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delopsia · 2 years

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Just And Just As | Nick Furcillo X Reader

Word Count: 10,000 t.t Cross Posted Here on AO3 Warnings & Notes: Implied NSFW, brief mentions of food. Really just a lot of fluff and borderline smut. Idk man, I blacked out when I wrote this. Gender-neutral reader and mentions of a height difference because I couldn't resist.

No, no no no, this is not how your plan ends.

The voices behind you are growing louder. Closer. They'll be here any moment. Trembling hands turn the doorknob once more. It turns. Pull again. Nothing. The damned thing is jammed and won't budge.

"Y/N!"

Shit.

They're almost here. They know this is where you've gone. Any moment now and they'll be rounding that bend into camp. One more time. One more time.

Again, you turn the knob and pull.

No dice. You're accepting defeat - the ziplines would have been a better place to run. Fuck, why did you choose the fucking pool of all places?

The doorknob tears out of your hands as it flies open. Familiar hands grasp your wrists and tug you inside. There's no time to grasp what just happened, no time to avoid stumbling face-first into a broad chest.

"Whoa!" The door audibly slams shut behind you. "What's got you in such a rush, sweetheart?"

Temptation to step back is ebbed away by the arms that circle around you, gently securing you against his chest, fingertips tracing circles into your spine.

"The campers were getting close," you grumble, peering up to meet his eye, "and I couldn't get the damn door to open."

He's silent — just for a moment, brown eyes flickering to the door, then back down to you. "You do remember..." he pauses to fight the big, goofy grin that's sprawling across his face — his efforts are futile, "that the door is a push to open, right?"

Your cheeks burn.

"Oh my god," you bury your face back into his chest, concealing your shame, "what am I supposed to even say after you've just stood here and witnessed me act a fool for a full two minutes?"

"You could say, 'Nick, you're such a good boyfriend, thank you so much for saving me from those rabid counselors and their equally vicious kids'," you're vaguely aware of a nose bumping against the side of your head. It's the best he can do to bend down and rest his head next to yours without outright bending down.

Nick's fingertips ghost up your naked spine, featherlight, settling at the base of your neck. They're firmer, a singular finger tapping the skin there until you draw your face from his chest to meet his gaze. "You look beautiful in this swimsuit," it's barely a whisper, so quiet that you briefly consider whether or not you'd actually heard it. The flame in Nick's cheeks state otherwise, visible even in the darkness of the pool room.

"I wish you could have come to the island with us," your hand wanders up to brush the hair from his eyes, he leans into it, "you would have loved the view from the treehouse."

"Unfortunately, someone around here has to keep all the campers fed," Nick tilts his head to press a kiss into your palm. He misses by a bit, getting the side of it more than anything, but still, it lands. "I've got a lot better of a view right here, anyway."

Both of your cheeks go up in flames, and you have to look away for a moment to regain your composure. You're not quite sure who the comment affected more, you or him. Words are hard to come by, your fingertips idly fidgeting with a lock of his hair. All this effort and planning for some alone time together, and now you can't even find the words to respond to a witty compliment. Nick takes hold of your hand, guiding it further up until you've fully tangled your digits in his long hair. It drives you impossibly closer to him, noses bumping together in your efforts to compensate for your height difference without standing on your tiptoes.

"I hope Jacob didn't trouble you too much while you were out," he says, with a dimpled frown. Jacob's constant pestering has only ramped up now that he became witness to a poorly timed peck on the lips — so much for keeping your relationship a secret, for your sanity's sake.

You shake your head, nose rubbing against his in an unintentional nose kiss, "he's calmed down since your stint in the woods last week." The image of Nick losing his temper and slamming Jacob up against an oak tree is one that will forever be burned into your memory.

Nick's stepping away, and for a fleeting moment, you're afraid that he's suddenly decided that you're far too awkward for his tastes. There's the slightest of tugs upon your wrist and it hits you that he's just leading you behind the lockers. As soon as you've rounded the corner, Nick's crowding your space, backing you into the corner until you have no space left to give him.

His lips bump against yours, touching but not quite there, "you seem to enjoy bringing that up," he observes, and before you can defend yourself, he cuts you off, "you couldn't possibly have a thing for me being mad, hm?"

Again, words fail to find you. You're saved by the familiar pressure of lips against your own, just a peck, one, two, three, four times. He goes in for a fifth, and this time you're standing on your tiptoes and catching him off guard, kissing him properly. Nick whines oh so softly, big, clumsy hands finding their way to your waist as he leans into it. The sound travels its way straight to your core, lighting a fire that burns impossibly brighter as a palm travels down your hip, fingers seizing a plush thigh. He does this every time, yet you still squeak against his lips as your leg is guided up to his hip.

You have to break it, lungs burning as you take a deep breath in, and with Nick's shoulders as leverage, hoist yourself up. It's a far cry from your first attempt, where you had jumped too low and Nick reacted too slowly, finding yourselves in a red-cheeked heap on the kitchen floor and fumbling for an excuse when Mr. H rushed in, fearing the worst.

Nick's giggle shatters the memory, and only now do you become aware of the thin trail of saliva connecting your lips. He makes no effort to break it, squeezing your thighs as he meets your lips once more. Here, with Nick comfortably settled between your legs, it's so much easier to kiss him, no ache from craning your neck up and standing on your tiptoes, just the comfortable flutter in your chest as your lips melt against his.

Cheeky, you nip at his plush bottom lip, tugging it in the slightest of nips. He gasps, lips parting oh so beautifully. He knows your tricks, meets your tongue halfway, chuckling at your surprised retreat. He chases you, hot tongue delving into your mouth, tangling with your own in the softest of touches. He tastes like peanut butter. Your lungs burn as you chase him back, spit-slicked lips sliding against his in the messiest of kisses.

You don't have much time, you both are aware of that, and you take the chance to break away from him in exchange for further ventures, catching your breath in between pecks and licks down his neck.

"Baby," he warns, and you're becoming increasingly aware of a blooming pressure between your legs.

The warning is futile, though, because your lips land on a sensitive spot just below his jaw, sucking at it gently. Nick twitches under your touch, pressing you further into the lockers with his hips, a newly freed palm gripping the back of your head as your tongue salves across the spot. The pressure of Nick between your legs is a new one, you can't quite recall a moment where he was ever this close.

"Baby wait, oh," he's powerless at the way that you nip at his skin, it's one of your favorite things to exploit.

Light explodes above you, white LEDs burning into your poor retinas.

Nick's letting you down almost immediately, backing away as if burned. The room feels impossibly cold without him crowding your senses, drowning you in all he has to offer.

"I knew I'd find you two stooges in here somewhere," Mr. H's voice is jarring, compared to how softly you and Nick had been speaking. It's only now that you realize that you've shut your eyes. "The hell are you two doing in here?"

"Intense game of rock paper scissors," Nick supplies, "we're going to Nationals, haven't you heard?"

When Mr. H doesn't immediately buy it, you fill in with your preplanned lie. "I got a migraine from the sun and this was the only quiet, dark place we could find," you've told this lie so many times that everyone is beginning to think it's true.

"Where are the sunglasses I bought you?" Mr. H makes a motion for you and Nick to head towards the door. You follow without question.

"Emma borrowed them for a theater class and never gave them back," at least you're honest, this time, "it's all an exploit to keep me from telling you how she's sneaking out at night."

"Are you sure you don't want us to tell you how they're doing it?" Nick chuckles, bumping his shoulder against yours with a not-so-discreet wink.

Mr. H shakes his head, fumbling with his keys. Hell, he's locking the door this time. "I want to catch them organically, in the act," he says, rather jovial for a man who just walked in on two of his counselors making out in the locker room, "what use am I if I can't even catch two horny twenty-year-olds sneaking out?"

His loss, you suppose. Ever since Emma figured out that Mr. H religiously goes to bed at 10:45 PM sharp, gets up once to pee at 2 AM, and then sleeps until 6:30, they haven't been caught once.

Nick bumps you again, harder this time, forcing you to glare up at him and acknowledge his presence. There's a red spot under his jaw and a funny little glint in his eye — like he's gotten away with murder.

"Back to why I'm looking for you, Y/N, you have a patient, and Nick, you have mouths to feed." Just like that, your excitement has exited from your body and flown off to the high heavens.

Back to work.

Blaire Whitson is one of those children that is almost always in your office, nursing a new injury. Yesterday she fell off the swing and cut her hand wide open, the day before that, she burned her tongue on a freshly roasted marshmallow.

"Why did Lucas push you off the canoe?" Talking is hard when you're focusing on this stubborn splinter, but it's all you can do to keep the poor girl from crying.

She huffs, loud and dramatic, "same reason he pushed me out of the tree last week. He doesn't like that I have a crush on Antonio."

You've almost got this splinter, but she keeps moving and you keep losing the damn thing, no matter how hard you try to keep her knee still.

"I still think he's just jealous," there's only one person at this camp who bares that accent.

"Hi, Counselor Nick," Blaire giggles. In her moment of distraction, her knee finally holds still long enough for you to get that damned splinter. She doesn't even notice it.

"What are you doing all the way up here?" You sneak a glance up to Nick whilst you reach for the Neosporin.

He's settled himself in the doorway frame, idly massaging his wrist as he watches you do your thing. "Burned myself in the kitchen," he lifts his hand, showing off the angry red burn along the side of his right palm, "my hired help turned on the wrong burner."

You don't need to ask who his hired help is. It is common knowledge that Dylan is a menace in the cafeteria and should not be allowed within fifty feet of a microwave, regardless of whether he's being chaperoned or not. You suppose that's why you've been smelling something burning for the past half hour.

"Why would Lucas be jealous?" You haven't quite figured that one out, just seems like childish bullying, but you're not usually spending time with the kids.

Nick settles in an open chair next to you, still has a faint red mark along his neck. You practically have to drag your eyes away from it, and only because Nick is leaning over to whisper in your ear. "Ryan confiscated a love letter from him this morning."

Ah.

It takes less than a minute for you to finish cleaning up Blaire's injuries, and then she's rushing off to get dinner before it's too late. She's eaten late meals in your office far too many times for it to be a fun experience for her anymore, and you're thankful that she doesn't linger like a lot of kids do.

"Sit." You point a finger at the newly empty bed, getting up to fetch a cold compress and anything else you suspect you may need to treat his burn. You assume it can't be too bad — Nick has never been great at hiding his pain, and he doesn't seem all that bothered right now.

The burn isn't too bad, much to your relief. Nick whines every time you touch it, but that's the most you gather out of him.

"Love note, huh?"

"Said something about being upset that every girl likes his brother and not him," Nick grumbles as you massage aloe into the angry flesh of his hand, "couldn't imagine why the ladies aren't all over him."

"It's almost as if people avoid bullies, out of fear of being bullied themselves," you're struggling to focus on the task at hand. Nick's uninjured hand working its way up your shoulder is proving to be quite distracting.

"What? You don't consider being shoved out of a canoe a quality trait in a man?" He teases, giggling at his own dumb comment.

"Not exactly, no," you raise your head at the same time he does, brushing your noses together.

You can't quite bring yourself to pull away. You really should, considering the door is wide open, but you can't resist just one kiss. It seems Nick had the same idea, because he meets you halfway, chases you down for another as soon as the first one ends.

"I wish we got to have more alone time," he pouts, the moment your lips have left his. "There's literally nowhere to escape, and our wonderful coworkers take over the boathouse every damn night."

An idea strikes you as you reach for the gauze. "Why don't we sneak down to the ziplines? There's a dock down there, too."

"Oh thank the Lord, are you two finally gonna fuck?"

You're not sure when Dylan arrived, but there he is, smug as ever in the doorway. Before you can ask what he's doing here, he points to your medicine cabinet. "I need hard drugs and a nap."

Ah, right.

Dylan has a habit of getting migraines while in the cafeteria. Something about the various noises and smells just sets him off. He's brought his honorary bottle of water, saving you the trouble of fetching one yourself.

"Cabinets unlocked," you supply, beginning to wrap Nick's hand, "don't overdose."

You know the drill by now. Feed Dylan some painkillers and allow him a 30-minute nap on one of the beds, and he's good as new. You're thankful that he doesn't follow up on his first statement. If there's anyone at this camp who knows how to tease without being a genuine pest, it's Dylan.

Jacob should start taking lessons.

"Is this where you go every night after dinner?" Nick is so wrapped up in his new revelation that he doesn't notice when you finish wrapping his injury, leaving his hand stuck out even as you step away to put your things back.

"Congrats, you've found me out," Dylan says around two ibuprofen, "took you long enough."

You don't have to ask about what's coming next, ushering Nick out of the room to avoid any more fussy remarks from your most frequent patient. You just so happened to have picked the one room with a decent mattress, and Dylan religiously picks that room to sleep in.

"What's going on?" Nick wonders aloud, once the door has fallen shut behind the both of you.

"That room has the only decent mattress," you elaborate, yawning, "Dylan refuses to sleep anywhere else."

With Dylan curled up in your office, Nick walks you down to the cafeteria under the promise of reheating a meal for you. Dinner is already over, much to your dismay, but there seem to be some perks to dating the lead chef. The kitchen is a damn mess, but it's one that Nick seems to know like the back of his hand. He breezes through it, alternating between a variety of pots and pans seamlessly. There's only one empty space, in the corner next to the fridge. You swear Nick keeps it cleared just because you always sit there. You're just beginning to sit down on the wooden stool when he comes bounding over like a puppy.

"Chili mac 'n cheese," he announces in his best southern accent, placing a bowl in front of you, "and cornbread." The cornbread is on a napkin, he's been improvising ever since Dylan knocked over a whole rack of plates last week.

"Is this how you got rid of all those different noodles?" There are at least five different noodles in this, even alphabet pasta, strangely enough. Nick nods, long hair bouncing with the motion. He's always like this, eagerly awaiting your reaction to his cooking.

Nick can be quite the chef when he wants to be, and that proves to ring true even with this unusual-looking chili. He starts grinning when you go in for a second bite and cheers when you give him a thumbs up.

"Do you have tomorrow figured out or is that still a work in progress?" You ask, reaching up to push his hair from his eyes.

"Chili spaghetti," he chirps, around a mouth of cornbread. He's been obsessed with it ever since Mr. H lent him the Hackett family recipe, makes it two or three times a week anymore.

You're not sure if you heard him right. "Chili what now?"

"Chili spaghetti," he says, slower this time, "my dad and I tried it after we went camping midwest last year. I've been thinking about it ever since." His stomach growls as he speaks, as if to put emphasis on his statement.

If you had your phone, you would look this up, because you have no idea what the hell this entails. Alas, Mr. H is hellbent on keeping the camp as "original as possible", whatever that means. It makes sense for the counselors, but you'd really appreciate it if he would lighten up on the rules. Especially considering how often you overhear him playing Candy Crush.

Boomers.

You finish your food quickly — Nick's waiting on you before he starts cleaning, and you'd like to lend him a hand so that he doesn't get stuck in here until 11 PM again. It's happened before and you'd feel guilty if you let it happen again. You take off to hunt down stray utensils in the cafeteria, while Nick begins the long, strenuous process of washing every single dish by hand.

"I have eleven runaway spoons and a singular plate," you announce, upon your re-entry. Nick makes a noise, you can't tell if it's him acknowledging you or if he's just pissed off with the pot he's scrubbing. He's got a glove on his burnt hand, which only seems to be getting in the way more than anything.

With a clean towel, you dry the dishes and put them away, working as quickly as you can to catch up to Nick's queue. It's not hard — most of the dishes are the same and as such, go in the same places. Between that and the pots, you catch up to Nick rather quickly. You're leaning against the counter, waiting for the next dish when Dylan comes bounding in.

"We're back in business boys," he yawns, making a beeline for the spare sink, "Y/N I hope you can keep up."

Going into this, you weren't aware it was a challenge. Regardless, you're up for it. With two pairs of hands washing, your job gets a lot more hectic. Back and forth, you alternate between the two stations, drying the dishes as you walk them to their destinations.

"So are you two actually going down to the ziplines tonight?" Dylan asks as he hands you a particularly large knife, still dripping with water when you take it.

Nick's handing you a handful of spoons as you breeze past him. "Depends on whether we finish these dishes in time and if Mr. H catches us."

The knife block is just out of your reach, to your dismay. You have to clamber onto a stool to get to it, have to ignore the amused grins of your much taller peers. Sometimes you catch yourself wishing witchcraft was real, just so you could pay a witch to make them short for a day. Humble them a little. There's laughter outside, and you're pretty sure that's Kaitlyn who's raising her voice to garner everyone's attention.

Dylan huffs dramatically, sets down a bowl a tad too hard, "another campfire without us." It's an ongoing issue — the kitchen crew gets left behind to do all of the cleanups while the rest of the counselors go to the campfire to listen to Ryan's campfire tales. You used to go with them, but ever since you stumbled across Nick and Dylan washing dishes after midnight, you've felt too guilty to not help them out.

"We're almost done," Nick, ever the optimist.

You're working up a bit of a sweat, jumping between the two stations, drying dishes as fast as your hands will allow. Nick's moving as fast as he can. He really wants to make it to one of these fires — you can see it in his eyes. Eyebrows furrowed, tongue poked out of his mouth as he scrubs away, determined to get these dishes done.

"Is there a reason why the nurse is in the kitchen?" Mr. H's voice is so jarring that you nearly drop the plates you're cradling.

"I want to sleep at a decent time," Dylan's tongue is sharp as he speaks, "forgive us for accepting some much-needed help."

You choose not to speak, smiling as you breeze past to take another freshly washed dish. It would be far nicer if Mr. H would go ahead and just scold or kick you out, but he just stands there in the doorway, hands on his hips, staring. His presence makes it harder to focus on the task at hand. Your hands tremble as you take the next set of dishes, nearly drop a spoon when you're separating it from the forks. 'It's okay', Nick mouths, out of view of Mr. H's careful watch.

"Y/N, get to the campfire and help with the kids," your heart sinks, "I'll take over and help them finish up."

"We literally have ten plates left," Dylan deadpans.

Mr. H is quiet, stares until it begins to feel uncomfortable again. Frowning, you hand off your dish to Mr. H and head for the door. You feel like a stray cat being tossed out into the rain, slinking out into the rapidly darkening outdoors. The campers have already been herded down to the fire pit, leaving the main section of the camp empty and deserted. Walking alone in the woods is not your favorite cup of tea. It's not even that far, but the dark forest is ominous, trees towering overhead, bushes concealing God knows what behind them. The constant reports of kids seeing something lurking in the woods at night are certainly not helping the matter.

Alone and out of Mr. H's watchful eye, you drag your feet, walking as slowly as you can manage without outright stopping. Either time must be passing slower, or Mr. H is talking the boys' ears off because you find yourself approaching a roaring campfire and the boys are nowhere to be seen. Kaitlyn's waving you over, perched up on the 'Counselors Log' as she calls it. You're still not sure how she's managed to ward off all the kids, but she's successfully staked her claim and so far it seems to be well respected.

"How did flirting with Nick go?" She asks once you're within earshot.

"Great until Mr. H ran me off," pause for dramatic effect, "twice."

"Keep on trying my little Storm Trooper," you can smell the faintest twinge of alcohol on her breath, must've been a hard day for her to dig out the vodka she smuggled in, "once you get out of here, you'll be set for life with that man's fortune."

Here we go again. "I still don't know what makes you think he's rich," there's not much space on the log, you're surprised you have room to fit. Of course, all of the counselors could hypothetically fit, if Jacob wasn't taking up an entire quarter of it.

"Dude, he was wearing a designer jacket at orientation!" Emma chirps, kicking her feet. "He has to at least come from a little money."

Right on queue, Dylan and Nick walk around the bend. Mr. H follows closely behind, like some sort of creepy shadow. Something cold hits your legs, and you realize it's Kaitlyn handing you her canteen. "Hold this and pretend it's yours," she whispers, "I'm afraid Mr. H may be on to me and my drinking habits."

There's a big shuffle to fit the two extra counselors — Jacob doesn't want to move to the edge and close his damn legs, Ryan nearly knocks Abigail's notebook into the fire and she just about smacks him upside the head with it once it's returned. You find yourself teetering on the edge of the log, thrilled that Nick has chosen to sit next to you, but it's getting hard to stay on this damn log.

"This log could be just a little bit bigger," Nick chuckles, watching you struggle. "Would you rather sit in my lap?"

You're not sure if it's his words or if it's the raging fire that puts the red in your cheeks. "Are you sure?"

"Long as you're comfortable with it," he says it so easily like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Despite your better judgment —the kids are definitely not going to let this one go— you agree. Nick shuffles a bit, adjusting to the extra space, and reaches out for you with open arms. He curls around you, long arms securing around your waist as you settle into his lap. Vaguely, you become concerned that you may be a bit too heavy for him. You attempt to alleviate that worry by putting more of your weight onto your feet than you are in his lap, it's an awkward sensation.

Nick's arms tighten, pulling you the rest of the way down. Plan? Foiled. "You're not too heavy for me, darling, don't even worry about that," lips ghost against the shell of your ear, presses a kiss behind it. There's a loud gasp from the kids that has you freezing, fearing the worst. Did you do something?

Then you hear Ryan's voice, and it hits you that he's just telling a story. Nick's chin hooks over your shoulder, a welcome weight that draws the stress from your tired body. He's so warm, all wrapped up around you like an oversized blanket, it's like you were made to fit right into his arms.

You've forgotten about the canteen in your hand. At least, forgotten it until Kaitlyn reaches over and plucks it from your hand. "Don't you two just look cozy," she teases, and you feel Nick hide his face in your shoulder.

Ryan's tale of the night comes to a close, and the kids are not happy about it. A handful of them beg for another story in their shrill little voices, someone offers their fruit snacks as bribery. You really need to pay attention to his stories more often, they're the highlight of the night, and half the time, you don't even hear them.

"I think I've told a story for just about everything," Ryan's mostly just talking to himself, albeit loudly.

"Have you told a story about werewolves yet?" The words tumble out of your mouth before you can do anything about it.

Ryan's eyebrows furrow, and he's quiet for a moment. "Can't say that I have, actually."

"Hey guys," Mr. H is lowering his voice, stepping between you and the fire, "let's just skip the werewolf topic and get everyone to bed."

It's not like you're being scolded, you've done nothing wrong, but his tone makes you feel like you've committed the most heinous crime imaginable. Your coworkers share the same expression, confused beyond words.

"Mr. H, we still have thirty minutes before bed," Nick's protest goes nowhere. Mr. H's words are law, and if he wants everyone in bed now, what more choice do you have?

With a bucket of water, Mr. H puts out the fire, and you're once again tasked to do a job that you don't get paid enough for. Getting out of Nick's lap is the worst part—you feel so safe there; it's like nobody could lay a single finger on you.

Getting the kids back to their cabins is like herding cats. Someone is always doing their own thing and not listening to instructions, and it makes your job impossibly tricky. You lose sight of Nick rather quickly, too wrapped up in stopping a group of boys from marching off to 'hunt down the wendigos themselves'. In a way, their attitude reminds you of Jacob. Invincible until they're not. It's all you can do to keep the ringleader from tearing off into the night, and he's only talked out of it once you're out of the forest altogether.

"Campers, head to your cabins!" Kaitlyn shouts, "don't make me tell you twice!"

She's gonna have to tell them twice. About half the kids, including your Wendigo Fighters, trudge to their cabins, but the remaining half cant give a damn what she just said. Who's truly in charge here? Because it seems like the campers could overrun this place if they so chose. Speaking of running camps, you can see Mr. H tying some sort of rope to the side of the pool building. He's dragging the rope across the lawn, looks like he's taking it all the way across the main exit of camp. The hell is he doing?

There's a small voice behind you that barely stands out among the chatter of campers. Blaire stands behind you, Antonio close behind, holding her tiny little hand.

"Did you say something?" You ask, kneeling to get on her level.

"Counselor Nick asked me to ask you to come and save him," she repeats, pointing off to your right.

Ah. There's Nick.

He's amassed himself a small crowd, and he really doesn't look like he knows how to get out of it. This happens every time he opens his mouth; the kids love asking him to say things in his accent.

"Thanks, Blaire," you reach up to fix a stray hair, "head on to your cabin now, 'kay?"

With Blaire and her friend running off to their cabins, you're faced with the familiar task of saving your boyfriend from certain doom. You can hear the words he's saying, "butter," "squirrel," and "juice box," being the first three you hear.

"Okay, kids, let's not harass Counselor Nick anymore than we have to," you hate raising your voice, but it's the only thing that's ever worked in the past. The kids are disappointed, but they scamper off just as Kaitlyn whips out the megaphone.

You get the feeling that you're no longer their favorite Counselor.

With the megaphone out, you only have a few moments before you need to disappear into your respective cabins, but Nick's wandering hands are finding your waist, bringing you in for the quickest of kisses. "You never told me your plan for tonight, love."

You'd almost forgotten about that. Had you even planned anything?

"The two stooges sneak out at eleven fifteen; we might be able to get out after they do," you offer. Quite frankly, you have no other ideas.

"Works for me," another kiss, and then you're separating, jogging to your cabins before Kaitlyn can come after you. It's happened before—you still think your left ear is ringing a bit.

Your bunk isn't much, just some tiny thing tucked into the corner. The frame is cracking, so nobody sleeps above you, and you've tucked a spare sheet around it to create some makeshift curtains. It's nice; privacy is a rarity around here. As a bonus, your bed is pushed right up against the window, granting you full, unlimited access to it. You're really glad that you left the blinds open this morning because opening those would make a lot of racket.

The kids settle in rather quickly; your cabin has learned the hard way that Kaitlyn does not mess around when it comes to bedtime. She is a woman of routine, and she has no problem reminding them who is in charge. The problem is that now, the cabin is impossibly quiet, and you have nothing to help pass the time.

Pushing open the window helps a little bit—at least now you have some fresh air. The camp is eerily quiet, forest looming behind, a monster in plain sight. You will never understand how people go camping alone. What do you do if something gets ahold of you? If something goes horribly wrong?

It feels like an hour has passed before Jacob's cabin door opens up; your watch says it's only been twenty minutes. Emma comes out next. It's clear that she does this pretty often because she makes no effort to be quiet. How Mr. H constantly fails to catch them, you'll never know.

Nick's door is the last to open. He's more cautious about it, minding the squeaky, loose stairs far better than Jacob and Emma did. He crouches next to his cabin, only scurries across camp when the two have their backs turned on their way out of camp. Unfortunately for him, he isn't graceful enough to avoid stepping on and snapping a rather loud twig.

"Did you hear that?" Good lord, why is Jacob observant now, of all times? He wasn't very observant last week when he drove the golf cart into a ditch.

Emma is dismissive, you don't hear what she says, but she's tugging on his arm and urging him on his way. From behind the central tree, Nick pokes his head out, wide-eyed and pale. You feel like you're in a spy movie when you clamber out of the window as quietly as you can manage. The way that Nick scurries over reminds you of a puppy, clumsily tripping over his own feet, just barely able to catch himself.

The loudest cowbells you've ever heard ring in the distance.

So that's what Mr. H was doing earlier. You can hear his voice in the distance, a bright white flashlight landing on the two escapees. There's no time for Nick to run back, not without getting caught himself. Nick seems to have gathered that himself because he picks up his speed and jumps, grabbing onto the railing and hoisting himself over in one fluid motion. He doesn't need to say anything, you're already climbing back through the window, and Nick is tumbling in after you.

Limbs are everywhere, you don't know where Nick starts, and you end. This bed is barely big enough for you, never mind you and Nick. He might as well be a second blanket, with the way he's sprawled out on top of you, panting in your ear.

"This isn't how I imagined this escapade turning out," he whispers, voice unintentionally sending a ripple down your spine. He must feel it because he finally squirms himself away from your ear.

Mr. H is beginning his lecture outside; you can hear it in his tone. Preaching about responsibility and putting the kids first. You'd heard enough of this at orientation.

"After all, what will the parents think?" Nick mocks with a roll of his eyes.

"If something happens to the kids, their parents won't send them back next year," you finish, much to his delight.

Nick shuffles around, rearranging your positions to put you closest to the window. Your pillow barely accommodates the two of you, but you hardly even notice it. It's hard to think of anything when Nick's all wrapped around you, legs tangled with your own, barely an inch of space between you.

His hand slips under your shirt, settling flat on the small of your back. "Isn't it silly that a lecture is what brought us together?"

It was only a month and a half ago, but it feels like it's been a millennium since that day. Framed for a mistake made by Emma, you and Nick had been subjected to an hour-long lecture and a three-day sentence to cleaning. You've been bound at the hip ever since.

"Remember the fight in the showers?" It's growing hard to think; Nick is so warm that he's putting you to sleep.

He hums, "I was convinced that you hated me."

You'd coincidentally thought the same thing. Strange how all this worked out. Nick presses a kiss into your forehead, then another one, right between your eyes—you can't help but giggle at the sensation.

"Shh," a kiss to your nose, "your giggles are going to get us caught."

"Well, nobody was bothered by the cow—," you're cut off by a pair of familiar lips, effectively shutting you up. The kiss is too short for your liking, Nick may have only intended it to be a small peck, but you didn't sneak him into your bed just for a peck.

He gasps against your mouth, effectively surprised at how you chase him down, and for an agonizing moment, he goes still. Your hand finds its way up his chest, fingers splaying out over his heart, and that's what draws him from his stupor. It's a sensation that you never want to get used to, the way you fit together, the pressure of his soft lips against yours, the strength of his arms around you.

Teeth clack together with a soft noise; your mouth opens to him, a hot tongue delving into your mouth. His tongue is rather short, can't quite reach yours unless you meet him halfway, and the muffled whine you receive makes it all the more worth it. You don't know who's melting more, can't tell who is breaking kisses to gasp for air and who is starting them again. What you do know is that it's you who moves your leg up; it's Nick who whimpers when your thigh presses into your groin.

Oh, what you wouldn't give to be in a place where you could adequately act upon your inner thoughts.

"Fuck," Nick pants, breathless, although you're not much better yourself. He shifts a bit, only making your thigh press harder into him, and you suddenly become very aware of what you're doing to him.

Drawing your lips away from his feels like the most monumental task you've ever completed; it's all you can do to stop yourself from kissing him until your lips bruise and your heads spin. You don't want to go to sleep, but you know that if you continue on, neither of you may be able to stop.

Neither of you recalls exactly who fell asleep first or when. It just happened somewhere between Nick's thumb rubbing the side of your cheek and the novelty of sharing a bed for the first time. One moment you're gazing into sleepy brown eyes; the next, Nick's watch is vibrating and stirring you both from your slumber.

"What...?" Words are difficult. Your bones are heavy; it feels like you've slept for a century and a half.

"Just my alarm," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

Despite the growing need to get up and be ready before the kids, neither of you can bring yourselves to move. Nick is so warm against you, a stark contrast to the cool breeze coming in through the open window. The moment is fleeting, though, as Nick's watch reminds you of the time.

"Find me in the kitchen later," kiss, "I have something to show you." Before you know it, he's slipping out the door and scurrying back to his own cabin before Dylan can wake everyone with his announcements.

You don't get a chance to visit Nick until after lunch.

Usually, you have time in the morning, not for long but enough for a kiss on the cheek and a chat about the day's plans, but your day is going wrong in every possible way. First, two of the showers broke, and your morning shower rapidly turned into a midday one, and so, so many kids fell when on their trail hike with Ryan and Jacob. You've never seen so many scraped knees and elbows in your life.

When you do finally get to visit, Nick is... "What are you doing?"

Nick all but jumps, startled by your sudden appearance. It's short-lived because very quickly, he's grinning and waving you over to look at what he's concocting now.

"I don't get it," really, you don't. He's got what appears to be raspberries or strawberries in a strainer and a tin can underneath.

"Do you remember how Mr. H bought all that lemonade, and now we don't know what to do with it?" Whatever this is, he's excited, practically vibrating with it.

Cautious, you nod your head. You were one of the poor souls who had to carry all of it in and put it into the freezer. It's hard to forget that much lemonade.

Nick moves the strainer, revealing a bright red liquid underneath. "I made syrups," he can barely speak with how much he's smiling, "now we can have a little variety."

Where he's found the time to figure this out, you're not sure. He's handing you a glass from the fridge, already mixed with syrup and ready to go. Nick has never given you something that didn't taste amazing, and as you take your first sip, it continues to ring true. Strawberry lemonade.

"God, you look at Y/N like they hand-crafted the universe," Dylan must be coming up with these in advance—he's too quick with it.

"Hey," Nick scoffs, "you're not much better than I am."

"At least I don't give off the vibes of a golden retriever."

Speechless. That's what Nick is. Jaw slack, eyes wide as he glances at his reflection on the fridge. Now that it's been pointed out, you can't unsee it.

It falls quiet. Nick is still looking at himself in what you can only assume is horror; Dylan is getting into the granola stash, and you're so busy watching them that you don't even think to speak. Distantly, you think you can hear Emma and Jacob bickering, a familiar sound around these parts.

"Romeo and Juliet got sentenced to three days of hard labor," Dylan supplies around a mouthful of granola. Nick grimaces, and you can't tell if it's in response to the punishment or the granola.

"I can't believe Mr. H caught them with cow bells on a rope," there's a glint in Nick's eye as he speaks. "What's he got them doing?"

"Do you want to find out?" Mr. H's voice is loud, booming through the quiet little kitchen, effectively shaking you to your core. You don't realize that you've jumped and grabbed onto Nick until his arm is wrapped around you, anchoring you against him.

Emma stumbles in through the door, her cheeks red from the sun, "Y/N, can I borrow you? For...something?" Being borrowed means, you'll be busy until sundown. But you'll take anything over Mr. H staring through your very soul as if he knows all of your wrongdoings. Slipping from Nick's protective embrace, you follow her out of the building. She's got a mini play going on, but she needs extra hands, and Jacob is being particularly...Jacob, today.

"I just need someone to keep an eye on the extras and make sure they don't wander off," she tells you.

At first, you don't understand it, but then it becomes very clear that her group tends to wander. You feel like a herding dog, weaving back and forth and turning the little heathens back to the task at hand. One of the kids spills your lemonade all over the ground, and nobody owns up to it. You hadn't even gotten to drink much of it, and now your glass is completely empty.

Mr. H really doesn't pay you guys enough.

"Has Mr. H been rude to you lately, or is he just doing it to me and Jacob?" Emma asks you shortly after Ryan has come to escort the kids to dinner.

"He definitely has been sort of..." you have to stop cleaning up just to have a coherent thought. Yeah, now that she mentions it, he definitely has been teetering between pleasant and snappy lately. "Snappy? Menacing?"

"An ass?" She drops some gnome hats into her costume box, "he got mad at me and Jacob earlier just for being in the same room."

With all of the gnome gear packed away, the two of you are finally able to leave. The sun is already falling, bathing the forest in deep hues of red and orange—a true golden hour. It's comforting, a stark contrast to how menacing it can be once the sun goes down. A shiver ripples down your spine.

As you grow near the main building, Mr. H's truck tears out of the driveway, sending dirt and gravel flying up into a plume of smoke. Idle, Ryan stands stiff as a board where the truck was once parked. Even from a ways away, you can see the whites of his eyes, like a deer in headlights. When he finally does come to face you, he remains the epitome of shocked, jaw-slack, eyes distant.

"What's going on?" Emma's the first to speak.

Ryan's quiet for a moment, and then, "he's...leaving for the night?" He says it as if he doesn't quite believe what he's saying.

There's a cheer to your left. It sounds like Jacob and...

"Nick?" You're surprised to hear your own voice. He just grins, stepping out from beside Jacob to come to you.

"We're finally unsupervised!" Jacob looks like a little kid as he all but stumbles over to you, taking the box of props from your hands, "I'll take this."

With Mr. H gone, Jacob and Emma are bound at the hip again, and you get the feeling you won't be seeing them until morning. In the back of your mind, a tiny voice suggests you do the same, but your grumbling stomach has its own ideas. Nick doesn't need to say a word, taking your hand in his and walking you to the cafeteria.

Sometimes you think he'd go hungry if that meant keeping you fed.

Chili on top of spaghetti is not what you expect him to put in front of you. To be fair, he did tell you that this is what he'd be making, but it still gets you. For once, you get to sit at the Counselor's table, a luxury you don't often have these days. Nick settles next to you, absolutely enthralled with what he's made.

"Didn't you eat once already, Nick?" Kaitlyn remarks, biting into a slice of garlic bread. Nick's cheeks turn pink, all he can do is nod and stare at his empty plate.

Is he...pouting?

You choose not to bring it up with the others around, Nick's never been good at explaining what he's feeling, and teasing will only ensue if you ask. He does, however, scoot closer to you. Enough so that your thighs are pressed together, and your shoulders brush with every movement. You stay like that, listening to the conversations happening around you as you finish your food. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Dylan heading for the stairs, bleary-eyed and half awake.

Abigail leans her elbows against the table, lowering her voice as if Dylan can somehow hear her over all the chatter. "Where does Dylan always go this time of the day?"

"Not a clue," lying straight through your teeth. He's probably curling up in your office as you speak, but that's none of your concern.

With Mr. H gone, you and the counselors have free reign over what to do for the night, and together you all decide that the best thing to do would be letting them play at the cabins until bedtime. A far easier task than herding them to the fire and back.

The routine begins. Nick takes your dishes, disappearing into the kitchen just before Kaitlyn and Abigail begin directing the kids. In the blink of an eye, you're carrying leftover dishes into the kitchen, and you're once again taking up a towel to begin the drying process.

"I'm here, I'm queer," Dylan all but bursts into the kitchen, "and I don't want to be here."

"This would be so much easier if Mr. H would actually invest in this place," Nick's critique is not without reason. It feels like half of the camp is falling apart around you. From the unfinished construction and deteriorating structures to its barely functioning equipment. Hell, the golf carts are so old that parts for them are becoming rarer by the day.

"At least he's left us for the night," you try to be positive about the situation, but there's nothing positive about a whole bunch of dirty dishes.

It's dizzying, spinning back and forth between stations so mindlessly. With no Mr. H to worry about, it goes smoothly. Nothing gets dropped, and it's looking like none of Nick's plates have gone missing, for once. The same cannot be said for the forks, which seem to have dropped in numbers since yesterday, likely at the bottom of the trashcan. None of you get paid enough to go in after them.

It's quiet outside. Far too quiet, actually. Usually, you can at least hear the kids playing or a counselor talking a touch too loud, but all you hear tonight are crickets. Nick must be picking up on it, too because he's squeezing your hand a bit tighter than usual, and he's not torn his eyes away from the path.

Darkness has already fallen, casting a blanket of black and blues upon the forest. A full moon hangs in the sky, acting as the only light to guide you through the poorly-lit trail. The cabins are deserted, with not a child in sight.

"Can you believe it?" Kaitlyn's sudden appearance startles you. "We got everyone in bed without a singular thing going wrong."

"Gee, did you threaten them, or did they do that naturally?" Dylan barely dodges the swift kick that comes for his shins. You don't think he'd even have shins anymore if Kaitlyn's legs were any longer.

"It just required a werewolf story," you hadn't even seen Ryan sitting on the cabin steps. Had he been there the whole time? "Kaitlyn called for bedtime, and they scattered like roaches."

Abigail giggles next to him. "You should have seen them, scurrying to their cabins like a werewolf was after them."

As conversation blossoms, Nick lightly tugs at your hand, eyes darting from you to the beaten path leading to the ziplines. Well, here's your chance to finally go through with that plan. You move slowly, at first, feet treading lightly as you depart from your group. If anybody notices, they don't mention it.

Then, Nick's picking up the pace, and you're all out running, wrapped in a fit of giggles as you sprint hand in hand to the ziplines. Finally, finally, you have each other all to yourselves, with absolutely no one around to impose. The forest is dark and Lord only knows what's lurking in the shadows, but the path feels like it's lit up like a Christmas tree. Absolutely nothing can come between you, Nick, and the open trail ahead of you.

"Do you think they know we're gone?" Nick pants, just as the ziplines appear in your line of sight.

You're already stumbling to a slow walk, lungs burning, out of breath for all the wrong reasons. Nick's long strides are hard to keep up with. "Let's just hope they don't come looking for us."

The ziplines aren't as nice as the boathouse is. It used to be illuminated by a singular fluorescent lamp post, but the bulb has since gone out, and Mr. H refuses to buy "unnecessary lights." The stairs are a different monster in of itself. Old wooden boards creak menacingly beneath your feet, seemingly growing louder with every step you take.

"Y/N."

"Did you say something?" You turn to look up at Nick, who just cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy.

"Nope," he blinks, "at least...I don't think I did?"

It happens again, at the bottom of the stairs. A faint whisper of your name, fleeting, dancing around your ear just long enough for you to become convinced that you didn't make it up.

"Did you say my name?"

"Baby, I haven't said a word since the last time you thought I said something."

You're not sure if you buy it or not, but Nick is tugging you into his chest, wrapping you into the sweetest of hugs—tight, just enough to remind you that you're safe. He's got you. You're safe here. He sways you back and forth, the motion shaking all of the worries from your head and filling the space with nothing but Nick. Nick and his heart that you can feel pitter-pattering against your ear. The way his fingertips trace invisible shapes into your spine, the way his cologne meets your nose, a faint mixture of vanilla and coconut that's just barely there.

"It's just the forest playing tricks on you," he murmurs into your ear, chin heavy on your shoulder, "I've got you."

You only unwrap from each other to go and sit at the end of the dock, feet dangling off the edge. Nick's feet just barely avoid touching the water; any wrong move and you're afraid he may end up with wet feet.

"I think this is the first time we've ever truly been by ourselves," yawning, he leans over to rest his head against yours, "as strange as that is to say."

"Do you think we'll get more moments like this before summer ends?" You hadn't intended to ask that yet, but it tumbles out of your mouth anyway.

Nick hums, the noise sending a quiver down your spine. "I like to think that we will," soft lips press a kiss to the skin just before your ear, "maybe after we leave, we can have a night to ourselves at that one hotel in town."

"Harvester?"

"Harabinger?"

It starts with an H; that's all you can recall. It's hard to think with Nick's nose pressed against your cheek, hot breath fanning out against your sensitive skin. An unknown voice calls your name from across the shore; you know you heard it this time. Yet you pay it no mind—distracted by the kisses trailing across your cheek and the sparkling brown eyes that could drown you if you gazed into them for too long.

His lips meet yours, a gentle, unmistakable pressure that you've come to know so well over these past weeks. He breaks it, then comes back, once, twice, thrice. You don't have time to consider pulling him into something that isn't just a few teasing pecks; he does it all for you. It's soft at first, just a simple caress, and then he deepens it in a way that has your head spinning.

His arm is circling you, drawing you closer until there's no space between you, and that's still not enough. Even as his tongue licks into your mouth, testing the waters, he's still not close enough, won't be until there isn't an ounce of space left between your tired bodies. It's that feeling that guides you to breaking the kiss—you can barely manage it, especially not when Nick whines and attempts to chase you down— to swing yourself over and straddle his lap.

His surprise is heard only through a small gasp. It's short-lived, his arms circling your waist, gathering you against him. Your arms are draping around his neck, and then you're kissing him again. He's all you can think of, senses clouded with Nick, Nick, Nick. You can feel him now, pressed against you between your legs, and it's all you can do not to take advantage of that face.

"You do such crazy things to me," his accent is thick as he mumbles against your lips, breathing heavily.

He falls backward, taking you with him as his back hits the rotting wood of the dock with a soft thump. Then he's kissing you again, insistent mouth parting your lips, hot tongue meeting yours for a fleeting second. An unfamiliar heat blossoms in your core, a dancing flame that threatens to grow into a wildfire at the drop of a hat. Nicks's hands are everywhere, tracing up your spine, cupping your cheeks. All the while, he's humming against your lips, a small noise that you've rarely heard him make.

Your head is spinning too much for you to focus, leaves you no option but to break away and gasp for the sweet, sweet oxygen that fills your stinging lungs. Nick looks so pretty underneath of you, hair splayed out on the wood beneath him, swollen lips, and glistening eyes illuminated by the light of the moon. It's hard to stop. Even with how dizzy you've become, you can't resist leaning back in to kiss down his neck, tongue soothing over every spot you come across.

"Shit," Nick gasps, "wait."

Just like that, you've frozen in place. "Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head, fingers catching your chin to guide you back up to him for a sweet peck. "Not here," his voice is trembling, unable to get above a whisper, "I want to make it perfect for you."

You're rolling your eyes before you can stop yourself. "It's perfect right now."

"Baby, if I have you now, I'm not sure if I'll be able to keep myself off of you for another month."

He says it so seriously that you can't help but giggle. "You have a point."

Breathless, you settle down on top of him, your ear against his chest, listening to his heartbeat and his arms intertwined around you like a vice. Time has stopped; the only thing in this world moving are your two heaving chests. For just a moment, you close your eyes and just breathe.

You awake to a strange sensation. Nick's there; you can feel him against you, but your legs are swaying in such an unnatural way, and his heartbeat is no longer as loud.

"Are you carrying me?" It's a dumb question. As soon as you open your eyes, you're met with a sleepy-eyed Nick and the dark cabins looming directly ahead of you.

"I was trying not to wake you," he frowns, kissing your forehead. "What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't at least try to carry you to bed."

You grumble, burying your nose into his shirt. There's a weight in your chest that grows heavier the closer you get to the cabins. You really should get to bed, but even as Nick stands at your door, you can't bring yourself to get down. Nick's too warm to let go of.

"Baby?"

"Hm?"

"We're at your door."

"I know." You still make no effort to get down, only clinging tighter.

Nick chuckles, low and heavy in his chest. "Is this your way of saying you don't want me to go?"

Nod.

If Kaitlyn is awake, she doesn't say anything when Nick opens the door and steps inside. Only when he sits you on the bed, do you let go of him, just long enough to kick your shoes off and crawl under the covers. Nick is quick to follow after you, wrapping around you like a blanket.

Yeah, you could get used to this.

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delopsia · 2 years

Text

Eyes On Me | Max Brinly X Reader

Word Count: 11,00 Warnings: Swearing, a bit of angst, unprotected sex, oral (reader receiving), mild size kink, overuse of "honey" (sorry), occasional blood that involves a bear trap and your foot (not sorry), not beta read. Cross Posted Here On AO3

There's something so menacing about Hackett's Quarry. You can't quite put your finger on what, but something haunts the forests once the sun has fallen, lurking, watching. A stark contrast to the charming, rustic nature of the camp during the day. If parents had to spend one night before sending their children for the summer, the camp would be closed and defunct within a year.

It's in the unnervingly chilly breeze that finds you on the warmest of nights, in the way the wind whispers your name in your ear and tries to draw you further into the unknown.

"Y/N."

A horrified yelp leaves your lips, your body recoiling from the noise so fast that you stumble.

"Hey, hey!" Hands grasp your shoulders — firm, grounding you. "It's just me. You're okay."

You're too shocked to speak, staring blankly at the man before you. Max. It was just Max. Not something lurking in the woods. Frowning, Max draws you in, and you're powerless to do anything but fall into his embrace. He's nothing but warm, warding off the breeze nipping at your exposed skin like he's your knight in shining armor.

"I've got you," he murmurs, directly into your ear. "Why're you so freaked out? Did something happen?"

"No," you breathe, "this place is just spooky at night."

Max chuckles— it's the sweetest sound you've ever heard. "Is this why you always wait for me, hm?" That's partially the reason, but it's not like you're going to outright admit it. Unfortunately, your silence must speak louder than words, because Max laughs again, hugging you a little tighter. "Well, you're safe with me, honey."

Heat blossoms in your chest, wrapping around your heart with an unfamiliar gentleness that makes it ache. You can't see his face, but you know he's grinning. Your thoughts are proven true when he draws away, big hands lingering on your waist as he gazes into your eyes, searching for any hint of fear or worry.

"Let's just get this over with," you'd much rather stay here and hug Max for the rest of the morning, but duty calls. You've been tasked with getting all of the take-home goodies put together for the campers. Leave it to Mr. H to miraculously forget to mention it until the night before the campers leave.

The walk to the main building isn't very long, but the poorly lit trail makes it feel like you have to walk for hours. Next to you, Max doesn't even appear bothered, eyes trained on the path ahead. Whether it's dumb confidence or he's just not awake enough to care about what lurks in the dark, you're not sure.

"You'd think Mr. Dont-Call-Me-Hackett would at least leave the light on for us," he gripes, pointing up to the lamppost. Strange, it had been on last night when you walked the kids back to the cabins.

It's not just dark on the path, you learn. The entire camp is dark, even the main building doesn't have a singular light coming from it. Hackett's Quarry looks absolutely deserted. If you weren't an employee, you would almost think the place was abandoned.

"You don't find this spooky at all?" You whisper, afraid to raise your voice any higher.

Max's shoulder is bumping into yours, accidental but comforting, in a way. "No, this place is creepy as shit."

Powered by five and a half hours of sleep and fear itself, you forge ahead. Every step towards the building feels heavier. If it weren't for Max ambling along next to you, you would have turned back and not returned until the sun was up. Even now, as your foot meets the first step, you're considering it.

The door to the cafeteria is unlocked, much to your dismay. The idea of going back to bed really sounds good right now. Opening the door reveals...nothing but more darkness. You can't see a damn thing.

"You wouldn't happen to know where the light switch is, would you?" Max sighs, with a frown. You've got nothing. Feeling up the wall until you find a switch it is.

Max goes left and you go right, hands running up and down the wall in search of the magic switch that will illuminate the cafeteria. You think you find it, once, but it ends up being the switch that controls the fans instead.

"Found it!" By the time you've processed Max's announcement, blinding white light is burning straight into your retinas.

At least Mr. H was decent enough to leave the supplies out on a table. Candy, ink stamps, bubblegum, animal-shaped erasers, and pencils. All things the kids couldn't be trusted with over the course of the past two months. Exciting.

"That poor bus driver," Max is already settling down, popping a lemon-flavored candy into his mouth.

"This is what we got up so early for?" You're not sure what you were expecting, but it wasn't...this.

Max hums, "Mr. H made it sound a lot more important than bags of candy."

Understatement of the century.

As much as you want to sit down while you work, the boxes are tall, and you cant see what's inside of them unless you stand. Your hand continuously bumps into Max's as you reach for supplies, and you swear you're not doing it on purpose. It doesn't help that Max laughs every time, doesn't make it any easier when he playfully nudges you with the sweetest grin on his face.

"Hold on," rather unceremoniously, Max takes it upon himself to dump the boxes out on the table, rearranging them into easily reachable piles.

Why hadn't you thought of that?

"Better?"

"Better."

An unforeseen side effect of sitting down — it's much easier to get tired. It doesn't help that the cafeteria is so chilly and that Max is practically a furnace next to you. Your movements are gradually slowing, a shadow of the pace you used to be working at. How is one supposed to focus on goodie bags when it's this early?

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Max's voice is enough to temporarily shatter the sleepy silence you've been wallowing in.

"Not much," you say through a yawn, "Emma snores."

"I don't know how you put up with it," he plucks the finished bag from your hands, tying it shut in a neat little bow.

You're yawning again, just the thought of it is triggering them. "She's not that bad." Lie. She is that bad.

"Are you kidding?" Max scoffs. "Emma could guide ships through the fog."

Nobody believed you when you said Emma snored, until the night of the slumber party in the lodge. The memory of a half-awake Jacob carrying her into an empty room and shutting the door is something that you will never forget.

Max's shoulder bumps against yours as he works. Vaguely, you wonder if he would be a good cuddle buddy or not. If his hugs are anything to go by, he definitely is.

The back of his hand settles against your forehead, testing your temperature. "Are you sure you're okay? You look a little..." you're not sure what to think of the look he gives you, "pale."

You can't help but frown when his hand draws away from you, leaving your skin even colder than it was before he touched you. "Just tired, is all." Working on their own, your hands reach for another bag and a handful of candy.

"You can go back to bed if you're that sleepy," he offers, tossing another complete bag into the box, "we only have a few left."

The offer is tempting, but the thought of leaving him to finish this by himself makes you feel guilty. It's not like you'd get much sleep with your sleep paralysis demon Emma above you. With another yawn, you fold your arms on the table and rest your head on them, blearily watching Max work. He's quick, even though he doesn't look all that awake himself.

"Can't take your eyes off me, huh?"

"Nope."

The chuckle is expected, but you definitely don't expect him to reach over and wipe a mark from your cheek. The little voice in your head tells you to mess it up a second time just so he'll touch you again. Your eyes close, just for a second, you tell yourself. Yet when they reopen, Max isn't working anymore.

No, he's mirroring your position, head nestled in his arms, blue eyes gazing over at you—like you're the prettiest thing he's ever seen. He smiles when he realizes that you're looking at him, nudging you with his elbow. You feel like a giddy little kid, shyly flirting with their crush in the cafeteria.

"It might be more comfortable if we took a nap on the library bean bags and not the table," he suggests, winking. You know he probably means nothing by it, but you wish he did.

"I don't want to move," you grumble, to which he rolls his eyes.

"Do you want me to carry you?" You can't tell if he's being serious or not. Like always, though, your silence must speak louder than words, because he's already standing up, cracking his neck as he does so. You have to raise your legs a little bit, but he scoops you up with unsurprising ease.

It would have been more surprising had you not caught multiple glimpses of him shirtless, working out with Jacob over the summer.

"Gosh dang you are cold," he whispers, eyes meeting with yours for a fleeting second. His lip quivers, fighting back what appears to be a smile. You have to look away to hide your own sheepish grin.

The problem with the bean bags is that despite their comically large size, they're always moving around. Kaitlyn and Abigail are always thwarting attempts to smuggle the bags into other rooms, but the kids are sneaky.

"They really couldn't leave two?" Max groans at the sight of the singular beanbag. At least the campers were decent enough to leave you the largest one out of the five. Max isn't that big of a guy, both of you could fit there just fine.

"We could share?" It shoots directly from your mouth, your sleep-clouded mind unable to register what you're saying until you've already said it. He hums like he's thinking about it, and it's too late to take back your words.

A painstaking moment crawls by. Then, you realize he's moving again. One, two, three, four strides until he reaches the beanbag, and then he's settling down into it with you cradled in his lap. Your head finds home against his chest, the pitter-patter of his heartbeat loud in your ear.

"This okay?" He asks; his head is so close to yours that you can smell the peppermint of his toothpaste lingering on his breath.

"Yeah," it's more than okay.

Your words must serve as encouragement because his arms secure themselves around you, his head coming down to rest against yours. He's so warm — the frigid air rippling through the lodge feels like just a memory now. You tilt your head up, bleary eyes landing on his freckled face.

He's looking back at you. "Hi."

"Hi."

He smiles at that; his thumb begins to rub back and forth across your spine. You're not sure if he's even aware that he's doing it. His head draws forward to lean against your own, the tip of his nose brushing against yours.

This. The simplicity of it all, being cradled in his lap whilst his pretty blue eyes gaze into yours. The scent of his woodsy body wash and minty toothpaste intertwining in such a way that it makes your head spin. You could get lost in this forever.

"You have such pretty eyes," he says it so quietly that you almost don't hear it.

But you do, and God, your cheeks are so hot they could start a forest fire. You're too shy to speak. Words? Don't know her. All you can do is duck your head down and hide your face in his chest.

He doesn't say anything more, but you can feel his eyes lingering on your frame. It's strangely comforting — like nothing can harm you as long as he's around to protect you. Listening to his heartbeat is like listening to a lullaby. Every blink is becoming a challenge. Another yawn wracks through your body, and then you're gone.

"Rise and shine, love bugs!"

You're yelping, all but jumping out of Max's arms and quite nearly cracking your head on the wooden bookshelf. Laura stands before you, smiling, but the expression worn in her eyes makes you want to shrink into nothingness. Hot breath fans out against your neck, and suddenly you're very aware of the fact that you're still sitting in Max's lap.

"Laura, wait, this isn't," Max pleads, "this isn't what you think it is."

That statement shouldn't sting as much as it does. Technically, you and Max are just friends — all you've done this summer is flirt and get a little cuddly. Yet, you can't help but feel like a home wrecker that just got caught with the husband.

Your feet hit the ground with a small thud, carrying your half-awake body past Laura and out of the library in a wordless hurry. You don't know why you're leaving or where you're going, but you'll take anywhere but here.

The sun is up now, painting the sky in rich hues of red and orange, and you can hear the kids chattering outside. Nick is already whirring away in the kitchen, flipping pancakes in a comically large skillet that you've never noticed before.

"Goodmorning!" He smiles, waving with his spatula. If he notices that you're here much earlier than you should be, he doesn't mention it. "Pancakes are ready if you want to grab one."

He's made three types today — banana, blueberry, and plain. Chocolate chip pancakes used to be the main attraction until deliveries suddenly stopped two weeks ago. You make your choice and stand outside on the balcony to eat, as far away from the library as you can possibly get. The kids are already beginning to funnel into the cafeteria, but you never see Max and Laura come out.

Whatever, it's hard to think about Max when you've got Nick's pancakes in front of you. Biting into them is like biting into a big, fluffy cloud. You'd volunteer to work at Hacketts Quarry next summer if it meant Nick was head chef again.

If only you'd caught feelings for him and not Max, the guy who probably has feelings for Laura.

The buses show up in the blink of an eye.

One minute you and Ryan are helping the kids shove their belongings into their suitcases; the next, you're herding them down the beaten path to the lodge for the final time. Max is among the counselors that are helping you, and for every step he makes towards you, you take two back.

"Kids, Counselors Max, and Y/N made Goodbye Goodie Bags!" Mr. H's voice echoes throughout the camp as he holds up the completed box of goodies. Max looks at you; you avoid his eye.

The kids are absolutely thrilled. One thank-you hug becomes two, then three, and the next thing you know, you're swarmed. You don't know where one kid ends, and another begins, and all you can see are their smiling faces and brightly colored camp shirts.

An arm sneaks over your shoulders, much bigger than the children's — woodsy body wash kisses your nose. Somehow, Max has gotten wrapped up in this little group hug too, and he's mostly hugging you.

"Hackett's Quarry forever!" You can distantly hear Emma cheering, joining in on the hug more enthusiastically than all of the children combined. It's hard to focus on her when Max pulls you closer, drawing you in until you're safely tucked under his arm and snuggled up to his side. You melt into it like butter in the hot sun, powerless to fight his affections.

The kids are all cheering and chanting with their counselors, an incredible noise that has your ears ringing and yet the world is impossibly quiet. Nothing compares to the sweet laughter that falls from Max's plush lips; you can't hear anything except him.

"Hackett's Quarry forever!"

And then they're gone. Tumbling towards the buses with their bags stuffed to the brim with goodies, crafts, and camp gear. A few bags had to be duct taped shut, other kids are improvising with plastic bags and anything else they could concoct. One boy is wearing three shirts on top of each other because they wouldn't fit.

You're still cheering, even as the buses leave, waving goodbye until the final bus has crawled out of sight.

Only then do you realize that a toned arm has fallen from your shoulders and instead curled around your waist. Only now are you aware of how close Max is holding you and the look Laura is giving you from the corner of your eye.

As much as you don't want to, you step away. The fiery look in Laura's eye and the hot sun combined cannot even begin to melt the iciness that's settling into your now empty side.

"Y/N?" It's hard to ignore Max's voice. The sound alone has your gears slowing.

Jacob, your lord, and savior, comes bumbling over to you, effectively ending any of Max's advances. "He isn't bothering you, is he?" His tone makes him sound like a protective older brother.

You shake your head, frowning. "No, I'm just a little upset, is all."

When he cocks his head to the side, you explain the morning's events. There's an unintentional emphasis on how you woke up, on the looks Laura has been giving you since the end of July, and the singular comment that set you off. You feel lighter, being able to talk about it with someone.

"So he's made you feel like a side piece," he observes, and suddenly the pieces click into place. A reason for why you feel this way.

"That's exactly it."

Jacob hums in thought, rubbing his chin. An idea must strike him because his face lights up so brightly that you swear you see a lightbulb appear above his head. "I have an idea."

"Oh boy."

You don't even have a chance to ask what he could possibly be up to. He's already bounding off towards Kaitlyn with a wicked grin sprawled across his face.

Whatever he's up to, it can't be too much, considering you leave for home in an hour. Your heart pangs in your chest — this is probably the last time you'll ever see Max. You begin the long haul to the cabins to fetch your bag with your feet filled with lead. So much for a summer fling.

The van is on fire.

You leave for twenty damn minutes and return to heavy smoke and the van ablaze. Mr. H raises his voice with a tone you've never heard before. He's walking in your direction, wrapped in such a rage that he's shaking. You're scrambling to get out of his way, but his shoulder still slams into yours. Your ass hits the ground with a thump.

In the corner of your eye, you can see your bag roll away after Mr. H's foot connects with it.

Max is there. Kneeling by your side, hand curling around your cheek so gently that you can barely even feel him do it. "Are you okay?" You hate how concerned he sounds. You hate hearing such an endearing tone come from someone that doesn't share your feelings. Your eyes are watering, but not a single tear is related to your fall.

"I'm okay," blinking the tears back.

There's a calloused thumb swiping under your eye, catching a singular tear. If he doesn't quit looking at you like you're the most precious thing he's ever seen — if he doesn't stop touching you like you're made of glass, your tears will turn into a waterfall.

"You don't look okay," he whispers.

Getting up is the only way to stop the waterworks from turning on full blast. Max makes room for you, hands hovering around you as if you may fall again. Jacob hands over your bag once you're on your feet.

Mr. H leaves. Stranding your rag-tag crew at Hackett's Quarry for one more night.

"P.A.R.T... Why the fuck not?" You tune into Dylan saying, a mischievous tone in his voice. "Alright, it seems the stars have aligned for us. No?" There's no getting out of a party, and you're really not surprised that it's already being suggested as soon as Mr. H has left. What really surprises you is when Jacob decides that you and Max should find supplies. It's not like you can walk off and avoid Max now. Not without ditching him with all of the work. At least Jacob reunites you with your phone after delivering that order. "So a lighter, a bucket, and blankets," Max recites, raising a finger for every item he lists. "Where the hell are we going to find a bucket?" "That's what you're worried about?" This is a camp; there have to be buckets somewhere. "How do you plan to find blankets that don't belong on a bed?" Max is quiet, eyebrows furrowing. "I have no idea."

Your phones both kick on at the same time, buzzing to life for the first time in months. It feels strange to look at the screen again; you haven't seen one all summer.

"We have the same phone," he's sidling up next to you, holding his phone next to yours. Identical models. The only difference is the cases.

"What a coincidence," his lock screen flashes on, and your cheeks warm in an instant. It's a picture of Max, shirtless and on a hiking trail. God, does he have—

"Don't mind that," he's shoving his phone into his pocket, looking anywhere but at you. "So about those supplies."

Right. You need to be focusing on supplies. Not Max and his abs.

Supplies.

Not Max.

Supplies.

You're so focused on not focusing on Max that you don't realize your feet are moving. Carrying you right back down the path to the lodges. Max strolls along next to you, his hand bumping against yours with every few strides. Each time, your heart practically leaps up your throat.

"I know I should have asked this before," he says, breaking the silence. Oh god, what is he about to ask? "But where are we going?"

Oh.

Right.

"Art Lodge," you croak, nearly jumping out of your skin when his fingers brush with yours again. "Abi always lights a candle during her classes; there should be a lighter in there."

Max hums, and for a brief second, you meet eyes. He's smiling down at you, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with it. Jokingly, you bump your shoulder into his, just a little tap that has the both of you laughing.

Then you feel it.

Timid fingers slip between your own, slotting together at an agonizingly slow pace. You have to remind yourself to keep walking, have to fight the urge to immediately take his hand and squeeze it as tightly as you can. It's so, so slow like he's afraid you'll bolt if he moves too quickly.

Just like that, he's holding your hand. Curling your fingers around his feels as natural as breathing.

The lodges come into view, standing proud as ever in front of the cliffs. Even as you cross the miniature bridge, Max holds your hand, thumb swiping back and forth against your skin. You hope he never let's go.

"Any luck?"

"No, but I found fruit snacks that expired in 2015."

You have a feeling that the fruit snacks may be the cause of Max's prior hacking fit.

You've found everything but blankets. There were none left behind; not a singular beach towel could be located in the pool storage bins, and the laundry had everything except blankets. Now it's beginning to seem that you're going to be coming up short on your end of the deal.

"You would think that Mr. H would have at least one decent blanket," Max's voice echoes across the dark attic.

"I'm beginning to think that he doesn't believe in them," you deadpan. The boxes up here are just filled with old craft supplies and a few family photobooks. Nothing less, nothing more.

Something heavy falls over where Max is.

"What was that?"

"I fell."

One peek over your shoulder reveals that he has indeed fallen, and he doesn't look like he's about to get up anytime soon. Toeing through the various boxes, you make your way over to him.

"Seems we're sticking it out without blankets tonight," you step over him, careful not to trip yourself.

Max reaches up, his hand circling around your ankle, holding it there. "What's worse is, I have blankets in my car," his other hand comes up to brush away some dust that's gathered on your sock.

"If only your car weren't a mile away," you hold a hand out for him to grab, intending to pull him up. You don't expect him just to reach up and hold it. "Are you getting up, or are you staying on the floor?"

"Oh." He blinks dumbly. Now he gets up, back cracking as he does so.

Climbing back down the ladder is the worst part. Max goes down first, seemingly insistent that he catch you if the rickety old thing miraculously breaks on your way down. It doesn't, but that doesn't stop him from placing his hands on your waist when you're within reach.

"This place needs a serious overhaul," he observes aloud, once you're on solid ground.

To his credit, he's not wrong. The chimney is crumbling on the inside, and more than half of the buildings on the property are beginning to come apart. Lodge 5 lost a whole stair last month, and a few weeks before that, Lodge 2 woke up without a balcony railing after a particularly windy night.

The stairs creak under your feet as you head out of the lodge, testing your anxiety with every step. You're just waiting for the day someone's foot goes through one of these thin old boards.

Two lighters and a bucket await you at the bottom of the stairs, your proud, hard-earned treasures. With one hand, you pick up the bucket; with the other, you tentatively reach for Max's hand.

"What are you doing?" Laura's voice has you jolting, hand slipping back from Max's. You blink, bewildered by her sudden appearance. Words aren't coming to you.

"Heading down to the campfire?" Max sounds just as confused as you feel. Wasn't she paired up with Kaitlyn?

"I was talking to Y/N, but that works too," she clarifies with such a pleasant tone that barely feels genuine. You choose not to reply, remaining quiet to avoid raising any conflict. It's no secret that you two don't exactly get along; you'd rather not add to the list of reasons why.

To your dismay, she walks to the campfire with you, walking right between you and Max the entire way. She and Max are chattering about some movie you've never heard of; you can't bring yourself to listen. That feeling from earlier nags at your heart, Jacob's words echoing in your head. Does he like you, or did Jacob have a point back there?

At the campfire, the rest of the group has already gathered around the campfire; they're just waiting on you three.

"We couldn't find blankets," you supply, handing the bucket off to Kaitlyn's awaiting hands.

"Don't sweat it," she winks, "at least you found the lighter. Dylan has been hitting two rocks together for ten minutes, and it's getting old."

Max sits on the log next to Nick, blue eyes meeting yours as he pats the space next to him. At least, you thought he was looking at you. But before you can even comprehend what's happening, Laura is trotting over and plants herself in the space next to him, recharging their conversation from before.

"Y/N, over here!" Jacob waves, garnering your attention. Guess you're sitting next to Jacob, then.

With heavy feet, you wander up and sit next to him, trying not to look too dejected. It's really not that big of a deal. Who cares if Laura sits next to Max? Who cares if Max completely forgets your presence when she's around?

Not like you care at all.

"I'm sorry," Jacob says, handing you a wine cooler, "we tried but we couldn't talk her out of going to find you guys."

You've forgotten how hard it is to get these damn caps off. The skin on your fingers burn as you try and fail to twist it open.

"Need help?" Jacob cuts Max off, from whatever he was about to say. Nodding, you hand it back over.

It's unfair how easily he pops it off, adding it to his already decently sized collection of bottle caps. The alcohol is overwhelmingly sweet on your tongue, artificial strawberry overpowering the alcohol until it's just barely there. If only there were enough of these to go around; you reckon you could drink the memories of today away.

On your left, Dylan makes a face at his own drink, something bright orange. "Is strawberry any good? This one's not liking me too much."

You're not one to drink after people, but right now you'll take all the distractions you can get. "Only one way to find out," holding out your drink for an exchange.

Dylan's drink is much more tropical, a pleasant mixture of orange and pineapple that hits your taste buds much easier than the strawberry. This is the kind of thing you could drink all day and not get tired of.

"You're telling me that you don't like this?" You can't wrap your head around it, this is so much better than strawberry.

Dylan shrugs, seemingly much happier with your drink. "I hate pineapple."

That settles your trade quite nicely.

Like a broken record, your thoughts jump back to Max. All too coincidentally, he's looking at you, with this unreadable expression that you've never seen on him before. You wonder what that's about.

The campfire finally awakens and roars to life, flickers of red and orange lick the air, spitting up tiny particles of ash in its wake. You hate how the burning timber reminds you of Max's body wash. Why does everything have to remind you of him and his stupidly pretty face?

Truth or dare kicks up when you're just beginning to finish your second drink, some grape flavored thing, when your body has loosened and your head is spinning ever so slightly. Lack of drinking over the summer has obliterated your alcohol tolerance, and you're glad that nobody offers you a third, because any more may lead you to losing your filter and some questionable decisions.

"Y/N!" Oh god, why is Dylan saying your name.

"Huh?"

"Since you so graciously traded drinks with me, twice, might I add. You get to go first," he grins, eyes shimmering from the fire, "truth, or dare?"

What do you have to lose? "Truth."

He grins, a big toothy smile, and you're suddenly concerned about what you've gotten yourself into. "Who has the nicest body at this camp?"

God, you should have picked dare.

"Max," you croak, voice suddenly too heavy for your tongue, "sorry Jacob."

Jacob pouts like a kicked puppy, Max just turns red in the cheeks.

Everything devolves into a blur, thanks to the alcohol that's coursing through your veins like a wildfire. You dare Emma to exchange clothing with Kaitlyn, Ryan kisses Dylan, Nick's shoes wind up on the wrong feet, Jacob nearly jumps through the fire naked, Abi's hair is tied up in six different places. A storm is beginning to roll in, you can hear the thunder rolling in the distance, but you've still got time before the game has to wrap up.

Even without the storm distracting you and the alcohol clouding your thoughts, its hard to focus on the game. Not when Max keeps flicker his eyes between the fire and you, expression as unreadable as ever. Laura's saying something to him, but his eyes remain locked on your frame.

"Laura," Emma's voice shakes you from your trance. How long have you and Max had your eyes locked? "Truth or dare?"

Laura fiddles with the brim of her hat, thinking about her reply. "Dare."

"I dare you to kiss," she pauses, analyzing her audience like you're a bunch of adoring fans, "Nick, or...Max."

Your heart drops.

"Seriously, Em?" For the first time all night, Jacob sounds irritated, his formerly drunken, goofy tone long forgotten.

"I choose..." Laura stands, and for a split second, you wonder if she's going to kiss Nick instead. But then she's turning, planting her palms on Max's shoulders. "Max."

God, you can't sit here and watch this.

Your feet are hitting the ground before Laura can make her move. No amount of alcohol will make you sit through this. Someone's calling your name, but it falls upon deaf ears. Your body is moving much faster than your intoxicated brain can keep up with, but all you care about is getting as far away from the campfire as you can.

Footsteps follow after you, that voice is still calling your name.

"I'm not dealing with this," you mutter.

Against better judgement, you step off the beaten path and run into the forest as fast as your legs will carry you. Concern of what lurks in the forest is long forgotten, all you can think about is disappearing off the face of this Earth.

Max will never have feelings for you. Not when Laura, pretty, bold, hardheaded Laura, stands there in the spotlight. Fuck Laura, fuck Max, and fuck truth or dare.

You stumble upon a clearing, with a conveniently placed ranger box that you've never seen before. Surely you've gone far enough.

"What the fuck," you say to yourself, sitting on the metal box, "what the fuck?"

It's cold out here, and now you wish you'd worn a jacket. The fire was warm, yes, but has it always been this cold at night? You don't recall it being cold this morning, but then again...

Max's stupid face manifests at the forefront of your thoughts. Him and his stupid freckles and his stupid brown hair that has no right to be as soft as it is. You can't believe you thought you had a chance with that cute, airheaded bastard. So what if he was so excited to introduce himself to you at orientation that he spilled his juice on your white shoes.

There are plenty of fish in the sea, you're sure there's another guy out there who gives the sweetest hugs and calls you 'Honey' like it's going out of style. Who are you kidding?

The only fish you want is named Max.

Water hits your cheek. Are you crying?

It happens again, cold, running down the side of your face, then again, and again. Great. You're not crying, its raining.

"Wonderful," suddenly, you feel very, very sober as you take in your surroundings. It's so dark, who knows what's out here with you?

You're walking, but you have no memory of which direction you came in from. Where even are you? You've never seen this area before, never the less walked through it. Nothing looks familiar, and to make matters worse, a downpour starts.

"Can anybody here me?" You cry out, but you can barely hear your own voice over the rain.

The ground is slick under your feet, no doubt your shoes are going to be caked with mud by the time you find your way back to the lodge. Something crashes behind you, scratching the back of your neck. Yelping, you bolt, mind jumping to a million places. What was that? A tree? A bear?

Blood runs down your neck, hot and sticky, not at all like the frigid rain that's pelting your body. Water splashes under your feet, you're sure that it hasn't been raining very long but massive puddles have already formed; mud tugs at your shoes like a giant suction cup.

Pain blossoms in your right ankle.

You hit the ground with a heavy thud, crying out as excruciating pain bites its way down your foot.

"Fuck!" Your voice echoes the forest as you twist and turn in a frenzied horror, crying once more when the pain worsens. There's something tight latched around your ankle, teeth dug deep into your flesh. You're trying to pull your injured ankle away, but something holds tight; it feels like you're on a leash.

In the darkness, you catch a glimpse of shimmering silver. A bear trap.

Your foot is in a fucking bear trap.

"What the fuck?" Your voice cracks. There's a chain on the end of the trap, wrapped around a thin tree. Your trembling hands pry at the jaws of the trap, but your efforts are futile. Prying the trap open feels like the equivalent of prying open the jaws of a bear, you're far too weak to even make it budge.

The sharp, jagged teeth only dig into your flesh even more, boiling hot blood gushes from your wound like a waterfall, pooling in your shoe. Tears prick at your eyes, God this fucking hurts.

Light passes over you, impossibly bright, forces you to close your eyes in order to save your retinas from burning right out of your skull. A voice calls out. The light passes again, darts back to your pitiful frame in an instant. The voice raises again.

Dear Lord, why did you have to send Max?

One minute the world is cold and lonely, the next, Max is there, warm arms wrapping around you, drawing you into an even warmer chest. No amount of trying can hide your sniffling, the pained wail that escapes your lips is almost pathetic.

"Fuck, what the fuck?" His voice is high and pitchy, hands are cradling your cheeks. "Hold on, hold on."

He's letting you go, maneuvering down to get his fingers in between the jaws of the bear trap. Just his touch alone makes it all worse.

You don't want to let go of him, but you're powerless to stop him as he maneuvers around you. His foot catches the chain, disturbing the trap, and somehow it clamps down even harder.

"Ow!" You yank your foot away from him, yelping when the trap bites yet again. Fuck the man who designed this, and fuck whoever decided to put this damn trap out here.

Max is saying something, but you're not registering it. How are you supposed to listen when a bear trap is trying its damn best to tear your foot right off your body.

"Hey," he says again, "just keep your eyes on me, okay? I'm going to get you out of here." His hands slide down your leg as he speaks; you're too distracted by his voice to realize that he's placing your foot in his lap. "Just keep your eyes on me, honey."

You don't know why you comply. Maybe it's the pet name; maybe it's because your foot is in a bear trap. But you do, whining, you force your eyes to meet his. For the first time in your life, you struggle to lose yourself in his eyes, in him, his presence. He's stroking the sensitive skin at the bend of your knee, gently, slowly, coaxing your leg out from under you. You don't even remember when you'd yanked it away again.

Slow, his fingers hook into the gaps of the teeth, biceps bulging under his jacket as he pries the trap open. The teeth slowly ease from your injured flesh, agonizingly slow, blood gushing from the wound. Finally, finally, it's open just enough for you to pull your foot out, and then it's snapping shut again with a noise that has your heart-stopping.

With your foot free from its confines, you stumble up to your feet, using a tree as leverage. What you don't expect is for your ankle to hurt even worse than it did when it was in the bear trap. It catches you so off guard that by the time you bite your tongue, you've already made a noise, and Max is reacting to it.

"Hey, hey, hey, hold on," he's crowding you, wrapping an arm around you when you stumble.

"I can walk on my own," you lie through your teeth; had he not sidled up next to you when he did, you would be on the ground again.

"No, you can't," his voice gets that pitchiness again, "do you know how far away from camp we are? I've been looking for you for a half hour!"

It's only now that you realize how hard he's breathing. There's mud caked to his boots and the legs of his jeans, his hair so wet that he looks like he's walked right out of a shower, cheeks red.

"Why even come after me?" You grumble under your breath. "Shouldn't you be making out with Laura by the campfire right about now?"

Max stiffens. "That's not...no, that's-"

"-that's not, what? Max?" The words drip from your lips like venom. Your injured foot its the ground again; trying your hardest to walk away, but it only throws your balance off even more. All it does for you is push you closer to Max, your shoulder bumping against his ridiculously firm chest.

"I didn't kiss her." His words are so quiet, yet your ears burn as if he'd yelled them through a megaphone.

Oh.

"I didn't spend an entire summer trying to work up the courage to ask you out, just to watch you walk away because of some stupid campfire game," whispered so quietly into your ear that it tickles, nose bumping against your cold cheek.

Oh.

A wrongly placed step leads you to crash into him, minimizing the gap between you until there's almost nothing left. His nose bumps into yours, arms wrapping around your waist as he gathers you up against him.

"Fuck you," you're wrapping your arms around his neck, "you couldn't have told me this sooner?"

And then you're kissing him. Lips clashing together, wet and messy. His lips are so soft against yours, moving slowly, molding against your own so easily, so naturally. Your head spins; if his large hands weren't gripping your waist, you fear you may float up into the clouds and never come back down.

Lightning flashes and thunder cracks, reminding you of your surroundings, of where you are. You've almost forgotten about the throbbing in your ankle, just a dull pain that can't even begin to take your mind off of Max.

Then you're putting weight on it, and okay, maybe the pain is enough to take your mind off of him. "Ow, — shit."

Max is bending down, and in one motion, he scoops you off the ground. It's unfair how easily he does it. "Let's get you taken care of, honey," the goofy grin on his face is so big that it can be heard in his tone.

He makes it look easy, carrying you out of the forest like it's the simplest thing he's ever done. You rest your head on his shoulder, shivering from the cold rain that doesn't want to let up. Thunder cackles and lightning crashes, lighting up the forest around you. You jump every time, clinging to Max just a little bit more.

Forever passes before Max steps out into a clearing, the lodge standing tall before you, not a light on in sight. It's hard to tell if it's just abandoned or the power has gone out. Usually, the lamp post would be able to tell you, but the bulb burnt out weeks ago. Mr. H never wants to replace the damn lights.

"Did you find them?" Abi's head pops out the door; breathes a sigh of relief when she catches glimpse of Max carrying you up the steps.

It's much warmer inside; everyone's gathered by the fireplace, curled up in bean bags and whatever else they could have found. Dylan's even drug in Mr. H's spinning chair.

With the campfire's light, you can finally see just how messed up you really are. You're absolutely caked with mud, so much so that you can't even tell how badly your ankle has been injured.

"Is there any reason why Mr. H would have bear traps in the woods?" This is the most serious tone you've ever come out of Max.

"I'm sorry, bear traps?" Ryan's head pops up from behind Dylan. Weakly, you raise your bloody foot. It seems to be enough of an answer because everyone's face changes.

Kaitlyn practically tears your shoe off, revealing your formerly white, now crimson red, sock. "This needs to be cleaned before it gets infected," she observes, gingerly touching the swollen skin around your injury, "you should go upstairs and get properly washed up."

Max doesn't need much convincing, already making for the single stairwell that's been cleared. There's a nice bathroom hidden upstairs; you've never seen the inside of it because Mr. H won't let anyone use it unless it's an emergency.

It's worth the wait, though. The bathroom is ridiculously nice compared to the ones scattered around camp. Complete with a marble countertop, two sinks, and miniature stairs that lead to a comically large bathtub. It looks right out of a magazine.

"So this must be where Mr. H takes his hot dates," Max comments, sitting you down on the edge of the counter. It feels strange to see the lights flick on, illuminating the room in a gentle, golden glow.

"You're a mess," you giggle, reaching out to pluck a leaf from Max's hair. He looks worse than you do, somehow.

"It's been a hell of a night," he rolls his eyes when you tussle his wet hair, batting your offending hand away. He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, soft and sweet. "I'm gonna go see if I can find you some clean clothes, 'kay?"

You nod, stealing a second kiss just because you can now. When he's gone, you slide off the counter, balancing your weight on your good foot. Might as well start a bath.

To your surprise, Mr. H has several bottles of bath bubbles stored in a cabinet, right next to some big, fluffy white towels. You hope he doesn't mind too much that you borrow some of the vanilla-scented bubbles and help yourself to more towels than you actually need. Surely he'll understand when he sees your injury.

The hot water kicks on immediately, a stark contrast to the barely functioning showers downstairs. It takes at least forty-five seconds for the water to be tolerably warm and even longer for it to get hot. With the bubbles added, you begin to peel off your clothes, grimacing at how they stick to your skin.

It all becomes worth it when you slide down into the tub, aching muscles relaxing the moment you've settled. Even the dull stinging in your ankle cannot take away from how nice the water feels around you.

"Sorry, I couldn't find your bag, so I'm giving you some of my clothes instead — holy shit!" Max yelps, turning his back to you. "I am so sorry; oh my God, I should have knocked."

You can't help but laugh, unbothered by the intrusion. "If I cared about you walking in, I would have locked the door," you giggle, "you can turn around, silly."

Truthfully, you hadn't even thought about locking the door. As long as it's him and not someone else, you can't bring yourself to care about the intrusion. He's pretty much seen you at your worst already.

His movements are slow, cheeks flaming red as he sets his bag of clothes on the counter. He doesn't look at you, refuses to tear his eyes from his feet.

"You have so much mud on you," you remark, tracing your eyes up his frozen frame.

Blue eyes dart to you, then back to the floor. "I'll wash it off once you're taken care of."

Hm.

"I mean," you can't believe you're suggesting this, "this bath is big enough for the two of us."

You swear he jumps.

"I-" he rubs the back of his neck, gaze fixated on the bottom of the tub, "are you serious?"

Shrug. "Serious as a bear trap."

Leaning your head back, you close your eyes. Only after a night of drinking and bear traps would you ever consider suggesting sharing a bath with Max. He's shuffling around, shoes hitting the floor with a small thump. You peek an eye open. Immediately you're met with an eye full as Max lifts his shirt from his body, back muscles rippling with the motion. He must see you in the mirror because he freezes, shirt still above his head.

"Don't mind me," closing your eyes again.

It's another minute or two before you feel the bath water disturb. You want to open your eyes, but you save it for when you feel him settling in across from you, legs bumping into your own. He looks like a deer in headlights, but he's there, toned chest, messy hair, and all.

Teasing, you bump your knee against his. "You look terrified."

"You're just really pretty," he says like he's in a trance, only breaking from it when your eyes widen. "I mean, I...did I say that out loud? I'm sorry, that probably sounded really weird. I didn't-"

You don't know what possesses you to do it, but you find yourself turning and scooting over to his side of the tub, water sloshing as you curl yourself into his side. His jaw snaps shut the moment your head comes to rest against his shoulder.

"Oh." It's clear in his tone that he's more than surprised, but he raises no objections, even relaxes against you. His head leans on top of yours, arm shifting to wrap around your shoulders and draw you even closer.

His heart is beating away in his chest; you can hear it from where your ear rests against his collarbone. "I'm sorry that I made you feel like I didn't have feelings for you," he presses his lips to your temple, "I really should have confessed weeks ago."

"Weeks ago?"

He hums; the vibration tickles. "I was going to, back when we had that slumber party."

Ah, the slumber party. Simultaneously one of the best and longest nights of your stay at Hacketts Quarry. If only Emma didn't have a foghorn in her family lineage.

"What stopped you?"

"Emma's snoring kept interrupting me."

You can't help the giggle that falls from your lips. It certainly explains his strange behavior from that night, from the endless stuttering to the way he would stare off into space.

"What are you laughing at, hm?" His arm around you tightens, breath tickling your skin. "Are you laughing at me?"

It only makes you laugh more, trying and failing to push his head away. "No, I'm not!" You squeal, squirming away from the fingers tickling your waist. Your legs kick, unintentionally sloshing water out of the tub and onto the flooring below; the tickles stop immediately after, but they're replaced by something more.

Kisses.

Tiny ones, all up and down the side of your face, neck, and any open skin Max can reach. Laughter erupts after every peck; this night genuinely doesn't feel real. He works his way over to your lips once he's covered every inch of you in kisses. It turns out he's saved the best for last.

The angle is awkward; you have to crane your neck to the side to meet his lips properly, but it's worth the struggle. Just a simple caress at first, feather-light and barely there, then it deepens, head spinning, lips interlocked in the sloppiest of ways. His free hand is finding yours, guiding it up until your fingers intertwine in his hair; he sighs as that, smiling into the kiss.

Your neck is starting to hurt, but the idea of breaking your kiss for even a second hurts more. In one swift motion, you turn, throwing your leg over and straddling his hips, properly settled into his lap.

"Fuck," he gasps against your lips, "honey."

You can feel him pressed up against you between your legs; a shiver wracks down your spine. You'd almost forgotten that you were naked, but God, you could really get used to this. Large hands settle on your thighs, fingertips tracing from the back of your knees to the base of your neck; one settles there, the other finds its way around your waist, gathering you into his chest.

Teeth nip at your bottom lip, hot tongue soothing over the area, and who are you to deny him? You meet him halfway, heat blossoms in your belly, tongues sloppily tangling before retreating. This time, you don't mean to move, but your knee slides under you, unintentionally grinding down into his lap. That heat rages into a fire, thighs twitching around his hips. Shit, that shouldn't have felt as nice as it did.

Max is breaking away from you, toned chest panting, pupils blown wide. Not a word falls from his lips, but his eyes, the hand resting on the swell of your ass, say it all. All you can do is nod. Whatever this is, you want it.

His lips find your exposed neck in an instant, kissing at a spot below your ear that has a noise falling from your kiss-swollen lips. The hand you had tangled in his hair comes up to cover your mouth, muffling the next sound that ripples out of your throat when Max's tongue traces down the side of your neck.

He pauses, reaching up to remove the hand from your mouth, "wanna hear you." His voice is husky, a far cry from his usual tone.

Arms wrap tightly around you, and then he's moving, lifting you up and out of the water. The room is surprisingly cold compared to the lukewarm water, and you barely have time to hook your legs around his hips before he's stepping out of the bath. He sets you up on the counter, pecking your lips as he does so.

All you see is white.

The towel on your head moves back, settling around your wet shoulders instead, "sorry," Max chuckles, and then he's kissing you again.

It's chaotic, torn between teasing tongues and lingering lips, teeth clacking together as you try to dry yourselves the best that you can. The bathroom counter is low enough for Max's hips to comfortably slot between your legs, and you can feel the head of his cock nudging between your legs, but it's still too high. Not if you want him in you.

Squirming to the edge of the counter isn't enough, but Max is smart, catches on to what you're trying to do so quickly that you're suspicious as to whether or not he can read minds.

"Do you want this, honey?" He whispers against your lips, tone sickly sweet.

"Do you really need an answer to that?" This man is going to give you cavities.

Fingers brush up the inside of your thighs, wandering up, up, up; sparks fire their way up your spine. His lips find yours again, briefly, because you can't help the gasp that escapes you when his thumb teases your entrance.

"Fuck, Max." He has no right to smile that cutely at a time like this.

Especially not when he sinks to his knees guides your legs over his shoulders and begins kissing and licking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, leaving behind patches of red that will surely bruise in the morning. His breath is hot, fanning out against your most sensitive areas. Pause. Then, his tongue is on you, with slow, languid strokes that have your head falling back against the mirror with a loud gasp.

You're bringing your hand up, trying to catch the whine that leaves you, but Max is prying it away before it can even get there. Blue eyes shimmer up at you, guiding your hand to the back of his head.

"Fu-fuck, Max!" You mewl, tangling your hand in his hair.

He draws away from you, just long enough to wet two of his fingers with his tongue, and then he's back. Fingertips teasing at your entrance, tongue flicking against you. You squirm, panting, hand tugging at his hair, God, why is he so fucking good at this?

There's a pressure, a long, calloused finger sliding into you, in and out, moving in perfect tune with his tongue. Sucking harshly, chuckling when you jolt, then there's a second finger, stretching you so, so nicely. His tongue wanders between his fingers, momentarily dips inside of you, travels back up, down, back in again.

"Max~!" You cant help the profanities that fall from your lips when his fingers curl, rubbing against a sensitive spot that you didn't know was there. You're tightening around his fingers, squirming; you don't know if you want more or if you want to get away from it.

A third finger eases into your trembling body, then a fourth, working into a rhythm that's driving you towards the edge. No, no, no, it's too early for you to cum already.

Words fail you; you don't even know what you're trying to say. All you can do is tug at his hair, kicking your good foot against his back.

"Is something wrong?" His lips and chin are shiny, wet with saliva, and you.

"Close," is all you can say. What in the world did he expect?

Max chuckles at that, pressing one last kiss to your thigh before coming back up. He's reaching into the cabinet behind you, and your eyes don't miss how wet his hand has become. "You don't reckon Mr. H has any condoms lying around here, do you?"

The eye roll that leaves you is almost instantaneous. "Don't need one."

That's enough for him. He's gathering you up again, guiding your legs over his hips, and then he's lifting you, and your back is hitting the wall.

Oh.

That's why he used four fingers.

"Good lord," is all you can say, eyes fixated on his cock, resting between your legs. It's not the length that you're worried about; it's how absolutely thick he is. How the hell does he plan to fit that in you?

He has no right to turn so red, bashfully avoiding your eye, but he spits into his hand and works his saliva over himself so confidently that your head spins. You'd always known there were two sides to Max, but come to find out, there are actually three.

"Tell me if it hurts, honey," he murmurs, leaning in to peck your lips, "'kay?"

"What, think I can't take it?" You tease, but you don't even know if you can take that. Only one way to find out.

Now it's his turn to roll his eyes, shifting to line himself up with your entrance. There's a pressure bigger than the one his fingers brought, and then he's pushing inside. Your body flutters open, slow; your legs twitch at the stretch. There's a strange popping sensation as the head finally eases all the way in.

"There you go," Max's eyes are fixated between your legs, mesmerized by how his cock stretches you open, disappearing inside inch by agonizingly slow inch.

Your head is spinning; you have to remind yourself to breathe, mewling at just how deliciously wide he spreads you. You don't know where your body is finding the space, but your insides are clenching around him greedily, taking it and taking it until finally, finally, his hips are flush against yours.

"Fuck," Max breathes, "how are you feeling?"

"Full." More than full. Full to the point that it's hard to breathe. Your legs are trembling; if it wasn't for him pressing you into the wall, you're sure you would have fallen by now.

His hips rock, drawing out just a little bit, then sinking back in, once, twice, driving the breath from your lungs with every shallow thrust. Quicker now, he draws out, drives his hips back up; the whimper that leaves you is loud, echoes throughout the bathroom.

“You like that, honey?” And when you clench down around him, he groans, repeats that motion again. Your head knocks back against the wall.

With his lips settling on your neck, Max sets his pace, long, slow thrusts, twitching his hips in different angles as he fucks you open until he hits a spot that has you jolting in his arms. One of your hands are tangled in his brown hair; the other is around his neck, nails biting into and raking down his pale shoulder with every dizzying thrust.

"Max!" His name falls from your lips like a mantra, like it's the only word you know. "T-there!"

"Yeah?" He breathes, picking up his pace but the head of his cock never once loses that spot. Hits it over and over until you feel tears burning behind your eyelids.

"Eyes on me, honey," his lips ghost the shell of your ear, cock driving into you harder now, sudden, shattering the agonizing pace he'd built up. You don't even know when you closed your eyes, but when you pry them open, the sight you find is enough to make your eyes roll back again.

Max, sweet, sweet Max, pink-cheeked, irises blown wide, muscles rippling every time he drives himself back into you. Even as he's panting for breath, he has the audacity to grin at you, chuckles when you whimper.

He's shuffling, pushing you higher up the wall just by his hips, driving out the space between you. This angle is so, so different; he's hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust, harder, just a little bit faster than before. Lips lock with yours, tongues tangling with such ease that you feel yourself become lightheaded.

There's a heat roaring in your belly, grows hotter every time his hips meet yours, body squirming, powerless to do anything but take it. You're whining, both hands on his shoulders now, gasping for breath against his plush lips.

"Honey," he groans, punctuates it with a particularly hard thrust that has you seeing stars, "are you close?"

All you can do is nod, whimpering his name. Max is losing his rhythm, torn between long and short strokes into your aching hole, and God, you're so fucking close that your whole body is shaking. You can't even clench around him anymore; body so worked open by his dick that you've lost all control over it.

"Inside," you choke out, burying your head in his neck, "cum in me."

He doesn't need to be told twice, picking up the pace. You can't think, can't even contain your noises, and thank God the bathroom is on the farthest side of the lodge, where nobody can hear you cry out his name one last time.

Your vision goes white; nails dig into Max’s back as you cum around him. His hips stutter to a halt, cums in your trembling body with a strangled noise that sounds like your name. For a few moments, you're weightless, floating up into the clouds as your body spasms with what energy it has left.

There's a wetness on your shoulder.

All of a sudden, you're back on Earth, lungs working double time. One of your legs have fallen, only held up by Max's hips and the hand that's rubbing circles into your lower back. You clench around him; he jumps.

"Are you crying?"

Red, puffy eyes meet yours. "Happy tears," he promises, rubbing your noses together.

It takes a minute for him to pull out of you, cum spilling out and running down your thighs. Your legs are shaking so badly that you can't stand, and you're very aware of your injury again. Max wastes no time in scooping you up again and placing you on the counter, takes his time cleaning you up.

The bathroom is much warmer than it was when you first walked in, but it's still considerably cold. While Max busies himself with a warm cloth between your thighs, you reach into his bag in search of warm, dry clothes, and by God do you find them.

"Well, that's just not fair," he pouts, "why do you look better in my clothes than I do?" You blush at that, fiddling with the end of his sweater.

With a properly cleaned and wrapped ankle, you climb onto Max's back, comfortably resting there as he carries you downstairs. Much to your relief, they've put a movie on the projector, barely even noticing your arrival.

"Took you long enough," Emma sing-songs. "We figured you'd drowned up there."

"Sorry, got caught up in a battle with the house ghosts," you struggle to hide your wince when you sit down. Something tells you that you'll not be able to walk in the morning, or the next day, for that matter.

You thought you'd hid it pretty well until Max winks at you.

Smug bastard.

And if anybody notices the way you waddle to the truck the next morning, they don't say anything. Not even when Mr. H drops you off where the cars are parked and you clamber into Max's passenger seat rather than hopping on the bus with Emma.

"So," Max grins, tapping the steering wheel, "what adventure are we going on next?"

This world isn't ready for the hell the two of you are about to raise.

After you can walk again, of course.

#the quarry #the quarry x reader #the quarry x you #max brinly #max brinly x reader #x reader #self insert #reader self insert #max the quarry #quarry game #hacketts quarry #the quarry smut #max brinly smut #oneshot #the quarry max #updated 09/20/23 to remove mentions of hair

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