#someone has to sit right next to me and suddenly my breath probably stinks. i probably stink. my skin looks so bad. my hair looks so bad. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hrina · 4 years

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Polished

PAIRING: Harry x Reader RATING: M WORD COUNT: 15.6k REQUESTED: nope!

hi everyone 💘 this is the bodyguard AU that i’ve spent all week writing. she’s another long one (i think i have a problem lol) but i worked really hard on it and i’m super proud of how it all turned out. i really hope you like it! if you do, please feel free to leave me some feedback here.

thank u to the people who acted as my betas for portions/the entirety of this fic: @emotionally-imbruised, @gucciwoodnymph, @poppunkdork and @atlafan! i appreciate it so much!

warning: this fic contains mentions of blood, minor violence, attempted assault, weaponry, and a single use of the f-slur. if any of this makes you uncomfortable, please keep scrolling.

with all of that being said, enjoy! i can’t wait to hear ur thoughts 💖

~*~

September 18, 2020

“Cheers!”

The tequila burns its way down your throat as you toss the shot back. Your ears are ringing, the sound amplified by the music pulsing through the nightclub. Lights flash from the ceiling, bathing everything in pinks and blues and greens and purples. To your right, Sydney leans forward, smiles toothily, and yells something at the bartender. You think she might be telling him that it’s her birthday, even though that won’t be true for another month—perhaps it’s an attempt to secure an additional round of drinks. Your hips sway unconsciously as you sink your teeth into a slice of lime.

It’s a Friday night.

In the periphery of your vision, you catch the bartender nodding with a permissive smile on his face.

It’s a Friday night, and Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila.

Someone places their hand on the small of your back as they pass. A little zap of electricity races down your spine.

It’s a Friday night, Sydney is handing you another shot of tequila, and you’re drunk. You’re very, very drunk.

The pinch of salt that you lick off your hand stings the edge of your tongue. You don’t reflect on the sensation for too long, though, choosing instead to tip your shot glass back and let the alcohol run its course. The bottom of the glass thuds against the countertop when you slam it down, but the noise is lost amidst the heavy bass pouring through the club. Sydney smiles up at you as she bites into her lime, a green grin. You laugh.

“So!” your friend screams, grimacing at the sour aftertaste lingering on her lips. “Where’s Harry?”

“What?” You squint and lean in, bending down slightly so that you can hear her properly.

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and repeats the question: “Where’s Harry?”

“Oh!” You smirk, shooting her a mischievous wink. “Managed to shake him off for the night!”

“No shit!” Sydney yells, her jaw dropping. “He let you come?”

You pucker your lips, averting your gaze. “Er…not exactly.”

In response, her eyes widen, and she just laughs. You grin when she slaps your arm gently and grabs your wrist, tugging you away from the bar and into the dancing crowd.

“Who cares?” she says loudly, throwing her hands toward the ceiling and shaking her hips. “He’s got a stick up his ass either way!”

Despite your inebriated state, part of you longs to correct her. He’s actually not that bad, you want to say, because it’s true. In public, Harry is stoic and reserved and always on high alert, but that’s because he has to be. It’s his job. You resent the fact that he intimidates your friends, and that it complicates your outings, but you don’t resent him. He’s been assigned to you for two years now, and there’s never been an incident—you wonder if it’s because he’s good at what he does, or because you don’t really need protection after all.

All this time…perhaps your mother was just overly paranoid. And perhaps she continues to be overly paranoid, even to this day.

You shake those thoughts from your mind; they’ll just give you a headache.

Another hand lands on the small of your back, but this time, the contact isn’t fleeting. Fingers pinch and tug at the material of your shirt, relentless. You’re about to whip around and demand that this badgering stranger unhand you, but then a pair of lips are right at the shell of your ear. Hot air fans down your neck—you shiver.

“Why do you insist on making my job so much harder than it has to be?”

~*~

Harry doesn’t speak a word after ushering you into the car. The whole ride back, you sit with your arms crossed, staring out the window and trying to shake off your dizziness. A deep pout is etched into your lips. Your somber expression doesn’t shift, not even when Harry pulls up to the tall metal entrance of your estate, punching in a code on the keypad and sticking his head out of the driver window to undergo a retinal scan. He settles back into his seat afterward, blinking rapidly and waiting for the front gates to creak open.

“How’d you find me?” you slur as you stumble into your bedroom. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he dragged you out of the club.

Harry doesn’t answer as you make your way over to your bed; your room is large, rivalling the size of an overpriced studio apartment. The furniture is all carved from the finest mahogany, and a glass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Tall, full-length windows are framed by satin curtains. On the opposite wall stands the door to your private washroom, and next to it, the entrance to your walk-in closet. It’s lavish, it’s luxurious, but it does nothing to ease the situation at hand.

“What?” you ask, plopping down onto your bed. You lift one foot up, fiddling with the strap around your ankle. “Ignoring me for the night?”

You purse your lips as you struggle to get your heels off. Your head is swimming, and a deep feeling of shame is blossoming in your chest. Groaning loudly, you smack your hands down against the duvet and squeeze your eyes shut.

Footsteps approach, but you pay them no mind. You only open your eyes once you feel a pair of rough—albeit nimble—fingers dance down your shin. Through the slight blur in your vision, you find Harry kneeling before you, his hands working deftly to unclasp the strap on each ankle and gently tug your shoes from your feet. You wiggle your toes, sighing appreciatively.

“Thank you,” you murmur, swallowing heavily.

He only grunts in response.

The two of you sit there in silence—you on your duvet and him on his haunches. He’s looking down at the ground, and you take the moment to study his features—the sharp bridge of his nose, the fluttering of his eyelashes, the twisting of his lips. His black suit fits him well, filled out in all the right places; gold cufflinks glint in the moonlight. He’s attractive, and you’re not blind. But your relationship is strictly professional, no matter how much you like to think that the two of you have grown close enough to be friends.

“Find my iPhone,” Harry mutters suddenly.

“What?”

You recoil. He looks up at you with piercing green eyes, and only then do you realise that he’s answering your initial question.

“Oh,” you say, nodding. “Well…good to know.”

His lips twitch.

You wobble into the washroom, trying your best to rub off the makeup on your face despite your inebriated state. Somewhere beneath the buzz, you know that you didn’t get all of it—and that there’ll probably be dried crusts of mascara beneath your eyes tomorrow—but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“You missed some.”

You jump, your gaze snapping upward. In the reflection of the mirror, Harry is leaning against the doorway. You groan, raking your fingers through your hair.

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble.

Harry’s brows creep up his forehead, surprise evident on his face. “Aren’t you always telling me that it’s important to take it all off before bed?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m smarter when I’m sober.”

He snorts. “Good one.”

You frown.

He pushes off from the doorway, stepping closer to you and reaching for the pack of discarded makeup wipes. When his eyes meet yours in the mirror, he tilts his head to the side, gesturing to the toilet on your right.

“Sit.”

You pout like a child, plopping down onto the ceramic lid and waiting impatiently. Harry takes his sweet time, slowly pulling a wipe from the package and unfurling it gingerly. You’re momentarily entranced by the way the rings on his fingers sparkle in the light. But then a yawn tears past your lips, and you begin to tap your foot against the bathroom tiles, letting out an annoyed sigh.

“C’mon. I’m tired.”

He shoots you a stern look. It’s enough to shut you up.

You watch him intently as he crouches down in front of you and grabs your chin between his fingers. “Close your eyes,” he murmurs. The deep baritone of his voice sends a shiver down your spine.

His ministrations aren’t as tender as they should be—you make it a point to tell him as much.

“You’re rubbing too harshly,” you whine, squeezing your eyes shut. “Be gentler with it.”

“Quiet,” Harry huffs.

Spurred on by his irritation, you continue: “Are you always this rough? Your poor girlfriend…”

He grits his teeth.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he deadpans. You whimper when he drags the wipe unforgivingly over the delicate skin of your eyelids. “But if I did,” he adds, “she’d like it rough.”

Your shoulders stiffen once his words sink in. He says nothing else, choosing instead to crumple the wipe up into a ball and toss it in the garbage. You follow his movements with wide eyes, staring up at him as he stands.

“Brush your teeth,” he tells you, rubbing his fingers over his jawline. “Your breath stinks.”

And then he’s gone.

After a haphazard attempt at brushing your teeth, you shuffle back into your bedroom. Harry is still there, but he’s holding two pieces of fabric for you to take. You recognize them as the baggy t-shirt and the shorts that you usually wear to bed.

“Thank you,” you say, laying the material out on your mattress. Your lips part with another loud yawn as you unzip your skirt, letting it fall from your hips and pool around your ankles. When you cast a glance toward Harry, you find him facing away from you, his fingers laced behind his back.

Always a gentleman.

You tug on the soft, cotton shorts—the hem falls a few inches below your bottom. You reach behind your back, trying to thumb open the clasps of your shirt, but quickly grow frustrated as the seconds draw out.

“Harry,” you sigh, shaking your head.

“Yes?” He doesn’t turn around.

“Can you help me with this?”

Gingerly, he peers at you over his shoulder. Once he takes note of the fact that you’re dressed, he steps closer to you. You toss a thumb backward, gesturing to the column of buttons stacked along your spine.

Again, Harry manages the task easily. You stiffen as he parts the fabric of your shirt, your eyelids growing heavy with each new inch of skin exposed. Though he’s not standing nearly as close as you would like, you can still feel faint puffs of air floating across the nape of your neck. The room is silent; you’re afraid that he can hear your heart battering against the confines of your chest.

Do his hands linger a touch longer than necessary, or is it just your imagination?

“Thank you,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

You pull your shirt off, leaving yourself in just a lacy black bra. Harry’s sharp intake of breath is audible, and then he’s whipping back around.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Give a guy a warning next time, yeah?”

“Next time?” you parrot, emboldened by the alcohol in your system. “Am I going to be stripping for you on a daily basis?”

He grunts. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

You smile to yourself, unclipping your bra and shrugging on the baggy t-shirt he’d given you. “I know.” You clear your throat. “You can turn around now. I’m decent.”

Harry glances over at you as you climb into bed, pulling the covers back and nuzzling your face into your pillow. He bites his bottom lip, crossing his arms over his chest and watching as you settle in for the night. Once your shuffling has ceased, he squares his shoulders, his gaze flitting toward the door.

“Well, if that’s everything—,” he starts, taking a step back.

“Wait!” you say, shooting up into a sitting position.

He freezes, his eyes going wide. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you reply. You shrug, picking at a loose thread on your duvet and avoiding his eyes. “Would you—I was just wondering if maybe—you could stay?”

“Stay,” Harry echoes. You nod, still refusing to look at him. He sighs, and the pet name that he seems to have reserved exclusively for you falls past his lips.

“Love…you’re drunk.”

“Exactly,” you shoot back. “I’m drunk and I just…it feels like I’m floating, and I need something to keep me grounded. And—” you groan, “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but could you please stay? Just—just until I fall asleep. Then you’re free to go, or whatever.”

Harry’s eyes are wide by the time you’re through with your little speech. His expression leaves you feeling even more embarrassed than before. You’re about to roll your eyes and grumble out a never mind, I’m being stupid, just leave, but then he’s approaching your bed cautiously, like you’re a deer that he doesn’t want to startle.

“Just until you fall asleep,” he confirms, drumming his fingers over his bicep.

You nod, expecting him to settle into the armchair a few feet away.

He doesn’t though; you watch attentively as he lowers himself down to sit at the edge of your mattress. His posture is stiff, back straight—he uncrosses his arms, but then locks his fingers together and places them securely in his lap. You hold back a laugh.

“You can relax, you know,” you say, rolling onto your side so that you can fix him with earnest eyes. “I won’t bite.” You pause. “Unless you’re into that kind of stuff.”

“I’ll leave,” Harry threatens without missing a beat.

You giggle, smothering your cheek into your pillow. “Fine, fine, I’m sorry.”

The ghost of a smile dances across his lips. Your eyes fall from his face to his lap; without thinking, you reach out, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and tugging his hands apart.

“It’s already chipping,” you say, a hint of admonishment seeping into your voice. “You should’ve let me put on the protective coat, dummy.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, flexing his fingers in your grasp. “You’re just gonna redo them on Wednesday, anyway.”

“Still,” you murmur, thumbing over the purple varnish on his nails. You scrape your knuckles against his, letting out a quiet sigh. “What colour do you want next? Are we sticking with lavender again?”

“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Let’s try something new.”

“I went shopping yesterday with Sydney and bought mint green,” you tell him through a yawn. “What do you think of that?”

“’S nice,” he replies, though it sounds like he’s far away.

You peer up at him through your lashes, only to find that he’s staring at you intently. Under normal circumstances, you would offer up a quip about how he can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you. But you’re tired, and you’re warm, and his hand is now stroking over yours, and you don’t want to ruin the moment.

Maybe he’ll stay the night, is your last thought before you drift off to sleep.

When you awaken the next morning with a pounding headache and a dry mouth, Harry’s gone. The only proof left of the night before is a tablet of ibuprofen and a glass of clear liquid sitting on your nightstand. The ceiling wavers above you; you might still be a little drunk.

You sit up, popping the pill into your mouth and knocking it back with a large swig of water. There’s a dull ache in your chest but you ignore it, opting instead to pull the covers back up over your head.

He didn’t stay. You try not to feel too disappointed as the realisation sinks in.

September 23, 2020

Harry is waiting for you once you get out of class.

Usually, you fall into step with him, ready with a teasing remark about how he must not have anything better to do with his time. He knows that the two of you probably look like quite the pair—you, with your bag and your coffee and your cheeky smirk, and him, resigned and rigid and expressionless. He would give anything to claw his way out of this situation, to smile along with you and laugh at your jokes and tuck your hair behind your ear. But he needs this job, and your mother loves him like a son, and he doesn’t want to do anything to screw that up.

Today, however, you leave class with a new friend. Harry’s entire body tenses when he notes just how closely the man is walking next to you. He follows the two of you from a safe distance, trying his best to be inconspicuous. You laugh at something that your companion says, and his jaw clenches—he pretends not to know why.

It feels like eons have passed before you and the man finally part ways. Harry doesn’t waste any time.

“Hey,” you say without even turning to look at him. When he glances down at you, he finds a shadowy smirk on your face.

“Hi,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Good class?”

“Mhm.” You nod.

“That’s good.”

He blows out a breath, pushing through a door and holding it open for you to follow. You thank him softly, releasing a happy sigh as the warm sunlight hits your face. Harry’s gaze is drawn to the serenity of your features, but he looks away quickly. He’s not really in the mood to endure your taunts. Not today.

“So,” he starts as the two of you amble down the sidewalk, “you made a new friend?”

“Yeah,” you say, shouldering the strap of your messenger bag. “His name is Kevin. He’s nice.”

“He’s funny, too, I’m guessing.” The slightest tinge of bitterness seeps into his words. He hopes that you won’t notice, but of course, you’re as perceptive as ever.

You glance over at him, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous.”

Harry keeps his eyes trained in front of him, where he can see a black car inching into view on the road ahead. Your chauffeur rolls down the window, lifting one hand in greeting. Harry waves back, his expression betraying nothing.

“It’s a good thing you know better, then, isn’t it?”

You laugh at his comeback, but the noise isn’t as cheerful as usual. If anything, it sounds a bit forced.

“Yeah,” you say. Harry opens the car door for you, and you climb into the backseat. “I guess it is.”

~*~

“Your hand is shaking.”

“It’s not my hand, it’s yours.”

“You’re smudging it.”

“Because you keep moving!”

You sigh, sitting back against the headboard of your bed and squeezing your eyes shut. You don’t need to see Harry to know that he’s fighting a smirk. The discography of your newest celebrity obsession is playing on your phone. Harry has told you multiple times that he hates this song—and that’s exactly why you have it on repeat.

“Can we please listen to something else?” he asks, shifting carefully on your bed.

You crack one eye open. “Can you stay still long enough for me to finish doing your nails?”

“Fine.”

You scoot closer to him, reaching for your phone and shuffling the songs in your library. Harry exhales in relief when a new, slower melody begins to trickle from the device. You toss it away, holding out your hand and looking at him expectantly. He lifts his chin, placing his fingers onto one of your crossed legs.

The sensation of his hand on your knee shouldn’t leave you breathless, but it does. You feel like his palm is burning a hole through your sweatpants. It’s been like this for as long as you can remember—painting his nails every Wednesday night, listening to music and enjoying each other’s company. Some evenings, conversation is scarce; others, it’s like you haven’t spoken in months. It doesn’t make a difference to you—you just like knowing that he’s there.

“How’d the call with your mum go?” Harry says. He makes a move to rest his chin against his fist before realising that the action will inevitably disrupt the polish on his other hand. You notice, smiling softly at the awkward moment.

“It went well,” you hum. Harry likes the way you purse your lips in concentration. “She’d landed in Amsterdam a couple hours prior. Called me when she got to the hotel.”

“That’s good.” He blows out a breath. “How long is she staying for?”

“A few months.”

“I see.”

You peer up at him, your eyes swimming with curiosity. “Do you know why she’s there?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you lying to me?”

“Love,” he starts, frowning gently, “you know she doesn’t—I’m not—she doesn’t keep me in her circle.”

“I know,” you say, somewhat mournfully. “I just thought—maybe she would’ve told you.”

A dejected crease forms on your forehead. Harry longs to lean forward and smooth it out with his lips. He hates when you get like this, but on the other hand, he can’t blame you. Surely, it must be difficult to be kept in the dark, especially for so long. It’s been years, and you’re still not exactly sure of what your mother has gotten herself into.

And despite your frequent questions about her trips, you’re not exactly sure if you want to know.

Silence ensues, and the two of you wordlessly agree to drop the topic—at least for tonight. You finish painting the nail on Harry’s middle finger, bending down and blowing cool air on the wet varnish in hopes of speeding up the drying process.

“Careful,” he warns when your hair tumbles over your shoulder. Without thinking, he reaches out, trying his best to gather the strands in one hand so that they don’t fall onto the freshly-painted nails splayed out over your knee.

You squawk in surprise, sitting back up and circling your fingers around his wrist. “What’d you do that for?” you say, admonishment evident in your tone. “You’re gonna screw these ones up!”

“I was just—!” he tries, but you shush him, scrutinising the semi-dry polish on his other hand. After a long moment, you sigh in relief, returning it and narrowing your eyes at him.

“You’re lucky,” you tell him, snorting quietly. “I would’ve killed you.”

“Like you could take me,” he mutters under his breath.

“What was that?” You cock an eyebrow.

“Nothing.”

You smirk, peering down at the mint green covering three out of his five nails. Absentmindedly, you run your fingers over the hills of his knuckles, softly tweaking his pinky at the end of your journey.

“We’ve come a long way since the black, haven’t we?” you ask, a teasing lilt in your voice. “That was so boring.”

“It was.” Harry nods.

It’s comical, really—a big man like him, sitting cross-legged on your bed. A man covered in an intimidating black suit, hunched over and watching with wide eyes as you meticulously paint shiny varnish onto each one of his nails.

A year ago, you would have been reminding him of this at every available opportunity.

Now, though…now, you’re just enjoying the closeness of it all.

“Er,” Harry clears his throat, and you peer up at him through your lashes.

“What’s up?” you ask.

“I—,” he looks away. “I just wanted to apologise for earlier today.”

“Earlier today…,” you trail off, frowning in confusion. “What happened earlier today?”

“When I—when you—never mind.” He shakes his head.

You smile. “I’m totally fucking with you,” you tell him, snickering quietly. You shrug. “And it’s okay. I forgive you.”

Harry’s brow furrows. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles, his lips curling down into a scowl.

You laugh, reaching forward and shoving his shoulder gently. “You love it.” Your own shoulders shake as you look back down, dipping the dried nail brush into its accompanying pot of green polish.

“Plus,” you add, trying to keep your voice light. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Unfortunately, you’re the only man in my life.”

Harry lifts one eyebrow, unimpressed. “Should I be insulted?”

You resume painting his nails, giggling at his sardonic tone. “You should be flattered.”

October 10, 2020

You’re walking back to the car when it happens.

It’s a beautiful day—the sun is shining brightly, and there’s not a cloud in the sky. You and Harry pass by a woman walking her dog, but not before you bend down, transferring all of your shopping bags into one hand (a feat, Harry thinks) and cooing at the furry little creature.

“She’s adorable,” you tell the owner, peering up at her with shining eyes. “What’s her name?”

“Blossom,” the woman replies, smiling.

“Blossom,” you repeat, turning your gaze back to the fluffy white dog. “Oh, you’re beautiful, aren’t you? I just want to eat you up.”

The owner laughs nervously—Harry doesn’t blame her. You’re harmless, but he’s right behind you. He’s sure that he looks intimidating, lingering in a black suit with his arms crossed over his chest. He makes no move to engage with the woman or her dog, even though the little boy in him yearns to run his fingers through Blossom’s soft white fur. Instead, he stands there, waiting patiently as you bid the lady goodbye and blow one last kiss in her pet’s general direction.

The two of you continue walking; the car is only about fifty feet away.

“That was one of the cutest dogs I’ve ever seen,” you say once you’re out of earshot. You glance back over your shoulder, sighing longingly. “Do you think she’d put her up for sale if I asked?”

Despite himself, Harry smirks.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he begins, uncrossing his arms. “You can’t buy everything you see.”

“I bought you, didn’t I?”

“I’m not for sale. And even if I was, technically it would’ve been your mother who bought me.”

“Okay, well then, we bought…your services.”

“Jesus.” He shakes his head, chuckling a bit. “You make it sound like I’m a prostitute or something.”

You laugh.

Harry loves your laugh. He loves the sound, loves the tone, loves the pitch. He loves the way your features crinkle up with joy as the noise slips from your mouth. Every time he hears your giggle, his gaze is drawn to your face, like an inborn reflex.

He’s grateful for that. He sends out a prayer of thanks to whatever mighty powers that may be, because when he looks at you, he sees everything. He sees your smile, the apples of your cheeks, your full, fluttering lashes.

And he sees the shaky red dot positioned squarely between your eyes.

“Get down!”

You squawk in surprise when he tackles you to the ground.

“Harry—!” you start, but then a telltale whizz! rockets past your ear.

You scream.

Your shoulder makes contact with the cement of the sidewalk, and a flare of pain blazes up your arm. Harry’s on top of you in an instant, his hands on either side of your head and his green eyes wild with panic. You’ve never seen him look so scared.

You know what’s happening, but you can’t seem to move. Your pretty pastel shopping bags are lying around you in a heap. Some are still on your arm, digging into your wrist and cutting off circulation. Harry appears to realise this as well, because he climbs to his knees and yanks your hands free.

“Go!” he shouts, but his voice is muffled by the ringing in your ears.

The two of you stagger to your feet. You take in your surroundings, your lips parted in shock. “My—my bags…”

“Forget the bags!” he yells. He grips your biceps callously, spinning you around and shoving you in the direction of the car. “Fucking run!”

~*~

“Harry…”

“Harry.”

“Harry!”

“What?” he roars, whipping around.

You stumble backward, nearly bumping into the wall behind you. You’re standing in the front foyer of your estate, your face littered with tears and your hands perpetually shaky. Harry locks the door and then wrenches closed the curtains on the windows flanking the entrance. The abrupt action causes him to wince.

“You’re hurt,” you state, though your voice is weak. “Harry, your arm…”

“’S just a graze,” he mutters, turning on his heel and storming past you.

You follow him as he makes his way toward the tall, winding staircase in the middle of the room. The steps span every level of your house, from the top floor to the basement. Harry pauses on the first stair of the flight leading downward, his hand on the bannister and his back to you.

“Go to your room,” he orders lowly, refusing to look at you. “And stay there.”

“Go to my room?” you repeat incredulously, your eyes bulging out of your head. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Harry doesn’t reply; instead, he blocks you out, descending the stairs into the basement without another word. You let out an angry yell, furiously fisting the material of your cashmere sweater. A few long moments elapse before you grit your teeth, and then your feet are smacking heatedly against each step as you rush after him.

You’re quiet once you reach the bottom of the flight, looking both ways for any clue as to where he could’ve gone. You purse your lips when you see him turn the corner, his left hand clutching his right bicep and a deep scowl etched into his face. Silently, you follow.

He ducks into a room at the end of the hall, pushing the door closed. However, it doesn’t click into place, leaving a small crack for you to peek through once you reach the threshold. You place one hand over your mouth to stifle your breathing, watching with wide eyes as Harry yanks his suit jacket from his torso.

His white button up is crisp and pristine—save for the right sleeve, which is soaked through with blood. You nearly gag.

Harry stalks through another doorway—a quick glimpse inside reveals it to be a bathroom. You push open your door ever-so-slightly, taking in the scene in front of you.

His bedroom. Of course.

You’ve never actually been inside his room. You’ve always known he lived somewhere in the house—a safe haven to frequent after midnight—but you’d never been bold enough to seek it out. You’re surprised to find that his room is quite similar to yours. It’s smaller in size, but the layout is the same (excluding your full-length windows and luxurious chandelier). The walls are painted a deep shade of burgundy, and the bed is made up of black satin sheets. He also has a walk-in closet and an adjoining washroom, just like you.

Bolstered by your discovery, you slip inside, nudging the door closed. Something on his dresser glints, catching your eye—you turn toward it.

It’s a picture frame. Upon closer inspection, you notice that it bears a photo of Harry. He’s young, but not that much younger than you are, now—maybe nineteen or twenty. He’s got his arms wrapped around two women, holding them against his sides; one is older, her face slightly weathered with age, whereas the other is youthful and alert, sporting bright eyes and smooth cheeks.

With a jolt, you realise that Harry and both of these women all look eerily similar—and that they all share the same smile.

The sound of running water jerks you out of your daze. Your head snaps up in the direction of the washroom; the door has been left ajar.

Harry is standing in front of the sink, soaking a washcloth underneath the faucet. His hair is dishevelled, and his button-up has been ripped open, exposing his chest and abdomen. A silver pendant—a dog tag—hangs from his neck. You’re shocked to discover all of the tattoos littering his skin—you’ve only ever been privy to the cross inked into the dip of his thumb.

Your eyes trail up his body, landing once again on the bloody sleeve covering his arm. The sight of it is enough, giving you the courage you need to speak up.

“Just a graze, huh?”

Harry’s eyes flicker up to meet yours in the mirror. A small part of you is upset that you didn’t manage to catch him by surprise. Are you really that predictable?

“Thought I told you to go to your room.”

You place your hands on your hips, scowling deeply. “And I thought you were twenty-six, not fifty. Who are you, my father?”

“No,” Harry says, and you hate the coolness with which he addresses you. He wraps the wet washcloth around his fingers, squeezing excess water from the fabric. “But I am your bodyguard.”

“You’re also hurt,” you retaliate, taking a step toward him.

Harry moves to the side, trying to put some distance between your bodies, but you’re not deterred. You back him up until his leg knocks against the edge of the bathtub, lifting one eyebrow challengingly because he has nowhere to go. His nostrils flare in irritation—you don’t think he’s ready to give up.

“You have two options,” you tell him, set on holding your ground. “You can either stop being such a proud prick and let me help you, or we can stay like this, and you can bleed out onto the bathroom floor.”

A long stretch of silence ensues. Harry stares at you with hard eyes, but you refuse to let your foundation crumble. Just when you think he’s going to force his way out of the situation, he sighs in defeat, his shoulders slumping dejectedly. You hold out your hand, and he dumps the washcloth into your waiting palm.

“Come here,” you say, backing up.

You hop onto the counter, spreading your legs and beckoning him closer.

He hesitates. You roll your eyes.

“Get over yourself,” you snap, shaking your head. “You’re not that dreamy.”

It’s unmistakably a lie, and you both know it, but neither of you say anything. Harry settles into the gap between your knees, keeping his arms securely at his sides. You peer up at him nervously, setting the washcloth down onto the counter and reaching forward to lightly grasp the collar of his shirt.

“This might hurt a bit,” you whisper, tugging the material away from his shoulders. He hisses when the fabric passes over his wound, scraping unpleasantly against the raw skin. You purse your lips, murmuring gentle apologies.

His left arm is covered in tattoos. You want to stop what you’re doing, trail your fingers over each design, and marvel at every little detail. But you can’t—you have bigger things to worry about at the moment, and not even your priorities are that screwed up.

Harry swears under his breath when you press the washcloth to his bicep. The material is warm and wet, and you use it to soak up the blood that’s been smeared down to his elbow. Once you’ve cleaned the area around his wound, you lean in to get a better look at what you’re dealing with.

The skin is pink and irritated, and there’s a deep groove running across the width of his arm. He’s lucky—he’s so, so lucky—but even as you stare, blood begins to pool all over again. You quickly press the washcloth back against the laceration.

“Fuck!” he chokes, reaching out and gripping the edge of the counter with white knuckles. “A little warning would’ve been nice.”

“Sorry.” You shift, trying to catch his eyes. “Do you have any disinfectant? And bandages?”

He nods, bending down and pulling open one of the cupboards below the sink.

“Let me—,” you start, but he cuts you off quickly.

“Still got one good arm, don’t I?” he grumbles.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, unsure of how to reply.

The disinfectant stings like a bitch—you tell him as much before spritzing it onto his wound. He lets loose a string of colourful curse words, and despite the tension hanging in the air, you smile. The bandages are next; you rip off a long strip, winding it around his bicep and tying it into a tight knot at the end.

“You need to keep pressure on it,” you murmur, though you don’t know who you’re addressing. “That should stop the bleeding, eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoes. You stare fixedly at his collarbones and nod.

A beat of silence passes between you.

“I’m sorry,” you finally mumble, looking down at your lap.

He grunts. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, shaking your head and gesturing between your bodies. “You—you got shot, Harry.”

“Graze,” he reminds you, but the correction only makes you feel worse.

“It doesn’t matter!” you say, looking up at him earnestly. “You could’ve died.”

“But I didn’t,” he says. He’s staring at the mirror behind your head, refusing to meet your gaze. “And if it weren’t for me, you would have died.”

“That’s exactly my point!” you cry. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, hoping that the contact is enough to make him understand. “Who says my life is more valuable than yours? Some stupid fucking paycheque? Or—?”

Harry cuts you off before you can say anything else, squishing your cheeks together with his left hand. You make a surprised sound in the back of your throat, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the action. You’re sure that you must look extremely unappealing, with a puckered mouth and inquisitive eyes, but he just gazes at you solemnly, licking his lips before speaking.

“I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.” He stresses every syllable, like he doesn’t want to risk any potential misinterpretation of his words. “And not just because it’s my job.”

For the first time since he’s known you, he witnesses you speechless. Your squished lips part, but no words come out. Harry sighs, releasing your cheeks and stepping back from in between your legs. You watch as he approaches the bathroom door, pulling it wide open and making his request clear.

“You should get some rest,” he mutters, and once again, he refuses to meet your eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

October 12, 2020

Harry pokes his head through your bedroom door just as you end the call with your mother. You groan, tossing your phone onto your mattress and flinging yourself into the mountain of pillows piled against the headboard. When you catch sight of him in the periphery of your vision, you greet him with a glare.

“You told her?”

He shrugs, stepping into your room and clasping his hands behind his back. “It’s my job.”

“No,” you say, mildly annoyed. “Your job is to make sure that I don’t get killed. Not to go running to my mother at the first sign of danger.”

Harry bristles. “She’s my boss. And you’re her daughter—she deserves to know.”

You groan, shutting your laptop and rolling over onto your stomach. Your sheets are soft; you wish that you could sink into the fabrics and let them swallow you up until you wink out of existence.

“What did she say?” Harry asks, snapping you out of your reverie.

“She wanted to come home,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I told her to stay where she was.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m fine!” you tell him, exasperation leaking into your words. “And I know that I’ll never hear the end of it if she has to cut her trip short because of me. God forbid she act like a parent for once in her life.”

“She’s trying her best.”

You laugh hollowly, turning onto your back and staring up at the ceiling. “That’s a lie, and we both know it.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

You peer over at him with raised brows, like you’re truly noticing his presence for the first time. “I’m surprised you’re still on duty. Does she not care about the fact that you’re injured?”

Again, he doesn’t respond. His silence, however, reveals everything.

“You didn’t tell her, did you?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Bullshit,” you bark out, pushing yourself up into a sitting position. “So, what?” you ask, your lips curling down into a scowl. “You get to decide what’s ‘relevant’?”

“I’m here to protect you,” Harry states firmly, fixing you with stern eyes. “And I can’t do that from the sidelines.”

You scoff but say nothing else. A hush washes over the two of you, hanging heavy in the air. You pick at a loose thread on your duvet, your brows tucked tightly together.

Harry is the first one to break.

“Have you told your friends?”

You shake your head.

“Why not?”

“They don’t need to know.” You shrug. “Sydney’s rented out a booth for her birthday on Saturday, so I’m just going to go and pretend like nothing ever—”

“Hold on,” he cuts you off, wrinkles creasing into the skin of his forehead. “You—you’re joking, right?”

“Why would I joke about Sydney’s birthday?”

“No, I mean—,” he grunts, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. You stare at him, utterly bewildered. He stands up to his full height, and the exasperation warping his features fades; apathy takes its place. “I’m sorry, but you’re not going.”

“What?” you shriek. Your unbothered appearance quickly disintegrates into a heated grimace. “What do you mean, I’m not going?”

“You’re not going,” he repeats, and you hate the calm—almost tranquil—expression on his face. “That’s final.”

“Okay,” you start, scrambling to your feet and holding up your hands. “Let’s pause for a second, yeah? I know we fuck around and laugh about my daddy issues sometimes, but…you do know that you’re not actually my father, right?”

“This isn’t about your daddy issues,” Harry declares, though his tone is void of any and all emotion. “It’s about your safety.”

“And what about my sanity?” you fire back. You tug the sleeves of your crewneck over your clenched fists, desperately searching for something to keep you from falling apart. “Are you saying that I’m basically trapped in my own goddamn house?”

“You’re being dramatic.” The mask that he’s wearing seems to have been carved from stone.

“Well, you’re being a dick.”

“I can live with that.”

“Harry!” You stomp your foot—like a fucking child—as your eyes dampen with tears. Your initial sense of shock washes away, replaced by a helplessness that you haven’t felt in a long time.

The next question that leaves your lips is pathetically frail.

“Why are you doing this?”

He finally meets your gaze, and for the first time since he’d walked in, it feels like he’s looking at you rather than through you. His back straightens, shoulders squaring like he’s preparing for divine combat. You approach him carefully, a stray tear streaking down your face. Before you can wipe it away on the material of your sleeve, Harry is reaching out with his uninjured arm, cupping your cheek and catching the droplet with his thumb.

“Less than forty-eight hours ago, an attempt was made on your life,” he murmurs, staring at you with earnest green eyes. “And you’re already so willing to risk it again?”

You sniffle, lifting your chin in defiance and batting his hand away. Harry’s expression falls, and his gaze grows cold once more. You wrap your arms around your torso, glaring at him angrily. Your subsequent command drips with venom.

“Get out.”

He doesn’t put up a fight.

October 14, 2020

It’s nearly one in the morning when someone knocks on your bedroom door. At first, you don’t hear it, too preoccupied with the song pouring from your headphones into your ears. But then it’s there again, a bit firmer this time, and you pause your music, calling out a gentle, “Come in!”

You don’t know who you’re expecting to see. Maybe it’s one of the housekeepers, doing some late-night laundry and bringing you fresh towels for the next day. Maybe your personal chef has been baking cookies again—a common coping mechanism for when she can’t sleep. Your mouth waters at the thought.

All of your hopes are dashed, however, when the door creaks open.

The first thing you notice is that Harry’s not wearing his usual attire. You don’t know why you’re surprised—it’s past midnight, and he’s technically off-duty. It’s still shocking, though, seeing him sporting a plain t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants instead of the crisp, dark suit to which you’ve grown so accustomed. Your eyes drop to his hands—at least he’s still wearing his rings.

“Hi,” Harry utters lowly.

You turn back to your laptop, not saying a word.

He sighs, dragging a palm down the side of his face. Fresh bandages peek out from beneath the sleeve of his t-shirt. For some reason, the sight startles you, and you remember that this is the man who had quite literally taken a bullet for you.

You suppose that it’s time to remove your head from your ass.

You shut your computer, pushing it to the side before tossing your legs over the edge of the bed. Harry watches you cautiously as you approach him, still as a statue. Swallowing heavily, you reach out, pushing the sleeve of his shirt up and brushing your fingers over his wounded bicep.

“How is it?” you ask, your voice no higher than a whisper.

He relents, shoulders deflating as he exhales. “’S better. Still sore, but it’s healing.”

“Can I see?”

He nods.

You’re surprised at how easily he lets you take the lead. You push the door closed with one hand, lifting your chin in the direction of your bed. He obeys your silent request and pads over to your mattress, easing down onto the duvet with his sock-clad feet still flat against the floor. You join him a moment later, settling in on his right side and crossing your legs to get comfortable.

His arms are limp, but his posture is straight. He stares at the door as you tug on the knot of his bandages, watching as they loosen around his bicep. Slowly, you unwind the gauze, subconsciously holding in a breath and awaiting what lies beneath.

The graze has started to heal. The skin around it is a lighter shade of pink, and the wound itself has begun to mend. You’re relieved to see that there’s no blood dotting his skin. Out of the corner of your eye, Harry’s throat bobs with a heavy swallow.

“It looks good,” you murmur, unsure of whether you’re talking to him or to yourself.

He just nods again, remaining motionless as you wrap the gauze back around his arm. You redo the knot at the end, and then you have to physically restrain yourself from leaning forward and smoothing your lips over the concealed wound.

Instead, your hands fall to his wrist. Harry stiffens, but then relaxes when you lift his fingers up to your face. Your brows furrow as you study the chipped green varnish on his nails. He’s been choosing the same colour for weeks, now—you’re glad that he seems to like it.

“Do you want me to?” you ask softly, peering up at him through your lashes. You’ve never been in his company so late at night (whilst sober, at least) but you suppose that there’s a first time for everything.

“Yeah,” Harry mutters, fidgeting with the material of his sweatpants. “Please.”

You shoot him the tiniest smile imaginable, and then you stand, making your way into the washroom to retrieve the worn, well-loved nail kit hidden under the sink.

~*~

“Do you want to keep the green?”

He shakes his head. “No, let’s try something else.”

“Okay.” You nod, dumping the contents of the bag onto your mattress. Little, colourful glass bottles clink together as they roll out onto your duvet. You look up at Harry with a raised eyebrow, gesturing luridly to the selection laid out in front of him. “Take your pick.”

His gaze sweeps over each shade before he shrugs—you don’t miss the slight wince of pain that passes over his lips. “I can’t decide,” he says simply, and when he looks back up at you, he’s almost shy. “You choose.”

“You’re giving me a lot of power, you know,” you say wryly. A soft chuckle slips from his mouth. After a brief moment of deliberation, you settle on pastel yellow, holding up the bottle so that he can see it clearly. “This might be pretty.”

“Pretty,” he echoes, staring straight into your eyes. His gaze knocks the air from your lungs and leaves you wondering if he’s talking about the colour, or about…something else.

You give the tiny bottle a good shake, catching sight of your phone laying off to the side. Without thinking, you snatch it up from the duvet, unlocking it and tapping onto your music app.

You hand the device over to Harry. When he shoots you a confused look, you just say, “If I’m picking the shade, you can pick the songs. Seems fair to me.”

He smiles.

You screw open the cap of the nail polish, studying the consistency of the liquid inside. “I might need to apply two coats to make it opaque enough,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.

Harry just hums in agreement as he scrolls through your music library.

He eventually seems to settle on a decision, because just then, a soft, monotone note wafts out from your phone’s speaker. You recognize the tune right away.

“Girl Crush?” you ask, the corners of your lips kinking up into a nostalgic smile. “I would’ve never guessed.”

He returns your tender expression, tilting his head to the side sheepishly. “It’s a nice song.”

“It is,” you concur. A sharp spark passes between your fingers when you reach for his hand, but neither of you comment on it. “Okay,” you say, shooting him a faux-menacing look. “Don’t move.”

The two of you sit in silence for the next ten minutes. You’re meticulous as you paint the varnish onto each one of Harry’s nails, your tongue caught between your teeth and your brow furrowed in concentration. You can feel him staring at you—he’s practically burning a hole through your head—but you say nothing, mostly because a small part of you is enjoying the attention.

“What were you doing before I showed up?” Harry asks quietly, breaking the silence.

“Working on a presentation for my seminar class,” you hum, dipping the nail brush back into its bottle. “It’s due Friday.”

“Are you nearly finished with it?”

You shake your head. “Not even close.”

“Love,” he starts, and you think you hear a hint of admonishment creeping into his tone. “Why’re you wasting your time giving me a bloody manicure?”

“Don’t worry about it.” You wave away his qualms with an absentminded flick of your hand. “I’ll get it done; I promise.” You pause for a moment, puckering your lips before you add, “Plus, I like doing your nails. It’s therapeutic.”

“Therapeutic,” he repeats. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

“Yeah,” you nod, blowing cool air over his fingers. “It’s nice—this. Us.”

He doesn’t reply.

You start on his other hand, careful with your ministrations. The memory of his closing wound is still fresh in your mind, and you don’t want to risk any sudden movements that might open it back up. You work noiselessly for the next few minutes.

“It’s weird seeing you dressed like this,” you murmur suddenly. The words slip out before you have the time to register them.

Harry chuckles faintly. “I’m usually on-duty, aren’t I?” When you nod, he continues: “Plus, we’ve never done this so late at night.”

“We can,” you say, perhaps a little too quickly. Your ears grow hot with embarrassment, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the fact that you have an excuse to not look at him. You stare hard at the rings on his fingers, swallowing heavily. “I mean…if you want. I’m sure it’s more comfortable sitting in sweatpants instead of slacks.”

“Don’t you have an early class on Thursdays, though?” Harry cocks an eyebrow, his question ripe with subtle mockery.

You chew on your bottom lip and refrain from telling him that you’ll happily show up to class with bags under your eyes if it means spending more of your time like this—with him. “Oh. Right.”

He laughs softly, and silence falls over the two of you once more. Just when you think that your conversation has tapered off for the night, he addresses the elephant in the room that you’ve both been trying your hardest to ignore.

“I’m sorry about the other day.”

You freeze, nearly smearing a glob of yellow onto the cuticle of his pinky. When you offer up nothing in response, Harry persists.

“I’m sorry I made you cry,” he mutters, lowering his head in shame. “I hated seeing you like that.”

You look up at him with wide, shining eyes. You’ve never witnessed him so full of remorse—the sight makes your heart ache.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, discarding the nail brush back into the pot of bright varnish. “I—you were probably right, anyway. It’s too dangerous.”

“No.” He purses his lips. “I think I was just being selfish. I was…trying to protect my ego.”

“What do you mean?” you ask softly.

His fingers flex when you stroke over the rough skin of his knuckles. He sighs.

“It’s my job to keep you safe,” he says. The words are slightly strained. “And I nearly failed.”

“But you didn’t,” you say, leaning forward.

“But I almost did!” he counters. You recoil, stunned by the emotion in his voice. He clears his throat and covers your hands with his. You can’t even be bothered to worry about the fact that his nails might ruin.

“When you told me that you were going out again, and so soon…,” Harry trails off, shaking his head. “I panicked, and I tried to take control. I’m sorry.”

You squeeze his wrists comfortingly and nod. “It’s alright,” you say thickly. “I forgive you.”

He blows out a relieved sigh, straightening up and blinking rapidly. Just like that, all evidence of his personal sentiments is gone. He can turn his feelings on and off so quickly—you suppose that it’s necessary in his line of work. Still, though…you don’t know whether to be annoyed or impressed.

“You should go to Sydney’s birthday,” he states matter-of-factly.

A small smile forms on your face. “I—are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He bobs his head in approval. “But I’m coming, too, obviously. Need to make sure you stay out of trouble.”

Your modest smile grows into a bright grin. Somewhere beneath your vibrant excitement, you realise that both of your hands are still tucked tightly between his.

“Escorted to a party by my hot, British bodyguard,” you tease. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

October 17, 2020

The club is packed. You can barely move, squished between perspiring bodies and gyrating hips. You can’t even see the bar because of how many people are crowding the counter, waiting to order their drinks. It’s dark, and hot, and the air smells of sweat and desire—typical.

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve never come out on a Saturday night. The pros simply do not outweigh the cons.

Thankfully, though, these aren’t normal circumstances.

The booth that Sydney has rented is a beacon of hope, a little island of peace in the surrounding sea of chaos. You’re right next to the birthday girl, laughing at how captivated she is by the song booming through the building. She wraps one arm around you, tilting her head up and accepting another swig of vodka straight from the bottle.

The rest of your friends are scattered. Some are with you, lounging in the booth and drunkenly screaming lyrics up at the ceiling. Others are out on the dance floor, blending into the crowd and twirling around without a care in the world.

Sydney is plastered; you’re not too far behind.

A quick glimpse at your phone tells you that it’s a few minutes past one in the morning. It also makes you realise just how badly you need to pee.

There’s a man standing near the bar—he’s been eyeing you unsubtly all night. From what you can tell, he’s cute. A baby blue button-up hugs his shoulders nicely, and his blonde, shaggy hair is swept sideways on his forehead. He’s tall and handsome, and you don’t think you’d mind kissing him. As you inch your way toward the edge of the booth, a large part of you wonders why you haven’t already made a move.

You trip over your own two feet as you stand, and you’re sure that you would have broken your fall with your face if it weren’t for the strong pair of arms that catch you mid-tumble.

And oh. It comes rushing back to you, wrapped up in stark clarity.

That’s why.

Harry’s pained grunt reverberates lowly in your ear. With a loud gasp, you realise that your fingers are digging loosely into his injured bicep.

“I’m so sorry!” you yell over the music as he helps you back onto your feet. “Are you okay?”

He just nods, shaking off his discomfort and clenching his jaw.

He hasn’t moved from the edge of the booth all night. He’s been standing there for hours, untouched by the turbulent current of drunk socialites. You suppose that it’s because he appears to be just another member of security, watching the crowd and ensuring that everyone is staying safe.

“Where are you going?” Harry shouts. His question is barely audible, swept away by the basslines vibrating through your body.

“Bathroom!” you yell back.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. You pat his shoulder gently and shake your head. “I think I’m perfectly capable of taking a piss by myself! Thank you, though!”

He frowns, looking like he wants to argue. When he sees the expectant, mocking expression on your face, however, he clamps his mouth shut.

You shoot him an appreciative smile, tossing your thumb over your shoulder and barking out a quick promise of, “I’ll be right back!”

You’re pleased to discover that the washrooms of the club are split up into private cubicles rather than simply aggregated in one big space. The walls of the corridor are lined with doors and littered with a few drunken stragglers. You pass a man and a woman who are locked in a blazing kiss, and a hot pang of longing claws its way down your sternum, settling uncomfortably in the pit of your stomach.

The last cubicle on your right is vacant. Breathing out a quick prayer of thanks, you duck inside. There’s an empty shot glass standing on the edge of the sink, but other than that, the room is in good condition. You tug your underwear down as you position yourself above the toilet, clutching the hem of your dress close to your chest and doing what you came to do.

Two minutes and one flush later, you’re screwing open the faucet, sighing happily as cool water runs over your wrists. To your right, a dispenser containing lavender-scented soap is nailed into the wall. You wash your hands quickly before wringing them out and wiping the excess wetness against your thighs.

When you open the washroom door, you freeze in your tracks. A man—that same man who’s been making eyes at you all night—is standing in the threshold.

He’s even taller in person. And now that you’re closer to him (and shrouded in better lighting) you can see that his hair isn’t blonde like you’d originally thought, but light brown. His eyes are a stark shade of cobalt blue, attentive enough to indicate that he might be one of the only sober people in the entire building.

“Hi.” His voice is as smooth as velvet.

“Hi,” you reply, offering up a small, wary smile. He’s cute, but who the fuck tries to pick a woman up as she exits the bathroom?

“My name’s Lukas,” he says, holding out his hand. You take it gingerly, quietly introducing yourself in return. He smiles at the mention of your name. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.” You stand on your tiptoes, peering over his shoulder and chewing on your bottom lip. “Sorry, my friends are waiting—”

“That’s a pretty dress,” Lukas tells you, placing his hands on either side of the doorway. Somewhere beneath the buzz of alcohol in your system, you’re aware that he’s successfully blocked your only way out. He takes a step toward you, and you match it with a step back, nearly tripping over a shallow crack in one of the tiles on the floor.

“Thanks,” you say, your lips curling into a dim scowl, “but I really should be going.”

“Or we could hang out in here,” he suggests, shrugging innocently (in the back of your mind, you know that his thoughts must be the furthest thing from innocent.) “Just the two of us.”

“No, thanks.” You shake your head vehemently. Your palm finds a place on the wall, and you use the leverage to keep yourself steady. Your eyes rake down his body as he inches toward you, searching for any potential weak points.

Elbow to the nose? Knee to the groin?

Just then, a gruff utterance of your name is heard from out in the hall. You nearly sob in relief.

“Harry!”

Less than a moment later, a large, sweaty hand slaps down over your mouth. You squeal, frightened tears rushing to your eyes as Lukas heaves you up against the wall. He digs his fingers into the column of your throat, keeping you pinned with one hand while the other reaches for the door, aiming to slam it shut.

Before it can close all the way, a strong, ringed hand appears out of nowhere, shoving the barrier back open. Hinges creak as the doorknob crashes into the side of the wall, nearly putting a hole through the plaster.

Harry’s nostrils flare as he absorbs the scene laid out in front of him. Only a second passes before he’s stalking inside the cubicle, his mossy eyes alight with one palpable emotion: rage.

“Get the fuck off of her!” he bellows.

His palms make contact with Lukas’ shoulders, and he uses the brunt of his weight to shove him away from you. The other man goes tumbling into the opposite wall, almost stumbling over the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

“The fuck is your problem?” Lukas snaps, rubbing the back of his head as he regains his bearings.

Harry pulls you out of harm’s way, putting himself between you and your aggressor. You watch the scene unfold from behind him, anxiously fumbling with the hem of your dress.

“Don’t—,” Harry points at Lukas threateningly. His voice has returned to its normal, low octave, but you can still hear the fury simmering beneath his words, “—ever fucking touch her again.”

Lukas pushes himself off of the wall, cracking his knuckles and angling his head to the side. His blue irises glimmer maliciously as he looks over at you.

“Is this your boyfriend, sweetheart?” he asks. The words are nothing but a wicked taunt. He sizes Harry up, assessing his figure.

You watch his eyes widen when they land on the pale yellow polish decorating your bodyguard’s nails, and then—much to your horrified surprise—he laughs.

“Oh, my mistake.” He shakes his head, a spiteful smile splitting across his face. “He’s just a fuckin’ faggot.”

Harry doesn’t react to the insult—but you do. Before you can even register your actions, you’re slipping out from behind him, lifting your arm high into the air and delivering a sharp, backhanded blow to Lukas’ right cheek.

Your knuckles sting at the contact, but the pain is overshadowed by the smug sense of vindication that settles in your chest. Anger warps your features, turning you into someone unrecognizable.

“How dare—?”

The rest of your sentence dissolves into an alarmed shriek when Lukas seizes your wrist. He snarls.

“Know your place, bitch!”

You brace yourself for his retaliation, but the strike never comes. In the blink of an eye, Harry has Lukas’ arm pinned behind his back. Blue eyes well up with agony, and a pained shout slips from his lips. You recoil, startled by the sudden shift of power.

Harry leans down, his mouth just above Lukas’ ear. He glances up at you briefly before looking back down at the cowering man before him. In that moment, your gazes meet for only a millisecond, but the contact somehow puts you at ease.

“Apologise to the lady,” Harry mutters, pulling Lukas’ arm even tighter across his back. “Or I break it.”

Lukas whimpers, glaring up at you with angry eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he spits out, though there’s no sincerity behind the phrase.

Wordlessly, you lift your chin, spinning on your heel and making your way toward the door. Behind you, a surprised yelp slices through the air, followed quickly by a violent thud. When you peer back over your shoulder, Harry is brushing his palms off on the lapels of his suit, and Lukas is kneeling over the toilet, his chest heaving.

“Harry,” you say, calling him over. You hope that neither of the men can hear the slight quiver in your voice.

Harry approaches you, and you reach out for him. He offers you his uninjured arm; you link your elbow through the gap between his bicep and his torso.

You expect it to end there, but then Lukas mutters something unfamiliar under his breath. The words are nearly indiscernible, but you know for a fact that they’re definitely not English. Harry must hear them too, because he freezes in his tracks.

“Harry,” you say, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Say goodbye to your friends,” he replies bluntly, dodging your question. “We’re leaving. Right now.”

~*~

The journey back home is painfully quiet.

Harry says nothing until the car drags through the metal gates of your property and peels up the roundabout leading to your front door. Once your chauffeur cuts the engine, Harry turns to him, shaking his hand firmly and thanking him for the ride. You bid the man goodnight, catching his kind smile in the rear-view mirror.

He seems nice. You should probably learn his name.

But that can wait.

The effects of the alcohol in your system seem to have worn off. You attribute your sobriety to the fact that you were cornered and nearly attacked in a public bathroom not too long ago. You’re still a bit wobbly on your feet—not to mention the loud, persistent ringing in your ears—but your mind is clear. That’s all that matters.

Harry leads you inside, cupping his palm beneath your bent elbow and keeping you steady. Part of you longs for him to slide his hand closer and trail his fingers down your back until they’re tickling the base of your spine. But that would be unprofessional, you remind yourself, so you keep your mouth shut.

Walking into your room fails to bring you the familiar sense of comfort that it usually does. You swallow heavily, kicking off your heels (these ones aren’t embellished with any straps or buckles, thank God) and making your way over to your bed. As you approach your mattress, your fingers find their way to your back, grasping for the zipper of your dress that’s settled just above your shoulder blades.

You grit your teeth in frustration, stopping suddenly and casting a glance behind you. Harry is waiting at your door, standing rigidly with his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

“Can you…?” Your question is hushed and incomplete, and you don’t wait for his reaction before turning back around. The sound of his low footsteps reaches your ears; your skin prickles in anticipation.

His fingers are gentle as they tug your zipper down. He’s close—closer than usual. You can feel his warm, laboured breaths puffing out against the nape of your neck.

Harry pauses when he drags the zipper past the middle of your back, exposing the clasp of your bra. His hands abandon your body, leaving you confused. Before you can question him, however, he’s fiddling with the little hooks on the undergarment. A moment later, the cups holding your cleavage in place loosen and slip lower on your chest. A soft, dazed gasp tumbles from your lips.

Harry then resumes his previous actions, unzipping your dress the rest of the way and stepping back once he’s finished. You face him, clutching the sagging fabric against your sternum to keep it from sliding down your torso.

“Thank you,” you murmur. Suddenly, the floor is a lot more interesting than the man standing before you.

Harry just grunts in response.

You hesitate, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. There’s a palpable tension hanging in the air; you feel like it might suffocate you if you don’t voice the question dancing on the tip of your tongue.

“What was it?” you ask quietly, refusing to take your eyes off of the ground. “In the washroom, before we left—what did he say? It wasn’t English—”

“French,” Harry cuts in. You pause, clamping your mouth shut and waiting for him to continue, but he doesn’t add anything else.

“What did he say?” you repeat. Beneath the loose, shapeless material of your dress, your heart is beating a mile a minute.

“Nothing,” Harry utters after a long moment of silence. “At least, nothing that you need to worry abo—”

“You’re lying,” you seethe, and the abrupt wave of irritation that washes over you is enough to make your head snap up. Your gaze burns into his face, lips curled down into a vivid scowl.

“Harry—,” you say, reaching out with one hand and shoving helplessly at his chest. He doesn’t budge, of course—the realisation only makes you angrier. “Stop lying to me.”

He clenches his jaw, and strong, slender fingers circle around your wrist before you can pull away. You squawk in surprise, your brows knitting together at the suddenness of the contact. Harry’s green eyes blaze with an emotion that you can’t quite recognize, but even then, it still leaves you utterly breathless.

You watch, stupefied, as he slides his palm beneath yours, lifting your hand to his lips and pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to the hills of your knuckles. Your jaw slackens, but—for the first time in your life—you have no witty comeback, no sharp retort.

“Une putain gâtée, tout comme sa mère.”

The words are a low murmur. His mouth brushes against your skin as he speaks. You’re enthralled by his French accent, but the sour expression on his face tells you that he must’ve just said something rotten.

“A spoiled whore,” Harry translates—he looks almost ashamed, “just like her mother.”

Your hand slips from his grasp.

October 18, 2020

You’ve been in your room all day.

Harry hasn’t moved from his station outside, standing in front of your door with his arms folded over his chest. It’s been hours, and he hasn’t heard a peep from you. As much as he hates to admit it, he’s bored. You’re usually right next to him, talking his ear off and being your bossy, teasing self. He misses all of your little quips, not to mention the devilish smiles that you give him when you take a shot at pushing his buttons.

Now though, the silence is getting to him. He considers pulling his phone out and indulging in a trivial little game to pass the time, but then ultimately decides against it. The sun has fallen from the sky, and the moon has risen in its place—his shift is nearly over.

His cellphone chimes from inside his pocket. He fishes around for the device, eventually tugging it from the depths of his trousers. When he taps onto the screen, he finds a text from Lana, your personal chef.

Her dinner is ready. Do you want me to bring it up?

Harry purses his lips before typing his reply.

No, I’ll come down. Thank you.

A single smiling emoticon is her response.

After retrieving your plate from the kitchen and bidding Lana goodnight, Harry makes his way back upstairs. He stalls in front of your door for a few seconds before shaking off his uncertainties. His fist raps three times against the wood, and he waits expectantly for your answering call.

His shoulders deflate in relief when he hears a faint, yet familiar, “Come in.”

The room is dark, illuminated only by a small lamp on your nightstand. You’re lying on your bed, spine against the mattress and eyes trained on the ceiling. Your hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you haven’t changed out of your sleepwear (though it’s late now, Harry supposes, so there’s really no need). Cotton shorts sit low on your hips, but thankfully, your t-shirt is covering everything that needs to be concealed. When you turn your head toward the door, Harry notices that your eyes are rimmed with red.

You’ve been crying. The realisation makes his chest ache.

“Hi,” he says quietly, approaching your bed with cautious footsteps.

“Hi,” you croak. You sit up and clear your throat.

He holds out your plate. “Dinner is served.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“That’s true.” He tilts his head from side to side, acknowledging your words. “But you haven’t eaten all day.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” you mumble, though you take the dish from him with eager hands, confirming his hypothesis. “Mac n’ cheese?” you ask, peering up at him with wide eyes.

He nods. “Compliments of the chef. She said it was your ‘comfort food’, or something like that.”

You pick up the spoon resting on the side of your plate, dipping it into the pasta and scooping up a large bite. Flavour explodes across your tongue, and you hum in appreciation at the taste. “Lana’s the best.”

Harry doesn’t respond. When you look over in his direction, you find him standing awkwardly at the side of your bed, like he’s not quite sure where to go.

“Do you want to sit?” you ask through a mouthful of food. His lips twitch at the warbled quality of your voice.

“No, I—,” he starts, shaking his head. “I can leave you alone.”

You swallow heavily, running your tongue along the roof of your mouth. “Stay,” you tell him, averting your gaze. The softness of your tone makes him pause, but you just shrug. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

~*~

You finish the entire plate of macaroni in a matter of minutes. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever seen you scarf down food that quickly. You offered him a bite, but he turned it down, claiming that you needed it more than he did.

He was right, of course. But you would rather die than tell him as much.

You set the dish down onto your nightstand, snatching up the reusable water bottle on the corner of the little table. Harry watches, amused, as you take a large gulp of the contents inside. Once you’ve swallowed, you chance a glance over at where he’s sitting on the edge of your mattress. There’s a small smile playing on his lips.

“What?” you ask wryly.

He chuckles lightly. “Nothing.”

You smirk but decide to drop the subject.

Harry shifts, rubbing his palms over his thighs nervously. “How are you feeling?”

You look away—you knew that he would try to breach the topic of last night, but the question is still a punch to the gut.

You shrug wordlessly. He clucks his tongue.

“That’s not an answer, love.”

Your shoulders slump in defeat. A loose thread on your duvet catches your eye, and you twine it around your index finger. Another long moment of silence passes before you finally speak.

“I’m just…confused.”

“Confused?” Harry’s eyebrows knit together.

You nod.

“How so?”

A rushed, humourless laugh falls from your lips. “You’re joking, right?”

When Harry shakes his head, you sigh.

“All my life,” you say, a lump forming in your throat, “I’ve been kept in the dark. Do you know how embarrassing it is, as a little kid, to not have an answer when your friends ask what your parents do for a living?” You wrap your arms around your torso, hugging yourself tightly.

“I even used to joke about it at school,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “‘Yeah, guys, my mom’s secretly a drug dealer!’”

Harry doesn’t say anything. You take his reticence as a sign to continue.

“But then, as I got older, I realised that maybe I wasn’t that far off. She might not be in a fucking drug ring, but she’s still doing something illegal. There’s no way that we could afford to live like this, otherwise.” You gesture toward the glossy chandelier hanging from your ceiling.

“And then you came into the picture,” you say, rubbing tiredly at your eyes. “And that’s when I really started to panic. But I didn’t want to show anyone how I was feeling, obviously—so I kind of just kept it all bottled up.”

“Until now,” Harry murmurs, his expression unreadable.

You nod. “Until now.”

The material of your t-shirt is twisted up in your fists. You exhale heavily, releasing the fabric and smoothing it out with your palms. Several long seconds of tranquility ensue, until—

“Arms.”

Your gaze snaps over to Harry. “What?”

“Arms,” he repeats gruffly, staring directly at you. “She’s not dealing drugs. She’s dealing arms.”

You sit back against the headboard as his words sink in. Silence hangs in the air, growing thicker by the moment. Your mouth opens as you try to make sense of this newly-revealed information, but your lips only form around dying sounds and nonexistent sentences. Eventually, you settle for a simple, “Huh.”

And despite the trepidation of the situation, Harry laughs.

The sound brings a small smile to your face. It quickly slips away, however, when you remember something else.

“Last night, the guy at the club…,” you trail off, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “I don’t think what he said was just an expression.”

Harry’s eyes are solemn. “Neither do I.”

“He told me his name was Lukas,” you say, straightening up. “Has my mother ever mentioned him before?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t know anything else,” he replies. Deep down, you recognize that he’s telling the truth. “She only shares things with me when it’s absolutely necessary. My job—first and foremost—is to protect you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, shifting closer to him. Harry stiffens briefly when you place your hand on his arm, but then relaxes again. The fabric of his suit is soft, pressed to perfection. “I—thank you for being honest with me. I feel better now that I know.”

He nods.

“And thank you for yesterday,” you add, swallowing heavily. “For keeping me safe.”

“Next time, I’m accompanying you to the bathroom,” he mutters. “End of discussion.”

You laugh. A tiny, barely-there smile creeps onto his lips. Your eyes fall to the yellow polish on his nails, and you hesitate.

“Harry,” you say. Anxiety unfurls in your stomach. “Can I ask you something?”

“’Course.” His voice is a low rumble. “What is it?”

“Last week,” you mumble, fidgeting with your fingers, “after you got shot—or grazed, whatever you want to call it—”

He freezes. You have a strong feeling that he knows where you’re going with this.

“You said—”

“I know what I said.”

I would take a bullet for you, no questions asked.

Your mouth goes dry. Harry won’t look you in the eye, but you refuse to let him shy away. You squeeze his forearm softly, hoping that the contact will prompt him to meet your gaze.

It does. When he peers up at you, the green of his irises sets off a series of echoes in your head.

And not just because it’s my job.

“Why did you?” you whisper, leaning toward him.

He blinks, embarrassed.

“You know why,” he grumbles, staring fixedly at your duvet. A loose strand of hair flops onto his temple as he shakes his head. “Don’t make me say it.”

Something shatters inside of you. Impulsively, you lurch forward, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his lips.

Harry’s face snaps toward you as you sit back. You’re greeted by wide eyes, foreign and unrecognizable, and seemingly unable to make out who you are. The small mountain of hope that had been growing in your chest crumbles into nothing, scattering like dust in the wind.

You clench your jaw, trying to keep yourself composed. He’s looking at you like you’re a stranger.

“Sorry,” you sputter. Panic washes over you, and your eyes prick with the telltale sign of tears. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry—”

Just as it had last week, Harry’s hand finds your face, squishing your cheeks together and cutting off your apologies. You gaze up at him as he leans in; he’s shaking his head ever-so-slightly.

“Why would you do that?” he asks, and it almost sounds like he’s berating you. “Why would you—?”

“I’m sorry,” you eek out. Water beads along your bottom lashes.

“I’ve been trying so hard,” he carries on, smoothly disregarding your regrets. “Trying to keep myself from—”

He breaks off, gritting his teeth and staring directly into your eyes. His next words are stern, finite.

“It doesn’t fucking matter anymore.”

His fingers release your cheeks and migrate to the back of your neck. He uses the leverage to pull you in so that you can meet him halfway, and then he’s kissing you. It takes a moment for everything to register in your brain, but soon thereafter, you’re melting into him and kissing him right back.

You grip the lapels of his suit between tight fists, tugging him closer as you pour every ounce of yourself into his embrace. Harry’s lips work fervently against your own; the palm on the back of your neck slips lower, settling at the base of your spine. His other hand comes up, splitting apart so that his thumb and middle finger find themselves on each side of your jaw. The grip is bruising, unforgiving—you whimper in delight.

“This is—,” Harry can barely get the words out. “—unprofessional.”

“It is,” you murmur, nodding fiercely.

“We shouldn’t,” he says.

“We shouldn’t,” you agree breathlessly.

But neither of you stop.

Harry lays you down on your bed, climbing on top of you whilst still doing his best to keep your lips attached. Your hands slip beneath his suit jacket, fingertips digging into his back over the white button-up covering his torso.

“You’re wearing too much,” you whine once the two of you break apart for air.

He chuckles, pushing himself up onto his knees. You watch, awestruck, as he fiddles with the buttons lining his abdomen, undoing each one swiftly before yanking the jacket from his shoulders. A shadow of pain passes over his features.

“Careful,” you say softly, referring to his injured arm.

He doesn’t reply. Instead, he brings himself back down to where you are, wasting no time and dipping his tongue into your mouth.

“Mm,” he hums, smacking his lips together. “Mac n’ cheese.”

You giggle. “Guess you got a taste, after all.”

He nods, smirking. “In all honesty, though,” he murmurs, his lips smearing against the lower-half of your cheek, “I’d much rather get a taste of something else.”

He punctuates the innuendo with a gentle bite to your jaw, and you moan.

It doesn’t take long for his hand to travel south. Harry gives you a questioning look when his fingers reach the elastic waistband of your shorts.

“Can I?”

You nod.

He curses when the digits slip beneath the fabric, because you’re not wearing anything underneath. His palm scrapes over the triangle of trimmed hair at the apex of your thighs, and he nearly starts salivating right then and there. You whine impatiently, bucking your hips up to spur him along.

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of your neck. “Gagging for it, aren’t you?”

A strangled squeak echoes in the back of your throat, but you say nothing.

“Answer me,” Harry growls, nipping softly at your earlobe. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it!” you choke out. You wrap your fingers around his forearm, guiding his hand lower so that he can feel just how wet you are. “Please—I want it.”

“So polite,” he murmurs, sponging his lips up to your temple. Your eyelids flutter shut when he begins to rub languid circles into your clit. “Where are those manners usually hiding, hm?”

“Harry—,” you sigh, feeling your face grow hot. You’ll never admit it, but his taunts stoke the fire building in the pit of your stomach. He laughs darkly, sliding his middle finger down your slit and prodding coyly at your entrance.

“You’re soaked, and I’ve barely done anything,” he mutters. His thumb stays positioned squarely on your clit as he lowers his head, pecking your lips delicately. “Want me inside?”

You nod, but he only tuts in disapproval.

“Words, love.”

“Yes!” you whine, pouting deeply. “I—I want you inside.”

He smiles.

You squirm when he slips his finger into you, adjusting to the intrusion. Harry probes around curiously, stroking along your walls until he brushes against a spot that has you crying out in thrilled surprise and squeezing your eyes shut. The patronizing laugh that falls from his mouth is hot and heavy against your warm cheeks.

“That’s it, yeah?” he asks. “That’s the spot?”

You breathe out a weak whimper of confirmation, and he snickers. When he peers up at you and finds your eyes closed, a small frown tugs at the edges of his lips.

“Look at me, love,” he orders, adding another finger into your heat. “I wanna see you.”

You shake your head and turn away, face hot with humiliation. It’s good, though—it’s so, so good.

“Look at me,” Harry repeats, “and I’ll let you cum.”

It’s an offer that you can’t refuse.

Slowly, your eyelids flutter open. He grins at you, pride sweeping over his features. You keep your gaze trained on him, even when he speeds up the movements on your clit, his thumb rubbing quick shapes against the sensitive nub. Your back arches, toes curling into the duvet as your orgasm approaches. Harry kisses your lips, humming happily at the contact.

“Cum,” he commands quietly. “Cum for me, and then I’ll ruin this cute little cunt.”

The filthy promise has you falling apart.

He holds you tightly as your high washes over you, absorbing all of your little moans and cooing words of encouragement into your mouth. You shake, staring up at the ceiling and watching as the chandelier above you splits into doubles. The glass crystals twinkle alluringly in the dim light of your room.

“So pretty,” Harry whispers. He pecks the clammy skin of your cheek, and you sigh.

“That was…,” you trail off, unable to find the right words.

“Good?” he supplies, pulling his hand out of your shorts.

You bark out a weak, incredulous laugh. “Way better than ‘good’. I don’t think I can feel my—”

Your confession falters when you turn to the side, just in time to witness Harry slide two of his fingers past his lips. He groans desperately at the tang that spreads over his tongue.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, almost like he’s in a trance. He nuzzles his nose against yours, dropping his hand onto the bed next to your head. “You’ll let me have a proper taste next time, yeah?”

Without a second thought, you nod rapidly. “Yeah.”

Harry grunts in surprise when you push him off of you. His back lands against your mattress with a dull thud, and he chuckles faintly when you sling your leg over his waist, straddling him.

“What’re you doing?” he asks playfully as you begin to unbutton his white shirt. You pepper kisses down his chest, worshipping each new inch of skin that becomes exposed. His hands subconsciously find their way into your hair, gathering the bulk of it into a makeshift ponytail. Your clit positively throbs, ignited by the dominant undertones of the action.

“You got me off,” you say. Though the accompanying shrug of your shoulders is nonchalant, your heart is thundering beneath your ribcage. “Seems only fair, don’t you think?”

You undo his belt and flick open the button of his black trousers. Harry groans as you palm him over his slacks, sinking into the plush pillows cradling his head.

“Right,” he breathes. “Only fair.”

His cock twitches when you dip your hand into his boxers, and God, he thinks to himself as he shudders, he loves you.

~*~

You awaken in the middle of the night to sounds of restless shuffling. Your room is dark, engulfed in black. Blinking the sleep from your vision, you push yourself up, peering around and waiting for your eyes to grow accustomed to the obscurity of your surroundings.

The spot next to you on your mattress is still a bit warm, covered with wrinkled sheets. When you finally zero in on the source of the noise, you find Harry sitting in the armchair a few feet away from your bed. He’s slouching, his head supported only by a closed fist. His white shirt is draped over his shoulders, completely unbuttoned. Gray boxers sit low on his hips, revealing a pair of ferns inked into the skin just above his pelvis.

Not even five hours ago, you trailed your tongue along those very same tattoos.

“Harry?” you say groggily, and he freezes. “What—what are you doing?”

His eyes are bright, despite the encompassing darkness.

“I—,” he hesitates. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep.”

“Not unless you join me,” you retort. You slide your legs over the edge of the mattress so that you can face him properly. “What’s going on?”

He shrugs, avoiding your gaze. “We kind of just passed out, and…I wasn’t sure if you were comfortable with me, like, sleeping in your bed. I didn’t wanna cross any lines.”

You balk.

“Harry…,” you start, fixing him with a drowsy yet bewildered look. “You’ve literally had your fingers inside of me, and now you’re worried about crossing a line?”

A quiet chuckle of accountability falls from his lips; the sound makes you smile. You reach out with one hand, wiggling your fingers at him and tilting your head toward the rumpled pillows waiting for you.

“Come back to bed.” Your request is soft.

The storm in his eyes dissipates, and he obeys.

You sigh as you settle back underneath the duvet, snuggling into his side and tossing a leg over his thighs. Harry wraps his good arm around you, craning his neck and pressing a tender kiss to your hair. Your fingers creep up his chest, toying with the dog tag resting between his pectorals.

“Is this going to change things between us?” you ask in a small voice.

A long moment of silence ensues.

At last, Harry replies:

“I don’t know.”

You were expecting that kind of answer, but it still stings. A big part of you wants him to say no, things won’t change. He’ll still have you, and you’ll still have him, and the two of you will still bicker back and forth like children fighting over a candy bar. He’ll still roll his eyes at your antics whilst nevertheless being willing to take a bullet for you. You’ll still tease him relentlessly to mask the way your heart races whenever he’s around (which, unfortunately, is all the time).

But the logical side of your brain knows that those fantasies are just fabrications of flimsy, wishful thinking. The two of you have crossed a line—just like he said—and you can’t go back.

As though he can sense your inner turmoil, Harry squeezes you closer into his side. “I was looking online…,” he begins, and you peer up at him with curious eyes.

He meets your gaze—his chin creases adorably—and continues. “And I saw these cool photos of someone’s nails; they painted little cherries on them.”

“That sounds cute,” you mumble.

“It was.” He nods. “And I was thinking that maybe, on Wednesday…would you want to try something like that?”

Warmth spiderwebs through your chest.

The two of you have crossed a line, and you can’t go back.

But you can move forward. And perhaps better things are waiting on the horizons up ahead.

“It might not turn out like the pictures,” you warn lightly. “I’ve never really done nail art before.”

“That’s alright,” Harry says, brushing your hair out of your face. “I just thought it’d be fun to give it a go.”

You lean up, slotting your lips against his. Harry cups your cheek, keeping you close. When the two of you finally break apart, you smile, running your thumb lovingly over the edge of his jaw.

“Remind me to pick up the tools tomorrow after class.”

~*~

READ PART 2 ON PATREON

#harry writing #guardrry #making this my pinned post because i love her and she's one of my greatest creations ok 🥺🥺#harry styles smut #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles fanfiction #i'd love to know what u think! reblogs + feedback mean the world to me

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sorry-i-ship-drarry · 3 years

Note

Hi, i really like your drabbles!

Will you please write something where Harry and Draco are flatmates and friends and one day they were hanging out watching a movie and laughing and having fun and out of the blue Harry says Can i kiss you and then they kiss and Harry gets emotional because he is overwhelmed and draco falls for him more. ❤

Thank you 😊

40. Just keep swimming

I will be combining this request with next of my prompt - Patting others back. Hope you like this and thank you so much | after a bad day at work, as a friend, Harry tries to cheer Draco up by a movie night | fluff | domestic |

Fan art taken down because of confidentiality.

Credits - @upthehillart

" Draco is that you ?" Harry called out as he turned off the stove, walking out to see who walked into the flat.

" yeah " he sighs.

" ooh, that sounds terrible. Bad day at work huh ?" Harry asked as he took off the apron and threw it in the kitchen

" the most terrible day ever. It was all a mess, this new potioneer just fucked up each and every single of the potion claiming he was disturbed because of some family problem and I couldn't even yell at him because of that, then midway the potion making for st. Mungo's, my assistant fainted, basically spilling all of the potion we had been brewing for a week and above all my boss yelled at me for something I didn't even do and i- just can't . I'm done with the day " Draco looked he could almost cry.

" oh dear. That's bad " Harry sympathetically said as he walked upto Draco and gave him a friendly hug.

" i know the perfect remedy to fix your day " Harry suggested

" please, anything " Draco sighed taking off his coat and hanging it next to the door.

" go take a shower then, you stink of something really awful, like rotten pumpkin juice-"

" must be one of the potions " Draco rolled his eyes

" okay nevermind. Go. Take a shower. Food is done and I'll take care of the rest, yeah ?" Harry asked as he walked behind Draco and pushed him forward to walk to the bathroom.

" you're a great friend Harry " Draco sighed.

" I know I am. Now go " Harry patted Draco's back almost reaching the bathroom.

" whenever you're done " and with that Harry walked back into the kitchen, sighing to himself. This was again a lost chance.

" great friend " Harry scoffed to himself, disappointed. Shaking his head, he set his priorities to fixing his flatmate / best friend's mood right.

Done everything perfectly right, Harry chose the movie to watch, set the lightings to low, pizza on table, red wine for the mood and fluffy Blankets and of course pillows.

And woof.

" how could I forget you, snuffles " Harry scratched the dogs neck playfully " you're the perfect mood twister, now aren't you, aren't you "

" he definitely is " Draco walked in still looking tired..

" Jesus, even Voldemort would look better than you right now, not to mention without a nose "

" ha ha ha, very funny potter " Draco rolled his eyes and plopped onto the couch. Snuffles joining him on the sofa.

" I can't believe this dog. I gave him a name, I was the one who bought him, I take him to the vets, for walks, and even buy his favourite food and yet he loves you more than me " Harry whined as he plopped next to Draco watching him kiss the top of dogs head.

" well harry I am sort of irresistible" Draco smirked

" sod off malfoy " Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the amusing joke.

" so what are we watching ?" He finally asked as snuffles got more comfortable into his lap.

" finding Nemo" Harry replied

" perfect " Draco relaxed further into the couch and harry turned on the movie.

" you don't wanna talk about it though ?" Harry asked

" This is much better. I'd rather not boil my blood by reciting again how shit my day was. Thanks for this by the way, you always know what to do " Draco gave Harry a smile , crossing his legs over the sofa, sitting more comfortably.

Passing the pizza, the wine, not to forget the spaghetti Harry made, Draco was full and was more comfortably invested into the movie, while harry was more invested in peaking glances at Draco watching the movie.

" can I lay on your lap ?" Draco suddenly asked.

With his heart beating a little louder and suddenly very much awareness of tongue in his mouth and the socks in his feets, he whispered a " yes "

And Draco got comfortable in Harry's lap, snuffles falling asleep through the movie over Draco's torso.

" i love this turtles dude part, They're much more cooler than anyone we know and the way they just say dude, gosh, coolest thing ever "

" aren't they ?" Harry chuckled as he lightly untangled Draco's soft hair with his calloused fingers

"okay tell me, if I had to one character from this movie who would I be ?" Draco asked suddenly looking up at from his lap.

" hm, that's a tricky one " Harry pouted thinking about the answer for a minute or two " i think you're the Nigel, the pelican "

" hey " Draco swatted Harry on his chest laughing " I don't have a big mouth "

" are you sure ? Have you seen yourself when you eat the brownies your mom sends " Harry laughed softly

Draco gasped " they're really good, okay. You don't underestimate them. You should try them by the way "

" well my dearest darling friend, I'd try if you'd leave me some, big mouth Nigel " Harry laughed but was immediately attacked by a pillow at his face.

" you're mean. I just had a terrible day " despite that fact, he couldn't resist laughing with Harry.

"oh sod off. You're not going to get my pity " Harry scoffed, still grinning at Draco, adjusting his spectacles.

" you're really an asshole " Draco rolled his eyes, glimpsing at the motioning movie.

" and yet you keep me around. You're the one who have Stockholm syndrome " Harry covered his face, and as anticipated he was smacked by a pillow in the face "ouch -"

" what, did I hit you too hard ?" Draco rose a few inches immediately

Harry's expression changed from being fake injured to snickering.

" I can't believe you -"

" always works " Harry laughed

" you- I can't believe you use that trick " Draco rolled off his eyes collapsing back into his lap

" and yet you fall for it everytime " Harry chuckled

" you know what, one of these days you're actually going to be hurt and I won't give a damn about you" Draco fake sneered at him

" oh is that so ?" Harry cooed in a baby voice, softly pinching Draco's cheek

" Harry- don't- "

" aww, you're angry " Harry continued in the baby voice

" don't- I said stop. Stop with the voice, it's annoying " draco desperately tried to swat Harry's hands away from his face, but he couldn't possibly entirely deny that he didn't like it.

" aww, Little pelican is angry " Harry pouted

" hey- I'm not little- you idiot " Draco smacked Harry with a pillow again, repeatedly almost sitting up in that process and getting through Harry defenseless ways of trying to protect himself from it, and breaking into a fit of laughter.

" okay- okay stop " Harry cackled

" say I'm not a pellican -"

" but you're the one who asked "

" well you could've said I'm a Nemo or Marlin. He's cute"

" oh yeah, you probably are, little and desperately trying to prove yourself "

" okay- that - was -rude " Draco smacked him at every word until Harry grabbed hold of the pillow and threw it across the room, immediately tickling Draco.

"Merlins fuck- gah- stop- agh " and he took the fall to the ground gracefully, taking Harry down with him.

Harry looked at Draco only for a brief from top before they both started laughing to death. The movie only served as a mere background noise to their laughs and their bodies almost pressed against each other.

" you had to take me down with you " Harry calmed down only a little staring down at Draco

" I never take the fall alone Harry, you knew that about me when you first became friends with me " Draco grinned. Harry shook his head at the slight truth in the absurdity. He looked down at Draco, laying there defenseless with the sweetest grin over his face, his fringes casually very perfectly sprawled over his forehead, his eyes shining with the dim light and the happiness that had Found a way into him. It was impossible to look at draco underneath him and not feel lovestruck.

" you know what, you're definitely a dory " Draco chuckled

" oh I am now " Harry widened his eyes in fun surprise

" oh yes, completely imbecile "

" not to forget you've forgotten almost everyone of my boyfriend's name everytime we meet. You would call them anything but their na-"

" Can I kiss you ?" The words were out before he could've rolled his tounge to stop.

Draco looked at him in complete shock which didn't help Harry currently at all. His eyebrows shot up through his fringes in extreme shock of the sudden question. The bowl of chips next to his hands crashed onto the ground and suddenly the shark from finding Nemo seemed much smaller..

" you- you want-"

" never mind. It was just a stupid question. It was- a - just pure curiousity. It doesn't matter. We sho- should just finish the movie and lets just pretend I never asked -"

" yes-"

" this- wait what ?"

" I said yes, I'd like that " Draco's lips curled into a little smile.

Shocked but with a good surprise Harry returned the smile and with consent leaned down to kiss draco softly over the lips. They could hear the soft noises from the TV but harry was clearly more focused on Draco's hands going up his back and the softness of lips pressed against his, the tenderness in the kiss and the lopsided smile Draco had held. Draco was no stranger to that as well, he too was focused on Harry's hands going under his shirt, not in a furious way but a soft gesture to find more intimacy and for someone who looked they would kiss roughly, Harry worked his lips like it was a master plan he had always been working on if ever given the opportunity to enunciate. They were lost for seconds, minutes, hours maybe but it felt like forever to share that brisk intimate kiss. Neither of them had even realised they were out of breath until they had started heaving and only the other one noticed and stopped kissing at once.

Harry smiled down at Draco, until the sudden realisation hit him that they were still on the ground.

" wanna get back on the sofa or is floor too comfortable for you my majesty "

" you'll never change, will you ?" Draco shook his head as he took Harry's hand and got back up on the sofa and landing in his lap once again but this time his eyes were Only focused on Harry. Who strangely enough was looking blankly at the TV with-

" Harry, are you crying ?" Draco rose up a little bit

" uh, no. The movie-"

" we just kissed and you care about the movie-"

" no, it's not like that-"

" seems like it-"

" oh calm down you idiot. I just- I got a wee bit emotional" Harry sighed

" why ?"

" because I finally kissed you. Do you even realize how much courage it took to even ask you that. I'm overwhelmed that you Returned-"

" your feelings ? Harry, I cannot express you enough how much I like you. All the past relationships- I understand not a good point here but listen- they never worked because they're not you. I've always liked you Harry, well pretty much always "

" really ?"

" of course. I'd been pining on you for ages. It's good to know you finally feel the same "

" I- I've been pining for long too. I mean I may have never told you but-"

" you stalked me in 6th year all year long and desperately tried to cross paths with me every chance you got in 8th year. Yeah, I bet even snuffles knows about that "

" oh "

Draco smiled softly, cupping harry's face " hey, I like you and you're worth it. You were always worth the wait, even if you still want to wait. My feelings would probably never change for you Harry. It's pretty darn hard to run away from you " Draco shrugged

" well-"

" I like you harry, I do " Draco reassured again knowing Harry was feeling overwhelmed and insecure.

" I like you too Draco " Harry finally gave Draco a smile before leaning down to kiss him again, with a small smile curving at the corner of his lips.

And when they broke off, Harry and Draco once again became invested into the movie, the difference being, they both couldn't wait for more tomorrow's to come and Draco couldn't help but fall deeper for Harry.

But then maybe, Harry was his dory If Draco was a marlin or even if he was Nemo, Harry would make sure to go above and beyond just for him and that was enough to keep Draco swimming in his love for him.

Requests open

Day - 39- cuddle me in | Day 41- quidditch field victories

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fanfic-cave · 3 years

Text

Migraine

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1.8k

Pairing: Hunter x GN!Reader

Warnings: War Flashbacks/implied PTSD, angst & guilt, people be crushing on eachother, is this fluff? perhaps...

Summary: You start with a normal day with TBB, when a migraine comes on and you relive your worst traumas. How do you cope, especially when it happens on the havoc marauder?

I came up with this idea when I was having a migraine the other day, and I kinda infused it with an OC I had thought up. I decided to leave it GN for the readers, but technically its a part of their story, if that makes sense. (I actually think the story is kinda cool so I might write up chapters we'll see...)

Leave feedback if you'd like! :)

Today started as a normal day for you. You made a trip to go visit the most interesting group around, The Bad Batch. They seemed to appreciate your company, and you enjoyed theirs. Often they expected you to come over and socialize for a good chunk of the day. You remember what a stark contrast this was from when you first met, each of them suspicious of you (well, except for Omega), and you skeptical of them. Once you asked for their help making a trip to Dantooine, you protected each other in battle, and the walls started coming down. Now you had each other's backs, you’d all proven it countless times.

Except you’re still lying to them. The unwelcome thought intruded your mind. You still haven’t told them why you’re really avoiding the empire.

*Y/N, did you hear what I said?* Tech spoke in Ryl. Once he heard you knew several languages from all over the galaxy, he enjoyed taking the opportunity to speak a different language with you.

You shook your head. “Sorry Tech, lost in thought, what did you say?” You had replied in common instead. He looked slightly disappointed at your doing so. “I asked you if you’d seen the improvements I made to your vibroblades yet.” You looked down and saw he had definitely made some adjustments. “Oh, no I haven’t. I need to try practicing with them.”

“You’d have better luck with a blaster.” Crosshairs voice came from down the hall. He shouldered past you, bumping into you intentionally. You laughed at his comment, massaging your forehead as an attempt to combat an oncoming headache. “Hah, do I need to remind you what happened when you let your snarky attitude get the better of you while I had my blades?” You managed to see him shake his head in response, the lights in the room suddenly started to bother you.

His voice became faint, you heard “Lucky … only close … shoot you.” His voice was coming in and out, and a harsh pounding pain began at the top of your skull. You gripped your head and tried laughing at Cross’s comment, you’re sure it was probably his usual attitude. You thought you heard Hunters voice coming down the hall, but you couldn’t make out words. You saw through squinted eyes Tech was analyzing your behavior, and his lips began to move.

Finally you had to squeeze your eyes shut, and voice as loudly as you could “Gotta go.” The lights seemed too bright, and your headache revealed itself as a full-blown migraine. The bright lights seemed to cut into you, making the pounding in your head stronger. You felt like a big fist was punching you from inside, trying to break your skull open. You stumbled down the halls and managed to find the bathroom, rushing in and shutting the door.

The pounding subsided slightly, now that light was absent. You groaned and settled yourself on the floor. Unwelcome thoughts began to flash through your head. Separatist forces engaging you and the battalion. BANG. Tanks firing. BANG. Dead clone troopers lying on the ground, their voice screaming. BANG. Your own body lying on the ground unable to move. BANG. Tears streamed down your face, both from the pain and the horrible memories.

A soft knock at the door pulled you back into the moment, and you realized you had been banging your head on the wall. “Y/N?” You heard Hunters voice on the other side.

“I’m fine.” You said weakly. “Headache. Give me a minute.” You heard voices on the other side of the door, and footsteps shuffling. The head pounding in your skull still continued, but the flashes were gone.

“Close your eyes.” Hunter spoke quietly now. You covered your eyes, not having the energy to argue with him right now.

You heard the door open and he walked it, quickly closing the door. “What’s going on?” He knelt onto the floor next to you. You could make out his figure, and see a concerned look etched into his face now that your eyes adjusted to the dark. “Migraine. I’d like to be…” Alone. You tried to say it, but you couldn’t. You’d never had someone around when the pain was this bad, and part of you wanted him to stay with you the whole time. You gripped your head with both hands as a swell of pain surged through again.

Hunter gave you a moment to finish your sentence, once he realized you wouldn’t he sighed. “Let me at least put you somewhere more comfortable.” He spoke in a whisper, trying not to agitate you too much. He waited for a response. “Can you move?” You tried standing, pain swelled, and you settled back down. You knew it would only get worse when the door opened and the light would come through. You tried shaking your head. “I’m gonna carry you, okay?” He waited for an objection. “The light…” you breathed out. “Don’t worry, I'll handle it.” You heard him shuffle around, cloth moving, and then he gently wrapped a towel around your head. Your eyes were now effectively covered.

You felt one arm wrap around your back, his hand gripping your side, the other arm began securing you under your legs. In one fluid movement, Hunter lifted you up and your body was leaning against his. You pressed your towel-covered face into the crook of his shoulder, preparing to block out the light. You felt him take a sharp breath in as you pressed your face tightly against him. The door swung open, and you were relieved that you could see no brightness. The pain continued its pounding, but it began to dull. You felt comfortable and secure in his arms, and you realized nobody has ever taken care of you quite like this. You were suddenly grateful you had the towel on (which you realized had quite an unpleasant smell too), because it hid the blush that filled your cheeks.

Hunter's body swayed a little and you heard his feet move. Do I even weigh anything to him? You wondered, since he carried you so easily. Another door opened, and then shut. He took a few more steps, then you felt him adjusting your weight, beginning to set you down. He settled you onto a comfortable cot, a soft blanket underneath you. He gently rested your head down on the pillow, and removed your towel. The room was dark, darker than in the bathroom. You looked around and realized you were in Hunter's room. It was small, but it had enough room to fit you on the cot and him standing at the foot of the bed.

You both looked at each other for a moment, the pain lessening a little. “That towel smells.” You whispered. Hunter shrugged. You wrinkled your nose at him and then went to massage your forehead. You turned onto your left side so you could face him better, and fully relaxed into the bed. Although there was a slight stink, the bed smelled like him too. You pulled the blanket up a little to hide your face, and to take in the scent more. It served as a good distraction.

“Stay as long as you need to,” he said quietly. You heard him begin to shuffle out of the room. “Wait-” you reached out, not close enough to grab him, but the gesture caused him to freeze. You felt a slight surge of embarrassment, but ignored it. “Stay a bit. Please. I think it helps.” You saw his chest move up, like he was holding his breath. You wished you could see his face, to try and pick apart what he might be thinking right now. You continued massaging your head, moving to your temples now. You closed your eyes and tried relaxing, not wanting to pressure him by staring. You didn’t hear his movement, but the bed shifted, and you felt fingers move in between yours, and they began taking over the circular motions. You looked up and saw Hunter sat on the bed, a few inches in front of your body. You hoped he couldn’t see the color in your face change as he gently took over massaging your temple.

Although you were a little flustered by him doing this, you felt your heart flutter and your body relax to his touch. The pain was a soft thud now, and you could more easily ignore it. Your eyes had wandered away for a minute, but you searched for him again. You saw that he was watching you closely, and you thought he looked concerned, although his face seemed to betray no expression. The massaging turned into a head rub that went in circular motions all around and through your hair. It felt amazing and you sighed, resting your head more onto the pillow.

You watched Hunter for another minute. He never made eye contact with you, but you knew he was watching you, just as you were watching him. After a few more moments passed, you reached up to grab Hunters hand to stop his motions. He looked into your eyes questioningly. “Thank you, Hunter.” You smiled softly, and began to sit up on the bed. He hesitated, and then his hand retreated back. “Sure, we take care of each other here.”

What does this mean? You thought, as you both looked into each other's eyes. You had wondered at one point if there was something more to Hunter, or something more between the two of you. You both seemed to get along well, and you couldn’t deny there were moments you had. Tending to wounds, protecting each other in a fight, you wondered… Could there be something more here?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t deserve it. I don’t even deserve their trust.

You looked away from him and began to stand. “I should be getting back.”

“Already?” He seemed surprised. “Everyone will be back soon.” You remained silent. “I know Omega would like to see you.” You felt a sting in your chest as he mentioned her. Omega was your first friend in the group. Her innocent kindness towards you had been the beginnings of your relationship with everyone. You had a soft spot for her, just like everyone else seemed to. You managed to look back at him and smile softly “You’ll have to tell her hi for me.” You allowed yourself another moment to look at him. He broke eye contact fairly quickly and said “Alright then, fine.” You sighed and recognized that he was disappointed in your decision.

Could this be more?

The sting in your chest seemed to tug at you with this thought. “I’ll see you around Hunter.” You turned away and started to leave.

Maybe.

#the bad batch #tbb #hunter #crosshair #tech #reader x hunter #reader x crosshair #reader x tech #angst #ptsd #omega #star wars #tcw #the clone wars

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dccomicsimagines · 3 years

Text

Enough is Enough - Jason Todd x Reader

Requested by Anon - Can you do a Jason Todd x Reader imagine where they both have strong feelings for each other and the reader gets tired of waiting for Jason and decides to make the first move and tell him how they feel? Thank you!

Requested by Anon - A christmas with Jason Todd!

Author’s Note - I put these two requests together. Hope you don’t mind!

***

“What the hell was that?!” Red Hood stormed toward you. Your first instinct was to back up, but you held your ground.

“I was saving that cop’s life.” You crossed your arms, hiding the shaking of your hands. He stopped in front of you. You studied his face. He had ditched the full helmet to go with a hood and a domino mask. You took a moment to appreciate his jawline, almost forgetting he was yelling at you.

“A bad cop!” Red Hood threw his hands up in the air. “Gotham would stink just a little less with him off the beat.”

You shook your head, ignoring the tingling in your abdomen. He took a step toward you. You backed up until you bumped into the wall. He leaned closer only inches away from your face. You licked your lips, wondering what he would taste like. “He has a family. I couldn’t let his family lose him on Christmas Eve.”

Red Hood deflated, staying where he was. “You’re a bleeding heart, you know? It will bite you in the ass someday.”

“Maybe.” You sighed, closing the gap between you to the point where you felt his breath on your lips. His eyes widened through the lenses of his mask.

“Well, I better get going.” He jerked away from you, giving you his back.

Your heart sank. You should have kissed him if he wasn’t going to kiss you. “What? You have somewhere to be for Christmas Day?” You smiled, pretending you weren’t ready to cry in frustration.

He snorted, shaking his head. “No, I’m going to sleep then wake up to patrol.” He glanced back at you. You saw the tension in his shoulders, his hands shook. Did he want to kiss you as much as you wanted to kiss him? Why didn’t he do it then?

You frowned. “You’re going to be alone?”

“I’m always alone.” He ran off, jumping off the roof and grappling away to end the conversation.

“Must have hit a sore spot,” you mumbled to yourself. You kicked a rock off the roof. “We’re always dancing around each other. I want you and I know you want me.” You turned to look out at the city lights of Gotham, brighter due to all the Christmas decorations. A smirk pulled at your lips. You might just have to take matters into your own hands.

***

Jason groaned, reaching his hand over to touch the pillow next to him. It was cold and empty. His heart sank. He had a lovely dream where he had kissed you on the rooftop and brought you home. Cold reality washed over him, remembering he had chickened out and he was alone like always.

He opened his eyes to stare at the empty side of the bed. You were so beautiful in his dream. Shaking his head, he sat up. “I’d just hurt them anyway,” he mumbled to himself. He got out of bed before freezing when noise came from his kitchen followed by the smell of delicious food.

“Son of a bitch.” Jason grabbed his gun, slipping out of his bedroom in only his boxers. He headed to the kitchen, ready to kill whichever Batfamily member invaded his safehouse. They didn’t invite him to the manor. How dare they come here?

Turning into his small kitchen with gun raised, he snarled. “Get the hell out of my house...”

You turned away from his oven, eyes widening at the sight of his gun. Jason lowered his gun, heart skipping a beat. Did he bring you home? How were you here? “It’s just me, Hood.” You gave him a shaky smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Wh...What?” Jason set his gun on the counter, rubbing his eyes. “Am I still asleep?”

Your laugh made his skin tingle. Goosebumps ran up and down his arms. “No, unless you’re sleepwalking. Which if you are, I should be concerned that you carry your gun around.” You came over and clicked the safety on his gun. Jason took a deep breath, throat catching at the scent of the lotion you used.

“Why are you here?” Jason crossed his arms, pretending he wasn’t melting inside. You were wearing a Christmas sweater, cheesy but sexy at the same time. Only you could pull off such a thing. Jason didn’t understand it.

“You said you would be alone, so I thought I’d come over and make you dinner.” Your eyes lingered on his bare chest. He tightened his arms, suddenly self-conscious of his scars. However, he recognized the glow of lust in your eyes. He swallowed hard. Did you like him? You weren’t here over pity?

Jason cleared his throat. “Thanks, I guess.”

Suddenly, you blushed and looked away. “I got you something too.” You turned to dig into one of the many bags on the table. “Here.” You pulled out a red wool Christmas sweater and handed it to him.

“Do you honestly think I’ll wear that?” Jason bit his lip to keep from smiling.

“I mean I’m wearing mine.” A smirk pulled at your lips, putting your hands on your hips. “Now why don’t you go do what you need to do, and I’ll have breakfast for you.”

“You made breakfast too?” Jason blinked, shocked by your kindness. He wanted to kiss you so bad, he thought his heart might stop.

You patted his arm. “Yeah, dinner’s going to be awhile. I haven’t even started on the chicken.” Jason’s arms jolted at your touch. His hands gripped at the sweater. It would be so easy to kiss you right now, to take you back to his bed and make his dream a reality. You didn’t seem to notice. “I made some muffins and I can whip up some eggs and ham too.”

Jason’s mouth watered. “Sounds good.” He turned away, hurrying to his bedroom before he made a mistake with you. You hummed in the kitchen. Jason’s crappy apartment suddenly felt more like a home. He shook his head in disbelief.

***

Jason sat at the table, eating the eggs, ham, and muffins you made him. You moved around the kitchen to slide a sheet of cookies into the oven before going back to chopping vegetables. Part of you wondered if you were being too ambitious, but you found you liked the idea of cooking for the sexy piece of man sitting behind you. An image of his bare chest flashed before your eyes. Oh, and his eyes. You almost cut your finger.

“I didn’t know you were such a cook.” His voice made your blush. You added the vegetables to the broth on the stove.

A snort escaped you. “My family cooked a lot, so I learned.” You turned to meet his eye. His gaze was so intense, your knees shook. “How did you like everything so far?” You turned to wash dishes. Don’t look at him again. You can’t kiss him yet, not when you have so much to do.

“Best food I’ve had in a while.” His chair creaked. He must have leaned back. “You probably seen how my diet is.”

“Fast food and microwave meals.” You shook your head, keeping your eyes on the dishes. “I don’t how you have so much muscle when that’s what you eat.”

He choked. You sneaked a peek at him, almost laughing at the blush on his face. “Well, it’s not like I have time to cook.” He got to his feet. The floor creaked as he approached. You tensed, hearing his dishes coming to rest beside the sink. “Can I help you with anything?”

You smiled playfully. “Dishes.” You turned only to find his face inches from yours. Time stopped. He took a sharp breath. His eyes looked straight into yours. They were so pretty, shining. “Wash the dishes, I mean if you could?”

“Yeah, I could.” He blinked. You backed away, bumping into the counter and spinning to go to the refrigerator. Your body was a pile of nerves. “I wanted to make some peanut butter blossoms to go with the snowball cookies.”

Jason cleared his throat. Dishes clanked in the sink. “How did you get all this food anyway? You couldn’t have always planned to break into my house.”

“No, but I have my ways.” You moved to the mixer you brought and started to the batter. Pursing your lips, you vowed not the mention how many favors you had to call to get all these ingredients, plus his red Christmas sweater in time. You sneaked a peek at him. The sweater looked great on him, highlighting every muscle in his arms. You only hoped you would get to rip it off him later.

***

The chicken smelled good enough to make Jason’s stomach rumble. He smiled as he watched you set up a small Christmas tree in the corner of his living room. The fact you got all this stuff into his apartment without waking him up made him wonder if you had superpowers. Of course, you probably did. The wonderful person that you were.

Jason wanted you more than ever. He told himself to kiss you, hold you, but he couldn’t do it. Could he let someone be that close to him? He would hurt you probably. A sigh escaped him. He closed his eyes.

“Look at this.” Suddenly, your scent tickled his nose. He opened his eyes to find you right in front of him with your arm above his head. You smirked. He glanced up to find you were holding mistletoe. “Ooo, what luck?”

Jason choked. “Are you serious?” He looked back at you, licking his lips self-consciously.

You glanced away shyly. “Yeah, I am.” You looked back at him, passion in your eyes. Jason shivered. His arms wrapped around your waist. “We’ve been dancing around each other for so long. I decided it was time for one of us to make a move. Finding out you’d be alone on Christmas seemed the right time.” You pressed your chest against his. “What do you think, Hood? I mean we’re under mistletoe. It’s tradition and the chicken won’t be done for another hour.”

A smirk pulled at Jason’s lips. His body responded to you. He chuckled and sealed his lips to yours. You tasted just like he dreamed. His arms tightened around you, lifting you against him as he backed you toward his bedroom. You laughed, keeping the mistletoe in your hand as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

***

“This is probably the best Christmas I’ve had,” Jason chuckled, taking a big bite of his chicken leg. He was lounging naked on his bed, eating with only the sheet covering him.

You smiled. Your plate of warm food rested in your hand as you sat cross-legged beside him. Jason’s red Christmas sweater was your only piece of clothing. “I’m glad. I’d say this is probably one of the best I’ve had too.” You winked at him.

“I dreamed about you last night.” Jason focused on his plate as he shoveled the food down. “I brought you home and did what we just did, but this is so much better than that.”

You blushed at the idea he dreamed about you. “So I made your dream come true, huh?”

Jason looked at you, fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “Yeah, you did.” He smiled at you. “I don’t suppose you would want to spend the night? Give me time to thank you for this Christmas dinner.”

“I don’t have plans.” You winked at him again. Of course, he would find out in the morning that you had brought an overnight bag with you just in case this worked out like you hoped. “I would like to see what you could get me for Christmas.”

His smirk sent a shiver down your spine. He set his plate aside before taking yours. Once the plates were away, his lips slammed into yours. You laughed, toppling over with Jason landing on top of you. It was a Merry Christmas after all.

***

Unknown to the two of you, someone watched from across the street. “Master Bruce, have you gotten the nerve to ask him to join us yet?” Alfred asked through the comlink. Bruce, dressed as Batman, sighed and set down his binoculars once he saw Jason’s naked butt.

“He’s with that new vigilante. The one he cares about.” Bruce turned away, dropping down to the waiting batmobile. “He’s not alone on Christmas. I won’t interrupt him now.”

Alfred huffed. “At the very least. You should have invited him to the manor like I told you to.”

Bruce stepped on the gas. The batmobile soared down the street. “He’s happy. I’m not going to interrupt his happiness.” Alfred hummed before dropping out of the call. Bruce sighed, smiling with slight relief. At least Jason had someone since Bruce failed him once again.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd imagine #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood imagine #dc comics imagines #dc reader insert #christmas

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mutantmayhem2023 · 3 years

Text

| i’m still holding on, neon

→ KANERA WEEK 2021 DAY ONE, PROMPT: TROUBLE

pairing: kanan jarrus/hera syndulla

words: 3.4k

rating: t, for swearing and mentions of alcohol

summary: after nine long years, padawan caleb dume kanan jarrus is met with a friend from his past at the jedi temple, fellow (almost) padawan hera syndulla.

(shoutout to @kananjarrus-jediknight who helped let this au get way out of hand with me)

The neon light from the sign of Old Jho’s blinks unsteady, or maybe it doesn’t – Kanan’s head is still feeling pretty swayed. It was definitely the last drink he had – that had to be it, definitely not the long assortment of liquors that came before that one. That guy was just too pretty and his skin was so blue and his eyes were so–

His hand grabs at the outside wall of the bar, steadying himself and barely preventing him from crashing head over heels into the dusty Lothal street. He takes in a shaky breath, the fresh air would clear him up, get him ready to go back in. If the ground could just stop moving then maybe–

“Excuse me–”

And, with those two words alone, it’s like something wakes him up, the fog on his mind lifts, the heaviness in his eyes is gone – The kind of clarity, the instantaneous kind that only ever came from the Force.

And that voice, he knows that voice. He does. It’s different, but…

He turns to it.

This time he’s sure the Lothal moons above are shining within his chest.

It’s her.

“Caleb?” She says, the name dropping from her lips before she has the chance to compose herself. Her lekku go rigid.

He hadn’t heard anyone speak that name in nine years. In fact, he’d come to terms with the fact that he never would hear it again.

The look in those green eyes of hers only say one thing, the same thing that slips from his own mouth,

“You’re alive?”

She doesn’t quite nod but her eyebrows knit closer together in fondness. She’s seeing a ghost. Looking at him, but through him too.

He goes to take a step towards her and suddenly all the blood rushes to his head and the alcohol finally catches up to him. She dives to attempt an intercept before he crashes head first into the ground. She misses him by a second.

“Oh shit,” She mutters under her breath. You could’ve caught him with the F–

Thank goodness the sound of the bar muffles any of the noise they’ve just made. The dust she kicked up finally settles.

They, she thinks. But she nips it in the bud before she thinks too much more about it. Right now she needed to wipe off the stray dirt and was that - yup. A bar nut shell that had stuck to his shoe. Yup, that was Caleb Dume. Clearly they had a lot of catching up to do. It was taking everything in her not to just skim the top of his consciousness. It was funny, in the Force he felt the same.

He was dead to the world. She would definitely need to check his head when they made it back to her ship. Chopper wasn’t going to let her hear the end of it either but then again, she had told him before about the little boy who tried too hard to be her friend back at the Temple. It’s not like she had a lot of other people to talk to.

Geez, he wasn’t very easy to maneuver when he was deadweight. She does eventually manage to get him slung around her shoulder, his boots scratching against the scattered road on their path back to her pride and joy. The Ghost.

She was just hoping Caleb was still as eager to joke with her, because she wasn’t going to let him live down the fact that she had just carried him back to her ship because he was too plastered to do so himself.

Something in her did whisper that she had more of an influence in him passing out than anything else. She squashes the thought down as quickly as it came up, however.

She could still hear them teasing one another in the back of her brain. She catches a quick glance at his face, his facial features are more defined now, the bridge of his name is the same and his facial hair was surprisingly well kept. His eyelashes are still ridiculously long, for a male of any species.

His brows furrow momentarily and she looks away within an instant, he doesn’t wake though. Only stirring, but the good news was that the Ghost was now in view.

She fiddles in her pocket with her free hand to grab her commlink. She was really hoping he wouldn’t wake up, because even thinking about explaining the current situation was hurting her brain. Doing that when he was laying down in her ship’s medbay sounded a lot more manageable.

She presses the commlink, and in just a bit more than a whisper, “Chop, I’m back. Can you drop the ramp for me?”

She holds her breath, hoping to not be met with her droid’s usual attitude or for Caleb to wake.

The droid’s reply crackles over the comm and the ramp lowers.

“Come on,” She whispers to her friend, as she helps them both onto the ship. Grateful in that moment that she found a spot to dock that wasn’t too far out of the city. And it wasn’t like someone being drunkenly carried out of a cantina wasn’t a usual sight these days. Everyone had to deal with the Empire one way or another. It was just a stroke of luck there wasn’t a big Imperial presence around this part of the city tonight.

It’s more than luck, Hera. You know that.

As the ramp closes in behind her, her droid wheels into the room. Asking her colourfully worded questions in binary.

“This,” She replies, beelining for the medbay. “Would be my old friend.”

He stinks like behind a bar, her droid replies.

“Oh really?” Hera says, glaring at her droid. “I hadn’t noticed!”

She kicks off her boots, with Caleb still resting on her, she was really starting to ache from doing that.

“Maybe you could help me get him out of this room. So he can wake up without passing out on me this time!”

Chopper grumbles something, but obliges. She knew he was only annoyed because he could tell she hadn’t done what she set out to do this evening. But knowing he was alive kind of intercepted her plans. Besides, there was always tomorrow and maybe, just maybe Caleb would tag along and help her. Maybe.

She wasn’t about to go and get ahead of herself, but gosh that creeping hopeful feeling in her chest wasn’t any kind of help. She had to be more realistic. The world around her had taught her that all too quickly.

By the time she gets him to the medbay, he practically flops out of her arms and onto the bed, face down again. She lets out a sigh before rolling him over. Chopper complains something about him dirting the floor and shoves his legs up onto the bed properly. Definitely far rougher than Hera would've been. She really shouldn’t be surprised by that anymore, and after all, this was the first person she’d ever brought on the ship. There was always going to be some animosity.

She blinks herself back to the current moment only to realise her hand is still resting on Caleb’s arm. Her droid chirps at her accusingly.

“Chop, wait here,” She says, running a hand over the top of her droid’s head before running from the room. Clearly acting on an idea she had yet to share.

She returns with one of the spare blankets from the storage hold. And one of her mugs from the ship’s kitchen area.

You’re letting him stay here? Her droid asks her in an accusatory tone.

“He passed out, Chop!” She says, in something of a whisper-yell. “I couldn’t just leave him there. Besides, it’s not like anyone came out looking for him! I just wanted to,” She doesn’t really know where she was going with this.

She places the blanket over him, she places the blanket over him. “I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

Right.

She huffs, before getting out the painkillers that she knew he was going to need when he woke up. Hera hadn’t been drunk many times and certainly never as much as Caleb was right now, but the fact that he was going to be met with both a hangover and his long-lost and most likely presumed dead best friend, well, it didn’t hurt to tread on the side of caution.

She fills the mug with water and leaves it next to him. And props herself up on the counter, it was late but she felt too awake.

The sight of him made her heart sit firmly in her throat. It brought back all of these memories and feelings she thought she had laid to rest a long time ago. Of inside jokes, of teachers long gone and stories told in a hush between their fellow younglings, of an ache so strong that it felt like nothing in the world would ever make it go away.

Or maybe, it just felt long enough ago now that it was easier to distract herself from.

Either way, it was a lot.

You going to sleep anytime soon? Her droid asks.

She laughs, “Eventually.”

She runs a hand over her face, before sighing into it. That was a lie and Chopper knew it as well as she did.

“You can power down for the night if you want. I’ll be okay.”

She crosses her feet together, bouncing them against the cupboards she’s sitting on.

Chopper makes a sound like a sigh and reluctantly he beeps out a goodnight. To be honest, she was expecting more resistance from him but today had been interesting for both of them.

With her droid offline for the evening, well, probably morning now. She still wasn’t quite adjusted to Lothal time. Which would make tomorrow even more exciting if she was going to get hyperlag.

Well, if she wasn’t going to sleep she might as well get something productive done. Read more into the intel she’d been given. She presses off the counter and makes her way back into the kitchen. Right now, it was time for caf.

There’s something restless in her as she waits for it to heat up. She didn’t feel right not waiting in the room, this was going to be worse if Caleb woke up and she wasn’t there. Standing still wasn’t doing anything for her nerves, which usually weren’t a problem.

She was supposed to be more in control with this kind of thing. She closes her eyes and draws into the Force, deliberately drawing in a deep breath.

Calm down, Hera.

New distraction, change into more comfortable clothes. As she does, she feels all too aware of the drawer near her bed where she kept her lightsaber. She hadn’t touched it in years but for the first time in a while she doesn’t tune out the singing the crystal makes.

Once she pulls her shirt over her head and over her lekku, the caf blips a sound in the air that it's done and by the time she’s changed it’s been just long enough that her drink was going to be the perfect temperature. She smiles to herself before cradling the mug in her hands.

With Chopper powered down for the night and not trundling behind her, it was really quiet on this big ship.

The door to the medbay slides open and sure enough, Caleb is still sleeping. His head resting against his shoulder, the blanket still covering him. He must have moved a lot in his sleep because his hair is now loose around his face.

He looks peaceful.

But, just to be sure, she hops back up on the counter so she has a good view of him. Just in case, she tells herself.

She aimlessly scrolls through the Holonet catching up on the news of the day. Nothing really of substance, more Imperial presence in the Lothal sector. Which could make things more difficult but if she could make up for the lost time today then she wouldn’t really have to worry about that much.

She takes a sip of her caf, and this time exits out of the Holonet and into the files shared with her and an unopened message from her contact.

The rest of the night passes without much out of the ordinary. She almost falls asleep at one point but the sound of someone sitting up in the bed wakes her back up.

So, Caleb Dume was the kind of drunk that woke up in the early hours of the morning.

“Good morning,” She says, looking up from the datapad.

He blinks hard a couple of times, and yawns. Then he finally focuses on who’s in front of him.

“Hera?”

She nods, a smile on her face. His voice holds far more emotion than just the name he asks. He seems to be taking in the surrounding of the repurposed room turned medbay. It wasn’t like she had the chance to ask him to come back to her ship. But, she wasn’t going to leave him there either. What kind of friend did that?

“Yeah, it’s me,” She answers, voice soft.

He nods to himself, his mind is clouded in the Force. It practically radiates off him.

“So you made it out, too?” He asks, his voice hoarse from the previous night.

She nods a couple times, before crossing her legs up on the counter and setting aside her datapad.

“We don’t have to talk about that right now,” She starts, considering she hadn’t really spoken any of it out loud ever, she didn’t expect him to do the same right now. He also still looked half asleep. “But I do think you should have some water.”

He scoffs, and she motions with her head to the mug she put beside him earlier.

“Thanks,” He says, lifting it in her direction. He downs it all. “So, about last night,”

He rubs a hand into his temple.

“Yeah,” She says in a laugh, looking at the wall beside her. “I’m just surprised you made it up those stairs out of the bar.”

“You’ve been there before?”

“Not exactly, but I did check the building’s layout before leaving last night.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. There was so much else they could be talking about right now, and here they both were discussing a local bar.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, really. I kind of had plans last night, well that was before you passed out on me.”

He cringes, crinkling his nose. Just like back at the temple, like he’d been caught out asking too many questions.

“Sorry about that.”

She jumps down from the counter finally. He seemed open enough, but she didn’t want to push it.

“Look, I’m just happy you didn’t throw up on me.”

That earns a laugh from him.

“Also, I think you should probably have those, Caleb.” She says pointing to the container of tablets next to him.

“Kanan,” He says, correcting her.

“What?”

“My name is Kanan, now.” His voice seems stronger now.

Her mouth drops open, she hadn’t expected that. But then again, it did make sense. She never considered changing her name, it’s not like she’d even been formally made a padawan. Her name was hers alone. It hurt her to know that he no longer thought the same.

“I’m sorry.” Is all she can offer him. As much as she was trying to be composed it was proving to be more difficult than she had accounted for.

That and the more Ca – Kanan – seemed to come to, the grief in the room seemed to be pressing down harder and harder. The turtleneck she changed into feels tighter.

She finally looks at him again, and the sadness in those eyes of his feels like something is tearing in her chest.

“So, you’ve been alone too,” He says before she gets the chance to.

She tips her head to the side, getting a better read on him, just as he was doing the same for her.

“Well, apart from Chopper… yeah. You?”

He takes a beat before answering.

“Yeah,” His blue green eyes are focusing in, “I can’t lie, I’m still not really used to it.”

That was an invitation, Hera. Keep the conversation going, She thinks.

“Neither,” She replies. “It’s hard to forget how occupied life used to be.”

There was the lump in the back of her throat again.

“Hah, you can say that again.”

He looks up from the ground, and meets Hera’s gaze.

“I still can’t believe you’re alive.”

His voice breaks as he says that. I wish I knew you were, all this time, is what is left unsaid in that sentence.

She sucks in her bottom lip.

So, she still did that. For some reason, it offers him a sense of relief.

“I could say the same,” She finally says. The silence in the air was worse than the words they were using to fill it with. She takes a few steps closer to him. “Are you alright to stand?”

“I don’t see why not,”

Either he was lying or talking about the past was doing a good job of sobering him up.

“Follow me,” She says, opening the door to the hallway.

“You don’t want to wake your droid?”

Hera takes a look back at Chopper, remembering how much of a liking he had taken to Kanan earlier.

“Yeah, I think it’s best to leave him out of this for now.”

She hears his feet hit the ground behind her and takes that as time to leave the room, and the fact that he doesn’t hit any of the walls of the ship on their way to the cockpit is also a good sign.

“Nice ship,” He says from behind, she doesn’t need to look at him to know he means it.

“Yeah, she goes alright,” She says, tapping her hand against the entryway to the cockpit and the door slides open in front of them, “After you,”

She motions for him to enter first.

“Wow,” He says, taking in the rising sun on the horizon. Her ship was angled perfectly to capture it.

She takes a moment to really take it in too. This was her first morning on Lothal, the sun seemed brighter too. Logically, she knew it wasn’t but – still.

“So, you live here?” Hera asks.

Kanan takes a stride towards the co-pilot’s chair, and crosses his arms against the top of it, looking over his shoulder as she comes to sit in the pilot’s seat. It was far more comfortable than the bench she’d been sitting on all night and her back thanked her as soon as she sat into it.

“Eh, not really. I got a job a couple of planets over and one thing led to another and blah, blah, blah.”

She nods her head, listening to him. Closing her eyes to really take in the warmth of the sun even through the ship’s viewport.

“You can sit down if you want,” Hera says. She can feel him hovering in the spot he is, unsure whether doing so was crossing a boundary.

“This is comfortable,” He answers. “Thanks for the blanket, by the way.”

She opens her eyes to see he’s readjusted it to wrap over his shoulders like –

“You ever miss wearing them?” He asks, completely out of the blue.

Clearly, she wasn’t the only one sensing the other in the room. Even if that always had been more of her thing. She remembers first trying them on, the arms far too big for her.

“Yeah, I do.”

She looks across at him, and he’s already looking at her.

“Kanan,” She starts.

And, for the first time, hearing that from her in that voice… It was like the name he’d chosen to stay alive finally had meaning. Like his name could mean something.

“I know I said you didn’t have to talk about it, which is true and I truly don’t mind, but I have to tell you.”

Her steels her jaw, pressing her tongue to the top of her mouth to stop the tears. It was her tried and tested method.

“I didn’t think I would ever, ever see you again. And I know you feel the same way, and I know a lot has happened and we’ve both changed and chances are I really don’t know you anymore but–”

She stops herself. This was the most she had opened up to anyone in the longest time.

“But–” She hears him say. “–it feels like this was meant to happen.”

“Exactly.”

She was wrong, and for what felt like the first time, she was happy to be. Her face softens as she starts crying and when she blinks the tears away and looks at him, there’s tears in his eyes too.

They both smile at each other. Basking in all the moment has to offer. Two Jedi, two survivors finding one another.

“This is gonna be trouble, isn’t it?” He says, looking out the dawn on Lothal.

Nothing else needed to be said, Kanan answering the question Hera hadn’t been able to yet speak aloud. They’d made their way back to each other. There was no way anything in the whole galaxy would get in the way of that. They had a lot to catch up on, and it would take time.

But she had this bursting feeling that had they had that one their side.

“When have we not been?”

#kaneraweek2021 #hera syndulla #kanan jarrus #kanera #star wars rebels #star wars #i started writing this last week and then finished it up in the last two days because i haven’t written anything for them that isn’t my au #so….. pls enjoy whatever this is <33 #also this formatted weirdly from google docs but it’s 2:30am &&&& i don’t care #kaneraposting #writing #okay to rb!

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malkumtend · 3 years

Text

I Like Your Laugh - A SquirrelCrow AU - Chapter 23.

Crowpaw hadn’t slept.

He wished it was because of the dusty stink of the rabbit warren his clan had been forced into, or the scream of the monsters outside, far away yet never quiet, or the constant growling and parched coughs of his clanmates that carried on throughout the night like a predator’s call.

But it wasn’t anything like that.

It was the never-changing grind in Crowpaw’s chest. Pounding. Stinging. Unrelenting.

All night he’d stirred restlessly as the nightmare of reality picked at his dreams like ravens at fresh kill. It could have been about anything, the failure of the clan meeting, the growing desperation it was clear Windclan was facing, the knowledge that with every passing second the forest was becoming barren of the prey and shelter they needed.

But it wasn’t anything logical.

Instead, the searing pain that flared over his belly was carried by a wildfire of five words.

She’d be ashamed of you.

Crowpaw breathed in the dead air and tried to imagine that it didn’t burn.

“Crowpaw?”

Stopping himself short, he turned to his mother, feeling suddenly guilty for how sadly she was looking at him.

Crowpaw wanted to give the most simple answer of “Yes?”

But that felt too heavy. His ear flicked instead.

Ashfoot looked down to Crowpaw’s feet, her whiskers shuffling. When Crowpaw followed, he saw his right paw inches from a deep rabbit hole. Crowpaw grumbled to himself, hating his own stupidity. Windclan were taught as kits how to avoid tripping in the many holes that engorged their territory. Angry embarrassment prickled along his neck.

“Sorry, Ashfoot.” He rasped, walking around the trap.

His mother looked at him gently. “Don’t worry, I know it’s hard to recognise much about the moors anymore.”

She wasn’t wrong, but it was still the kindness of a hollow excuse. Somewhere inside, she must have felt ashamed that her own flesh and blood had almost made such a ludicrous mistake. Crowpaw certainly felt the shame curl inside him.

She’d be ashamed of you.

He said nothing more as he followed Ashfoot. There would be nothing to gain from scenting these holes; the prey had long since moved on. There was nothing left here for rabbits or hares.

There was nothing left here for any cat.

But the clan was still starving, and someone needed to feed them. Elders, mothers, and kits needed some cat to search this wasteland for them. Crowpaw had been the first to volunteer.

He couldn’t just sit and do nothing. What point would there be to him if he did that?

Ashfoot slowed her pace to walk beside her son. Crowpaw knew she was staring at him. How exactly she was looking at him he didn’t want to see. “When was the last time you ate anything?” She asked tersely.

Crowpaw’s chest fluttered, “It doesn’t matter.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

It was hard to admit that he was forcing himself to look at his own mother. His tail tried to hide the sink of his ribs along his pelt. “I don’t know.” He lied, “Yesterday morning?” Truthfully, he hadn’t eaten since a few days after he’d left the Tribe’s cave. Even then, he’d been forcing himself. Swallowing just didn’t seem to have a point then. And now he was back, and now that he’d seen every shrinking stomach, the idea of eating felt like something wrong.

His job was to feed those who needed it.

He would survive.

“Then it will do you good to eat when we get back, Crowpaw.” Ashfoot said, “Onewhisker and Tornear caught some prey for the apprentices to share this morning. I’m sure there’ll be spare for you.”

“Give it to another cat. Whitetail and her kits can have it if they saved some for me.”

Ashfoot looked torn between pride and worry. “Crowpaw, I know what you’re trying to do and it’s very noble of you. But we don’t know how long it will be before we move on; you need to make sure you eat as well.”

“If I need to eat, I will. But right now, I don’t.”

Ashfoot’s mew hardened, “And what will happen when you need to and there isn’t any prey? We need to share what we can as a clan! And that clan includes you!”

The clouds overhead didn’t cool the foul winds, they amplified them. Walking toneless underneath the cold grey, Crowpaw felt like an icicle buried in a freezing tomb. When he walked, paws sinking in mud and grot, nothing felt like home. He felt no attachment to this place like he once did. He felt the disorientation of an outsider.

It had been like ever since he’d come back.

“If we don’t know how long we’ll be here for, then it makes more sense for me to make sure the cats who need it the most get fed.”

“It’s not down to you alone, Crowpaw.” Ashfoot said, sighing. “Windclan will do better if you keep your strength up as well. We all work together, like we always do.” She pressed her pelt against Crowpaw’s with an amorous purr.

Crowpaw felt her bony frame and the fur that sagged without weight.

He didn’t like disagreeing with his mother, but she was wrong. It was up to Crowpaw to make sure that cats got the meals they deserved. It was the least he could do after they’d suffered for so long.

“I’m strong enough, Ashfoot.” He said plainly.

Ashfoot gave him a weak smile, “I know you are.” Crowpaw once felt warmed when his mother spoke like this, with the warm drip that stroked her lips and reminded Crowpaw that this powerful Warrior that had raised him and his siblings alone, for the greater part of his life, was his mother.

The mother who despite starving for what must have been a moon, still cared more about the son who had run away.

It was moments like this that made it so much easier for Crowpaw to forget that he was hungry.

Ashfoot pulled away, giving her son a firm look. “But please, you do need to eat Crowpaw. Every cat is hunting, so you mustn’t think you’re being selfish by eating as well.”

“I don’t think that, Ashfoot.” He didn’t. He just knew that someone else deserved it over him.

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

His answer seemed to reassure Ashfoot enough. Good. She could worry about herself now. The same way Crowpaw worried about her.

They travelled over the next two hills and didn’t find anything. Crowpaw could hear the monsters silver claws somewhere, tearing into their home once again effortlessly. He saw his mother shiver, a thin look of dread on her muzzle.

She was no fool.

Crowpaw wished he could say something to ease her thoughts.

But he was no fool either.

“They’re getting closer.” Ashfoot muttered. “It won’t be long until they reach Shadowclan’s territory.”

Crowpaw couldn’t stifle a growl. “Who cares? If they’re going to run away like frightened hares, they won’t need it anymore.”

Ashfoot glanced at him briefly, her tail twitching.

Crowpaw knew how it sounded. The cat who had come back talking of prophecies about the clans leaving together, now damning a clan for fleeing certain death. He didn’t care. He saw Blackstar’s unwillingness to negotiate. The tom had made up his mind before he’d even arrived.

“If he wasn’t even going to listen in the first place, he shouldn’t have wasted our time and just made Shadowclan leave.”

Ashfoot stared ahead gravely. Tallstar had reluctantly informed the clan of the opinion of the leader’s and had advised them to be patient for just a bit longer while they and Thunderclan worked to change their minds.

But no cat had the strength for patience.

“Blackstar has always been…” Her words broke off in a quiet hiss.

“Hare-brained?”

“I was going to say insufferable, but sure.” Ashfoot admitted, the slither of a snarl on her lips. It disappeared with a sigh. “But he is still a leader, and hopefully Tallstar can convince him to leave with us.”

Crowpaw spat, “Nothing would convince that fox-heart of anything!”

“If the monsters make their way through his territory, he may soon be thinking differently.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.”

Ashfoot nodded silently, lifting her nose to taste the air again. “I wouldn’t either. But Tallstar wants all the clans to leave together, and it’s our duty to stand by his wishes until he thinks differently.” A bitter mew muffled out of the molly. “No matter how long that may be.”

Anger. Crowpaw was accustomed to the feeling. For a long, long time, he’d taken a twisted comfort from it. Anger had pushed him on, made him stronger, chased away enemies. Anger had been a red sky that kept him ready for the battle of this forest.

But now, that anger just tasted like bile.

“Yeah.” Crowpaw muttered bitterly. “Well, maybe we don’t need them if they’re going to make us wait like this.”

Ashfoot whipped her tail pointedly, a knowing frown on her muzzle. “Well, at the very least I know you’ve been listening to your mentor.”

Crowpaw cringed. Mudclaw’s stern face froze over a dark corner of his mind. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” Ashfoot asked, “Crowpaw, you’re the one who told Tallstar about the prophecy.”

Crowpaw walked on wordlessly. His nose felt full of tight air that stung when he inhaled. She was right. When it all came down to it, it had been Crowpaw’s idea. Not to leave, in his heart he knew that Windclan definitely would have come to that conclusion on their own. But to leave with the other clans.

‘I bet you’re really proud to have that kind of influence.’

The snarl prodded Crowpaw with an accusing reminder. Even if Crowpaw hadn’t meant it, maybe Webfoot had a point. His story had created influence over Tallstar’s decision. It was because of that that his leader was reluctant to leave with just his own clan.

He’d probably be begging them to leave when he was close to his own death.

And as the days went on, and Tallstar grew weaker and weaker, that didn’t seem as much of a nightmare as a certainty.

“I’m sorry.” His apology crossed the stale air, hopefully reaching more cats than just his mother.

Ashfoot’s tail stiffened as it rose in the air. “What for?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“And keep Starclan’s message from the rest of us? Don’t be mouse-brained!” Her tail whipped his rump, like she did when he was a grouchy little kit moaning about staying in the nursery. “It’s good you told us, Crowpaw. Now we know what Starclan wants.”

If it was what Starclan wanted, then where were they while the clans argued last night.

“Sometimes I don’t understand you, Crowpaw.” Ashfoot meowed, “Why would you even suggest leaving the clans after what you told us?” Her stare hardened, “Did Mudclaw say something to you?”

‘Remember where your real allies are if the time comes.’

“Not really.” Crowpaw couldn’t make more trouble for his Deputy.

Ashfoot sighed, giving him the look. The look that showed she knew what he was thinking and how he wasn’t being honest. Even now, it made his head drop.

“Well… maybe he’s right? If the clans won’t help us, maybe we should go on our own.”

“Do you really think we could make it on our own?” There was a soft directness there that was open yet judging all the same.

Crowpaw kept quiet. Windclan was weak, he had to admit that, but if no help was going to come whether they swallowed their pride or not, maybe it was best they just did what they could quickly.

“I’m not saying I don’t understand where Mudclaw is coming from. I’m sure he has only Windclan’s best interest in his heart.” Ashfoot smiled, though it looked perfunctory. “But what he needs to remember, as do you.” She mewed, “Is that he is not Windclan’s leader. We don’t need to be raking up old bones at a time like this.”

Crowpaw snorted, “Why not? The other leaders have.”

When Ashfoot looked back at him, Crowpaw suddenly felt tired again. He frowned and made his eyes go low once again, ignoring the discontent, but mostly ignoring the worry that clouded his mother like hail.

The worry he was the cause off.

Here he was again, making problems like he always did.

“Crowpaw…” His mother sounded closer now.

Crowpaw, against his nature, took a brisk step away and let his mouth move, not caring for what words came out. “No! Why should we have to wait because a few leaders can’t see sense?”

“Because that’s how it is.”

It was hard to tell if Ashfoot said that with assurance or reluctance. Perhaps it was resignation.

Like everything was inevitable, no matter what.

“Fox-dung.” Crowpaw muttered. It didn’t have to be that way at all. Blackstar and Leopardstar did what they did because they could, because circumstances had gifted them the luxury of an escape or shelter that the others could not cling too. What did they even know? What had they done while their clans picked at bones for food or sucked on leaves for moisture?

But then, what had Crowpaw done?

He pushed away the dark, nestling into the nest of anger.

He became aware again of his mother’s presence. This time, when she’d pressed their cold pelts beside each other, she used her tail to make sure he didn’t slip away so easily. She kept him by her purring chest, offering a light lick on the back of his head.

She hardly ever did that.

He sighed. Just how terrible did he look?

The comfort, the understanding she offered felt suffocating. She moved so clearly with the honesty of her care. But everything just felt, at best, hollow or, at worst, like a wasp sting swelling up with doubtful venom. For years, his mother’s advice had been like the word of Starclan.

But here, believing at all just felt worthless and empty.

Nothing felt okay anymore.

“I know it’s frustrating for you.” Ashfoot’s voice came down like soft rain, “After everything you’ve been through, I know this isn’t what you thought would happen.”

Crowpaw began to itch all over.

Frustrating for him?

Everything he’d been through.

“But,” Ashfoot had now become close enough that her heartbeat synchronised with his. Her voice was like a morning mist. “Windclan now has a plan for if we decide to leave. That’s because of what you did, Crowpaw. You should be proud of that.”

Crowpaw didn’t say a word as something began to pound again at the back of his head.

“I’m certainly proud of you.”

The fragments of Crowpaw’s meaningless pride began to twist once again.

“You know that, don’t you?” Ashfoot’s questions sounded like a plea in her son’s whirlpool thoughts.

“Yeah, I do.” He just barely formed the stifled grunts into a reply. He did it at first to end the conversation. He did it more to stop the fear from coating his mother’s eyes.

“I might go check if there’s any prey over there.” Crowpaw said, forcing himself to give a courteous press of his tail to his mother’s flank before he walked away.

“Huh?” The fire of a protest built in Ashfoot. “We should hunt together.” Something hurt in her tone.

“The prey’s scattered since the Twolegs came.” As if he had any right to explain that. “I can check one area on my own.”

“But we need to-”

“I’ll see you back at camp.” He said gruffly, steadily pacing away as his mother stared at his back. He pretended not to hear her sigh as she turned to search her own area, the area that covered their border with Thunderclan.

Crowpaw made sure he’d avoid that.

He knew he’d most likely get a scolding later. There wasn’t really a reason why he needed to go on his own. All that stretched in his direction was dead grass and the remnants of bushes, green bodies turning a sickly yellow in the dusty air. He’d find no prey around here, more than likely returning to his disappointed clanmates a failure.

He could only hope Ashfoot had better luck.

He had no choice but to press on, searching yet not truly hunting. It didn’t matter, he realised. The pounding still batted like enemy paws on his neck. He couldn’t escape it. Really, he was more of a fool for imagining that he could.

The tom grit his teeth as his thoughts turned rogue once again. He lifted his sunken eyes to the hill, his neck cracking at the soft movement.

It didn’t make any sense. He knew where his heart had to lie. He knew what side he was on. And he’d made certain to clarify that last night. In the scheme of the stars, of the clans, he’d done no wrong, he’d only followed the paw prints that had guided the clans long before he was born.

So why…

Why did it hurt so much?

Why did the memory of those eyes, once soft, turned furious, make him want to vomit?

There was no reason to be like this. This was how it was meant to be. All that deserved to be on his mind was Windclan’s safety. Anything else was just him wasting time and energy that could be used to actually help some cat.

But try as he might, every thought he made, every move he took, caused a reaction on his body. A pulse in his chest, a tightness in his throat, and that never-ending pounding against his skull. Every second was like a fight.

And it made him tired.

So very very tired.

He shook himself up. What was he thinking? This was no time to be selfish. Windclan needed prey and he had to return with some.

Or why return at all.

Crowpaw whipped his head from side to side, as if the pain in his neck could be removed like a flea.

They didn’t need him.

He began to walk faster, not caring when he stumbled across rabbit holes and tripped through slumps in the hill.

He was just another cat without prey. Like so many others. He was nothing special. He was no help.

“No!” He hissed to whatever monster was making his sight sting. Windclan needed him, they needed all the help they could get. That was his duty. That was his reason to…

Did Windclan need him?

Or did he need Windclan?

Something had begun to buzz in Crowpaw’s ears. But there was nothing to see wherever he looked. Nothing at all.

What Windclan cat thought of the other clans this much?

“No!” Crowpaw yelled into the moors. Any prey for tree-lengths now would surely be scared off.

He was worried about Windclan, that was all. He was worried about his home. It was Windclan where he had been born, it was in Windclan that he had caught his first prey, it was in Windclan where he had struggled and fought fuelled on his determination to be one of their treasured Warriors.

But so had every other Windclan cat.

Nightcloud, Webfoot, even Owlpaw, they had all lived Windclan just like Crowpaw. Their loyalty was just as strong as his. They had watched as their home was destroyed, and they had done everything in their power to keep their clanmates alive and well, to keep Windclan’s spirit alive!

Did he really have the audacity to savour his loyalty as some kind of pride?

Loyalty was just the necessary goal of his existence.

Crowpaw’s legs had begun to tremble. He sniffed the air, his whiskers pathetically seeming to beg in how they wavered in the air like the shaking paws of a kitten. This had to stop, and it had to stop now. What was he even doing? Arguing with himself like this?! What good was he doing, standing in the middle of a prey-less hill, muttering and screaming at nothing?

He wanted to prove himself, didn’t he?

He had to prove himself.

He needed to prove himself.

He was loyal, he knew he was loyal, he’d do anything for Windclan, that was why he’d given up on his fr-

He pressed a paw to his face, exasperated, and didn’t flinch when he felt claws pierce into his fur.

What was he doing? No. They weren’t that anymore. They should have never been that at all. He needed to regret that, forget about everything, if he wanted to carry on, in order to function. They would travel together, but whatever false ties he’d let materialise for too long were cut. He’d seen to that. He’d made it happen.

They hated him. He was sure of that. When they sat beside him last night, there was nothing there but the same countenance as the beginning. That icy silence that should have carried them through the whole journey. Before his leader, Crowpaw had made it clear where he stood.

Last night, associating those faces with their clan had made it so much simpler to push them away into the dark. The grey tom who’s leader had left his own begging for water, the tabby molly who’s clan wanted to hide away in the den of kittypets and Two-legs, and the brown tom who’s leader refused to see sense and stubbornly put his faith in leader’s who’s hearts were already set on their own ambitions.

Yes. It was so much easier when he did that.

And as for his best-

As for Squ-

A-As for that mol-

She’d be ashamed of you.

She must have hated him.

Even in the beginning, she’d never said anything to him with such venom.

Wasn’t that better? No. It was better. It-It needed to- (Please don’t look at me like that. Please. That had been what he’d thought when she hated him)

Why was this happening? She wasn’t any different. Just another cat he’d been forced to complete a task with. She shouldn’t have even been there in the first place. There was no reason he should dwell on her, or for the molly who had (saved his life) died-

He couldn’t let them do this to him. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. (They were gone. He was alone. All alone.) It wasn’t his fault they’d believed they were anything more than rivals. If they’d been truly loyal they would have kept away. (They were good cats. Such amazing cats.) The hills stretched to nowhere as he wandered. Lost. Unwanted. Unneeded. (He missed them. Even now he missed them so much.)

The buzzing in his ears was dark and hungry. It growled fiercely.

‘Focus on their clans’, he begged himself, ‘They’ve left you behind. They don’t care. They never did. It’s time to wake up. If you care so much about this, you shouldn’t be here. Be a Windclan cat, for starclan’s sake, be a Windclan cat!’

The others were the problem. Not him. Shadowclan were cowards. Thunderclan were foolish idealists. Riverclan were stubborn, traitors who refused to believe their own cats! Ignored their cats last wishes.

(She died for her clan and for you. What are you doing?)

Crowpaw stopped running – how had he not realised he’d been running – listening to the buzzing drift as it twisted over the pounding of his heartbeat. Once again, he was nowhere sufficient. The grass was cracked and caked with dirt. The scents of prey mingled in a forgotten symphony, too far to be of any use. Even the berries on some lonely bushes nearby had long since dried up.

It was silent.

Silent enough for him to consider the words.

Consider everything actually.

What was he doing?

He was prey-less, far from his clan, twisting over thoughts he shouldn’t consider. His clan was waiting for his help. They had been waiting for his help ever since he had returned.

And he’d done nothing.

The prey he had caught was shrivelled and meaningless, any cat could have caught it, if he had never been on that patrol no cat would have noticed.

He had told the clans they needed to leave. But when he looked at them, how long would it have taken them to realise that in the first place. Tallstar had believed him so easily, it was more than likely they would have chosen to left even if he had never given them the message.

So… What really had he done that any other cat couldn’t have? What help was he really?

What did Ashfoot have to be proud of?

She’d be ashamed of you.

Crowpaw looked up to the grey sky, waiting for a chance of rain that could wake him from this empty state.

Riverclan.

Leopardstar hadn’t believed their words. But her clan’s territory was safe, for now. And there was no chosen cat who could return and tell them otherwise.

Who’s fault was that?

Windclan didn’t need Crowpaw to leave. Riverclan may have needed Feathertail.

But here they were.

The clans were waiting for Riverclan, who could not be convinced by the words of their trusted Warrior.

Because the wrong cat died.

Starclan had not come. Was that because there was no hope? Or could it be because their plans had been compromised by the loss of a Warrior who had been needed, and in her place had been left with the selfish remains of some mouse-brained apprentice?

Crowpaw’s blue eyes searched for another reason, they peered over grey hills and smoky skies, searching for some reason that he was here, that he was needed, that there was some logical explanation for him not being the one who had been left behind.

But the other thoughts, the buzzing forces, they had made everything so dizzy.

He only came out of if out of sheer luck, when a high, angry cry broke through the clouds and launched itself towards him.

Crowpaw turned his head just in time to see the hawk, yellow claws spread like ten furious vipers, rush through the air as it raced from the sky, its eyes blazing right on the young apprentice.

Crowpaw didn’t have time to crash his teeth together, he barely had time for his heavy eyes to widen, all he had was a pure desire that struck his body like a thousand hot claws along his back. It was the desire to live, the primal instinct to survive.

That gave him enough time to pounce to the side, the scabby flesh of the hawk’s feet just hitting the tip of his tail. It missed. Crowpaw was still alive. He caught himself, twisting on his feet so he facing the predator as it cried out angrily, before slamming its strong wings in the air and taking flight again.

Crowpaw scowled at the beast as it hovered in a taunting circle above him. What was a hawk doing in the moors? They usually rested in high trees! Had it been scared from its shelter because of the Two-legs? He may have sympathised with that idea if the bird wasn’t clear on making him its new taste of prey.

Even as he hissed at the hawk, Crowpaw could not hide how scared he felt. He’d never seen a hawk like this before, not on his own anyway. Its wings were bigger than maybe a whole clan cat, beating the air with enraged strikes, its whole body was bigger than Crowpaw, and its dark talons glistened in the misty air, poised and ready to sink into his flesh.

Crowpaw found himself needing to dodge again, his body rolling hotly over the hill as he zig-zagged down the base, when the bird swept down with the grace of a fish in the water. The apprentice’s heart pounded like the predator’s wings. There was no way he was going to outrun this thing. And there was no where he could hide from it either. Even if he tried to slip into the bushes, they were thin, and the hawk would pass through them like clouds. It cried again, angrier this time as it missed its kill, screeching into the sky as it rose above the hills again.

Its huge head turned in the air to its prey, its eyes full of hunger, and more strangely, hatred. For some reason or not, this creature hated him.

Crowpaw couldn’t look away from the hateful stare, but as the bird’s rage thickened like black clouds, Crowpaw felt his own body tightening, fixing in an arched, frenetic reason.

If he couldn’t run and he couldn’t hide, there wasn’t anything left to do but fight.

Because he realised just what this bird was. He looked at this bird and saw a dozen full bellies that eased his clan for another few days. He saw a delighted mother nursing her kits with a body full of milk. He saw eyes that would find him with reason for once.

This bird was a reason to be here.

So, forgetting the growl and jolt of his own hunger, Crowpaw felt the blood fix his vision, and he stiffened to survive.

He would kill this bird. He would kill it to show that he was here and he deserved to be.

He watched the bird carefully, a voice digging patience into him, if he rushed into this there was a good chance this could easily go wrong. He needed to find the right moment and take it. A savage thrill had swelled in his stomach and let his anger and terror merge into a powerful shock along his back.

He had never killed anything this big before. But that didn’t matter. It would be done.

The hawk’s fox-like eyes gleamed, it thrust its wings down with the power of a dog’s jaws before it dove once more. Its beak, as thick as a kits head and strong enough to crush one, snapping open to scream.

His breath held captive in his chest, Crowpaw didn’t look away. He needed to watch if he was going to figure this out or not. He needed to get close. The bird was descending quickly, its massive wings solidly held to their furthest reach as they sliced the open air. Crowpaw waited a heartbeat more, just enough for the hawk to curl its talons from its scaly legs, before he launched himself forward on his belly, giving a kick of his paws to the sky as he felt the powerful friction of air above his back. Even as it missed him, Crowpaw knew that this thing was strong.

One of his back paws hit the tail end of the bird, just where it could hit flesh, but Crowpaw had already rolled away by the time the bird to curl its body around. It screeched, pained and angry, but returned to the sky, its tail feather shaking off the blow as well as it could.

Crowpaw snarled at it as it flapped overhead, if it hadn’t been mad before it was now. Crowpaw hoped it was like a cat, where he knew anger made you reckless. It seemed to fly higher than before, soaring in a dart to where the clouds seemed to just touch its head. But even then, Crowpaw could see them burning down at him.

The dark tom licked his lips and let out a hot angry breath.

When the bird spread its talons, it left its chest and throat open. He had a chance, a small chance, but if he could avoid those talons, he just needed to know where to bite.

And he didn’t have long to figure that out.

The bird was coming down again. Feather’s ruffled in complete rage. It was hurt and resentful, and it desperately wanted revenge. It wasn’t going to wait it seemed. It came down like lightning. Crowpaw watched it dart towards him, its wings curved in prepared tension. Their eyes locked, a burst of rage and hunger connecting them. Crowpaw didn’t mutter a prayer as he began to sprint his way towards the bird. With a frustrated yell, the Hawk flapped to position itself. But no prey had actually ran at it before. Adjusting itself to this new concept, the bird chose to flick its talons out once again. All it needed to do was dig those talons into Crowpaw’s soft belly, and it would be over.

Letting a numb sensation compel him from fury or fright, Crowpaw leapt as soon as the birds talons were a tail-length away.

It was an ugly collision.

The talons just slipped on his back, but Crowpaw’s whole weight stormed into the soft meat of the Hawk’s chest, breaking its grip on him. Crowpaw screwed his eyes closed, grunting as two heavy wings slammed onto his face. The pain was heavy and thick, but Crowpaw slipped through it until his teeth were lodged into the bird’s chest.

The creatures, fighting to be predator or prey, landed with Crowpaw’s jaws wrenching with delirious speed on the bird’s stomach. Feathers and blood were thrown into the air as Crowpaw ripped and ripped. The Hawk let out a sound it had never made, one of real horror, as its beating wings became more and more desperate. It twisted, its feet scratching wherever it could to find the dark-fur of its opponent. Cold pain seared Crowpaw’s flank, but he only bit down again, higher this time, his tail curling when he tasted hot blood.

How long had it been since he’d tasted blood?

Immediately, Crowpaw felt his muscles tense, his claws sprang out to pin the frantic wings, tearing down the fragile skin, fracturing ligament and muscle with every punching scratch. The bird screamed and bit at Crowpaw’s scruff, but the cat launched five claws over its face and it let go with a true cry of real, blood-curdling fear.

Crowpaw realised with savage electricity, that he was winning.

The hawk, realising far too late it had misjudged this battle, changed tactics. Its talons didn’t claw now, they tried to grip the cat, furiously attempting to drag Crowpaw off before he found its throat. It rocked frantically to loosen the cat from its blood soaking feathers. But Crowpaw knew this opportunity would never come again. He wasn’t going to let go, even if those talons found his own throat.

The only time Crowpaw did let go was when the hawk stopped shaking and instead used its damaged wings to roll over to its belly. Its large wings already straightening for takeoff. But Crowpaw was quick, and this bird had made a massive mistake in taking its talons from Crowpaw. As soon as he’d slid onto its back, Crowpaw was safe from the claws and beak. It was almost over.

Crowpaw groaned and bit down on its neck, where the head had to be connected to the spine. The hawk screamed, its body convulsing and large eyes bursting in pure agony. Blood coated Crowpaw’s tongue once more, and just to be safe, he dug his claws right into the base of the hawk’s wings, holding it down. Whether they were too damaged or weak, they slowly began to wither in their rabid twitches for survival.

Crowpaw, deep in his chest, realised that this was over.

But stubbornly the hawk continued to fight, dragging itself along with its weak talons or broken wings, even as Crowpaw bit down hard on its neck, hard enough to hear something crack. The tom let out a hiss as the hawk cried mournfully but continued to struggle. This wasn’t meant to happen. It should have been dead by now.

But it didn’t. Its body twitched along, its head craning out to a bush just ahead of them both, probably seeking the dark safety even as its back cracked behind it.

It was impressive but horrible all the same. Crowpaw bit on the neck again, horrified by how it clung to life despite its little hope. This wasn’t how hunting was meant to be. They hunted to be quick, they hunted to survive, this didn’t feel like hunting, this felt like slaughter.

But Windclan needed to eat all the same.

‘Die.’ Crowpaw thought as he bit and tore and shook. ‘Just die already.’

The hawk responded with a series of sounds that may have been the caw of a bird, but not one that any bird, any creature should make. It hissed and bubbled in the bird’s throat. Crowpaw felt it. For the love of Starclan, he felt it rattle out of the shivering beak. It eyes, glazing quicker and quicker, were wide but slow, blinking in jittering convulsions, still calling for the safety of the bush.

It wanted to live

Crowpaw wanted to scream.

With a needing, breaking yell, Crowpaw slid his claws over the Hawk’s thin, torn throat and ripped back.

With a rasping, wordless gasp that sounded too much like a mewling kit for Crowpaw’s liking, the hawk’s struggles relaxed, and its tattered head fell down stiffly onto the grass.

Blood slowly oozed out onto the shadow of the hill. The dirt did not soak it up, denying the gore, letting it flow down into a dark slide in the grass.

Crowpaw fought for his own breath as he stood triumphantly above his prey.

It should have been triumph anyway.

Didn’t feel like it.

He shook his head. That couldn’t start up now. Yes, it had been messy. But it was done. And prey was prey.

This was actually the largest prey he’d ever caught, this was a meal that would last Windclan for days, this was his chance of doing some real good for his clan, this was his reason for standing here.

Something he’d done mattered.

He looked over his own wounds, the wings had battered his head until it was shaking, and there were some deep gash marks along his flank that he needed to clean before they got infected. But other than that, he was remarkably well.

Much better than the blood-soaked, torn apart, ruin under his paws.

But more than ever, he was alive.

Tired, battered, and hungry, but alive.

So hungry.

Crowpaw’s tongue touched the blood on his lips, he couldn’t suppress a shiver. It tasted good. Good enough that his throat began to hurt at the idea of not tasting it again. He looked down at the hawk, thinking. It was a huge catch. If he took one bite, a small one, enough for him to get by, he could get the rest back to Windclan soon.

His joints ached, and his head spun like crazy. He needed to eat, even just a little.

Crowpaw gave the hawk a wane look. Just one tear off the wing. That would be enough for him.

Slowly, his own stomach cleanching, Crowpaw placed his teeth over the soft meat of the wing. He shivered as the sweet blood permeated his senses.

But then his ears twitched.

Almost angry at his meal, his victory, being disturbed, Crowpaw growled. But then he stopped and really listened. Something was letting out high, bristling squeaks. They cracked into the air pathetically, rustling the air with its light whimpers. Then the sound rustled as it doubled, then tripled, and then Crowpaw was sure he heard a symphony of tiny whelping ring around him.

They were coming from the bush.

The hawk’s head still stared at it lifelessly, but a longing melancholy still quivered in the draining colour of its eyes.

Crowpaw stared as the squeaking continued. The back of his head began to hurt again. His whole body felt cold.

With step after reluctant step, Crowpaw approached the bush, becoming more and more aware of the buzzing that came back to his ears.

He pressed his head in. Four pairs of black, terrified eyes glinted wetly back at him. The chicks, from the looks of their thin tufts of feathers, or the way they held their gaping mouths at him in either fright or hunger, could not have been born more than a day or two ago. They huddled together, some peeping helplessly at him under the darkness of their scrambled, hastily put together nest, the others just stared at him. Stared enough to hurt.

It took only a second for the desperation of the hawk to sink in.

With blank eyes, Crowpaw turned back to the hawk that had died to protect what it loved, the blood had now begun to pool around its head.

Another bloody body, another creature that had sacrificed itself to protect what it loved, flashed over Crowpaw’s eyes.

Once she had, everything seemed so much clearer to Crowpaw.

And he didn’t fight the hungry buzzing in his mind, rumbling, screaming, blaming. It stung, it ached, it swelled.

It reminded.

Sacrifice.

A sacrifice was why Riverclan had no cat to believe, a sacrifice was why the journey was tainted, a sacrifice was why the clans may not survive, a sacrifice was why Windclan was suffering, a sacrifice was why his clan could die.

A sacrifice was why his friends, the only one’s he’d ever really had, hated him.

He’d driven them away because he wanted, in his selfish need for reason, to be seen as important for his clan.

But the truth was, Windclan didn’t need him. They would live or die without him. They always would have. All he’d done returning, robbing Riverclan of a reason to leave, was further the dark towards his home’s destruction.

It was all his fault.

This was all he was.

Letting the buzzing attack his mind, and drown out the chicks’ cries for a mother that would never return, Crowpaw began to drag the hawk back. If this was the only good he could ever do, he should at least do it with some effort of care.

But was it good?

How tough could this hawk have been if an apprentice could kill it? It was weak and hungry, that was all. Any real warrior could do it. They probably could have brought themselves to catch the extra prey as well.

But those chicks’ had such familiar eyes.

The eyes of the weak, saved by the strong.

But what did it matter?

It was over now. Whether they were caught by him, or another cat, or a fox, or even if nothing came for them. Their deaths had been set in the dirt.

That was the cruelty of life. The reality that Crowpaw would do better to accept.

It didn’t matter how much creatures tried to fight nature.

Things that were meant to die? They always did. Someway or other.

Crowpaw would make sure of that.

With this realisation, with empty eyes and passing, silent breath, Crowpaw almost felt a shameful peace that made him blink away the tears so easily.

But he was unfit for peace, so he let the buzzing convince him into feeling nothing.

...

#Crowfeather #squirrelcrow #crowsquirrel #I like your laugh #ashfoot #Warrior Cats #Warriors #warriors au #warriors fic #the new prophecy #windclan #squirrelflight

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madswritingvoid · 3 years

Text

Forgiveness

Pairing: Shane “Dio” Morrissey x f!reader

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: Angst/Fluff, hurt/comfort, swearing, Dio being rude

A/N: Hi Anon! Hope this is something close to what you were looking for, I’m still new to angsty things but I hope you enjoy xxxx

Two weeks.

He hasn’t seen you or heard from you in two weeks. You’ve been together a whole year and this is the longest he’s been away from you, and it’s all his fault.

As he stares into his third cup of shitty black coffee, this diner isn’t as good as your usual haunt, he wonders if you’re even still together anymore? Will he ever get to hold you again? Kiss you? Touch you? Picking at his chipped black nail polish he goes over that night again and again in his head. The sun making the rings adorning his hands sparkle, the skull band you got him for your one-year anniversary offering a mocking smile.

He’d been spending a lot more time at the club lately, more time as Dio and not Shane. Being the Goth King of New York City, loved by the endless hoards of drones, and not as Shane - your boyfriend who went record shopping with you, made vampire fangs out of pretzel sticks to make you laugh, the man you love. Loved?

“What do you mean you’re heading out?” Your voice is small as you stop working on dinner to face him. He doesn’t answer at first, working on fixing the collar of his leather duster and making sure each chain around his neck is perfect, raven locks properly messed up. “Exactly what I said. I am going out, heading somewhere that is not here,” he shrugs at his reflection, still not meeting your eyes.

You scoff, “don’t talk to me like that Shane. I’m not an idiot, ” you walk up to him and place a hand on his shoulder, pushing against him so he’ll turn around and finally meet your eyes. “This is the first time in two weeks you said you’d be home, I rented Interview With The Vampire and made dinner,” you gesture to the meal simmering on your small stove. He shrugs again and takes a step away from you, “what do you want me to say? That I’d rather stay here then go out? Maybe if you had got a better movie I’d stay, but -” Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms over your chest, hip cocked to the side, ready for whatever comes next.

“Since when is that a problem? Since when do you spend every night at the club and act like staying in with me for one night is so painful?” You go out with him sometimes, of course you also like having fun, but you hate how he has to be so different when you’re out. He isn’t as affectionate, barely holding your hand as his admirers swarm around you both. At least when you’re home together or just go out for a relaxing date, you can see how free Shane is. He’s excitable, romantic, always insisting on buying you a little trinket from somewhere to commemorate the date to display in your home.

“Since you’re uninspired! When I go to the club, people made me realize how you’re not with it,” he throws his hands up. You’re stunned, since when did he give a shit about what anyone thinks about you?He said he loved that you’re not exactly like him. “You don’t get it. There they want my attention, crave my approval. You’re just here, going with the motions. I didn’t realize I’ve been wasting so much time with a drone,” he sneers, “so sorry if I don’t give a shit about Tom Cruise in a wig.”

He laughs, “oh what? Now you’re mad? Over movie night?” You’re shaking your head, looking at him but not recognizing the look in his eyes, the eyes you adore. “Why are you being like this? You may have everyone at that club thinking your shit doesn’t stink, but don’t you dare act like you’re too good for me. We share a bathroom,” you smirk. He bristles, yeah maybe he’s wrong. A movie night with you is better than going to the club, but he can do whatever he wants and shouldn’t have to explain himself to you. A King shouldn’t have to explain to anyone.

“Shut up, you think you’re being so clever. But we both know you’re not, always so afraid of what people are thinking about you, about what I think about you,” he sneers. “I said I didn’t want to watch a movie, I want to go to the club, that’s the end of this discussion and you can apologize to me when I come back,” with that he gives you a once over before nodding a bit, deciding he’s done with this conversation.

“Then don’t come back.” You whisper, your voice low but strong. “Get the fuck out Dio,” you growl, you never call him Dio, “I don’t know where this is coming from, but you will not speak to me like that. I love you, but I do not deserve to be treated like this. Not by anyone.” He’s just staring at you, slack jawed. Sure, you’ve had fights before, but it’s never felt like this. So final. Now he scoffs and takes a step towards you, “where am I supposed to go?”

Your eyes harden, “I’m sure the King won’t be left stranded, someone willing to give you everything you’re obviously missing here.” He heads for the door, hearing you finally start to break down as the door shut behind him.

That was it. He tried coming home after his night out but the door was locked, and you didn’t leave his key under your welcome mat like you always did. He slept in the hallway until he woke up to you throwing a bag of his clothes on him, slamming the door shut without a word. It feels like he’s in some shitty movie, just scenes of him sleeping on a different couch flashing by as he thinks about how much he loves you.

He didn’t deserve you. You saw past Dio, and wanted to know Shane, love Shane. You’d dye is hair black when his roots came in and painted his nails while watching some shitty horror movie, always happy to do the little things to make his day easier. You didn’t seek his approval but valued his opinion as your partner, your equal. He didn’t have to be “on” when he was with you, just Shane. And he fucking missed it.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” he grumbles to himself. Throwing down the cash for his coffee, plus a tip (another thing you made sure he did), he went about his new mission. He hit up all your favourite stores, not that you were someone who could be bought, but he made a small basket of things he remembered you saying you loved or were running low on. Things that would show you he listened.

He knew you were home, could hear The Smiths bleeding into the hallway as he got closer to your door and sighed, you onto turned to Morrissey when it was bad. Shuffling his care package in his hands he knocks firmly to cut through “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out”. Shane knows you heard him because it’s suddenly quiet on the other side of the door and the soft sounds of you shushing a meowing Lucifer get closer. He isn’t sure if you looked through the peephole with how quickly you appear in front of him, but the hard look in your eyes says otherwise.

“No,” is all you say. Shane’s knees feel like they’re about to buckle, seeing you for the first time in so long, all he can focus on is how beautiful you are. He wants to drop to his knees right there, bury his face in your stomach as he cries his apologies. But that’s not what you needed. “Please, please let me just apologize,” he pleads, “I was an asshole, a real jerk, a-” you cut him off with a hand over his mouth. “Yes, you were those things then and are probably still those things now, come in and we’ll talk even if you don’t deserve it.”

Following you into the apartment like a puppy dog, Shane waits for you to motion to the couch to take a seat. Lucifer hopping up beside him immediately, happy to see him. “So, what is supposed to be happening here?” You’re rubbing in between your eyes, already wanting Shane gone. You missed him so much, like your heart had been ripped out of your chest, but you deserved an apology and you didn’t think “Dio” would ever admit to being wrong. “What is happening here, is that I’m an asshole,” he says confidently causing you to freeze.

“These two weeks have been torture, I feel like I’m a hollow shell just waiting to be sucked into the black hole of nothingness. You are my heart, my everything. You deserve the world, and not some asshole telling you that you’re a drone when you are everything. You are all I want and I don’t deserve you, I know that, but please let me try to show you,” he puts the care basket on the table, “please let me be worthy of your love again.” You cautiously start to ruffle through the basket, eyes watering as you realize what’s inside. Taking a deep breath you meet his eyes, glassy with unshed tears. “Shane. I love you, I love you so much it hurts. But you can’t talk to me or anyone like that. You’re so much better than whatever the fuck that was. I am willing to try and work through this, but it will take time. I deserve better,” you sit beside him finally, taking one of his hands in yours.

“Anything,” he promises, dropping to his knees in front of you. “Anything you want or need me to do, I’m ready to do it. I want to be good for you, show you the love you deserve,” he’s kissing your joined hands. He wants to say more but the tears he’s been holding in finally fall and he buries his face in your lap. You free one hand to start stroking his hair and kissing his temple. “We’ll just take it one step at a time,” you soothe.

“Whatever you want, my queen, my soul, whatever you want.”

#shane dio morrissey #shane dio morrissey x reader #nypd blue #nypd blue fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal imagines #pedro pascal fic #PPCU

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smileposting · 3 years

Text

s4mweek day 1 - secret

[ao3 link] [it’s got author’s notes!]

“Well,” he says, tilting his head to look up at the flower child like their boxing glove is a sword pointed at his throat. But he knows no matter how hard he tries to make it seem otherwise, there’s nothing noble about the gesture, no pretty and quiet defiance like the kind you’d see in a hero. “I suppose this is it, Flower Child.”

Flower Kid stands over him, haloed in the fluorescent lighting of the office behind them. The hood of their jacket casts such a harsh shadow that Habit can only see their face from the nose down. A trail of blood trickles down from their mouth.

“One more shove and you’ve gotten your way,” he says, ignoring the taste of bile, the bite of glass digging into his palm, the way he can’t clench his jaw properly and can’t even tell himself that it was all worth it in the end anymore. “Perhaps it’s time. A younger me would do the same.” The balcony railing is low. Even if Flower Kid chose to have mercy on him for whatever reason, if he were to stand up and back away now, he’d most likely trip and fall to his doom anyway. The thought is almost comforting; no perpetrators, no victims, just the culmination of one very foolish man’s mistakes. If nothing else, at least he can have this, the knowledge that in the end, everyone got exactly what they deserved.

Flower Kid rolls their eyes - or at least, Habit assumes they roll their eyes, based on the minute curl of their lip and their head turning left for the briefest of moments. They pull their arm back.

He flinches, bowing his head and closing his eyes in one swift motion, and braces himself for the impact of a second hit that never comes.

There’s a pause. And then the dull thud of leather against linoleum. What?

He doesn’t dare to let go of the breath he’s holding, but he does, against his better judgement, crack one eye open. The boxing glove lays discarded on the floor, forgotten as the flower child rummages through their bouquet. “Flower Child…?”

“Enough theatrics,” they sign. They’re remarkably articulate for someone who should either still be waiting for the laughing gas to wear off or should be doubled over in pain from the earlier extraction. “I have something for you.”

And then they turn around. When Boris sees what they have in their arms, the shock of it strikes him so hard he might as well have been punched after all. He lunges for it like a starved animal, seized by a sudden ferocity, and it takes everything in him not to snarl in frustration when Flower Kid holds it just out of his reach.

“First,” they sign. “You promise that you won’t hurt anyone else.”

“There’s no one else left to hurt,” he pleads, arms outstretched plaintively. “Please…?”

A silence follows as Flower Kid seems to contemplate their next move, eyeing Boris like a cat sizing up a pigeon. Then they relent, and Lily is finally back in his arms.

“Where did you get this?” Boris asks after what feels like hours spent on the floor of his office, running his hands over thick, waxy petals, of reveling in the feeling of the flowerpot in his hands, in its cool terracotta. He knows the answer, but something in him demands some confirmation.

Flower Kid shrugs. “Grew it myself.”

Silence. A tacit understanding. They sit down on the floor across from him.

“You know everything about me, then,” says Boris. It isn’t a question.

“Not everything. Just what was important to know.”

“Right,” he snorts. “That I’m a sad, selfish little man-baby who takes it out on everyone else. Very important.”

“Right now, yeah,” they concede, earning them the stink eye of the century from Boris despite the honesty. “But you don’t have to be one forever.” Their movements slow down, and it suddenly strikes him that they’re scrambling for the right words just as much as he is. “I know this doesn’t feel like that great of an ending, but... maybe that just means it isn’t an ending at all. For you, anyway.”

Boris blinks. “And for you?”

Flower Kid takes a moment to look around the office. The lighting’s grown dimmer, flickering on occasion. “Yeah. I think I’m done here.” And then they stand up as though they had never been on the ground at all, heading towards the doorway.

“Wait.”

They pause, turning back to look at him quizzically.

Suddenly, Boris’ mouth is dry. Idiot, a little voice tells him. You whine and beg for people to stay and when they do, you can’t even be bothered to give them a reason?

“If it’s not too much trouble,” he says, cringing at how stilted his words are. “Maybe you could… listen to what I have to say?”

“...Yeah. I can do that.”

Oh, goodness. Okay. Now he really has to think of something good. “I…” he pauses to swallow before starting again. How do they do this in movies? “I thought I had destroyed all those seeds. Squashed them flat and buried them deep, deep where they wouldn’t resurface. I used to be a naive flower child like you-”

Somehow, Boris gets the distinct impression that Flower Kid raises an eyebrow at that. He elects to ignore it and continue.

“ - But I gave up believing that everyone could be saved. I learned that you gotta break a few eggs to make a happiness omelette. Or, teeth-”

Wait.

Oh, wait.

“Teeth!” Boris hisses, scrambling to his feet. “Flower Kid, your teeth - oh, how did it - how did I-?!”

The closer Boris gets, the further Flower Kid backs away, pulling the hem of their hoodie up over the visible parts of their face. “It’s not that big a deal,” they sign hurriedly. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll be fine!” Boris exclaims in what should have been a booming voice, but came out as more of a faint scream. “You’ll be fine?! I tore out your teeth - I didn’t use anaesthetic.” His breath is coming out in short, labored huffs as he begins to pace about the office, bringing a hand to his mouth as though it’ll do anything to stop the ensuing tidal wave of anxiety. “Oh, God. Oh, my God-”

A hand reaches out to grip his shoulder, urging Boris to look Flower Kid directly in the face. As much as the two of them can manage, anyway - now that they’re both standing up, Flower Kid has to crane their neck a little to look up at him, face full of steely, stone-faced determination. Then they open their mouth, revealing a full, if not bloodied, set of teeth.

Boris’ jaw hangs open in kind, unsure if he should scream or sigh in relief or ask how any of this is happening right now. “No,” is what he finally settles on.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean,” he sputters. “That this should not be happening! You should be writhing on the floor in pain! And have at least twelve less teeth than you do right now!”

“Are you… angry, that isn’t the case?”

“Yes! I mean, no - I don’t know,” he says, throwing his free hand up before it comes to rest on his temple, the other still holding Lily protectively against his stomach. “...People don’t just… grow teeth back, Flower Kid. If they did, we would not be here right now.”

“Debatable,” they sign. “Anyway, I’ve never had the best relationship with things like physics. Or lasting damage. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re going to kill me,” Habit groans. “Instead of punching me off the balcony you’ve decided to mess with my head so much it will kill me. Is that it?”

“Hardly. Besides, you’ve seen weirder. You’ve done weirder.”

Boris opens his mouth to protest before closing it again, lips pressed together into a thin line. “Touché.”

“There we go. Think of it like this: I keep my mouth shut about the part where you performed impromptu dental surgery on me, and in return you discover why I throw myself down stairwells all the time.”

Boris blinks, his grip on the flowerpot tightening. “I… I don’t-”

“I get it, you wanna do the right thing,” Flower Kid assures him. “But believe me when I say that it’s way harder to do that from jail, and I don’t think five to ten years in relative isolation from the outside world would do your mental health any favors.”

“That’s-”

“You’ll probably still get charged with medical fraud, though. Nothing I can really do there. Sorry.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about!” Boris finally manages to get a word in, much to Flower Kid’s apparent surprise. “Flower Kid, I hurt you. Badly. You were bleeding... You really didn’t feel any of it?”

They study Boris for a moment before responding. “Sure, I did. Why do you think I punched you?” When Boris doesn’t laugh, they sheepishly add, “It only hurts for a couple seconds. I’m used to it.”

“You’re still hurting yourself,” Boris says quietly. “Flower Kid, that’s no way to live.”

“Look who’s talking,” they retort, and immediately wince. “Sorry. I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“No, no, you… have a point,” Boris sighs. “You’ve done enough, anyway. I think it’s time for you to go.”

Flower Kid frowns. “What about you?”

Boris looks around the office with a small grimace, “I have a few things to clean up, first. But I’ll follow when I’m done.”

They tilt their head and nod - not totally satisfied, but it will have to do for now. “Take care of Lily.”

“I will,” says Boris, managing a half smile despite his exhaustion. “Take care of yourself, too, Flower Child.”

They hold up their hand as they walk away, snapping their fingers and thumb together a few times as they do to mimic someone talking. Yeah, yeah, it says. No promises.

Boris wants to - needs to - say something before they leave. He needs to tell them how much good they’ve done; how much good they’ll continue to do; what a fool he is.

But before he knows it, they’re gone.

#my writing #sfmweek2021 #boris habit #flower kid #spoilers #dental trauma #physical assault #nothing on-screen but its referenced throughout the fic

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chibinekochan · 3 years

Text

How to become a Demon Ruler 104

Part: 01 I 02 I 03 I

GN. Reader insert

taglist: @ayesha95 ; @nomnomcupcakesworld ; @fex-phoenix ; @depressed-bixch ; @kitsune-oji

(message me if you want to be added here)

—------—---------------------

Once again I hear a knocking sound.

This time I manage to open my eyes. "Come in."

I fully expect it to be Barbatos.

I slowly get up in my bed.

Just to find the ever-smiling Diavolo in front of my bed.

My eyes widen from the surprise. "D-Diavolo." I'm tempted to cover myself, but I'm fully dressed.

"Hello, I apologize for interrupting your nap. Barbartos told me that you had a rough time and might not wish to see him, and I kind of forgot to give you your new phone this morning. So I volunteered to pick you up." Diavolo swiftly explains the situation.

I feel slightly steamrolled. "I forgot about that too and I'm not mad at Barbatos. He couldn't know how weak humans are." I can only imagine how much more powerful demons are.

Diavolo chuckles. "When I was trained I had a very difficult time. I'm sure I broke down crying the first few weeks."

"That's pretty surprising. I can't even imagine you being sad." I wonder what that would look like.

"I get sad too sometimes. I was hoping that you wouldn't ever get sad for as long as you are here." Diavolo has a complicated expression.

"Why do you care about me so much?" I'm very curious about this.

Diavolo is surprised by my question. He takes a hand to his face and thinks for a moment. Then his face lights up. "I always wanted a sibling, so I'm just really glad that finally, I got one."

His straight answer surprises me. "You are a pretty strange one."I blurt out without much thought.

Diavolo shrugs. "I'm just glad that you are being so open towards me."

"I should say that to you." I giggle. Diavolo makes it very easy to feel at home in such a strange place.

Then suddenly my stomach starts to rumble, my cheeks flush with embarrassment.

Diavolo lets out a heartfelt laugh. "Seems like it's time for lunch."

"Sure, seems like it. I should change my clothes first." Suddenly I realize that I probably stink.

Diavolo doesn't seem to mind or care at all and just keeps casually standing in the middle of the room. "Alright, I will just wait here."

"Wait outside! " I state firmly with some force in my voice.

Diavolo looks very troubled for a brief moment. "This must be the feeling of exclusion I have heard so much about."

I'm unsure what to even say to this statement so I slightly glare at him.

Diavolo sighs and leaves. He is a big puppy. At least he listened to me.

I decide to wear something comfortable and leave my room.

I find Diavolo texting someone.

As soon as I open the door he smiles at me as nothing happened.

"I hope you didn't wait for too long."

"No problem, and here is the phone. Before I forget again. I assume you know how to use one?" Diavolo seems to be his usual self. What relieves me of my slight guilt.

"Of course. Who doesn't?" I genuinely wonder and put the phone in my pocket.

"You would be surprised." Diavolo shrugs and we head to the dining room.

Somehow I thought they had a separate lunchroom.

Barbatos is waiting for us. His smile is polite as always. Somehow he seems slightly off.

Does he really think that I'm upset at him? I can't imagine that at all.

I smile at him and sit down. Honestly, I'm starving.

"I'm very sorry for all the pain I have caused you earlier. I intend to train you and not to break you." This must deeply concern him.

"The training is very hard and honestly the physical training has almost killed me. I think I now have a good picture of what is considered normal around here. So I will just move on and hope that I will get strong enough to pass the king's trials. I sure hope he won't give me a physical exam at least." I made up my mind not to mull over this and just move on. My fight has only just begun.

"I love your attitude. This is exactly why I'm glad to have you as my sibling." Diavolo nods proudly.

"I can only agree on that and I swear with my help you will overcome every obstacle that is in your way." Barbatos seems back to normal and bows towards me.

I feel motivated by both of them.

Then my stomach rumbles again, causing me to blush once again.

Especially since both men let out loud laughter.

Barbatos seems to give me an extra big portion of everything today.

Miraculously I finish everything, including the two extra servings of dessert.

If the demon king won't kill me then my cholesterol will.

I feel very satisfied when my meal is over.

"I'm glad to see that you have such a healthy appetite. I was a bit worried about you yesterday." Diavolo has a kind look on his face.

I feel slightly embarrassed. "Actually the amount I ate yesterday would be considered normal for human standards."

"I think your remark was pretty rude my lord," Barbatos whispers loud enough for me to over hear him.

Diavolo seems confused and I can't even look at him right now.

"I'm just glad that you enjoy the food." Diavolo is clueless sometimes.

"We should continue our training. We have much to do since we moved our dance lesson to later." Barbatos reminds me in a seemingly cruel way.

"You're right. I hope to see you again later Diavolo." With a slight sigh, I get up.

"Yes, same here. Hang in there. I have faith in you." Diavolo puts a hand on my shoulder. It almost seems like energy is flowing from his big hand into me. My cheeks flush again.

"T-thank you." I hold the urge back to call him big brother since that feels wrong to me. I don't have a shred of familiar feelings for him.

"I also have faith in you to finish your tasks without my help, my lord." Barbatos looks sharply at Diavolo.

It seems to be a critical hit since Diavolo looks very desolate. I feel bad for him.

"I will." Diavolo sounds very weak.

Barbatos sighs just a little and then turns to me smiling, as usual. "Let's start our next lesson."

I feel a sense of dread but follow Barbatos regardless.

Soon I find myself in a huge library. I also spot some strange looking trinkets.

"This is our library. We also have some items here that are helpful with magic. First, we have to see if you have any latent magic in you." Barbatos goes to one of the trinkets. It looks a bit like a big pot with some wires sticking out from it, there are also some big gemstones on it.

It's pretty gaudy and I look doubtful at it. "What does this thing do?"

I narrow my eyes at it.

"You simply put your hand here and then it will tell us how much magic energy you process and what element is the most prevalent in you." Barbato points to a huge gem in the center of the potlike thing.

I somehow wonder if it will do anything but I put my hand on it anyway.

Then I wait and Barbatos looks at it.

I'm about to remove my hand, due to the lack of response.

Then suddenly the pot starts to shake and hiss. Out of reflex, my hand moves away.

Then suddenly smoke comes from it. With terror, I look at Barbatos. "Did I break it?"

Barbatos has a hand on his chin. "It looks like it."

I feel panic rising. How can he be this calm? This ugly thing was probably expensive. Will he expect me to replace it?

I stare at Barbatos, waiting for a reaction.

"This certainly was unexpected but I guess it's to be expected that my master is extraordinary." Barbatos smiles at me.

"So umm what does that mean?" I meekly ask.

"Well, it means that your magic is unmeasurable. I have never experienced it myself so that can only mean that you are very special." Barbatos seems almost proud.

"So it's a good thing that I broke it?" When I look at the still-smoking pot, I wonder if it wasn't just a fluke.

"Well, it is certainly interesting, quite unexpected even. I'm sure lord Diavolo will be equally delighted to hear about this." He isn't ironic at all, what baffles me the most.

This is the first time that I got praised for breaking something.

"What does this mean for my magic training?" I silently hope that today's training will be postponed.

"It means that we start at the basics and go from there." Barbatos doesn't bat an eye.

I wonder if there was truly any point to this magic device.

The magic lesson itself is pretty boring.

Barbatos explains the concept of magic to me and then I do some breathing exercises to help me feel my magic force. I can't feel a thing but at least it's relaxing.

#how to become a demon ruler #demon ruler 101 #obey me fanfic #obey me!#obey me barbatos #obey me #obey me diavolo #sorry im late today

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purekesseltrash · 3 years

Text

My Fic List

Whelp, decided I should do one of these. I have mostly written for Hockey RPF and BNHA, as you have likely already seen!

My BNHA Fics

Bury Them Deep

- “Shouji Mezou's entire life has revolved around being a goalie and playing hockey since he was five years old. After being drafted in the third round in the NHL, Shouji has two more years of college before moving on to playing professional hockey like he's always wanted. Or at least like he always thought he wanted. An injury that ends his season throws him into a tailspin, forcing him to take a look at his life and how he is going to live it, especially after meeting his fascinating new goth history tutor.”

(This bad bitch is 81k total and is chock full of my red hot hockey takes and midwestern references. I love it very much and it is a sweet baby.)

The Rooftop Necromancy series AKA my black metal band AU:

Downhill from Here

- “ Hizashi just wants to tour the country with his best friends with their metal band in their shitty van like they've been planning for years. He'd successfully hidden his crush on one of them for years, after all, he would definitely be able to make this work and keep things fun and uncomplicated. Until Aizawa decided to start acting weird. “

(In which I take you all on a nostalgic trip to 2006-2008 metal culture and you can see the black metal love song that my dumb ass wrote.)

The Perfect Mistake

- “ It wasn't as though Hizashi had planned on breaking up with his boyfriend while they were on tour in a tiny cargo van with no room and no peace. He would have much rather preferred to do it when they were home and he could easily go and crawl back into his mom's basement. But he didn't have a choice. “

(As relationships tend to do, theirs goes through problems.)

Rooftop Necromancy

-"He’d even ended up leaning into the crowd when someone’s elbow had connected solidly with his nose and thrown him back. They’d gone quiet as Hizashi got himself up to his feet, ripped off his now bloody ‘Within Temptations’ tshirt from 2004, whipped his hair back from his face and screamed, “That’s what I’m FUCKING talking about.” into the mic.

They went wild for it, cheering as blood ran down his nose, past his mouth and dripped onto the stage, leaving him feeling like an otherworldly monster performing an occult ritual. Metal, he thought dazedly to himself, why in the fuck had he ever stopped doing metal."

(I hyperfocused so hard at the idea of Mic as a metal head that I wrote this in seven straight hours and WROTE THROUGH THE ATTEMPTED COUP ON DEMOCRACY WITHOUT KNOWING IT. It’s a bit rough, but it’s got some good parts and it spawned the whole damn series.)

Hands Up

- "But of course he had, they had always been able to read each other and what they meant. That had often been their problem, if he was going to be honest."

(In which they figure their shit out. Basically it was written when I was thinking alot about how my own mental health had evolved through the years. It’s basically the story of two people who are both very good for each other and also very bad and how they deal with that. It’s probably the most personally meaningful thing I’ve ever written.)

The other BNHA fics:

Waking Up With Ghosts

-"Hizashi opened his eyes to a world that belonged to ghosts. His headphones were gone and the gray, grimy world that he felt more than saw was muffled and still. This was bad, he hazily thought."

In which we follow Hizashi shortly after the events of 296. How he's found, how he finds out and how he has to tell.”

(I fished this one out of the garbage of my Google Docs because I’d written most of it and forgotten about it. I dragged it out, prettied it up a little and threw it up on AO3. It is by far my most well read BNHA fic, go figure.)

Leave Her Johnny

-”Captain Hizashi Yamada has combed the Seven Seas looking for the elusive smuggler Eraserhead. He has spent years searching for him, tracking his movements and trying to anticipate where he would be next. But he had never considered what would happen when he finally found him. “

(I wrote a paragraph of this and was immediately like ‘I MUST CREATE THIS’. I take some chances writing wise in this as the whole thing is done in a Victorian Era ish style of writing. But I think it’s effective and the ending is likely one of the best that I’ve ever managed. I’m proud of it.)

Gold Rush

-”"That earned him a laugh and Mashirao’s smile made something in his chest ache, something that made him want to hurt. Why had he ever left?

“I’m really not,” Mashirao was saying but Shinsou just shook his head and kissed him once, twice and wished he could take the sunny afternoon and make it stay forever. Make it stay forever like Mashirao somehow had, while the neighborhood had adjusted without Hitoshi’s permission.

“You are,” he said, “And I love it.”

I love you, he should have said. But as Mashirao’s eyes softened and the blonde pushed him back against the bed, Hitoshi knew he didn’t need to say it."

(You know how sometimes you listen to a Death Cab for Cutie song about gentrification over and over until a fic comes out? Because that’s basically what happened here.)

Black Sun

‘"But then he remembered the way that Shouji had eaten the night after, one hand curled into his hair as he hung back in the corner. Shouji hid when something was wrong, like a wounded cat trying to find a dark place to either live or die and he was being released tomorrow. Now was the time to push or he’d find Shouji right back on his bed, staring at nothing."

Something happened to Shouji on the beach. Tokoyami is sure of it.‘

(Aaaaaand Death Cab for Cutie strikes again. But heyo, my first published ShouToko and it is SOFTTTTT)

In the Far and Mighty West

Mic came closer and despite himself, Shouta could not find it in him to feel afraid. “You won’t understand, not really. I’ll try, though. I’m like Pecos Bill or Paul Bunyan or a jackalope or that fish that your friend caught that he swears he brought in but that you’ve never seen proof of. I’m the herd of dogies moving sweet and steady in the right direction, I’m no stragglers to worry about, I’m that perfect dog that’s there to keep them in line. I’m that group of good friends that you would kill for, I’m the woman who you’re dying to come home to, I’m that promised home of milk and honey. I’m Mic.”

Shouta stared at him dazedly and licked his lips, feeling drunk and stupid as he stared at the man. “You’re… magic?”

“I suppose you could call me that.”

(Cowboy!Erasermic. Inspired heavily by American Gods and my own love of folk heroes.)

In Your Violence

- “'Mezou frowned, eyes narrowing. “Are you trying to say that you’re scared that I’ll be killed by having faith in you?”

“It would be in your best interest to stay away from me,” Fumikage finally said, his voice falling flat and quiet. “I am destined to be a monster.”

'Mezou gets the call he fears, the one that says that Fumikage has lost control again. But this time it's different, in more ways than one.”

(I listened to Silence by Marshmello until I went insane in this is the result. Featuring some of my super depressing headcanons about Shouji! But it’s not awful.)

My hockey fics that I still like:

Hufflepuff Halfwit

- ““Zhenya, the wind is coming from the west, I will not remind you again. You shut that window before the house stinks of factories!” She snapped and Geno stared at the owl as though maybe it would know what to do. But instead, it had given a little hoot and wiggled inside, only to drop it’s letter on the counter.

He turned his head very slowly back to look at his mother, who had suddenly gone very quiet. “It… just showed up, Mama. And um. It brought a letter.” He waited again, looked back at the owl who had begun to nose at the pirozhkis in interest and then looked back at his mother with the best puppy dog eyes he had ever attempted. “Can I keep it?”

(This is a part of my hockey/Harry Potter au that still legitimately haunts my dreams. It’s basically a Sid/Geno in Hogwarts but I really love the world building I got to do with Koldovstoretz, the Russian school of wizardry. Don’t read ‘On the Word of a Slytherin’ though, I’m not as proud of that one.)

The Prince

- “What the fuck.” Matt breathed out, sitting back heavily onto his hotel bed as he stared at his phone.

‘This is Henrik.’ The text read. ‘I would like to meet you. I will book a room in Pittsburgh at your convenience. Let me know what time will work for you.’ -

(Listen, it’s Henrik Lundqvist/Matt Murray smut, I feel like that is novel and interesting and worth your attention. I wax poetic on goalies in this, as you do.)

The Zoo of Toronto

- “No one missed it when a massive porcupine had shuffled in between the reporters with a single minded focus, pushing media away until it was able to grip onto Phil’s suit pants and try to pull itself up. He hadn’t been able to do more then besides pick the animal up before it could shred his pants to shreds and walk out of the locker room before the decision had been made with the Toronto media.

Phil Kessel was guilty.”

(Not gonna lie, this is probably my favorite of the hockey fics I’ve written. And it’s Phil/Carl, which is never found anymore but it was a good pairing.)

#my writing

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sugarandspace · 3 years

Text

Breathe in, breathe out (Sterek)

(posted on AO3 under the pseud aconitum)

Summary: Stiles hates being cold. It brings back bad memories.

Word count: 3,682

Warnings: nogitsune trauma, panic attacks, (but it’s a hurt/comfort fic so things end relatively well!!)

A/N: my very first Sterek fic that I posted on AO3 in October! Gifted to the lovely @sparkandwolf who was a huge help and encouraged me when I was panicking about writing these new characters! ily Em 💙

Read on AO3

Stiles curses Scott as he makes his way through the front door. The apartment is dark which means Derek must still be at work. Stiles is kind of glad about it because he’s sure he’s a laughable sight in his soaking wet clothes. He closes the door behind himself and doesn’t even bother to hang up his coat - it would only result in a puddle on the floor - and only takes his shoes and socks off before he heads to the bathroom.

Not only is he soaking, but he also stinks, and he can’t stop shivering.

It was supposed to be an easy case. Just a lone Kappa, Scott had said. They could take out a river monster with just the two of them, he had said. And Stiles has to admit that he had been right, they had been able to deal with it. They had just ended up in the river in the process. In the middle of December.

Stiles is pretty sure his bones have a layer of frost around them, and a part of him is surprised to see that his toes are still functioning. Scott and his stupid werewolf body temperature had recovered from the dive a lot sooner than Stiles, and his best friend had looked genuinely worried when Stiles had gotten out of his car at the parking lot of his and Derek’s apartment building.

(Maybe it had something to do with the fact that it took a couple of tries for Stiles’ shaking hands to be able to open the car door, maybe not.)

Stiles had insisted he’d be fine as soon as he was able to boil himself in the shower.

That’s what he was planning on doing, and with shaky hands, he takes off his clothes and puts them straight into the washing machine. The stench of mud is unpleasant even to his nose, and he can’t even imagine how strong it would be to Derek’s supernatural senses. He presses the lid closed and plans to deal with it in the morning since he’s not going to risk getting noise complaints from his neighbors because he used the washing machine at 11 pm.

Stiles gets into the shower and stands under the spray of water, turning the temperature warmer and warmer until it's way past the point he usually uses. It should be scalding but the coldness is persistent, and it’s paired with a tight feeling in his chest that he doesn’t quite understand.

Well, he understands the feeling, is intimately familiar with the feeling of pressure around your chest that’s caused by anxiety, but what he doesn’t understand is why the feeling is there. The evening went fine when you look at the big picture. Scott and he got away with minor aches that were going to pass in a day or two, and the monster was defeated. There was no reason for Stiles to feel that pressure that was making it harder to breathe.

He rubs the shampoo into his hair with more force than is necessary and does his best to ignore the feeling.

Stiles feels like he could stand under the water until Derek comes home and forcibly drags him out of there, but eventually he finds the willpower to turn the water off. He wraps a towel around himself and just stands in the bathroom.

The shower helped him warm up a little but some of the coldness lingers deep down, somewhere the shower couldn’t reach. He also knows that as soon as he opens the door and steps out, the warm cocoon of steam the shower had produced will leave him and he’ll feel cold again.

Eventually, the thought of warm clothes and their soft bed motivates Stiles to move, and he speedwalks through the dark apartment into the bedroom, not bothering to turn the lights on as he rushes to the wardrobe and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie that really belongs to Derek. If Derek comments on it, Stiles is going to blame the fact that he got dressed in the dim light provided by the streetlights behind their window, but in reality, he hopes that its comforting scent will ease the persistent anxiety that doesn’t seem to be leaving him anytime soon.

Stiles rubs his hands up and down his arms, trying to generate some warmth. It’s quiet in the apartment, and as Stiles looks at the bed and thinks about going to sleep, he’s hit with a memory so strong it threatens to strangle him.

The quiet, the darkness, not being able to get warm and being all alone - these are all things he’s experienced before. Being so common, he’s probably experienced them more than once, but since one of the situations was vastly more traumatic than the others, his mind digs it up and throws Stiles back.

Back to when he was controlled by the nogitsune.

Suddenly the sight of the bed makes Stiles feel sick, going to sleep the last thing he wants to do. He rushes out of the room into the living room where he turns all the lights on before curling into a tight ball on the corner of the couch. He turns the television on just to have some background noise, so he doesn’t feel as alone.

What he really wants is for Derek to be here, but he’s working late at the station and Stiles isn’t about to call him and make him worry. There’s no real threat here, nothing but stupid memories that shouldn’t even bother Stiles anymore. It’s been years since it happened, months since Stiles last had a nightmare. He should be over it.

Stiles presses his hands against his face and tries to focus on his breathing, knowing that a panic attack is not far. He has to remove the hands, however, when he realizes that not being able to see his surroundings is making it worse. It’s making the hairs at the back of his neck stand up and it’s making him feel like there’s someone behind him. His head whips up and he looks around himself, wary of all the possible hiding places in their apartment.

He knows he can’t be alone.

He looks at his phone on the coffee table where he had forgotten it when Scott came to pick him up. It was a good thing he did because if he hadn’t, the phone would either be at the bottom of a river or broken beyond fixing. He reaches for the phone with shaking hands and finds Derek’s contact.

He's just going to call him to hear his voice, and to ask him how much longer until he’s coming home. Derek doesn’t need to know that Stiles needs him to come home right that second.

He takes in a few deep breaths, breathing in the scent of Derek from the hoodie. He pulls the hood up so he’s even more surrounded by it, and tucks his freezing toes between the couch cushions. Once he thinks he’s as calm as he can be, he presses call and brings the phone to his ear.

It rings a couple of times before Derek answers.

“Hey Stiles,” he says, sounding happy. “Did everything go okay with Scott?”

Stiles had texted him earlier, telling him what they were going to do. Derek had been sorry he wasn’t able to join them and had told Stiles that there was a lot of work at the station and that he might be staying until late.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “Everything went fine.”

It’s not a lie, at least not a full one. Falling to the river and the coldness that resulted might have been what brought all this on, but the monster-fighting went well all in all. It’s what came after that’s bothering Stiles.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Why is your voice shaking?” There’s a clear urgency in Derek’s voice but it’s the soft tone Stiles is used to hearing when they are alone. Stiles appreciates it so much and tries to focus on it instead of the panic still squeezing his chest.

“Stiles?”

This time the word is more urgent, and Stiles knows he has to respond, or else Derek will be at their door in fifteen minutes. Which might be what Stiles really wishes, but he doesn’t want to make his boyfriend worry, and he doesn't want to bother him while he’s working.

“You don’t need to worry,” he rushes out. “I’m home and I’m not hurt.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Stiles,” Derek tells him, his tone a little more stern now. Stiles can hear noises from the background and a part of him regrets calling because he’s failed spectacularly in not making Derek worry.

“Do you think I could come to the station?” Stiles asks, trying to salvage the situation. “I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

“I don’t know what’s going on but I don’t like the idea of you driving right now,” Derek tells him. “I’m coming home.”

“Derek-”

“I’m coming home,” Derek repeats. “I was almost done anyway. I can finish the rest of the work tomorrow.”

Stiles feels bad for disturbing, but a bigger part of him feels relief knowing that Derek is going to come home.

“Okay,” Stiles says. The word comes out in a relieved breath and he’s not sure if even Derek’s supernatural hearing is able to pick up.

“I’m leaving the station now,” Derek says. “I can put my phone on a speaker and stay on the phone with you if you need.”

“No, I want you to focus on driving,” Stiles says. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive from the station to their building. He’ll be fine for fifteen minutes. “Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Derek says and Stiles can hear a car door close. “I love you and I’ll be home soon, okay?”

“Okay. I love you too,” Stiles says and ends the call. He holds the phone tightly in his hand as he’s fully alone again. The sounds from the television are doing close to nothing to mask the loneliness, and the paranoia is starting to creep back in.

Stiles gets up from the couch and rushes to the corner of the room, sitting down with his back pressed to the wall firmly. This way he can see the whole room, and no one will be able to sneak behind him.

He hugs his arms around himself and wishes he could get warm.

Stiles focuses on his breathing, trying not to let it get too fast. His eyes scan the room from side to side, terrified that the next time he looks he’ll see a man wrapped in gauze standing in the corner.

He startles when he hears the door to the apartment open, convinced that it can’t have been fifteen minutes already. But apparently it has since he sees Derek walk into the room, dressed in his uniform and looking frantic. It takes a moment for Derek to notice him on the floor, but when he does, he rushes to him.

“Stiles!” He says as he kneels on the floor in front of him. He looks Stiles over like he’s trying to find injuries.

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles says and he knows Derek can hear that he’s telling the truth. Derek nods and pulls him into his arms.

Stiles soaks up the comfort and warmth, the scent of Derek much more comforting in person. Derek's arms around him make him feel safe, and the pressure of anxiety clears up a little, making it a little easier to breathe.

“What happened?” Derek asks, but he makes no move to pull away and Stiles is grateful.

“Bad memories,” Stiles mumbles.

Derek doesn’t press further, but he pulls away from the hug and offers his hand for Stiles as he stands. Stiles lets him pull him up from the floor.

“You are freezing,” Derek says and rubs at Stiles’ upper arms through the hoodie before pulling him into another hug, this one more comfortable since they are both standing.

“Fell into a river earlier,” Stiles explains. “Can’t get warm. Brings back bad memories.”

It takes a moment but then Stiles can feel Derek tense up, and he guesses Derek understands just what memories Stiles means. He’s been there enough times after a nightmare to know that the feeling of coldness is almost always present in them.

“The nogitsune?” He asks quietly and Stiles gasps sharply, getting even closer to Derek and nodding against his shoulder.

“Okay,” Derek says, holding Stiles tighter. “Let’s get you to bed, get you warmed up.”

“No,” Stiles says and his head whips up so fast he almost knocks it against Derek’s. “No.”

He’s shaking his head and he feels his breathing pick up. Derek must be able to hear how his heart speeds up because he’s quick to reassure Stiles.

“You don’t need to sleep,” he says, immediately knowing what the problem is. Derek knows that when Stiles gets like this, when the memories of the nogitsune and the darkness are strong in Stiles’ mind, he’s afraid of falling asleep. Whenever he wakes from a nightmare that’s half a dream and half a memory, the fear is so strong that it leaves no room for the logical side of Stiles’ brain to work. He knows that it’s been years since the nogitsune, and he knows that the spirit is safely locked away. But it doesn’t help when he’s feeling like all he needs to do is fall asleep and then he can’t know if he’ll truly be awake the next time he opens his eyes.

“Promise?” Stiles asks and he holds Derek’s eyes as he waits for the answer.

“I promise. I won’t let you fall asleep,” Derek says and Stiles trusts him. If Derek promises something Stiles knows he can count on it. “I just think it would be more comfortable. Easier to get you warmed up.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees and pulls away, but he doesn’t get far before Derek is pulling him to his side as they walk to the bedroom together.

Derek lets go of Stiles only long enough so he can turn the lights on and take off his uniform, and then holds the covers up and lets Stiles get in before crawling in behind him. Stiles is still wearing the sweatpants and the thick hoodie, but he can feel the heat coming from Derek who is holding him tight to his chest.

It helps, but it’s still too quiet in the apartment and Stiles keeps looking at the open door of their wardrobe. Realistically he knows that there’s no one hiding there but he’s unable to look away. He lets out a frustrated whine and turns around, Derek’s arms around him loosening just enough to let him move. Stiles situates himself against Derek’s chest and hides his head in his neck, his arms trapped between their bodies. Stiles feels bad for his cold fingers and nose coming to contact with Derek’s skin but he doesn’t seem to mind, and only pulls Stiles closer when he stops moving.

“I should be over this,” Stiles says, wanting Derek to know that he doesn’t like to be bothering him with something that happened years ago. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Derek says. He slips his hands underneath Stiles’ - well, technically his own - hoodie and Stiles lets out a shaky sigh at the warmth they bring against his naked back. “What you went through was traumatic. Something like that never truly leaves.”

Stiles knows Derek talks from experience and so he doesn’t argue. Stiles knows that this is probably going to follow him for the rest of his life, and he appreciates that Derek isn’t trying to convince him that everything will be completely fine if he just gives it time. It won’t and it’s okay. It’s something Stiles, and something they can learn to live with.

Just like they live with the nightmares that occasionally make Derek wake up soaked in sweat.

They stay under the covers, and Stiles can feel his heart calming down and his body warming up. As he listens to the steady beat of Derek’s heart and feels the coldness leaving his body, the memories retreat back to the far-away part of his brain that they’ve made their home. Some uneasiness remains, but Stiles knows it’s not there to stay.

He feels so comfortable that he starts to doze off, but before he can fall asleep he feels Derek leave a kiss to the top of his head and his voice is deep and calm when he speaks.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” he tells Stiles, and while Stiles appreciates that Derek remembers and keeps his promise, he’s ready to brush him off and tell him he’s okay now and it’s okay to let him sleep. He doesn’t have time to do it though before Derek is speaking again.

“Come on,” he says and pulls his hands away from Stiles’ back to gently nudge him. He scoots downwards on the bed so he can kiss Stiles’ lips softly and Stiles is helpless to resist. The kiss ends too soon when Derek is pulling away and getting out of bed. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. Chamomile, because I know that caffeine keeps you awake.”

“But it’s-,” Stiles starts as he sits up on the bed and looks at the clock on the nightstand. “Two in the morning.”

“Just some tea and something light to eat,” Derek says as he pulls some sweatpants on. “Come on.”

Stiles follows Derek to the kitchen, turning the television off on his way there. When he gets to the kitchen Derek is already preparing sandwiches while the water is boiling in the kettle. Stiles takes out their favorite mugs and puts the teabags in them to wait for the water to finish boiling.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Derek asks.

Stiles looks at him and sees that Derek is still focused on the sandwiches, his tone light in a way that’s giving Stiles an easy out. It would be the easier choice, but it’s not what Stiles wants to choose.

“There was a Kappa in the river a little south from the town,” Stiles starts. The water finishes boiling and he keeps a part of his focus on the task of preparing the tea so that the memories won’t have his full attention. “We both ended up in the water, and I was freezing the whole time Scott drove me home.”

“Why did he leave you alone?” Derek asks, his tone confused rather than accusing. From the corner of his eye, Stiles can see that his full focus has shifted from the sandwiches to Stiles. “Why didn’t he stay?”

“Because I told him I was fine,” Stiles says as he takes the tea bags out of the water and brings them to the trash, focusing on staying detached from the memories. Forcing himself to focus on here and now so he can tell what happened without remembering it too vividly. “I thought I would be fine after a warm shower, but no matter how hot the water was, it wasn’t able to make me feel properly warm. I started feeling anxious and then all I could think about was how cold I was and how I was alone and then I couldn’t be sure if I really was alone.”

Despite his best efforts, Stiles is getting worked up again. It comes to a stop when he feels a steady hand on his shoulder, turning him around and pulling him against a solid chest.

“I’m really glad you called me,” Derek says as they sway a little where they stand.

“I feel bad for interrupting your work,” Stiles admits, even though he knows what Derek will say.

“Don’t be,” he says. “I can finish it tomorrow. You’re more important.”

Stiles absolutely does not blush at the words. That would be ridiculous, they’ve been together since Stiles came back to Beacon Hills for the summer after his second year in college. Such simple words aren’t enough to make him blush.

Except they are, and he’s unable to hide it when Derek pulls away enough to see his face. By the small smile he has on his face Stiles knows he noticed.

“I love you,” Derek says.

“I love you too,” Stiles replies. “I love you so much.”

And then they are kissing, in their kitchen at two in the morning after a disastrous evening. Their lives are unusual, and they both have plenty of nightmare fuel from things that will follow them the rest of their lives, but they also have each other, and in that moment Stiles feels incredibly grateful for that. Things aren’t perfect, but they are pretty damn close.

Derek is the one to pull away from the kiss first.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s eat so we can sleep. It’s late.”

“Oh, so now you care about what time it is,” Stiles says and rolls his eyes. “It didn’t bother you when I was cozy in bed about to fall asleep cuddled up to my personal heater.”

Derek shrugs, “I made a promise.”

Stiles’ mind draws empty on witty comebacks so he goes to get their mugs and brings them to the table while Derek puts the sandwich ingredients in the fridge and brings their plates.

“Besides I know how cranky you get when you wake up hungry,” he says as he sits on the other side of the table, opposite Stiles.

“Hey,” Stiles protests and pokes his foot against Derek’s shin under the table.

“It’s not a lie,” Derek defends himself and starts to eat.

Stiles lifts the cup of tea to his lips with both hands and breathes in the warm steam, reveling in the warmth the cup brings and the feeling of safety that is brought by the person sitting on the other side of the table.

He’s going to be okay.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #sterek fanfiction #my writing #i got hit by the sudden late night motivation to drag these here as well #i wasn't going to do that at first #because i thought i'd just write one #maybe two fics for this fandom #but now it's gotten pretty clear that i'm not going anywhere #so here people of tumblr #check out my latest obsession!#* fingerguns *

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babylooneytoonz · 3 years

Text

Warnings: Too much cuteness , cute bickering , fluff , non descriptive mention of sex

(Coffee Stains Masterlink )

How on earth were you supposed to know that the mission Natasha and Bucky had gone for would be lasting for over a month? Had you known that, you would have asked them to send someone else instead. Ever since Bucky had made that tiny confession the day he left for the mission, you hadn't been able to stop thinking of him. Especially at nights, when you went to bed at night, cuddling against the pillow that Bucky had gotten for you, you missed him. Your mornings were mostly spent with Wanda or Sam at the gym, where you practiced your yoga and a few mild exercises, while Wanda and Sam worked out their usual. It was almost five times in a week that you lazily strolled up to Steve; and tried to subtly ask Steve by making small talks with him on the updates of his mission, and when was Bucky and Natasha coming back.

It was almost 35 days later, and you stepped out of your bath, your towel wrapped around your now oversized body; droplets of water dripping off you onto the rugged floor of your warm room. You went into your closet, squinting slightly when you turned on the lights and sat down on the floor, crossing your legs underneath you, as your eyes started looking for anything you could wear for the night that was remotely comfortable. You wouldn't lie, the past month had been a horror in terms of you wreaking havoc at the Avengers towers, screaming and blasting at others because there was nothing that you would actually fit into. Worst part of all that you felt was, Tony had decided to take a vacation with Pepper now, when he would have helped by magically filling up your closet with a wide array of loose fitting outfits by just a twirl of his magic wand.

You were, however, beyond thankful to Sam Wilson. The two of you snuck into Bucky's apartment; to steal his t-shirts at times. And tonight was one of those days.

You stepped into Bucky's closet, your fingers skimming over the range of his t-shirts, until they landed on a soft cotton black t-shirt with a Captain America shield printed on it. You couldn't help but giggle as you pulled it off the hanger, running your palm over the print. You locked the closet from the inside, ignoring the rummaging sounds that you could hear outside, knowing well aware that Sam was going through Bucky's stuff again.

Sliding the t-shirt on, you looked at yourself in the mirror; a faint hint of a smile breaking out on your lips as your eyes fell on your own reflection in the live size mirror in his closet. Your hands mechanically moved to trace over the outlines of your seven month old bump, but that smile was short-lived when the baby inside squirmed and kicked your bladder hard, causing you to almost double over, gripping the counter in front of you. "Please stop my love, please stop squirming, I know you have your father's energies running inside you, and you want to come on out already but that's not happening for another two months buddy. You gotta hang in there."

You grabbed one of his loose fitting sweatpants next, and hurriedly shoved your feet into them, struggling to pull it as much as you could so the elastic remained at the base of your belly's curve.

You unlocked his closet, scratching the back of your head as you stepped out of the closet; waiting to come face to face with your friend, who had probably dumped the entire contents of Bucky's bedside table drawers onto the bed. You had least expected a dozen condoms strewn over the bed, and you were ready to blast Sam out for doing that but a sudden look of startle graced your face when you saw that instead of Sam, Bucky was sitting on his bed, his eyes exhausted and droopy, yet, a look of excitement to be back home evident on his face. He has his hands on his elbows, and he was leaning forward, and the instant you stepped out, he couldn't help but feel blown away, even more so because you were dressed in his clothes, making it a lot more intimate than he had imagined your first meet with him post the mission to be.

"Holy shit! James Buchanan Barnes!" Your hand flew to your heart, and your eyes widened in surprise, but soon, a soft smile broke out against your lips, and you could feel tears poking into your eyes.

"Hi?" He let out a soft chuckle, and stood up slowly, taking two reluctant steps towards you.

"Hi, Barnes. You're late." You smirked, taking two steps towards him, and then pausing to eye him, for any injuries that you could see. "Are you– "

"I'm fine, doll," he smiled, and then crinkled his nose in the most cutest manner, before mumbling in a low voice, "Come 'ere." He threw open his arms, wide enough for you and your massive bump to fit in entirely, and you just let out a sob, loud enough for him to hear it, as you waddled into his embrace, burying your nose into the side of his neck.

"Jesus, Buck. I missed you." You mumbled against the side of his neck, when his flesh arm came to rest against your back. "How'd it go?"

He slowly pulled back from your embrace, and took your wrist in his, walking with you to the side of his bed. He made you sit down against the edge of the bed, slowly lowering himself down in front on his heels and toes, looking up at you. "It was alright, we kicked some asses. Punk told me though, the not so subtle ways in which you kept trying to get information out of him."

"Hey! I tried my best. How can you blame me? I wanted to know when you were coming back." You giggled, toying with one of his sweaty strands of hair, twirling it around your fingers. "You're a mess, Barnes. And you stink of sweat." You smirked down at him, only to have him smirk back as he stood up, hooking two of his fingers against the round neck collar of the t-shirt that you were wearing, belonging to him, and tugged at it playfully, until you were slightly pulled to the front, a low gasp escaping your lips, "Barnes, you pervert!"

"Might as well let me take a shower, and then I'll talk to ya," he smirked before he turned away, his footsteps subsiding until the door to his bathroom slammed shut and the sound of the shower turning on reached your ears. You randomly grabbed your phone, finally deciding to text back on the messages that were pending to be replied since over a week. It was now or never, right?

By the time you were done with replying to all the texts, you heard the shower go off. Seconds later, Bucky stepped out, wearing his sweatpants, and a worn out t-shirt that looked comfy as fuck, the towel still around his neck, his hair sticking to his face . He pulled the towel off his neck, mumbling something under his breath as he started drying his hair, and at the same time, his eyes started darting all across the room, looking for something.

"Buck, what you looking for when I'm right here?" You looked at him, smugly.

"My hair tonic," he deadpanned, "must've been your partner in crime, Wilson."

You crossed your legs and sat back, your head now resting against the headboard of his bed, while your fingers stroked over the fabric over your bump, trying to calm down your baby, who was beginning to wake up from their slumber again.

"That's the reason for your beautiful, silky locks?"

"If you weren't the mother of my child, you'd be thrown out of my room. No one shames me for my hair treatment." He fake scowled at you, but you could see the smirk hidden behind that scowl.

Finally, giving up, he tossed the towel away, and made his way into bed, climbing into the blanket that you had now draped over your feet. He turned to his side, his arm stretched and resting on the headboard behind you, he kept staring at you. It was the first time; you realized that the two of you were going to talk to each other, ever since you were back.

Suddenly, the silence and the anticipation was killing you. You averted your gaze, looking down at your fingers when he cleared his throat.

"This isn't how I wanted this to go."

"Well, I'm sorry I put a responsibility on you then– " Bucky hadn't even begun speaking completely, you had already started hyperventilating.

"Yeah, can we have a conversation like mature adults? Without you trying to pick a verbal fight with me?"

You just lifted your middle finger, scratching your nose with it, and gave him a scowl. He rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore it, and began speaking again, "I just – I am kind of not very opposed to this idea. Of us, having a kid together."

"Am I dreaming or Sergeant Barnes is actually happy he knocked me up?" You unknowingly pushed yourself closer towards him, so now your side was brushing against his. However, before you could say something else, Bucky 's lips pressed against yours and a small squeal left your lips, as a reflex for you had least anticipated this, at least not at that time. His lips were soft against yours , his kiss gentle and carefree. When he finally pulled back, he swiped his thumb over your lower lip, "You don't shut up, do you?"

"If that is how you're gonna shut me up, then you're gonna have to deal with my sharp tongue for a lot longer."

He parted his lips, almost ready to speak, but his face fell slightly, and it looked like he was contemplating how to say whatever it was that was stuck to the back of his mind. Your smug smile washed off and a look of concern filled you up, your fingers tightening against his in reflex, "Buck, you know you can say it to me. I know, the last time, we spoke to each other and bared out our life in front of each other, it didn't go so well but I promise I am going to try my best to understand."

"There are a lot of what ifs in the back of my mind, I just can't seem to get past those," his voice sounded low, and weak. It was so sad, it broke your heart.

"Buck, it's okay. Look at me. You think I'm handling this well? Hell, I'm scared of waking up, and finding my baby taken away from me, and being experimented upon in any of HYDRA's bases, and I won't be able to find them."

His eyebrow twitched, and a sudden surge of anger surged through him, and reflexively his metal arm slid through your waist and he pulled you close so you were now sitting with your bump pressed against his side, "But Buck, I also know that this kid's got bad ass parents, who are never going to let that happen."

He looked up at you, his eyes failing to hide his insecurities, his fears that were slowly eating at him from the inside; making him look like a vulnerable child. Hesitantly, you reached for his flesh arm, coiling your fingers against his, bringing his palm to your swollen stomach as you let it rest there. You could sense his hesitancy, but after a few seconds, you felt him relax into you, his hand now firmly placed on your bump, warmth radiating from him, "What if I suck at this? At being a dad? What if my super serum causes problems that our child has to deal with– "

"Bucky?" You brought your lips to his temple, kissing him softly, "I know you're freaked out. So am I. And I know, this baby might be different, given your super serum, that I'm sure they are, no normal baby kicks like that Buck," you chuckled, and at the same time, a loose tear escaped your eye as you hiccupped and wiped it away, "the point is. We both are and we both will have to deal with it. We bring them up like any normal baby in this world should grow up. It doesn't matter that their parents are a freaking spy and a super soldier."

"And they will keep coming after them, just because it's my fucking serum running through their veins." He said, with a look of seriousness in his eyes. You knew he was right.

"Let them. I'm ready for them, they can try all they want, but I won't let them touch a hair on their head," you replied back, immediately stiffening as Bucky's metal arm came to rest against the low of your back in order to calm you down.

"I won't let that happen, love. Trust me, if they try to take what's mine, I will pull each of them out from whichever corner of the world they're hiding and send them to hell."

"Buck," you finally smirked, in a sudden movement as you waddled on top of him, pinning him to the headboard as he just looked at you in a daze, his jaw lightly hung at the suddenness of it all, as you sat on his abdomen, "I think my water just broke?"

He looked at you in horror, ready to jump out of bed, "What?!! Already? Friday– "

"Jeez, I'm kidding Barnes, I was just trying a pick up line."

"You what?!!" He sat up, holding you by your shoulders, looking at you in an annoyed way, "and what kind of a pick up line was that, Y/N?"

"Well, I think my water just broke, or was that just the effect of your words?"

"That was the most pathetic pick up line ever."

"Was it, really?" You smirked, as you teasingly rolled your hip, your core brushing over the bulge in his sweatpants, his eyes momentarily closing as he pressed his head against the headboard and grunted in a hungry way, "I really do think it had an effect on you."

"Come on, you're seven months pregnant. What if something happens?"

"Barnes, we're not going to fight a wrestling match. I'll be on top." You winked, and before the father of your baby could protest, you were already snaking your palm through the waistband of his sweatpants, "besides, you keep forgetting , this kid is not just a baby, it's a freaking super soldier baby."

╞═════𖠁𐂃𖠁═════╡

The sex was amazing, and you were screaming out Bucky's name so loud, Sam had to knock on his door screaming his ass off that the two of you needed to keep it down, for he was trying to read. You chuckled, sliding underneath the warm covers that he usually slept in. They were soft and they smelt nice, just like him.

You saw from the corner of your eye, as Bucky sat up, moving his legs out of the blanket so he could slide his slippers on. You grabbed a mound of his t-shirt , rolling the fabric into your fist, "Where are you going?"

"To get your pillow, I thought you can't sleep without it?"

You gave him a smile and reached for his arm, trying to get him back into bed, "I have you to cuddle against, my live size pillow."

"I don't want to crush our baby, doll."

You nodded, giving him a sweetest little smile as he stood up and disappeared out of his room, and within a few minutes, he was back, the yellow maternity pillow draped over his waist like a snake coiling around him. You threw out your hands like a two year old waiting to be given candy and he grinned, walking up to your side of the bed so he could place it there.

Immediately, you coiled around the pillow, curling into a ball around it, and you almost dozed off, feeling Bucky get into bed behind you, and flicking off the lamp.

You weren't used to this, sleeping in bed, with James Buchanan Barnes, and having him snuggle into you, forming a big spoon around you, while you clung on to your pillow, and he clung on to your bump, his hand protectively holding you against him.

It was all fine and good, until your eyes jerked open in the middle of the night, and the loss of physical contact made you stir slightly in bed, as you rolled over to Bucky's side. A smile paved its way to your lips, when you saw him almost rolled over on his front, his arm hanging the side of the bed, all the blankets having been hogged by you. Slowly, you inches closer to the Winter Soldier, slowly placing your palm on his arm, nuzzling against him slightly, "Bucky, are you awake? Mhm, wake up, Barnes, your baby wants to have a hot chocolate fudge sundae."

"Go to sleep, woman," he grumbled, trying to pull the pillows over his head but you just nudged him harder.

"Wake up, I'm pregnant because you didn't use a fucking condom. And now, it's your job to make sure your little family is fed."

He slowly stirred , letting out a loud yawn as he slowly turned on his back, and rubbed his eyes, and then opened just one eye, grabbing your wrist so he could yank you closer, "Oh yeah? You could have asked to pull out. But you wanted to take it all. Said you could handle it."

"Fuck you, Barnes. Now can we? I know a place that's open 24x7 where we're gonna get what this bugger wants."

"Cant you have pretzels? I thought they liked pretzels."

"Yeah, that's old news, babe. You were gone for a month." You smirked and pushed yourself out of bed, and groaning to himself, Bucky finally sat up and grabbed the clock from his bedside table glancing at the time, before mumbling, "Good thing I love you doll because it's fucking 3 am in the morning."

You almost slipped forward, your foot barely into your slippers. Your knees felt wobbly suddenly and you had to grab the wall for support to keep yourself upright. Bucky's head snapped towards you and he looked at you, alarm filling him up. Within a second, he was by your side, looking down at you.

"you okay? What's happening?"

"Did you just say you love me?"

"You just slipped Y/N."

"Nah, that was my little display that I was shocked."

"Holy shit, you're so dramatic," he lifted you off your foot; bridal style, as he made his way towards the door, but you didn't let him step out of the door, as you lodged your foot against it.

"Put me down, Barnes."

He smirked, "No!"

"I hate you."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow.

"No, you idiot. I love you too! Now put me down."

(Okay, this chapter is somehow really close to my heart. I loved writing it. 😭❤️)

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@really-dont-forget-it @thepeakygurl @all-art-is-quite-useless @baumarvel @janajjj @chipilerendi @nyotamalfoy @skittychat @allidoiswritewritewrite @jessyballet

Want to be added to my taglist? Please fill up a form on this link. 💗

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes x reader #james buchanan bucky barnes #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #james buchanan barnes fanfiction

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stevesbunny · 4 years

Text

Not funny - 1

DARK! series. Do not read if that makes you uncofortable or if you’re under 18! No minors!

(My first series, yay!)

Summary: Steve can’t stay away from Y/M, even thought she made it clear she’s not interested in him. So he takes the matters into his own hands. When he finds out his friends – Sam and Bucky – decided to take his example, he’s delighted until everything goes downhill once they cross paths.

Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x Reader

Word count: 2 200 give or take

Warnings for the series: THIS IS A DARK SERIES! It will contain explict non-con, dub-con, manipulation, drug use, violence, death of not so important characters

Warnings for this chapter: kidnapping, drugging

You’ve been warned.

Why is writing so difficult? Why can’t you think of anything even after you’ve been staring at a blank page for three hours?

You took a deep breath and looked out the window. Usually sunny weather made you feel inspired, but today it was different. You haven’t felt the flow of creativity for a long time and you haven’t felt safe for a long time, either. Maybe you should write about that?

Your contract with the publisher foresaw the next part of the romantic saga until the end of this year, but how can you write about love when there hasn’t been anyone in your life for a long time?

You took a deep breath and closed the laptop. You went to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of coffee, naively thinking that it is the lack of caffeine that is responsible for your writer’s block.

You leaned on the island, drinking a hot liquid of the gods and began to wonder why do you actually not feel safe? What has changed in the past three weeks? Why do you always look behind you wherever you’re going, why do you always make sure you closed the door to your apartment at least three times? It’s become a routine, you just didn’t know why.

Suddenly, as if someone from “above” heard your inner monologue, there was a knock on the door. Irritated, you set down your coffee and moved to open the door.

"Hi," there was a muscular blond at your door, his angelic smile looking very punchable. He looked you up and down and frowned, noticing your messy hair and dark circles under your eyes. "Did I come at the wrong time?"

Steve moved into the building exactly three weeks ago. You didn't make friends, although he occasionally tried to initiate a conversation. It always started with an innocent "hello" and, on more than one occasion, it ended with "what are you doing tomorrow evening?" Unfortunately, “tomorrow evening” was always a busy time for you. Any normal person would take the hint, but not Steve.

"Earth to Y/M,” he laughed, bending his knees a little so that he could look into your eyes.

"I'm a bit busy," you pressed your lips in a thin line, scratching your head. "I'm trying to work and- “

You stumbled back when Steve stepped into your apartment, oozing confidence and not giving a single fuck about what you just said. Only then did you notice that all this time his hands were crossed behind his back.

With a heavy sigh, you closed the door and followed him into the living room, where the symbol of your helplessness lay on the table - a closed laptop.

Steve looked around, making sure you couldn't see what he was holding in his hands. Finally, he turned to you with a smile. His attitude was exactly as usual - confident, calm and disturbing. You didn't really know why such a charming and sweet man made you so uneasy. Perhaps because he couldn’t understand that if a woman refuses a date six times, that probably means she’s not interested.

"Do you remember when we talked about this new pastry shop at the corner?" He smiled charmingly, pulling the white box from behind his back.

Of course you remembered this conversation. You were just returning from grocery shopping when Steve offered help. You let him help you with the bags, listening to him telling a story from his childhood about some guy named Bucky, on the way to your apartment. The confectionery already existed in the 1940s, back when Steve wasn’t a mountain of meat and muscle yet. You let your guard down then, saying how delicious the cakes and muffins from the confectionary were. Steve just smiled and made a mental note. You were surprised that he didn’t ask you out on a date that day.

"Uh huh," you nodded, eyeing the box suspiciously.

“They have a new cupcake flavour, raspberry. I got you a few," he moved to hand you the box, but seeing that you weren’t going to move towards him, he nodded and put the box on the coffee table. It looked like it had already been opened and you doubted it was because Steve was checking to see if they got the order right.

"You didn’t have to,” your tone was polite, but the boy must be really dumb if he didn’t notice the stink eye.

"I know," he shrugged. "I hardly ever see you lately, almost as if you completely stopped going out. Everything’s alright?"

He put his hands in his pockets, exaggerated worry on his face. Those damn puppy eyes.

"My publishing house doesn't like anything I write," you didn't know why you opened up to him, but it all spilled out of your mouth almost automatically. You told him about how you sit in front of the computer every day for ten hours and you can't think of anything because your publishing house rejects all your ideas. None of your friends knew about it, because nobody cared about your life that much. Maybe you needed to talk to someone who really listens to you. The only person who was patient enough was Steve Rogers.

While telling him your story, you missed the smirk that appeared on Steve's face for a second. He nodded as he came up to you and put his hand on your shoulder. You had the impression that his warm, huge hand weighed a ton as he clenched his fingers on an exposed piece of your skin.

"I understand you’ve been having a hard time lately, sweetheart," you frowned at the nickname, "but not for long. I promise."

You froze. You didn't even have time to ask what that meant, as Steve left your apartment. When you shook off the absurdity of this situation, you quickly moved to lock the door. You'd rather pull all your teeth out than eat those cupcakes. You grabbed the box that he’d left on the table and threw it into the trash without thinking. You wondered if he was creepy on purpose or maybe he didn't know he was giving off some serious serial killer vibes?

You were going to spend the rest of the evening in the hot bath, but you felt nauseous while cooking dinner. Your vision suddenly became blurry and you felt like your body was floating. At first you ignored it, it happens sometimes. But this time it was different. On the way to the bedroom, you collapsed to the floor, everything around you seemed distorted. You opened your mouth to call for help - there was no way you could crawl to the living room to get your phone. Your heavy breaths only seemed to make everything worse. Everything went black.

How was this possible? You didn't even touch the cupcakes.

✰

Your head felt heavy, your lips were dry and you were still nauseous. You turned your head to the side and opened your eyes. What seemed to be a dizziness turned out to be a moving car. Suddenly your eyes went wide, mouth ajar in a silent scream.

"You’re finally up," you heard a familiar voice and you swallowed hard, "you scared me a little. I checked for your pulse about ten times."

His voice was low and calm. It reminded you of the tone of voice in which the head of the publishing house you are writing for spoke to his employees.

You tried to move, but your body was limp. You knew you weren’t bound. Did he drug you?

But you haven't touched the cupcakes.

You felt the same warm hand on your thigh that not long ago Steve rested comfortably on your shoulder.

"Cupcakes were clean," he said, as if he were reading your mind. And for a moment you even worried he was. You frowned and he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye and poked your shoulder. You hissed in pain, your hand automatically moves to the spot Steve just touched. Your body went numb, as you realized that the cupcake box was a misdirection.

"Steve... What did you do to me?" You tried to stay calm, but it was difficult when all you could see was a forest and a psychopath clenching his jaw, sitting next to you.

"I'm not stupid," he murmured, his eyes focused on the road, "I know you don't trust me. I knew you wouldn't eat the cupcakes. You refuse everything I offer you. "

He laughed bitterly, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightened on your lap. You licked your dry lips.

"Steve, I'm not interested in you."

It didn't trigger the reaction you expected. Steve laughed out loud, shaking his head. He looked at you briefly, a dangerous glint in his eye. He reached out to turn the radio down and stopped the car abruptly. He turned towards you, and you moved towards the door, wanting to be as far away from him as possible.

"Sure, I got the hint. You are the one who doesn’t understand," his voice suddenly lower, deeper. You could almost hear the dramatic music, a herd of black crows surrounding the car, signalling your end. Although it could be just your imagination.

You grabbed the door handle, but quickly let go of it when you saw a warning in Steve’s eyes. Even if you managed to get out of the car, he would catch you in no time.

"That you’re a psycho?"

Steve's jaw tightened, as he decided to ignore your question. His hand landed on your thigh again, his fingers clenched so tightly, your skin burning.

"How long has your publishing house been rejecting your ideas, honey?"

You frowned, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Three weeks," you tried to push his hand away, but his fingers tightened even more. You winced, tears glistening in your eyes.

"And you think you ever had a choice? I planned your whole life exactly three weeks ago, " he hissed, "you decide whether it will be painful or pleasant for you."

Seriously, you almost laughed at that. First he asks you if you thought you ever had a choice, and then tells you that you decide how badly you’re screwed. A real gentleman.

"It has been fantastic so far," you choked out. Steve raised an eyebrow, straightening up in the seat.

"I'm glad you still have your sense of humour," he turned up the radio again, turning the engine back on.

None of you said anything until the end of the ride. Steve was busy humming to an old song that was playing on the radio and you were trying to remember the way. All the trees look pretty much the same, so you gave up after three hundred and fifty-seventh spruce tree.

It was dark outside, the sun set an hour ago, and the road seemed endless. Even more spruces later, Steve turned into path leading through the forest. The car rocked on the potholes, and your previous nausea returned. You stopped in front of a small wooden cabin. You would find it cute, if it wasn't for who brought you here.

"Seriously?" You sighed theatrically. "Cabin in the woods? Could you be more predictable?”

Steve gave you a sharp look and got out of the car to open the door on your side.

"Come on," he reached out his hand to you, and you accepted it. You had to hold yourself back not to spit on it, though.

"Okay Hannibal, what's the plan?" You asked leaning on the car. Steve chuckled, rummaging in his pants pockets. He took out three sets of keys and waved them in front of your eyes. Each set had a different colour; blue, red and white. Shocking.

"Since you’re such a fun loving girl, I'll let you draw. Each key opens a different room - "

"You don't say."

"Draw one. Let’s see where you’ll be staying until you learn not to talk back," his blood boiled when he saw you roll your eyes. He'll have to teach you so many things. He knew it wouldn't be easy with your attitude, but he was going to fuck this attitude out of you as soon as he gets to know you better. He may be a psychopath, but he’s still old-fashioned.

"Oh, you know how to keep me entertained," you glanced at the key sets, yawning ostentatiously. "Blue."

Steve grinned, putting the other two sets back in his pocket. Only when you saw his wide, disturbing smile did you realise you were screwed.

"On a scale of 1 to 10, you're fucked, sweetheart."

#dark!steve #dark!steve rogers #dark! steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x you #dark steve #dark steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers fanfiction #captain america fanfiction #steve rogers series #dark steve rogers series #dark!steve series #dark!steve rogers series #dark captain america #dark!captain america #steve rogers x you

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piracytheorist · 3 years

Text

A Kiss for Good Luck (8/15)

Summary: So this is the story of one born lucky, and one born unlucky. Fate will keep making them cross paths, but is it to bring them together, or to test them? Captain Swan AU.

A/N: This will hurt. I am sorry.

Rating: T (make sure you’re okay with the warnings on AO3) Warnings: This chapter contains character death, some depictions of violence, depictions of poor and unhealthy coping mechanisms, as well as a toxic relationship. Any intercourse and physical touch in general is fully consensual, but emotionally the relationship may appear upsetting to some. Also there are some elements that may resemble emotional self-harm.

Word count for this chapter: 4k (48k in total) AO3

Read from the beginning: Tumblr | AO3

Chapter 8: Killian Jones, October 19th 2011 – October 24th 2015

The kiss is deeper than he expected. Killian pushes the woman back, but gently. He was the one who gave her permission to kiss him, after all.

"I thought it would be a quick kiss. I have a girlfriend."

Her brows are going wild. "Shit. Sorry."

He's so stupid. What would Milah think? "'Salright. Go pee."

"Yes. That,” she slurs. “Thank you again."

Just as the woman closes the bathroom door behind her, Milah appears above him.

“You okay?” she says.

He looks at her confused, before he realizes it's not that normal to sit on the floor while at a club. “Yeah,” he says. “Just very, very drunk.”

She gives him her hand, he takes it, then she starts pulling at him. “Let's go outside for some air. There's too much smoke in here.”

“I wanna pee!”

She drags him up. “You can pee outside! Let's go!”

It feels better outside. The cool, clean air wakes him up a bit.

Milah throws her arms around Killian's neck and pulls him to lean his forehead on hers. He smells the martini in her breath, landing hot against his lips.

He closes his eyes. He could stay like this forever, and how he wishes this moment lasted that long...

“How sweet,” a sharp voice says from the side.

They turn together to see Gold staring at them, his hands crossed on the handle of his cane. There's two big guys flanking him, and Killian pulls Milah aside, stepping in front of her.

“What do you want?” Killian says.

“I did wait,” Gold says. “I held back, let you take my wife away from me.”

“Shut up,” Milah says, moving to Killian's side. “Our marriage was over long before I met Killian.”

Gold looks at her, hand grabbing the cane hard.

“You... you followed us here?” Milah says, suddenly realizing. “What the hell? Where's Jack?”

“You have no right to ask about him,” Gold says and takes a brisk step forward. “You went against my conditions for meeting him. You brought that bastard with you!”

Milah flinches, and Killian's left hand grabs onto hers.

“And you?” Gold looks at him. “Going behind my back to take my son on your side? Trying to buy his love?” His face seems to barely contain his rage as he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a handgun.

Killian's hand squeezes Milah's as his other one raises up in defense. “Whoa, Gold, wait-”

Gold shoots.

Though Killian’s ears are ringing from the exploding sound, he hears Milah's trembling sigh. It feels like it's hours later that he turns to look at her, eyes going straight for the growing red spot on her chest.

And then she's falling.

“No,” he whispers and holds her, gently breaking her fall.

Her eyes are moving wildly, then she coughs and a thin trail of blood runs from the corner of her lips.

“No, no. Milah...”

She focuses on him. “I love you,” she whispers. She gasps one last time, then she's limp in his arms.

It's like even more hours pass. He feels her hot blood staining his hands.

Her eyes are closed. She's not breathing. Only her blood moves, dripping out of her body even though her heart has stopped beating.

“No,” he says.

He hears the tapping sound of a cane, and he looks up to see Gold standing above him, gun aimed at him. His henchmen also aim their handguns at him.

“What are you waiting for?” Killian says. “Finish it.”

What else can he say? It's not as if he'd leave him to tell the tale.

“Oh, no. You won't be so lucky,” Gold says, but he doesn't move.

Killian manages to hold himself back only long enough to set Milah down gently, then he lunges at Gold, grabbing the gun.

It all happens in half a second.

Gold shoots, Killian's ears are ringing again, and he sees two fingers fly off in a sudden fountain of blood.

He drops down to his knees. His left hand hangs limp in a way no hand should. The thumb and index finger are missing, and there's a gaping crescent hole, starting under his middle finger and reaching to the middle of his wrist.

The pain hits him suddenly and a scream erupts from his throat.

His vision comes and goes; one moment Gold is standing above him, the next Killian is leaning over Milah, the blood spilling from his hand onto her unmoving body.

There's more people screaming; people shouting; sirens, blue and red lights...

Then white. So much white.

Killian is just three days younger of twenty-eight when he once again thinks how he's cursed.

Milah is dead, there is no doubt about that. His hand was amputated, and he has to spend a whole week in the hospital before the doctors clear him for a transatlantic flight.

In the meantime he learns that Milah's body was sent back to England, per Gold's request.

At first, he finds it impossible; but the cops who'd questioned him about the assault soon inform him that Gold has solid alibi in London at the time of the murder.

Killian almost shuts down in the week he has to spend in there; Gold must have stolen Killian's phone before fleeing the scene of the crime, and Killian has no way of contacting Nemo, and he didn't let him know the specifics of his trip in the first place, like when exactly his return trip would’ve been.

If Nemo had known, he would have worried after not getting any news from Killian the day he was supposed to return. He would have contacted hospitals, would have found out about the assault. Probably would even honor Killian's request to attend Milah's funeral in his place, if Killian had the guts to actually ask him for that.

And to top it all, Nemo's phone at home is out of order. Why didn't he ever bother memorizing his cell phone? Now all Killian can do is lie in his hospital bed and do his damnedest to avoid looking at where his left hand is no more.

The blasted week goes by; Killian spends the rest of his savings into a new return trip, the only one he can afford has two stops in between.

He's dead tired, hungry, with fresh dog crap under his sole, and somehow he's not surprised to see his apartment has flooded.

It's three in the morning and he contemplates walking through the ankle-deep water anyway and collapsing in his bed.

He stands so long in front of the open door of his apartment that eventually the downstairs neighbor comes to complain about water dripping into his place.

One call to the fire department later, Killian picks up his two bags – he didn't have the heart to throw Milah's stuff away – and takes a taxi to Nemo's place.

Nemo obviously got out of bed to let Killian in, and of course, he asks Killian what happened.

It's like he's seventeen again, unable to react to one of the most life-changing news he ever received, only the opposite, in the most grim way that he never dared imagine.

He's hiding his handless arm inside his jacket pocket and silently walks the stairs up to his old bedroom. He doesn't answer Nemo's questions next morning, he doesn't even sit down to get breakfast. He goes straight to the lawyer Milah had during her divorce.

Gold is paying people to give false testimony, and Killian is gonna take him down.

Too consumed in his own hatred for the man, the whole week he spent planning his comeback he didn't think of the problems the lawyer is listing now; Killian was drunk – as evidenced by hospital records – enough for his testimony to be considered debatable; he also has motive to want to get back at Gold, stronger than Gold's motive to kill his unfaithful wife three whole years post their divorce which concluded in his favour; and of course, one has to prove first that Gold's witnesses are lying before questioning Gold's alibi of more than five thousand kilometers away from the scene of the crime.

Killian doesn't return to Nemo's place. His own apartment stinks, damp and moldy, half of his furniture and appliances were ruined, but at least his bed is functioning, and he can't deal with Nemo's sympathy right now.

He needs to take Gold down. He can't have any more distractions.

It takes him a month to remember his therapist. He checks his emails for the first time since the assault, and he feels he loses another part of him at the news of his therapist moving towns to study for a doctorate; she's suggested other therapists at him, followed by two more emails of asking if everything is okay, then nothing.

Killian looks at the names and phones of the suggested therapists as if they're threats to his consciousness. He actually laughs. Dr. Eriksen had him since before he was even an adult and she knew everything about his fucked-up adolescence. Where would he even begin with someone new?

He deletes the email.

For two years, his whole life centers around finding weak spots in Gold's armour. He quits from Shakespeare's boat rental and works at stock in the harbor. It's a tough, time-consuming job, but it keeps him in view of the sea and gets his mind off his pain. Alcohol takes over that job in his time off.

He stops drawing; Milah used to draw with him and it nearly breaks him to pick up a pencil to sketch. The last thing he sketches is the design for the tattoo with her name on it that is soon permanently inked on his arm.

Two years of trying, as much as his exhausted psyche and a mind always leaning towards booze can handle, and the best he manages is to break into Gold's house, hack through his computer and locate some suspicious activity between Gold's bank account and the one of one of his witnesses.

Thirteen years of no spots in his criminal record mean nothing to the law when there are spots in it in the first place, and he's arrested for breaking and entering.

Nemo responds to Killian's call to bail him out, even though Killian has barely spoken to him in two years. However, the disappointment is, for the first time since Killian met him, visible on his face.

“It's your decision,” Nemo tells him after Killian is out. “Your path to choose, and your life to ruin.”

If it were anyone else, Killian would be flipping him off. But Nemo is the one who took Killian in as an assortment of broken pieces and put him back together, loving and patient all throughout. The one who has always been too good to be called a mere father.

“It's not just wanting to get back at that bastard,” Killian says, nearly shouting. At Nemo's small flinch, Killian breathes in and out. Among all his losses, it's the first one that has filled him with such rage. “That monster killed her in cold blood. And he's out there now, not paying for his crime-”

His voice is too unsteady now to accommodate shouting.

“It's not just personal. He killed her-” A soft sob breaks his sentence in half. “-and he's walking free.”

“The world is not fair,” Nemo says in a very soft voice, hand resting on Killian's shoulder. “Come home, son. This isn't what you need right now.”

“No. I need to see him behind bars.”

“You need to grieve.”

Killian scoffs, laughing mirthlessly. “It's been two years.”

“Exactly.”

He drops his gaze. If he looks at Nemo's face right now, he may crumble, and his efforts of two years – albeit not very successful – will be rendered pointless. The time he lost, the damage he's done to himself, to his relationships with everyone, Nemo, Shakespeare, Will and Tink, it will all be for nothing.

And worst of all, he'll be yet another one who will do Milah wrong. If he gives up, he'll be doing to her nothing better than what Gold did, and the very thought sickens him.

There's only one thing he changes. His drinking has reached new levels, and he needs, if nothing else, to survive in order to bring Gold down. So for now, AA meetings are something.

At first, he only talks about how he manages to stay clean, how he slips and how he tries to not beat himself up over it. His fifth meeting is on a particularly bad day; the story of watching the love of his life die slips from him, and across the circle he gets looks of pity that he hates.

If only he told everyone about the furious thoughts for revenge on Milah's murderer that have been plaguing his every waking thought for the past two years.

He slumps in his seat and stays silent for the rest of the meeting. He shouldn't have come today, he should have known he would be too emotional to think rationally before speaking.

The meeting ends and he's already made up his mind to look into other AA groups before he even exits the building.

“Excuse me,” a voice calls at him.

He turns. It's Eloise Gardener, one of the attendees.

“On the last meeting you mentioned that mental activities keep your thoughts away,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I'm hosting gardening classes, two evenings a week at the Bare Feet Greenhouse. I thought I could invite you to join, they're already quite cheap and I'll give you a discount.”

“Your name is Gardener, innit?”

She smiles. “And I am a gardener. Shocking, I know. But I've found it's a good distraction, especially knowing you're taking care of a life. You get the satisfaction without committing to... raising a child, let's say.”

Killian decides it's worth a try; unlike the AA meetings, raising a plant actually has visible proof of progress.

He stops coming to the meetings, but Eloise doesn't ask him why. She teaches him and guides him through providing a good environment for his plants.

One night after class, she helps him move the pots with his grown plants to his apartment. He doesn't truly invite her in, and when she initiates a kiss with him, he takes a few seconds of thinking before he realizes he doesn't mind that much.

It's just fuck, and Eloise doesn't seem to be thinking it's anything deeper than he does.

If he thinks it's any deeper, he'll just be haunted again by that miserable thought, that the last person he kissed before Milah died was not Milah herself, but a random stranger whose face he wasn't even sober enough to remember.

Eloise leaves and within minutes, he's left as well to search for any open store that sells booze. Rain is pouring down, cars splash him until he's soaking wet, but he finally gives up when he trips and falls, his leg hurting too much to take him too much further.

Even the couple of hours he stays in the hospital while they put a walking cast on him feel unbearable. Two years have gone by and the memories of hospital misery are still too raw.

Eloise doesn't comment on the cast nor his continued absence from the AA meetings. She invites him to her place and after they have sex he asks if he can stay the night. That way it's much easier to avoid looking for a drink to deal with how disgusted he feels.

Even the other people attending the gardening lessons wouldn't imagine Eloise and Killian are sleeping together – and Killian is attending two different classes side by side. Not that there's anything to show for it. They just fuck, sleep in the same bed, and that's all. She keeps him from running out for a drink in the middle of the night, better than any AA meeting managed, he gives her a person to have control over the way she wants, and they scratch each other's itches.

Nemo keeps trying to stay in touch with him, and Killian nearly blocks his number out of pure shame. Perhaps if Nemo realizes he's been blocked he'll stop bothering.

Killian has practically moved in with Eloise now, or she with him; in any case, they'll sleep in the same bed every night, whether it's the one in Killian's apartment or the one in Eloise's house.

He cannot connect who he was before with who he is with Eloise now. Before Nemo even adopted him officially, Killian had allowed him to pick up his pieces and make him a functional human. With Milah, it was Killian who was the whole, the rock she could lean on.

With Eloise, he can once again be broken, but without any expectation to get fixed back up – and he's too tired for unrealistic expectations. He can stay the mess that he is, sharing his body and his space with her so that he can feel something, even when the feeling isn't the best. Eloise is controlling and demanding, and Killian's feelings for her range from fear to disgust, but he prefers those over pain, grief, rage, and a continuously burning thirst.

It's easier to hate his... “partner” than to hate everything else in his life, including himself.

He's actually shocked to realize two years have passed since his first time with Eloise, and nothing at all has changed. Their feelings didn't change towards one way or another; they just kept fucking, sleeping next to each other, and going by their day without thinking about each other.

He almost hates it when she asks him to ride with her to a concert in Maidstone. Not only because she's making ensuring no-one assaults her sound like a chore, but also because he's still not ready to enjoy music he used to love. Especially not in her presence. Being in her company is not a circumstance that fits happy thoughts.

There's a lot of things he's been denying himself since Milah died. Everything that used to make him happy, even the company of his family, feels sullied now.

He doesn't expect to enjoy the concert. But Eloise buys his ticket and drives the car, so he decides that he can tolerate one night of being a boy toy to discourage sleazebags.

It doesn't even feel that special that his birthday is tomorrow; he lost Liam a few days after his fifteenth birthday, and Milah a few days before his twenty-eighth. Maybe it's just not in the cards for him to celebrate it again.

For three whole hours, he forgets everything. There's just the music, and the lights, and his throat getting sore from singing without a care.

There is, of course, the occasional groping, people stepping on his feet, even getting an elbow to the ribs, but for him it's all par of the course now. Including checking his pockets afterwards and realizing that twenty pounds are missing. And Eloise being... well, Eloise.

“You were supposed to stand by my side,” she starts complaining after the concert is over and people start dispersing.

“I can assure you I was touched against my consent far more than you were.”

“Is that supposed to be an excuse?”

Ugh, her arrogant, calm face she makes when she tells him off. He hates it.

“If you wanted an actual bodyguard, you should have hired one. I only have one hand,” he bites back at her.

“Really? I get you a birthday gift and you consider this an appropriate response.” There’s no question mark in her tone.

“Oh, piss off. As if you've given a fuck about my birthday all these years.”

Her lips purse together, but her voice keeps that cool tenor that irritates him to no end. “I wanted to make it a good one for you. Just because you don't care about it doesn't mean no-one else does.”

He sighs. He actually had a good time and he doesn't want it ruined by her gaslighting. He's experienced people actually caring for his birthday, and he knows Eloise's words are just words. Next, she'll say that she contacted Scorpions themselves and asked them to have a concert the day before his birthday.

She shakes her head and goes for the portable toilets. At last, he can have some time on his own. He turns his head away and back to the scene, now completely empty.

No One Like You wasn't exactly the song he liked the most tonight, but it's the one he can't stop humming. He's humming!

Maybe he does owe Eloise a bit. Just a bit.

"Catchy tune, huh?" he hears from the side.

He turns, seeing a woman with a wide smile on her face.

"Oh, which one isn't?" he says, smiling back. "What a night."

The woman nods. "Did you have fun?"

The words pour out of him like vomit. "A lot of people stepped on me, I got groped, pick-pocketed, and I got in a fight with my...” – How should he call her? – “friend, but you know what?" He shrugs. "Bloody worth it."

"Oh.” Her face softens. “Sorry that you were mugged."

"Ah, it was like, twenty quid. I've known better than to carry credit cards where hands can easily reach." A very dedicated hand, maybe. There's only so many hiding spots he has.

"Do you have a ride back home?" the woman says.

He stares at her, and he feels his jaw drop when he realizes. "Bollocks. I overshared, didn't I?"

She just smiles. "I mean, I have a car, and space for two... how many of you are there?"

He scratches behind his ear. "Don't worry. We've got a car. And we going right back to Brighton, anyway."

"Oh.” She seems to think for a moment. “I don't even know where that is."

He holds back a laugh. "Figured so. From your accent."

Her smile widens. "I'm Emma," she says, extending her hand.

"Killian," he gives his hand back, careful to keep his left arm inside his jacket pocket. She's still looking at his face when he drops his hand to his side. "So... you know that they're actually having a few concerts in the States for this tour, right? How come you decided to fly all over to here?"

"Well, today... or more like, yesterday," she pauses as she checks her watch, "was my birthday. This was more like a birthday gift to me, and of course I'm going to see them in-” She pauses suddenly. “What?"

She's obviously cut off by the expression on his face. "You're not kidding? Tomorrow- or, today, is my birthday."

"Wow. Happy birthday, then."

"Happy birthday to you too. Seems it was a great one."

Emma seems happy as she looks back at the now empty stage. "I'd say one of the best ones. Does your birthday seem promising?"

His chest feels twice its normal size when she turns to look at him. Somehow, with their birthdays being so close, it feels as if her having had a great birthday is feeding his own satisfaction for that day, for the first time in four- no, five years.

Some of her slightly messy hair is sticking to her face – she probably went all out dancing tonight – and her eyes seem to droop in drowsiness, but she's absolutely glowing.

Glowing and looking at him.

When she takes a step towards him, it feels like it's gravity that's pulling his own body to her.

"It seems that way, aye," he replies.

Her eyes close when she's a few inches away from him, but he waits for the moment his lips touch hers to close his eyes.

(A/N: I want to remind the readers that this chapter is told from Killian's point of view, distorted as it is from grief, rage and isolation from the people he loves. Emotional progress is almost never visible in the short term, especially regarding addictions. Killian might have thought the AA meetings didn't help him, but it doesn't mean that giving up and depending on a controlling person to keep him clean was the healthy thing to do.

I know it's a work of fiction but some lines are easily confused, so the message I want to pass is that if you or a loved one is trying to let go of an addiction, keeping up the effort when progress isn't directly visible may be hard, but it's worth it and will eventually help.)

#Killian Jones #Captain Swan #captain swan ff #cs ff #ouat ff #akfgl #captain swan movie marathon #I swear I hadn't planned on posting this on Colin's birthday 😅#it's just how it came up #piracytheorist writes

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