise alone,” she said. “Regardless, I will try to find something to bring back if I can nail down where these orders took him.”

A deep fissure formed between Halsin’s scarred brows and Áine nearly lost her composure when his first instinct was to take her hand and pat it. His huge palms engulfed hers and she, not for the first time, was awed at what a feeling of safety he emitted without even trying. “Why would you need to do that?” he asked. The Fist stepped away to give them some privacy as Áine’s eyes threatened to spill over. She couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Áine finally sighed, some of the moisture falling from her eyes and, to her embarrassment, hitting the back of Halsin’s hand. “I… I got into a bit of a row with Wyll over what I told you all earlier and something happened with the tadpoles. I don’t think I did it and, if I did, I didn’t mean to, but…,” she mumbled, sniffling against her free hand, which had come up to shield her shame. “It was never to be a safe venture to find the source of these things, I know that, but this… These circumstances make it even less so and I can’t have that on my head.”

Halsin listened patiently, absently patting her hand and measuring her grief. “It was likely a lot to handle, and more is soon to be handled. But handle it, we will,” he reassured her. “That is what friends do.”

“I made them see my memories, Halsin,” Áine insisted, his sympathy painful to her guilty heart. “It wasn’t me at first, it was the parasites, but they were still my memories, and toward the end, when I regained control… I didn’t stop it.”

“You must have needed to show someone then,” Halsin reasoned, offering her a kind smile when she finally found it in herself to meet his eyes. He was right in a way. She’d wanted them to feel her oath break since they were already there in her timeline. She’d wanted them to understand. “Which is nothing short of understandable, given that you’re being made to face it all again. By the worms and by being here. We both have tremendous agony attached to these lands, you and I. This time, neither of us need face it alone.”

Áine was at war with herself. She knew in her heart that she wouldn’t want Halsin to face any of this alone. She’d just agreed to help him try to heal the nature here, after all, by helping Art. Yet she couldn’t find it in herself to afford herself the same generosity. And she certainly couldn’t put her friends and her partner at the heart of something she already knew with horrible intimacy to be a sanctuary for pure evil. Just the prospect of it made her eyes well again and she parted her lips to argue only to have her voice crack on a stifled sob before she could get a word out.

Halsin squeezed her hand, holding her trembling fingers in a much surer grip. “Do not make an outcast of yourself, Áine. You’re in pain and you’re clutching your wounds. The instinct is to run away, but you mustn’t. Trust me,” he told her gently. His words brought back her recently revisited memory of actually running and clutching her broken shoulder. The phantom pain between her scars flared almost in answer. Her gut twisted. It twisted further when she finally accepted that he was right. “You needn’t hide from those who would help you heal.”

Áine sniffled softly and swallowed hard. “Would you come with us?” she asked in a quiet voice, his offered comfort a needed tether in her vulnerability. If they even stay, a dark voice reminded her, that inner voice harsh against the ache in her chest. And why should they?

Halsin smiled and shook his head. “I’m needed here. Just for now,” he told her. His eyes shifted briefly over her head before they returned to her flushed, tear-streaked face. “But you have me. That didn’t end with the Grove. It won’t end here either. You will be alright.”

“Don’t worry, Halsin,” came Shadowheart’s voice from behind Áine, startling her. “We’ll take care of her.”

“You’re godsdamn right,” Karlach agreed, appearing in Áine’s line of sight as she stopped near Halsin’s chair. She was almost embarrassed to be caught in such a teary state in front of the rough-and-tumble tiefling warrior, but the embarrassment was short-lived as Karlach gave her the most affectionate “Mama K” smile she’d yet seen.

Áine swallowed against the lingering lump in her throat as a familiar pair of cool, strong arms slipped around her shoulders. Astarion kissed her blotchy cheek as he drew her back against his chest.

“I’d like to see you try to leave me behind,” he whispered like a challenge near her ear.

Next chapter: Chapter 21, "Her Nightmare Revisited"

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hypersomnia-insomniac · 11 months

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"How can you hope to defeat someone who is fighting to escape the claws of death, if you yourself don’t place yourself upon the precipice?"

Characters: suggested x Mikey; ft. Draken and Mitsuya

Reader: GN

can fight and also has a dark impulse

this is honestly a bit more like an oc type POV tbh

I was feeling evil

CW: cursing, mention of guns and blood, reader psychologically bullies someone

Synopsis/Preface: At a gang fight, someone shoots Mikey in the leg. Reader strikes fear into everyone as they crush the enemy.

Toman has been dealing with the enemy guild for a while.

Think Tenjiku event, but hit and run for months.

Enemy is someone who Mikey had crushed because they did something unforgiveable and Reader made sure everyone knew what they did.

Doesn't take place in a particular timeline, but probably during highschool.

The gunshot rang loudly through the air. Mikey crumpled to the floor gripping his leg, blood dripping down his thigh. The man holding the gun laughed maniacally, “How does that feel, “Invincible Mikey?” I’ll make you feel all the pain you’ve put me through.” He aimed the gun once more, preparing to shoot once again.

You ran out in front of him as the bullet left the chamber. Pain shot through your shoulder as warm blood poured out of the wound.

Pushing the pain and fear of being shot into the back of your mind, you stand up slowly. You stare at the blood staining your hand as you hear your name being called out. “Fuck! The fuck is wrong with you?! Get out of the way!” the man yelled, motioning for you to move with his gun. The sound of your footsteps echo as you calmly walk towards the man. “Screw it! I’m already going to jail anyways! If you’re so suicidal, go ahead and die asshole!” He fires again, clipping the side of your arm. You stumble a bit, wincing in pain, but you don't let him see it. Continuing your approach, he warns you again, but he hesitates. All he does is grip the handle of the gun. He shakes more and more as you get closer and closer.

“Go ahead,” you say as you press your forehead against the barrel of the gun. “Shoot me. Kill me.” The man stumbles backwards slightly, but you keep pressing. You grip your chest, a manic smile forming on your lips. “Come on,” you say, raising your voice. “Mikey isn’t the only one who ruined your life! I’ve done just as much damage as him. Mikey is right behind me, completely unable to fight back, and yet I stand in your way.” You grip his wrist, forcibly steadying the barrel of the gun to point at your head. “So come on!” you yell. “You're so close! Just kill me! Finish the job!” He takes another step back, but you keep pressing him. Heat builds in your chest as you allow your own impulses take over, hoping to tip him over the edge. “Show me your resolve! Show me how far you’re willing to go! Show me the extent of your hatred! Pull the trigger! Don’t you wanna watch my brains spill out on the concrete?! Watch my eyes roll into the back of my head as my life slips from my veins?! COME ON! DO IT!”

His legs go out from under him, leaving you standing as you hold the gun from its barrel. “You… You’re crazy,” he mutters, “No. You’re fucking insane!!” He cries out, tears spilling out from the corners of his eyes.

Your eyebrows twinge a bit before you burst out laughing. Holding the gun properly in your bloodied hand, you look at him wildly. “Yeah, I sure am. You should’ve figured it out when I started walking towards you. Now then,” you say, crouching down to his eye level. “I already won. So, what are we to do with you?” The gun hangs loosely in your hand as you tap the barrel against your head absentmindedly. “Ah! I got it!” you exclaim. Squeezing the handle of the gun firmly in your hand, you place the crosshair dead in the center of his forehead. “Why don’t I just kill you right here?”

Your frenzied expression causes the man to cry out, “P-Please! Please don’t! I’ll- I’ll do anything. Anything, just please spare me!” Your own friends also call out for you to calm down, but you ignore the pleas.

“Hmmmmm, I don’t know,” you say in a sing-songy voice, scrunching your face. “I mean… You came after me with the intent to kill me. That’s not exactly a nice thing to do. And, not to mention,” your smile drops into an ominous frown, “I’m not one to leave murderous loose ends like you running around, either.”

Tears pour out of his eyes as he clasps his hands together. “I’m sorry, I’m- I'm so so so sorry,” he sobs. His wails ring out throughout the crisp air, but you don’t move. All you do is bask in his delicious terror.

A soft smile spreads across your lips. The soreness echoing throughout your body reminds you of your limited consciousness. Time to wrap this up. “I believe in placing one's own life on the line when attacking others with the intent to kill. How can you hope to defeat someone who is fighting to escape the claws of death, if you yourself don’t place yourself upon the precipice?” A confused haze settles on his eyes. “However, I also believe in second chances.”

“Se-Second chances? Yo-You’re letting me go?” he mutters.

“That’s right!” you say with a joyful inflection, lowering the gun. “Well, not quite. I’m letting you live. There is a difference. I’m not going to forgive your actions. This- this is,” you let out a drained laugh, “This is the most exhausted I’ve been in a long while. I’ve been trying to corner you for months, and in the end, you were still one agonizing step ahead of me. This whole mess is a result of me not being able to catch you. I ruse to make another mistake, so let me make this painfully clear for you,” you hissed, “If you ever join another gang, if you ever come after Toman again, if I get the faintest whiff that you’re snooping around again, the next bullet that exits this gun will be burrowed in your skull. Got that, bubs?" He nods his head fervently, sweat and tears dripping from his face. Now, take your friends and get the fuck out of my sight!”

Your enemies scuttle away, clenching their wounds and carrying their comrades. You yourself return to your friends. Draken is crouched by Mikey’s side, putting pressure on the wound, just like you taught him how. Mikey looks up at you, his own darkness swirling in response to yours. “Y/n… Good job,” he says, smiling softly at you.

“Thanks,” you say, smiling sweetly back. Draken furrows his eyebrows at both you and Mikey, glancing between the both of you. The look isn’t out of concern for your injuries, but rather uneasiness about what kind of catastrophes could spawn if both of your darknesses intertwined. “Don’t worry, Draken. I wasn’t actually gonna kill him,” you say, pointing the barrel at your head. “I just wanted to scare him into never trying something again.”

“Oi, Y/n. Stop it,” Mitsuya says as he approaches you, “Stop messing around with that thing. It's dangerous-” CLICK. You pull the trigger. Mitsuya grabs you as you collapse to the ground. “Y/n! Y/n! What the fuck!”

“Gotcha∼,” you laugh. “Safety's on.” You yelp in pain as Mitsuya drops you to the ground.

“Fucking hell, Y/n!” everyone yells. A chorus of “The fuck is wrong with you?!” sounds.

Laying completely spread out on the cool concrete, you continue laughing, “Oh come on. You really think I’d completely bet on scaring him into giving up? I’m crazy, not stupid. I flicked the safety on when I grabbed his hand during my epic monologue.”

Mitsuya sighs. “What- Wait a damn minute. You walked up to and pressed a loaded gun against your head for what, like 30 seconds??? Y/n I've always known you were a little fucked in the head, but holy hell. You- you’re fucking insane,” he says, exasperated.

“Uhhhh, yea? Didn’t you just hear me? You should get your hearing checked. I already said I was insane," you smugly reply. Cracked smiles formed on your friends’ faces as they laugh in disbelief, the tension of the day finally hitting their nerves. “In all seriousness though,” you start, “Mikey and I are on the verge of bleeding out. I'm probably gonna pass out from blood loss soon and my head hasn’t stopped ringing since I got hit with a metal bar earlier. So, uhhhhhh… That ambulance coming anytime soon?”

“Start with that next time, Y/n!” your friends yell. Mitsuya scoops you into his arms as he begins sprinting towards the street. “Swear to god, Y/n! I'm going to kill you someday!”

Giggling, you reply, "I look forward to it Taka-chan!"

Draken helps Mikey up, supporting the injured blond as much as he can. “Ken-chin, hold up,” Mikey says. He limps towards the gun Y/n dropped and picks it up, their blood still dripping off it. “Ken-chin…”

“No fucking way, Mikey. We should turn that thing in to the police,” Draken says, seeing the look in Mikey’s eyes.

Mikey turns the gun in his hand. It’s heavy, but it seems to fit perfectly in his hand. Almost as if he was made to hold it. Mikey limps back over to Draken. “Don’t worry, Ken-chin! I’m just picking it up so no one can come back for it. I’ll hand it over when we get into the ambulance,” he says as he puts the gun in his pocket. “I’m sure Y/n wouldn’t want me to leave it here.”

#tokyo revengers #tokrev #tokyo rev x reader #tokyo rev x you #mikey sano #x oc #gn reader #feeling evil #tokyo rev x oc

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greetingfromthedead · 6 months

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C41: Truth Unfurled

For more information on the series (tags, CW, etc) click the banner!

Series Rating: 18+ / Explicit

Chapter: 41/84

Words: 1.9k

Warning: This chapter is about a suicide attempt (at least closest thing to it for an immortal being)! You'll find a chapter summary in the end.

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"Cause I want to shoot my brains out, Vash." The words slip over your lips as the madness tangles into your thoughts. You are tired, the voices are driving you to insanity, you don't feel like yourself, you haven't for a while; and you just need to clear your head. It feels like a physical itch that you can't rip out with your nails alone. It needs forceful stimulation, at least that's what you're convinced of.

Your hand pulls out from his grip to reach between your bodies to take the gun, you've been feeling it press into your thigh for the whole evening. You don't think too much, head consumed with the voices and your twisted desire, but Vash is fast and grabs hold of your hand.

"No! What are you saying?!" His voice is raised and full of panic before grabbing your other hand too.

"Let go!" You yell back and try to pull your arms free. His grip tightens, and you end up tackling him instead.

"Stop this!" he cries out as his back hits the sandy ground. "Don't do this! Talk to me!"

As you sit up on top of him, you use the extra leverage to rip your arms out of his grip, your raw strength surprising him again, and you bend to grab the weapon. You can almost taste freedom, silence from the voices, peace, and quiet, just for a little bit. That's all you want—to be able to think, to reason, and to love the man currently pinned under you.

The fight you put up makes Vash realize that he needs to step up to keep up. One of his arms smacks away your hands, giving him the extra second to grab his gun himself and throw it over his shoulder.

"No!" Your body lunges forward, trying to reach for the firearm, but his arms wrap themselves around your waist and pull you against him. As you land over his body, his face is pressed into your chest. Your arms push against his shoulders and the ground. "Let me go!"

You thrash against his grip, trying to force yourself loose. One hand tries to reach for the weapon, but it's too far. This is torture—the restraint over your body, the pain in your head. You're back in the lab, tied to the table with nowhere to run, no way out, just pain as you are ripped apart.

"No! Let me go! Set me free!" The raspy shriek escapes your throat, you're no longer fighting Vash, but your past.

"Iris! Calm down! Wake up!" Vash calls out to you as you use all your strength to struggle against him. He can barely hold on to you as you kick against his legs, your fingers digging into his shoulder.

He knows this is not you, your heart and mind aren't currently with him, it's the sickly part that has been driven to its limits. You keep screaming wordlessly, your hand still reaching out, but it seems less like towards the gun specifically and more like you are looking for someone to pull you out of your misery.

Vash uses his legs to get some momentum and rolls both of you over. He holds you to the ground with his body weight, but your arms try to push him off you or at least struggle out from under him. His hands grab yours tightly, and he pulls up to sit on top of you.

"Iris! Look at me!" He shouts out as your eyes are not focusing on anything in particular while your whole body is trying to throw him off. He pins your arms to the ground as he looms over you.

"Let go!" you hoarsely scream, wiggling in the sand. "Set me free! Save me!"

Your words sting him, you are asking to be rescued from your torment. For the first time you speak up like this, you beg for release. He doesn't know what to do, how to save you.

"Iris! Wake up! You're here with me!" His voice isn't as loud anymore, but it continues to be insistent, trying to reach you.

Your eyes meet his, and the fear and mania in them is momentarily replaced with recognition, but it doesn't last long as your head rolls back to look over the sand towards the gun. He feels your hand trying to move towards it, but there's a lot less force behind it.

"Just... shoot me..." Your voice has gone quiet, just a breath carrying the words, "Set me free."

"I won't do that!" his hands still holding onto your wrists. "I could never do that!"

"Please!" he sees tears collecting in your eyes, pooling in the far corners. "I won't die anyway... Just grant me a moment of silence!"

"Love..." His voice trails off, the struggle in your body is gone, it's just sorrow and tears in your eyes. All of your fight has left.

"I give up..." Your eyes trace back to his, and his heart is shattering. "I can't do this anymore! It's not fair!"

Vash gets off you without letting go of your arms, he uses them to gently pull you up and into his embrace. He holds you, one hand on your head, the other wrapped around your body. His breathing is just as heavy as yours after this struggle, and he hears little whimpers escape your lungs occasionally.

"How can I help you? I can't stand seeing you suffer! There has to be something..." He hugs you tighter and feels your hands gripping his shirt.

"Let me have it... Let me blow out the cobwebs from my head... Maybe it will grant me just a bit more time..." Your voice is choppy and quiet. "Or return me... Be free of me... Help me to go away... You deserve better, I'll just be a burden... one that doesn't go away... I don't want to make you sad... You've been so sad."

He hears you start to cry, and he puts his cheek against your head, his hand grabbing his coat from next to him and putting it over you before returning to your back and rubbing circles on it.

"I refuse..." He knows what you're asking him—the same thing you asked him when he first met you. "There has to be another way."

"I am so grateful to you, you made me so happy... I prayed I had more time... These few months haven't been enough... Not nearly enough time to know you..."

"Few months?" The words shock Vash and make him look at you again. "How long do you think it has been?"

"What do you mean?" Your voice is careful, with a note of confusion, "We left Calamity J like what? Two months ago? And before that... just a few more months... I wish I had a lifetime with you... or at the very least a few happy years..."

"It's been 8 months since Calamity J... It's been nearly a year since I found you." He sounds neutral, like the information has been simply too much.

He feels you stiffen in his arms, you don't even seem to be breathing. You stay like that for a moment before pushing a gap between your bodies to look up at his face. Your expression is a mix of horror, disbelief, and sadness.

"This is impossible. Tell me it's not true..." Your mouth stays open as your eyes look for confirmation that he wasn't serious.

"Love... Do you really only feel like a few months have passed?" Vash forces his voice to be calm.

"I..." you pause, looking off and thinking back, "I only remember enough to fill a couple months... A lot has melted together, the days spent in the desert have disappeared..."

"You mentioned it has happened before... the voices."

"It has never gotten this bad." Your heart is beating heavy in your chest, and the fear in your soul has cleared your head enough. The voices are pushed into a far corner. "They started decades after the Fall and they slowly got worse to the point I couldn't think straight, they tired me out, and I did feel close to losing my mind. That's why I wanted to end my existence, to slide into the silent unknown... I didn't know what would come of me. They started almost immediately again as soon as you woke me, compressing the process that took many years last time into one night, but it wasn't as bad. I think somehow you suppressed the worst of it. I think you did that for a long time. What would have driven me crazy before, you made bearable. But there are limits even to that."

His hand moves from your hair to your cheek, gently cupping it, the fingers stroking over your skin, wiping away the tears.

"I don't understand completely what they are—the voices. They feel like a river trying to push through a dam, the force behind them growing stronger with time. I wish I could just remember—remember everything, maybe then... maybe they would stop tormenting me. But there's a blockade, something is keeping it back."

"That's why you seem to be so distant... Maybe that's why the voices were quiet for a short period... Your brain is trying to protect itself by simply shutting off." Vash looks at you with sorrow. "Oh, Iris, I would do anything for you to get better."

"Except for what I ask..." There's a hint of amusement in your eyes.

"Yes, except for those things..." Vash stays serious, "Cause they wouldn't help you get better. Just potentially temporary fixes, but not nearly enough. Love, I..."

He bites his tongue. He wants to tell you that he wants to spend eternity with you, however long he is given on this planet, he wants to spend it all with you. Years, decades, centuries, or millennia, he wants you by his side. Your brilliant smile and loving eyes are brighter than any sun for him. Your banter and wordplay could fill his every day with joy. But he can't say that, he can't admit that, because while it is all true, he knows full well that he will bring you pain and suffering.

"Love, I want to see your fire again," he changes up his sentence. "The life in your eyes, I want you to be well, present, and ready to take on whatever this world throws at you. I know you have so much to give, so much to experience. Don't give up quite yet, please, hold on a while longer."

It hurts to hear him pleading with you like this over your life and well being. You realize he puts a lot more value on you than you yourself do. With that, the two of you are the same. You would never want to see him hurt while he is ready to jump in at any moment to save someone else at the expense of himself. The only difference is his mortality. You use it as an excuse to hurt yourself—that you are expendable, that you will regenerate while he doesn't—but in reality, you wouldn't want him to get hurt even if he were immortal. You realize just how much he is hurting over you, how hard it must be for him to see you in the state you are in, knowing you are hiding it from him unsuccessfully. He has taken care of you for much longer than you had thought, so hearing you give up now must be hard.

"Alright," you say resolutely, looking into his eyes. "That said, I am doing it for you. I will fight for as long as I can bear, but you always have an out. I don't want you to suffer over this, if I become too heavy of a burden, then leave me with no guilt, with no looking back."

Chapter summary: The voices overwhelm you and drive you to insanity, all you want is a moment of peace. While you assure Vash that you can't die of this, he refuses to let you have your way in this matter and stops you from hurting yourself. He talks to you and you uncover that you have lost a lot of memories regarding your time with Vash, for you only a few months have passed, while in reality it has been a year. Vash doesn't know how to help you, but refuses to give in and pleads for you to hold on for a little while longer. You give into his demand with the caveat that he always has an out if you get to be too much, he can leave you without a hint of guilt.

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#tempest wind #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #Trigun #trigun stampede #tristamp #Humanoid Typhoon #vashxreader #vash x reader #x reader #plant boi #Vash the Stampede

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0ut0fgrace · 10 months

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CHARACTERS : Hong Boyeon, Ciara Rhee, Nuala Rhee, Oona Rhee, Ronan Rhee, Topher Rhee

WARNINGS : Mentions of past violence, mentions of suicide/suicidal ideation, mentions of sex, mentions of self-harm, toxic relationships, overall just a toxic ass family

SUMMARY : A Sunday dinner, just like every Sunday dinner before.

WORD COUNT : 2.3k

Family dinners were always something to dread. Mother would clutch her pearls and hurl insults as their father. He would stab his knife into the oak table, wishing it were lodged in his wife's throat instead. The children would watch on, not in horror but in boredom. Only so many fights could get their adrenaline flowing and force them to intervene. After witnessing a dozen or so fights just like this one, they couldn’t find it in themselves to care.

Nuala watched as Boyeon ripped off her necklace before storming out of the room. Delicate pearls bounced on the marble floor. Their housekeeping staff, haggard old twins Junghee and Jungsook, collapsed to their knees. In their shaky hands rolled the delicate pearls. Had they not feared the family, one of the twins would have slipped a few pearls into her bra to pawn off on their way home.

Topher stormed after her, shattering a wine glass in his haste.

The dinner had not been too bad for a majority of the night. The family of six enjoyed two lovely courses and were awaiting a hearty dessert; a chocolate stout cake with peanut-butter frosting. It was a family favorite, they always had it at the end of a grand Rhee feast.

It wasn't until Ciara brought up feeling "forgotten" that things went to hell.

' ' ' '

"Forgotten? What the hell do you mean forgotten?" Laughed Topher, gulping down bitter red wine.

Ciara brushed crumbs from the table onto the floor. "Like in my group, Dad. Dispatch doesn't want anything to do with me."

Ronan chewed at his thumb. He had been tuned out of the night's conversations for a while.

"That's not bad," quipped their mother. "Dispatch likes to start trouble. The Rhee family name and trouble should never be in the same sentence."

"No, Mom, that's not what I mean." Ciara directs her gaze towards their father, totally disregarding their mother. Her eyes grew mushy and soft with emotion. "Can you fix my problem, Daddy?"

Nuala rolled her eyes. Of course, the baby needed to beg for something. She threw back her smoked old fashion. Her head throbbed, from alcohol and general annoyance. "Jungsook, another old fashioned." she commanded. Nuala wasn't tipsy enough to watch a fight.

Jungsook, the more skittish twin, retrieved the glass and scurried into the kitchen.

"I can try pushing a few stories to friends of friends and see what happens."

"You've never offered to do that for any of us," snapped Oona.

Ronan let out a puff of air, one of his “here we go again” sighs.

That's where it all went wrong. Their mother, emotional and unstable per usual, launched into a tangent about them being ungrateful children. She made sure to berate all of them, even Nuala and Ronan who had been silent for much of the dinner.

"What if we cut all of you out of the will?" Boyeon shrieked, pale face now red from anger. "What will you leeches do without the money? Be fucking grateful for your father. He could’ve forced you to go to some shitty company, but no he took you in and gave you everything. He gives you the world and you never thank him."

Jungsook nearly spilled the old fashioned as she placed it on the table. The yelling always scared her. There was far too much yelling in the house of Rhee.

It didn't take too much for Boyeon to scream and cry. The Hongs were a messy bunch. Untreated mental illness ran rampant on their side. Grandfather Hong didn't believe in modern medicine for silly "mental deficiencies." The Hongs didn't have anything wrong with their brains, no matter what quack doctor had to say. His children were perfectly fine, after all they directly represented him as a person and he was perfect so by default they too were perfect.

Topher tried desperately to calm her down. He lovingly cooed her name. He tried appealing to her more irrational side. He tried and tried and tried until he cracked.

"Boyeon, shut the fuck up!" he hissed, driving his steak knife into the table.

The room fell into a hush, even the air conditioning unit ceased to make its usual din.

' ' ' '

The children watched the maids sweet up the glass. None of them moved from their seats. There was no need to comfort either of their parents, it would just turn into a bigger fight. The last time Ronan tried to comfort their mother he was met with a swift slap to the face. Their father had to pull him out of promotions to let his skin heal without the public speculating how he earned the mark.

"Why can't they just be normal and get a divorce." Oona huffed, pulling out her phone. It was a sin to eat with a phone in hand, but their parents were out of the room and the lovely stout cake would no longer be sliced and divided up.

"Mom would threaten to kill herself. She's done it before."

The girls all turned to stare at Ronan. How could he so calmly drop that piece of horrific information?

"You guys didn't know?" He handed his plate to Junghee as she made her rounds, clearing the table.

Nuala tapped her nails on the side of her glass. "When did she do that?"

They all understood their mother was generally unstable, but threatening to kill herself was very new to them.

Ronan picked at his fingers as he spoke. "When we still lived in Anaheim Hills. Dad was over here doing stuff with the company and Mom had a rough time with the change." His finger began bleeding. Ronan grabbed a white cloth napkin and wrapped it around his index finger. "It's why you guys had to live with Aunt Porsha. I was at home talking her off the ledge pretty much daily."

"Did you call anyone?"

"Oona, I was fourteen."

"Did Auntie Porsha try to get her help?" Inquired Ciara, eyes wide with shock.

He held back a laugh, it would be insensitive to laugh at the question. "You know Aunt Porsha hates Mom."

Nuala nodded, their aunt did hate their mother. There were a few different rumors floating around as to why she hated Boyeon. Ronan assumed it was because Boyeon came from a background where she didn't have to work for things. Nuala chalked it up to Porsha being jealous her sister-in-law was graced with four beautiful children and she was left husbandless and barren. Oona didn't have a theory, the tension between them didn't concern her so she never thought about it. Ciara heard from one of their great aunts that Boyeon allegedly had an affair with Porsha's ex-fiancé, but that was all just word of mouth.

"Do you think Dad hates Mom?" Ciara and her questions. She was always the most talkative out of the children.

The Rhee children never had a picture perfect view of what love was or what it could be. They were so used to venomous words hurled across tables and glasses shattering that kisses looked like suffocation and hugs were strangulation. Everything sweet and good about love was foreign to them, especially Nuala.

Nuala was dating a man nearly twenty years her senior and she confused his disgusting infatuation with her for pure love. She associated the word "good" with him. He was good to her, most of the time, so he was good. Kiyoung never hit her, so he was gentle. He only called her vulgar things on occasion, so he was sweet. He fucked her often, so he clearly loved her if he wanted her writhing body beneath him.

"I think we all hate Mom to some capacity." said Nuala before slamming her drink. The whiskey stung her throat.

For the second time that day the room fell into a hush. There was some truth in her statement. Nuala for a fact hated their mother. She hated their mother and father because they made her feel like she was never enough. Ronan didn't have a hateful bone in his body, he just hated what Boyeon put him through as a child. He was just a boy when he had to act as a father for his sisters. Oona disliked both their mother and father. She disliked Boyeon for talking her into altering her face before debut and she disliked Topher for morphing her into something she was not. Ciara was not yet aware of the hatred festering in her stomach for both parents.

"I don't think we should talk like this in their house." Ronan whispered, listening for the clicking of heels or raised voices.

It was like they were children again, waiting for the fighting to stop.

Oona pushed out her chair and stood up. "I'm going for a smoke."

"That's not good for your lungs."

"No shit, Ronan."

Oona rolled her eyes and stomped her way to the coat room.

"Wait, I'm coming with you." Nuala quickly got out of her seat to follow Oona.

Ciara watched them, jealousy burning a hole in her belly. She wanted to be invited to do adult things. Her eyes flick to Ronan, their eyes meet. "I wish they would include me."

"No you don't. All they're gonna do is complain and get lung cancer. It's better to stay here anyway." Ronan smiled. "In here we can have our own fun."

' ' ' '

The night sky was full of stars when they stepped outside. Smoking at the bottom of the driveway was a tradition dating back to when Nuala could legally buy cigarettes for herself. At first smoking was a secret between herself and the stars, but as much as she'd hate to admit it, smoking by herself became lonely. Oona would get dropped off--by one of their father's drivers, she was the only trainee allowed to live at home--after her practice at the company, and each time without fail Nuala was sprawled on the pavement with a cigarette between her lips and clumps of ash on her cheeks. At first Oona would watch from a distance, but before she knew it she and Nuala were sharing cigarettes while they bitched about songwriting and prepping for idol-hood.

Nuala hadn't smoked in a few years. She developed a nasty habit of burning her flesh on the nights Oona didn't smoke with her. Oona was the one who discovered the burns. She screamed at Nuala. Oona called her crazy, and said the family would be a laughing stock if people found out she intentionally hurt herself. Nuala hadn't touched a cigarette since.

The sisters sat on the pavement. Nuala pulled her phone out, hoping to see a text from Kiyoung. He isn't a good texter. She told herself. He loves you. He loves you.

Oona whipped out her box of disgustingly cheap cigarettes and a neon lighter she got for free with her purchase. She lit the cigarette before sitting next to Nuala.

She never failed to cough on the first inhale. Oona was bent over, hacking as Nuala stared at her.

"Maybe you should just start vaping. I’ve heard it feel smoother on the throat, whatever that means."

"God no," Oona said between coughs, "vapes fucking blow up in your pocket."

"But they don't make you stink."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Nuala put her phone on the pavement. "You're always bitching about Dad criticizing you and being controlling and shit. If you don't do shit like this he won't be on your ass."

Oona scoffed. She inhaled then blew the smoke right into Nuala's face. "You're one to fucking talk, Nu."

Admittedly, Nuala missed the scent of fresh cigarette smoke.

"But I'm right. As long as you're under Dad's company he is going to nit pick. The second he and Mom come back to the dining room they're going to give you a lecture on lung health and the possibility of crazies snapping pics of you doing this." Nuala watched as Oona rolled the cigarette filter between her thumb and index finger; she was contemplating something. "Just do us all a favor and get a fucking vape."

"Oh, so you don't think I can quit?"

"No! God, that's not what I'm saying at all."

She hated it when Oona became defensive over nothing.

"Should I quit?" Oona murmured. She never asked for Nuala's opinion.

"I dunno."

Without a second thought, Oona put the cigarette by her foot and stomped it out.

"Is that you quitting?"

"Who knows." She laughed, a genuine little laugh before reigning herself back in. "When are you going back to your place?"

Nuala glanced at her phone. 11:30. She had a writing session at 7 the next morning. "Soon. I was planning on leaving after cake, but I don't know if that's going to happen anymore."

"One of the maids can give you a slice."

"It'll somehow start a fight. I don't want Mom to accuse me of stealing more than just cake." Nuala brought herself to her feet, shoving her phone in her pocket as she stretched. "I'll see you next Sunday."

Oona nodded. "Yeah."

Nuala sniffed before turning on her heels. It wasn't uncommon for her to Irish goodbye her family. Sometimes she didn't want to sit through false pleasantries after a dinner full of screaming and crying.

Her black Range Rover was parked at the end of the driveway. Ronan and Oona had personal drivers bring them to the dinner. Doing stuff like that was above her salary. Well, their father paid for the private drivers so it really did not hurt her siblings' pockets.

She opened the driver's side and hopped in. Nuala hoped texts from Kiyoung would flood through her speakers, enveloping her in his love. She turned the car on. There was complete silence.

He’s probably asleep. She reasoned with herself.

Nuala looked through her windshield, watching Oona as she made her way into the house. She wished every family dinner didn’t dissolve into a battle. She wished she had a normal family, but wishing for something never changed reality.

#( nuala ) / * development .#fictional idol community #kpop oc #idol oc #fic #fictional kpop community #fictional kpop oc #fictional idol oc

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os-mod-eus · 2 years

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0001. — 01 / 2023

I’ve been having fantasies of suicide lately—a new low in this chasm of despair that I’m not totally unfamiliar with, but not numb to. A low that brings foreboding, and a sense of permanency. I worry that this is the start of the inescapable. The start of descent without feeling gravity. Depression always seems to work that way. One day you gain a glimmer of awareness; presence within it, and you look around, and somehow it’s all shocking despite the fact that you’ve been resting as some heap in this dark and lonely area for quite some time. You can know that, and you can feel the heaviness of that, but once it registers, it’s like you’ve never seen this place before. Bewildered and paralyzed with the fear that presses down unto your chest in that one moment before your brain decides to flip the switch again, and back into numbness you go, as a way to cope with the darkness you find yourself in. It’s some self-serving cycle that plays out in a miserable loop. You cannot escape because you cannot cope, you cannot cope because you cannot escape.

I’ve been thinking of why people hurt others when they reach such an inescapable low.. It terrifies me to admit that I’ve been able to empathize with the ill that go around getting revenge. I hope to never lose myself to my bitterness, but I have never known bitterness like this. A special kind of livid, borne only from the ashes of someone who now knows they’ve been burned into rubble. See, before, my self worth was so beaten down I believed I’d deserved to be burned alive, and not only that, but that I deserved every subsequent encounter with fire that singed my skin. Now I know that I am worth more than being set on fire, and within that, I find a violent rage towards everyone who even tries to bring flame near me.

I know I’ve been wronged, and I am angry, and that is both freedom and imprisonment.

Now, every time I think of the way [ REDACTED ] spoke to me, without any empathy, with the entitlement of someone who’s been coddled and privileged but experienced trauma so they can’t see that, much less admit to it when it serves them so well not to. Every time I think of her, I feel that rekindling of rage all over again in my chest. Then it nestles there, where my bitterness nurtures it. That bitterness remembers the condescension in her voice as she explained to me how I should be functioning at my lowest, that I don’t deserve her communication because I “should already know”—as if I can read minds—and then to take the buzzwords of trauma, flashbacks, triggered, low-functioning depression, and apply them to herself as a way to absolve herself of the obligation of giving me basic respect, empathy, kindness... when her objective behavior does not align with those buzzwords, but mine does: a special kind of punch to the gut.

Some people claim to be disabled while still being able to independently care for themselves. That’s what I learned at 2118 Haystreet. Some people clutch on to the terms of necessity to those who are drowning in their pain to invalidate those same people about that pain. To shame those same people for not functioning to the ability of others. For being dis-abled. That’s what I learned at 2118 Hay street.

I learned that as the one with the target on my chest, during a slip backwards, even though I still had enough traction in my footing to get up soon, and I knew it would be soon because I’d worked so hard to get to soon.

I asked for respect of my boundaries, and they were crossed, and I was told they were too inconvenient, as if that absolves someone of respecting them. Soon was not enough for someone who claimed to be my close friend, and then suddenly, I was being shamed for being sick. And then suddenly, I was not slipping back down, but tumbling back down.

Now I’m at the inescapable again, when I just barely escaped last time. At the inescapable, about to lose my shelter and sense of safety. At the inescapable, facing the consequences of being sick in a society where the ill have no place. At the inescapable, required to play nice with the person who hurt me this way, so that the last tiny sliver of safety I have won’t be taken from me, when all I feel is angry. I feel like I am metaphorically writhing within the injustice—furious to the point of insanity. Because there are so many layers to this, and in every one, I am the one who’s faced the consequences, when I am the victim. I am allowed to say that. I am allowed to understand that I was a victim. I am allowed. I am allowed. I am allowed. I am allowed to know that I was a victim and to be angry. God dammit, I am allowed! I am not only allowed—I am DESERVING! I deserve to know that I did not deserve how I was treated, when so much of my inherent rights have been robbed of me. I deserve to be able to be angry when someone attempts to rob me of more of my inherent rights. The rights to basic respect and empathy.

Now I dream of suicide because I cannot imagine a life in which I am not surrounded by those who feel above such basic humanity, and will hurt me, even when I’m screaming out for love and understanding, if it means they will be allowed to be selfish. I cannot imagine a life in which I have a group of friends that I don’t incessantly feel afraid and the need to watch my back—because so many before them have proven to me why I must. I am afraid that what I dreamed of as salvation as a child does not exist: a healthy home, a stable and loving group of friends. I’ve found only friendship flourishes when I put all of myself into the other, and take care of their needs, while having my own ignored. The second I try to advocate for my needs, I am met with defensiveness and then the tide gets turned on me. They convince me that my anger is bad, simply for being anger. And then I am back in my childhood, sitting on the bottom three steps leading down into the living room, as my foster mother berated and lectured me for hours for daring to hold her accountable—no matter how feebly.

I do not like this world. Sometimes I feel this deep morose and disappointment as I realize the only way to exist in this world is to be emotionally selfish, even mildly, and that does not come naturally to me. Why can’t I live without having my own empathy taken advantage of and never returned? And, even worse, buckled down on why I don’t deserve the empathy.

Buzz words like lazy and mooching. You offered to help me in my time of need. You offered to help me for as long as I needed until I was back on my feet. I gave you every opportunity to tell me no. I told you, explicitly, what illnesses and afflictions I struggle with, and you retained the offer. Why? Why, if the moment I showed symptoms of exactly the thing I warned you of, you would throw me to the wolves? I don’t pay attention to words; I pay attention to actions, and it doesn’t matter how many times you smile in my face, I will continue to be angry about your actions as they serve as injustice towards me, and I will not let you condescend me about why that anger makes me irrational while you are rational, because you can speak hushed and sweet while shoving a knife in my back. I am not irrational to recognize that knife, or to recognize that I don’t deserve to be stabbed, or to be angry that you’ve betrayed me. And how disgusting of you to weaponize my condition’s symptoms, as a way to convince me otherwise.

“I underestimated how sick you were,” when I bark back after you back me into a corner. Barking back is not sickness. It is the opposite of sickness. What I do when I bark back is all that matters—but I am allowed to tell you exactly what you did to me and how it affected me, and I am allowed to expect you to own up to that instead of trying to tell me that I’m just so sick, how could you have known, how could you be expected to help me.

Giving someone basic respect and empathy is not helping them. It’s the bare minimum. And I feel sick to my stomach even as I write this, because I know that to any outsider who could not know all the nuance of the entire situation, they would gladly take your side and reinforce the idea that I am just sick, so everything I say is null. Everything I say must be irrational, because the mentally ill are always irrational.

I know this because I’ve lived this, countless times, over and over and over, and this is what makes me so angry and hopeless that I will ever find other humans who just care and won’t hurt me in my times of need. This is why I’ve been dreaming of suicide, because even my ideal life, even with this compromise, is so unreachable. I will never be able to live off the grid in the woods, because it costs money to get there first, to build shelter first, to set up the means of survival first. And I am in this god awful position of genuinely being disabled with complex PTSD and nobody believing that any of the mentally disabled should be given the same rights as the physically disabled. My options are to become able again, or suffer, stifled down by a government that makes it impossible to live a life of substance if you’re unable to contribute to its capitalistic nature.

This is why [ REDACTED ] makes me so angry, because she can choose to work less solely to qualify for more government benefits, while working just enough to live a comfortable life, while she demonstrated the ability to work more. She intentionally lowered her hours so her income would lower enough to qualify for SNAP again. There is such extreme privilege in be able to do something like that, and claiming you are disabled in the same breath, while shaming your roommate for not being capable of getting out of bed to shower more than once a week let alone work even half the hours you can without immense struggle.

When I spoke of how severe and horrific my flashbacks are, what living hell they are and why they make me struggle to keep up with my basic necessities (defending myself), your response was “I know. I go into them all the time.” while in the same breath telling me I’m “not doing my part”. So you know what they’re like, but you also think that I should function more because “me and [ REDACTED ] clean something up when we see it’s dirty”. So you know what they’re like, but because I can’t function like you and your partner who doesn’t have them, I get no empathy for literally being disabled by them?

Some people become the face of a minority group when they barely struggle as such, and then shame those in that minority group for their minority-borne struggles. That’s what I learned at 2118 Hay street.

When I’m being invalidated, I need to remind myself of all the facts, and break down the situation to be able to feel my strength as the victim of the situation, and know that I don’t deserve the way I’m being treated. That’s what I learned at 2118 Hay street.

#entry.#pennsylvania.#journal

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yikimiki · 3 years

Note

Please more Reiner and size kinkkkkkkk

SAY NO MORE!!! I actually got really carried away with this one because Reiner with a size kink just makes me go insane

jock!reiner x fem!reader | warnings: smut, size kink, dirty talk, rough sex, semi-public, unprotected sex, college au, praise kink, creampie, breeding kink

♡ ♡ ♡

In his defense, Reiner warned you. You just decided not to take him seriously.

Could you blame yourself? Not really, not when a lot of guys like to play up their sizes to get people interested. In your blissful innocence, you thought that Reiner, local dumbass and above average quarterback, was doing the same when he told you like three times that he might have to prepare you a little longer. In your lustful and incredulous haze, you only rolled your eyes, pulling him closer and moaning once your mouths collided back into a heated kiss.

Party hook-ups were never your go-to, but these are different times. Tonight, after a huge back and forth between the two of you, the bubble of sexual tension finally exploded when you straddled his meaty tights, making out with him on the sofa. It wasn’t long before Reiner was panting and groaning, the imprint of his hard cock poking your inner tight, and even less time until he was practically begging to take you somewhere private.

Which leads you here: with your legs spread open, panties hanging on one ankle and skirt pulled up to reveal your soaked pussy. Your ass is pressed against the cold marble of the bathroom sink and your eager eyes are watching as Reiner finally pulls his pants down, dragging his underwear down with it.

Oh. That’s gonna be an issue.

“Oh my god,” you breathe out, feeling both aroused and terrified at once. Reiner takes one hand to pump his cock, which his for sure the biggest you’ve ever seen. He’s thick and long, with a bright red tip and thick veins standing out. His balls are equally huge, heavy and loaded as he takes a step towards you. “Reiner, you’re so big.”

He scoffs, thumb circling his tip, where a fat bead of precum started to drip. “Sure you don’t want more prep?” He asks and, in a suicidal decision, you shake your head no. You’re being stupid for the second time tonight, but, now, it’s on purpose. As much as you think there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to take him inside, you want to feel the stretch of every single inch Reiner has to give you. He raises one eyebrow. “Sure about that?”

Tentatively, you curl one hand around his member, gasping once you notice you can’t even hold him all the way around. Reiner sees it too, hissing at the image. “I’m sure,” you say. “I wanna try.”

He takes another step towards you, large hands separating your thighs before he yanks you closer by the waist. You yelp at the movement, growing even wetter at his strength. “You sure you can take my cock, baby?” The pet name makes your toes curl, the vibrato of his voice now so much closer to you. Now that Reiner is standing tall before you, you come to terms with the fact that he’s huge all around — strong, defined muscles, tall, broad shoulders. He could break you in half if he wanted to. “Pussy looks so fucking tiny. I doubt I’ll fit.”

You gasp when two of his fingers spread your pussy lips apart. You hold his cock tighter, earning a groan from him. “Please, make it fit,” you almost sob. You never needed something so much in your life. “I can take whatever you give me, please.”

That seems to be enough for Reiner. He takes your hand away from his cock and lines his tip with your soaked entrance, rubbing himself up and down to catch more of your arousal. You are moaning at that feeling alone, entire body expecting for the moment that he finally enters you.

“Ready?” He asks. You nod, placing your hands on his shoulders. “Gonna go slow. But I can’t promise I’ll hold back later.”

“Okay,” you say.

The tip of his cock presses tightly against your entrance, intruding past the ring of muscle. Reiner growls against your ear at the feeling of your tiny pussy clenching around him, almost pushing him out. “You have to relax for me, baby,” he asks.

“I-I’m sorry,” you hiccup. “It’s just— you’re so big, so big.”

“Shhh, I know, baby, I know.” Reiner kisses your temple, then presses forward once again. You cry out his name as his huge length splits you open, feeling like you’re about to cum from his size alone. By the time that he bottoms out — how, you have no idea — you’re crying out in pain and pleasure, nails digging into his large biceps as he waits for you to get used to it. “Fuck, baby,” Reiner moans. “You’re way too fucking tight. Pussy’s just sucking me in.”

“M-move, please,” you beg. “Please, Reiner.”

You don’t have to ask twice. Reiner is slamming his hips against yours in no time, pace getting faster and faster until you’re practically bouncing on the bathroom sink, tits moving up and down with the force of his thrusts. You just feel so small caged by his strong arms; the animalistic glint in his eyes making you feel like he’s about to eat you whole. Still, you can’t think much further than that, not with his huge cock fucking you dumb, brushing against every single sweet spot you have.

“G-God, you’re such a good girl,” Reiner hisses, one arm circling your waist so he can change the angle of his thrusts. “You’re taking my fat cock so fucking well, this tight little pussy is not even letting me slip out.” His cock throbs inside you as he says that, and some part of your fucked-out brain realizes that he must like the size difference just as much as you. “Tell me you like it, baby, tell me.”

“I love it,” you moan, throwing your head back. Reiner is attacking your neck in no time, deep voice vibrating against your jugular as your walls start to clamp around him. Your next words are a complete disconnected mess because of your orgasm, but every single one is like music to his ears. “R-Reiner, your cock’s s-so huge, so big, can’t take it— too much, it’s too much, I can’t...”

“Cum for me. You’re gonna be a good girl and gonna take every fucking inch of this cock,” he orders. You do both — walls spasming around his girth as your high washes over you, calling out his name again and again as if there aren’t hundreds of people just outside the bathroom door. But you don’t care, not when Reiner keeps using your pussy as his favorite toy, moaning and cursing as his own high approaches. “Tell me I can cum inside you,” he practically begs. “Tell me I can breed this pussy.”

You nod, still drunk off the pleasure. “Yes, please, fill me up, Reiner, please.”

His hand is on the back of your neck before you can think, pulling you into a kiss that is all teeth and tongue. “Gonna give you every drop of my cum, baby,” Reiner promises. “Gonna fill you up until your pussy is dripping.”

This time, you’re smart enough to believe his warnings. Reiner cums soon after — and he cums a lot. Wave after wave of white shoots out of his cock, his hands holding onto your hips so tightly you just know it’ll be sore in the morning. You’re stuttering out his name as another small orgasm rushes through your body, enough to push out his cum before he’s even done with it, dripping down the sides of his cock and onto the floor. With his size and his release, you feel as full as you can get, bliss overtaking your body as he finally pulls away.

“What a mess,” you giggle, looking down between your legs.

Reiner agrees with a chuckle, leaning in to place a soft kiss against your lips. “You did so well,” he praises and you feel yourself melt. “Mind if I call you one of these days?��

#reiner smut #reiner x you #aot reiner #Reiner x reader #reiner braun #reiner headcanons #aot smut #snk smut #attack on titan smut

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jawllines · 4 years

Text

He’s too far in thought, he realizes, when Ellie comes and waves her hand in his face, “Are you okay?” She asks quietly, eyes wide as saucers, “Maisey said you look like her aunt when she zones out and she’s depressed.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, one that expels the air from his lungs as he nods, “Yes, Ellie, I’m okay. What’ve you painted, hm? Can I see it?” She grins, her cheeks pudgy and rosy as she runs back to her seat and picks up the canvas she’d been working on. It’s a sun and a moon, both with rather cryptic looking faces on them, and Harry had never so perfectly had to manage his poker face, “Whoa!”

“I think that might just be the coolest thing I’ve seen in my entire life,” Y/N appears behind him, Oliver more or less clung to her pant leg as she’s reaching over his body to set a box of juice down on the oak table for him to disperse among his campers, while holding her hand out for the canvas, “May I see it, Miss. Ellie Bellie?”

Ellie smiles shyly at her — she always got so shy around Y/N, but never in the way where you would think she’s nervous. No, she gets shy the way you might when meeting an older sibling’s friend and wanting to desperately try to impress them. Harry knew as much, considering he would attempt to perform for each and every single one of his sister’s friends growing up (and each time, Gemma would make a few colorful threats to deter him). No matter how quiet Ellie gets with her though, she’s always the first to ask if they got to play with Y/N that day.

Harry still doesn’t like the other camp counsellors but Y/N’s an exception

part 1

(tw: mentions of suicide)

ii.

Psst.

Harry was typically a heavy sleeper. When he was younger his mum used to joke that he could sleep through an earthquake-induced tsunami if someone allowed him to. An alarm would have to be pretty loud to stir him from his slumber, and unless he was on edge, a mere call of his name would not drag him from whatever dreamland he’d submerged himself within.

Psst.

There had only been two things before that could notably wake him. His mum, who was the sweetest person on this planet yet managed to be the cruelest being on earth when he needed to be up for something, and his childhood cat Molly, who sits on his chest and makes it hard to breathe (which, from what he’s learned, encourages his brain to panic and wake him up so he could fix it). Other than that, he was blissfully unaware of the world for hours at a time.

Yet, there was something stirring him now. A low sound that puzzles him as he toes the line between consciousness and his dreams, aware of the blankets that cover him but still dancing on a stage with his limbs thrashing wildly and people shouting his name.

Psst.

Was it an insect? Maybe he was performing outside then -- a crowd of thousands in an outdoor field to see him for... .what was it that he did again?

Psst.

Oh, he’s dreaming, isn’t he? How deep in his dream is he? He thinks this is the first time he’s ever been asleep and realized that he was asleep...he could probably conjure something up, right? Manifest something that he’s always wanted, try his hand in lucid dreaming. If only he could focus apart from the insect zipping past his eardrum.

Harry, please wake up, we’re being haunted -- or murdered, or something.

Harry’s eyelids flutter like swallowtail wings, his gaze blurry and unfocused as he comes to. He’s confused, piecing together the puzzle that always presents to him when he’s just woken up and has to readjust to the world around him. The whole process of it took nothing more than 10 seconds, maybe 15 if he’s really out of it, but that’s only because thoughts run through his mind at a hundred miles a minute.

What time is it? The room around him his pitch-black apart from a very small amount of light illuminating beneath the curtain covering the window he’s beneath, so it couldn’t be morning. Potentially early morning, but he would say that would be 3-4 AM. Did he need to be up? He didn’t think so, actually, because there’s no alarm buzzing him awake and as far as he’s concerned, he hadn’t signed up for any early morning shifts at the bookstore as of late. The last time he went in at 5 to open up shop while the owner was on vacation and Harry was more or less ran down by a mother raccoon when he’d stumbled upon her babies after getting out of his car -- Harry had been reluctant to go before sunrise since.

Where was he? He knows he’s not at home, that’s for sure. The sheets smell like him but not him enough to be at his own place -- and the bedding isn’t as soft either. He knows he hasn’t passed out at someone’s house because he only does that if the person is close enough to him that he would recognize their scent, or if he was too drunk to get home, but that was usually accompanied by a wicked headache and a sour stomach. No, where he was smelled like wood and generic fabric softener. There was an air conditioning unit that rattled and rumbled from where it was fixed to the wall, he felt a tension in his neck that he only experienced at one place and, yeah, he was at the camp.

He was at camp, in a cabin with Y/N, who slept with the lamp on because she hated the dark, was the owner of the voice that had woken him up in the inky black room.

“Hm?” He hums, brows pinching as he lets his eyes shut again, only to open them a few seconds later, “Wha’s wrong? Why is your light off?”

“I don’t know,” her voice is still just a bit over a whisper, and Harry wonders why she doesn’t just speak up now that she knows he’s awake, “I woke up a little bit ago and thought maybe there was a storm that knocked the power out or something, but I checked the weather and it’s been clear skies all night. I think our power line was cut which is like -- straight out of a horror film.”

Harry sighs, a bit of him regretting the number of horror movies they’ve been watching once they finally got to watch Midsommar (in three days, they’d sifted through six different movies -- two movies a night and each one managed to horrify Y/N more than the last). He begins to press himself from the bed, his eyes adjusting to the dark around them, making out slivers of shadows, “I’ll go check --”

“No! Are you crazy?” He hears her bed frameshift with her as she moves, “That’s just asking for a maniac to come for us. Plus I keep hearing noises and I can’t tell if it’s like...like little raccoon feet or a one-armed hook man.”

“Alright, then go back to bed.” Harry begins to lower back down to the mattress but a sharp whine leaves her throat, “It’s dark when you close your eyes.” It’s silent for a moment, but then Harry feels a bead of guilt dribble through his body. He sighs, reaching up and wiping his hand down his face, “What do you want to do, yeah? If you don’t want me to go out there. Do you want to stay up?”

She’s quiet, Harry is straying further and further from the state he would’ve been in to fall right back into his dreams but he tries to wipe away the irritation the best he could. What he reminds himself is that four days prior, Y/N had trekked out in the forest toward a lake despite her unremitting distaste for the woods in the dark and slapped Jack clean across the face because he was being rude to him. And he was going to ignore her? Fall asleep while she’s frightened? Harry could be a prick, but he wasn’t the bleeding antichrist.

“I...um, well, I don’t want us to stay up, no, we’ll be so cranky tomorrow,” she shuffles in the sheets, “I dunno’, I’m sorry, you can go back to bed, I’ll be okay.”

Harry isn’t sure what to do but in his half-awake state, the next few words that leave his mouth seem like just the temporary fix necessary for them to get the last few hours of sleep that they can, “Do you want me to read you a story or summat?”

She giggles quietly, “No, it’s okay, really, go back to sleep, okay?”

What Harry could have said was I can’t now, knowing that you’re awake and scared, but instead he utters a simple, “No.” He sits back up, patting blindly for his phone in his sheets, slipping his fingers around it, and tapping it awake. His screen blinds him with its brightness, so he lowers it before finding the flashlight. It lights up the floor at his feet and subsequently at its edges, he can make out Y/N’s shadowy figure. She’s sat up, curled in her blanket, wrapped around her head, and giving her a pseudo-nun appearance. She waves at him lamely and he struggles not to roll his eyes, “Maniac be damned, I’m gonna go out there and look for the breaker. Maybe the arseholes broke their vow of integrity.”

He wouldn’t be surprised if Jack or one of the others came around and switched the breaker off, just to be inconvenient for the morning. They’d left them alone for four days sure, but Harry figures that it’s not so much four days of silent reflection and questioning why they feel the need to be such pricks to him, and more so four days for their anger to fester and brew. If not for the fact that Y/N slapped him then made him find laundry detergent and commanded the others to go get his clothes, then for the way she acted like nothing had happened the day prior. Jack’s cheek was still a stingy, red splotch, Oliver and Brandon were straight-faced looking irritated, and Y/N -- well, Y/N had never been more content with her day. She was having a blast with her kids playing bean bag toss, they did their little dance when one of them got it in the hole of the board, and when they were all getting drinks, Y/N offered to grab Harry his. He watched as she went to the cooler around the same time Jack did, they both reached for the last Dr. Pepper, and Y/N plucked it up and handed it to him before grabbing both her, Harry, and Mitch’s lemonades.

He thinks it’s the sincerity that she holds, that would aggravate him had he been in their shoes. Y/N was completely unbothered by the night prior and Harry could tell, just like when he doesn’t reciprocate their maleficent tendencies towards them -- it was digging under their skin.

(She makes Harry laugh when she comes back with their lemonades, handing him one and uttering, “I let the prick have the last Dr. Pepper, and I’m regretting it.”)

And while he’s hoping that they haven’t turned their target to her out of spite, he wouldn’t change what had happened for the world. It had made the two of them that much closer, and in the following day’s Harry had poked and prodded Y/N’s brain a bit more. Especially after what he’d seen on her page, he was intrigued by her. Intrigued by how she saw life, why she came at things the way she did, what built her up to be the person that she was in these very moments that he’s speaking to her. Harry hasn’t asked her about her old college roommate and he doesn’t plan on it either -- he doesn’t feel like he could, or he should.

Harry has lost people before and he thinks the worst thing someone could do was to bring it up unprompted. He knows that it’s probably always on her mind but even then, maybe it isn’t at the forefront of it. Maybe she’s just trying to have a good few weeks, separate herself from the real world for a while, and he would be cruel to dig up something that she may not be ready to just up and chat about. No matter how curious he is about the whole situation, and no matter how much he wonders if she treats him the way she does because of what happened. If the topic was brought up by her he would openly and freely discuss it as long as she was comfortable, but he wouldn’t give her the third degree.

So he minds his business and focuses on trying to get to know her better instead.

He can’t say that it doesn’t change how he treats her a bit though. Harry is much. . .gentler, than he had been. He tries to be less critical of her unwavering optimism and seeks to understand where it was coming from instead. If he’s in the right mood he’ll attempt to match it, which makes for a good day with their groups, who he finds -- despite the small age gap -- have begun to kindle very close friendships. Mrs. Graham had even commented on it one of the days after they had a riveting game of balloon tennis.

“You two make a good team -- putting all these other counselors to shame. And to think you were pouty about having to share a cabin.”

It was true, they did make a good team. Harry thinks that them sparking a friendship had made the whole experience much more enjoyable for everyone involved.

All of this together gives insight into why Harry is willing to stuff on his shoes at 3 AM and go out in the dark, muggy night to check and potentially fix a breaker. And no matter the number of times he assures her she does not have to come out there with him, she keeps hold of her ‘no man left behind’ mentality, pulls on a pair of flip flops, and pads out after him.

Had they been in any other cabin, finding the breaker would have been much easier. They’re typically on the backside in the upper right corner, surrounded by a little cage with a lock similar to that of an animal crate. The struggle with their cabin was that the backside was basically in the woods, so he had to dodge low hanging branches and tangles of ivy to get even remotely near it. He hands Y/N his phone and she shines the light over the metal box, her hand steady despite how she looks back and forth and all around them like she’s making sure there are no red eyes glowing at them. The world around them is silent apart from the chirp and groan of insects, the scutter of an animal somewhere in the far distance makes Y/N huff a weary sigh but otherwise, nothing comes out to attack them. Harry restarts the breaker, they go back inside, and the lamp on its dimmest setting is switched on how they had fallen asleep with it.

They both breath out in relief, Y/N dives back into her bed and Harry flops down atop of his covers, giving himself a second to feel the cool air from the conditioner fan over him.

“Theoretically,” Y/N begins as Harry lets his eyes fall shut, “If there were some creature in the forest --”

“There’s no creature in the forest.”

“I know, but theoretically --” She continues again, but Harry is quick to cut her off once more.

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he tells her, “Go to sleep.”

Once more, Y/N falls silent, but a quiet, “Thank you,” was the only thing to leave her mouth.

. . .

A summer thunderstorm wasn’t abnormal during camp, which is why the recreation center and the art building are beneficial. It keeps everyone preoccupied and entertained with well-insulated walls to mute whatever carnage is taking place outside, which makes for less frightened children and an easier time for everyone involved. Harry liked being active and running around with his campers, sure, but he also really enjoyed a nice, calm, relaxing day trying his hand at DIY projects and abstract paintings. Plus it gave him the chance to wear the camp hoodie that he had spent a pretty penny purchasing, which was made of the softest fabric he’s ever felt and was far more comfortable than the t-shirts that they normally wear.

Y/N had also bought the hoodie, Harry saw as she stepped out in it after her shower this morning, and she seemed to be drowning in it but in the best way. The fabric pools off of her, but she looks cozy, and well-rested despite them waking in the middle of the night. He thinks she looks pretty cute, but he kept the thought to himself and instead asked her if she wanted his extra granola bar for breakfast.

They alternate throughout the day, between the rec center and art building, and on the schedule, it appears that most the day he would be with Y/N’s group (which he prefers) and a few times he’s even with Mitch as well, which is nice. Mitch doesn’t grow to like many people, but he liked Y/N well enough -- he thought she was oddly entertaining (or so he’s told, Harry) and good for a chat. The only times he and Y/N were not with each other were when the activities were age-specific, but even then, it wasn’t like anyone was in a different room. They were all just at different stations within a big room in the art building and the recreation center was more or less free for all.

Harry wondered when he started basing whether or not a day was going to be good by whether or not he and Y/N were able to be around each other, but he decided not to think about it too much. Lately, he’d been a little more on edge with whether they were together, simply because of Jack and the others. He didn’t want them fucking with her, and even though she’d proven that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, he still worried, especially knowing he would be the cause of it.

Y/N doesn’t seem the least bit distressed about it, or as far as she was letting on -- she’d not expressed any thoughts or concerns that they would be spiteful towards her. Hell, the only thing she had told him the night after was that she hoped she didn’t make things worse for him. For him. Why was she so willing to defend him? What did she get out of being so kind?

“I especially like how multidimensional it is — purple and pink stars? Beautiful, I love those two colors together,” she places her hand on Oliver’s head, and it’s then that Harry notices he’s holding something, “Harry, Oliver here wanted you to see the flower he drew because I told him how much you like lilies.” As bashful as he always is, he holds out the paper toward Harry. It was cute — a singular, yellow lily and he could tell that Y/N helped him draw it, but the paint and crayon marks all over the page suggested she left the color duties up to him.

“Oh my goodness,” Harry gasps, looking at the painting, flipping it to Oliver and pointing at it, “You did this?” Oliver nodded excitedly, “It’s gorgeous.”

“I think our groups are the best artists,” Y/N motions to her table, only a meter away from them all working diligently on their projects, “Charlotte is over there doing an artistic interpretation of the both of us, we are not allowed to see it until she’s finished. Mikey is doing his own rendition of Disney world, I see Maisey is creating a beautiful tree -- Noah is that a cowboy you’re drawing?”

Noah barely looks up from his paper, very carefully dragging the tip of the marker in a circle, “Yes.”

“And Noah is drawing a cowboy! Modern-day Van Gogh’s, all of them.” Harry smiles as Y/N drags a stool up beside him, positioning it in a way so that she could watch both her kids and speak with him, “I heard they’re having one of them party things tonight, I didn’t know if you wanted to go or not.”

“Hm, I dunno,” his brows knit together as he lightly scratches a mosquito bite on the inside of his forearm, “Do you feel comfortable with going after what happened last time?”

She suckles her bottom lip into her mouth, gnawing on it as she nods her head, “Mhm,” she looks around them for a second, making sure that none of the kids are paying attention to them before she lowers her voice, “Mitch said that you used to go to all of them last year, and would like -- have a good time. I hope that I’m not ruining that for you.”

“How would you be ruining it for me?” It’s true, Harry hasn’t gone to any of the parties that they’ve been doing since the very first one he’d escorted Y/N away from. Not for any other reason apart from he was just spending time and hanging out with Y/N, or he’d be too knackered to even think about leaving the nice, cool setting of their cabin to be in the muggy heat with drunk college students. He had much more fun not attending, and other nights Mitch would come around and chill with them too. . .he had all he needed then. Didn’t need the booze for a good time.

“I don’t know, I just didn’t know if you weren’t going ‘cos of what happened the first time and you felt like you couldn’t leave me out or. . or something like that.”

Harry shook his head, “No,” he answers, “We can go tonight if you would like, but it’s unnecessary for me. I’m good either way.”

Although Y/N appears unconvinced, they have little time to go further into the topic because Charlotte is running up to them, a big grin on her face, “I finished!”

“Well give it here,” Harry holds out his hand, waving her over, “Let’s see it.”

On the paper are stick figure versions of he and Y/N, with big grins and 12 other little stick figures surrounding them. Above Harry’s stick figure, there’s a pink arrow and a very five-year-old esque writing of HUSBAD (Harry presumes it’s supposed to be husband), and above Y/N’s in the same fashion, she’s written WYFE. It’s then Harry realizes that Y/N’s figure has a veil on and Harry’s has a bowtie, “This is for you twos wedding! So thens when they take pictures you can has this one.” Charlotte chirps brightly and Y/N and Harry both cast each other a disbelieving glance.

“Whoaaaaa,” Y/N is the first to break their silence, a smile pulling at her lips, “This is really good Charlotte! I didn’t know Harry and I were getting married, though.”

Charlotte nods quickly, still grinning at them, her bottom canine missing as she gleams, “Me n’ Mikey thinks you should!”

Y/N turns toward him, nodding toward Charlotte, “Well, the god’s have spoken. Where’s my ring?”

Harry coughs on a laugh as he hands the paper back to Charlotte, “This is really good, Bug. Why don’t you and Oliver go help Josie finish her coloring pages, hm?”

The both of them head the short way back to their table, hiking up on the small stools and Harry makes sure they’re all settled before he turned back to face Y/N, who was biting down on a grin, “Don’t start --” he began but she’s already started, shaking her head.

“Listen, it’s okay to be in love with me, but you should really try to tone it down. . .the kids are starting to notice.”

Harry scoffs before he proceeds to tease her,, “How d’ya know they aren’t basing it off your actions, huh? Giving me love eyes every couple minutes like nobody would see.”

Y/N mocks offense to his words and he tries to keep up the facade, but his sheer delight for getting in a teasing match with her overcomes him and he can’t help his smile. Harry loved teasing people -- loved making them flustered or reducing them to a bashful mess by his words alone. Y/N, however, was much less into flustered gazes and sheepish tendencies, and more so ready and willing to give him it right back. He’d met his match -- if he teases her she’s teasing right back (if she hadn’t started it in the first place), and both of them found mutual pleasure in it.

“You can’t use my love eyes against me, I can’t help but give them to everyone I’ve ever met” she tells him, feigning sincerity before an additional anecdote, “You know my college roomie always told me they’d get me in trouble one day, and she had never been more right, ‘cos they did once at a party. She wouldn’t shut up about it weeks after it’d happened.”

Harry feels his body tense just a bit at the mention of her, and he tries not to let it show on his face that he’s surprised how she so casually brought her up, “Yeah? What’s the story?”

“The little ears around us suggest that I tell that story later,” she checks her watch, before looking back up at him, “Oi, we’ve got five minutes until we’re in the rec center. You get to pick what we all do since I picked the last rotation.”

. . .

This time when they’re on their way to the party, Harry lets Y/N walk in front of him as he directs where she was to go. Opposed to when they had first made this journey together, Harry feels far more protective of her than he originally had. Plus, he’d seen how clumsy she could be and after the earlier storm, the softened dirt and broken off tree branches from the billows of wind made for a much harder terrain to navigate, so he felt more comfortable being able to reach out to catch her if need be.

Harry was wary of going to the party tonight but Y/N had been borderline insistent that they attend, “Mitch says he misses you at these things and Niall told me he could only stand Shaun theorizing about the universe and us not being the only life form so many times before he snaps. I say we’re needed.” Harry never minded free drinks, and a potential fuck at the end of the night, so he wasn’t all too worried that he would be having a good time. He just hoped that the others would allow Y/N to have a good time. And he knows he’s being paranoid, because they hadn’t necessarily targeted her for anything prior to or after the lake incident, but he still worries. . .he can’t help but worry.

But he wouldn’t hover. Once they got to the clearing, he helped Y/N get her drink and she sought off after Niall while Harry went over to Mitch, the two of them promising to meet up again in a little bit. He didn’t hover, but he did watch semi-closely, eyeballing Jack and the others, making sure they were staying away from her. Apart from a few less than friendly looks thrown in his direction though, they seemed to be keeping to themselves which Harry was ultimately very thankful for.

The night goes by as these nights usually do -- he and Mitch drank, had a laugh, gabbed about music for a while, some of the drama going on around the camp (Y/N had an ear for gossip and eyes that could make anyone tell her anything, so Harry’s had a door to all the melodramatic events happening throughout the counsellors). It was a bit weird when Stacey -- one of the counsellors he’d only ever briefly spoken to -- had come up to them, and a little weirder when she borderline propositioned him for something more than a chat in the woods, but Harry politely declined. Told her that he was pretty exhausted after a long day and was probably just going to have a few more beers and retreat back to his cabin.

He passes it off as a fluke. . .maybe he’d been making eyes at her and hadn’t realized it. But then Mia makes her way toward him and Mitch, and this time Harry’s brows furrow when she starts chatting him up. This one he entertains for a little while before eventually ebbs away from the conversation, because he and Mia had a fling once, but Jack convinced her and the free world that he was a prick, so she called it off. He didn’t necessarily understand why she would want to start that up again, or what “little birdie” put a bug in her ear that he still thought about her (as she said one did).

It was after Cara had finally left after coming around to chat with him, that Mitch began to chuckle lowly at his side, shaking his head slowly, “Jesus Christ,” he tilts the nozzle of his beer against his mouth, and when he pulls it away, his lips are shiny from the liquid, “She really is working hard.”

“Huh?” Harry feels desperate for an explanation as to why three times he felt as if he were being propositioned for a romp in the woods when he was not actively pursuing one. He had a feeling that it was the others trying to get him alone so they could enact some sort of piss poor attempt at fucking with him without Y/N spotting and tearing them a new one over it, “Are you in on something that I’m not, ‘cos m’feeling pretty fucking lost here, man.”

Mitch nods his head, and Harry follows his gaze to Y/N, who is speaking with her brows dipped inward to Cara, “A few days ago she’d been asking me and Niall what you were like last year, and we told her just the same, jus’ a lot more ‘fornication’ is how Niall put it,” he smirks softly with a shake of his head, “And she seemed all concerned, asking us if we thought she was holdin’ you back or something. Personally, I told her if you wanted to sleep with someone you would have whether she were around or not but she didn’t seem very convinced.” A snort leaves him as he motions towards her again, still as amused by her ideas as he had been when she’d first explained them, “Guess she’s trying to set you up.”

“Oh fuck me,” he exhales so forcefully, it whips the delicate plumes of smoke from Mitch’s cigarette into a misshapen huff. Why was she so concerned with it? Harry hadn’t once expressed any avidity in needing to spend time with someone in that manner -- he could go without sex for three weeks. . .did she not think he could? Was he exuding nymphomaniac tendencies? He surely hadn’t thought he was -- a few quick handies in his nightly showers typically tide him over just nicely for a bit of a dry spell. And what was her business that he hadn’t slept with anyone since they’ve gotten here? Why was she speaking about him with the others what she could as easily ask him? What she had as easily spoken with him about, albeit leaving out a pretty large portion of it.

For the first time since they had begun getting along, Harry was irritated with her. He’d never been one to brood, however. He liked things to be up front and honest as soon as possible if the situation allowed for it, to stop his mind from taking an idea and running away with it. He held little interest in playing mind games with people.

Which is why he hands Mitch the rest of his drink, fixes his heavy cardigan around his shoulder, and sets off in her direction. He dodges many bodies, avoids an empty cup on the ground beside what he could only presume to be a sticky puddle of liquor, and narrowly makes it past a playful fight between Oliver and Brandon who were wrestling one another. Y/N doesn’t realize that he’s making his way to her until he’s just a meter or so away, when Niall catches a glimpse of him and attempts to be inconspicuous in the way he pinches her side. She gasps from the way his nails had accidentally bit into her skin, flinching from the pain before her gaze had settled on him, “Harry!” She cheered but his face doesn’t soften as it usually does when they see one another, which alerts her to his disapproving gaze, “Oh, what’s wrong?”

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” He inquires, motioning out past the trees. Enough trust had been built into the foundation of their friendship for her to not question him. Instead, she passes her drink off to Niall and follows Harry into the woods -- he wouldn’t go so far that they wouldn’t be able to see one another from beneath the curtain of leaves shielding away the moon, but just far enough that nobody would be eavesdropping. In any other situation he might wait to bring this up until they’ve made it back to the cabin, but Y/N’s intentions had been clear that the person he was taking home tonight wasn't supposed to be her.

She pauses with him at a particularly thick tree trunk, and places the arch of her foot against one of the jagged roots that carved its way through the earth, “Is everything okay?” She balances herself with a hand against the bark, wincing when it jabs into her skin, “I was keeping an eye on Jack n’ them I thought so they wouldn’t try messing with you, but did they say something?”

That does melt him some, Harry was strong enough to admit that. Just as he had been concerned with her wellbeing, she was just as much concerned for him, and he appreciated that. And while it does threaten to soften him down to his core, he still had questions that needed answers, and he wouldn’t let up until she responded to them.

“Why are you sending girls over to me?”

Her brows raise, but less in shock of learning the information, and more so with wonder how he’d found out she was the one sending them their way. The surprise dissolves into embarrassment quickly, her shoulders slump and she casts her gaze deeper into the forest, “Dammit,” she doesn’t hide her disappointment from being caught, or even feign confusion to try and pass the blame off coincidence that every girl who had come up to him had subsequently talked to her prior, “I was hoping you would be less observant.”

“Y/N.” He says her name sternly, and her shoulders drop dramatically further as she steps down from the tree root.

“Listen, in my defense I just felt awful!” She admits, waving her hand toward the party, “Jack had tried telling me a few times about how you just fuck people and leave them, blah, blah, blah, right? And I wasn’t paying any attention to him, but it made me curious to what you were like last year, so I asked Mitch and Niall. You came to these things all the time and you had fun -- then I come ‘round, ruin the first one, and you’ve been hanging out with me since. I just. . . I wanted you to be able to have fun and not feel like you have to worry about me, y’know?”

A ‘v’ sits between Harry’s brows, “What is it your business what I’m doing, hm?” He fixes his cardigan from where it slumps off his shoulder once more, “If I wanted to sleep with someone then I would. Do you think I can’t set something up myself?”

“No, of course not, I just thought --”

“You didn’t think,” he cuts her off, and Y/N’s arms curl over herself instinctively when a cold brush of air rolls past them, “You should have just came to speak with me about it, I could have told you that I didn’t need anything like that, and that would have been that. Don’t go behind my back trying to orchestrate things for me, okay?”

He wanted to say it -- he needed to say it, because Harry wasn’t some sex driven lecher that everyone at this camp tried to make him out as. He thought Y/N had known that too, but he guesses he was wrong.

But he wasn’t expecting her to look so fucking defeated by it. A guilt weighs on his being when she nods, tipping her head down, “Okay, yes, I won’t anymore. I’m sorry,” her fingers dig into her bicep, as she breathes out, a shiver rattles through her that she tries to be inconspicuous about it, “I wasn’t thinking -- I wasn’t thinking how it would look.”

Harry sighs, peeling his cardigan off of his arms, revealing his bare arms to the chill but he ignores it in favor of holding it out to her, “Put this on,” he wiggles it some, “I know you’re cold.” She takes it from him carefully, looking up, brows raised slightly as if to ask if he’s sure, “Go ahead.”

“I really am sorry,” she tells him, pulling the patchwork cardigan over her arms, it hangs off of her, and Harry swallowed thickly. She’s. . .cute -- Harry had always been able to admit that. Her face is sweet, her eyes exudes nothing but understanding, kindness, and such a soft glow that Harry couldn’t quite explain. He finds that those eyes give him great comfort and warmth, because now when they’re tinged with the contrition she feels and Harry feels cold.

“I know,” he murmurs, he holds out his hand for her, and very carefully Y/N slides her hand into his own, “Do you want to go get pudding?”

A small smile pulls at her mouth.

“Yes please.”

. . .

Niall lets them use the key after a few dozen promises to be careful with it. They trek the familiar way, mindless chatter fills the air around them until they get to the cafeteria and their voices quiet in case the security guard is looping around. Y/N reveals her hand from the shield of his cardigan sleeve, Harry watches as the fabric pools around her arm, toward her elbow, and produces the key (that Niall only trusted her with). They creeped into the kitchen, pulled open the large refrigerator door, and the pudding sat in rows on the bottom shelf.

They both choose vanilla this time, having tired themselves out on chocolate, and they sit at the spot they had last time, across from one another. He can tell, despite his peace offering, that Y/N still feels upset about what had happened earlier and it sullies his mood. She’s still chatting but not with as much heart as she typically has, and Harry couldn’t stand it. He just wanted her to giggle as she teases him again, without feeling like she’s tip toeing on eggshells around him.

“Hey,” Harry starts, dragging her attention towards him where it had previously been scooping the sides of her pudding container, “Would you stop being so. . .tense? Is this about earlier?”

Y/N clears her throat, opening her mouth and furrowing her brows like she was about to deny it, but she relents, shoulders dropping, “A little. I still feel bad about everything,” she shakes her head, dragging the edge of the spoon around the plastic, “About everything, not just that you aren’t able to sleep with someone. I came in late, ruined you having your own cabin, woke you up with my alarm, made you get out of bed ‘cos I’m afraid of the dark and -- I just feel like this massive burden. I feel like this massive burden on everyone.”

Harry is alarmed by this sudden confession, but his body ultimately rejects the notion that she could ever be a bother, “How are you a burden to anyone?” He inquires, shaking his head, “You’re such a ball of light that just swarms through rooms. The thought of you being a burden is akin to the thought of Satan being a saint. . .it doesn’t sound right.” Harry sets his pudding down, though he keeps his hands fixed around the cup and the spoon, “Don’t know what gave you that idea, but the last thing you are is a burden. Who gave you the impression that you were?”

She wipes tiredly at her eyes, “Nobody in particular, it's just,” she shakes her head, “Even now, I wanted to make your night good, and then I fucked it, and now you’re here with me instead of having fun at the party. I just feel silly.”

“Don’t.” Harry tells her simply, “I like to spend time with you, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.”

The tension in her shoulder releases, “Thank you for this, I’m sorry m’just saying the same thing again and again. Back at home it feels like everyone is just. . .so hyper aware of me -- they’re always being so careful, or overly concerned and I always wonder if it feels like a heavy weight on their shoulders, like I’m forcing a piggyback ride.” She shrugs her own, reaching for the second pudding cup, “It’s just shit, so I overthink everything all the time to try not to be a burden, but I keep making it worse. Or at least that’s how it feels.”

Harry tilts his head to the side some. He’s not usually someone who pries and probes people for information, but he’s never been more curious about Y/N than in this moment. When he thinks of Y/N at home, he thinks of sunshine pooling in the hallways through casement windows, her spinning around the kitchen in a dainty floral dress that billows around her as she stirs homemade jam. Harry imagines her amongst woodland creatures who coax her to the forest with songs, escorting her there as she gambols freely.

He could not imagine her going home and feeling like a burden. Hell, he would have thought that she considered everyone else a burden -- that maybe it was draining to be the absolute light of everyone’s life. Yet here she stood, seeming worn, and broken.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why is everyone hyper aware of you at home? You don’t have to answer if you’re uncomfortable.” He says it delicately -- he means it. . .if she didn’t want to share this with him, then he wouldn’t force her, but he wants to open up the possibility. He wants her to know that he’s an open ear if she so chose to utilize him.

“Um,” her gaze does shift downward -- she suddenly appears so small, “Are you sure?”

Harry nods.

“I just -- it's not that I don’t like bringing it up, I just don’t want you to treat me any differently than you would knowing it, yeah? I think that’s what I hate the most.” She notes, “So do you promise that you won’t -- you won’t start tiptoeing around me?”

“You’ve got my word.” Harry vows, but he has a feeling he knows what she is to say.

The sleeve of his cardigan covers her hand as she brushes the hair from her face, “In freshman year of UNI, my roommate was Mrs. Graham’s daughter, Penelope.” She straightens out in her seat, “We didn’t like each other much at first but we had grown very close -- um, once she threw away my fruit snacks and so I dunked her toothbrush in the toilet, but I felt guilty and went out to buy her a new toothbrush,” a laugh leaves her at the memory, as she rolls her eyes at herself, “That was what we had going for a while, but a late night heart to heart kind of made us closer. She told me things that. . .she’d been through a lot that nobody should have to go through, you know? She was bullied a lot growing up—in high school it was bad, people used to always gang up on her over stupid shit.” Harry hums, encouraging her to continue, and she stirs the pudding around mindlessly, “And we were just close after that. We had a flat together sophomore year and most of junior year, she’s my best friend,” she swallows thickly, “I didn’t realize how sad she was. . .I didn’t realize what she was still holding onto, and she -- we went home for Christmas break, and she never came back.”

Harry feels his stomach sour as her eyes bead with unshed tears, “Oh, Y/N,”

“It’s alright. I’m okay, I’m fine as I can be -- I’ve -- I’m mourning and I miss her, but I’m trying to be strong. Most days I am, but everyone at home just expects me to be this fragile thing, y’know? The days I’m happy, and chatty, they think I’m faking it. And some days I do, yeah, but. . .it’s just disheartening when everyone pretends to know what’s going on in my head.” She plants the pudding directly in the center, leaving it there and retreating her hands to her lap, “Mrs. Graham told me she felt the same. That’s why I came in last minute -- I’ve got all my volunteer hours settled and everything but she said it might be nice to get away.” A slow, easy sigh leaves her lips as she blinks the tears away, not one drop trickled down her cheek, “It is nice, but I still worry that I’m a strain on people around me, even if not for the reason I am at home. And I’m sorry to like, info dump all this on you,” she laughs a little in spite of herself, “You can’t ask me things, unless you want an hour long explanation.”

Harry reaches out his hand for her, for the second time that night, and once again she slowly slips their fingers together, “Thank you for sharing that with me, I know it must have been hard,” he squeezes her hand, “But I understand you a bit more now. I’ll keep my promise, I won’t treat you any differently, but before that --” she blinks at him, waiting, “I think you might just be one of the kindest, strongest, most caring people that I have ever meant. I know you would never do anything to intentionally hurt me or add stress onto my life, so you don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to try with me. We can just exist together, yeah? We’ll exist without burdens and without worry.”

The look in her eyes, was one that Harry had never seen before. One that makes him melt in her touch.

“I would like that.”

. . .

“I can’t swim.”

Harry was crouched down to Maisey’s height, fixing purple mermaid floaties around her arms. The day was not unusually muggy, but there was an additional itch to jump belly first into the cool watered lake. He had woken with a revitalized need to pry a star from the morning sky as it shifted from an inky purple to an early, dusky morning blue -- and give it to Y/N. He had decided after their conversation last night -- after they’d gone to bed and Y/N fell asleep cuddled in his cardigan -- he had an overwhelming, and an all encompassing want to hold her.

Which made it hard to part ways this morning, but he managed. And maybe he played out an image in his head where he pressed a kiss to Y/N’s cheek before they went to wake their respective cabins, or maybe he didn’t (but if he did that’s his own problem). He is quick to convince himself it was because she’d shared a piece of herself with him that he doesn’t think she lets many people see, and Harry always develops a bit of a platonic crush on his friends at some point or another. He questioned whether or not he was in love with Mitch for a solid four days once. . .sometimes he just let his heart get carried away.

He had been enmeshed in these thoughts as he got his campers ready for their time in the lake. At first glance, a ton of children in the lake seemed like a horrible, and faulty idea, but they took precautions so that everyone was safe. Every child wore floaties and/or life jackets no matter how proficient their swimming abilities. There was netting about ten meters out so that the children and counsellors couldn’t float out toward the middle, and they worked it so that only three children could be in per counsellor at a time, so that they could keep an eye on everyone. Harry wasn’t so nervous because he was a strong swimmer, and his kids were a little older, but he could tell Y/N had been a little jittery about it. It’s why Harry told her that while she was out in the lake with her little ones to let him know, he would come out with her to bring her some additional comfort that even the floaties could not provide.

Harry had been pretty sure all of his kids were excited to go to the lake and he was grateful for that, until he looked up to see the nervous, large blue eyes of Jackson, downcast after he had spoken the words. The unprompted admittance confused him as he turned to face him, “That’s okay, buddy, we’ve got floaties for that.”

Jackson did not seem convinced, shaking his head fiercely, “No, I -- I can’t swim.”

“J.J. is afraid of the water,” Noah exposes the truth just as easy as he takes a sip from his juice box, equipped with his own blue arm floaties, “He didn’t want to say though ‘cos --”

“Noah!” Jackson cuts him off, betrayal laced within his features.

“--’cos he didn’t want to seem like a wimp, but he almost drowned when he was little.”

Jackson looked as if he could cry, and Harry shook his head quickly, “Hey, hey, hey, c’mere buddy,” he motions him over, and he comes easily, stepping before Harry who had not bothered to leave his already crouched position, “Explain to me what’s going on, yeah?”

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, a frown prevalent on his mouth, even as he speaks, “When I was little little, my big brother pushed me into the pool and I went under the water and my mom had to come in and get me because I can’t swim good.”

Harry pulls his lips back, reaching out to squeeze Jackson’s shoulder, “I’m sorry to hear that buddy. I won’t force you to get in the water if you don’t want to, but I do want to tell you that if you feel more comfortable, we could try a life jacket instead of the floaties? It’ll keep you more buoyant -- more bouncy in the water.”

“Aren’t those for little kids?” Jackson inquires, brows pinched, but Harry shakes his head and points toward Y/N, never more glad in that moment that she had the age group she did, along with her views on not making them do, wear, or say anything that she wouldn’t herself. She’s got the life jacket swung around her arm as she clips Oliver into his own.

“Y/N’s going to wear one too, and she’s not a little kid. I’ll wear one as well if you’d like.” He promised him. Albeit looking reserved, Jackson nods softly with his hands in little fists, worrying his lip between his teeth. The poor thing, Harry thinks -- he used to be afraid of water too. Nobody wants to conquer that fear suddenly, let alone with a group of people that may or may not poke fun because they’re kids and kids are jerks sometimes.

Harry finds him a life jacket -- a cute one with a shark on it, that he helps him clip on, and fits it to his body with the straps. Next, he needed to find one for himself, but he wasn’t entirely sure where they kept the counsellor life jackets, so he called for Y/N where she’d been a few meters away and she popped her head up from where she was like a meerkat. Her eyes softened when she realized who had called her, and a gentle smile pulled at her mouth, “Hey hubby,” she greets him, much to the delight of Charlotte, who claps giddily, “What d’ya need?”

“A life jacket, please. Where’d you get yours?” Harry tries to be decent -- tries desperately to keep his eyes to himself, but he finds that this is surprisingly difficult when Y/N is in her swimsuit. It wasn’t obscene in any sense of the word -- in the pamphlet they get when they sign up, it is very clear that speedos and bikinis were not appropriate, and therefore not allowed. If a child couldn’t wear it, then you shouldn’t bring it -- was the apothegm that they chose to live by in reference to dress code.

This, however, doesn’t mean that Y/N’s swimsuit didn’t suit her well. It was fitted in a way that wasn’t too tight, yet wasn’t too loose -- like it might have just been made with her in mind. A simple one piece of nylon and lycra colored a powder blue, that barely showed off that much more of what she wears to bed, and yet his mind still flutters elsewhere. To unwise places, that he drags himself from before clearing his throat and forcing himself to look around the lake so it appeared his eyes were just scanning everything.

“You’re in luck,” Y/N jogged the short way from where they stood, back to where her kids were all gathered, playing happily in the sand. Beneath what Harry had assumed was just a cluster of towels, another life jacket was hidden beneath the fabric. She hands it toward him with a triumphant grin, “This was the last one. I grabbed it for you in case you just wanted to float rather than keep your legs kicking -- you had a big lunch, didn’t want you to get a cramp.”

Harry hates how his heart balloons in his chest. There was no reason to be a melt because she had thought of him -- that she had him in mind, so she snatched the last life jacket, and hid it beneath towels so nobody else could have it. No reason to feel all mushy from the way that she unfolds it for him, a silent prompt that she’s going to help him pull it on. And there was certainly, absolutely no good reason for how stupidly affectionate he feels when she strokes her finger along the heart tattoo on his forearm mindlessly, before murmuring, “You make me wanna get covered in them. Maybe I’ll just go and get all of yours.” She looks down at the ground, “Maybe not the toe, my feet are ticklish -- think I would kick the artist.”

He recruits Y/N for the process of easing Jackson into the water -- Noah and Elinor are floating and bobbing about happily at their sides, while Charlotte and Mikey playfully kick and float close to their older counterparts (if not practically on top of them). There was a chill bite to the water when they had first stepped in, but as they walked out further and sunk a bit deeper, the cold eases up. The cool air soothes them from the sharp bite of the scorching sun, Jackson holds his hand so tightly Harry thinks his fingers may go numb, and he figures Y/N is feeling the same way, if her soft, “Loosen your grip up a bit, Sweetheart, you’re gonna take off my hand.”

Eventually, Jackson relaxes. He finally understands that the life jacket will keep him afloat and holding onto Y/N and Harry wasn’t a necessity. Once the idea of this settles in his brain, he is more willing to let go and enjoy himself. It feels wonderful to see that he’s having fun, and even better when he sees the smile on Y/N’s face from this small victory. Last year, he hadn’t felt this parental over the children last summer, but something had changed. . .something that made him feel like he was a bit of a parent.

It has to be Y/N. There was something about her that just oozes mother figure for these kids, even if she wasn’t intending to do so. She kissed the bandages over their wounds to take away the hurt, she praised the ground they walked on, picked them up if they asked, danced with them, encouraged them, treated every single child as if they were her own. Harry believes she’ll be a beautiful mother one day, if that’s what she’d like, and whoever the father or mother was she had chosen to spend her life with, they were unbelievably lucky. He just hoped they would understand that.

Y/N floats into his line of sight, “Are you okay? Ellie said you look like Maisey’s aunt again, whatever that means.”

Harry snorts, before nodding, “Yeah, I’m fine. A bit tired.”

An understanding gleam overtakes her, “Y’know, I did think you seemed a bit snoozy,” she reaches out for him, squeezing his shoulder softly, “D’ya want to have a sneaky nap? I could watch the kids.��

“But I like having you both,” Jackson whined, shaking his head quickly, finding their hands once more, reassuring that his grip was tight as ever, “Please stay.”

“Yeah,” Noah splashes over to them, sliding his arms around Harry’s neck, wetting his hair with the water clinging to his life jacket, “You two are fun together! We always have so much fun -- Brittany said her counsellor always yells at them when they ask her to play with them.”

Elinor was quick to add, “And Ro’s counsellor falls asleep during art days! He doesn’t even help them stay in the lines, and they’re little like Oli, and Charlotte.”

Y/N’s bottom lip juts out in the prettiest little pout -- Harry finds himself wanting to pluck it with the pad of his thumb, “That’s silly, isn’t it? I have so much fun with you guys, I couldn’t imagine not playing. Right Harry?”

Nodding his assent, he reaches up, settling his hands around Noah’s arms and bring him along with him as he kicks them closer to Y/N and the other three, “It is silly. Some people just aren’t as fun as Y/N and I, Bug, it’s proven fact. They did the scientific method and everything.”

Oliver gleefully pushes himself up on Y/N’s shoulders, flopping back into the water and bobbing, “I love yous!” He chirped brightly, “Yous guys are my favorites! I love yous.”

The sight is adorable, especially as Y/N wriggles around and holds her arms out so they could hug, which Oliver happily accepts, “I love yous too, button.”

They have fun -- for hours, as they switch out which kids are in the water, spend time on the beach with all of them, making sandcastles, burying one another, chatting and playing. It was very freeing; Harry could easily tell that he and the others were having far more fun than any of the other groups were -- Mitch and Niall had gravitated their groups closer to them when Y/N and the kids began to pour sand over the top of him. Even Cassidy came around with her kids after they had heard them all giggling and laughing and wanted to know what was going on. Harry was having fun, and maybe he was just mushy, but he credited it to the joy Y/N was exuding. It was hard not to be in a good mood when he was around her.

By the time the sun sat a little lower in the sky, casting the shadows of trees over the sand and cooling them to the point of chilling. The kids washed their feet and hands beneath the rush of water from a yard hydrant, wrapped up in towels, and headed toward the dining hall for their dinner. There was a taco bar today, and Harry found that Y/N and he had a mutual love of tacos as a whole. She showed him how she adds feta crumbles, even let him have a bite of hers to see if he would like it so he could decide whether or not to put it on his own (it was delicious, she was right).

Once dinner was finished, everyone was exhausted. They all gathered around the campfire, one of the counsellors strummed a song on his guitar, they all had s'mores and then they dispersed. Not even the rush of sugar from the chocolate and marshmallow gave any of the children an umph in their step; they were all so sluggish and slow, dragging their feet through the dirt on their way to their cabins. Harry’s group barely kept their eyes open as they stalked to the showers, washing off the lake water and sand that had been clinging to their bodies. After they brushed their teeth, they all but face planted in their beds and snores soon filled the quiet air of the cabin. They only made him realize how exhausted he was from the day spent baking in the sun, floating and kicking in the water.

He trudges back to his cabin, where he finds Y/N had already showered off. She was face down in her pillow, her back slowly rising and falling with each gentle breath she took. She hadn’t covered in her blankets -- no, instead she used his cardigan as a makeshift cover over her body, and Harry thinks it might just be the cutest thing he’s ever seen. The patchwork swallows a good portion of her body, the sleeve flopped limply by her head. . .he could imagine her crawling into bed. Could imagine her putting her knee up first, dragging the cardigan that had been lying limply over the post with her and just letting it drape over her body. She probably wasn’t thinking she would fall asleep. . .probably thought she would just lay there for a minute before gathering the strength to get beneath her covers.

It’s adorable -- Harry hates how adorable he finds it, actually. If he could crawl in beside her he would, but instead he ambles to the bathroom, starts up the shower, and climbs in.

The water his hot -- boiling drops pelt his skin, washing away the grime and sweat that felt as if it’d been caked onto his skin. It felt good; to cleanse and scrub himself free of the lake, massage shampoo into his scalp, soften his curls with the conditioner, and just allow himself to revel in the feeling. Showers feel wonderful - a renewal that he deemed necessary by the end of the day. And when he gets the temperature just right, it soothes the aches and soreness in his bones, turning his muscles to softened jello. By the time he slipped out of the shower, he was practically boneless and thought he’d be lucky if he made it to his bed before dropping to the floor and falling asleep.

He expects Y/N to still be asleep when he leaves the bathroom, but he’s surprised to find her sat up in her bed, his cardigan pooled around her body and a deep frown on her face.

“Oh!” He’s started some -- he really thought she was out for the night, “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“It’s morning?” Her face further turns to that of distress and Harry bites down hard on a chuckle.

“No,” he responds, “It’s not morning. Only about 10PM, so you’ve got plenty of time to rest still.” She looks around groggily, rubbing at her cheek with one hand while she fisted his cardigan in the other, pulling it closer around her body, “Why don’t you get beneath the covers, Babe?” He asks her, and she’s quiet for a little while. The only inkling Harry receives that she even heard him was how she tries to shuffle and wriggle the covers down with her still stretched out on the bed, stuffing her legs into the blankets first, then sliding the rest of the way smoothly. All the while she clings to the cardigan, holding it tightly, resting her cheek on it. Harry doesn’t know if Y/N’s just far more affectionate than he had even thought prior, or if she was just half awake and doing things she wouldn’t do if she was fully conscious. Vaguely does he remember her saying something about typically cuddling with a teddy at night -- how she stuffs her face against it because it always smells like her fabric softener.

He wonders if that’s why she snuggles with it -- he wonders if she likes the smell of him, so she buries her nose in the fabric and breathes it in as she rests.

Harry hates this. He hates how inconceivably soft he’s been feeling, but he can’t help it. Y/N had found him worthy enough to poke inside her brain -- she opened up to him in a way she expressed she’d not been opening up to many people about. It made him feel closer to her.

But he told her he wouldn’t treat her any differently after finding out. And if he suddenly started expressing more affection, he fears she would think he was only doing it because of what she told him. He just wants to be. . .he just wants to be gentle with her. Doesn’t want her to ever think that she’s a burden to him, because the anecdote had made him question and second guess how he’d been treating her their entire time here. Of course, he was never intentionally cruel, but some of the situations he thinks about the two of them in, and how he responded, makes him cringe.

He switches off the overhead light, her dimmed bedside lamp and muscle memory guide him to his bed. Harry climbs in, shivers as he adjusts to the warmth beneath his covers, and breathes a soft sigh of relief to have finished with the day.

“Harry?” Y/N’s voice startles his eyes open, which he’d not been aware he’d closed.

“Hm?” He hums -- he had thought she’d fallen back asleep already.

“You’re okay?”

A soft smile plays at his mouth -- she asks him every night before bed, he’s noticed.

“Yes, I’m okay. Are you okay?”

She nods, “You did really good today,” her voice is muffled from her cheek mushed against his cardigan, “The kids had a lot of fun, they were telling me. I had a lot of fun too.”

“Yeah? Me too,” he reaches to thumb the hairs of his eyebrow down, “And thank you. You always do really well with the kids.”

She’s quiet for a minute, and once more, Harry thinks she must have fallen asleep, but the shift of the mattress tells him she’s changing position and Harry notices once more that his eyes have closed, “I’m glad you’re my roomie.”

Harry utters the words, that two weeks ago he thinks he would have spit at.

“Yeah, I’m glad you’re my roomie too.”

. . .

Harry was drunk.

Typically, he didn’t allow himself to get very drunk at these little parties. He trusted the others so little, he had no doubt in his mind that any moment he was slightly impaired in some way they would take it upon themselves to prey on his weakness. This means he only ever gets mildly tipsy -- drinks enough to feel good but caps himself when he thinks he might start stumbling.

But he just didn’t cap himself today. Not for any reason in particular -- their day hadn’t been difficult. They helped their kids through a mildly strenuous obstacle course throughout the morning, cooled down with them drinking juice boxes and eating popsicles and by 2PM they were inside doing little DIY projects. Harry burned his finger with some hot glue, but otherwise it was a pretty easy smooth kind of day that they didn’t get often. He and Y/N hadn’t gotten to spend much time together, which he wouldn’t admit loudly was a disappointment, but he and his kids had all agreed that they missed her.

(And when they had seen her and her group walking into the art room, the lot of them had erupted in cheers, Noah, Eli, Maisey being the loudest of them.)

They had a pasta dinner that was surprisingly filling, they told “spooky” campfire stories and ate s’mores, he got his kids ready for bed and he went off to the cabin. He and Y/N were going to one of the parties tonight, not because they had such spectacular luck with a good time before, but because they were coming up on some of their last nights here at camp. It was a bittersweet feeling -- Harry remembered being more than ready to flee last year, counting down each day, each hour dragging on longer than the last. This time, it felt like it was coming too quick. He would miss the kids, he would miss the busy days some. . .and sure, he was happy to go home and take a shower that stays hot longer than five minutes and rest on his soft, cozy bed, but he would miss not having Y/N right across from him.

That was what he was having the most trouble coming to terms with, he thinks. The idea of them not having to spend every moment of every day with one another after doing it for three weeks almost sounds wrong. It's the same feeling he gets when he knew he and Mitch wouldn’t have such easy access to one another once they went back home. Being at this camp sort of felt like being stuck in a time loop where the outside world doesn’t exist, so it’s very easy to forget that they all have lives outside of here. They all go to class, go to work, go home, study, eat and sleep.

He and Y/N live relatively close to one another -- only about a ten minute drive up the street with only one turn and it's into her apartment building -- but he wonders if they’ll utilize it. He wonders if their friendship is tied to this camp and if that’s where it will remain, or if she even wants to be friendly with him after. Harry hadn’t considered that maybe she was only putting up with him because they had to live together and she didn’t want it to be miserable. Had he questioned if he was even enjoyable to be around? How does he ask her that without sounding entirely too desperate or needy?

So partially, he drinks to ease some of the worry in his mind. Harry doesn’t think he would “break down” or something like it if they weren’t able to continue being friends -- like a forgotten summer love that he might think about throughout the fall, and message her to see how she was doing -- but he certainly wouldn’t be delighted if that’s how it ended up. Harry thinks there’s so much more to Y/N that he would like to see, and know, and hear. Three weeks isn’t enough time, Harry decided, but in the same breath he wondered if she had thought it was more than enough.

Harry knows she cares for him, at least a little bit. He knows that he cares for her and her wellbeing; he was fond of her. From what he knew of who she was fundamentally, down to her core, Harry knew she was selfless and kind -- it was hard to find people like that, who were that, without it being cakey or clouded by something else. She was transparent in who she was and her feelings regarding most things, and Harry valued her honesty.

And she was just so damn fun. Every moment with her he spent, the air filled with laughter; she brought a slice of sun in her pocket wherever she went and Harry was consistently being warmed beneath it.

The fact of the matter is, Harry doesn’t know how he could meet someone like Y/N, and get used to the idea of her not being in his life after three weeks. If he could refuse it he would, but what was he going to do? Kidnap her and take her home with him?

He’s sat on the tree root, opposed to standing beside it like he usually is, with his back pressed against the bark of the tree and he ignores the jagged, uneven trunk against his skin. Mitch was beside him, leaning lower than he was with his jacket bundled up and stuffed behind his head, his legs kicked out as far as they would go and because of this, his foot rested against Niall’s lap. Niall was pleasantly gone himself, a bit louder than normal but also zoning out every so often.

He was a good guy, Niall -- he had good opinions, and he chatted him and Mitch up about guitars often (he was typically the camp’s go to for an acoustic guy if they ever wanted campfire songs). Harry thinks they could probably be really good friends, if not for the fact that Niall was so barefaced in his crush on Y/N.

It was obvious, Harry thought. He’d thought it was obvious from the first moment he spent a prolonged period of time with both he and Y/N -- his cheeks got rosy when she touched him, he stuttered over his gratitude if she complimented him, and if she went out of her way to do something (like when she’d stuffed her hand into a thorn-bush for his guitar pick that had flung from his fingers, and subsequently got all scratched up), he would look at her how someone might stargaze.

Harry doesn’t know why he doesn’t just ask her out, if he likes her so much. It almost irritates him how skittish Niall seems to get at the prospect of it; to run away from those warm, nice feelings that she provides is silly. It reminds him entirely too much of himself and he loathes it.

Tonight had been no different, only Y/N was dancing back and forth between them and a few other counsellors (Harry only recognized one of them , who was called Rosie and had been in his first year maths). Harry watched her most of the night, in the least obnoxious and creepy way he could, just because. . .well, she was nice to look at. He liked how her body animated as she spoke, or how she nodded her head as someone was speaking to her -- it was an encouraging nod, and her eyes locked onto theirs like they might be telling her where the fountain of youth might be located, or the secrets to the universe.

She was cozy today -- it was cooler out than most of the nights that they had experienced, with a chill breeze that had even stirred goosebumps on Harry’s arms (and he was all but swaddled in his hoodie). Y/N had a light fitted sweater that she sometimes slept in -- not heavy enough to shield her from the icy terrain that winter would provide, but enough to fight past the harsh summer night breeze that threatened to help a storm roll in within the next few hours. Loosely, he let the images of her cuddled close to him invade his brain. What it might feel like, how the knit would brush against his skin, if she would hide her face in his neck or spider around him as the big spoon and burrow against his hair. Y/N struck him as someone who liked to do more of the cuddling than being cuddled herself.

He would miss her when they had to leave. Harry worried who would just exist with her, like they had been doing. He worried about her going back to a place where she felt like a burden -- he would be around, wouldn’t he? If she allowed him to, he could be there for her, but he doesn’t want to seem pushy. By all definitions, they had really just met -- Harry had known Y/N for approximately 17 days, but it felt like so much longer. He wonders if he had known her in a past life, or if it was the fact that they spent almost every day all day with one another for at least 15 of those 17 day -- he finally understands how everyone in the Love Island villa always goes on about how a day in the outside world feels like a week where they are.

It’s not like he’s professing his love to her, for fuck sake. He just likes her -- whether it be platonic or not, Harry thinks Y/N is just delightful.

“Your little girlfriend’s not with you?”

Harry had forgotten how Jack’s voice sounded how grating nails against iron pipes might make someone feel, mostly because they hadn’t spoken in quite a while. After Y/N had slapped him, he had kept to himself, resorting more to disgruntled glares and probably pissy comments he was murmuring to his mates about him. If someone asked Harry, he would say that him and his friends were afraid of Y/N -- she posed a good threat to them. Sure, they hadn’t understood the extent of her words that night (like how and why she knew Miss. Graham), but they were enough to rattle them. No matter being in university, or within the range of 20-23 years old, nobody wanted to be scolded by a woman in her 40s, nor did they want to be kicked out of a camp counsellor position, or to have their volunteer hours revoked.

So they had left him alone, which Harry thinks may have been such a strain for them he would be surprised if they hadn’t popped a blood vessel. Even if they wanted to, he was always with Y/N -- they never really had the chance, and if they did, they didn’t really take it.

Which is why he is both surprised and incredibly annoyed with Jack’s sudden appearance.

“Piss off.” Harry responds, nursing his beer bottle closer to him.

“You’re always so ill-tempered,” Jack leans up against the tree, “Just wanted to have a chat. Like why Cassidy suddenly wants to break things off after chatting with you and Y/N. Got any ideas?”

Harry’s brows dipped in confusion, “What? What are you on about?”

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking know,” Jack rolls his eyes, “Cassidy and I are doing just fucking fine for six months, but we come here, she starts chatting with you and now all the sudden she’s ready to break up. What the fuck did you say, hm?” He nudged Harry’s side with his foot, “Fucking Y/N wasn’t enough, you had to fuck Cassidy too?” He kicked him this time, harder than before.

Harry, who did not take too kindly to being kicked, rolled his eyes and pushed himself to a stand, “Dunno why you’re so fucking insecure that you think me being around has anything to do with Cassidy finally seeing what a prick you are, but this needs to stop,” he handed his bottle to Mitch who took it wordlessly, “I’m not fucking Cassidy, I’ve never fucked Cassidy, so if you could just grow the fuck up and recognize that maybe she broke up with you, because you’re awful to be around, that would be great.”

Jack, which Harry had expected, took more of a physical approach, giving a shove to Harry’s shoulders, and Harry’s back slams against the tree behind him, “Fuck you,” he spit, “You all holier than thou ‘cos you’re dipping your dick in Miss. Rainbow Bright? What do you know about me, hm? You’re just a dumb fuck who has to be here because you’re a no good druggy fuck with anger issues. How does it feel knowing you’ll amount to nothing after UNI?”

There isn’t a lot that could get under Harry’s skin. A lot of people could say a lot of shit that he brushes off and lets go, but there are two things that he really just can’t. One of them is when people try to speak poorly of his mum, and the other, was when someone pretends to know his situation when they don’t have a fucking clue. Who was this trust fund bastard to tell him he was a druggy fuck? That he would amount to nothing after UNI? Harry worked two jobs to set himself through school and keep himself fed, with a roof over his head, just so that he could live the life he wanted to after university.

Maybe it was silly to punch him, but it felt good to. Harry reared back his fist and it collided with his jaw, making Jack stumble backward, his hand flying to his face, “You fucking --” he swung in return, only he catches Harry’s shoulder because Harry moved out of the way in anticipation. Niall narrowly dodged being caught in the crossfire as he rolled out of the way.

The fight didn’t get too far, however, because when Jack was gearing up to swing again, Y/N appeared and easily wormed her way in between them, “Are you serious right now?” Her brows were furrowed -- she looked legitimately pissed off, and, well. . .it made Harry take a step back at least, “Thought we had a chat about this, hm? You were going to leave him the fuck alone -- no, look at me, not him,” she grabbed at his collar, giving a sharp tug when his angry gaze had flittered back toward Harry, “I’m not an angry person, Jack, I don’t like being mean, or cruel like you seem to be so fond of, but I can and will be if I need to and I promise you that. Don’t you ever speak to someone like that again, yeah? What you were saying was just awful.” She lets go of his collar, taking a step back and sighing in a sharp huff, “I can’t speak for Cassidy, but if I had to guess she probably cut things off because you’re a jealous bastard who questions every interaction with another person and try this alpha male persona to scare other people away. It must be exhausting.”

Jack shook his head, “We were fine --”

“You thought you were fine. Things aren’t always what they look like, alright? The sooner you understand that, the easier your life will be.” She nods toward the center of the clearing they were in, “Go get some ice from the cooler, and go the hell back to your cabin. You’re not a fun drunk.”

Albeit reluctantly, Jack follows her orders and slinks his way to the cooler. The others around them had grown quiet as they had watched the confrontation unfold, but they soon all lost interest once they realized nothing more would happen. Y/N turned to face Harry, the anger on her face immediately dissolving, as she shakes her head, “What a dick. I’m so sorry he spoke to you like that,” she takes ahold of his wrist, the hand that he had punched Jack with, running her thumbs over his reddened knuckles, “I told him -- after the lake, I told him that he needed to leave you alone or I’d do something about it. Dunno what I was gonna do, but I was going to do something -- I will --”

“Hey, hey,” he cuts her off, “It’s okay -- it’s okay, come on, let’s. . .let’s go to the cabin, yeah? Should we go back to the cabin?”

Y/N looks at him like he was batty, “No shit we’re going back to the cabin! I’ve got to give you like a full medical look over. He slammed you into the tree, and honestly, you bruise like a peach.”

They make the trek back to the cabin, relatively quiet, Harry still attempting to process what had happened and what Y/N had said. Had she really spoken to Jack after the fact and threatened him if he messed with Harry again? The softest, probably sweetest person he knows, had taken Jack off to the side and told him if he didn’t leave Harry alone she was going to do something about it. Not only that, she grabbed him by his collar and told him off in front of everyone. It made his heart race, the thought of it, and his cock twitches in his pants at the moment on repeat in his mind.

Once they get back to the cabin, Y/N has him take his hoodie off with her in the bathroom so she could visualize his back and shoulder. Jack may be short-tempered and smaller than Harry, but his punches still packed a great deal, so a nice, reddening bruise was forming quickly around his shoulder. On his back there were scrapes from the tree bark, Y/N tells him, and a ton of little bruises that had begun to form as well. She makes him stay still as she retrieves the first aid kit from their medicine cabinet.

“Y/N,” he started, and she hummed to encourage him to continue, “When did you speak with Jack privately?”

She clears her throat, plopping the first aid kit down on the sink counter and unclipping it open, “The morning after the lake,” she answers without hesitation, “I wasn’t trying to like, fight your battles or anything, but I needed him to know I wasn’t bluffing when I told them I would rat them out, and worse if the situation allowed it. I hate bullies,” she pulls out a small tube of bacitracin, tutting her tongue as she squeezes it out on the tip of her finger, “And I hate how they treat you. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

“You didn’t at all,” Harry remarks softly, jolting when her fingers very carefully graze over one of the tender areas on his back, “Thank you, actually, for sticking up for me again.”

“You don’t have to thank me. I think I’m pretty scrappy when I need to be,” she giggles to herself, “Like, if need be, I would take on the Queen for you. Might be an uneven match though, she’s pushing 100.”

Harry spins around to face her though, “Y/N, I mean it,” he tells her seriously, their gazes locking, “Thank you for everything. For dealing with my attitude, for sticking up for me, for helping with the kids, for making this experience bearable, for being such a positive light,” he sighs, “You’re amazing, you deserve amazing things.”

Y/N looks taken by his words -- he wonders if she’s as lost in his eyes as he is in hers. Her mouth falls open gently, like she may be searching for what to say back to him but can’t come up with anything. He worries that he’d said too much -- that he freaked her out or something. He wasn’t trying to, he was just so grateful for her, he didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to express it.

He is about to apologize for being too forward, when Y/N pushes the short distance and connects their lips together.

Harry’s confused for a moment as his brain registers what’s happening, but when he feels that she might pull away, his body finally seems to wake up. His hands find her face, cradling her jaw in his hands as he reaffirms the kiss and lets the butterflies in his body take over in hoards. He’d given thought to kissing Y/N, sure, but he’d never thought it would happen. Not only that, he’d never thought it would feel this nice. She tastes like the pineapple wine coolers she’d been sipping on that night, her lips still a bit sticky from the residue of the alcohol on her soft lips.

She’s gentle in how she kisses, like Harry would have guessed -- careful too, and cautious with how her lips parted from him only to fix back together. A pool of heat had formed in Harry’s lower belly and rose to his chest, stirring his heart in flutters when her tongue slid into his mouth and met her own. Harry hadn’t realized just how badly he wanted to kiss her until their tongues are sliding against one another, and his hands are slipping down from her jaw, caressing the delicate skin of her throat, skating down her chest to her hips. He squeezes her sides and pulls her closer to him, feeling the knit of her top rub against his bare torso. It was as soft as he’d imagined it’d be.

Had she been wanting to kiss him for as long as he wanted to kiss her? Normally, Harry could tell how badly someone wanted to kiss him by the act alone, but with Y/N he was so caught up he couldn’t focus. She was calm and soft, but the longer they kissed, the more ardent she became. It was the tiny moan that had left from her mouth into his own, that made him lightheaded. He had to pull away to breathe but his forehead pressed against hers as he breathed in, “Harry?” Her voice is low, she says his name like a secret, “Was that okay?”

His response is to press their lips back together, but this time only for a moment, before he withdraws. Harry loops his fingers around her wrist and brings her with him back into the main room, flopping onto her bed since it was the closest and urging her to climb into his lap. She straddles him, and just as soon as she’s within reach, he slides his fingers at the nape of her neck and pulls her back to his mouth.

It was good -- it felt so fucking good, Harry couldn’t begin to describe it. He held her close, and tried as he might to stave off his cock from ruining the moment, the longer they kissed the harder he got. How she was positioned at first made it so she couldn’t really feel him, but when she tried to get closer to him, she scooted her hips forward and rubbed up right against him. A gasp leaves her as she parts from him, looking down, having lifted her hips, “I’m sorry,” she apologizes and Harry gives a startled laugh.

“I’ve got a stiffy, and you’re apologizing?” He chuckles with a shake of his head, “I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I’ve got a pretty girl in my lap kissing me, s’kind of hard not to get hard. We can stop if you want.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she answers with no delay nor doubt, as she lowers back down, resting her front on his prick and with this she gives an experimental roll of her hips. Harry hisses in a breath as she does it again, her own little moan slipping from her mouth. She was only in a thin little pair of shorts, and Harry had chosen sweatpants for the night, so there was little fabric truly separating them. Harry was thankful for it as she continued to roll her hips against him, sponging kisses from his mouth, down his jawline, to the curve of his throat. She fixed her lips there, lulling her tongue over the skin before she started suckling at him and Harry’s hands danced along her back, stroking up and down it, feeling her, holding her closer. Each roll of her hips made him harder, and he was desperate to know if she was wet. If he pushed his fingers into her shorts, would they come back slick from her arousal? Would she watch him as he slid them into his mouth to taste her? Would she let him split her thighs and lick straight from the source.

His mind was overcome with filth, smutty images entangle once innocent thoughts as she brought the blood to the surface of his skin. When one of his hands left where it had latched onto her hip and slowly maneuvered around to her front, she paused, but left her face dipped in his throat, “Are you wet for me?” He asks her quietly and she nods through a little shiver, “Yeah? Bet you soaked through your little panties,” he murmurs as he slides his fingers past the elastic bands of her shorts and underwear, but left his fingers just past them, “Answer me.”

“Yes,” her voice trembles, she swallows thickly and the muscles in her abdomen contract beneath his fingers.

Harry hums low, slipping his fingers down further and he dips between her slick folds, “Oh, Sweetheart,” he presses a chaste kiss to the side of her head, “Is this your first time getting wet for me?” She shakes her head, “Hm, really? So you’re like this often? Do you take care of it?”

“I -- yeah,” she stutters over a moan as the pads of his fingers roll over her swollen clit slowly, feeling it flick beneath them, “At night, sometimes I will in the shower if I can’t. . .if I can’t wait anymore.”

He feigns a gasp, “Oh my goodness,” he speeds up the slow lull of his fingers, “Your showers are always so fast, doll, you’re really that quick to cum?”

Harry may not be able to see her face, but he can hear the pout clear in her voice, “It usually isn’t that fast! Just with you, it is -- when I think of you, it’s always quick.”

He thought it would be impossible for his cock to be harder than it already was, but her words make pre-cum bubble at the tip, and when he dips his fingers back into her slick little hole, he gets even harder. Gliding his fingers from her panties, he draws them up to his mouth and presses them past his lips as he’d wanted to. Y/N has withdrawn from his throat, watching him do it with glassy eyes, her hands resting on his shoulders, digging her fingers into grape sized dents at the muscle. Her mouth falls open as he sucks her juices away, his eyes fluttering and a groan torn from his throat.

“Get on the bed,” he instructed and Y/N followed without question, crawling from his lap and lying her head on her pillow as Harry stood, and repositioned himself. He takes a hold of shorts and drags them down her legs, wriggling them off her ankle and tossing them elsewhere. His lips finds her ankle first, before he’s peppering and sponging kisses down her leg, the parts that he had tended to throw over his shoulder. When he gets to her thighs, he makes the kisses slower, softer -- he suckles and nips at the supple skin until he’s right before her center, only to switch to her other thigh and push kisses up and down the length of it.

Y/N’s whole body trembles with each shaky breath she gives. She’d spoken no words until he was positioned right in front of her core, looping his fingers in the waistband of the little cotton pair she had on, pulling them up toward her hips so the fabric stretched out over her. He could see her pussy beneath it, made out the outline of her swollen lips and engorged clit -- it made his mouth water.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want,” she tells him, and his gaze is pulled back up to her -- she looks apprehensive.

“What?”

She shrugs, “I know some guys don’t really like to so --”

“Do you want me to eat your pussy?” Harry asks her bluntly, and he revels in the way her eyes widen, and how bashful her face turns as she looks away, “It’s a yes or no question, honey, if you don’t want me to, I can come back up and kiss you while I make you feel good with my fingers. If you do want me to, I’m g’na pull those panties to the side and make you cum on my tongue -- either I’m good with.”

“I -- yes,” she answers, her voice meek, “Yes I want you to.”

Harry smiles softly, “Poor thing, How many stupid boys were refusing to eat this sweet little peach?” He runs his thumb up and down her slit, visualizing where the wet spot had grown and soaked her panties so that the fabric thinned. Leaning in, he nosed at her clit and she inhales, “God, I’m so excited — you’re okay with this? You’re okay with me eating this little pussy out? Need you to let me know because once I start sweet girl, I’ll be in heaven.”

“Yes, please, please lick me.”

“So polite,” he suckles a kiss at the very innermost part of her thigh, before licking one, long stripe up her center through the fabric. She moans, pushing her hips down toward his mouth as he drags his tongue over it again, and again, and again. He soaks it with his spit, teasing her — he wanted to pull her panties to the side and suckle and slurp between her lips until she came — but he wants her to beg for him. Wants to hear that she wants him just as much as he wants her.

He smiles against her as he hears her getting impatient, little huffs between each moan. She whines, her hips bucking up against his tongue — he looks up to her, watching as her chest rises and falls quickly. The fingers of one hand are dug into the sheets beside her, while the others rest between her teeth. Her brows were tilted, lips pouted, whimpers come more frequently the longer he suckles and laps on the fabric, drenching it.

“Harry,” she finally works out, shivering when he pauses just over her clit and flickers his tongue over the top of it, “Oh, please just -- please.”

“Hm?” He hums against her, jolts, inhaling sharply, “What is it, baby? You’ve got to use your words.”

“Please stop teasing me,” she tells him, “Please take them off.”

And Harry may love to tease, but he wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t a bloody monster, was he? So he slides his index and middle finger in between the fabric and her core and tugs them over to the side -- he didn’t want to waste any time wiggling them down her legs. No, instead he dips his tongue in between her lips and slides it flat and straight up to her swollen clit. The groan that leaves her is sinful -- it makes his cock twitch in his pants, his heart slamming against his sternum as he suckles and her fingers find his curls. She digs her fingers within the strands, rocking her hips up to meet his mouth, and for a moment, Harry just leaves his tongue out and flat for her to grind against. Harry thinks, if he could spend the day just strapped to Y/N’s bed, willing, ready, and waiting for her to come use his mouth how she pleased -- he would be inconceivable happy.

Eventually he wiggles his face back into her, sliding his tongue back and forth before he latches his lips back around her silky folds. The swollen little button crying desperately for his attention was where he spent most of his time, lapping, or lulling his tongue in circles around it. She keens, her heel digs into the mattress and begins to slide down but Harry grabs a hold of her thighs and pushes both of them up, so her knees are to her chest. The new position makes her cry out his name raggedly, and Harry was teeming with carnal desire, and so horny he thinks he would barely have to hump against the mattress to cum.

“I’m close,” she warns him, mewling, “I’m g’na cum, I’m -- oh, please don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

Harry doesn’t think he’d stop if he was paid to do it. He doubles his efforts, sucking harder, sliding down to tongue at her hole while his fingers wrapped around and spun little circles into her clit. His other hand he reaches up with and slides his thumb into her mouth and she accepts it graciously, as it muted her moans that grew louder and louder the closer she got.

When she cums, it’s beautiful -- Harry wishes he would be able to see it on repeat, how her back arched upward and her hips bucked loosely as she pulsated around his tongue. Her mouth hangs open around his thumb, her eyes squeezed shut, the fingers in his hair tighten and her other hand wraps around his wrists and holds him tightly. The initial lurch of it subsides and she melts into the mattress, trying to catch her breath, her chest heaving beneath her sweater.

After he thoroughly cleans her (until she’s twitching and jumping away from his tongue), he crawls up her body, pushing her sweater up over her breasts, “Can I fuck you, Darling?” He asks her, a small smile on his mouth when she leans her chest closer to him so he can reach behind her and unclip her bra. Tugging the cups away, he grabs them carefully, thumbing over her nipple, “If you don’t want to, that’s okay, don’t feel bad about it, just let me know.”

“I want you to,” she rushes to tell him, nodding, “Do you have a condom?”

He dips his head against her chest, breathing out a sigh, “Fuck me,” he utters, shaking his head, “No, I don’t. I’m sorry.”

He usually does -- Harry always keeps a few on him, but he remembers very vividly he and Y/N had blown his last one up just a few nights prior and drawn a face on it. For a moment he feels hopeless, a sad pit forming in his stomach because the thought of fucking Y/N sounded like paradise and he only brought one bloody condom that he wasted.

“It’s okay, we’ll do it next time then,” she tells him, and Harry feels a joyful spike in his overall demeanor. Next time -- she wanted there to be a next time? And if she wanted there to be a next time, then they would have to see each other after the camp. . .they would spend time together, Harry could learn what she was like in her normal day to day. He was eager and delighted, and not even just at the prospect of pushing into her (which he was also pretty damn excited for), “I mean, if you wanted to do this again, then, yeah -- right? We’ll hang out after camp is through?”

A smile threatens to split his cheeks, “Of course we will,” he tells her, nosing at her jawline, “And not just ‘cos you promised to let me fuck you. I was hoping we would see each other still but was worried that you might be sick of me.”

Her brows pinch, “Sick of you? Dummy, I thought you would be sick of me!” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at the both of them, “We’re so stupid, we ought’a communicate better.” Y/N presses at his abdomen, “C’mon then, I’ll spin around and you can fuck between my thighs. I did it once with a boy -- I just shaved in the shower last night too so it should be soft.”

Y/N flips over, scooting her bum in the air for him as she cuddles a pillow to her face, her ankles locked in place and her thighs squeezed together. Harry wiggles out of his pants and boxers before he lets a glob of spit fall onto his stiff cock that had soundly slapped up against his stomach, slicking it up nice and wet so the glide between her thighs wouldn’t be too dry. One hand he lays palm flat to her bum, stroking the skin there with his thumb while the other hand navigates his prick, tipping it down and fitting it between her warm, soft thighs.

It felt good; Harry groans wantonly as he pulls out and sinks back in, watching himself disappear between them. She wiggles her bum at him and Harry playfully swats it, chuckling when she squeals and giggles, “You’re so fucking cute,” he coos before bending over, stretching himself over her so his chest was pressed to her back as he started steadily fucking in between her thighs. One hand he uses to cup her breast and tweak at her nipple while the other he slides down to her pussy, finding her swollen little button and rubbing it.

Harry’s skin prickles as she moans, her legs falling open just slightly but he tuts his tongue, “Keep them nice and tight for me, baby,” he murmurs, and she nods, tightening the channel for him once more. He won’t last long, he knows it -- he can feel that pool of heat crackling in his lower belly. His blood buzzes in his ears as he fucks his hips forward, their skin slapping together sound in their little cabin. Her breasts bounce with each thrust he gives, she’s beginning to cum again from the ministration of his fingers, and Harry’s nearing the end of his rope.

“You feel so fucking good,” he’s just a breath away from her ear, “You’re gonna make me cum.”

He nibbles at the shell of her ear and lets his eyes flutter closed, his senses on overload. All he can hear, and taste, and smell, and feel is her. Dizzy and overwhelmed, Harry feels as if he may burst at the seams.

“Cum,” she murmurs, “Please, I want you to feel good -- I want you to cum.”

That’s all it takes -- the little push of her words has his hips stuttering as he cums, spurting long stripes between her thighs, some catching her skin, some landing on her sheets below them. His world fizzles out, static splinters through his body as warmth rushes through his veins, and his toes curl hard enough to lock up. As he comes back to, he giggles, the last of his orgasm drooling from the tip as he pushes a kiss to the back of Y/N’s head, “Stay still, lemme go get us a rag.”

His legs feel like jelly when he stands, fleeing arse naked to the bathroom and returning moments later with warm, wet rags. He cleans her first, careful in how he works her underwear down her legs before he pats gently around her thighs and at her center. She’s sensitive, so a few times she twitches and flinches from him but eventually relaxes as she holds tightly to the pillow. He wipes himself off a bit haphazardly, more concerned with getting Y/N somewhere to lie down as he gently tugs on her arms, “C’mere, poor thing, I came all over your bed.”

“Yeah, you jerk,” she says puckishly, letting him guide her over to his bed, climbing in and immediately snuggling beneath his covers. Harry is not too far behind her, and at first she snuggles up close to him, she hisses and squeals before trying to shuffle away, “Why are your feet like ice?” She asks him, her words accusing, like he’d come in the bed with intent to freeze her.

Harry shrugs, “I dunno’ I usually wear socks to bed to keep them warm.”

“Socks? To sleep?” She slowly wiggles her way closer to him, despite the words that follow, “I don’t think we can share a bed, you’re batty.”

“Guess you’ll have to go sleep on the jizzy bed then.”

Y/N laughs, and Harry feels it vibrate through his body as he holds her close to his chest, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They’re quiet for a moment, as they both settle, taking deep, slow breaths, allowing themselves to slip towards sleep.

Before Harry could get there, Y/N murmured his name.

“Thanks for being my camp ‘husbad’.”

Harry smiled to himself, and held her a little closer before he teased her.

“You can say thank you next time with an 18 carat diamond.”

#WRITING #WOOOOOOOOOOO #I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE IT #YAHTZEE :D #IT WAS FUN TO WRITE #IM GONNA DO A SMALL PART 3 TO TIE THINGS UP IN A LITTLE BOW #HAPPY READING #harry smut

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jj-5656 · 4 years

Text

The Fight

With; Newt (TMR)

A/N: Kind of a long one guys. Thank you again for all the love. I appreciate every like, reblog, and comment. Enjoy!

Warnings: mention of suicidal thoughts/attempt, anxiety, minor panic attack, Minho being an ass (I promise it’s not all depressing and sappy there is a good amount of angst/fluff ofc)

“Bugger off Newt, I want to be left alone.” The boy trails behind as you stomp over to the forest, figuring collecting fertilizer would be better than having to tolerate the pestering blonde any longer.

“Don’t you want someone to keep you company?”

“Am I still speaking English? Leave me be.” It’s been a long day, and a part of you is still getting used to the harsh, mundane work days of the glade since you’re arrival a few months ago. It’s been a lot of pressure, but surprisingly you’ve managed to hold it together. It’s impressive too, you’ve managed to adapt better to your new life better than any other glader had. Perhaps that was why the boy was so drawn to you.

It’s not like he had wanted to be. In fact, Newt would have been more than happy treating you like any other glader. But it just so happened the one and only girl in the glade just had to be a natural track-hoe, so there was no avoiding her. Not her smooth skin, glistening eyes, or her infectious laugh-

“Hello? Would you quit it, shank? It’s like you want to get me jacked.”

“Maybe I just like seeing you all riled up.” You can feel the smirk playing on his stupidly Cherry-red lips as he teases you, quickening his pace so he can grab the straggling branches of the thick forest out of your way. Your stomach flips at his words, but it’s quickly filled with hot anger as the nervousness fades. He won’t quit flirting, and despite your quit wit you’re finding it harder to snap back at him when he says things like that. He doesn’t even mean it

“You’re infuriating!”

“And you’re gorgeous.” The words slip past his tongue before he can catch him, and your footsteps stutter over a stray twig amongst the brush on the ground. You almost trip, but the glader behind you is quick to catch your forearm. It’s silent, and you’re darting your head around just fast enough to catch the stunned look on his face, informing you he hadn’t meant to voice the compliment aloud. Your eyes narrow, trying your best to ignore the longing temptation within you begging to kiss away the stupid blush in his cheeks.

“You know, instead of searching the forest for fertilizer, I should just pick up all the klunk that comes out of your mouth.” The harsh words come without much thought, but you don’t completely regret saying them. If he was actually interested, he wouldn’t be so keen on making you annoyed every minute of every day.

His eyebrows narrow, but if your snarky comment provoked any thought he doesn’t voice it.

“Shuck, sorry then newbie. I’ll slim it.”

“Listen, I was a newbie four greenies ago! So you can stop calling me that.” You spin on your heel to face him, standing your ground when he stops short in order to not run you over. When you meet eyes, he gives a kind smile, studying your features intently. Almost as if you were in a daze, you do the same. Relishing in the sounds of the nature around you and the warm sun beaming through the tree tops, perfectly illuminating the lightest streaks in the taller boy’s hair. You hadn’t notice before, but there are small puddles of gold in his deep brown eyes, speckled about in his irises and disappearing when he tilts his head to the side in feigned curiosity. He licks his lips before letting his accented voice break the silence.

“What’s up with you?”

“What? Nothing.”

“You’ve got that look about you.”

“What look?”

“That look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“Well, I’m looking at you right now, and you have a look.”

“What look?!” He grins at your suddenly aggravated persistence, holding back a laugh when you let out a dramatic groan and start to tread deeper into the woods.

Later that night, you’re making conversation with Frypan as you help with the dishes. He’s good company, and most times mundane chores like cleaning up after other gladers seem to fly by when he’s around. You let out a sigh when a familiar hand reaches out to help you take out one of the heavier pots from the drying rack.

“Didn’t know you were a cook, greenie.”

“Maybe I;’m just trying to avoid you.”

“Impossible, you’d miss me too much.”

“What do you want, shank.”

“What, I can’t help out too?”

Just then, you’re pulled away by the forearm with a strong yank. Releasing yourself from Mihno’s grip and rubbing the excess suds off of your hands quickly.

“What the hell?”

“Listen, you want him to quit being a shank towards you right?”

“Of course I do Minho, but-“

“Then flirt with me.”

“Wh-what?”

“Flirt with me, squeeze my arm and laugh like I just said something really funny.”

“You’re already saying something funny. You must be jacked.” You attempt to blow your friend off and walk away, but he pulls you toward him again.

“Just humor me for a minute, yeah? Let’s see how riled up this shank gets.”

“Minho, he’s not going to get mad. He lives to annoy me, he’ll be happy to see you’re joining in on the fun!”

“Y/n, you’re not seriously this dense? The poor shank likes you, he’s just got no idea how to show it. The playful banter you two have, although it’s cute, is starting to get old. So, because I’m an amazing friend and wing-man, I’ll help you shanks out. Now squeeze my arm and laugh.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t believe me?” His challenging smirk is enough for you to give in, determined to prove the raven haired boy wrong. Setting aside your irritated mood, you adjust your hunched stance before giving Minho your most charming smile. Muttering idly and pressing his bicep with a dramatic laugh. He shoots you a glare when you pinch with a little too much passion, but a smirk stays on his face nonetheless. He moves just a bit closer to you, eyes darting across the glade and smile widening.

“See she-bean? He’s practically fuming.” The boy does all he can to contain his laughter, pulling himself together when you offer a subtle glance to the blonde across the glade. He’s leaning against the now empty sink with his arms crossed. Looking too angry to even begin to make his death glare towards Minho any less obvious. Admittedly, you don’t think you’ve seen Newt ever look so flustered. When you lock eyes, his lips remain tightly pressed together. Not long after does he turn back around to continue attending to the dishes. All whilst muttering something under his breath and shaking his head.

“Don’t get so cocky, you’re blushing too you shank.” You swat Mihno’s hand pinching your cheek, genuinely laughing when he nudges you out of the homestead hut.

“I’ll probably be banished by sundown for that.”

“You think he’s really that upset about it? I mean, I know we’re good friends and all but I never expected Newt to see me like that.”

“It’s a good thing I’m one of the only shanks around here with a brain.”

“Y/n, mind if I talk to you for a bit?” Alby approached the pair of you with a soft expression, his gentle nature filling you with a bit of concern. You nod hesitantly, feeling as though every damn glader needed to pull you from one conversation to the next tonight. You follow Alby closely as he leads you back into the homestead, sitting on one of the hammocks and motioning for you to do the same. There’s a contemplative silence before the head glader speaks, only taking him a few moments to gather his thoughts before meeting your eyes.

“I gotta be honest greenie, I’m a bit worried about you.”

“Why me?” Your eyebrows narrow in confusion, and the older boy’s worried tone makes your heart sink.

“Most of the newbies are jacked the first couple weeks. You know, lashing out one minute and crying like a baby the next. But you’ve been quite, collected. That leaves a lot of room for me to be concerned.”

“Alby, you’re upset that I’m not...Upset?”

“I’m upset that you remind me of myself. I was a lot like you, I kept everything in when I first got here. I was reserved, and I kept everything bottled up inside. And I’m no therapist, but that quickly tore me apart. I understand being a girl might...Complicate things, seeing as some of these shanks expect you to be weaker. You don’t have to prove yourself greenie, at least not in that way.” You take a minute to consider his words, chewing on the inside of your cheek in thought. He studies you for a moment, seemingly thinking about his next words with caution. “I don’t mean to jack you up, just think about it.” He finishes carefully, nudging your shoulder with his own before exiting the hut. Giving you a tight lipped smile and curt nod before disappearing from view. Was that supposed to be a pep talk?

**************

The past weeks had been confusing, terrifying, and downright unbelievable. That was clear, but didn’t you have no other choice than to accept what was going on? You still had millions of questions, and a certain ache in your heart that felt like it was pulling at you. But there wasn’t time to break down, not yet anyway. Is there even a right time? The conversation with Alby seemed to have made you worse off than before. You shuffle for the hundredth time in your hammock, letting out an exasperated sigh at the restless situation.

Despite your efforts, sleep never comes. For the past week, you’ve been exhausted just about everyday. Today had been no different, except when you try to relax, anxiety crawls in the air around you. Suddenly, the warm night air is absolutely suffocating. It’s too much pressure, too much unknown for you to handle it any longer. When your pounding heartbeat begins to drown out the cicadas and other sounds of the glade, you can only think of one thing. Alby was right

Stumbling out of your hammock, you start making your way out of the hut. It doesn’t matter where, you just need to escape. Even when you’re outside, there’s still not enough room. The four walls that once felt like a barrier between you and the horrors of the ominous maze, now feel like a cage. Trapping you inside and shrinking impossibly smaller until they eventually crush you.

Without thinking, you begin to sprint over to the west wall, pounding at the menacing stone and letting out a chocked sob. All at once, every emotion you’d suppressed since your first day in the glade releases from you. It’s nauseating, and you grip your stomach in an attempt to latch onto some sense of stability.

Who put you here? Why was everyone so indifferent to their lives here, and why had you eventually become the same way?

There’s been this ache, some rotting substance in your core that’s been emanating within you since you first woke up in the box. A horrible, indescribable hollowness that is the result of the loss of what must have been your life before the maze. Suddenly, you miss your mom. Or maybe a woman who resembled one. It’s mortifying, to know you must have parents somewhere out there. But you can’t remember them, can only feel the ugliest parts of you that aren’t whole without them. Your vision blurs, and there’s an awful white noise that drowns out any and all sounds of reality surrounding you. Completely immersed in your own thoughts, even the ground beneath you feels as though it’s been meticulously sculpted by whatever monsters put you here. It’s impossible to breath, feeling as though every beat of your heart, every blink of an eye is in the control of the creators. So caught up in your own panic, you don’t sense the boy calling your name behind you.

You attempt to squirm out of his strong grip, his stature never showing how strong he truly is from his long hours in the gardens. It’s no use to keep pulling away when his back hits the stone wall of the glade, using his strong grip to hold your hands against your chest as he slides you both to the floor. Weaker leg giving out from the sheer strength needed to restrain you. Newt’s not sure if he’s helping or making your panicked state even worse, but he’s reassured when you begin to calm. Erratic cries faltering into small whimpers as your head uncontrollably jerks at each sharp intake of air your body forces you to take. You can feel his heart beat rapidly against your back, informing you just how scared he is despite his stoic nature on the outside. You try to release from his grip once again, instincts telling you there’s too much to worry about to calm down. The blonde pulls you closer to him once more, hushing your cries and leaning his chin atop of your head. The world feels authentic again, and you silently think out a plethora of thank you’s to the boy for immersing you back into reality. Doing your best to cease your cries and gain control of your breathing, you grip onto the fabric of his long sleeve sleeping shirt with a terror-induced strength. It’s all too much

“Just breathe y/n, breathe with me.” He mutters softly, chest filling with pride when you mimic his dramatic intakes of air.

The ringing subsides, and the white clouding your vision finally clears when your heart begins to slow. Eventually, Newt releases your arms. And in an instant, you clutch onto his hand in fear the crippling panic will return. Rip you away from everything you’ve come to know in only seconds.

“You’re alright now love, just breathe.” He soothes again, not even flinching at your harsh grip on him. The minute you had left your hammock, something within him beckoned him to follow. You’d been off the past couple of days, and somehow the boy knew you couldn’t be alone. His eyes well with tears, you having reminded him so much of himself his first year in the glade. He wonders what you would have done if he hadn’t caught you in time, and what lengths you would have gone to if the pain never stopped and the maze walls opened. He wills away the thought with a shake of his head, reminding himself that you’re still here, and in dire need of a friend.

“I miss my mom.” You stutter out eventually, soft lips trembling and pulled into a pitiful pout. “I don’t remember her of course, but it’s like I can feel her. I feel everything and nothing at the same time, you know? There’s so much death here, it’s been hard to find something to live for. How am I supposed to do this, how are we supposed to survive this? I mean...This has gotta be some sort of sick joke, nobody could be this shucking cruel right?” You let out a pathetic scoff, still shaking uncontrollably in his arms.

“Listen to me y/n, I’ve been where you are. We all have, and I can promise you there is so much more than that feeling. You have to believe me.” You shake your head, refusing to accept his empty promises. He sighs before continuing, trying to gather his thoughts in preparation to confess what he’s kept secret from almost all other gladers until now. “A couple weeks into my first year here, I couldn’t shake the same feeling you’re describing. That dark, ominous part that sits inside of all of us here. The unknown, the memories begging to re-enter your mind. I hated it, I hated this place, and I hated myself.” You lift your head from his shoulder at that, wanting to study his contemplative expression as he carries on. “Eventually, I couldn’t take it. So I ran out into the maze....And I did what I assume you’ve been thinking about the past couple of days. And I can assure you, nothing you do to yourself with get rid of that pain. That’s why we survive, we persevere, we fight. It might have taken a shattered leg and permanent limp for me to realize, but I know now the only way to beat that feeling is to escape this shucking place. What comes next doesn’t matter, we have to show whatever slintheads put us here that they won’t ever win. Do you understand?” His expression becomes stern, willing each word to bore into your mind as a permanent oath. Stunning brown eyes boring into yours as if they’ll cement each syllable into your mind. You nod, unsure of how to respond.

“You have to promise me.” He mutters softly, eyes welling with tears at your empty expression. “Please love, promise me you’ll fight.” He’s holding your head in his hands now, silently willing the overwhelming demons your facing to escape that beautiful mind.

“P-promise. I promise.” You reassure weakly, overcome with love for the boy under you. Instantly, you encase him in a tight embrace. Heart swelling even more when he plants a soft kiss to your temple.

“Good that.” He breathes gently, pulling you impossibly closer to his heart. Just to hold you for a little while longer. You have to fight, and you’ll do it together.

Tagging: @8avery8 @jenny33996

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curiouschild · 3 years

Text

Twin Butterflies

|| Jean Kirstein x fem! reader one shot ||

Summary: You’re taking a private moment on the morning of your wedding day with butterflies in your stomach when it’s interrupted.

Warnings: f l u f f <3

____________________________

No one else stirred in the cabin you were renting for yourself and your bridesmaids. It must have been a little after 6 in the morning as you could see the promise of dawn on the edge of the horizon. The wood was cold beneath your bare feet as you headed down the hall. In the haze of the morning fog that misted your brain, an invisible string seemed to be tugging you towards a large oak door. As you approached it, your nerves crackled beneath your skin as you gripped the metal handle, pushing the door open.

In the middle of the room with several large gaping windows was an elegant draping of white tulle and lace giving off a faint luminous glow in the early morning light. Wandering over to your wedding dress, your hand dips into the fabric of the skirt as if you could find the promises you would be making with Jean Kirstein could be found in its depths to calm you on one of the biggest days of your life.

Basking in the elegance of the most beautiful dress you will most likely ever own, you began to think of your soon to be husband who was sleeping in another cabin with his groomsmen. The two of you thought it would be lovely to get married in a wonderful little clearing in the woods that was owned by the family of your friend and bridesmaid, Sasha Braus. There were a few cabins as well that she offered to let you and your fiancee stay in before the big day. It was all so incredibly generous of her to accommodate yourself and your fiancee.

Your lips tug upwards as you thought about Jean. Was he peacefully sleeping? Was he about to get up for his usual morning jog? Or maybe he was starting a breakfast for his friends since he always loves to cook for people he cared about.

These thoughts made your heart flutter as you realized the mornings to come would be spent experiencing any of these scenarios with him. The serenity of those thoughts were clouded by the increasing amount of butterflies humming in your stomach. Even though you knew that no matter what, today was going to be special.

A quiet *tap tap tap* on glass had you reeling from your thoughts. Your eyes flicked towards one of the large windows where the noise came from. Your face pinked when you found warm hazel eyes watching you. Jean smiled softly, waving at you from outside. You returned his smile, loosening the fabric from your hands as you made your way to open the window.

“Good morning beautiful,” he greeted. Up close you saw that he was wearing a simple workout tank and loose sweatpants hung low at his hips.

With no screen in the way, he propped his long arms on the ledge and leaned his head through the window. His considerable height made his eyes remain almost at the same level as yours even as he slouched.

“Hi there. This is a surprise,” you said.

“A pleasant one I hope,” he chuckled. He opened his palm up to you and you slipped your hand into his, enjoying the warmth of his touch. “I woke up before any of the guys and felt like going for a walk. I couldn’t help passing by your cabin. What a lucky thing for me to see my beautiful bride before anyone else on our wedding day,” he murmured as his eyes studied your face in awe. He seemed to love drinking in the sight of you despite your clearly just-woke-up appearance.

“It’s certainly lovely to see you before everyone’s buzzing around getting ready,” you agree, your free hand reaching up to softly trace his jaw. The pads of your fingers grazed stubble. “I can’t even believe I was able to sleep. I’m so nervous about today- I think the worrying woke me up.”

His brow crinkled at your comment. “Why are you nervous, love?” He cupped his hands around yours and his fingers began to massage the back of your hand in soothing circles. You pause for a moment as he continued to knead into your skin carefully as you considered the question.

“There’s two things that come to mind,” you start. “Firstly, that I’m going to trip down the aisle. I wonder if that’s every bride’s fear, honestly. It seems like such a long walk and even if we laughed it off what if I ruined the dress? Or worse, stumble and trip into someone like your mom?”

You thought for a moment Jean would laugh at you for coming up with silly what-if’s, but he only continued to press his fingers into your palm. His hazel eyes were slightly amused, but he only said, “And what is the second thing my bride is worried about?”

You inhaled slowly before saying, “Well.. secondly, I’m nervous everything will pass by in such a blur that I won’t take in the moment.”

At this, you could see his handsome face become sympathetic. When he didn’t say anything you went on, “It feels like I haven’t seen you much this past month and all of the last minute planning has felt like such an onslaught of emotional and mental energy to the point where I don’t remember much of anything. We went sent out invitations and suddenly we’re here. I don’t want today to flash by like our engagement has.”

Jean brought your hand to his lips and softly pressed them across your knuckles before he asked quietly, “Come with me?”

You glanced down at your small silken robe that barely hit the edge of your short pajama shorts. “In this? I don’t even have shoes on.”

Jean smiled. “We won’t go far, I promise.” He tugged his hand and you laughed a little and muttered a small “oh fine.”

He stepped back, keeping your hand in his as you began to slide yourself through the window sill. The grass was still dewey as the two of you walked shoulder to shoulder and hands intertwined.

The jitteriness you had been experiencing on and off were left behind as you let Jean lead you towards a hidden path behind the cabin. There was a calming stillness, and neither of you felt the need to say anything. Your eyes glanced over every now and again to Jean’s face. He was keeping his eyes up, watching the tops of the trees. When you two were younger, he was often chatty and talked about himself until he was blue in the face. When he joined the regiment, he changed from being self centered, to a man who would do whatever it takes to protect those he loves. It made him more reflective. Humble. And one of the most passionate people you had ever known.

It wasn’t long before you two arrived at the clearing where your ceremony would be held. This was the first time you had a chance to see the seats set up along the trail of stepping stones that marked the path you would be taking to Jean later in the day.

You almost forgot to breathe as you took it all in. Jean squeezed your hand softly. “I can’t believe I get to marry you here,” he said softly before he moved into the last aisle to take a seat. You joined beside him in the innermost chair.

The blush returned to your face and you couldn’t help pressing your cheek against him. “It feels wrong to be here before the ceremony starts.”

You felt his laugh in his shoulder. “That’s what makes coming out here fun. Besides, if I can take your worries about our wedding away, then it can’t be that bad.” His eyes wandered up to the alter ahead and the two of you basked in the silence for a few moments.

“I sure do love you,” he finally said, tightening his hand around yours. “I loved you for the last several years. And I’ll love you if we’re saying our vows in front of everyone, or if we say them right here in our pajamas and skip the entire ceremony.”

Your eyes widened and your laughter rang in the clearing. “We aren’t skipping out on the wedding!”

The corner of his eyes crinkled at your laughter. “I know, I’m just being reassuring. You know what I mean though.”

“You’re so cheesy,” you teased him, lifting your head to press your lips against his cheek

“And yet, you’re still here with me,” he mused.

You bit your lip a little bit. His endearing charm always made you feel a bit like a school girl. “I couldn’t see myself here with anyone else.”

He rolled his eyes. “Now who’s the cheesy one?” He bumped his shoulder against your playfully. His hand left yours so he could wrap his arm around you.

“You told me earlier you’re nervous about walking up the aisle.”

You nodded shyly.

“Well, let me tell you that if you trip, I’ll just come to you.”

“No!” You quickly exclaimed. “That would emphasize the embarrassment.”

He smirked a little. “Then I’ll just have to trip on my way to helping my future wife. Then all of the attention will fall on me. And as far as you tripping into someone like my mom, it would be okay.”

You groaned at the thought. “If I trip into anyone I will die on the spot.”

His lips pressed into your temple affectionately. “I can’t let that happen. If you trip and fall into anyone, I’ll run to you in the aisle. I can just grab your hand and we’ll run away together. If your dress is ripped, I’ll carry you as we book it out of here.”

You shook your head, unable to stop grinning picturing him doing everything he can to help you in these imaginative situations.

“As for fearing about today going by in a blur,” he went on, his head turning to gaze into your eyes lovingly. “I think starting the day with just you is keeping me rooted in the moment. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He pressed his nose sweetly against yours and you felt any last of your butterflies quiet. It was quite something to remember the glow of your love for each other.

“I’m jealous that you haven’t had anxiety like I have. You’ve been so comforting.”

Pulling back, you were surprised to see a gentle flush in his face.

“Oh I’ve got my own butterflies, but for you I can ignore them.”

You tucked your head into the crook of his shoulder once more and you felt his head rest over yours.

“Well let me comfort you this time. What is my sweet Jean afraid will happen on our special day?”

“That our friendly neighborhood suicidal maniac is gonna do something stupid at our wedding,” he grumbled.

Through your giggling, you managed to say, “That’s what you get for making Eren a groomsmen.”

You heard Jean let out a scoff. “I knew you couldn’t sympathize,” he said in an exaggeratedly hurt voice.

The two of you talked and laughed together a little longer as sunlight danced over the tops of the trees. And in the moment, there was only the bond between you and Jean with the rest of your lives ahead of you.

#jean kirstein #jean kirschtien #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #jean kirschstein x reader #jean kirschstein x you #jean kirstein one shot #jean kirstein fluff #aot #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #snk #listen yall i was in my FEELS this week #and needed a pick me up #jean kirstein one shots have been my main comfort drug #also I didn’t know what I was gonna name it so there

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nagito-kissmaeda · 3 years

Text

Yandere Komaeda Headcanons submitted by Chaos under the cut (y) Warnings: Slight nsfw, yandere behavior, stalking, mention of suicide, masturbation (not very explicit.)

Yandere Nagito probably wasn't very Yandere before you came along. The unlucky boy was probably still the funky little creep to his classmates as always but as soon as you step through the doorway of 77-B's classroom then he kind of just thought, "Oh, they're pretty." And continued with his day. He didn't think too much of you.

If you were an ultimate who walked into the classroom, he wouldn't have thought much of it besides the idea that "YoU wErE sPrEaDiNg HoPe 😩"

If you were a reserve course student, on the other hand, he would think he is slightly superior. So, if you talk to him he'll feel like he's better than you but won't say anything except under certain circumstances (ex: You ask him for his opinion of you, his opinion on reserve course, that kind of stuff. At least, he's honest :/) But keep in mind, he only really acts like this when you two first meet.

After getting to form a friendship with you (however that happened, I'll leave that up to you), his crush on you takes shape quickly.

He mostly just did small stuff that made it obvious that he liked you (whether he realized it or not.) If you weren't around he'd be asking everyone in sight if they knew where you were. He'd linger uncomfortably close to you whenever you two were together. The unlucky boy also tended to...✨follow✨ you.

Bestie, run while you still can 🏃‍♀️💨 because after he kidnaps you you're gonna be more like ♿

(I guess that's assuming you can run at all...sorry if I offended someone ._.)

When you two are hanging out, he eventually opens up to you about his illnesses and past. All of what he told you would probably be a lot to process so the only thing you can think of besides, "I'm so sorry that happened to you," is that you just hug him. Now he's shocked. You're both shocked. wOAH! Nagito doesn't move at all during the hug and probably forgot to breathe because c'mon...homie hasn't received any form of physical affection for God knows how long. He's drawing a total blank and the first words that spring to his mind are, "I'm going to marry them."

You cannot tell me this man doesn't want to get married one day. Yes, his luck sucks fat juicy butt but it's just something he craves and can be selfish about. Nagito's opinion on his want for having a spouse goes back and forth, like how the fitness gram pacer test works (I bet some of you don't even know that this is something outside of a meme lol.) He probably got this desire from seeing how bad his parents' relationship was.

Nerdy headcanon stuff you don't have to read: So, it isn't canon that his parents had a bad relationship but I imagine that they did because Nagito mentions that his mom had never complimented him and he gained a massive inheritance after his family's death. Let me explain my logic on those. Nagito's mom probably never complimented him because she didn't like or want him. I also headcanon that his parents were in an arranged marriage which is why they were so rich and why I think they had a bad relationship, because let's be honest, not all arranged couples are comfortable with one another. The arranged marriage also could've been the reason why his family was wealthy, it could have had to do with business and work. So to wrap it all up, Nagito's parents are rich because of an arranged marriage and they don't really like each other and they had a kid that neither of them wanted so now it's a broken family with a fucked up kid. I know that sounds like a stretch but that's why it's a headcanon and not actually canon lol.

After that one hug, that's when he truly sees you as some sort of ethereal Deity that he was sure he was going to wed in the future (Hell, he'd probably settle for right there, right now.) He no longer cared if you were an ultimate or not because now he saw you as something even greater. Of course, he still views himself as scum but even scum has desires that they are willing to do anything for.

After Nagito had come back to his dorm, the realization hit him that if he was going to marry you, he would have to be worthy of your hand in marriage. So, he prepares. By that I mean he starts stalking you a lot.

You two were already friends on social media so you probably didn’t dwell too much on it when you found him accidentally liking old posts. He’d go on your socials and scroll through it looking for every little bit of information he could find on you. Sometimes he'd strike gold and other times he'd dig up dirt. Nagito began talking to you a lot more so he could gain some information on your likes and dislikes. You only assumed that he was more comfortable with talking to you now because he confided his troubles in you but in reality he was planning your future life with him. Once in a while you'd invite to your dorm whether it was for hangouts, study sessions, or just sleepovers (he absolutely LOVED it when you brought those up.) The only opening he had to steal stuff is when you went to the bathroom and when that happened all he'd do every single time is go to the closet, grab another one of the pillow cases that the dorm provides, and switch them out with your current ones. When the pillowcase stops smelling like you then he just sticks it in the school's laundry basket where things like bed sheets, pillow cases, and blankets that belong to the school go.

After weeks after weeks of obtaining bits and pieces of information on you such as food you like and dislike, what your family is like (If you/your oc has one), your favorite movies, music genres, and clothing, etc., He eventually realized that he lacked three more things. Romance, experience, and…"performance."

The one thing he absolutely needed to learn first was "How to kiss." Even though no one sees his search history besides him, it was still very embarrassing to put those words on his computer. He typed those three letters into the google machine and ta-da! A wikihow page and a YouTube video were apparently his best options. He opted for the latter and watched as a lady and her boyfriend demonstrated how to perform different types of kisses. Intimate and sexual. He feels awkward just watching this and he feels like he should practice but...on what? Luckily for him, there is a perfectly good pillow lying on his bed.

...This was definitely weird. His chapped lips were pressed against the plush pillow as he imagined he was french kissing you. This doesn't seem like the greatest method but Nagito doesn't seem to have any other choice.

The pillow in front of me was wrinkled and slightly wet from where I had last kissed it. It felt beyond awkward to kiss a pillow and imagine it was your future partner. I couldn't imagine them walking in on me as my face was buried in a pillow while moaning out muffled noises. It would be far too embarrassing but, I've faced worse. Practice should continue or else my mouth will never come as even a fraction of pleasure to my love. I approach the pillow and lay, stomach down, on my bed again. While this has been an awkward situation, my insides are starting to feel like they're on fire! It's probably just the thought of Y/N floating around in my brain. I take a deep breath before cupping my hands at the corners of the pillow and diving my mouth towards the pillow once more. I start off with a short kiss but continuously start moving my lips against, what I imagine to be, their lips. I move my bottom lip more often than my top. Imagining I'm trapping their lips against mine. Just the thought of trapping them makes me grind my hips against the mattress a little. Even though I'm soft I still let out a little whimper. Does Y/N even like it when their partner makes noise? I wasn't able to find any information on what she likes in bed so...with my luck, I'll just leave it to chance. My kisses get more sloppy and desperate. I begin swiping and swirling my tongue against the pillow thinking about just what it might feel like to make out with them. Their hot, wet mouth pressing up against mine while our tongues rub against one another in an attempt to touch each other. I moan seemingly too loud at that thought and start humping the bed. Everything feels so hot.

Maybe combining kissing practice and "performance" practice would be a good idea.

Once he starts performance practice, his browser is constantly on sex related websites. But more on the education side...he wants to know how to make you feel good and how to make himself last longer. Once in a while, he does go on the hub though so he can pretend it's you and him having sex on the screen. He tries his best to look for ones where it sounds like you or looks like you. He prefers the ones where it sounds like you so that way he could just close his eyes and imagine you and him are together.

Just a random bonus I thought I'd add in: He got a boner during class once and sat there for like ten minutes just waiting for it to go away. So he just ended up palming himself through his pants and struggled to not make any noise. He liked to imagine you were under the desk pressing your face against his clothed crotch and just rubbing your face around that area. Luckily, he came without letting a single noise slip past his lips. Unluckily, Nagito cums a lot. So everyone could see the enormous wet spot on the crotch of his pants when class was dismissed.

He happens to have a weird habit of doing domestic and soft things with a hint of creepy. For example, one of his favorite things to do as of recently is print out a picture that has your face in it, tape it to his pillow, and fall asleep cuddling it. This sounds fine if you two were dating but… you aren't. He'll give it kisses, cuddle with it, fall asleep with it, and, of course, it's what he uses during his performance practice. He also enjoys eating meals with it and watching movies while cuddling it too. He perceives it all as practice for when you two are wed.

I'm going to assume you aren't an oblivious idiot and just say that you probably began to notice how weird he'd get around you. You tried distancing yourself a little bit but enough to still stay friends. He noticed the change in how often you'd hang out with him and his anxiety skyrocketed. Nagito would feel he had only a couple choices left. And that was to kidnap you, get rid of any obstacles that didn't allow him to spend every waking moment with you, or just flat out kill you so that way no one could have you. He already knew he wouldn't be able to even breathe without you so he'd likely kill himself as well in the process.

Author's Note: I'll probably be discontinuing that one Nagito x reader chapter 2 because I wasn't able to finish it before the school year started and I was just dissatisfied with the chapters BUT! I do have plenty of headcanons on yandere Komaeda! Message me if you want some far more nsfw headcanons because I have a lot for this guy. I'm also very open to crackfic oneshots.

#submission #/submitted

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weareallstoriesintheend · 3 years

Text

Promises (Reader x Zemo)

Zemo and his guard make their escape

Word Count: 3,395

Warnings: Violence. Part 2 of the Escape Series, Here is Part 1 Zemo Tag List: @lucky-luck-lucky @neoarchipelago @mrs-mischief-209 @londoninamerica

“This is a terrible fucking idea” You kept Zemo close behind you as you rounded the tight corner, the deafening sound of the alert alarm had started blasting the second someone realised a prisoner was no longer in their cell. You’d tried your best to get as far through the plan as possible but part of this involved trusting him to get you both out of here and something irritating in the back of your mind was making you doubt that decision. The corridor was in darkness except for cuts of light from the small windows high up towards the ceiling - sunrise was almost over. “Well I hate to inform you my dear but I’m just following your plan” Zemo whispered back, following closely at your heels as you both half walked, half ran down the corridor. “Also, may I add, you look beautiful in this light”

“Shut up” you hissed.

The alarms blaring in the corridors were making your heart pound almost as loudly. You were running out of time, you know you’d planned this down to the last second but this was reckless in the best of circumstances. The Raft was no normal prison; it was a prison for enhanced persons which meant security was tighter and much less likely to fail. Early morning was your choice due to the lack of guards around on each floor; you’d made it so that you were on inspection duty again. Due to the limited prisoners things had gotten lazy around here and you figured you could only make this work to your advantage. It was going well, it was perfect even. You’d given up trying to avoid cameras as you ran down the service corridor towards a blind spot you knew existed that would give you a moments respite ready for the final step. You would bet money on the fact they knew it was you doing this so as much you were aiming to get himout it was also imperative to get yourself out too. Who else would it be? It was Zemo and there was only one person in this whole place who would want to break his cocky ass out and that was you.

“Your friend better show up” you whispered through gritted teeth trying to steady your breathing.

“He will” Zemos breathing was just as fast but his face remained stoic. He watched you when he thought you were looking, curious eyes scanning your face. You presumed he was calculating how best to get rid of you when he was out of this place but you were doing this to give him the benefit of the doubt. Much like everyone else The Raft housed he was here because he thought he was doing the right thing. Everything he did was for his family and you couldn’t help but feel for that side of him. The man who kept his promises.

You rifled through the backpack you were carrying and handed him a pair of dark jeans and a black hoodie to change into “Wear this; I’m not walking you around wearing that uniform”. He smiled taking them from you instantly pulling the top of his prison uniform over his head; you hastily diverted your eyes. Both of you were huddled in an enclosed part of the corridor to stay out of sight of anyone who may come searching, a great choice for safety. However this also meant that, despite the fact you diverted your eyes, you could feel his bare skin brushing against your arms as he moved to change.

“I’ve had guards watching me use the bathroom for months dear one, do you really think I’m concerned by you seeing me change?” he chuckled quietly before handing you his discarded clothes, “Also how did you know my sizes?” he asked adjusting the hoodie that sat perfectly across his shoulders.

“I read your file” you shrugged. Your phone beeped in your pocket, the message simply read ‘On the roof’

You grabbed Zemo by the scruff of the hoodie and pulled him closer “Do exactly as I tell you, got it?”

He nodded “Of course, a woman in charge is simply irresistible”

You scoffed and started dragging him along the service corridor. There was an access point to the roof along here that stupidly sat in a complete blind spot from the cameras. Your heart dropped into your stomach as you heard a clear, ringing gunshot behind you “Stop right there” You sighed, knowing the gruff tones of your superior officer anywhere; you raised your hands mockingly and spun in place on your heels staring him down. Zemo followed your motions throwing you a quick, indiscernible look before his back was turned to you. “Of course it would be you. You and your boyfriend better keep your hands up where I can see them” “David listen – “ he cut you off by firing another warning shot. “Shut up” he shouted, voice reverberating off the metal walls. He reached up and spoke into the radio that was clipped to his shoulder. “Did you bring what I told you too?” Zemo whispered over his shoulder. You stuttered, your brain was going at 30 miles an hour and it was hard to keep yourself on point. You knew exactly what he was talking about; you could feel the metal of it pressing into your back. “Yes but no, you can’t” you mumbled, your eyebrows raised in panic as Zemo turned to you. You internally rolled your eyes at how surprised you felt by his calmness, it was like you’d forgotten who he was.

“I said don’t move” you heard David shout, another warning shot hitting the roof. You flinched and urged Zemo turn around with wide eyes.

“It’s now or never. Do you trust me?” Zemo asked simply.

You paused, searching his face for any sign of deception. Sighing you lowered your arms, you blocked out the frantic shouting from David as best you could by keeping your eyes trained on Zemos. You could see David in your periphery with his gun raised; you slipped your hands behind your back and under your shirt. You pulled out the weapon you’d been given by Zemos friend and slotted it into his hands.

Before you could blink Zemo spun with the gun raised. You had expected him simply to shoot but he began walking slowly forward towards David, you panicked and your feet stumbled after him. He shot one hand back firmly to stop you before returning it to its steady position holding the gun.

“Stop right there Zemo” David shouted, his gun also raised and trained on Zemo who was steadily still walking towards him. You could see Davids confused panic matching your own.

You shuffled on your feet wanting to shout out to him to stop, did he have a death wish?! Then you remembered the story he’d told you about Siberia and your heart pounded harder. He’d held a gun in his hand then too but you certainly don’t have the bulletproof Blank Panther armour to stop him this time. ‘Please tell me he’s not going to commit suicide by cop and just leave me here’ you thought to yourself, begging to the voice inside your own head. David was practically screaming instructions, ranting demands in his confusion at Zemos steely defiance. Then before you could ascertain what happened Zemo fired a shot. David dropped – it was that quick. Mere seconds. Blood oozed slowly out onto the cold concrete floor and you stared half in shock.

“You know for a man who was always so hot on officers wearing protective uniforms you’d think he’d a least wear a scrap of armour himself” you whispered, thinking out loud. As Zemo reached you once more you tsk’d and smacked his chest hard “Don’t show off like that again!” He chuckled and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. Pushing his hair back he then gestured to the laddered stairs that lead to the roof, “After you” You made your way to clamber up the ladder, “Don’t stare at my ass!”

-------------------

As you reached the roof the helicopter blades were already going, winds blasted you both causing your hair to swirl in front of your face. You watched Zemo greet the pilot with a small wave and he began walking forward towards the open helicopter door. For some reason it was at this moment your body froze. Your hair whipped your face and you struggled to stay in place with the force of the winds but you couldn’t move your feet. You’d given up everything, just like that – he’d somehow convinced you to give up everything for him. There was no way to come back from this, not one single way.

You wanted to scream at yourself for being stupid or naive but you couldn’t help yourself - you trusted him. You didn’t understand how or why but you did; something about him made you want to follow him to the ends of the earth and never look back. If someone asked for an explanation you wouldn’t have the words and that was a strangely beautiful notion to you.

Something told you he was a good man; despite his past and all he had done he was a good man. He had murdered, tortured and maimed but to you he was a lost soul who needed company. A man who had lost everything and fought like hell to keep one simple promise.

He shouted your name over the whirring blades, you looked up to see he had stopped also and he was running back to you, crouched low to avoid getting hit.

“Second thoughts?” he asked as he got close enough to you to lower his voice, a small smile played on his lips. You shook your head but didn’t speak. He stepped closer to you again, almost toe to toe “I apologise about your friend”

“H-he wasn’t a friend”

“Then why did you stop?”

You opened and closed your mouth stupidly, like a fish gasping for air, but no words came out. You felt him cautiously put his hands on your upper arms, running his thumbs over your skin.

“I promised I would protect you, you deserve a life outside of this prison as I do” You noticed that despite the strength of his Sokovian accent it was also calm and delightful in its gravelly tone. You found it almost comforting listening to the way he formed his words so delicately.

That was the moment you realised it wasn’t that you didn’t believe him, as he spoke you trusted what he was saying, you trusted he wasn’t lying. It wasn’t Zemo that had made you stop.

“It’s just… this is the first time I’ve been in fresh air in 9 months”

His eyebrows rose in surprise at your admission before his face softened, he reached up and ran the backs of his fingers down your cheek. He didn’t speak but took your hand and pulled just a little. You staggered on your feet but followed, he placed his hand softly on the back of your head as you both moved together to keep you low and out of harm.

He stepped in first, speaking in Sokovian to the pilot whom he called Oeznik. Scrambling in behind him you gathered your backpack between your feet. You sat huddled against him as a deep shiver wracked through your body. He looked down with sympathy set behind his eyes and leaned his arm across your shoulder. You leaned forward out of his touch suddenly and bent down for your bag.

“I apologise, I didn’t mean too-“ he began hesitantly, afraid that he’d offended you with his physical affection, but you stopped him by sitting up and placing a small plastic wrapped package into his lap.

“What is this?” he asked curiously, turning it over in his hands before unravelling the wrapping slightly. Small hard multi-coloured candies tumbled out into his waiting palm.

“Turkish Delight. You said your son liked them.” you blushed at your own words, embarrassed at the familiarity you showed him and you were unable to hold his eye contact as you continued “I thought it would a comforting introduction back into the world”

He unwrapped a sweet and popped it into his mouth, he closed his eyes and a soft smile spread across his face. You watched him for a second before he opened his eyes; you gave him a shy unsure look before he leant in and placed a gentle kiss to your cheek.

“Thank you milaya”

-------------------

“Holy shit” you whispered under your breath.

The room he led you into was expansive, he’d told you this was one of his homes in the area but the place looked like a palace inside. Everything was adorned in deep ornate gold tones with rich ruby and burnt orange colours intertwined. The ceilings were impossibly high and housed a huge crystal chandelier that twinkled in the beaming sunlight that came through large elaborate windows at the back of the room. The floors under your feet were intricate mosaic tile and you suddenly felt the need to tread a little lighter in your heavy boots.

“Impressive isn’t it?” he smirked; he gesticulated to a rack of clothes that was against one wall. “You need to change, pick anything you like” and with that statement he disappeared behind a curtain. He was still sort of visible to you, ruffling around in what you presumed were his own clothes.

“So what, I break you out of prison and you give me a dress? Seems like a fair deal” you said sarcastically, voice raised so he could hear you.

“No, you break me out of prison and I give you the life I promised you. If you want it” he shouted back.

“You’ll be on the run for the rest of your born days Zemo. What life?!” that panic had set back in again now you were out in the real world. Your fingers tapped against your thighs and you stared around you wide eyed. This was all so overwhelming.

“Exactly. We can go wherever, whenever. We’ll stay in the shadows and live how we want too”

He appeared from behind the curtain, he was now dressed cleanly in fresh black jeans and an aubergine purple turtleneck. He draped a fur collared coat around his shoulders and extended his arms “You like it?” he grinned at your staring.

You swallowed hard and nodded. He looked expensive and far out of your league. As you absentmindedly smoothed rich silk materials between your fingers you suddenly remembered you’d run away with a Baron. The teasing smirk still played on his lips as he approached you, he traced down your arm watching the way his touch raised goosebumps on your skin.

“You think people are just going to let you go? The Raft will be looking for you. The Wakandans! You think they are just going to let this slide?”

He shushed you and pushed hair out of your eyes “What I said was no lie, you deserve a life and I’m going to give it to you. A woman as skilled and beautiful as you deserves to show off no?”

You swallowed again, nodding gingerly at his words trying to convince yourself more than him to calm down and trust him.

“Why am I picking out dresses?” you asked quietly, noticing you were still slipping silk material through your fingers that belonged to the beautiful dresses far beyond your pay grade.

“We’re going out” he said matter of factly, walking across the room and pouring himself something from the decanter on the side.

“We can’t go out!” you protested frantically, abandoning your dress choices and scurrying after him. You grabbed him by the forearm of his free arm and gripped him tightly.

“I’ll only take you to places where I know you will be safe. Let me show you freedom” he whispered, leaning close to your face. Whispers of whatever golden brown liquid he was drinking filled your nostrils and you exhaled the breath you had been holding. He put the glass down and spun you so your back was against his chest, his breath ghosted over your exposed neck and you resisted the urge to shiver. He directed your body towards the wrack of clothes and brought his lips to your ear, “Plus any chance to see you out of that guards uniform would be a blessing”

You tutted and wriggled out of his grasp, rolling your eyes at him over your shoulder before turning away hiding a blushing smile.

You hummed to yourself, pushing clothes back and forth on the rack before you pulled out a wine red dress, admiring its beauty. The red was deep against your pale skin, the feeling of the silk was like butter and the thought of it brushing your upper thighs made you tremble.

Like he could read your mind Zemo had walked quietly behind you and placed a hand lightly against your thigh, brushing his fingers with just a little pressure. His voice at your ear snapped you out of the trance “It will suit you”

You took the dress, grabbing a pair of shoes, and sauntered behind the curtain. Gingerly starting to remove your clothes that were sticking to you with sweat you thought about how you could probably do with a shower but something told you there was no time. Your body was thrumming with anxiety, your first night of freedom from that place – for the both of you – and mostly you wanted to relax and enjoy Zemos company. Talking to him without bullet proof glass and steel bars between you seemed like bliss in your head. The thought of getting to brush his hair back as he spoke, like you had thought of doing so many times, made your fingertips tingle. But you were still fighting back a nervous tremble that shook your entire body, was this going too far? Was it too soon? He could sense your anxiety from behind the curtain as you moved quietly but hastily so he spoke up, voice soft “I mean it, you are mine. I keep safe what is mine” You poked your head out from behind the curtain holding the gold shoes you were about to slip on; you raised a stern eyebrow at his presumption that you were ‘his’. He smiled, playfully trying to peek behind the curtain but you pulled it up to cover yourself “You know what I mean” he said.

You giggled and pulled the curtain back fully, watching his eyes drift down your figure as you smoothed the silk of the dress over your curves self-consciously and bent to fasten the shoes, “I know” you said with a soft smile.

He guided you closer to him with light hands, just the cautious tips of his fingers creating a tantalising pressure on your hips, “You look simply ravishing” he gushed; accent accentuating the low gravel of his voice. You simpered and shook your head, he tsk’d at your defiance “You do, a princess!”

You openly laughed this time, pushing against his chest teasingly “Shut up”

He smiled with you, refusing to let go of your hips and pulling you back, the heels of your shoes clicked quietly on the tile floor as you stumbled closer to him raising your hands to press against his chest to steady yourself. He drifted his hands up your body, caressing you through the thin fabric of your dress, eyes studying every inch of you. His fingers linked gently into your hair, massaging ever so lightly against your scalp and you sighed closing your eyes for just a split second. Suddenly you felt lips press against yours; you gasped and he took that chance to deepen the kiss just a little. You whimpered softly and your fingers tightened their grasp on his clothes before sliding down to wrap around his waist as you melted against him. This wasn’t a moment for hot and heavy; it was affectionate and shy – a delicate exploration of something new, terrifying and captivating. As you felt him lean slightly back from you your eyes fluttered open, body protesting his momentary retreat.

“I keep my promises” he whispered against your lips.

“I know you do”

#mcu #mcu fic #marvel #marvel fic #helmut zemo #baron zemo #zemo x reader #zemo x ofc #baron zemo x reader #zemo x you #zemo fluff #zemo fanfic #oeznik #zemo angst #baron zemo fic #zemo #falcon and winter solider series #falcon and winter soldier #tfatws

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impossible-rat-babies · 3 years

Text

morning after (junebug)

fallen hero | 3.6k words | chargestep (nb!step + m!ortega) | cw: brief suicidal ideation mentions + blood/gore mentions + mild suggestive mentions

most below the cut!

Pollux grumbles and grunts, hiking his pants up and over slim hips in a smooth motion, adjusting them around his waist once they’re buttoned and zipped up. His hip smarts a touch and he shift his weight from one foot to the other, rolling his ankle. It clicks like always does, his knee bowing and he straightens his foot to correct.

He smooths his hair back and off his neck into a meager bun, poking around at the mess of a bedroom they left the night before. Clothes tossed aside, socks rumpled on the floor next to one of Ortega’s expensive button downs in a rumpled heap. Pollux kicks it towards the overflowing laundry basket.

The sunrise from the open blinds washes the room in oranges and reds made more brilliant and saturated through the layers of industrial grime hanging over the city like a thick fog. It leaves a promise of a hot day to come, what with the heat haze already rippling out on the distant horizon; the sharp shine off the skyscrapers will wobble and wane by the time noon hits. It’s getting hotter with each summer, the AC straining and ceiling fans spinning.

Pollux reaches out and half closes the blinds and shut the curtains, turning the bedroom from orange and red to filtered blues and whites. He grabs his tank top from off the floor, mumbling to himself as he pulls it on. His sweater somehow ended up on the dresser and—

No wait, he remembers that one.

Dresser digging into his lower back, hands scrambling past the nice buttons on Ortega’s fancy shirt to feel his skin under his hands, heart pounding under his palm. Lips bruised from the dozens of kisses they had shared already from the front door to the hallway (oh the things that happened in that hallway). Ortega tasting like a thunderhead of ozone before a storm and sip of expensive whiskey.

He’d tried his best to not knock over any of the photographs--couldn’t say the same of Ortega of course--so he corrects one of them and straightens another. He tries not to look too hard at the seven year old faces staring back at him with wide toothy careless smiles. Ranger blue and sidestep teal as they started calling that particular brand of eye burning blue green.

A watch sits discarded next to his own rings; he slips those back on, flexing his crackling joints. A half empty bottle of cologne sits still knocked over. Pollux fixes that too and his fingers come away with the rich scent that will stay wash after wash—stuck in the splits of his nails and his fingerprints. Pollux rolls his shoulders, unconsciously rubbing the scar that’s there; the joint clicks and he grimaces.

There’s a creak as the bed shifts and Pollux yanks his sweater on over his head and glances back. He still remembers who this house belongs to, who is stirring in the bed.

Ortega’s legs move, fine white sheets sliding with him and his bare leg—ankle to calf to knee to the line of his thigh and oh is that a little hickey on the inside of his thigh?—slips out from under the sheet.

He wipes his wrinkling face, scratching his beard, his chest heaving with a deep breath and an even heavier sigh. Ortega’s hand drops, and his brown eyes blink open, blurry and bleary until the spot him. He turns his head, a sleepy smile turning his lips.

Pollux’s breath catches and stalls in his chest and oh Ortega knows what all those little motions do to him. How the sheets are dipping down his stomach, past his hips and—

It’s downright nasty what the sight is doing to Pollux’s stomach. It’s worse as he stretches, back arching and Pollux swallows hard.

Asshole.

“Morning...” Ortega’s voice is low, thick with gravely warmth.

“Hey lover boy.” Pollux replies smoothly, his voice surprisingly even as he adjusts his sweater.

“You’re leaving?” Ortega asks quietly, blinking more life into his expression.

“Can’t be languid in bed all day like you can.”

Pollux sits down on the bed beside him, sinking in close. Ortega reaches out like he’s an anchor, a weighty hand settling on his hip, thumb testing the hem of his shirt. Can never keep his hands to himself, huh?

“It’s only for a few more hours. It’s not even nine am yet, you know.”

Pollux rolls his eyes, leaning over top of him, trapping him in with a hand pressing into the bed beside his hip. His bare hip and Pollux rests his hand against him instead.

“And…?”

“That’s when reasonable people get up?”

Ortega is fishing, his hand creeping further up under Pollux’s shirt. Does he know the difference between skin, scar and tattoo just by the touch of his fingertips? His middle finger finds a gap between scars, trailing along sensitive skin. He’s kissed him there, that spot where hip meets thigh—left behind a welt and an aching reminder that not all kisses taste sweet.

It’s just like any other temptation. Pollux isn’t opposed to laying in bed for a few more hours (plans can be canceled easily when he’s his own boss), but there’s still the nagging little corner of his mind that tells him no. Don’t give into the temptation.

But, Ortega is so easy to want, especially with the grin he’s giving him, so familiar to the old parts of his brain. Pollux is relearning not to hate that face, to not thinks it’s a good place to punch him. He used to think about that a lot: punching him in that pleasing picture perfect toothy smile Ortega boasts.

Pollux is so used to his hands inflicting pain, knuckles tight (make sure to keep your thumb outside a clenched fist was what they first taught him) fingers taut. But Ortega keeps catching his viciously thrown fists, slipping his fingers into his white knuckle hold to spread his trembling hand apart. To lace their fingers together with hopelessly honest words like he won’t let him leave again—not without a fight.

He’s pulling his teeth, but Pollux handed him the tools to do that long ago. The ‘please tell me it’s okay to stop doing this, please tell me that you’ll stop me and that you’ll forgive me. You’ll be the only one who will forgive me and I can die happy if you’re the only goddamn one who will forgive him.’

He’s giving him a closed hand and Ortega’s taken more than that—tip toe up a scar to his elbow and around to touch his shoulder; he’s given so much more than just his hand and its infectious--terminal just under the skin.

Like the bruises be-speckling just above the barcode, or the naughtier line across the curve of his breast he spotted when he woke up. Or the ache in his thighs and more importantly the memories he’ll keep when the marks fade. Brown eyes in the dark, sharing the same air.

There’s marks on Ortega’s neck too, little dark purple oblong shapes Pollux left behind; he can’t count the number of times he’s kissed that one spot on the side of his neck. The dip next to his Adam’s apple, where he feels his pulse skip beneath his tongue and lips and the breathy exhale that always follows. A pleased hum and his voice asking him to keep going.

“You say that now...” Pollux tells him softly, curtains of red and peppered grey curls falling down the side of his neck, brushing against Ortega’s chest.

“Okay what if I promised that it was only going to be a few hours?” Ortega curls a little ringlet around his pinky finger.

Doubt fills Pollux’s face.

“Oh come on now, Lux...we can get up after a few hours and I’ll make us both some breakfast--whatever you want. And then, if you like, you can leave and I’ll only ask for one kiss.” He offers as a compromise, the look he’s giving far too earnest for it to be anywhere close to the truth.

“Only one kiss?” Pollux raises a brow. He traces Ortega’s cheek and he’s so warm it’s like the sun gathered beneath his skin.

“Well...if it’s just one long kiss, that counts right?”

“That’s called making out.”

“Not like you’ve had issues in the past making out in the front door where all my neighbors could see.”

Pollux groans.

“Last time I agree to something like that--”

“It’s not like that time you agreed to make out with me in the backseat of a taxi cab…”

“That was *one* time. And we were both drunk.”

He remembers how they both almost fell off the roof of the Ranger’s headquarters that night, juggling warm beers and half a bottle of fancy tequila they kept passing back and forth.

Ortega grins and oh no…

“We should try that again—get a cab to nowhere, or something fancier than that, and make out in the back. Or you know we could--”

Words silenced by a sudden kiss and a sharp inhale. Ortega exhales through his nose smooshed against his cheek, mumbling something else and Pollux pulls him in sharper to silence him. He tastes like sunlight, his teeth and tongue tingling. A broad palm against his spine, coaxing him in closer, lips pulling him in deeper.

Pollux’s hand cups his cheek, brushing hair away from his ear and along to the back of his neck. The first port of his magnificent spine against his palm and he grabs a handful of his hair. Ortega isn’t the only one who can pull and push and the little pleased sound he catches between his lips tastes delightful—potent. Honeyed lips and curses breathed against wet lips.

Pollux wants to keep holding him like this, have just a little taste of tender heat, the threat of a hand hovering over a lit stove, or letting a match burn down to the tips of his nicotine stained fingertips. Run his fingers over Ortega—touch, feel, taste, map—until he’s reminded that he can’t have this forever. He can’t keep dangling off the edge of a precipice, not when he craves how the wind feels rushing up to meet him during the blessed free fall.

“I guess I should talk like that more if you’ll kiss me like that again...” Ortega mumbles when Pollux pulls away and he snorts, shaking his head.

“Next time I’ll just tell you go shove it.” Pollux huffs against his lips, closing an eye as Ortega brushes a stray curl from out of his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah--I know.”

Arms easily wrap around him and pull him back down into the bed and Pollux grumbles, letting it happen and he buries his face into the side of Ortega’s neck. His own scratchy stubbly cheek presses against his rough skin. He smells like day old cologne. He’s warm—secure.

“You’ll still kiss me though?” Ortega mumbles against the side of his head and Pollux groans, tilting his head to look him in the eye. Brown eyes so deep he could drown.

“Your beard is scratchy...”

Ortega snorts.

“Your face is the one that’s scratchy--I take good care of my beard. When was the last time you shaved?” He rubs his chin against his forehead to tease and Pollux curses.

“God, fuck--shut up, quit rubbing your face on me and go back to sleep pretty boy.” He insists and Ortega laughs, pulling him back in.

They tumble out of bed a few hours later, Pollux righting his sweater and redoing his belt as he meanders down the short hallway and out into the living room. It’s brighter out and he squints, lazily tucking his hands up and underneath of his sweater to hide them.

He follows Ortega, eyes skimming over the leftover plates and a glass mug left on the coffee table. His battered cigarette box and matchbook sits beside a weeks old newspaper and an old Time magazine. He still gets them biweekly?

He pauses at one of the large glass windows, curtains only half closed. He brushes it open. The sun pounds against the glass and Pollux squints his eyes against the shimmering heat rolling off the high rise buildings towards the west. The shoot high into the sky, more following further until the cracked spine of the coast turns to failed developments and old chain link fence guarded ruins.

A few palm trees needing a good grooming, their fronds dipping low with the heat, the tops sun bleached beige. Just about the only plant that grows well here, save for the scrubby evergreen like trees and whatever people are willing to waste water on keeping alive.

At least it’s a clear-ish day, the sky more blue than sickly yellow or congested grey today. It’ll only last a few more weeks before the winds die down and the city is left to cook alive in its industrial smog.

Further out towards the west, Pollux can almost see the shimmer of the ocean, a line of white hugging the horizon. Beneath that are all new beach homes—folks willing to capitalize on the new growing beaches or what remains of the old. The sand comes back softer each year, the ocean carving away her shoals, eddys and tide pools. She’s had four decades to heal--but people remember forever.

Down below (don’t look too hard now Pollux) cars slip on by, the nosy honking of buses, taxis and surely the occasional motorist weaving through the lunch rush traffic.

“You look like you’re thinking pretty hard.”

Pollux starts, taking a half step back from the window, eyes darting to Ortega. His brow scrunches, shyly holding the coffee cup out to him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you--”

“No, it’s fine...” Pollux waves his hand. So what if he was thinking of how nice it would be to just lay on the hot asphalt road and wait for rush hour traffic to turn him into a wet smear? Which he wasn’t thinking about at all, no not at all.

Ortega looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek, but gratefully he keeps his mouth shut.

“Coffee?” He offers and Pollux takes it with a quiet word of thanks. Ortega reaches up and pulls the curtains shut, removing the temptation.

“Are you okay?”

Pollux takes a sip and it burns his tongue, but he only shrugs. It’s as much of an answer as he’s willing to say; he isn’t up to the verbal chess match that staring longingly at a window would earn, the what he thinks he saw, or what he thinks he’s thinking about.

Ortega puts a hand on his shoulder before wrapping his arm around his shoulders instead. He places a kiss at the top of his head and mumbles something sweet and soft, guiding him away from the window and towards the kitchen.

“What do you want for breakfast, then?” He changes the subject so easily, giving Pollux the grace to pretend it doesn’t matter. “Or it is closer to lunch at this point. Whoops.” Ortega cringes, looking at the stove clock.

“You wanted to sleep in.” Pollux finds an unused countertop and he pulls himself up onto it. Ortega briefly gives him a look and Pollux responds in kind, Ortega giving up with a shake of the head, but the faintest of smiles.

“What’s on the menu, lover boy? Lunch or breakfast?”

Ortega grabs a pan, twirling it around. “How about this: I’ll just make something and if you really hate it, we can get something ordered in.”

“A mystery brunch then?”

“More like lunch, but you’ve never complained.”

“At least food wise. You’ve given me plenty of reasons to complain otherwise.”

“Are you admitting you like my food?” Ortega looks over his shoulder at him from the fridge and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“Never said that I dislike your food, Ricky boy.” Pollux teases, hiding a smile behind his coffee. “Unless you count that one monstrosity you made.”

“Hey, that was partially your fault, Lux. I refuse to take the full blame for what happened to that poor casserole dish.”

“Wasn’t my recipe that you got wrong. And you let me play with your knives.”

“Mierda, I thought you were going to lose a finger.”

“Better than practically ruining your stove.”

“How was I supposed to know it was going to explode like that?”

Pollux snickers, tilting his head up to look at the ceiling, his head hitting the upper cabinent.

“Is that a speck of food still stuck up there...?”

He doesn’t quite catch the dish towel that hits up in the side of his head, Ortega swearing at him and Pollux snorts. He chuckles the longer Ortega keeps making that face until he dissolves into laughter.

And he keeps laughing. Lips wide and bright, rarely seen smile lines breathing back to life.

Ortega is looking at him, he knows, but he can’t fit the placid frown back onto his face just yet--letting the smile linger on his cheeks and the crinkles of his crows feet. It feels good and Ortega is smiling at him.

“Hey, Lux...” Ortega’s voice is so tender. “I love you. I love you a lot.”

He says quietly once Pollux’s laughter has faded, leaving behind the tingle of it in the air. How it used to be so easy for Pollux to start laughing--how it’s only just now that he’s laughed again. He’s been so quiet, so still.

“You know that, right?”

The smile falters and Pollux takes a long drink of his coffee, the cup a disguise for what he hasn’t whispered back--not when he can hear.

“I know…” He mumbles like it’s a substitution all his own and he swallows down the bitter bite of coffee.

He’s murmured it, barely spoken it in the dark when he’s sure Ortega is asleep. He isn’t ready for that admission, not in the light like this. The sunshine from the kitchen window warms the back of his neck.

Ortega looks like he wants to say more. To keep reminding him of how much he cares, how much it matters that he’s back in his life, how he wants to make up for seven years of not saying ‘i love you’--it’s all just synonyms.

How many times has Pollux said it without saying it, too? He knows a hundred different ways to say it without anyone but him knowing it.

(Asshole, or I care about you too, or will you let me take care of you for once in your life, or please give me an excuse so I don’t have to keep remembering how much I hate walking down these perpendicular paths, inches away from intersection. Or the simple way his name tastes on his tongue, or a nickname held so dearly between his lips, inches before a kiss.)

“I missed your laugh…” He does say those words and Pollux looks. He doesn’t know that for sure, especially when he looks at him as tender as freshly bruised knuckles.

Did he almost forget the sound of it? Had Ortega almost forgotten the sound of his voice, just like he almost forgot what he sounded like? Would it have been so tragic if he never heard his voice again, stuck with only the preserved opalescent amber of memory of a better time and a better place?

Surrendered to memory where his voice would waver into stilled silence, a cheap copy of the voice in Ortega’s head. Or stuck in old photographs and newspaper clippings, or old news reels and private videos. He thought that stupid handheld clunky camcorder Ortega carried around was the worst thing ever. How many did he break? He can’t remember.

“I know.” Pollux replies just as gently, like trying not to press too hard against the bruises of memory, but he’s heavy handed--clunky and broken. What else can he say?

“Thank you…”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Someone should. You put up with me.”

Ortega pauses, turning to look at Pollux. Trying his hardest to see him.

“Because I want to Pollux--because I want this to work. Us to work.”

It’s so easy to say he can’t always be here—it’s the truth after all, nothing complicated about it. It won’t end up working out. But all that starts is arguments and he’s tired of them.

(He’s just so tired all the damn time. tired of everything and maybe he’ll steal a motorcycle and weave through traffic until the inevitable happens.)

Pollux doesn’t dispute the point, he just nods when he feels Ortega looking at him. He doesn’t shy away when Ortega puts a hand on his waist and kisses the side of his head, his eyelid, the bridge of his nose. Mumbles another ‘i love you’ and Pollux hums when he steps away.

He sets the half empty cup aside, absentmindedly reaching under his sweater, thumbing the edge of a tattoo along his waist.

Last night Ortega brushed his thumb along the thick slick tapering edge. Pollux excused the strange face he’d made at the weird texture of it, but he didn’t excuse the kiss he placed when his lips followed his hands.

Maybe later he’ll hold him like that again; when he comes over again in a few days and crawls into bed beside him and lets him touch him in the darkness. He’s not brave enough for the light yet, not when he’s still angry--still so hurt--over lost time.

Seven years--he doesn’t have seven more in him.

Pollux watches his back instead as he gets to cooking, half smiling as Ortega starts to hum, bobbing from foot to foot as the smell of lunch crowds the kitchen.

He murmurs, mostly to himself and it tastes like a shout at the back of his throat.

“I want it to work too. I really do.”

—

#fallen hero #fallen hero: rebirth #chargestep #fhr #oc tag #oc: pollux #okay to rebloog #owen writes #i've been holding onto this for so long. time to let it go lmao #dhflksdf after adding 2k to it but! you know #the time honored tradition of starting this out with bigger paragraphs and then devolving into simple ones sdkfhds

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