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straylightdream · 9 months

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what am I missing? | 3racha

act one: “Maybe you should have a friend help you.”

↳ in your mid to late twenties you’re left wondering if you missed your sexual awakening. With a the help of friends you start to really find yourself.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: for the story as a whole angst, a little fluff, body image issues, and self doubt, cussing all smut warnings listed below for what is in this story.

series masterlist

𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬.

𝐚𝐧: these will be shorter Drabble style chapters. 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰. Please fill out this form.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: for the story as a whole, oral (fem & male receiving), piv, unprotected sex, groping, threesome, use or traffic light system, choking, and spanking, more warning to come.

The feeling that you’ve missed out on something your whole life isn’t something you can’t seem to push away. In your mid to late twenties you’re left wondering if you repressed your sexual awakening.

Your lackluster sex life has only been linked to your commitment to someone else in the form of a relationship. In all your years you’ve only had sex once outside of a relationship. Your one attempt at friends with benefits crashed and burned when Mingyu finally slept with you once and got a girlfriend the following week.

Your weird relationship with sex and its connections to intimacy might have to do with your own struggle of self acceptance. You’ve always grown up not happy with your own body. You’ve never been a small girl and you thought you had grown to accept that, but deep down inside you haven’t. You have a wall built up that allows you only to sleep with someone you “love” because you think they’re attracted to you.

The high walls you built up protecting your heart might have gotten in the way of truly letting you explore your sexual side.

Your sex life has been connected to two boys. First there is your long term ex boyfriend Yunho. Your former best friend turned boyfriend. Your relationship bloomed in high school in an interesting way. Fresh out of a relationship Yunho admitted to you he liked you after a night of drinking hidden away from his unknowing parents. Your heart raced at the thought of your best friend liking you back. Soon after a drunken kiss that night you were a couple. Your relationship with Yunho wasn't always sunshine and roses. You broke up often and he even dated girls during your break ups. But for some reason you couldn’t let him go.

Your sex life with Yunho was vanilla at best. The boy barely knew how to make you come. He tried his hardest, but many nights you were left faking it. Being with Yunho was a learning experience for both of you. His only experience was with his ex before you. Many nights you fumbled around his bed trying new positions but often not succeeding.

Six long years of your life were spent with him. With Yunho there was no dramatic fall out. A small break up had happened the same as many times before. But this time you were trying to be friends. In this short period of time he met Yuqi and fell hard.

You watched him fall in love with a girl as your friendship drifted apart. Soon you led completely different lives and didn’t talk anymore.

After Yunho and you broke up you grew closer with Chan, Changbin, and Jisung. Their friendship was truly what got you through your heartbreak. Many nights were spent sitting on Changbin's couch watching as Chan attempted to make a beat while Jisung freestyle rapped. Your time with your friends really made you feel like yourself again.

Your second sexual encounter was Mingyu, a six one boy who was too good looking for his own good. You worked in a restaurant with him and Chan. For a while he was a part of your friend group. Your friendship started out with innocent flirting, and soon led to something more. Anyone who worked with you assumed you were a couple. Mingyu loved to make you blush. He couldn’t seem to talk to you without flirting with you. Innocent flirting turns to something more when he texted you asking if he could come over to kiss you. With butterflies in your stomach you told him to come over.

One month and three days you spent hanging out and making out with Mingyu. Many times with you shoved up against the wall kissing you like his life depended on it. From the first kiss you told him you wouldn’t sleep with him. Your resolve for your one rule faded when he picked you up one night at two in the morning. In the backseat of his car after he promised he wouldn’t hurt you. He made a promise that even if he didn’t like what he saw under your clothes he would still want you, and that quickly disappeared three days later. It all came crashing down when a completely oblivious Miyeon told Mingyu she liked him. What followed was an extremely awkward conversation with Mingyu after work standing in front of his car.

Your failed relationship with Mingyu didn’t break your heart, because truly you didn’t love him. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell though. You trusted him to not use you. The whole experience in the backseat of his car left you feeling discouraged. Wondering if anyone would ever truly like what they saw when it came to you.

You kept your little rendezvous with Mingyu a secret. Deciding not to tell your three best friends about the mistake you made. You couldn’t push away the nagging thought that maybe Mingyu didn’t like what he saw when you were naked in the back of his car together.

Sitting on the floor of Chan’s apartment you can’t help but be lost in your own thoughts. You’ve been experiencing an internal crisis recently. Yesterday you had another sexual encounter that did nothing but discourage your confidence. Changbin set you up on a date with one of his coworkers, Dawon. Your date was pretty nice and after you took the big step to sleep with him. Everything was going well but you could tell that he wasn’t into you the whole time. He was a man desperately trying to get off. Laying on his bed staring at the ceiling nowhere close to your own release you instantly regretted your choice.

A heavy sigh passes your lips looking up at Chan. Closing his laptop he looks at you knitting your eyebrows together. With Chan, things have always been easy. He’s always been a form of emotional support for you since you met. He has a special ability to read how you’re feeling. You’ve never been really able to hide anything from him.

“(YN)?”

Picking a piece of greasy pepperoni off your pizza you hold it up before tossing it into your mouth. Glancing up you find him still staring at you.

“What’s with the heavy sigh?” he asks, sitting his laptop on the couch next to him.

“Nothing,” you don’t know why you’re not just being up front with him. If anyone isn’t going to judge you it’s Chan.

“Just tell me what’s wrong. I don’t want to ask twenty questions right now.”

Sitting your pizza down on the plate you look up at him. You suddenly feel embarrassed at the thought of bringing your sex life with Chan.

“You remember my date with Dawoon?”

Slowly he nods, “was the date bad?”

“The date was fine. What happened after just left me not feeling the best.”

“Did he hurt you?” Chan was starting to sound angry. He’s always been very protective of you.

“No, not at all. I was just left feeling not necessarily satisfied.” How do you tell your best friend who you have never spoken to about sex that you tried having sex on the first date and the guy didn’t even try to get you to orgasm.

“Wait, did you have sex with him?” His eyebrows shot up and he looked at you like you told him the most insane thing he had ever heard in his life.

“Yes.” Sheer embarrassment flushed over you suddenly. Your whole body burned up to the tip of your ears.

“How bad was it?”

“Let’s just say he was desperate to finish and I didn’t you know…” you would rather the earth swallow you whole then say the word orgasm to Chan.

“Cum?”

You nod silently.

“How was he that selfish?”

“I don’t know but it was a terrible experience. I feel like everyone has an amazing sex life and I’m just lost, not sure what it’s like.”

His eyebrows knit together as he stares at you for a long moment. You can’t push away the embarrassment you’re feeling after even telling Chan about this.

“Maybe you should have a friend help you out.” His comment catches you off guard and you can’t help but wonder if he’s offering his service or if suggesting you should ask someone else.

“Maybe.” You respond.

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rainba · 1 month

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I read that u write dark content sooo,,,,

What would be both boys reaction to MC trying to comit suicide?(Succesfully or unsuccessfully)

U dont need to answer if it makes you feel uncomfy!!!

Such interesting questions... ( ´ ꒳ ` ) Thank you for sending them!

Warning for extremely dark content up ahead!

CW: suicide, violence, typical yandere behaviors

If Kairos’ darling committed suicide and succeeded, his mind would absolutely spiral out of control. He wouldn’t be able to think straight anymore; he'd be so overwhelmed with grief that the mere act of breathing becomes an impossible task. There’s really only two ways this scenario could end.

The first scenario: he isn’t the one who discovers your body. Through some other source, he hears that you’ve committed suicide… He wouldn’t believe it at first. He would think that he’s being pranked– someone in this world is testing him. Kairos would go through hell and back just to confirm that you’re actually dead. And when the truth finally settles in…?

He would be destroyed with guilt.

He could’ve done something– he should have done something. Anything! It’s all his fault that you ended your own life– if he had just been watching you closer, you would’ve never done it. If he had loved you harder, you would've been happy in this world.

Kairos would collapse onto the floor as he clutches his head. The only thing he can think is: “it’s all my fault.”

Kairos can’t live in this world without you.

When the day of your funeral finally comes, he’ll attend it while dressed in his finest gothic clothes. Around his neck is a black locket in the shape of a heart, and your picture is safely resting within it. He’ll walk up to your casket and lovingly grab your hand, smiling warmly with tears in his eyes. And then he’d whisper…

“I’ll see you soon, my love.”

In front of everyone, he would pull out a pre-sharpened knife, then slice open his own throat.

Kairos' blood will splatter all over your corpse. Everyone who knows you can only helplessly watch as he bleeds out and clings to your cold body.

This way, everyone will always associate the two of you together, even after the both of you have died...!

Everyone will know just how much he loved you.

The second scenario: Kairos is the one who discovers your body.

Kairos would drop to his knees the moment he sees your corpse– his jaw hanging wide open as silent screams escape his lungs. He wouldn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t know what to think. He wouldn’t know what to say. It’s as if his mind becomes full of static, cracking and disconnecting from reality.

His pale hands would grip your arms as he shakes you, begging you to wake up– but you never do. His heart shatters.

Just like in the last scenario, all he can feel is guilt.

Kairos wouldn’t call the police. After all, if he calls the police, they’ll take you away–!! He needs to be by your side! What if you wake up? What if his mind is playing tricks on him? What if this is just another one of his fucked-up nightmares?

Kairos sobs and shakes as he wraps his arms and legs around you, refusing to let you go. He doesn’t eat, he doesn’t drink, he really doesn’t move at all. All he can do is absent mindedly stroke your hair as your body enters rigor mortis, slowly decaying in his loving embrace.

It would take a few days for his mind to return somewhat back to normal. You haven’t moved– not even once… He finally accepts that this is reality. You truly are dead.

It’s over. Everything’s over. His life is over. You’re gone… There’s no point in living anymore.

And it would end the same way as the last: while holding your hands, he’ll slice open his throat, and he’ll bleed out right beside you. He makes sure to intertwine his fingers with yours, wanting his last moments on earth to be romantic.

As for Luka: he would be enraged. Hurt. Bitter.

How could you…? How could you commit suicide like this??

Did you do it just to hurt him? Did you hate him that much? Was life just that cruel to you, and you couldn’t take it anymore…?

Luka would have to take multiple weeks off of work; he can barely function. He wouldn’t be able to bring himself to cook anything, and he’d lose tons of weight. Dark bags would form under his eyes. His tail would look disheveled and nearly matted. The only thing Luka does after your passing is lay in bed, staring at the empty space right beside him… The space that you were supposed to occupy.

He’d spend hours blankly staring at framed photographs of you. Rereading your old texts, listening to old voicemails, all while yearning so badly for your touch. Every time he passes out from exhaustion, all he sees is your perfect face.

When he dreams, the two of you are running around in a bright and sunny field– he’s always playfully chasing you, pouncing on you before showering you in loving kisses. In his dreams, you’re still alive, safe and sound. In his dreams, you're always smiling.

Luka despises waking up.

It's agonizing. He would often wish that he'd just die in his sleep.

But unlike Kairos, he wouldn’t go through with kill himself– he can’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he just constantly surrounds himself with things that remind him of you.

His phone's wallpaper is a picture of you. His ringtone is your favorite song. He wears jewelry that reminds him of you. He gets a tattoo of your name across his chest.

Everywhere Luka goes, he’s haunted by your ghost. He’d never be able to recover from losing you.

You were the first person to ever make him feel alive; now he’ll forever be an empty shell, doomed to never feel anything ever again.

#ask #kairos posting #luka posting #i LOVE angst!!#yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere male #yandere

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secretsofblackthornhall · 2 years

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Emma To Bruce

Dear Bruce,

We did it! The curse is broken! Rupert is free! Long live Rupert!

In retrospect, it’s insane how much of this we tried to do by ourselves. We should have known that when we finally succeeded we would do it with a whole team present—in this case Jem, Tessa, Kit, and Magnus. (Mina assisted by raising morale and drawing all over everything with her toy stele.)

Everyone’s still here, too, and we can relax a little in a newly uncursed house. (It really is quite homey, now that it’s been cleaned up and, you know, had its demonic aura dispelled.) Everyone except Magnus, who left this afternoon in a great rush to get back to New York.

New paragraph to talk about this, actually, because I have a lot of questions that don’t have answers and I can only ask you, Bruce. So Magnus was in a hurry to get back because of a meeting Alec is holding with Luke and some other Downworlders about plans for negotiating with the Cohort. Okay, but I feel like the Cohort doesn’t have much leverage, right? The situation is way worse for them than for us. We should be able to wait them out—shouldn’t we?

I mean they have a symbolic advantage, I guess. We’re all Shadowhunters and we all miss Idris and Alicante and Lake Lyn and probably a lot of us left stuff there we can’t get back and oh right, also a lot of people lived there who have had to evacuate all over the world and want to get back. I get that. But, like…what are the Cohort even eating in there? Idris doesn’t really grow food. Are they all homesteading in there? Raising crops? Churning butter? It’s kind of hard to imagine Zara doing any of that. But you never know. I mean, there aren’t even any demons to fight in there. Which is a good reminder that Shadowhunters are definitely not meant to hole up in Idris where there’s no demons for them to fight. I feel like Raziel was pretty clear on that point.

They must be losing their minds in there. I hope they found some board games or something.

Maybe Zara has declared herself Queen for Life and she doesn’t have to farm because she just marches around threatening to kill anybody who doesn’t grow her a potato right this instant.

Or maybe we haven’t heard anything because they all ate each other in there. Or maybe they mutinied against Zara and someone else gets to threaten to kill people now.

Okay, end of pondering the Cohort. I’m in a good mood, or was before I started this entry, anyway. We’ve been hanging out with Jem and Tessa and Kit and it’s really great. We ordered in Chinese (delivery couriers are always a bit terrified to come up the driveway, but we tip them like crazy so they’ve started to know us while we’ve been here). We lit candles—for ambience instead of for dark magic, what an idea!—and ate dumplings until we were too full to move, a thing I haven’t done since Magnus and Alec’s wedding. Apparently if I am offered dumplings, I will eat them until I become a dumpling myself. To that I say: I would never reject becoming that which I love most.

Anyway. Even Kit was less broody than usual tonight! He was hanging out with Round Tom and they seemed to be getting on okay. Oh, and I almost forgot! How could I forget! The workers found a coffin buried in the garden. But there was not a horrifying dead body inside, but rather a bunch of old stuff! Using a coffin as a time capsule seemed like a weird choice to me, but Tessa and Jem made some faces and some noises that suggested there was a long-ish story there we’ll have to ask about later.

Anyway, in the coffin was A SCABBARD FOR CORTANA. I mean, right? Can you believe it? Tessa said it used to belong to Cordelia Carstairs, who was Cortana’s wielder generations ago. The scabbard needs a lot of cleaning (a lot of cleaning) but then it can be reunited with Cortana. (After all, I think it’s probably more Cortana’s possession than anyone else’s; perhaps they’ll be happy to be reunited.)

There was also a sword for Julian—what used to be a Blackthorn family sword, but this one is only a hilt, its blade is totally missing, I have no idea why. He’s talking about getting it reforged. Big shock, Round Tom knows a guy. Triangular Jerry. No, I’m kidding on the name, but Round Tom actually does know a blacksmith and he and Julian have started talking about getting that done. (Actually, what Round Tom wants to do is have a forge installed at Chiswick, which is a cool idea, but do we want another building project on top of all the others? I mean, maybe, having a forge here at the house would be pretty cool.)

Oh, you might be wondering about Rupert’s ring, since it’s not like he could take it with him, and he hasn’t come back for it in a ghost way. Magnus checked it out and said no magic any more, just an ordinary ring Tatiana must have enchanted to bind Rupert. But none of us is going to wear it, of course. So we put it on the mantelpiece in the drawing room. Where it will remain.

The Gray-Carstairs-Herondaleses are heading back to Cirenworth tomorrow. It’s been really great having them here, but you know, it will be nice to have them go and have it be just Julian and I here in the house, not feeling creepy all the time. That seems like good times for us.

Bruce, good times are canceled. Everything’s gone wrong. I guess I was a little too smug about how everything was going; the universe had to come and screw it up for me.

Mina is gone.

And by gone I mean kidnapped.

And by kidnapped I mean, the kidnapper left a creepy old-timey porcelain doll (with wide, dead eyes, ugh) in her place, and a note.

I had just finished writing the above stuff when I heard a horrible scream from upstairs and loud footsteps, and came out to find everyone gathered in Mina’s room staring in horror.

I immediately thought oh no, another curse, or the same curse, the curse isn’t over, and maybe you did too, but that’s not what this is. This is something else entirely. Something involving faeries. Something involving Faerie.

Tessa picked up the note, read it, and handed it to Jem with a bad look on her face. Julian was already opening the window to see if anyone could be spotted outside, and I read over Jem’s shoulder:

#secrets of blackthorn hall #sobh #mina carstairs #emma carstairs #Tessa gray #faerie #jem carstairs #Rupert #zara dearborn #The Cohort #cortana

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colourstreakgryffin · 10 months

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So! I haven’t had my feed of Obanai in a long time! And well, I came up with this random idea out of the blue and wrote it, and now I really like it!

I wanted to write a short story but ah, screw it, headcanons are my stronghold after all

Iguro Obanai with a Fluttershy! Reader

You’re sensitive, meek, very timid and sweet. So how did you bond with Obanai so much to become a couple, when he is the direct opposite of you? It’s a funny story, really

You were interested in Kaburamaru at first. You simply LOVE all types of animals and connect easier with fauna then human beings, so you managed to approach the already scary fellow Hashira to ask about his serpent companion

It went from acquaintances to companionship to friendship then to love, but it took quite some time. Due to the matching closed-off nature you two share. Obanai is afraid of getting hurt again and you’re just too timid

Overtime, you always wanted to be besides him since he made you feel heard, welcome and safe. You clung onto his side everytime the Hashira did get-togethers and though, you didn’t have the gut. You did wanted to be closer

And that closer came to be when you finally managed to blurt out your feelings for him when you invited him over to meet all your cute woodland animal friends at your homely cottage. Obanai accepted it wholeheartedly and gave you the first kiss you have ever had in your life

Obanai is a very protective boyfriend. You’re a doormat and can’t stand up for yourself, out of your kindness but Obanai happily will and he won’t hold back to make sure you never get stepped on again. You feel like a princess being rescued by her prince, and you love it

Obanai loves your animal friends and he has been trying to learn how to care for them. They make you happy so he will always appreciate whatever makes you happy. He may get a bit jealous over those animals getting affection but they don’t get your love like he does

Obanai has been practicing his flowercrown making skills for you since it is incorporated in his reclusive dates with you. At flower fields, in the forests, at private restaurants. He gifts you with a cute flowercrown each date

Obanai is aware of your social anxiety and he will keep you safe from social situations. You don’t need to speak a word, let him do everything as he holds your hand and kisses it to quell your fear, and succeeding

Obanai, alongside his flowers and flowercrowns, bought you a adorable light pink butterfly-shaped gemstone pendant and you wear it constantly as a sign of your love for your lovely boyfriend. You don’t need material needs from him as you prefer to be in his presence

You help each other in the most perfect ways. Obanai helps boost your confidence and adapt in sociality whilst you help tone down his harshness and bend to becoming a more approachable person. It’s a fair exchange and he truly likes the cute routine you two share

Your cute white bunny pet, Angel is very mean to Obanai but he never snarks back. Your pet is important to you and everything you love will be preserved and protected by him

“Look, Darling. Angel is getting better, he didn’t scratch me as much. Does it make you happy? Yes, that’s my only mission. Make my beautiful love happy. Because she deserves it”

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lucky-draws · 6 months

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(transcript + some notes/explanation under the cut:)

i feel like the context of this is maybe only apparent in my own head LOL so basically ive kind of imagined an au where, based on the rebirth ending, james has succeeded in bringing mary back to life, but also maria, and also james gets killed in the process. so it's basically just maria and mary alone in the townTM trying to figure each other out. and this is a letter maria sends mary at some point basically. transcript in case the font is annoying to read:

Mary, You’ll have to forgive me if any of this sounds a little weird. I haven’t written anybody a letter in years, and I’m not sure if I have much of a way with words. Though I’ve been spending a lot of time in Ernest’s library lately, so hopefully some of his great literature has rubbed off on me. Somehow, I had this idea that I never liked reading much - that it wasn’t really my style - but I ended up getting kind of hooked. His dusty old books sure aren’t the worst company in this town, at any rate. I wonder what we really are, you and I. I used to think of us as two music box dolls: dancing side by side, spinning in perfect unison to somebody else’s tune. Like a pair of clocks keeping the same time. Two parallel lines, and an impossibility for us to ever intersect, to face each other head-on without some kind of disaster.

We’re not completely identical, though. If you looked closely at me - if you could bear to do that - you’d see all my imperfections. I lack your fine details. The paint on my lips is messier, my joins are showing, and there are bits of sprew left between my fingers. Pick me up, and you’ll feel how much lighter I am - I’m missing a lot of internal parts, you see. I’m a knock-off - we were cast from different molds. You were born of nature, while I was born from your very own killer. But I suppose I don’t need to tell you that. Do you hate me? I understand if you do. Or maybe I’m not so important - maybe you can only think of him. Or perhaps you’re trying not to think of anything at all when you sit by that lake for hours on end. I don’t know how you can stand it - going to the lake every day. It's so quiet. No ducks, not even a single bird. I’d go crazy, I think. That’s why I like to stay at the bar: there’s no one here either, of course, but it feels easier to imagine there might be. To pretend that we’ve only just closed, that those drinks on the table belonged to the last customers, and not to me. I’ve been so restless lately, sitting in the bar all night. I wonder if - no, I guess I’m hoping that - something’s going to give, soon. I think I’m losing the beat - I’m spinning slower than you are. I think it’s because I keep getting distracted, always thinking of you. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps it’s simply because you’re the only thing in this dreadful town that’s not a monster. But I think you must be as lonely as I am. Much more so, probably. And I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if you’d only reach through the mirror and touch me. I’m full of missing pieces, I know - but I have this notion that between us, we might just be able to come together into something like a real person. You know, some days I feel I hardly know who I am; but other times I feel so sure that I’m beginning to dance to my own beat. It’s no fun dancing alone, though. Well, I guess you know where to find me. I’ll be waiting at the bar tonight. I always am. I’ve waited there every night - for something, someone, anything, anyone - for what feels like forever. But these days, I’m just waiting for you. See you around, Maria

#silent hill #sh2 #silent hill 2 #maria silent hill #mary shepherd sunderland #just realised you can see the cursor in some of these because i was being insane and creating these in google docs. oh well <3 #i was gonna do an art piece w like the music box doll visuals and a bit of text but then i realised i had much more than just a bit of text #so it became a whole ass letter

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fairyysoup · 2 years

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thou shall not fall

pairing(s): vampire!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Eddie has always liked you. That's never going to change, not even with a few biological upgrades.

words: 4.8k

tags: explicit (18+ MINORS DNI) smut, dark, noncon voyeurism, dubcon (specifically con turned dubcon), reader is under the vampire's spell, vampirism, predator/prey dynamic, perv!eddie, shades of gross!eddie, masturbation, use of sex toys, stalking, sadism, blood kink, biting, pain kink, choking, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, size kink, forced orgasms, animalistic behavior, primal sex, dacryphilia, possessive behavior, very much monsterfucking, not beta read, dead dove: do not eat

hi. i occasionally write dark fic. this is one of them. if you do not like any of the stuff listed above, please do not read this. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

He wasn’t always like this, you know.

Physically. And mentally, he supposes. Technically he was always a pervert, he was just better at keeping it at bay when he didn’t have the wings.

And you… you’ve always been perfect, in his eyes. He didn’t get why you were so sweet to him, when he had pretty much succeeded in turning most of the town against him. Try as he might to appear big and bad and scary, the ruse always collapsed when you were around. You were always so soft on him, maybe too soft. He didn’t want to lose that.

He’s big and bad and scary now. But he would never try to alienate you. He’s selfish that way.

Lounging on a branch high up in a tree, Eddie recalls a foggy memory, kind of like looking through a really dirty window into a past life, that he’d wanted to do this before. Certain things only come as instinct to him now. Desires sprung up from the very base of his soul, the bare bones of who he is at the core, the only thing connecting what he is now to who he was.

He remembers… sort of… that he thought about this a lot. Late at night, alone in his room, his back on that filthy mattress and his hand down his pants. The tree outside your house reaches up 50 feet and hangs over the water (because of course a girl like you would live in a house on the water. Picture-perfect in every way). He could never do it, though. There weren’t any branches low enough for him to climb onto, and your bedroom is on the second floor.

His wings fold in on themselves and merge back together with his skin, like two drops of oil in a cup of water fusing into one. He hadn’t liked them in the beginning, before his instinct had taken over, and there was still only panic. He’d stupidly tried to use that spear of his to cut them off, before Vecna had convinced him that was a bad idea.

Of course it was. They come in handy sometimes. Like now, for instance.

His eyesight is much keener now, too; in the dark, yes, but also just in general. A part of him wonders if, had this never happened to him, would he have needed to get glasses at some point? He can’t imagine how much everyone in town would have loved that- Eddie Munson, the four-eyed freak.

He can see everything. How tightly your nails dig into the meat of your thigh. How you haven’t shaved- that’s okay, he’s always liked hair, on both men and women. His eyes trace the movement of your hand, pumping the little toy in and out of your slick cunt. It doesn’t look big enough to be making you convulse the way it is, but you just can’t lay still. Your hips rock, your legs squirm on the sheets beneath you. Your chest- god, your chest- shines with sweat and leaps with your breath.

He knows, deep down under the hold that Vecna has over his mind, his humanity still remains. Because he feels a little bit guilty when he pulls his cock out of his pants.

There are many things about him now that are bigger than they were before- he’s a little bit taller, his hands and fingers a little larger to accommodate the claws lurking underneath. His canines are longer and just a fraction sharper, because at the end of the day he has to use them to stay alive. These things make sense, of course, considering his… condition. The size of his cock, though. He can’t place an evolutionary reason for that, unless it was just Vecna playing god.

Would it even fit, if he were to fuck you? He likes to think he’d give you what you need, and the thought of you writhing under him as your sweet little cunt stretches around him makes him imagine he’s more than capable. You would be so warm, so tight and wet. The sweetest and prettiest girl in the world, all his to use and break open. His cock twitches, pulsing strongly in his hand.

His eyes can glow now. He feels it when it happens, a bit of a burning behind the dark irises. It’s meant to alert him when he’s close to something his body desires. Hunger manifests from two different parts of life, you know, and he’s starved in both of them. Eddie blinks, and the yellow glow in his eyes reflects back at him from the glass of your window, reminding him of what he is. A predator close to his prey.

Your neck arches, head driving back into your pillows. Your hand clutches the pillow above your head, mouth open in a silent moan. It almost feels like he mirrors you, with one leg dangling from the branch and the other holding him in place, his hand making wet strokes over his cock in time with your own.

Watching you come apart is almost more of a treat than when he does it himself. To see your legs shaking, your hips chasing the release, hand stalling on the little fake cock because you tighten down so much around it. Baring his teeth, he grunts loudly and spills hot cum over his knuckles, unable to rip his sharp eyes away from you.

You lay, satiated, on your bed. Eddie knocks his skull back against the trunk of the tree, shakes his head to get rid of that infernal burning behind his eyes. He wipes his hand carelessly on the front of his shirt, and then swings backward off the branch to plunge into the cool water below.

He’s still thinking about it by the time he gets to the gate at the bottom of the lake.

Beautiful. You’re so beautiful.

He wants to tear you apart.

Here’s the thing; Eddie’s spent so many nights perched outside of your house that he can smell you, probably from anywhere in town. It’s more than perfume, it’s the natural smell of you. Something like cherry wine and petrichor, earthy and sweet all at once. It draws him like a moth to a flame, because the only real reason he comes to the surface world anymore is for you.

He stands just inside a line of trees, watching from the dark. A party. He never liked them, even when he was human. Less so now. He sees many faces he recognizes, a few he doesn’t, none of which he cares about except for yours.

There’s a boy talking to you, and Eddie flexes his jaw as anger rears its ugly head. He doesn’t know why, but he feels so possessive of you that he can hardly stand it. The boy smells like booze and you smell like fear, and Eddie is about two seconds from charging out of the trees and ripping the boy’s head off.

He doesn’t have to. You look for an out and back into the trees of your own accord, and the boy toddles off when he turns around and can’t find you again. Eddie can’t help the proud twist of his lips, his mind settling on relief. Good girl.

He doesn’t try to hide himself. You were always going to find him one way or another; if it wasn’t tonight, then it would be one of the nights that he watches you through your window. That’s what made it so fun, waiting for you to open your eyes and find him staring back at you. But you never did, and now you trip over a tree root and fall into his outstretched arms in the dark, such a romantic cliché.

“Careful.” His voice is deeper, or maybe it just feels that way in his mouth. You’re so fragile in his arms, so delicate. He doesn’t want to let you go.

When you stand on your own two feet and pull back to lock eyes with him, the air shifts dramatically. Your lips part, staring at him in shock. “Eddie?”

“Hey, you.” He tilts his head. Nobody’s said his name like that in a while- with kindness. “Long time, no see.”

Your eyes search his face. He looks the same- maybe taller, a little paler. He smells funky, but then again, he always did. The same long, fluffy dark hair, the same big, brown eyes that tormented you in high school. The same bright smile that captured your attention time and time again.

“What happened to you?” You start, no pleasantries, no beating around the bush. “People thought you died- I thought you died.”

“I did.”

A nervous chuckle leaves your lips, but you shuffle closer to him. You feel relieved. Happy. You don’t know how, or why, but you knew he wasn’t dead. It was more than intuition and a little less than a delusion. Eddie Munson can’t just fucking die. That’s not how it’s supposed to go for him. He would have graduated the same year as you, but he was held back, and you just… wanted to see him get out of there. You wanted that for him.

His hand comes up to cradle the curve of your elbow, your fingers finding the front of his worn-out shirt. He’s raided his old trailer multiple times in the last few months, each time finding a new shirt to replace whatever old, tattered thing the upside-down has all but destroyed. This week it says Motörhead. Next week, who knows.

Your hand presses into the fabric like you’re trying to make sure he’s real. He doesn’t feel real to himself anymore, but that’s neither here nor there. If you feel comfortable in his presence, maybe that’s good for him.

“All the murders- you didn’t really kill them, did you?” You ask him quietly, and you know the answer even as you say the words. “That wasn’t you, was it?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought,” you admit, and he smiles. You’re far too sweet for him. He loves you, he really does. “I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t believe me.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Fuck them.”

“Yeah… fuck them.” Your fingers twist in the ends of his hair gently, a nervous habit that you developed in school and maintained after graduation, but began doing to anyone you got close enough to. You wish you could say it wasn’t the first time you’d felt his hair in your hands, but it is.

He breathes heavily through his nose, and he has to fight his instinct to let the claws come out. He lifts his hand, lets his fingers graze across your cheek and trace the line of your plush lower lip. You’re so close, and he’s so unbearably hungry.

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly, his eyes tracing the curves of your face and settling on the sight of your pulse, throbbing voraciously against the skin of your throat. He tears his eyes away before he can get lost in it.

You stare up into his face, and he thinks you might try to kiss him. He’s not sure if he wants you to, or wants to try to get as far away from you as possible before you can.

“Eddie,” you murmur, and your breath tickles invitingly across his cold skin. “I missed you.”

“I missed you.” He hums under his breath, pulling you closer until he feels your chest brush up against his. “I’m glad I found you, sweetheart.”

An enchanted moment, he thinks. He could spend eternity in it, with you pressed against him, without knowing what he’s become. But it doesn’t last- someone calls your name, and you nearly trip jumping back from him.

“C’mon, honey,” you say, shocking him still as you tug on his wrist. “They can’t find you here. If they do… I don’t want to think about what happens if they do.”

Fear. You smell like it, but not because of him. Because of everyone else. He wants to rip every last one of their heads off for making you feel like this.

“Where are we going?” he asks quietly, letting you tug him along by the wrist and not really caring about the answer. It doesn’t matter where you go, because wherever it is, he’s going to be the most dangerous thing there.

“Don’t worry,” you insist, and he doesn’t. He doesn’t really know how to anymore. “I know a place. No one will find us there.”

Good, he thinks. That’s very good.

Something about Eddie has changed. That much is impossibly clear.

For one, the old Eddie wouldn’t have done this, even though you desperately wanted him to. He wouldn’t have cornered you in an alcove by Lover’s Lake, out in the open but so far removed from anything that no one could hear your cries. He wouldn’t have bitten your lips raw and sucked on your tongue, manhandled you into his lap on the rough ground.

No, the old Eddie would never have touched you like this. Your back to his chest, straddling his thick thighs with your skirt hiked up to your waist. His tongue slick on your neck, one hand shoved up your shirt to cup your breast, the other stroking at your cunt over your panties.

He’d always been intense, of course. But the old Eddie was too strangely sweet and gentlemanly, too hesitant to push beyond the fragile friendship you had with one another. But then he disappears for a few months, and when he comes back his hands are so big that one of them can completely circle your throat, trapping you back against him when he hooks your panties to the side and slides his fingers through your soaked folds. Two thick digits plunging deep into you, slick with your arousal, and you’re having trouble breathing as it is.

“You like this?” he coos against your ear, and you have trouble reconciling that dark, velvety voice with the sweet guy who constantly talked about Tolkien with you in English class. Who had traded a cigarette for your bag of goldfish crackers once, and then immediately turned around and gave it to his younger friend.

You whimper a meek reply, hips chasing his touch. You would kill to know where he’s been, what all had happened to him in order to change him this much.

Because he’s not exactly sweet anymore, is he? He rips his fingers from you and he growls a low, “Turn around,” and damn if you don’t just follow his order immediately. Like it isn’t even you controlling your body anymore, you turn yourself towards him and he’s already shoving you back onto the cold earth, hands tearing your underwear down your legs.

His teeth are so much sharper than they ought to be, you think, as he sinks them into the meat of your thigh. You hiss a soft, “Ow, fuck, Eddie,” because you could swear he just pierced the skin, but he simply hums and soothes the bite with his tongue, and the pain fades immediately. You feel delirious under his attentions, as he sucks gently at his little bite and draws back with a wet pop.

“Couldn’t help it. You just taste so damn sweet,” Eddie sighs, kissing his way further up toward your cunt. And slowly, he takes to your sticky folds with his open mouth, just the same as he had to the bite mark.

Eddie’s always liked it a little dirty, a little sloppy. That’s why he lets it get wet, lets his tongue play through your folds until you’re not sure whether it’s his spit or your slick that’s dripping from you, down his chin and onto the ground- possibly both, but you don’t care.

That’s just it- you’re beyond the point of caring about anything, as long as he just keeps going. His lips are wrapped around your clit, and you don’t care. His tongue prods into your entrance, and you don’t care. His hair is a little grimy when you weave your fingers through it, and you don’t care. The world could end in an hour. You don’t care.

Amazing how quickly even just the smell of you will turn him into a complete animal. How at the first taste of your blood, he knew he was a goner. Your pussy is almost as sweet as your blood- not quite, but almost, and he still can’t get enough of it. Letting his hands wander over your exposed skin, the claws beneath his nails wanting to jump out every time you twitch. You have no idea how hard he’s holding on, how careful he has to be with you.

“Eddie.” You moan his name so softly, he can almost remember being that slightly shy kid you’d made friends with in English class.

He feels it, burning in the back of his eyes. The faint glow in his irises, golden like the setting sun, emanating from the inside out. He has you where he wants you- he has you.

And then, you look.

You wish you could say that some kind of fight or flight instinct kicks in, when he lifts his head and you can see the yellow glow in his eyes, the glint on his impossibly long canines. That something in your mind tells you to ‘run,’ but it doesn’t. You just lay still, frozen in shock. He looms over you, and he’s so big and the bottom half of his face shines with your slick, and it just makes sense. It makes perfect fucking sense. It explains everything.

“You have changed,” you murmur shakily. You lift your hand and gently poke at his canine, letting it scrape sharply against your skin. “Something did happen to you, huh?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He doesn’t need to. “Do I scare you?”

“Yes.” You couldn’t lie to him anyways, he can hear your heart pounding in your chest.

“You like it.”

A statement, as obvious as the night surrounding you. You like it. Your cunt seeps for him, still sensitive and swollen because you didn’t get to come, and it would be fucking devastating for you if either one of you decided to take off. You like the way his eyes glow- he always had beautiful eyes, this just makes them more striking. You like the way his fangs make his smile appear even bigger when he does. You like how big and dangerous he is now. He always tried to appear that way, and now he is.

“What… are you gonna do?”

He hears the little tremor in your voice, and it touches something beyond the primal instinct clouding his mind. It seems you’re the only thing that can reach his humanity anymore.

“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart,” he promises with a small smile. “I’m just going to eat you.”

To your credit, you do struggle when he sinks his teeth in. Maybe you do have something of a survival instinct in there, buried down deep just like his humanity is. The squeal you make at the sting of the bite sends a wave of sadistic arousal through him. Your nails scrape down his arms as he pulls you into them, hoisting you up into his lap so that he can more comfortably nuzzle his mouth against your throat. He feels your pulse on his lips, your heart hammering so hard that it could leap out of your chest.

It rockets through you in the blink of an eye. You’re scared. You’re so very, very scared, and his teeth are inside you, and his arms are closing in around you and you can’t fight him-

But as soon as he retracts his teeth and there’s nothing there but his tongue to lave and sooth the wound on your skin, you relax into his arms. A soft moan escapes you, and Eddie feels that gentle burn behind his eyes grow that much stronger.

Eddie has never been a Christian, and he certainly knows nothing about heaven, but he’s sure that it must be something like the taste of your blood on his tongue. He doesn’t believe in a God- and don’t get started on Vecna, because that motherfucker will never be a god as far as Eddie’s concerned- but if there is one that exists, then they must have created you for him. Why else would your hand, so small and weak, fist in his dirty hair and instead of pulling him away from you, push him further into your throat?

Your hips press downward, your slick cunt grinding against the front of his pants for some kind of relief. Lust burns as bright as a bonfire in your belly, making you lose all sense of what’s right and wrong anymore. You can’t quite intellectualize how or why you’re so turned on by him- you recognize that he’s drinking your blood, but you can’t help it.

Sharp nails scratch down your back as he cradles you close to him, and he smells so… good. It’s weird, because he smells like lake water and sweat, earth and blood, but it’s so attractive to you. You must be losing your mind.

He grunts, one of his hands wiggling in between your bodies to undo his belt. There’s a shift, a short moment when he pulls his cock out of his pants. You can’t see it, but you can feel the burning head as it slides between your slick folds, and you swear you could come just from him rubbing himself between your lips. The tip catching and skimming over your clit, making a weak little whimper slip from your mouth.

And then he tugs you down onto his cock, burying himself in one smooth stroke, and the guttural moan you make echoes off the walls of the alcove you’re hidden in. “There we go, sweetheart.”

“Fuck, Eddie-” Open-mouthed pants kiss the cool air, and you squirm just a bit more on his cock, hissing at the pain and the incomparable stretch. He’s so fucking big- jesus, he’s massive. You’re weak and complacent at the stroke of his tongue on your neck, but he picks you up by the hips to move you on his cock, and the burn is almost too much.

“Sh-sh-sh-shh.” He drags his wet lips along your jawline, and you can smell the blood, can hear his chuckle despite the sounds you’re making. “This is what you wanted, right? Isn’t it fun when you can have what you want?”

You figure it’s a rhetorical question. You can’t quite answer; too overwhelmed by everything that’s happening, every breath that falls from your mouth punctuated by a soft and helpless moan.

The pain fades to pleasure quicker than it should- Eddie can’t help but feel that it’s something he’s doing to you, something about his new form that’s making your defenses shut down and in turn making you relax into him. He can’t sense fear in you anymore, only acceptance. He has a hard time thinking that it’s a bad thing.

He doesn’t want you to be afraid. He’s not going to hurt you, not unless you want him to. He promised.

Your pretty moans are all but scrambling his mind, so lost in the taste of you that he can just barely understand you whimpering, “Eddie- need you- need you.”

He picks you up like it’s nothing- it is nothing, to him. You’re so delicate, shaking like a leaf in his arms, and he groans as his cock drags through your walls, tight and pulsing around him. He knew you’d be so wet, drowning him, soaking him until there’s no resistance but the stretch your body makes around him.

“Feel that? Feels good, doesn’t it?” he breathes against your throat. “You were made for me, baby, you take me so well.”

All you can do is cry. Tears prick your eyes, nails digging into his scalp and scratching at his jacket, but there’s nothing to distract from the way his cock hits the perfect spot in you every time, making you throw out hollow sobs into the night air.

A moan chokes off in the back of your throat as he tilts you back, laying you onto the cold ground to gain some leverage to work with. His hips pull back and slam forward, the hair on his pelvis grinding up against your clit and coming back drenched with your arousal.

Eyes clenched shut, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to the feeling of him hitting the end of you like that. The way his cock drags against a spot inside you just desperate for its touch. Feverish under your skin, scratching along the earth beneath you as his hand closes on your throat, tilts your head to the side so that he can examine the damage he’s done.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs low in his throat. His voice is strained, his mind nearly void of anything beyond base desire. “My mark on you- fuck, you’re mine now, aren’t you? Mine.”

He says it so possessively, like a child with his favorite toy. Mine. It stirs something deep in you that you barely knew was there.

“Yours, Eddie,” you pant, your head tilting back as his thrusts continue to shake you to your core. “M’yours.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, his voice softening into a quiet purr. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? I can feel it, baby. So tight on my cock-”

You gasp weakly, nails digging into the skin of his forearm. You don’t think he even really feels the pain, because he doesn’t flinch away from you. His hand remains solidly pressed to your chest, still appraising your face and the mark on your neck. You instinctively turn your face to the side, your orgasm washing over you like he was able to command it into your body with his words alone.

“There’s a good girl.” He bends down and catches your lower lip with his teeth, letting his canines scrape the skin but never digging in quite enough to break it. He groans against your mouth, sounding half-tortured. “Feels better than I imagined, sweetheart. Fuck, I’m close- M’gonna fill you up, baby. You’re gonna take all of my cum, aren’t you?”

“Please- oh shit-” You whine loudly as Eddie hikes your leg up to your chest and slams his hips into yours. Your limbs have all but gone numb, barely able to process anything but the pleasure coursing through you. Breathing is just about the hardest thing you can do right now, but you manage to draw one in long enough to spit out, “Please, Eddie, give it to me- I want it.”

Eddie’s touch is soft as it strokes over your face, cupping your cheek. It’s almost tender in the midst of what, you think with absolute certainty, is the craziest fuck of your life. He must care about you, somewhere in there, under whatever the fuck has happened to him. Whatever turned him into this.

You think that you should feel shame. You should feel something like fear, or guilt, or something of the sort, but it doesn’t come. Pleasure only blooms like white hot hellfire in your limbs and in your gut, and you let him keep the score with his tongue in your mouth, tasting of your blood.

He sounds like an angel when he slots his hips up against yours and fills you like he promised. His groans rumble onto your lips, and as you swallow them you think that you could be in love with him.

You lay with his weight on top of you, hips rocking occasionally against his in the aftermath, milking him for all he’s worth. He doesn’t move to make you stop, and so you enjoy the little bits of friction that come with his pubic bone rubbing against your swollen clit. His cum leaking from you, making a mess on your skin and allowing the movement to be that much smoother each time you squirm against him.

“Eddie,” you say, eventually, with your voice hoarse and grating in your throat.

He picks his head up to look at you, and that golden shine from his eyes is gone, for now. But he looks far more alert than you are, and so you realize that he’s just… enjoying this. Letting you roll your hips against his, unable to stop, feeling you pulse on his cock from the stimulation.

“Yes?”

“What…” you lick your lips, already dry and still tasting of the metallic blood that his smeared across them. “What are you?”

He blinks, and his mouth slowly curves into a smirk. It’s one that you’ve seen time and time again, and still, this time it holds a new meaning to you.

“You know.”

You do know. Something in the back of your brain goes, “by the way, vampires exist,” but it leaves as quickly as it surfaces. Eddie pulls your leg back up to its spot against your chest, your knee hooking over his broad shoulder. Staring into your eyes, he grins.

He draws his hips back. And he rolls in like the tide.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfiction #dark!eddie munson #vampire!eddie munson #perv!eddie munson #dark!eddie munson x reader #vampire!eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things 4 #roses*

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grapejuicestyless · 5 months

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i have had this idea for so long, but i really think you could do this justice. sort of like the film the holiday!!! but not really set in Christmas and more so through the seasons. harry moves out of the city (doesn’t need to be a singer and could just be a CEO) into a small village in a lovely cottage where all of the furniture is mismatched and there’s sash windows which are always open. He’s there for a few months before he starts to feel lonely so decides to bring in a lodger! He hand makes posters and puts them on the village hall board and … he finally gets a taker! It’s a quirky girl who is totally all over the place and she moves in .. the seasons change and so does their relationship.. friends to lovers OR ACTUALLY maybe it could be so interesting for it to be enemies to lovers! That could be fun to write. But idk I’ve been thinking about it for so long !!! They could organise a dinner party for friends one night or maybe Harry goes away to the city for a meeting and that’s where y/n realises how much she misses him / likes him. Definitely has to be fluffy but also needs to have some drama. I haven’t figured that out yet 😭😭😭 I’m so sorry for this really long rambly post but I wanted to give u as much of my brain as possible lol. I would LOVE LOVE LOVE to see what you would do with this / if it’s something you’re even interested in. Have a gorgeous evening / day / morning xxx love you!!💖💖💖💖💖

Bad People

Harry Styles x fem!reader

Summery: Harry and Y/n met by pure luck. Sharing secrets and laughing like little kids, ribs and cheeks hurting. Y/n is sure Harry is destined to be in her life forever. She’s just not sure when that became a bad thing.

FLANGST/FRIENDS TO ENEMIES TO LOVERS

The pale blue sky looked gray from certain windows. The glass was cracked and the stove stained with boiled over soup broth and old sprinklings of spices.

The birds sang solemnly, humming the tune to what I believed sounded like something you’d hear at a funeral. Here, the pavement was cracked and the stars were consistently covered with clouds. Snow, more often than not, fell heavily. From October to April. The nearby ocean nearly always too cold to swim in. The backyard pool cold and clean, still with nobody to inhabit it.

All the beauty ripped from the earth, and replaced with another kind of it. I wouldn’t mind it half as much, if I had someone to enjoy the snow with. To enjoy the polar plunges, the visible breath and numb fingers.

Like old times sake, snowmen and snowball fights. Sledding or fort making. Rosy cheeks and icy hair a memory of the past. Cheeks hurting from smiles, not the winter chill.

The laughter of my mother was long gone, and my brother outgrew his desire for a sibling as soon as he turned sixteen. Few friends, not any at least, that would enjoy the activities the white powder offered.

So now, I look out the window, nursing a glass of wine propped up on the windowsill. I don’t see the snow day ahead or pray for a white Christmas. I pray that one day, I’ll find someone to enjoy it with me. To soothe the pain little eight year old me suffered with the absence of her father, her distant mother and her selfish brother.

“Looking at it won’t make it fall any faster, Y/n.” The puff of air coming from my nose fogs up to cool glass, and my fingers leave prints along the center.

He’s not looking at me, he rarely does when we aren’t fighting. It’s like I disgust him. I feel like a fool every god damn time.

“Have you always naturally been an asshole or did you grow into it?” I don’t look at him, but I feel his gaze settle on my reflection in the glass. His voice alone urges me to take a large drink from the wine glass. The ruby red staining my top lip. I spread it around and taste the bitterness of it on my tongue.

He begins to leave, almost succeeding without a passing glance, but biting his tongue is something Harry nor I have ever been able to do. So it’s natural how he goes for the last word.

“Theres only so much wine, Y/n.” He teases. I down the rest while he walks away. The sigh that leaves my mouth after I feel the ghost of him leaving me isn’t only for air, but because suddenly the room feels lighter.

It’s funny, how someone so special can leave such a disgusting taste in your mouth. Hatred doesn’t just happen. It creeps, seeps, saturates. It’s a pesky little thing that starts small until finally you can’t ignore how bothered you are. It’s vile and cruel. A poisonous little thing that no one is immune to. It’s a sad yet funny thing. To remember that it wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always hate my old friend, bounded to me through the home we share. I once enjoyed the company of Harry styles.

It was nearly a year since I’d moved in. A year since the slow turned to thick ice and roads became bare with people too afraid to try and navigate through the harsh winter.

Nearly a year since I first saw the house at the end of the road, with a neat front lawn and a tree with hanging branches ready to snap.

A red scarf and red mittens is what I wore. With a faded brown coat and worn blue jeans. A hat on top of my head and a journal tucked underneath my arm. He had the greenest eyes I had ever seen. The stars in the night sky didn’t quite shine as bright as his eyes, I swore it to myself.

He had an english accent, one that I wasn’t familiar with. Peach fuzz and dark chocolate curls a mess on his head. When I told him my job, he laughed, but something about his shocked expression after told me he didn’t mean it cruelly. Rather, that he was shocked, or just piecing the puzzle together.

“I’m my mother’s daughter.” I told him, “She always had a thing for poetry. The sappy ones with the tragic endings. I got it from her and I’m damn good at it.” I smiled at him then, and he smiled back bigger.

“It’s just funny. Moving somewhere so quiet for a job all about fantasy and adventure.” He explained, already guiding the two of us through the wide doorway. I set my boots in the old entryway which it seemed he had turned into a mud room. I admired the shade of green on the wall and nodded along. My cheeks hurt from smiling.

That night, while settling into my new space, I shared with him my life. My goals and dreams. With his toothy smile and boyish eyes, he made it so easy to trust him. I sat on my newly made bed and he sat in my spinning chair by my desk. Moving it back and forth, swaying slowly. A cigarette started dangling from his pocket, I still remember the way he took it between his thumb and his index finger. Rolling it around, debating whether or not to light it. It was like he didn’t know he had it.

“I didn’t take you for a smoker.” I laughed at him, he laughed back. Shy almost, only looking at me for a moment.

“M’not. A few here and there. Helps to wind down.” When he ran his hand through his hair, I remember seeing all his rings. A rose and two with his initials. One looked like a lion. That one was my favorite.

Other than his charming smile and infectious laughter, I knew nothing of him, I had come to realize. Here he was, knowing about my family and friends. My job and my hobbies. All I had asked him was his name.

When I asked him, he was just as talkative as I was. A sparkle in his eyes when he talked about his job. I remember specifically, how they lit up extra bright when he mentioned his mother, Anne, and his older sister, Gemma. I learned about his job too. Harry had everything he could ever truly want. The money, the power, the glory. His office at the top floor overlooking the bustling city that never sleeps. Families dancing around the square and traffic backed up into the city line.

The sad thing was, that even with all this pride he got to carry with his reputation, the city was no home to him. The summer held no comfort. Not the same now that he was long out of school. The heat was simply uncomfortable. His lavish suit sticking to his skin. Even the air conditioner couldn’t soothe the pounding of his head against the strong New York heat.

His nose stung in the summer. The warmer it got, the worse it smelled. Garbage littering the streets no longer covered by thick snow. Tourists and their children filling up all his favorite places of relaxation. Each carrying their own scent from home. The calming pine from the North or the tangy citrus of the west coast.

Harry felt no true love for his home anymore. No real attachment. There was no smell of home, and there certainly wasn’t any old faces with their gravelly voices and thick accents. If it weren’t for the business there, he would’ve fled somewhere else long ago. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere that felt like home. If he could, he would have tucked himself back into the small home his mother raised him and his sister in. He would’ve curled up happily in his twin bed and looked out the same crooked window each night and feel happy with only that.

He tells me that when he got in the car waiting for him at the airport, he was tempted to tell the driver to take him home, to see if it would make him smile. He’d seen the gag used in all the old rom-coms he and his mother used to watch. The short blonde running from the love of her life only to be led back into his arms. But Harry know’s better. He tells me so. So when the driver asks him where to, he tells him the address.

He told me about his work life. How there was a branch out in the UK. The one that started it all. And as his success grew, so did his aspirations and his needs. London no longer provided him with the luxury and opportunity that New York could. So he swapped out his office for a penthouse and acted like the smell of burning garbage and mysterious wet spots on the sidewalks didn’t bother him.

It’s a vicious cycle. To outgrow, to long for, to move, to hate all over again. Thats how he decided that London has just what he needed. His business within reach and smaller towns surrounding its borders.

“And what about now? Are you happy?” Harry crinkled his eyes then, smiling a nodding along. He didn’t even mind it then, when I would interrupt. In fact, he welcomed it. Claimed he loved hearing me talk.

I agreed with him when he said that the grass is greener down here. The stars are just that much brighter and theres not a single car honking their horn past nine. All things that left him feeling a whole lot calmer than the chaos of the city.

Here, Harry told me he didn’t mind not living in a lavish penthouse just a few blocks away from his work. Here, he was hours away from the city. He stays in a medium sized cape cod styled house, pre-decorated from the past owners who didn’t care to take their things when they left for something bigger. It sticks out from the rest of the homes nearby. He wonders how something so different ended up within the same area. And he smiled and sat on the floor when I laughed and told him he’d already lived quite the life for a nearly-thirty year old man.

When silence took over after over an hour long conversation, I bit at my nails and looked at the floor. Suddenly, it came to me.

“Harry?” I had asked. He hummed, looking at me. Even if I hadn’t looked back, I could still feel his eyes on mine. “What made you want a roommate?” When my eyes flickered up to his, I saw no hate, or disgust, or shame. Nothing that I am familiar with now in Harry’s eyes. I saw curiosity, warmth and happiness.

“I like the quiet. I like being able to sleep without someone yelling down the hallway. I like how green it is over here.” I nodded, waiting for him to continue. “But the quiet get’s lonely. And while I like the quiet, I hate being alone.” And it made me smile back then. Maybe it still does thinking about it know. He had been helping me in finding a home, some place warm to stay. Meanwhile, I had been able to give back. Give him what he wanted. At the time, my heart warmed.

For a long time after that, Harry made my heart beat fiercely. He brought me flowers and made us pancakes. Freshly picked blueberries from the local market. He cracked jokes and I repeated them back between our broken laughter, imitating his english accent.

He was a charming man, with an energy that invited and kept you drawn to him. Everyone wanted to be around Harry. The men and the women. Always wanting a piece of the pie. I felt rich in life, that while others had to work for a lifelong friendship with him, naturally, we fit together. We worked.

He entered my life by some kind of coincidence. I needed a place to stay and he was offering a room up.

When he brushed his thumb over my knuckles and kissed the skin, I believed we would be like this forever. Just the two of us.

When he whispered to me that he loved me that same night, I thought it was something he would never take back. Something that would never change. His warm breath and glistening eyes. He was red and shiny. A bottle of the cheap champagne sat on the table and an empty glass beside him. I let his lips trail around my hand and laugh at his antics.

“Harry.” I mumbled into the darkness, he doesn’t move. I silently giggle again after he puffs air out of his own nose onto my hand playfully. His shoulders shake with his own fits of laughter, “Harry.” I call out again, and my eyes are met with his dazzling emerald ones. I almost got lost, forgot how to talk looking at him.

My palms were sweaty with nervousness then. My heart beating out of my chest. I wanted more than anything to tell him everything. As a poet, it should have been easy to put my thoughts out in the open air. But they hadn’t sat within me for long enough to curate a straight forward answer.

How would I even manage to start on how beautiful I thought his brown hair was? Perfectly colored like milk chocolate treats that curled over his forehead. Or his toothy grin which pulled butterflies from the pit of my stomach and made me feel lighter? I couldn’t find just one thing to focus on. And the words that came out of my mouth tumbled out quickly.

“You’re my best friend.” I hoped that he would’ve been able to see how much love I held for him in my face. How even in the dim lighting of only the fireplace and the fading lamp in the corner, he could see how they sparkled just for him.

He pulled his hand away after that, clearing his throat and nodding. But he smiled so softly after that I didn’t see how his eyes welled up with tears. I only saw his perfectly pink lips and his rosy cheeks. For once, I wasn’t focused on his eyes, and I paid the price.

He never made pancakes for us after that night. Nor did he ever pick flowers from the fields or crack jokes until our stomachs hurt. My hand was never slotted between his and my head didn’t rest on top of his shoulders. His was colder, more distant. Quiet.

But the quiet grew old for us both. And the slipping away hurt more than anything I’d ever experienced. I was everyone else in his life. Fighting for a spot in the light so he would see me, smile at me, acknowledge me.

Part of me wondered why he never asked me to leave. To pack my bags and find another innocent man to love because he wouldn’t tolerate it anymore. But he never did. Harry hated being alone and I knew better than anyone else. I knew it because I was his best friend at some point. We shared the same breaths and drank from the same glasses. I wore his shirts and he used my hair clips. He kept me around not because he still wanted me, but because he still needed me. And the realization of it all hurts worse than the silence because it’s then I know that I’ve really lost him. It leaves me with the question, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

I think back on that night when our world shifted on its axis and I go over every word that was said. I check for any signs of discomfort or anger and I find nothing. It plagues me with a new insecurity.

Maybe it wasn’t something I’d said, maybe it wasn’t something I’d done. Maybe the warmth from the champagne grew cold in his blood and the false euphoria from it all cleared from his peripheral vision and he realized that I was no longer enough. I was not what he wanted. The idea of his roommate becoming his only friend too pathetic for a man with such power.

Soon after, I stop putting up a fight. I stop fighting for a spot in his life and I stop trying to win back a man that was never mine. I figured at least if he could never be mine and I would never be his, at least I still got to see his pretty face everyday. And I could imagine that we never drifted.

I wake in the night, I pace like a ghost. The tears running down my cheeks are hot, burning my skin until my throat dully aches and my chest is red with flakes of nail polish and the dragging of my nails clawing at my chest.

I am sobbing, broken and tired. I dream of a life that is not as miserable. I dream of a life where I no longer doubt the things I love. Where I don’t have to question my friend’s loyalty.

He knocks on my door, leaning against it in only his flannel pants. He has tattoos that compliment his skin so well. He looks like a painting. I’m relieved to see him again. Even if it’s under these circumstances.

I wait for him to speak, even if it’s merely a mumble. Even if I cannot understand.

“Can you stop crying? I can’t sleep.” He requests. My lips part and I swear my lungs collapse within my chest. I can’t breathe and somehow I remain composed.

“Okay.” I say quietly, nodding along and trying to find his eyes. They look at the floor, and his face is contorted like it pained him to say that to me. Like it was against his will. But he doesn’t even look at me.

When he leaves, I collapse, shoulder shaking with rage, sadness, confusion instead of the contagious laughter that once rang out through the halls.

I decide then, July moon shining through the sash windows of my room that I couldn’t continue holding onto Harry. My heart still beats for him and my eyes still sparkled when his own lingered for just a moment longer on me, but I couldn’t like him.

Hatred doesn’t just happen. It creeps, seeps, saturates. It’s a pesky little thing that starts small until finally you can’t ignore how bothered you are. It’s vile and cruel. A poisonous little thing that no one is immune to. It’s a sad yet funny thing.

After that night, his selfish wishes turn to bitter comments which turn to vicious attacks at my confidence. And my resilience and devotion to silence, to ignore the cruelty of it all is worn thin. My bitten tongue is freed and I am betrayed by my own words. My own comments targeted at his deepest hurts. It’s a mutual hate between us, a mutual dislike.

We live within the same four walls, the same windows and creaky roof over our heads. We cook in the same kitchen and we sit on the same couch, but we cannot stand each other anymore. The house is no longer filled with love, and the warm heat turns to bitter cold. And yet, neither of us have the guts to leave.

We sit here, in a life thats so mean to us just because we are afraid of the loneliness that is surely to come with the other’s absence.

We are here, but we aren’t present. It makes me laugh, it makes me wonder.

Who could ever leave me? But who could stay?

The candles burned down to the floor, wax melting over the wood as the lights set a warm, homely mood for the night. The late December rush throughout the town turned to the few and far between searching for last minute supplies to ring in the new year. It’s peacefully still outside, and the dining room looks so nice I forget why the candles burn and our nicest plates are set out.

Harry insisted on having a small gathering with some of our friends to celebrate the new year before he went away for sometime for work. Being roommates, despite our lack of interest in establishing our own friendship, his friends become my friends and mine become his. It’s a fairly large group that was once two. But have now become so closely intertwined that it seems hard to differentiate who was friends with who first.

There was wine, pastas and breads. Hams and potatoes. Drinks and endless desserts. It felt nice, to have all those people we cared so deeply about chip in and help to create such a lovely meal for the few of us.

Hearing that first doorbell ring to see all of our friends stood proudly on our crooked doorstep made my heart flutter. Sarah, Mitch, Pauli, Elin, Charlotte, Nyoh. All holding various foods to add to the never ending supply on the multiple tables set in a row.

“Harry! Y/n!” The enthusiasm from our friends seemed to lighten the mood, letting the heavy feeling of heated arguments and constant anger slip down my back and into the farthest part of my brain.

It was times like these where I’d forget how to hate. How to spread anger and disgust to someone who clearly showed none of it in return in these times. Here, Harry was talkative. Always plastering on a fake smile and wave.

He was good at pretending. And while the walls of the house had seen a different story, those around us were innocent, forever unknowing of how Harry constantly belittled me, bothered me. Of how I was no better. How my tongue was sharp and my words shot to kill.

Nobody minded the difference in height of the dinning room table against the kitchen table. How one was round and the other a rectangle. Both covered by one long table cloth. Nobody minded the soft music in the background or how the light wasn’t the brightest. The soft flickers never mentioned.

We let the candles burn until they had nothing left to give, and we ate until it was bare and our stomachs hurt. Here, I never felt like I was trapped. Here, I remembered by I came to live with Harry in the first place. And I was thankful. It was times like these I couldn’t help smiling like an idiot. Cheeks sore and eyes crinkling. I would laugh at just about anything, trust anyone and agree with everything.

“When are you going to tell him?” An elbow to the ribs pulled my gaze from the end of the table, my smile dropping for only a moment at the sudden shock.

“Sorry?” I mumbled softly into Sarah’s ear. Her eyes glimmered with something mischievous, like she knew something that I didn’t. She licked her pink lips and looked briefly back to the end of the table. All the way over by the dining table, sat a few feet away and a couple inches higher, was Harry. Laughing and talking with Pauli and Elin about anything and everything. I couldn’t quite make it out over the soft chatter of Mitch and Charlotte and the clinking of forks on plates.

“Harry!” She called softly. When my eyebrows furrowed she rolled her eyes, sighing heavily.

“I don’t get it.” Forking another bite of vegetables into my mouth, I watched her fight for the right words to say. Her lips finally settling on the soft smile I knew very well.

“Don’t play dumb, Y/n. I know that look. Better than anyone. Thats how I look at Mitch.” She playfully nudged my shoulder. Did she believe that I held any romantic feelings for Harry? I couldn’t, it was impossible. Right?

His rude remarks and his mean demeanor. Sure, at one point my heart beat for the brunette with an infectious smile and shiny green eyes, but now it was a memory of the past. Another pretty face who had thrown away all of his charm and care and exchanged with unwavering cruelty.

“Oh, no. Sarah, I don’t think about him that way.” I tried to wave her off, trying to sound the least amount disgusted by her assumption. I couldn’t help but wonder why she thought that.

“I don’t believe you.” She sounded smug, crossing her hands on my thigh and giggling. “You don’t have to. I believe myself.” Brushing her off, I take another bite of any remaining scraps on my plate. Trying to avoid conversation.

“Come on, you seriously don’t see it?” She sounded exasperated now, even more so when I nodded carelessly. She was getting tired of my avoidance to the conversation, my disinterest in her false discovery. Still, the longer she pushed, the more I felt the heat rush to my face. The more my cheeks burned and my skin tingled.

“I’m serious, Sarah. I don’t look at him in anyway. He’s just my roommate. Nothing more, nothing less.” I lean back, volume brought down to a mere whisper with the dying laugher at the other end of the table.

“Well, he’s your friend at least, right?” The lump in my throat was unswallowable. With the growing tightness in my throat and the clamminess of my palms. I wanted nothing more than to slip away and pretend this never happened. So, I bite my tongue and nod, eyes flickering to Sarah while I do so. I pray that she doesn’t see the tears welling in the corners and how glossy they’ve gotten in such a short period of time.

“Yeah, he’s my best friend.” The lie stings, burning as it comes out. Partially because I hate lying to my dear Sarah, but mainly because at some point it was the truth.

Harry was my everything at one point in my life. He might as well have hung the damn moon and stars. I thought the world of him, wanted nothing more than to feel his arms wrapped around mine all the damn time. And it killed me that we’d gotten so far away from that idea that I had to lie about even being acquainted with him.

“Word of advice.” She started, eyeing Harry carefully. My eyes remained glued to the table, fork wobbling between my pointer finger and my thumb. “Best friends don’t look at each other that way.” And when she finished what she wanted to say, I swear my heart just about stopped. All color draining from my face and my eyes rapidly blinking away the tears by now.

Setting my fork down, I ignore her playful smile and the nudge of her shoulder into mine. I look for another face to converse with, to make me begin to forget everything I was trying so desperately to escape. When I search the table, it seems like each person has found themselves in deep conversation with the other. All but one.

And his green eyes capture mine in a way I haven’t known in so long. I’d forgotten what it was like to be the center of his gaze. How thrilling it was. With my eyes, glossed over and heart beating through my chest, it seemed impossible for me to ever consider looking away. His chocolate brown curls and sweet pink lips in a gentle smile. It was consuming and alluring. Irresistible even.

A face that once disgusted me, shattered my heart, angered me and knocked me down with no air left to breathe seemed not all that frightening anymore. And the warmth that spread in my chest scared me more than anything.

I begin to realize, maybe Sarah was right. Maybe that was why I hated him so much. I didn’t hate Harry Styles. And thats why it hurt just that much more. I didn’t hate him at all, in fact. No, rather my poor heart couldn’t handle the heartbreak and deflected in the most malicious way possible. I missed my best friend.

“Y/n.” Sarahs voice pulls me from my haze, and my eyes are flickering over to hers quickly. Lips still parted and eyes still wide.

“You’re crying.” I hadn’t felt the salty heat dripping down my cheeks until she announced it. My skin too numb from embarrassment to even understand what was happening.

My tongue is tied, and my throat is killing me. I feel like I might vomit if I stay here any longer. I can’t be here any longer, I can’t do it. Not when I’ve just realized what I did. I feel what I felt all those months ago when Harry told me to stop crying. When he shut me out for good and became bitter. I feel all air leave my lungs and my knees wobbling. I am going to collapse.

“I just need air.” I say all too loudly, pushing out the chair clumsily and stepping back. The loud scratch of the wooden legs of the wooden floors turns heads and my heavy breathing tells me to get the hell out.

I pardon myself after that, waving off any concern from Sarah, and making sure nobody else saw my escape. Everyone’s still deep into conversation when I turn the corner. All but Sarah and Harry. But neither of them make a move to reach me. I let myself collapse on my bed, mascara running down my white sheets and back aching from how stiff I became at that table. I silently pray that I’ll sleep through the rest of winter.

When the dinner got cold and we’d all run out of things to say, we all look around and silently agree to part ways. It was nice to have some company, I enjoyed being around these people so much. My heart should have been full, yet it felt heavy and empty all at the same time. Littered with a guilt I wasn’t even sure was mine.

I’d seen the way she looked at me. Really looked at me. Glossed over eyes and a quivering lip. She was red with the rush of adrenaline in her blood. Anyone could see how quickly she began to breathe. It was like she was stuck, consumed by something so strong that it left her powerless, weak, crumbling quickly under an undetermined pressure. She started to cry, biting back a sob by biting harshly into her bottom lip, eyes shaking while she searched my face. I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened. Who had said what, and how I could help her.

I wanted to yell at whoever hurt her this bad. And the feeling of that in itself was unsettling. How my heart still longed to comfort, protect the heart of the girl who once shattered my own with her own words. More than that, I wanted to scream when nobody followed her when she ran. How nobody cared nearly enough about why she was so upset.

I couldn’t understand why I was so invested in her. Someone I was sworn to hate. Someone I had teased and fought for months and let hurt me constantly in retaliation.

But then again, we were no better than one another. We never were. Always saying too little and not opening up quite enough. Creating issues instead of solving problems. We were explosive, nobody could hurt me quite like she could and yet, I felt horrible that she was so upset.

Like the day I’d found her pacing restlessly across the floor. Skin blotchy and eyes puffy with tears. Throat sore with the violent sobs ripping through them. I’d wanted to hold her then too, but I was too bitter to do anything but tell her to quiet down. I felt the same guilt in my bones. And I make the same mistakes I made the first time. I watch her break down and sit with the uneasiness of it all.

Mitch lays a hand over my shoulder, his other arm wrapped around Sarah as he leads her through the door. His eyes look sad and tired. But his smile is genuine and filled with concern.

“Check on Y/n for us okay? Sarah thought it would be best to leave her be for now.” His hand left my shoulder and the door shut quickly after. Leaving me with the unbearable silence and loneliness I felt so frequently nowadays. It breaks down my walls and scares the shit out of me.

Maybe thats why I make my way to the kitchen, shuffling slowly along the floors and leaning slowly over the makeshift tables. A bottle of rouge in one hand, a pack of cigarettes in the other. I stuff them in my pocket and hold the bottle close to my side.

I’m slow, delaying the inevitable question. When I knock on the door, it’s quiet. Almost like I’m hoping that if it’s soft enough, she won’t hear and I can pretend she was ignoring me. But, she does hear me, and she calls out a raspy, muffled welcome, signaling for whoever was hidden behind the door to come through and take in her puffy eyes and wet cheeks.

My throat tightens when I smell her perfume. Something that I would have drowned in not so long ago. She has clothes thrown on a chair in the corner, the same one I sat in so many months ago. I’m tempted to push them off and just sit in the silence with her like we once enjoyed doing.

Her head is in her pillow and her arms are underneath her. She is unaware of who she has let in, but her silence and unmoving body tells me she’s lost all ability to care. I want to leave. I want to turn around and convince myself it was all a mistake. I’d checked on her and she was still alive and well. I’d done my part and I could go on guilt free and forget about how crushed she’d looked just hours before.

When I begin to turn on my heels and pray for this day to be over, I see something unforgettable. A small Polaroid from last year. Just weeks after she’d moved in and charmed me with her beauty and whit. She’s sat with her legs over my lap and my arms around her body. We couldn’t be any happier, and the memory makes my chest sting.

She still cared enough to keep up the old memories of us, even after all the fights and mean glares. Why did she have to keep the damn photo up?

Guilt consumes me once again, and I am faced with the sad woman in front of me, still in the same place as before and just as sad as before. My feet betray my mind, and soon I am stood beside her bedside table with a bottle of wine dangling between my pointer finger and my middle finger.

The glass knocks against her shoulder in a silent invitation. My eyes wordlessly asking her to follow. Her eyes are red, and her lips still shake. She looks completely torn apart, desperate and distraught. Disheveled even. But for some reason in my blurry head, all I can think about is how absolutely beautiful she is in the pale moonlight.

“Come on.” I ask her softly, offering her my hand. When she takes it, she’s nodding already. Trusting a man who deserves no second chances, no trust whatsoever for his cruelty and his inability to communicate. But she follows regardless.

I can’t help but realize how having her so close feels good.

He lights the cigarette for me and watches as I let it burn. My lips twitch as they wrap around the end, tasting the bitterness of its contents and the dry paper.

“How did we end up here?” I ask him, looking over the horizon. The waves are calming over here. They almost silence the ringing in my ears, despite the distance between where we sit, feet dangling over the empty pool edge and the large grass behind it.

He shrugs, snagging the cigarette from my hand delicately and taking a long drag from its end. We swap, my hands wrap around the neck of the wine bottle. It’s tinted green and nearly full.

“Unlucky people, I guess.” He looks at his feet. They dangle in the pool beside mine. You can see just how close we are in the turquoise tint. How the lights make us look less vibrant.

“I wouldn’t consider us unlucky.” I look at the sky, and I can feel his eyes on my face. It makes me swallow, how intense his gaze is. It almost makes it feel that much more real.

“Why’s that?” He asks, twisting the bud out on the cement. It stains the freshly cleaned grey stone an ashy black, but I bite my tongue.

“We had each other. Maybe we aren’t the best people, maybe we’re cruel, but I’d rather argue than live in solitude, right? Company can’t be bought. Even the most painful of it. That’s something real. Something without a price. And we’ve got it.” And it’s true. We fight and we throw shit. We stain the walls and rip the curtains. We start fires and try to blame the other. We make a mess and make amends. But a house isn’t a home without someone to share it with. And at least if we had to suffer to get there, we got it.

“Thats some of your poet shit.” He laughs sadly into the silence, looking at his feet. I laugh along, though I can tell he was only half joking. Then, I let the silence wash back over us. Forgetting how we almost had a full conversation.

“I’m not a bad person. I don’t know why I’m so mean.” He says sincerely. It’s sudden too. I can tell from the rawness in his voice. How his eyes tear up and his lips quiver. His voice cracks. Our feet hang off the edge of the backyard. It’s a quiet life. Even now. With our fights and all the fraud. But it’s never a lonely life, and we only have each other to thank for it.

I want to tell him I know, and I’m so sure of it. I’ve seen the real him, we might just not mesh together. But we once had, and that fact alone holds me back. He takes the lack of response and an opportunity to excuse himself. Pulling his body up by the arms and grunting through the sliding back door. I sit alone in the backyard for hours, body curling up into itself and layers of clothing becoming less than enough after some more time.

“I know.” I whisper into the silence. I know he’s not a bad person, I know it so well and I am so certain of it. I knew Harry once. He’s loyal and kind and the smartest man I’d ever met. And I miss knowing him like that so much.

I thought for a second tonight, I’d gotten part of him back. And maybe I had, but he left so soon I couldn’t really tell all that well. He’s left me back in the silence, wondering what happened to us, and what will happen to us. Why he came to get me, and why he even bothered to open up to me. But he never gives me the time to properly ask, even if I planned to.

I ring in the New Year alone.

The next morning he’s gone. Back to New York for his business in the big city and I am left to sit and think about what was said. A half empty bottle of wine stained with my red lipstick and glitter on the floor from old party poppers Charlotte and Elin had made sure to use before making their exit. I repeat his words.

He’s not a bad person, so why is he so mean? It’s best left unknown. Because if theres one thing I fear more than anything, it’s the realization of rejection.

Even from a man I hate so entirely, it consumes me. That I could not stand to be faced with the fact that Harry and I do not get along simply because we do not work and not because of some other underlying reason.

After all, we had it all. Gave each other everything the other had wanted. Food, shelter, company. There was really so explanation for the bitterness between us.

After all, all this time, despite his anger and hatred, he never left me to the wolves. And despite my heartbreak and sadness, I never left him with an empty home.

A wise man once said to never bite the hand that feeds it. Yet, here we are. Ripping skin from bone until we are left with nothing. We are the ungrateful, the selfish, the cruel. And we both believe that we are in the right.

I am so scared of rejection from this man who I claim to hate because he is the hand that feeds me and I am the hand to him.

We aren’t bad people, so why are we so mean? We recognize all we have to be grateful for, so why do we bite the hand that feeds us?

I guess the vulnerability of it all must have scared us. And while facing the storm, we did what all people do. We let fear consume us and we bite.

Somehow, through all of this. The realizations and the tears and wine and dusty ashes, I love him. Even with my teeth sinking into his skin and his own in mine, drawing blood, I love him. I love Harry Styles. He is my best friend and I am his. That is why I am scared and that is why it hurts so bad. Not because I simply missed him, but rather because my heart was devoted to a man who did not want it.

My fingers fumble over the pad on the phone. I type up his phone number by heart and let it ring. He answers quickly, still waiting for his plane at the airport.

“Y/n?” I can hear the bustling crowds around him and the loud engines taking off from other terminals. I imagine he is plugging one of his ears and mentally cursing the noise for making it so hard to hear.

“Come home.” My breathing is unstable, and my hands run through my hair so much I create new tangles by my neck.

“What? No, Y/n, I have to go. People are expecting me.” He starts to explain how important this is for his business. How it would be so much simpler to be there rather than over a computer screen.

“Fuck them, who cares! Harry, I need you, and I want you, please just listen to me for once. Don’t scoff, or…or roll your eyes or leave! Listen to me this once and if it’s not worth it to you, I promise you’ll never have to listen to me again. Please, it’s important.” I ramble, endless pleas met with silence. I can feel the rejection coming, I can hear the way he chokes on a breath, debating what I said.

“Okay.” The phone goes dead with his promise to come home. With the continuous beeps, I slowly come to terms with what I’d just done. But I do not feel panicked, or scared. I feel lighter with the fact that I am about to tell the moody boy something I wished I told him a long time ago.

The door opens with a creak, keys jingling in his large palms. I’d spent the morning pacing the kitchen. Leaving a trail of confetti behind in my wake. I hadn’t cared enough to clean with my endless thoughts and extreme amounts of adrenaline.

“Y/n?” His voice was unsure when it rang out. As if he didn’t know what to expect. The door shut behind him not long before I came rushing around the corner, fingernails bitten to the skin and hangnails bleeding profusely.

“God, Y/n what the hell…” Taking my hands into his, he examined the redness of my irritated skin stained further with dry blood.

“I know.” I looked at him, and he looked back at me like I was crazy.

“What?” His thumbs bent over the backs of my palms, holding me in front of him.

“I know.” I breathed out again, looking at him with such sincerity, praying for him to understand. “You’re not a bad person, and I know it because I know you. Because we fight and we tease and we scream and cry. But I know you because once we didn’t do all of that. And I needed you to know that because it wasn’t fair of me to make you believe that to be true after everything you’ve done for me.” My voice shook with how vulnerable I felt myself becoming. Harry’s hands only tightened the further I explained.

“But what about all I’ve done to you. Y/n, I’ve been awful to you and I never even told you why.” He tried to argue. I shook my head, biting my lips.

“I haven’t been much better.” I smiled sadly. He shook his head back.

“No.”

“Yes.” I blinked hard, pushing back the tears that formed watching his own gather by his waterline.

“No, Y/n, I’ve been horrible. I’ve been mean.” He tried to push away everything I was trying to ignore.

“And so have I.” I tried harder to make him understand.

“But you only did it because I had. And for what?” He finally spoke, voice raised with so much desperation behind it, I froze under his touch.

“Because I loved you so much it drove me fucking insane? Because I still love you and I’m afraid if I can’t get you to hate me I’ll never be able to stop.” He was crying now, pleading with me to make me see his side of things. All I could do was shake my head.

“Harry I could never hate you.”

“But you could never love me.” He argued.

“Thats not true, Harry tell me you know that it couldn’t be true.” I rip my hands from his grip to rest them on his cheeks. I try to wipe away his tears, but his hands cover my wrists and pull them back down.

“How could I? You said it yourself. All those months ago, I told you. I held you close and I told you I loved you. You told me I was your best friend. You couldn’t even pretend!” Neither of us could tell if he was angry or just sad. Maybe both, but no amount of denial would calm him down.

“I didn’t have to, I still don’t have to pretend! Harry, I only said that because I was so fucking scared. Scared of us, of me, of you. Of losing you if it didn’t work. And I lost you anyways, I would’ve just said it if I knew I’d lose you like this.” Our chests bumped and his fingers slipped between mine.

“Y/n.” He whispered into the silence, over our heavy breathing and salty tears.

“I love you, and I miss you.” He didn’t say anything. I could feel him slipping away as soon as his response never came. Not a single word left to say between us. Not a single amount of energy left to fight.

And then he was kissing me. Hard and sweet. Like I was everything he’d ever wanted and more. Like he was hungry, needing more and more of something he had always wanted but could never have. And at the same time, it was soft and tender. Like he never wanted it to end. My back arched within the grip of his wandering hands and my fingers tangling in his curls. I swore I would never let him go.

But it was a swear I couldn’t keep, because air dwindled quickly and spit strung between our lips. Something I would usually gag at, but didn’t mind at the moment. His forehead against mine and arms gripping the fabric by my hips so tight if I moved he could have ripped it.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized in between his heaving breaths.

“Me too.” Looking at him, I could see the red staining his lips from the makeup I’d slept in. It made me laugh, which in result made him smile.

“What? What!” He laughed along cluelessly, letting me back away for a moment.

“You have something-“ I pointed again his mouth and smiled.

“Oh do I? Do I?” He kissed my cheek, smearing the remnants of our kiss across my cheek. “Still there?” He asked with a sly grin. Like he knew he was winning.

So I kissed him hard again, smearing red around his skin and his pink lips with so much love, there was no denying my feelings anymore. There was no hate left to give.

“Yeah, you do.” It was yet another fight, but not one I minded.

After all, thats what we did for so long, it was what we were good at. The teasing and the fighting. Only now it wasn’t bitter, it was playful. And we didn’t coexist with the sole purpose of it.

Because now I was his and he was mine. And this knowledge answered all my questions, all my doubts I’d had before about our relationship and our shared insecurities that led us down this scaring path.

Harry was my best friend, and I was his. And there was no love greater than that.

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles imagine #harry styles fluff #harry styles angst #harry x reader #fine line harry styles #harry styles #yn x harrystyles #yn x harry

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saneabandoned · 29 days

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Diving into Star Wars: The Clone Wars

“Good soldiers follow orders.”

This seems to encapsulate the whole seven seasons of the series Star Wars: The Clone Wars. If you haven’t seen it, haven’t heard of it – in short, it’s an animated series set between Episode II and III of the prequel saga. However, the aim of this is not to be a guide – you can go to Wookiepedia for that; this is supposed to be an essay – analysis, some kind of a deeper-ish dive into the philosophy and meaning of the series, that frankly is one of the best things to happen to this film universe, perhaps ever. I have, time and again, tried to explain for myself the meaning it carries and just why it has me in such a strong chokehold, but I have failed, or at least haven’t reached a conclusion. Maybe it’s not possible, maybe it’s just the magic of being a fan – you see and feel things not everyone would understand, because it speaks to you on some personal level, that even some (more chill than me, at least) fans won’t be able to entirely relate to. I have yet to meet a person as obsessive as I am over all kinds of different media – don’t get me wrong, even though Star Wars is without a doubt my favourite universe, there are many more I have indulged in, wrote about, watched, listened, theorized and all that good stuff throughout many years. But as I have recently come to realize, I have spent the last ten-ish years of my (not that long, to be fair) conscious life thinking about this universe, this whole galaxy (pun absolutely intended) of characters, morals, and plots.

Speaking about morals, that’s where some of the importance of The Clone Wars comes for me personally. Ever since I can remember, Star Wars has been a huge deal in my life – I watched the movies at a very young age (thanks, mom!), but started reading more and more into the whole world as I got older. I thought I’d reached the peak somewhere in high school when I would literally rewatch the prequels every single weekend, and the OG movies about once a month too. I just found it mesmerising, I always have – being a person with a huge imagination, that never quite stops working (and that’s caused me some trouble as well), I found a haven in this world, a place where nothing is too weird, everything is just so brilliantly imagined and thought of, written and painted so vividly, that it feels like someone has taken the insides of my brain, turned them into a whole painting, adding stories, characters and just overall putting into words and pictures the things that I can’t really understand and explain for myself. I found a mirror in this world, a sanctuary for all my thoughts. I used to listen to the soundtracks whenever I felt anxious, and it would transport me directly into the universe I felt so safe in. It was an escape from reality; still is – not that reality was or is particularly scary or unbearable for me; but sometimes I wish I was elsewhere; somewhere where there is courage, bravery, adventure, love, all the things I longed for while being quite honestly, mostly a bored teenager at school.

I have always loved writing, loved expressing my thoughts, putting them into words (as is becoming obvious by this text) and have always greatly appreciated when films, books or other media would reciprocate that – when the words on the screen or the page would feel like I wrote them myself, so true, so real, so incredibly close to me, that I would get literal shivers and wonder if telepathy is actually possible. But hey, that’s The Force for you!

As of now, I have just finished completely rewatching the whole Clone Wars series and as always, I have many thoughts on it. The first time I watched it was right after the final season came out because at that time, and especially during the pandemic, I was going deeper than ever into my interests, rewatching all my favourite things, while also searching for new ones to keep me from going absolutely insane (I think I maybe have succeeded in the opposite though). So, stumbling across this series, I thought I’d give it a try. The rest is history – after absolutely and hungrily devouring it, I continued to Rebels, and every other possible piece of media under the sun. Fabulous times.

Now, one thing I’d like to make clear – I’m not a pro. I am not in any way a certified critic, a writer, or any other sort of person authorised to make such an analysis. I am but a fan, a fan for whom this universe means more than I could ever hope to be able to put into words; a fan who after years of contemplation, has reached a point where I can’t keep it inside any longer. I’d love if this piece of writing makes it out in the universe, reaches as many people who enjoy Star Wars as much as I do, but even if not, I am writing it for myself, I am trying to step out of my comfort zone, reach deep into myself, and in a life of struggling with the loudness of my thoughts, trying to put something down, manifesting my emotions and creating something physical from them; these characters that mean so much to me will never be real, I can never hope to speak to them, touch them, or see them in real life. They have although shaped me as a person and largely formed my psyche and morals, view of the world, inner monologue, even some of my characteristics.

So nevertheless, for me they are more real than a lot of people I know are.

***

To begin, I don’t intend to focus on the Jedi’s role in the war – it is of course vital, but I think the discourse about that is to be found more detailed in relation to the movies, namely the prequels, as CW is very much about the clones themselves. When I first started watching it, I will be honest, I didn’t think I’d find what I ended up finding – and that is such depth that I couldn’t imagine finding again, after being a fan of the movies, both OG and prequels, for so long. But was I wrong!

But let’s start with Ahsoka, since I started by mentioning the Jedi and she is one of the first new characters to appear (besides Rex and many others, of course). First, I wasn’t convinced that I liked her much – she was a bit of an annoying youngling for the first few seasons, after all. I wanted Anakin and that’s about it. Well, I got what I wanted, I think, as I am firm in my opinion that Anakin’s arc is so widely explored that you get a whole another view of his character, something I didn’t think was possible, after all – isn’t the entire saga about him? It is, but still – what I saw in CW, through characters such as Ahsoka and Rex, contributed so much to Anakin’s development as a character and leading force in the saga as I don’t think anything else ever did in the movies, any of them. So, yes, I got what I wanted, but also, I got so much more – Anakin is not my main point of discussion here, I think as main of a character he might be in this series, he is not THE main one, at least not for me. And as Dave Filoni is quoted saying – The Clone Wars is about Ahsoka and Rex.

Who are they? That was my main wonder when I first started watching – why would I care about a random clone captain and a youngling? They are both not present in the movies, and the clones themselves have very little personality there, they are just side characters, until they end up executing Order 66, which is of course devastating. But after watching CW, I completely changed my outlook on it, but more on that later. So, Ahsoka and Rex – admittedly, in the beginning, I didn’t find that much since it’s just mainly classic Star Wars battles and a loose plot that is not absolutely VITAL to the end result but brings so much deeper insight into the clones’ personalities, and ultimately through that to the whole feel.

What I really find devastating about this series is the nagging feeling of doom you inevitably carry with you – you spend so many episodes and seasons watching your favourite characters win numerous battles, you root for them, you cry and laugh with them, you grow so attached to them; but you know how the story ends, you’ve seen Anakin become Vader, again you know about Order 66, you know the Empire rises after all and Palpatine’s plan works – and every time you hear someone say “you’re going to lose this war”, you hope for the opposite, but you know they’re right and there’s nothing to be done – evil wins in the end of this. And as I read somewhere – this is a story that happened a long time ago – it’s over, it has already happened, there is no hope, at least in this series, which I find frankly terrifying. Amazingly done, but still heartbreaking.

Clones, war, and choices

The point about choices and what it means to be a soldier gradually becomes more and more pronounced as the show goes on – one amazing example of this is the Umbara arc where the 501st is led not as usual by Anakin, but by Pong Krell (who later turns out to be a traitor of course). This is one of the darkest moments in the show, as clones are made to kill one another, to sacrifice themselves without reason, and for the first time to face an incompetent, and frankly evil general, and to choose to disobey. This is for me a crucial moment, as the clones have never before chosen to disobey direct orders – they were, after all, made to comply and to follow what their generals tell them to.

"I used to believe that being a good soldier meant doing everything they told you. That's how they engineered us. But we're not droids. We're not programmed. You have to learn to make your own decisions."

But here, we can see the conflict – especially in Rex, as he is the captain and has to face the general and answer for his deeds. He looks him directly in the eye and tells him they are not willing to go on a suicide mission, that they will not follow his orders, after he’s made them fight and kill their brothers unknowingly, and even ordered Fives and Jesse to be executed. However, Rex struggles with killing Krell, when he decides to; he orders him to kneel and points the blaster at his back but is unable to fire the shot. Once again, Star Wars proves that its plot has much deeper nuances and philosophies; for the first time here, we are faced with the harsh truth – the clones are people. We know that, but it somehow gets lost in the movies, as the focus there is on the Jedi’s end, which is just as tragic, of course. But before now, no one has considered what it really means to be a clone. They were made for war, they were made to die, their lives and their deaths were planned. Are the Jedi and the Republic, in that case, really the “good” side? That’s what I, at least, started to reflect on when I reached this point in the series, and it changed my whole outlook on the saga, on everything I have seen thus far. Yes, I still think the Jedi are cool and whatnot – but did they not deserve what happened to them for so blindly exploiting their soldiers? They didn’t know about Order 66 of course, and Palpatine is in no way right – but how come the Jedi are innocent in this? I don’t think they are, at least not fully. They could’ve stopped so much suffering and helped so many more clones, if not for their narrow views, which are all the reason for the clones’ suffering, Ahsoka’s leaving and consequently, Anakin’s betrayal.

"Sometimes in war, it's hard to be the one that survives."

Oh, Cody, Co-dy! The friendship the clones and in this case – Rex and Cody – share is truly precious and very accentuated in this arc especially (here the first arc of the last season) – it is Cody who Rex confides in about not wanting to lose any more brothers, as he knows he is one of the few ones who will understand him fully, what it means to be a soldier, to have to live with the morals of war, to have never known anything but loss. This is what makes Rex dive and slightly recklessly (thank God) search for Echo, proving that he’s alive, saving him from the tortures. They are brothers, and they never leave their own behind. But he is not possessive or jealous, and when he senses Echo’s pull towards Clone Force 99, he is ready to give him the push he needs to join them. He knows his brothers, as I said, and he knows the trials of war, so if Echo will feel even an ounce happier with this squad, he deserves it, after all he’s endured – “If that’s where you feel your place is, then that's where you belong."

Therefore, I love the Skako Minor arc and Echo’s retrieval, not only because it sets up the ground for The Bad Batch (I’m not even going to begin trying to explain what it means to me, as it deserves to have another huge debate on its own), but because it shows Rex’s devotion to his brothers – all of them. Even though he tries to be just a soldier, to live through the deaths, he still cares immensely, and that’s what makes him a good captain. His bravery is unmatched, he is always the one leading his men, and looking out for them, because he knows his men, he stands and fights side by side with them, and he’s ready to die on the battlefield, thus setting the example for everyone.

The philosophy of war is extremely complicated – this is what I enjoyed so much about the series (and the movies of course, politics and war is the main theme), among all other things; the fact that we see war as destroying, as a necessary evil, as a tragedy by itself – but war also created life in this case and its ending brought much more death than any of the battles ever did.

"The mission... the nightmares. They're finally... over."

I’m sorry, but I think I have never witnessed anything as remotely tragic as Fives’ arc – Palpatine told only him the whole truth, fully knowing no one would believe the clone hasn’t lost his mind; but the sacrifice the trooper made ultimately saved so many lives, mostly Rex’s, one of his closest friends. Fives never got to reunite with Echo but losing him made Rex realise how important every brother is to him, and in consequence, he never gave up on any of them (not that he was inclined to do so before of course). In his last sane moment, Rex begged Ahsoka to “find Fives”, and she understood. She knew the clones better than anyone and knew exactly what that meant and never doubted it for a second. Fives saved her life, too.

Fives’ arc is the first time the show begins to become darker and more sombre – it is also the point when we as spectators begin to realize what Order 66 actually means, having seen before only its results; but this time we see its execution, through the eyes of the clones themselves. They are forced to kill all Jedi, after being their most loyal soldiers, and honestly – incredibly loyal friends as well. They can’t control it and it’s not their choice – but that doesn’t mean they don’t realize what they’re doing – Rex said he couldn’t help it; Wrecker said he tried to fight it (The Bad Batch); Bly shot Aayla so many times, so she wouldn’t suffer and her death would be quick; Cody didn’t even check if Obi-Wan was dead; Wolffe didn’t kill Plo Koon. They were people, they were made to do inhumane things, but they found a way, they made a choice, so that they could somehow live with it after.

We get all of this through the clones’ perspective, rather than the Jedi, and it’s just as painful, if not more – we are used to hearing “the army betrayed its generals”, but what happens when we realise, they couldn’t do anything about it? What happens when we see the struggle, when we can almost feel the pain of having to betray? The clones, the most loyal creatures ever created, made for loyalty, have to turn on their generals, on their comrades, on their closest friends.

So, I come back to Ahsoka and Rex. We see them in the very first moment of the show, and they have already formed a bond, which is unlike anything else. They fight side by side the whole war – from the battle of Christophsis to the Siege of Mandalore – and Dave Filoni is truly right when he says this show is about them; but I think also in a broader sense. It is about two creatures who were destined to fight all their lives, who no matter their completely opposite backgrounds, turned out to be the same things – soldiers. Through and through, in their own ways. Their friendship transcends beyond all of this, they have a unique connection, that’s never shaken, even in the direst of moments; even years later, when they meet (in Rebels), you can feel their love for one another, the purest friendship there ever was, somehow ironically created by the ugliness of war and constant fight. Both Rex and Ahsoka suffered losses we cannot imagine – Rex says he tries not to hold on to any of his brothers, and Ahsoka is a Jedi, so it is forbidden for her to form such attachments; but we know. We see it in their eyes, we can hear it when they speak. Rex can never forget Fives’ death and the fact that he died thinking no one believed him; he ran to Skako Minor in an instant even though it might have been a trap, but the chance to save Echo was not one he was going to miss out on this time. And he saved his brother, against all odds. And he saved Ahsoka, as she saved him, time and again. Because that's what brothers do.

“I’m no Jedi” – an interesting phrase for Ahsoka and Rex to have in common, given how different both their roles and backgrounds seem to be, but it is indeed the one they unexpectedly share. Spoken first by Rex here, and then a lot later by Ahsoka in Rebels, it is highly unprovable that it’s on purpose. However, I don’t think anything in Star Wars is done without a reason, so I choose to believe there is some thread connecting them – after all it is Rex and Ahsoka, and that will always matter. What it means for both of them is simultaneously the same, yet different – Rex is the clone closest to the Jedi, there is no doubt about this; he’s used to their ways, he has as equally as strong a moral code, so it is somehow thinly implied that he acts similar to them, despite (or thanks to) being one of the strongest and most respected clone leaders. His closeness to both his general and commander is widely known, so no one seems to pay attention to the fact that he is actually a clone, as he makes his own decisions, and often chooses to fight where a Jedi would opt to step back.

Ahsoka and Anakin

For me Ahsoka became the best character in the whole saga, no ounce of doubt, sorry. She is the embodiment of the Force, she is fierce, loyal, but also incredibly wise for someone her age, and someone who is still learning. On many an occasion, she proves to be more experienced than Anakin (and in my book, experience outranks everything) and I feel like he’s learned as much from her as she did from him – if not more. She is the one keeping him sane and grounded, and I’m a firm believer that had she not left the order, he wouldn’t turn. Ahsoka’s presence brings so many new layers to Anakin’s character, that have not been explored before that and had she stood by him, he wouldn’t be able to become what he became. So, yes – ultimately, I blame the Jedi order for Anakin’s betrayal, I always have, but after watching this series, and seeing it from another point of view, I simply cannot be shaken. They took everything from him and left him alone, which has always been his weakest – he has always been this little child, terrified by the dark, later consumed by it, now unable to fight it anymore. The Jedi made him, and they unmade him too. In my opinion, he shouldn’t have ever been a Jedi in the first place – he is not like Obi-Wan, not like Yoda, not even like Ahsoka (who is not the traditional Jedi either, being trained by him) – he is so powerful and so weak at the same time, and that’s where his dilemma lays – who am I? Which side am I on? He doesn’t know, but no one is there to help him – Ahsoka included, as she (rightfully so!) leaves the order when she sees the truth about it. But she carries that guilt ever since.

She blames herself for leaving Anakin, she blames herself for not fighting alongside him when he needed it; for leaving her friend, her brother. If I were Ahsoka, I would have done the same – she was betrayed by the Jedi, not by Anakin, not ever, but still. He stood with the Order when she needed him by her side. And that is what destroys him too. The loss of his padawan, his most loyal friend is unlike anything else, and for her, leaving this life that’s all she’s ever known, transforms her view on everything. And when she inevitably returns, because that’s where she is supposed to be in order for the prophecy to happen – she must be there, but not by Anakin’s side; she doesn’t fit anywhere else, but she doesn’t fit there anymore either; and she can’t follow him, so she’s sent to Mandalore, again alongside the clones, her brothers, she goes down fighting with Rex. She’s always been his sister more than a Jedi; she didn’t ever belong anywhere else but on a battlefield. She may not be a clone, and she wasn’t meant to be a soldier either; but just like the clones, the war is all she’s ever known, and even though she was meant to be a peacekeeper, peace was something she never knew, especially after Anakin’s turn to the Dark side – even though there is no longer a war, she is forever tormented by the voices she heard in his last moments as her beloved master and the pain she felt when he left.

She knew it was over in that moment – Order 66 is by far the most heartbreaking arc of them all and I can never watch it without then spending weeks thinking about it – it’s genius, really, how Palpatine had this evil plan, dictated the whole war without anyone noticing; and it worked. It worked and changed the whole entire galaxy, and nothing could have prevented it – except maybe Anakin turning; and that is what Ahsoka can’t get over; she feels it is somehow partially her fault that the dark won; if only she hadn’t left, it haunts her forever. She doesn’t know Anakin is Vader, not until she meets him after, so she thinks he’s dead like the rest of the Jedi – and when she finds out what truly happened to him, she passes out (in Rebels; another terrific moment) because the pain is just too strong – the mixture of his known presence in the Force, and his new persona, that is torn from pain and suffering, feelings so intense and unknown to her she can’t understand them. It’s not her master, but it is undeniably Anakin. And he feels abandoned, he feels alone, he is guilty and sad and in constant pain, he is no longer there, not really, but then – he is. And the memory of what he once was, what he promised, everything he taught his padawan brings such pain for Ahsoka.

She may not think she is truly a Jedi, yet she is for me the only one of them I came to respect – she is never hypocritical, doesn’t leave anyone behind, not ever, and she fights for good, always for what she deems right, never feeling like she has to change for others, but in the end always blaming herself for their fate. She could never forgive herself for what happened to Anakin, and she can never forget her brothers, the clones, she suffers and grieves for every one of them, she knows their names, they were her whole world. And the only thing she had left, because they never judged and never tried to change her, they simply stood by her. Even when they had orders to kill her.

Rex and Order 66

Ahsoka’s master was gone from that moment on, and all she had left was Rex. The other main character, and I accept no objections to that statement. Rex is... the best one ever. He is, without any doubt, my favourite from this series. Putting aside my Ahsoka obsession, I didn’t expect to grow as attached to him as I did. Then again, I can’t separate them – for me, they are a team, the best one, and I don’t think I would have liked them as much had they not been the amazing pair they are. The connection between Rex and Ahsoka is what makes this series so different and so much better than the movies for me. It shows a level of true depth and caring that we haven’t really seen before – the type of platonic trust that few people find in their real lives. If I get to have just one friend that is as loyal, I don’t think I’d need anything more. Their story is so real, so touching and beautiful and sad – I think it is not only the best one in the series, but in the whole saga, and in any storyworld, really, for me personally. They meet a kid and a soldier, but they leave the war (or maybe the war leaves them) as equals, friends bound by experiences so unique and traumatic that they can never forget them, their bond can never be destroyed. They are soulmates, and they are forever. I don’t make the rules, sorry.

"Well, I've known no other way. Gives us clones all a mixed feeling about the war. Many people wish it had never happened, but without it, we wouldn't exist.”

Rex says this to Ahsoka moments before he is forced to execute Order 66 and it makes me shudder every time I hear it. Knowing what follows, knowing that the clones that have been created for war, are humans with so much more nuanced feelings that they let themselves express, that they fear the war ending as much as others might feel a war beginning is incredibly twisted. They are not machines, they are much more than that, they have feelings, and they have morals, and they are afraid. Rex has never doubted his loyalty to his commanders, and never gave any reason to be doubted – never hesitated, never showed anything less than immense courage and skill. But now he stands before the only person he’s never been able to deceive, and he voices for the first time what probably has been torturing him for a while – the knowledge that he is expendable, that his life might be over, and that this might be what he’s always fought for – the end of himself and his brothers. Victory and death, indeed.

Viewers have witnessed many a clone death, and these last episodes are the culmination of it all – from that point on, every favourite character is in danger. Of themselves. One thing that the series does marvellously is bring personality to so many seemingly identical characters – in the movies we never get any detail about their lives, their characteristics, even their looks – but now I could recognize Fives from Echo in a second; they might have the same features and the same voice, but they are not the same. They are brothers, forged by the same essence, they share the same blood and the same heart, but they are individuals with thoughts and passions so diverse it’s impossible not to notice, not to adore.

Rex is Ahsoka’s best friend, as she reassures him moments before everything went to hell. He is the man who stood and fought by her side, and who watched her grow up. Who, when faced with the order to kill her, removes and drops his helmet in a desperate try to fight Order 66 (perhaps unconsciously, as he is being mind-controlled), and so she could see his eyes, see his tears, his struggle, his shaking, and know that he had no choice, know that on some level, he is asking for help for the first time ever, the soldier he is – he removes his helmet so he could look her in the eyes, his best friend, his sister, his commander; and she knows.

She’d ran to him, when sensing there was something wrong – of course, Ahsoka would run to Rex, because he’s Rex, he’ll know exactly what to say and what to do, and maybe he could contact somebody who can fix this; this can’t be real, the war is almost over; she’s still a child after all, she can’t face this now, not alone, not without Rex. She’s never had to face anything without Rex, it’s just unimaginable – but she runs to him and in his eyes she sees someone who is not Rex at all, and suddenly all the men she trusted with her life more times than she can count, are not the men she knows, and they want to hurt her, and Rex wants to hurt her, even though it makes him suffer. She sees his tears; she feels in him what she never believed she would.

The parallels in their relationship are just amazing – one of their first interactions is when Rex says to her “good luck, kid” on their first ever mission together – and it shows just how much he already cares for her, how he understands that beneath all her witty remarks and wish to prove herself to her new master (and his soldiers!), she is still a kid thrown on a battlefield – an unnatural atmosphere for anyone, but especially for a young child with no experience whatsoever. From then on, they just keep getting closer and their friendship grows stronger until it reaches a point where they can understand each other without even speaking.

“Yeah, kid, I’m okay”, Rex says, moments after Ahsoka has removed his inhibitor chip and essentially saved both their lives, all while putting herself at a great risk, just because she cares and she can’t do this on her own. In this moment, in his eyes, she is again the kid he first saw, scared about her friend, trying to prove that she can do it all on her own – this parallel is so important to me; she has never been in such a situation alone before, because she’s always had Rex, and now she’d almost lost him, after just reuniting with him; when for a split second there was something in his eyes that she’d never seen before, the only thing that saved her was Anakin and Rex’s training (shown in Tales of the Jedi). Anakin taught her how to fight enemies much stronger than herself, her brothers taught her how to defend herself, not knowing that she’d ever have to, especially not against them. It’s truly heartbreaking.

“Ahsoka, it’s all of us” – just seconds after she has saved him, Rex looks her in the eyes and apologizes for almost doing the undoable, for almost killing her, for being okay when she almost wasn’t. How would he ever live with himself, knowing that he betrayed his best friend? The animation has developed so much by this point, that in this last episode, it’s almost like watching real people acting, at least that’s how I’ve always felt; it feels real, the emotion is just so intense and so palpable – especially with this being the first time Rex says her name. She is his friend, she is the only one who cared enough to save him, thus saving herself, proving again and again her loyalty, the thing they have most in common. They understand each other like no one else can, they have been through everything together, and now, in these crucial moments, they have both proven it – she never gave up on him, she trusted him enough to save him, and in return, he is ready to follow her anywhere and die protecting her. From his own men. Barely awake, he’d reached for his blasters, shooting his own brothers to protect her, not even fully conscious yet. They are equal, they have become one through the Force, and if it wasn’t clear before, it is now – they are sticking together to the very end, no matter what they must do, no matter how. They are forever. Loyalty means everything to the clones.

This and what follows on the bridge of the ship as it’s coming down, are my favourite scenes from the series.

“I hate to tell you this, but they don’t care! This ship is going down, and those soldiers, my brothers are willing to die and take you and me along with them!”

Even though it’s animated, even though you can’t see his face, and the only thing is his desperate voice, you can feel the devastation when Rex utters these words, touching his chest, as he says “brothers” – he has always cared for them, his family, and has mourned every single loss, but now, when there is no other choice, he knows protecting Ahsoka is the most important thing there is – the mind-controlled clones can’t tell apart their own from a traitor, so what’s the point?

There is always a right choice – and Ahsoka proves it, when she gently removes his helmet, only to show what everyone but also no one suspected – Rex is crying, he is afraid and in pain, and she is the only thing he cares about. He’s lost so much; he can’t lose her too. But she always has a plan, and she is probably the only one who cares about the clones as much as him; they don’t need to explain themselves; she doesn’t want to be the one who is responsible for so much death; there’s been too much already. They have lived a life of war, facing death and loss every single day, and enough is enough. She wants to live, but not at the cost of murder. There is no doubt in her voice when she says that.

Burying brothers

What follows is truly devastating to watch – Rex facing his brothers, as a traitor in their eyes, as some of them stand before him, still wearing their helmets with Ahsoka’s Togruta design on them, the colours of the 501st closely resembling her lekku. They’d painted their armour as soon as they knew Ahsoka was coming back to them and they were getting their commander, and little sister back, their best friend, the only one who cares enough to remember all their names, who never turned her back on them, even now, when they are against her, she still tries to save as many of them as possible; she’s been the one whose hand they’ve reached to when dying, their last memory on this world her face, her bright eyes, full of life and care, her presence calming them in the face of the inevitable, as she will have to do now as fell, at the very end.

How must it feel to lose everything you’ve fought and hoped for, in a span of hours? Palpatine’s plan is truly ingenious. The war might have ended, but only on the outside; a much larger, much more painful fight has begun, inside, for Rex and Ahsoka, who now have to navigate a life they haven’t ever considered; they may have wondered what life after the war might be like, but not like this, never like this; not as heroes, not even as fighters – as traitors in the eyes of their most beloved brothers and the new control of the Empire. But they choose to fight until the end, crashing down, falling with the cruiser together, hand in hand; the parallel of them hanging on to each other in the hanger is precisely mirroring the moment of Anakin and Obi-Wan trying to push each other away during their legendary fight on Mustafar, which is happening at the exact same time. But these two don’t let go, they simply cannot face losing each other, not now, not after all of this. They’ve fought for years, so many battles, losing track of what the fights are about – but this last one is clear; they are fighting for each other. And when they are the only survivors, they take to bury their brothers, and grieve the colossal loss side by side, silently watching, because there aren’t words to describe what they feel, and it’s not necessary, so they don’t speak. They know.

"I don’t want to bury any more of our brothers."

The devastation and sheer exasperation we hear in Rex’s voice when he says this much later, in The Bad Batch, when talking about the inhibitor chips nonetheless, is all we’ll ever need to know about him. Laying low after the end of the war, separating from Ahsoka, believed to be dead; in fact – being dead to the world in every sense, this is the choice he makes. He’s witnessed almost all his closest friends dying, he’s lost his general, he doesn’t have a purpose and a goal anymore; he has to deal with the realization that the war is over, but it ended at way too high a price, and he’s a soldier – he will fight every day, until the end, because it’s all he knows. He’s the most loyal soldier, survived Order 66 at the highest price there could ever be, and he can’t lose more. He wants to keep fighting, and he will, but not to lose. Rex doesn’t want to feel this awful feeling of loss, not ever again.

The same goes for Ahsoka – even though she quits the order and never officially finishes her training, the Jedi life is the only one she’s ever known, so her path even after leaving, after the war ends, and after she separates from Rex, is one lead by the code to a large extent, even if done so unconsciously. She claims to not be a Jedi when she faces her master as Vader in Rebels, wanting to avenge him; but she doesn’t end up doing it, she can’t possibly kill Anakin. So, she goes on, living in this middle ground – she is not truly a Jedi, but what else could she be? She has led her troops in many battles, fought by their side; even when they didn’t have to, they still called her commander, as loyal to her as ever; recognizing that she stood by them, even held them as they died.

When The Resolute crashes after Order 66, we are aware that her and Rex took every single one of their fallen brothers, buried them, and displayed their helmets, putting Jesse at the very front, the one who’d wanted to kill them the most at the end. But they know better, it was not him, not after literal moments before that he almost went insane from Maul’s questioning because he didn’t want to betray Ahsoka; he deserved a recognition, even in death. Every single one of them did, and Rex and Ahsoka gave it to them. She lets go now of her lightsaber, the Jedi weapon that bears her identity, and lays it to rest next to the fallen soldiers, because she doesn’t want to have any more connections to this war, there’s been enough fighting. She dies here too – for what it’s worth, she fell with the clones. I can’t imagine how traumatising and terrible it felt, pulling body after body out of the debris. For both of them.

Brother after brother.

***

No matter what I say, or how much I write, I don’t think I will ever be able to express properly what this world and this series in particular mean to me. Of course I love all things Star Wars, but The Clone Wars will always hold a very special and exceptional place among them. It is a unique feeling, one I cannot put a word on, it feels too big for me, as if there is some kind of a boundary that is at the verge of explosion, it’s holding so much emotion, and there isn’t enough space for it inside. Perhaps it’s the depth and the exploration of the clones, their relationships, the empathy their lives evoke – creatures bred for war, individuals barely recognized in life. But still human, as Rex and Ahsoka remind us of the entire time – especially when we see them watching the arranged helmets of their dead brothers – the clones have not been just pawns, they are people; people who died for a cause they couldn’t have any say in. Their lives were not their own; but Ahsoka’s life wasn’t her own either. This is the tragedy of The Clone Wars, but there’s also an ironic beauty about it – Ahsoka wouldn’t have had her master or her best friend, if it wasn’t for the war. It’s a story about the philosophy of choice, hope, good and evil of course, friendship and loyalty. Victory and its highest cost, death; the consequences after a life spent fighting, which no one usually thinks about.

When the final shot rolls and we see Vader’s ominous figure step on to the same place where Ahsoka and Rex were last, as he digs his apprentice’s lightsaber and holds it, we realize what the moral of the story is. We see Anakin’s eyes behind Vader’s mask, and we feel the cold he feels – he ended up alone after all, after all his trying, he had an army, he led troopers, he cared for an apprentice, but he lost them all. He won the war, but he would rather have died with his friends – who he doesn’t know are still alive, and they don’t know what happened to him either; instead of being their enemy. But the time for choosing is over, and there is no going back for him now.

His reflection hits the clone helmet, and we see the image of Anakin, walking away from Ahsoka and Rex.

It doesn’t end with the war; it begins with it.

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bonanzabox · 1 year

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Sacraligious

DemonNat! X reader

Warnings: corruption, dubious content, it’s demon sex outside a church

(Happy birthday @caroldantops >:3)

Growing up, you were never one to go out of line, even dip one toe out into where you weren’t supposed to be. Living in a religious small town instilled the literal fear of God into you; you were a good girl, always doing what she was told. Graduated with honours, got accepted into the accelerated program of a nursing major, succeeded in every step you took in life. And yet, when you went off to college, nothing really changed, except the morbid curiosity you had as a child only grew. What would it be like to disobey, just for a minute, and revel in it…

You were visiting home for the month, almost done with your degree. The sleepy town you grew up in was still hazy in early summer, the crickets still chirped in the evenings and fireflies danced in the small hours of night. You had chosen to go to church early, walking the trails of the back garden with its flood of white lilies.

That’s where you saw her for the first time.

She almost slipped from your vision, she was so deeply intertwined with the shade. Her red hair blended with the leaves of the maple trees, the dark leather of her jacket mixing with the shadows that hid her. The thing that caught you were her eyes: dark green and piercing with…you couldn’t place what exactly, but they were intoxicating.

She was next to you in a superhuman second. “Hello there. Haven’t seen you around here before.” Her voice was gravelly and deep, but sweet enough to set your heart on fire.

“I’m-I’m home for the summer. Don’t get to come to church here that often anymore.” Your voice quivered with…fear? Anticipation? Though you weren’t sure why, she seemed passable enough (though not many people wore leather to church anymore).

“How interesting.” A hand snaked its way over to your shoulder and started petting it. Her nails were long, almost clawlike to your eyes, and her touch made you swoon slightly. “My name’s Natasha. What’s yours?”

Your name comes out in a stammer, and she smiles wide when she hears it. She tests it out a few times, and hearing your name come off her lips makes your heart skip a beat or three.

“Absolutely delectable. You don’t seem like the general…population that comes soaring through these doors. What makes you so different…”

Your whole body feels like it was set aflame, and you back up slightly, only for Natasha to pin you to the back wall of the church. A warm feeling settles in the pit of your stomach and starts travelling lower.

Natasha notices your blush and bares a wide smile. “Did I say you could leave yet, precious? No no, I have much more to say to you, and by the looks of things, much more you can do for me.”

“But service will be starting soon-”

“All the better, I think.” Her lips are suddenly crashing into yours, biting your lip and sucking on your tongue. Then it occurs to you, her tongue is forked. It hits you all over…she isn’t all human. Natasha sees the realisation on your face and smirks. “That’s right doll, I’m not your average churchgoer. Now you can walk in there and forget all about me. But I don’t think you want to do that, I think you want to stay out here with me and have a real good time.”

Your brain is screaming “leave, go be with your family” but your body won’t move. That morbid curiosity is tying you here, wondering just what she could do to you on God’s holy ground. You give a careful nod, whispering, “Okay…I’ll stay.” There was a brief moment where time seemed to pause, as if the universe was taking your name on the dotted line.

“Good girl.” Natasha’s lips were on your neck now, fangs slightly nipping into your skin. “Goddamn, angel, you taste so fucking good. And this is just your neck, I wonder what the rest of you tastes like.”

A guttural whimper escapes your mouth and your hips meet Natasha’s thigh, grinding slightly at the contact. She only tsk’s slightly, taking the time to tease your want by slipping her thigh further between your legs. “Naughty little thing you are, trying to rush me before I’m ready. I shouldn’t indulge in your neediness…but you’re just so tempting.” Your hips buck wantonly on her thigh, the ache between your own legs only growing stronger each second. You’d never felt this strongly before about anything, but you needed; you didn’t know what it was you needed exactly but you knew that only she could give it to you.

Natasha wasted no time in popping the buttons off your blouse and exposing your chest to the quiet summer sun. Her nails tiptoed their way up the middle of your chest to your collarbone, and one finger slides down and runs its way around your hardened nipple. The little gasps your uttering only make her smirk more. “So pretty, little one. I can tell no one has made you feel this good before, so sweet and innocent. All mine right now.”

A little cry erupts from your mouth as she leans down and latches her mouth around your nipple, forked tongue flicking over the sensitive skin and fangs just slightly piercing; not enough to break skin but enough to make you feel even more intense.

Suddenly you feel the wall of the church at your back as you’re being pinned there, arms above your head with one hand and Natasha, still latched on your chest, is putting one hand up your skirt, pushing aside your underwear and one delicate finger pushes into your wet heat. You’re practically dripping down your legs and her finger enters you just as an audible moan escapes from your lips. “Pplease-“

“Oh now, little one, careful what comes out of that pretty mouth. The window is open and someone could hear your sinfully beautiful moans,” Natasha purrs in your ear, finger still buried deep in your cunt, almost teasing you to see how needy you could get. You don’t dare move, the pressure between your legs is so intense you could scream but the woman before you was far too imposing to try being a brat about this whole situation.

Suddenly you’re left empty, as Natasha takes her finger and licks it, keeping her smile wide and her eyes on you as she does. “Fuck angel…I knew you were going to taste good but, damn, I never thought-I was going to fuck you but I need more of that sweet cunt first.” And then she’s pulling your skirt and white cotton panties down and your legs instinctively fall open. If anyone saw you now…but you couldn’t think about that, your head was too fuzzy with arousal. She positions herself between your legs and the first lap of her tongue on your cunt makes your legs go weak. Her nose bumps that nose sensitive spot between your legs as her tongue licks and sucks everywhere it can. When it enters you, deeper than it seems it should, you cry out, muffled by the singing of the hymnals in the building. “Please, I need…more…so good Natasha, it’s so good-““I know, precious.” Her voice echoes in your ear, though her mouth is busy between your legs. “I can feel you want to come, sweet thing. Go on, indulge me; come for me.”

It washes over you like a heatwave; the sensation is new and exciting and your legs start to crumble from the sheer pleasure of it all. Natasha holds your legs up, licking every drop of liquid that gushes from your cunt. You can hear the choir reach a high point as you tumble over the edge again; Natasha hasn’t stopped the onslaught of her tongue as she pulls a second orgasm from you. You could swear her rhythm matches the sway of the music bellowing from the windows, but then again, there was a demon buried in between your thighs; anything was possible.

Time slows down as the redhead pulls herself away from your leaking cunt and licks her lips c a wicked grin forming on her face. “You precious thing, moaning along to the choir as if you were there yourself. I’ll have to play with you some more sometime.”

“You-you’re leaving? After that?” You’re bolder than you were however many minutes ago, considering what just happened. You didn’t think you’d challenge a demon that just gave you a taste of corruption and let you live to tell the tale.

Natasha is suddenly pinning you against the wall again, but more intimately; her hands croon the sides of your face and her tail sweeps along your skirt hem, almost in a preening manner. “Don’t you worry angel, you haven’t seen the last of me. After all…fucking a demon outside a church isn’t getting you anywhere but in between *my* thighs next time.” A whimper slips out of your mouth but before you can say anything more, she’s gone. Almost on cue, a familiar voice calls out behind you, asking where you’ve been since the service started! You don’t give an answer, only a simple “dunno” as you walk in the building, trying not to let the flames inside you burn even higher.

#c: natasha #demon!nat x reader #tw dubcon #natasha romanoff x reader #tw dark fic #natasha romanoff smut

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from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras · 4 months

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Into the Breach

Here’s something I’ve had sitting around for a long time. It’s kind of a fic but in a lot of ways it’s more like an extended Théodred HC. I’ve always wanted to know more about what he was doing in the lead-up to LOTR events (he was in a position where he would have been pivotal to some major stuff!), and I’ve always wanted to give him the real life that he doesn’t get because of the way Tolkien handled his death…to have someone who loves him desperately and vice versa. His own hopes and resentments and interests. A big dumb dog that makes him happy. But all of that without breaking canon.

So that’s what this was—part plot but part little tangents/notes on his history, feelings and personality. I meant to work from this to expand into a more complete thing someday, but since even this is really long (I’m gonna break it into 4 parts) and I just don’t do hugely epic, 20+ chapter fics, I don’t know if I ever will. So, here is part 1. As a reminder, I always start from Book Théodred, who at the time of his death is unmarried, in his 40s (13 years older than Éomer), and holds the rank of Second Marshal based in the West-mark.

The first two tentative knocks at the door failed to rouse anyone in the darkened chamber, but the third brought Storbar from his place at the foot of the bed and over to sniff at the threshold. Catching a scent he recognized, he huffed out a short, deep bark that finally succeeded in waking one of the room’s inhabitants. Eadlin raised herself on an elbow, squinted in the direction of the bark, and then looked back to the still figure by her side.

“Théodred, there is someone at the door.”

He grimaced and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. It felt like only seconds ago that he had crawled into bed, exhausted in body and mind. “What time is it?” His muffled voice barely escaped the soft down that he spoke into.

“It’s early,” answered Eadlin, skimming her hand along the smooth scar that ran up his back to his shoulder, where she gave him a gentle prod. “Very early. But if someone is knocking at an hour like this, it must be important.”

He sighed and took one last moment to savor the comfort of his bed, allowing his feet to linger in the residual warmth left behind by Storbar, before hoisting himself up and giving his head a light shake to clear the fog of sleep from his mind.

Another tap at the door followed, more insistent this time, and he stepped hurriedly into the trousers that he had left on the floor barely three hours ago. He stumbled across the darkened room, shivering in the early morning chill, and carefully opened the door a few inches. Éomer’s face, bearing a somber expression and a furrowed brow, appeared in the small sliver of light coming in from the hallway.

“I’m sorry, cousin. I know it’s unbearably early and you only arrived very late last night. But I’m due to ride to the Eastemnet with a scouting patrol at first light, and I need to speak with you before I leave. May I come in?”

Théodred looked back over his shoulder at his bride-to-be, who had risen and wrapped herself in a blanket as a more expedient solution than wrangling in the dark with the many ties and buttons of her dress. She nodded, and he pulled the door open a little wider.

At the sight of her, Éomer blushed and quickly turned his gaze. “My apologies to you, too, Eadlin.” His words were now directed to the ceiling. “I should have realized that I’d be disturbing both of you. I hope I haven’t interrupted a…delicate moment.”

Théodred raised an eyebrow and smiled at Éomer’s embarrassment. “You’ve interrupted nothing more delicate than sleep, though that is crime enough right now. But unless you’ve somehow made it this far in life without ever seeing a woman’s shoulders or legs, there is no cause for blushing.” He pulled Éomer into the room so that he could close the door. “Now, come and tell me what you need to say.”

Storbar followed Éomer to a seat by the window and rested his head on Éomer’s leg in a shameless bid for scratches while Théodred lit a lamp and pulled on a shirt.

“I’ll give you two some privacy,” said Eadlin, brushing a quick kiss across Théodred’s lips and planting another on Éomer’s still reddened cheek before slipping through an adjoining door into her own chamber.

Perched now on the edge of the bed, Théodred took a deep breath and waited for Éomer to speak. The troubled look that had been on his cousin’s face when he first appeared at the door had returned as soon as Eadlin left, and his knee now bounced up and down nervously, much to Storbar’s frustration. Théodred had seen that jogging knee enough times in the past to know that bad news was coming, and he steeled himself to receive it even as a part of him longed instead to ask for just a few minutes more in the comfort of not knowing.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen your father since you returned?”

Théodred winced. Of all the possible concerns Éomer could raise, this was the one Théodred most dreaded. “No. We got in so late last night that he was already asleep. Everyone was. But I assume that you’re not asking because things have improved since last I heard.”

“I wish I could say they have, but, in truth, things are worse than ever. His exhaustion and infirmity continue to advance, and now things seem to be progressing much faster. You’ve been gone only for three weeks, but the man you see later today will look years older than he did when you left.”

“Years older?” Théodred’s shoulders slumped. This malady that was afflicting his father, so unrelenting and unexplained, both baffled and terrified him. It had started with small changes. A decrease in appetite. A slower, stiffer gait when walking. A grey pallor in the face. But those changes had steadily multiplied and accumulated, and not one of the healers in Edoras seemed able to identify a cause or solution to Théoden’s increasing woes. As treatment after treatment proved futile, the king had slowly lost the strength and stamina to carry out his full schedule of regular duties, many of which then fell to Théodred in his place. As a result, he and Eadlin now always seemed to be traveling between the royal household in Edoras and his own busy command in the Westfold.

The burden of extra responsibilities was heavy, and Théodred had taken up that burden with the expectation that this illness would pass and the king would return to his normal, vital self before long. But as month after month of slow decline continued, it had become much harder to sustain that notion. And now, if Théoden’s deterioration was accelerating, time was running out to find a cure for his father. Time had perhaps already run out. The vague sense of uneasy tension that had followed Théodred for weeks crystallized suddenly into an icy chill that seized his heart and stopped his breath. “I just don’t understand,” he muttered, as much to himself as to Éomer.

“It pains me to say it, cousin, but it gets worse. While his body continues to grow unnaturally old, his mind now also seems to be weakening. It’s more than just occasional behavior and choices that seem out of character–we’ve been seeing that for months. But now he sometimes gets confused. He fails to recognize advisers and attendants that have served him for years. At times, he now calls Éowyn ‘Théodwyn’ and speaks to her as though she were his sister. It comes and goes, but it can be frightening to watch.” Éomer paused and ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Yesterday he couldn’t seem to remember your mother’s name.”

A strangled noise escaped Théodred’s throat before he could choke it back. He jumped to his feet and began to pace, trailed intently by Storbar, who had been roused by the unexpected movement and whimpered quietly at the distress in the room that even he could feel.

Théodred heard neither those whimpers nor the words that Éomer continued to speak. His own pulse pounded in his ears, and his mind raced unsteadily through a flood of muddled thoughts and questions. How was any of this possible? A man of seventy could be expected to lose a little of his sharpness over time, but not this quickly or to this degree. And surely not when it came to Théoden’s memories of Elfhild, the person his father loved most in the world. For him to forget anything of her was simply unthinkable, or so Théodred had always believed. Yet now the unthinkable had happened. What worse would happen next while they sat by, unable to stop it?

“Théodred, do you hear me?”

Éomer’s voice pulled Théodred out of his thoughts. He was standing now in front of the windowsill where he kept his most treasured flowers and small plants, those that were nursed along in the protection of the indoors because they couldn’t withstand the harsh winters in the garden he had kept at Meduseld since boyhood. His hand rested next to a delicate burgundy orchid from the southern regions of Gondor, a gift given to him many years ago by a great friend of that land, one he trusted implicitly. An idea leapt to his mind, and he whirled around to face Éomer.

“We must send word to Boromir. We’ve tried and failed for months now to address this on our own, and we need to accept that there is no knowledge in Rohan that can cure my father’s illness. But maybe in Gondor, with their vast lore and their old healing craft from the western lands…maybe they’ll recognize what afflicts him and know how to treat it. Maybe they can restore him to his old self. I can think of no better option.”

Éomer considered this suggestion for a moment. “Is it wise to share news of this crisis with outsiders? Boromir is the best of men, but the king doesn’t want others to know of his condition. And if word gets out that he is sickened, who else may try to capitalize on the opportunity? The Dunlendings have tried more for less in the past.”

“What choice do we have? We can’t hide this forever, and when it comes out eventually we’ll have gained nothing by waiting. And Boromir will understand the sensitivity. He’ll ensure our secret goes no further than absolutely necessary, and if it’s within his power to help us, he will. He takes his duty to his friends and allies as seriously as any man in Middle Earth.”

The more Théodred spoke of the idea, the better he felt about it. He had known Boromir for most of his life, and, despite being radically different by temperament, they understood one another as no one else could. Among their many friends, each had only one that knew the unique challenges and pressures of being an heir to power. Only one that knew the terror of carrying the welfare of an entire people on your shoulders. Only one who knew what it was to be marked for greatness from birth and to labor your whole life to deliver on that expectation.

They had first met as young boys on one of Théodred’s many trips to Gondor to visit his grandmother’s family. His Aunt Théodwyn invited the steward’s son to keep her nephew company while they were in Minas Tirith, and though Théodred generally preferred reading and drawing to the hunting and fishing that Boromir favored, they had a shared sense of mischief that quickly drew them together. They could often be found pilfering treats from Denethor’s kitchens, scheming to find ways into locked rooms that drew their interest, or plotting elaborate pranks on the guards that were assigned to keep an eye on the two little heirs as they romped around the White City. At times, Théodwyn almost regretted having matched them up–particularly when Boromir began showing a sudden aptitude for especially florid Rohirric profanity or Théodred turned up in possession of a priceless Númenórean scroll that only the steward’s son could have swiped from the library–but the boys had endless fun causing trouble as a pair.

Later they would learn to appreciate other things in one another. Two years after they met, Boromir’s mother passed away, and Théodred proved to be a gentle and thoughtful listener whenever Boromir needed to unburden his grief. And Boromir was a constant source of counsel, always willing to offer strong but considered opinions on any topic where Théodred craved the advice of a brother. They saw each other frequently and exchanged letters when apart, though admittedly Théodred’s letters tended to multi-page missives full of musings and emotions while Boromir’s were short notes that cut right to his point. But the flow of advice, assistance and consolation between them never ceased. All these years later, Théodred could still be counted on to provide a sympathetic ear as Boromir fretted about the relationship between his father and brother and Boromir to provide prudent guidance when Théodred expressed his occasional ambivalence to the idea of inheriting the crown.

Now the sight of that fragile orchid, sent by Boromir as a birthday gift in the year they had both turned thirty nine, sent a strengthening jolt through Théodred’s wearied frame. Boromir’s counsel had served him well in every phase of his life, giving him confidence, perspective and wisdom. Perhaps he could come through again, even as the stakes were higher than ever before.

“I’ll spend today observing my father so that I can give Boromir as detailed an account of his condition as possible, and I’ll give thought to how we can best get a letter to Minas Tirith. If others find out that we have shared this information outside of Meduseld, it may cause problems for us. But I am certain that we can find a way to get this message to Boromir discreetly.” Having a plan, even a modest one that was far from guaranteed, made Théodred feel a little calmer.

Éomer nodded his agreement and stood to leave. “One last piece of business. These few weeks while you have been in the Westfold, I have often been called out to my own command in the east. And in that time, someone has taken advantage of our absence to work his way even deeper into the king’s confidence.

Théodred sighed. His problems never seemed to come alone when they could come in plentiful company instead. “I don’t need to ask who you mean.”

Éomer nodded again. “Éowyn reports that Gríma has been with Uncle Théoden nearly every day, often for long hours. He’s had ample time to continue pushing the strategies and policies that you and I have been counseling against.”

“Does Éowyn know what has been said between them when they meet?”

“Not all. Gríma takes care to speak so that she can’t hear him, and I wouldn’t ask her to try to monitor him more closely.” The muscles in his jaw tensed and flexed. “It isn’t safe for her to be in his presence so often.”

“I agree. I have no doubt your sister can take care of herself, but it doesn’t feel right to put her in that position. And I cannot ask Eadlin to keep an eye on him either.” A ghost of a smile crossed Théodred’s face. “She would be willing to try on my behalf, but you know her–she has little use for subtlety. She makes no secret of her loathing for Gríma, and he would be immediately suspicious of her motives if she should try to spend time near him now.” He thought for a moment. “No, I’ll talk to Háma instead. He is always at the door, so he knows all who come and go and hears much of what happens in the great hall. And he is loyal to my father above all others. If anyone can find out what Gríma is up to, it will be Háma.”

Théodred pushed back the curtains to see the first faint hints of pinkish-red light just beginning to appear over the distant horizon. Éomer would be expected at the stables any moment. They walked together to the door, and Théodred put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Even through the layers of leather and mail he could feel the tension in Éomer’s body, and he wished they had a few more minutes together to talk or even just to sit in the solace of each other’s company. Éomer was no longer the little boy that Théodred had taken under his wing–indeed, Théodred considered him now every bit his equal in strength, capability and canniness–but it was hard to let go of the old instinct to protect and comfort. And, in truth, he felt that Éomer still longed for that protection and care at times, no matter how much older and more capable he had become. He still looked for reassurance that some guiding hand was in control, one that would make all of his hardships and losses worth enduring for the blessings of a happier future. Théodred turned Éomer to face him.

“Don’t let any of this distract you while you’re out there. Be safe, do your job, and come back again. And then we’ll sort all this out. We have many challenges but also many allies. Don’t forget that.”

Éomer smiled, a look of quiet relief on his face. “I’ll come as soon as I can, cousin.” He clapped a hand on Théodred’s shoulder and then turned down the hall, striding off out of sight.

Théodred closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, his eyes closed and jaw tightly set. He desperately hoped that what he had just said to Éomer would prove to be true, but in his heart he wasn’t certain. He fought back the instinct to go immediately to his father, to seek his own reassurance that everything was under control. To hear a comfortingly authoritative voice tell him that everything would turn out in the end. But as much as he ached for that paternal consolation, he knew that he wouldn’t find it now. He would be lucky to ever find it again.

He heard the side door open as Eadlin came back into the room, wearing a long robe now. Taking in the look on his face, she opened her arms and he walked gratefully into them. They stood quietly for several long minutes with his head nestled in the crook of her neck and her arms tightly around his waist.

“You should go back to bed,” he murmured into her ear. “There’s no reason to spoil your own rest on my account.”

She shook her head. “There is so little I can do to ease your burdens, but at least I can help get you ready to face them.” She moved him into the seat that Éomer had vacated and placed herself behind him, running her fingers through his hair and all across his scalp in the way that she knew he liked. Then, taking up a comb and deftly dividing the hair on one side into sections, she began to weave a small, tight braid that ran above his ear from his temple back into the loose waves that sat on his shoulders.

“Was Éomer here about your father?” she ventured at last. Her hands continued their work, but she watched his face in the reflection that glimmered in the window pane in front of them.

He nodded. “His health is always my main concern of late, but there are other problems here as well. Not to mention those problems that we left back in the Westfold. Problems are one thing we have in overabundance.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s enough to make a person want to run and hide himself away. To find a small, comfortable spot somewhere in a far off country and just lead a quiet, normal life, away from all of this. Riding, reading, time in the fresh air, a hard day’s work with my hands and a good night’s sleep at the end. I could find myself very happy in a life like that.”

Their eyes met in the reflection, and she smiled softly at him. This wasn’t the first time he had spooled out a similar fantasy to her in the privacy of their own rooms, and the image of him content and at peace was one that always made her happy. But they both knew there was never any real intention behind his words, no actual willingness to abandon his responsibilities or leave behind the family and friends he cherished. His wishes for a simpler, more modest existence were just dreams that he liked to speak of and that he counted on her to gently redirect, as she always did.

She tied off the braid and walked around to face him, admiring her own handiwork before leaning down to give his arm an affectionate squeeze. “But if you left, of course I would go with you. And then who would water your plants?”

He laughed, as she knew he would, and he pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head as he stood. “You’re right, of course. As always.”

She handed his boots to him and no sooner had he slipped one on than Storbar was at his side, wagging a hopeful tail and looking in the direction of the door. “Alright, old friend. You’re right, too.” He pulled on his second boot and reached for Storbar’s leash. “No more rest for any of us today. There is much to do.”

Part Two is here.

Quick notes:

“Eadlin” glosses as “princess,” which seemed fitting for someone engaged to a prince.

“Storbar” means “great boar” in tribute to the Great Boar of Everholt, the legendary beast that fought Théodred’s 3x-great grandfather in T.A. 2864.

If you like Théodred, there’s a whole section for him on my master list where you can see some of what I did with a few of the elements of his history and personality that originated here.

#lord of the rings #lotr #tolkien #theodred #théodred #lotr headcanon #lotr fanfiction #cameos from éomer and boromir #théodred had a real and full life y’all #he wasn’t just sword fodder for the plot

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kit-walk3r · 1 year

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Hi! I'd like to request an angsty and hurt/comfort fic about Kit Walker x female reader please

The reader would have been trapped inside Briarcliff when she was just a kid or so and would be in there for over ten years now. As such she has no sense of hope for a better future nor has she a feeling of knowledge or belonging to the outside world anymore, and so deep down she fears ever getting out of there. The plot point would be Kit really being there for her and giving back to her her sense of purpose in life again.

I hope this is okay, thank you so much for it!

Hey anon! This prompt is great, thank you! Always happy to write more Kit stuff

Hope, Love and Warmth (Kit Walker x fem!reader)

You’d lost all hope for a better future, until you met Kit Walker

Warnings: not many, very brief mention of canon corporal punishment, depression themes

Note: Similar to a Kit fic I wrote before I haven’t given specifics as to why the reader is in Briarcliff, only the age they were admitted. Feel free to come up with your own reason!

You were sat alone in the corner of the common room, as usual, picking at the loose threads on your chair and humming quietly to yourself. You never interacted with anyone in Briarcliff, having learned at the young age of thirteen that it was better to keep to yourself than socialise with the ‘riff raff’ (a phrase you had heard the guards use many times). You preferred the quiet, and the far away corner from all the commotion was the best you were going to get.

The double doors next to you opened and you looked up to see a young man, potentially around your age, came in, dressed only in a hospital gown and looking dazed and confused. You watched as he staggered around, flinching at every loud sound, looking incredibly overwhelmed. You felt a pang of sadness for him. He was clearly new and had no idea what he was in for. You sympathised with him already.

You watched as Shelley, one of the more provocative residents, approached him and gave him a slap on the behind. You sighed, shaking your head. Of course Shelley would be the first to show attention to the new guy. He pushed her off easy enough, however, and continued his exploration of the common room, if you could call it that. Your eyes continued to follow him as he wandered, and you winced as you saw him approach the music box, reaching out to turn it off. That would only make things worse for him. Thankfully, Grace stepped in to stop him.

You didn’t mind Grace, in fact she was probably the most tolerable person in here. You rarely spoke to her (you rarely spoke to anyone) but she was nice and you noticed how she would try to help people when needed, just what she was doing right now with the new guy. He was in good hands with Grace.

Grace and Kit were interrupted by another patient. You could barely hear the conversation from across the room, just the occasional couple of words. Bloody Face, skinned alive, colour. You’d heard of Bloody Face, of course you had. Ever since it was announced he was being transferred here he was all anyone seemed to talk about. And here he supposedly was. You just didn’t expect him to be so… young, or naive. This guy didn’t strike you as a killer.

A fight was quick to break out between the two and you looked away, sighing. This was only going to end badly for the new guy. A fight on your first day? He was sure to get more lashings. And sure enough, in came Sister Jude, flanked by two guards who, with no hesitation, marched straight over to an already bloody Kit Walker and knocked him unconscious with one smack of their baton. Then, they simply dragged his limp body out of the common room.

You frowned. No matter how long you’d been here it still hurt to see how barbaric this place really was. You did your best to stay out of trouble, and usually succeeded, but when others did not your heart hurt for them as you watched them be punished. This time was no different.

- - -

Kit and Grace were sat together on one of the old, battered sofas in the common room, Grace giving Kit a rundown of all the inmates in Briarcliff.

You were in your usual position, curled up in the corner.

“Who’s that?” Kit asked, pointing in your direction. Grace turned around to see who he was pointing at, and half smiled when she saw that it was you.

“That’s Y/N,” Grace told him. “She’s been in Briarcliff longer than half the people in here. Got admitted when she was just thirteen.”

“Thirteen?” Kit’s voice was laced with a combination of confusion and disgust. “What did a thirteen year old do to get locked up in a place like this? Is it even legal for a thirteen year old to be in a place like this?”

Grace just shrugged, lighting a cigarette. She took a drag before handing it over to Kit, who accepted it gratefully. “No one knows, she barely talks to anyone,” she explained. “Even I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times. Nice girl, just likes to keep to herself.”

Kit watched you for a moment before allowing Grace to continue explaining the other patients.

- - -

You were once again doing your usual thing, sat picking at the loose threads on your chair, when someone sat down next to you. It was Kit. He offered you a smile when you looked at him, but instead of returning it you just looked back at the chair arm and continued what you were doing.

“Uh, hi,” Kit awkwardly greeted. You didn’t say anything, or even look at him. “I’m Kit,” he introduced himself.

“Bloody Face,” you muttered, voice quiet as you looked up at him with an arched eyebrow.

“I’m not him,” Kit said defensively.

You looked back at Kit before shrugging. “I know.”

Kit’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “But you just said-”

Cutting Kit off, you got up out of your chair and simply walked away.

Kit watched you leave, confusion evident on his face at your blunt exit.

- - -

The next day Kit joined you again. “Hi,” he greeted.

You merely hummed in response, not looking up as usual. You were once again picking at the seam of the chair, and had managed to make a hole.

Your lack of conversation didn’t defer Kit from your company, instead it made him more interested and compelled to sit with you. He tried again to make conversation.

“What did you mean yesterday when you said I wasn’t Bloody Face?” Kit asked, intrigued. “You said I was him literally seconds before.”

You looked up from the hole in the chair to meet Kit’s curious gaze. “I’ve seen a lot of psychos and killers come through here. You’re not one of them.” You said, finally giving him some sort of conversation.

It was true, in the almost ten years you had been in Briarcliff you had seen many killers come through here, similar to Kit’s situation where they were just shipped off to the institution until ready to stand trial. You’d observed them, seen how they reacted around others, how they spoke and carried themselves. Kit seemed different from all of them.

“Thanks, I guess,” Kit drawled. There was a pause, as if he didn’t know what to say next. “You, uh, you got a name?” Of course Kit knew your name from Grace, but he wanted to hear it from you personally.

You did the exact same thing as the previous day. You got up and walked away.

And the same as yesterday, Kit watched you walk away in confusion.

- - -

It seemed that Kit was not going to leave you alone.

The following day he came up to you again, but instead of taking a seat next to you he extended his hand and showed you the couple of chess pieces he was holding. “Fancy a game?”

You looked at the pieces in his hand before tilting your gaze up to see the hopeful look on Kit’s face. You just knew this guy wasn’t going to give up and sighed in defeat. “Fine,” you agreed, and Kit grinned.

You didn’t get up to go over to one of the tables hosting the chess boards, so instead Kit quickly dragged one over so the two of you could play in your usual spot, much to one of the nun’s annoyance.

You watched Kit as he set up the pieces on the board. He was an enigma. He was in probably one of the worst places in the whole world, this was your own personal hell, and yet he still had an air of… compassion and love surrounding him, something you hadn’t felt in a long time. He stood out amongst the other inmates, those who weren’t already insane soon began to lose their reality, the dark and dreary nature of Briarcliff effectively cutting out any positive thoughts or feelings. You’d have thought that someone as warm as Kit would have had that nature beaten out of them the second they stepped foot in this place, especially from the multiple canings you’d already noticed he’d undertaken, but no, that compassion still remained. You could tell, from how he didn’t seem to want you to be alone in here.

The two of you began to play your game. It was nice, you realised, having some company. You’d kept to yourself for so long that you forgot what it was like to actually be in the presence of someone else and enjoy it. There was no conversation between you two, just quietly playing the game, but conversation wasn’t needed. It was a comfortable silence.

You won in the end and Kit groaned at your crushing victory. “Damn, you’re good,” he chuckled, and you simply smiled in response, earning a similar one from Kit. He began to pack up the board. “So, you ever gonna tell me your name?”

You thought for a moment, before deciding that there was no harm in telling him. “Y/N,” you answered, and Kit grinned in victory.

- - -

Chess became the norm between the two of you, always in the same spot in the corner of the common room. Since you’d started playing you’d been distracted from pulling at the seams of the chair, and noticed how someone had sewn it back up.

You and Kit didn’t talk much during your games. There was the odd comment from you here and there, but Kit was usually the one doing the talking if there was any. You found that you actually rather enjoyed his company.

“How are you so good at this?” Kit groaned as you won yet another game. “That’s your fourth win in a row.”

You shrugged. “I played a lot of chess when I first came here. I guess it just kinda stuck with me.”

When you first got brought into Briarcliff when you were thirteen you still had a sense of childhood curiosity and innocence. Your spirit had not yet been broken, and you found yourself wanting to get to know the other patients. Admittedly, most of them weren’t great for conversation, but there were a few who you spoke to and would often play a game of chess over conversation. But then the years passed by and your youthful nature disappeared and your spirit was beaten down and broken. You barely functioned as a real person, and all potential you had of a bright future you had always wished for was gone.

You found your mood had soured slightly as you mentioned your earlier years here and decided that you were no longer good company. So, as Kit packed up the board you got up and left, something that was starting to become rather familiar.

- - -

Your mood was slightly brighter the next day and you wanted to apologise to Kit for just walking away. You felt guilty, Kit had only ever been kind and in response you just walked away from him without even a goodbye. It wasn’t fair on him.

As usual he came over to you with a smile, the chess box tucked under his arm as his other hand was holding a cigarette, which Kit brought up to his lips before blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Hey, Y/N,” he greeted, sitting down and setting the board up like he usually did.

“Hey,” you greeted quietly. You watched as Kit stubbed out his cigarette. “I’m sorry for just walking away yesterday.”

Kit’s face softened. “You don’t need to apologise,” he shrugged with an honest smile. “It was fine, really. We’d finished the game anyway.” Kit’s kindness once again shined through. “But you could always let me win to show you mean it?” He grinned cheekily.

“I don’t think so,” you laughed lightly.

“Damn,” Kit chuckled. “I’ll guess I’ll just have to give it my all.”

You still won.

“You’re impossible to beat,” Kit groaned.

“I guess it’s my talent,” you shrugged, and Kit nodded with a slight chuckle.

“Definitely,” he agreed. A silence fell between the two of you, the usual comfortable kind. This was usually the case after a game, but Kit found that this time he wanted to continue the conversation. He didn’t want to scare you off, though, like yesterday, so thought carefully about what he was about to say.

“Do you wanna hear a story about how I tried to run away from home as a child?”

- - -

It was as if Kit’s ridiculous story broke the ice, and after that the two of you started having proper talks, as opposed to the chess game then silence. You still played chess, but it was now often paired with conversation as the two of you got to know each other better. They started off as rather shallow things, childhood stories and jokes. Then Kit started talking about his wife, marriage and how hard it had been to conceal it from the world. He talked about how he hadn’t heard from his parents since he was arrested, and didn’t know if it were the Bloody Face accusations or his marriage to a black woman keeping them away. He hoped it was the accusations, but he knew what people were like when it came to those like Alma, and the possibility of his parents not accepting his marriage terrified him.

In return you told Kit about your family, about the farm you grew up on and all the animals there. You told him about your dog and how you weren’t ashamed to admit that she was your best friend, no matter how much your siblings teased. Your stories weren’t as deep as Kit’s, but it was all you had because of the ten years you’d spent here.

Through your talks you and Kit grew closer and closer, and through the bond you were forming you started to feel genuine happiness again, you finally had something to look forward to, someone to give your life meaning. Your life was changing from the monotone hell it had been for so long, and it was all down to Kit.

Neither of you ever spoke about why you were in Briarcliff.

- - -

You were in the middle of a game when the police came to take Kit away.

“Mr Walker,” three officers suddenly appeared. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Donna Burton, Alison Riedel and Alma Walker.”

Both of Kit’s arms were grabbed by an officer and they pulled him up roughly, knocking over the pieces on the chess board in the process. Your eyes widened at the hostility of the officers and the way they were handling Kit.

“Where’s Thredson? You guys need to talk to Dr Thredson,” Kit tried to explain as handcuffs were tightened around his wrists.

“No, we don’t,” the third officer not holding Kit denied and you felt panic begin to settle in. “We got his evaluation and your taped confession.”

Taped confession?

“Come on, kid, let’s go,” one of the officers holding Kit grunted and they began to pull him away. Kit struggled, but their grips were tight and with the handcuffs there was only so much fighting he could do.

Your eyes filled with tears. “But he didn’t do it!” You cried, but everyone ignored you. “He’s innocent!”

No response. Instead, you just watched Kit get dragged out of the common room and out of your life.

- - -

With Kit gone your days went back to how they were before he had arrived. Sat in your chair in the corner, no entertainment besides pulling at the loose threads of the furniture. The only difference was that you made sure to have a table and chess board ready in front of you, just in case Kit was to turn up for your usual game.

You felt so agitated without Kit’s presence, so shaky and uncomfortable. To try and calm yourself down you pulled at the seams of the chair even more, and now a large hole had formed. You constantly pulled at the threads, harder and harder until the stuffing began to pool out, but you didn’t care. You just kept pulling and pulling and pulling.

You missed Kit and the warmth he made you feel. His absence made you realise just how dark and dull your days had been before he was incarcerated. Inside you now just felt empty, like most the people in this place.

You defended Kit as much as you could, surprising everyone with your speech. Since he was arrested in front of the entire common room he was now the topic of conversation once again, and you made sure to let everyone know that Kit wasn’t a murderer. No one believed you, of course, and you know some laughed. But it was the only thing you could do to help Kit, even if it were just defending his name.

You just missed Kit so much.

- - -

“Fancy a game?”

Your head shot up at the familiar voice and there he was, Kit. He smiled at you and that was it, you couldn’t stop yourself from jumping up from your seat and into his arms, knocking over the table and chess board in the process, but you didn’t care. Kit was back.

You jumped into his arms, wrapping your own tightly around his neck as you felt your eyes fill with happy tears. Kit was alive, he wasn’t going to face the electric chair, he wasn’t going to be gone from the world. Kit wrapped his arms around your waist and you both just stood there in the middle of the common room, tight in each other's embrace.

Yes, you were still in Briarcliff. Yes, you weren’t free. But you had Kit, someone who made you feel hope and love and warmth, feelings you hadn’t experienced since you were a child. You treasured them deeply, but most of all you treasured Kit and hoped that you’d always be with him.

•———•

I really hope you like this anon! It’s one of my longest so far and a lot of thought went into it, I loved your prompt so wanted to try and do it justice! Remember, requests are open and always appreciated 💓

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