#poker face played in my brain on command

[murasaki-cha]

I don't condone to PJO movies but I immediately started hearing Lady Gaga

[planetdream]

Types of mafia bosses/position in the gang for skz? I've got the brain rot for this lately I blame the pics of them in suits and shit; I just imagine loads of tattoos too and yep I may do this to myself. But anyways, thoughts? Or thots?

can't wait to find out who of them is the first to get a real tattoo 😻😻 i will go batshit fr but i do love me some good organized crime (goodfellas is one of my favorite movies of all time, and ive written scarface fanfic, been thinking about watching the sopranos) also so so so sorry bc this was sent in may and clearly I took my sweet time answering this 🥺

cw; organized crime (i just love saying that) (non desc.) violence n drugs n sex 😻😻

let me preface this by saying, bear with me, because although i gave this a lot of thought, it lowkey reads like a random cluster thoughts lmao. anyway, i came to the conclusion that if i ever were to potentially expand on this concept more 👀👀👀 that in my head, the boys are split into two crime families, with chan and minho being the two bosses. think of their dorm arrangements (3racha/hyune + minho and the minhoettes; if those are still their arrangements ? lol). i would also say the two families are on fairly decent terms.

chan, or should I say, chris, is the stereotypical mob boss who chooses to shield his lover from the violence and drug side of his work—but has no issue showering them with the drug and violence money. if you haven't seen goodfellas, there's a scene where karen asks henry for money to go shopping before he leaves, and he gives her half of this thick stack of cash before she drops to her knees and well... yeah. not sure why, but it gives channie vibes, imo. like he hates to be pulled away from his work, but if his baby needs him for a few minutes, even an hour or two, it isn't a problem.

i'd say as a mob boss, he's one that lurks in the shadows—he likes to protect his peace, to an extent. he'll pop out and show his face every once in a while to remind others of his territory. he's always going to get his lick back, but he plays things strategically as he's not someone who makes brash decisions; it might not happen now, but it will happen. he also tries to give back to his community and those who raised him within his neighborhood, etc. he's all about strong family bonds and despite him being feared; despite all the blood and threats, the violence and damage; he craves to be loved.

changbin, strikes me as someone who is eternally faithful to the family. maybe..even to a fault (if this were a scorsese film, i feel he'd be one of the last to be murdered; and it probably happens off screen lol). but because he is loyal, he is most definitely chan's second in command, a real right hand man. if anything has happened to chan, then changbin knows that he must not hesitate, he must not mourn or act out—but to learn from chan and play things strategically. he must assume the role of the don. off topic, imo, he's someone that might show off his partner. bringing them to poker nights so all the others can drool over them. his lover is his prize and he'd go above and beyond for them. (has definitely been set up by a lover so he doesn't trust easily, but when he does, whew, he falls head first)

hyunjin is in it for the moneyyyy.. feel like he just wants to show off and get girls (and the mens...👀) and do drugs. he just wants to have fun, most importantly. life is like a video game to him; he's kinda just doing a bunch of side quests—but he knows everyone and everything, a real socialite. kinda perceive him as a friend of the mob who has serious drug connects. since he's everywhere all the time, just being in others business feeling like the cops would be trying for yearsss to pin him on murder or intent to distribute charges but they've only got him for possession once.

now jisung confuses me just a bit. originally i wrote this paragraph about how jisung and felix remind me of lenny from shark tale (another scorsese classic, sorta). they don't seem to be cut out for the life of crime and would rather just leave and be their true selves. but them mfs r not sharks!! leaving can be potentially dangerous and often has consequences (and those two would like to keep their fingers and well, their lives).

that being said, i had been internally debating on whether or not jisung would be perceived as someone who could potentially squeal if pressured heavily—which definitely would affect his rank/status.... but I think he's dedicated to prove himself in the life he was given. likely starts of simple; he's selling drugs n stuff. then, he's even handled a couple hits—so now he's looked at with respect when around everyone. and if he's honest, to be accepted and respected means a lot to him. he almost wears his murder count with such pride. has been told time and time again, not to act irrationally.

minho, is ruthless, and would like for his other half to be equally as ruthless. for that reason, he doesn't care to shield any of his work from you, and often asks for your opinion on things. if you're in the club and somebody hits on you or tries to start shit he wants you to be able to handle yourself; thus he recognizes you are your own person and not his property. i feel like minho would want to damn near fear his lover. yet I also view him as someone who is nowhere near ready for a relationship (doesn't have the time, he says) but is always at the right longitude and latitude to fuck yk?

because min is a scorpio I am also inclined to say that he is also a boss that lurks in the shadows—pulling strings behind the scenes. he's not a show off and he's not much of a talker either so but you better believe his actions speaks volumes. he fears no one and will more than definitely make sure he makes an example out of those who fuck up. low-key god complex; everything works out in his favor, especially if he's the last one standing.

nobody knows felix is apart of a crime family and he likes to keep it that way. he flies under the radar and because of it, he's made things that seem impossible happen. he gives a very trustworthy vibe, people feel comfortable around him—he deceiving them. but it's gotten him certain connections, through certain doors, and he's learned heavy secrets (blackmail champion). his kill count is unknown. no like he flies so far under the radar, not much is known about him. still, he says a lot about himself without saying too much.

thinking that seungmin is minho's right hand—his MOST trustworthy. yet I can also see seungmin as someone who may have ulterior motives: he's making his own moves and plays behind everyones back and can be perceived as untrustworthy if anyone knew simply due to the nature of what he's doing (building his own empire maybe who knows) honestly gives hitman vibes if im real (I think there's a very thin line between hitman and serial killer yk and well...hitmen don't take trophies...) seungmin is fr someone who shouldn't be crossed. isn't into dating but he might fuck around once or twice

jeongin chases that dream to be a Made Man™ since being a kid (similar to henry in goodfellas) I would say that he's really reliable. well, until he's not. he's handsome and the ladies love him, what can he say? thus, he stays IN the club unless there's an important play to be made. he's crossed between living his young life [drugs, parties, fucking] and going for his dreams and really committing to the mob life. every so often he has phase where he's getting back into the loop of things until something traumatic happens then he's off on a 4 day binger,,

very interesting indeed.....would love to chat more on this hmm

[sgt-seabass]

𝒘𝒐𝒍𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒎𝒆

— Bucky finds out his “beta" best friend has been lying to him.

pairing: dark!alpha!bucky barnes x omega!reader w/c: 4k this is a dark explicit fic.18+ only. series masterlist warnings: dark!fic, non-con, a/b/o dynamics. a/n: I got inspiration from the song Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio. give it a listen to feel the vibe. 

Dream me, oh, dreamer, down to the floor Open my hands and let them weave onto yours Feel me, completer, down to my core Open my heart and let it bleed onto yours Feeding on fever, down on all fours Show you what all the howling is for ↳ Wolf Like Me, TV on the Radio

It wasn't supposed to have got this far, your lie.

When you'd been given the chance of working as an intelligence analyst for the Avengers, you nearly died of happiness, but when you realised it was open to only Betas and Alphas, your deception had begun.

An Omega, you began taking suppressants to stop your heats and block your natural scent. You hated the way others treated your designation, as if you were inferior, at the whim of any Alphas command and needs. It was bullshit, not having control of your own life. So, you decided to fake it, so you could have a chance at a real career.

It was easy hiding it, simply taking the suppressant tablet at the same time as your daily anxiety medication. No one even batted an eye when you brought the medicine on missions, as everyone you worked with knew of your anxiety.

It felt wrong hiding who you were, especially as you became closer with each member of the Avengers. But how could you tell them? Steve, Bucky, Natasha, Sam, Peter and Thor were all Alphas, and you knew they'd think with their knots before their brains. Tony, Clint, Wanda and Bruce were Betas, but you knew they wouldn't care for your pleas, especially if one of the Alpha team members got their claws into you. You were the only Omega in the Avengers tower, and you couldn't afford to let them know.

You knew if they found out you'd lose your job, and worse, you'd lose their companionship.

It would be game over on everything you'd worked so hard for.

You'd never be able to playfully spar with Natasha again, listen to Bruce talk about scientific prospects you didn't understand, try and fail to teach Steve and Peter to cook, curl up on the couch with Bucky and watch films he missed, go on morning runs with Sam, play and lose at poker with Thor, Bruce and Tony, playfully make targets for Clint to shoot, or let Wanda teach you how to braid your hair in different styles. It would all be gone because they would see you as a precious little Omega who was no better than a hole to fill with pups.

It wasn't all their fault. It was a societal problem. But a problem, nonetheless.

Most of all, you couldn't afford to lose the friendship you'd made with Bucky.

He'd been wary of you when you'd first joined the team. And rightfully so, the man had been through a lot. He didn't trust people easily, but there was something about you that chipped away at his icy heart. You saw the way his cheeks flushed and eyes sparkled when you were around, as if he were finally feeling alive. Around you, he wasn't a weapon. He was Bucky Barnes.

Your heart ached for him when you all did public appearances. It didn't go unnoticed, the way Omegas would fawn over the other Avengers, but around Bucky would become reserved and cautious, as if he was still the Winter Solider and not a recovering prisoner of war. Bucky often came back from those events crestfallen, and you always did your best to try and bring a smile back on your friend's face.

Lines became blurred as you started to notice the way he would purposely take any chance he had to touch you, or the way his gaze turning longing when he looked at you. But you never reciprocated it. Not because you weren't interested per se, but because you knew getting involved would mean you would have to reveal yourself, and you didn't want to ruin the platonic friendship you had built and the career you worked so hard for.

Bucky Barnes was incredibly kind and sweet, and you'd revel in the comfort his warmth would give you as your curled up on the couch together, laughing and sharing popcorn after hard missions. You'd always smile at the way he'd tease you and mess your hair as he walked past you in the halls, the way he never let you pay for your iced coffee when you went on café outings, or the way he'd light up when he tried new food. It was beautiful watching Bucky Barnes become a man, not just the weapon of flesh and metal. Steve had told you he hadn't seen Bucky like this since before the war. His playful happiness with you was unlike any other friendship he had in his life.

You both trusted each other wholeheartedly, even though you were deceiving him.

The mission was compromised.

You and Steve had been sent to a Hydra base that was supposedly empty to do nothing more than receive some data and come home. Simple, right? It would have been if Hydra forces hadn't repopulated the base. While neither you nor Steve were hurt during the ordeal, you were forced to reside in a safehouse for a few days when the Quinjet was damaged, and comms systems were downed.

That would have been fine. If you had your suppressants with you. But you didn't.

Steve watched as you anxiously paced the small log cabin the morning after the incident, wringing your hands as you thought. "Hey, doll, what's going on? Hydra won't get us here."

"I— I don't have my anxiety medicine, Steve." You weren't lying. It just wasn't the whole truth either. You didn't know how long it would take for the suppressants to wear off and your breakthrough heat to arrive, but based on the warnings you were given about how to never miss a dose, something told you it wouldn't be long.

"Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. Tony will have seen the distress beacon by now, and he should be here within two days maximum. We'll just have to sit tight." Steve said with a confused tone, clearly taken aback by your level of anxiety.

You were ready to have a panic attack. You felt as if you could self-combust.

This was bad, really bad.

"I'll be outside on the porch if you need me," you said in a rush as you scurried off, opting to sit out in the cool breeze instead of the stuffy cabin. Maybe the fresh air could help keep you calm? Wishful thinking.

There was a small log bench on the pristine porch, and you sat yourself down on it with shaky legs.

Remembering your therapist's advice, you started counting three things you could hear: the rustling of leaves, the rattling of the cabin windows, and Steve shuffling around inside.

Then three things you could smell: fresh pine from the surrounding woods, the slight burn from the wood fireplace, the growing endearing smell of Steve's vanilla scent, shit.

You shook your head, clearing your thoughts and counted three things you could see: the plethora of trees surrounding you, a small bunny hopping away, and the sun setting.

You blinked at the realisation. The sun setting? It hadn't even been midday when you'd come outside. How had you lost so much time? You gulped, throat tight and breathing heavy. At least you were a few hours closer to getting home. Although, by the way you could smell Steve's alluring scent from outside, you knew it wasn't going to be long before it was too late.

When you came back inside, the sky pitch black outside, Steve gestured for you to sit at the counter and placed a plate of pasta in front of you, his own plate already finished and sitting in the sink.

If Steve smelt anything, he didn't show any indication of it. Although the way he watched you as you ate had you on edge.

As you ate in silence, trying to remain calm, Steve excused himself to his bedroom, saying he wanted an early night.

Did he know?

Surprisingly, Steve said nothing during the time you were holed up in the cabin with him. You were sure he must have been able to smell you by now, but he said nothing, didn't even give you a second glance.

You could sure as hell smell him, and your hindbrain had already been intruding your thoughts every time you were in the same room as him.

Your heat is coming. You should snuggle with the Alpha.

You should tell him everything. Maybe he'll mate with you?

Wouldn't life be so much easier just to let everything go?

In horror, you pushed your thoughts down as far as you could, but you couldn't help the slight sheen of sweat that was starting to form as a smouldering fire began to rise in your core.

It was slow but powerful. And something told you this heat was going to be your strongest one ever.

The Quinjet sent by Tony couldn't have come fast enough, and it was luckily piloted by F.R.I.D.A.Y., meaning you didn't have to interact with anyone else.

The sooner you could get back to your apartment on the Avengers compound, the better. At least then you could put a lockdown policy with F.R.I.D.A.Y. before organising to stay with a friend for the rest of your heat.

The flight was thankfully short, but you spent the whole trip with your leg bouncing anxiously, the cramps in your abdomen starting, which almost had you keeling over.

Just a little bit more.

Bucky was sitting on his bed reading as he heard the familiar sound of the Quinjet landing. Finally, his two favourite people were back.

With a yawn and stretch, he finished off his chapter before marking his place, ambling his way into the shared kitchen and living space. "Hey Stevie, mission go well?" He asked as he clapped the man on the back, a signature grin on his lips.

The odd smell in the compound had Bucky's nostrils flaring, but he simply thought they must have had an Omega guest come through when he wasn't paying attention.

"Yeah, yeah. Went great, actually," Steve said as they walked back to Steve's room, Bucky plopping down on his bed as they went over the mission details.

As Bucky listened, his mind wandered to all the times he'd been on Steve's bed before, sobbing to him. Steve had spent countless nights comforting Bucky as he wailed, broken over how he could never get an Omega of his own, how maybe he could be happy with you, a Beta. But then the nights turned into comforting him when Bucky had told him you weren't returning his advances.

"I'm broken, Steve. No one could ever love an Alpha like me. Not even the one girl I trust more than anything."

When Steve came out of his wardrobe, Bucky snapped out his thoughts.

Changed out of his uniform, Steve picked up a small black zipped pouch off his dresser and tossed it to Bucky. "Hey, I forgot I meant to give this to Y/N, but she said she wasn't feeling well and rushed off before I could give it to her. I've got a heap of mission reports to do. Think you could go give it to her for me?"

Bucky's brows furrowed. You're unwell? "Uh, yeah, sure." The concern in his tone was evident, and Bucky saw Steve's lips almost quirk into a smirk for a moment.

"You're the best, Buck."

Bucky gave a brief smile and took the pouch, starting to make his way to your apartment. He was tempted to open the bag and have a look at what Steve had for you, but as the elevator doors opened on your floor, the aroma he had smelt earlier hit him like a tonne of bricks. And as his heavy steps neared your door, the odour just got stronger and stronger until it was all he could process.

His mouth watered as he tilted his head back and took a deep breath in. It was by far the best thing he had ever smelt in his life. He was surrounded by a harmonic blend of lavender, pear and coconut… And something about the sweet smell reminded him of strawberries and whipped cream.

Bucky's mind flashed back to one of your movie nights where you'd made a fruit platter with him, which had turned into a mess once Bucky had started spraying the whipped cream in your hair, eliciting delightful squeals from you.

God, the smell was so good. It left him wanting to do nothing more than devour you like the good little Omega you were.

The thought left Bucky staggering back from your apartment door. Omega. You smell like an Omega.

You're an Omega.

Bucky's fists clenched when he recalled all those nights where you'd rushed for your tablets. He should have known. You were taking fucking suppressants.

Anger and betrayal burned inside Bucky like an uncontrollable wildfire in a dry outback.

All this time, he's had an Omega right by his side. His best friend. Lying to him. Denying him. How could he have missed this?

An uncontrollable growl escaped his lips as his mind spiralled. Why didn't you want him? It was because he's broken, isn't it? A laughable man, trying to be an Alpha.

He questioned everything – were your smiles at him real? Did you even want to be around him? Were you disgusted to call yourself his friend? After all, who could ever want the Winter Soldier, his Handler had once mocked him.

Letting a guttural sound, Bucky's vibranium fist collided with the hallway wall, plaster splintering and covering his arm with a fine layer of white dust.

Bucky's heart was hammering in his chest as he mulled over the situation, but with each passing moment of your intoxicating scent surrounding him, his resolve became obsolete.

With his last sense of self-control, he checked what was in the bag Steve had given him, and a sick grin spread across his lips at the sight of its contents.

You smelt Bucky before you heard him. A blend of bergamot and rose backed by a rich oriental woodsy smell attacked your senses, the combination a perfect balance between soft and bold, leaving your thighs gushing with slick.

You had to get out of here.

But the moment you heard the sound of metal colliding with the wall, you knew you were done for.

You threw the last of your items into your duffle bag and zipped it up with haste, slinging it over your shoulder as your cramps had you folding over.

Everything in your mind screamed for you to go back to bed and nest.

But you had to leave.

For a moment, you almost considered climbing out the window, but trying to scale a building on its upper floors while in the throes of your heat would likely be more dangerous than it was worth.

With a huff, you decided you'd have to run for it.

But as you rushed for the front door, ready to bolt, the door slammed open. Before you could react, you were slammed against the wall by a towering figure. Bucky.

Except this doesn't look like the Bucky you know.

No, this is a feral Alpha with wild dilated eyes and a sneer on his face.

You can't help but whimper as he harshly pins your hands to the walls with his own, your bones throbbing painfully under the grip. His scent is overwhelming now. And everything in your brain wants to love it, but you just can't because this is Bucky, your friend. Not your Alpha.

The snarl that comes from Bucky sends shivers through your body, your mind blanking for a moment in pure terror.

A rabbit caught in a snare.

"You little fuckin' bitch, takin' my trust and thowin' it in the fuckin' dirt." Bucky pulled your body forward and slammed it back against the wall, your vision going blurry for a moment as your head pulsates painfully. "You enjoy toyin' with me, huh? Think I'm not good enough to give you pups, is that it? Too broken to be your Alpha?"

Beneath all the pure rage bubbling out of his pores, you could see the twinge of hurt, Bucky's eyes brimming with unshed tears.

"B-Bucky, I—" You tried, but before you could get the words out, his metal hand latched around your throat, leaving you breathless and your world hazy.

"I bet you want Steve's pups, huh? 'Wanna be mated with him, be his good little Omega," the hate and jealousy dripping from his words had you reeling and clawing at his hand, your breathing wheezing as your lungs were empty.

"Well, it doesn't matter, little Rabbit. You're mine." The animalistic growl that filled the room sent your mind reeling and senses into overdrive.

Bucky ripped the bag from your shoulder and tossed it across the room, the grip around your neck loosening to allow gasping breaths. But there was little reprieve as he dragged you to your bedroom.

You watched Bucky frowned at the sight of your room, taking note of the made bed, but no nest. He gave you a burning glare as he tossed you onto the mattress, licking his lips as you scurried back against the headboard.

"No!" You cried out, hot tears running down your cheeks, but all your body could process was Alpha is upset, comfort him.

"You dare deny your Alpha, little Rabbit?" Bucky shed himself of his clothes as he slinked towards you, a wolf cornering his catch.

The mix of smells in the room – your terror mixed with his angst and lust – had the room spinning and your limbs weak.

You watched as he freed his cock from his boxers, gasping at the way it sprung out and stood proudly, tip red and already leaking with precum.

"Bucky, please… Don't do this!" You wailed as he reached the bed, screeching as he grabbed your ankle and pulled you down the bed.

As he tore your clothes off you fought him, slapping and punching against any point you could.

"Enough. Stop." His command had you freezing, hindbrain instantly submitting despite wanting to run.

Tears were still running down your cheeks as he manoeuvred you, so you were naked and on your back, body presented to him.

"You have no idea how much I've thought about this moment," he whispered as he leant over your body, scenting you as you whimpered.

Everything became a blur of Bucky as his hands were all over you, palming every piece of flesh as he kept nuzzling against your scent gland.

This is exactly what you were scared of. Why you'd hidden in the first place.

Your legs unconsciously opened for him, presenting your wet glistening pussy as your body begged for you to let him mark you, claim you. Your heat was getting stronger, and you were quickly losing any semblance of control you had left.

"That's a good girl. You want your Alpha's knot?"

You hated the way your body shivered with want, your core burning at the thought.

A harsh grip to your chin brought you back to reality as Bucky's eyes bored into yours. "I asked you a question. Do you want your Alpha's knot?"

The aroma in the air was quickly turning to pure arousal as innate desires took over both of you.

The voice that came out of you was not yours. It was pure Omega. "Yes, Alpha."

Satisfied, Bucky released your aching jaw and quickly positioned himself at your entrance, revelling in the way your body was shining with a layer of sweat, warmth radiating off you.

He held the base of his length as he rubbed it between your folds, your body shuddering with a mewl each time he brushed past your clit.

"I've waited long enough," Bucky groaned as he started pushing into your waiting heat, a slither of curses falling past his lips as he felt your walls quivering around his cock.

The stretch was painful. You'd never taken an Alpha's cock before, and Bucky's thick girth had you swirling with a mix of pleasure and pain. Tears sprung past your eyes as you lamented, fingers clawing against the bedsheets below as Bucky bottomed out inside you.

He gave you no time to adjust as he started snapping his hips, pounding into you with a feral fervour that had you seeing stars.

The pace was relentless, your breath hitching with each punishing thrust as you watched Bucky's dark eyes focus on your neck.

You writhed, mewling in a mixture of desire and fear as Bucky leaned over you, his hips not stopping for a moment as he licked your mating gland.

Suddenly everything became white noise as you realised what was about to happen. Your hands moved to Bucky's chest, attempting to push him back, but he was like stone.

The world stopped on its axis the moment Bucky's teeth grazed against your neck. You couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't smell. All you could feel was his canines against your burning skin.

And the moment he sank his teeth into your mating gland, the world exploded into fireworks, and the orgasm it ripped from you sent shockwaves through every muscle in your body.

You couldn't even hear yourself scream as the bite took hold, bonding you to Bucky forever.

You were awash with his emotions of hurt, anger, lust and satisfaction as his jaw held firm, ensuring the mark would take.

You could feel him like never before. He was a part of you, and you part of him.

As you returned to reality, you could feel the swell of Bucky's knot beginning to catch at your entrance, his thrusts becoming more erratic and bruising.

He finally relaxed his jaw, lapping up your blood as his deep gravelly voice filled the room. "Mine. My Omega. My Bunny."

Bucky clung to your body possessively as his knot locked your bodies together, his head tilting back with a husky moan as his cock pulsated, his cum painting your walls. You were left speechless as he filled you, the hot pain in your core calming with each passing moment.

He held you close as you both panted, your brain still a mess with sensory overload. But beneath it all, you could feel the way your heart beat in time with Bucky's, your bodies harmonic.

As his knot released you, Bucky got off the bed and moved towards his clothes.

Panic surged through you, and you quickly sat up. Alpha is leaving me.

"I'm not leaving, Bunny. Hang on," Bucky cooed, pulling something from his pant pocket.

A black pouch. You tilted your head in confusion at him, but as he unzipped the bag and pulled out a navy-blue collar with gold stitching, your eyes went wide.

"I got my vibranium arm as a gift to new beginnings. Leaving my old self behind," Bucky started, approaching you slowly as he held up the collar. "This is your new beginning, Bunny."

You watched in awe as Bucky leant before you, shifting your hair so he could clip the collar around your neck.

You hated to admit it. But it made you feel safe. Alpha loves you.

"But if you ever lie to me again, Bunny, I'll make you fuckin' regret it."

To be updated on when I post please follow @sgt-seabass-library​ and turn on post notifications.

[teaandfiction-28]

🗄 + Alexis + “No, don’t look at me like that.”

Here you go @acdassenza​ - hope you enjoy some Daddy/Alexis ‘flangst’.

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

“Alexis, no!”

For the third time in as many minutes, Hank pried her tiny fingers open to retrieve the paperweight that she was clearly dead-set on launching across the room as far as her little arms could manage. 

The unit had been called in on a Sunday morning by Commander Fischer who had handed them a fresh homicide case with strict instructions to close it as quickly and as quietly as possible before the media caught wind of the somewhat unsavoury details. With Alexis’ sitter out of town all weekend, they didn't have any choice but to take her into the 21st district with them and so the Intelligence team had spent the day operating in shifts to keep their newest member occupied. 

He had been on ‘Alexis Watch’ for less than half an hour and already the carpet in his office was scattered with an assortment of pens, his badge, the stapler, his wallet and anything else she’d managed to get her hands on before he could rescue them. 

Evidently, the paperweight was her next target. 

‘She needs to learn Hank.’ Kate had said before following Kevin out to track down a CI in Pilsen so, instead of just putting it in a drawer like his brain was telling him to, he put it back on the desk and returned his attention back to the ever-growing stack of papers in front of him. 

He watched her in his peripheral vision as her eyes slowly moved between his face and the paperweight, clearly internally debating her next move. He had set her on top of his desk with a plethora of toys for her to play with but it was everything she wasn’t allowed to touch that had piqued her interest. Hank was barely two lines in when she made her move but, instead of reaching for the paperweight, her chubby arm darted out to clutch the small, blue memorial plaque that contained Alvin’s badge with a squeal of glee.

“NO!” He roared, dropping his pen and snatching it away from her just before she was able to toss it from the desk. His reaction had been instinctual but clearly the sudden noise was more than enough to startle Alexis who was not used to hearing her father’s raised tone and promptly turned wide, fearful eyes towards him, her bottom lip already beginning to wobble. 

“Oh no. No, don’t look at me like that baby.” He pleaded, a white-hot poker of guilt stabbing him right in the centre of his chest as her beautiful russet orbs began to fill with tears. Dropping the plaque with a clatter, he immediately scooped her into his arms and drew her against his body, quietly shushing as he cupped the back of her head with one hand, the other rubbing soothing circles on her back. 

Her little fists immediately bunched the front his shirt in a tight grip as she snuggled against his him and Hank’s heart clenched with yet another surge of guilt. 

“You might have my eyes but you look exactly like your mother when you cry.” He grumbled, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, taking a moment to breathe in her sweet baby scent. 

That was how Kate found them when she returned to the district at little while later. Alexis had fallen asleep and Hank had absolutely no desire to move her. 

“Everything alright?” Kate asked, her brows knitting together in concern as she stepped over the mess on the carpet and took note of his tense features. 

“She tried tossing Al’s shield on the floor and I...might have shouted.”

He was half expecting her to chew him out for losing his temper but she simply took a seat on the edge of his desk, her bright hazel eyes softening as she levelled him with a knowing look. Kate knew first hand just how trying their headstrong, stubborn daughter could be and, from the distraught look on his face, he was already beating himself up for loosing his cool. 

“She isn’t going to hate you just because you told her off, Hank.”

“But I don’t shout, Kate, not around her.” 

He knew he had a temper and he promised himself the second Alexis was placed in his arms that he would never give her, or Kate, a reason to be fearful of him. Watching her little face crumble and her eyes fill with tears had almost driven him to his knees with remorse. 

Kate let out a soft sigh, leaning forwards to brush her lips against his forehead before pushing a soft kiss to Alexis’ wild curls. 

“Welcome to the ‘Guilty Parents’ club, honey.” She said as she straightened back up, the corner of her mouth ticking upwards into a wry smile. “It’s a bit like Hotel California...they never let you leave!”

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

AN - I actually wrote two versions of this and this ended up being my favourite but let me know if you’d like me to share the alternative! 

[yesitsmewhataboutit]

Poker Face

Mob!Tom Holland x Reader

You get a knock on your door, detectives wanting to use your apartment for a stakeout. Of course you say yes, little do they know you have a secret of your own. Little do they know you know more about their investigation then what they tell you that night

»»——⍟——««A/n: And so the next phase begins

Masterlist

Prologue // Chapter 1

Chapter: 8

Tom has strict rules when it comes to his mob. All his men know that if he says something if he instructs something, it goes. No questions asked. They know that if there is ever a time to defy what Tom says, one of two things will happen. Either it was for a good reason, or it wasn't, and they should expect a bullet in their head almost immediately.

Instructions Tom gives are always important. Ones that revolve around you are even more important since he has a more emotional attachment to them. So, that been said, when Tom wakes up from the sound of someone entering his room, and that someone not being Harry, needless to say, he's a little pissed.

His brain is slowed and fatigued, and he's drowsy, but he knows Harry gave them orders that Tom said no one is to be around his room, not wanting anyone to see you and wanting to keep you safe.

The words roll off his tongue before he thinks of forming them in his brain. His eyes aren't fully open either, but he brings his hand to your head, wanting you to keep your face turned from the door, not wanting him to see your face. "I'm in this bed, so your lifespan will be lengthened by the tiniest bit, but if you don't get out of here within the next 2 seconds, I will get out of this bed and kill you with my bare hands."

Tom is weak right now, so you could move against him and turn your head to the door, but instead, you listen to the conversation as it plays out.

"B-Boss, I swear, it's important."

"Important enough that you couldn't report it to Harry who, need I remind you, is in charge right now, hence me not making the calls in the first place," Tom says, his voice firm, trying to find his usual threatening tone under the tiredness and pain Tom is experiencing.

"Harry is gone. He got taken today. There's no one else in command." Your eyes go wide, and you tilt your head up to look at Tom. He has a tired expression, almost like he can't comprehend what the guy just informed him. "He hasn't come back since he went to your apartment. It wasn't the police, though. He took care of them. We think it was the Mackie Mob."

It's quiet for a moment before Tom speaks. "I'll give you all instructions by the end of the day. Now get out before I decide to cut off your fingers and feed them to you."

The man shuffles out of the room, quickly closing the door. You sit up, your eyes wide and worried. "Tom-"

"I know," he sighs.

"B-But, Tom-"

"I know. I know, just- just let me think, please. Just give me a moment," Tom says, closing his eyes, taking deep breaths, and trying to think. "How healed is Harrison?" he asks.

"W-what? He- he's alright, I guess? He's slowly healing, but healing," you answer, your voice shaking, scared at when the future could hold for Harry.

"Can you go get him, please? Bring him here," he asks.

"I-"

"Love, trust. Please." You sigh, nodding and getting up, walking as quickly as you're able to the infirmary. You rush inside, quick to tell Harrison that it's an emergency. He wraps his arm around your shoulders, trying to hold as much of his own weight as possible, not wanting to weigh down on you.

You make it to Tom's bedroom and help him to the couch, letting him sit down. "What happened?" he asks.

"As you know, Y/n and Harry went back to her apartment to tie some loose ends. But, it didn't go as planned, and it turns out they were onto Y/n and us. Fortunately, they made it out ok, while there were some," Tom glances at you, "other issues, I told Harry to go back and finish the job more efficiently, and while he did, he hasn't come back. We think the Mackie Mob was behind it, and they have him. There is currently no one else in command, and we need to come up with a plan."

Harrison is speechless. He looks at Tom as he speaks but doesn't know how to answer. "So, do you have any ideas?" Harrison asks.

Tom shakes his head. "I don't know. Maybe call my mom? Y/n said she was around while Harry was at the warehouse. She should be somewhere close by, so she could give us ideas and be in face-to-face command," Tom says, his voice sluggish and tired.

"I don't know, mate. Everyone loves your mom, but even when your dad was the Boss, they never really were in favor of listening to her. Plus, she needs to be around for Paddy. He's still underground for a while more," Harrison says.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right, um, we need a plan. First and foremost," Tom sighs.

~~

Coming up with a plan takes longer than any of you would've liked. And it's not one you or Tom are overly fond of, but it's what has to happen. The plan is: Tom had former in-tell he was keeping about Mackie's whereabouts. He got it a while ago, but he never used it cause there was no reason. It was more so for if Tom needed it. So, he'd use it, send enough men to all the places Mackie could be, and while doing that, try to find Harry or get a confession for where he could be. But the part Tom hated the second the words left his mouth is that you'll be in command.

Tom is in no condition to be in the front lines right now, and Harrison isn't either. Both are still in the depths of healing. Sam is still in the induced coma, and Nikki needs to be around for Paddy, so you're the only one that can do it.

"You sure about this, Tommy?" you ask, sitting next to him and holding his hand.

"No. But, it was bound to happen; eventually, I guess," Tom mumbles, obviously upset.

"Tom..."

"It's alright, Love. We need to get Harry back. It'll be alright," Tom says, looking at you, his eyes heavy and glazed over.

"Tom, are you alright?" you ask, taking a closer look at his face, noticing he doesn't look "alright."

"M'tired, Love. M'just very tired."

Chapter 9 >>

Masterlist

Ahem: @notyourcupofteax @dreamsarecloserwithyou @tomsirishgirlx @novaresque @b0kutoswaifu @iamasimpingh0e @sesamepancakes

[13atoms]

Tulips and Influenza (Phryne Fisher x Jack Robinson)

Summary: After acutely missing her presence at a murder scene, Jack learns that Miss Fisher has been completely incapacitated after catching the flu. With between well-meaning visits to Wardlow and a few gifts, Jack wrestles with his feelings for Phryne as she recovers.

Contents: hurt / comfort, sick!fic, pre-relationship romance, pining, Illness, and the language of flowers | 6k words

Detective Inspector Jack Robinson was frowning. He supposed it might look like the body laying on the docks was the reason. It was mangled and crushed, an unnatural way for a man so young to meet his end, and in truth the Detective did feel that horrid ache of sympathy for the man in his chest. He muttered notes to an overly attentive Collins, examining first the corpse and then the crate of steel nails which had crushed him.

The Constable and Dorothy had fought again, and it made the junior officer stick to Jack’s side like a wounded puppy. He tried not to wince at the scratch of Hugh’s pencil in his pocketbook as he reeled off his final instructions.

“I think the coroner will identify this mark on his chest as a gunshot wound, Collins. Poorly hidden by the crate falling on him. I want a list of crane operators on duty last night and this morning. The body needs to be taken to the morgue; I want an autopsy done by lunchtime. Get statements from all those present.”

His mind was elsewhere, drifting, ears straining. Waiting for the click of heels on concrete.

“Do you think he was alive when the crate fell, sir?”

Collins’ question forced Jack to focus back in on

“Um, I’m not sure. I think if this is a bullet wound, he would’ve been dead soon enough either way. Not much blood on the ground, though. Looks like the body was staged. Have a poke around, there’s likely a primary crime scene.”

Shit. How had he missed that? No big puddle of blood. Rigor mortis could have set in before the crate fell, based on the injuries. Collins didn’t seem to doubt his commanding officer, faithfully nodding and scribbling down Jack’s every word, but the Inspector was surprised at himself. He should have noticed without the question being asked.

Jack looked behind him as an impulse before standing. It took him a second to realise he had been making sure Phryne wasn’t leaning over his shoulder.

With a huff of frustration at himself and a last glance at the body, Jack rose to his feet, coat billowing behind him. It was the beginning of spring, the day’s heat creeping earlier and earlier into the morning. He left his coat buttons undone, hat tilted low on his head.

The clatter of Collin’s shoes followed him, and Jack kept walking for a few seconds, waiting for the inevitable –

“Sir!”

He spun on his heels, continuing a few steps backwards as Collins caught up, puffing a little. His pocketbook was clutched in hand, that embarrassed look on the young man’s face which betrayed his next question.

“I was wondering, Sir, if I could ask you… maybe… for a little advice?”

Jack raised an eyebrow.

“It’s about Dot, sir.”

As Hugh’s words fell to a whisper, Jack restrained a grimace.

“Can it wait until we’re back at the station, Collins? We do have a potential murder on our hands.”

Few heads had turned as Jack and Hugh moved away from the scene, but now wharfies were gathering around the crime scene. Collins needed to control it.

“Yes, sir. Sorry. It can wait… of course.”

He looked so dejected, flustered, that Jack immediately regretted his shortness. His patience was worrying short today.

“Good man, Collins. How’s about you pick my brains over lunch?”

The flash of Hugh’s white teeth as a smile captured his face undoubtedly damned him in every Poker game he ever played, but Jack couldn’t help being buoyed by the man’s excitement. Hugh would no doubt get them both something from the pie cart, so excited to spend time with the older man.

Sometimes Jack forgot just how young he was. How optimistic.

He smiled thinly, before nodding over Hugh’s shoulder at the growing crowd around the crime scene. The few beat cops standing around were in over their heads – one looked a little green.

Collin’s head whipped around, gasping as he finally noticed the crowd.

“Sorry! Sir, I should go –”

“Of course,” Jack gave permission for the constable to take off in a run, returning to his scene.

He bit back a chuckle, dark as the scene was. For the frustration he caused, Hugh truly was charming. If a little frantic. Jack gave the scene one last look as he got into his police car, mind awash with details and theories, and a startling dash of unease.

It was strange to work a crime scene without her.

As Collins fumblingly instructed the rowdy wharfies into a single-file line, Jack suspected Miss Fisher would have laughed too.

*

It had felt like an impossibly long day. Boredom at the morgue, waiting for the autopsy results. Paperwork in tidy piles on his desk. Signatures and witness statements and a distinct lack of flourish as he interrogated suspects and got nowhere.

Jack wondered if he was an idiot for dropping by St Kilda on his way home. It wasn’t remotely the right direction, costing him an extra tram fare. He doubted Phryne would even bother opening the bottle of whiskey he had brought, far too cheap for her tastes. And yet her stood in the front garden of Wardlow cradling the gift and wondering why the household was so quiet.

Had she gone on holiday? Surely, she would tell him. Perhaps he hadn’t previously – but they were friends now. He was sure of it.

Her bedroom light was on.

He wondered if it was strange he knew which room every single one of Wardlow’s windows corresponded to.

The evening was fair enough that he could stand on the front path indefinitely, without breaking a sweat or shivering in his work clothes.

He heard Jane’s voice, Mr Butler’s soft answering tones. The flutter of the curtain in the dining room, a face peering at Jack. He closed his eyes and pretended to be unaware.

They left him alone, fortunately. He had held his breath, wondering if they might fling the front door open. Perhaps Mr Butler had guided Jane away. Jack supposed that after years of working for Phryne, the butler recognised the behaviour of a lost man when he saw it.

He cleared his throat. Resettled his hat on his head. Thought about hiding the whiskey in a bush, rather than disgracing the Fisher household with something less fine than a rare Scottish single malt.

As he raised his hand to knock, Jack tried to blink away the haze settling in his mind. What was happening to him?

Why was he here?

It hadn’t been like this with Rosie. It had all made sense with Rosie. He knew the right things to do and say, intentions clear across the table. He had schmoozed her father and charmed her mother and taken her for chaste dates to the theatre, splashing what little cash he could save up on a junior policeman’s salary.

There was a roadmap. The ring, the house, the kids which never came to be… he knew what to do. He hadn’t shaken as he stood outside her house, terrified to break a friendship, worried about their professional partnership. Worried that Phryne couldn’t give him what he wanted, while also knowing he would be a shell without her.

Rosie hadn’t threatened his job security, hadn’t flirted and argued with him in the same breath. She wanted nothing to do with his grisliest murder scenes – those thoughts hidden away alongside horrors from the Great War.

He heard a commotion behind the grand front door of Wardlow, more of Jane’s muffled voice. She was always excited to see him. He knocked.

The warm welcome of Jane and Mr Butler was never quite something he got used to. Something that made his little house feel all the more empty. Dot greeted him as she took some laundry through the entryway, cheery and pleasant as always. Jane was practically bouncing on her toes, freshly back from some great trip and excited to tell him all about it. Mr Butler was pleasant as always, a twinkle in the man’s eye as he offered to take Jack’s coat and hat. The Detective hung both garments up himself, but thanked the man all the same.

He didn’t mention the whiskey, and Jack was glad for it.

“Have you ever been to Italy, Detective?”

He offered the girl a polite negative, smiling at the dressing gown covering her pajamas. She had obviously been on her way to bed when she spotted Jack. In truth, he had hoped the whole household might have retired for the night.

“It’s wonderful! Mr Butler said he would teach me to make pasta, although I don’t know if we can make it as beautifully as they do on the continent.”

“I look forward to trying it,” Jack offered diplomatically.

He usually had a lot of time for the girl, but it was late. He was tired. Phryne hadn’t sauntered to the door, dressed in something outrageous.

“Miss Phryne said she would help me practice my Italian, but she’s been too ill. I don’t want to forget it all!”

“Jane!”

Dot’s stern call from the kitchen wounded Jane’s enthusiasm, as she realised she had mis-stepped. No doubt Phryne had sworn the household to secret about her illness. Mr Butler guided the girl away from the Inspector, giving him a little space. Jack stood awkwardly, unsure of himself. Jane looked upset with herself, head hung.

“Do you speak Italian, Inspector?” Mr Butler asked.

Saving the day, as always. Jack hid a grimace. Sore subject.

“Only well enough to read a menu,” he joked, and the butler gave him a knowing laugh.

“I’m afraid I’m the same,” Mr Butler replied, “maybe we’ll get you a tutor, Jane.”

She smiled weakly, offering the Inspector a quick duck of her head before politely joining Dot in the kitchen. For a quick moment, the glance the Inspector shared with Mr Butler was one between friends, parental figures. A knowing smile.

He was uncanny in his professionalism, but Jack enjoyed that the butler broke character to make him more comfortable. A good man, he had decided long ago.

“Is Phryne… seriously unwell?” he asked quietly, glancing upwards at the ceiling.

Mr Butler’s grimace confirmed the worry in the pit of his stomach. It would take a freight train to stop that woman.

“She’s… Doctor McMillan was here this morning.”

Right.

“Can I… go up and see her?”

He was pushing his luck. Mr Butler seemed unphased.

“I can certainly ask, Inspector.”

Mr Butler was quickly gone on silent footsteps, reaching the steps before Jack could stop him.

“Don’t wake her! If she’s sleeping.” He asked, suddenly feeling sick himself.

The quietness of the household was wrong. Unsettling.

Mr Butler nodded understandingly, before continuing upstairs.

Now alone in the entryway Jack glanced at the coats hanging by the door, the tidy parlour. There were none of Phryne’s freshly-worn coats – no discarded scarves or bracelets thrown onto side tables as they began to bother her. No half-read books or half-drunk cocktails.

Jack turned his attention away. The lump in his throat felt hot, tears threatening. He went bright pink when he cried. Phryne would notice. He schooled his face.

“She said you can come up,” Mr Butler appeared behind him silently, and Jack tried not to jump. “Although Miss Fisher did express concern for you getting ill.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you, Mr B.”

“Shout if you need anything, Inspector.”

He nodded graciously, ascending the stairs. Although he had been desperate to see her, each step now felt impossibly heavy. He paused outside her door for a moment. The whiskey tucked under his arm felt even more ridiculous now. He should have brought flowers. Or something sweet. Anything else.

He knocked lightly on her door, frowning as he heard no reply.

“Phryne?” he called, listening intently for her reply.

When none came he opened the door carefully, surprised to see the room lit only by one side-lamp, hidden from the bed by a screen. His eyes took a moment to adjust, just in time to hear a croaked:

“Close the door.”

Jack had expected her to sit up in bed, perk up and grin at him. For the room to be bright and fresh and filled with a steady supply of cocktails.

The door clicked closed behind him as Jack took in the scene. Phryne was curled in her bed, covering her face from the light, her skin sickly pale and hair mussed. Her breathing was laboured – he could hear it – and his chest clutched as she barely reacted to his presence.

“Oh, Phryne…”

Jack often forgot that she was short, even as she stared up at him, the was often so commanding she seemed like the strongest person in the room. Now her thin frame looked startlingly small, weak and swamped by sheets. She coughed, heaving for air.

The stupid bottle of whiskey found a place on the floor, laid beside her bedside table. Jack supposed he might sneak it out with him, sink it himself to try and erase the horrible feeling clutching at his chest, making him feel sick to his stomach as he waited for her coughing fit to end.

“Don’t come too close, Jack. You’ll get sick.”

Each word was rasped, languid where she usually spoke too fast for him to keep up.

“Phryne, my god. You look awful.”

She croaked some quip in reply, but Jack couldn’t make it out. Didn’t care to. He was horrified.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He crouched beside the bed, unsure what else to do. Her eyes were closed, but she winced to open them as he reached her eye level, taking in his face with a lazy smile. He realised she was shivering.

“Are you a doctor too now?”

Without her usual bite, the words fell limp. Made Jack feel useless.

He sat down fully, side pressed against her mattress, hands knotted in front of him. He wasn’t sure what to do with them. Her breath was rattling, and each cough which wracked her chest sounded agonising. He glanced at her face in the quiet moments, but the gauntness of it made him sick with worry.

When had he last seen her? A week ago? She had seemed fine. How ill could a person become in so little time?

It seemed impossible for Phryne to be anything less than a firecracker. Even in sorrow, she was so strong.

It took her a few tries to speak, clearing her throat and mumbling as her face remained pressed into the mattress.

“Have you got a case for me?” she murmured.

“Certainly not! You need to save your energy.”

If she had the energy, Jack imagined she might have scoffed. Instead, he heard her fidgeting against the mattress, straining to move. He was struggling to find any humour in this.

“I’m bored, indulge me.”

“Phryne… this sounds really bad. Do you need to be in a hospital? What did Doctor Mac say?”

“That there is an outbreak of scarlet fever at the hospitals. She didn’t want me to risk it.”

Jack rolled his head against the sheet, aligning his face with hers. So she could see his look of disapproval when she opened her eyes.

“So you really ought to be in hospital, but you aren’t.”

“Didn’t fancy scarlet fever on top of influenza.”

“Understandable,” he conceded.

Phryne coughed again, and Jack wondered if it would be improper to hug her.

“So Mac believes it to be the flu?”

She nodded once. Mumbled an ‘mhm’.

“You must feel dreadful.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack had reached up to stroke her hair down. Phryne hummed her enjoyment, feline as she nuzzled into the sheet.

He’d had the flu last year, not as badly as this, but a few miserable days in bed was enough for Jack to understand the misery of it.

“Jane was terribly upset I don’t speak Italian. It sounds like her trip was a success,” he mused, continuing with his gentle touches.

“She’s getting well-travelled,” Phryne mumbled into the sheet, a shadow of a smile on her lips, “she’ll surpass me if I’m not careful.”

Jack never wanted her to go anywhere again. But he swallowed heavily, pushing the thought away. He rested his hand over Phryne’s overheated forehead, hoping to soothe her headache a little.

“You’ve done a good job with her,” he noted.

The girl had turned out well. Clever and adventurous, respectful and yet not too well-behaved. Kind, beneath it all. Like her adoptive mother.

“I was so terrified I’d mess her up. I’m glad you think she’s turning out okay.”

“She’s got a good role model,” Jack muttered, smiling as Phryne’s eyes opened in surprise.

“I must be dying,” she rasped, “if you’re admitting that.”

“Don’t say that.”

She didn’t laugh at him. She closed her eyes again. Brought an alarmingly warm hand up to pull Jack’s hand from her face, and entangled their fingers.

“I’ll do my best.”

Long minutes passed in relative silence, only Phryne’s breathing and coughing interrupting. Jack stared at the painting on her bedroom wall – dressed in only darkness and decorated with a story he wasn’t sure he would ever fully understand. The brushstrokes captured a different woman, and yet the same body.

“If you want a case to solve, I have one,” he proposed, quietly disappointed that Phryne didn’t suddenly sit up in bed, captured by the mystery.

She hummed her interest, fingers stroking across his knuckle.

“Do you know what’s happening with Dot and Hugh?”

“No?” she replied, curiosity piqued.

“Hugh asked for my advice, at lunch. Even bought me a pie for my troubles. I snuck the money back into his wallet.”

He knew Phryne would care about that kind of thing. It was one of the things about her which charmed him so much.

“Good man,” she murmured. “What was the advice?”

“He mentioned that he had upset her. Said something stupid, and she didn’t want to go to the pictures with him.”

“Oh?”

“Any guesses?” he coaxed.

He liked when she spoke, even through difficult breaths. It reminded him she was there. Fine. Breathing and recovering.

“He… didn’t like her dress? Again?��

Jack huffed, rolling his eyes at the constable. Mistakes of youth, he conceded. He had certainly been no Casanova himself. And Dot was more thoroughly modern than she might admit to herself.

“Not this time.”

“Something about the Catholics?” Phyrne mumbled.

Jack smiled to himself.

“Surprisingly not.”

“I give in.”

“Sure?”

Phryne was too exhausted to wrack her brain, and Jack accepted his role as her entertainer for a moment. He had no desire to drain her energy any further.

“Hugh told his mother that Dorothy makes a far better roast dinner. And told Dorothy, assuming she would be pleased. And now the two of them both angry at Hugh, and Hugh presumes at one another.”

“Oh, what a disaster,” Phryne laughed drily, joining in Jack’s sardonic smile.

She could imagine the two of them, Jack’s uncracking expression and Hugh’s panic as he asked the older man how to resolve things. Or possibly, tried to figure out what he had done wrong.

“It’s a great drama, he assures me,” Jack told her.

“How did you advise your young constable?”

Her eyes were lazily open again, and Jack enjoyed the time he could spend staring at her.

“Told him to change his name, and buy the first ticket to Perth.”

“The only solution,” Phryne agreed.

Even her murmurs were growing weaker, eyes drifting closed again. Jack had no desire to interrupt her sleep.

“Get better, Phryne.”

It was an instruction. An insistence.

He had no idea how to do this, to follow the signposts with Phryne. He would have to forge a new path, miles from anything he knew. But watching her fall asleep with her hand in his felt like the most obvious thing in the world.

She didn’t reply, coughing a little as sleep finally claimed her.

With a final murmur of her name, a careful extrication of his hand, and a kiss to her forehead Jack let himself out of the room.

*

Jack had crept down the stairs, reclaiming his hat and trying not to wake the household. Trying to ward of the unexpected tears which were threatening to fall. Quiet footsteps approached him, a gentle voice making him jump.

“Excuse me, Inspector?”

It was Dot, wringing her hands, hair in plaits and feet in slippers. Concern was evident on her face, wrinkling into her youthful features – just like it did for Collins. They were a sweet pair, he had to admit.

“Dorothy?”

“How is she, Inspector?”

“She seems very ill, it’s a miserable thing, flu. But I’m sure she’ll improve. Is Doctor Mac returning in the morning?”

“Twice every day,” Dot confirmed, hanging onto his every word.

Jack frowned. Mac must be worried. Dorothy kept speaking, the tea towel in her hands bearing the brunt of her anxiousness.

“She won’t let any of us in, only Mr Butler, because he had the influenza earlier this year – and they say you can’t catch it twice.”

“You’ll want to avoid it, Dot. It’s a horrid thing to catch it. And you getting ill won’t help Miss Fisher.”

“I know Inspector, I just… she’ll be okay?”

“I’m sure she will, Dot. And I’m sure she’ll appreciate your concern.”

Out of the corner of his eye he caught the white of Jane’s nightdress, watching them from the top of the stairs.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” he repeated, for the girl’s benefit.

Dot looked on the verge of tears herself. Jack placed a hand on her upper arm, in lieu of a hug, hoping Dorothy might be a little comforted by it. She nodded, hiding the redness of her eyes.

“I’ll let you all get some sleep. Goodnight.”

Jack pulled his coat on, leaving the unnaturally quiet household, anticipating a sleepless night.

*

He couldn’t rid the image from his mind, of her frail and lonely in her huge bed, wracked with pain and shivers and those coughs which made your head ache and your throat burn.

Jack hoped she knew he was thinking of her. Considered praying, although he was not a religious man. Usually case details rushed through his mind before sleep, looking for breaks and inconsistencies. The sobering image of Phryne’s cheekbones and pale lips haunted him instead, warding sleep away.

What if there was a phone call? What if he slept through it?

Jack was sure he would never forgive himself. She was too much of a firecracker to be taken out by such a common thing, surely?

He knew far too many men who had shaken him with their sudden loss to lesser illnesses.

*

Jack was groggy at work. Most of the station staff left him alone. Paper-wrapped flowers had taken his fancy on the walk in, and he stared at them as the words swam on the page in front of him. He had bought them quite by impulse, but now they were a constant reminder of her, innocently perched on top of his filing cabinet. That in a bedroom across Melbourne Phryne felt downright miserable.

He thought about it all day, pondered on overstepping and the nature of their relationship, the significance of tulips. He couldn’t quite recall – but it was fine. They were pretty. That was all he needed.

Work took him late into the evening, partly as a result of his distraction and partly due to the sheer number of suspects involved in the case. When he disembarked the tram and walked to Wardlow, the lights upstairs were all off. The paper for the tulips was, despite his best efforts, crumpled from his grip. He wondered if the bottle of whiskey had been found yet, forgotten as he attempted to let Phryne sleep.

At the door it transpired that she was asleep once again. Mr Butler agreed it was a good sign of healing. Jack declined having her woken. Mr Butler noted the prettiness of the flowers, and promised they would be placed in Phryne’s room.

There was a chill in the spring air as Jack journeyed home, trying not to feel spurned.

*

He bumped into Doctor McMillan as he visited the medical examiner the next day, uncharacteristically halting her in her tracks.

“How is she?”

“Recovering. Nice flowers.”

“Did she like them?”

Doctor Mac nodded. Smiled grimly.

“Bold statement, tulips.”

Jack chose to ignore that.

Doctor Mac ignored his follow up questions, bidding him goodbye as she rushed to theatre.

*

Jack pondered on if he should ask Mr Butler what tulips meant on the tram home from work. Pondered on Phryne’s state, and if he was right to give her some space that evening. He had been to Wardlow for the past two evenings – it would be strange to show up for a third. Wouldn’t it?

He spent the evening alone, the interior doors of his modest home open so he would hear the phone if it rang. As he took a break from his book, staring out at the pale last dregs of sun leaving the night sky, he wondered if he should call. Soon it would be too late for her to ring.

But Mr Butler would probably answer. Or Dot. Or worse, Jane. He liked the household, but he already suspected they understood the depth of his feelings for Phryne – perhaps even more than the Detective herself understood. He kept a keen ear out for the phone, occasionally ensuring it was connected and on the hook, but it did not ring.

*

He slept marginally better than the night before but was still occupied by worries. Visions of flowers and Phryne’s fragile features, draped with pale skin, those coughs which made him nervous for her. He left early for work. Too early. He remained on the tram as it passed his stop, ending up near Wardlow as the sun began to rise.

Jack entered through the back of the house, Mr Butler already awake and baking. There was no sign of either Dot nor Jane, and the butler acknowledged Jack with a polite nod as he entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, Inspector,” he greeted, his sotto voice telling Jack the household was still at rest.

“Good morning,” he whispered back, hat in his hands as he stood in the kitchen.

He wasn’t sure why he was here. If it was proper. With Mr Butler stood kneading dough between him and the entryway to the main house, it felt ridiculous now. Improper. He wondered if the man’s dedication to gold-standard service would extend to kicking Jack out.

“I wonder if you could do me a favour, sir,” Mr Butler asked, nodding to the stove as his hands were occupied, “Miss Fisher’s toast should be done. Could I trouble you to take it upstairs?”

Jack blinked in surprise. Stared at the toast. Looked back at Mr B.

“Only if you don’t mind, of course sir. Since Dorothy is banned from the room –”

“I, uh, of course, Mr B! It would be no trouble at all.”

The twinkle in the older man’s eye was enough to make Jack flush. And make his fondness for the man grow even stronger.

“She might like honey and lemon, as well, if you couldn’t mind. Helps with the throat.”

“Good idea! Of course.”

The kettle was freshly boiled, and Jack made the drink quickly under Mr Butler’s softly-spoken instructions. As the bread was set aside to rise, Jack found himself armed with a tray of tea, toast, and extras for himself, silently added by the kindly Mr Butler.

“Is she awake?” Jack asked, slightly surprised at his sudden role in the household duties, “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Inspector, I’m sure Miss Fisher won’t mind. Doctor McMillan will be here soon anyway,” at Jack’s eyebrow raise, he added, “and she has been rather starved for company with this damned illness.”

With that Mr Butler was off, leaving Jack to make the slightly-shaky ascent up the stairs and to Phryne’s room.

He set the tray down to knock and open the door, before entering the darkened room. Phryne mumbled, voice raspy from illness and sleep as she roused and turned on a light. She looked better. Didn’t flinch at the light. Jack exhaled shakily, suddenly realising how afraid he was to see her ill again.

After a second glance at him and an uncharacteristically modest movement to cover herself with the sheets, Phryne’s weary face lit up.

“Jack! You’re not Mr Butler.”

“Unfortunately not,” he affirmed, “but I do have toast made by Mr B., so I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Of course,” she tutted, moving aside in the bed to create space for both tray and Inspector.

It didn’t escape Jack’s notice that she struggled with the movement, frowning at the effort to shift herself. He tried not to stare, instead focusing on the fact she was sitting up in bed.

She looked so much more like herself. Her intelligent gaze was returning, her energy still sapped but definitely present.

“You seem a lot better than last time I saw you,” Jack offered, setting the tray beside her on the sheets.

He wasn’t sure if it was proper to sit.

“Thank goodness!” She exclaimed, “I felt wretched. Looked wretched enough to worry even Mac.”

“That is a worry,” Jack conceded, stealing one of the piece of additional toast Mr B. had piled onto the plate for him.

Phryne took her own piece in a faux-huff, as Jack hoped she might. She gestured for him to sit as she chewed, and Jack obliged.

“I appreciate you bringing me breakfast,” Phryne noted, “but won’t you be late for work?”

Jack shrugged, more nonchalant than he felt sat beside a be-pajamaed Phryne Fisher, making her laugh through a mouthful of toast.

“Who’s going to tell me off, Collins?”

“I wouldn’t like to get on his bad side.”

“You know, maybe I should leave–”

Jack stood, pretending to leave, delighting at Phryne’s laugh and the hand which grabbed his coat and pulled him back to the mattress. His weight shook the breakfast tray, risking the hot honey and lemon, but Phryne didn’t seem to care.

“If he gives you any trouble, send him my way,” Phryne chuckled, “I’ll tell him you were very busy cheering up my morning.”

“Essential police business,” Jack concurred.

They ate and chattered until Mac arrived, and Jack took his cue to leave. When he finally reached the station half an hour late he was pleasantly surprised to see the building still standing, wiping crumbs from his face, but unable to shift the slight smile which seemed to have frozen itself onto his features.

*

In the late afternoon Collins poked his head around Jack’s open office door, knocking after he had already intruded. As usual.

Jack looked up wearily.

“Dot said to tell you that Miss Fisher is feeling better, sir.”

The Detective Inspector blinked, before realising that was supposed to be news to him. Bless Mr Butler and his discretion – he really ought to buy that man a beer.

“Glad to hear it, Collins,” he paused for a moment, before realising: “are things all-right between you now?”

Hugh flustered, and Jack averted his eyes to his desk, trying to give the man some privacy.

“Yes, sir. I, um, explained that I didn’t understand the full meaning of the situation, sir. We’re going to the pictures tonight. I thought it might be nice to… get away from the households for a bit.”

“Wise man, Collins,” Jack approved, and the younger office beamed.

“Thank you, sir! I couldn’t have done it without your help, sir.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Very well, sir,” Collins continued, “if there’s nothing else I need to do, I think I’ll head home to change before tonight.”

Jack drummed his fingers on the table, contemplating something he’d been considering all afternoon. He cleared his throat, shuffling the papers in front of him. What the hell.

“If you don’t mind taking an important package over to the Fisher residence on your way, Collins –”

“Of course sir!”

Always eager to help. Jack grimaced at the younger officer’s energy.

“Great. Give me 5 minutes, and you can collect it before you leave.”

With a final few sirs and a firm nod, Collins left Jack’s office, leaving the older detective to his plan. Perhaps the most challenging case of the week – how to keep Phryne from exhausting herself due to boredom.

When Collins returned to collect them, the documents were bundled with twine, a formality Jack rarely bothered with – especially not when sending documents to Miss Fisher. But the thought of anyone else reading the note he had enclosed made him flush pink.

He hoped Collins would have the good sense not to peek.

*

Dot stuck her head around the door, smiling at the sight of Miss Fisher reading, propped up against pillows. She had seen the look of worry on every face which left Miss Fisher’s room during the worst of her illness, her prayers full of Phryne as she asked for her boss’ recovery. To see her looking rosier with each hour warmed Dot’s heart – it seemed nothing short of a miracle.

The documents in Dot’s hands were heavy, and from Hugh’s summary she was sure the Lady Detective would be excited to receive them.

“Miss?”

Miss Fisher’s attention snapped to Dot, smiling at the younger woman. Dot kept some distance, but would now shuffle past the threshold of the room, still wary of Phryne’s warnings of infectiousness.

“Yes, Dot?”

“Hugh has a package from the Inspector for you! I think it’s case notes, by the sound of it. Some terrible death at the docks.”

Dorothy thought of her siblings’ faces on Christmas morning, when she saw smile lines forming around Miss Fisher’s eyes and the upturn of her unpainted lips

“How delightful! Toss it here, Dot dearest!”

It was far too heavy to throw, and Dot felt it improper, so she edged close enough to drop the file on Miss Phryne’s bed before once again retreating.

“Do you need anything else, Miss?”

Miss Fisher was already untying the string wrapping the package, keen to break into a new mystery.

“I think that will be everything, Dot. Thank you.”

“Hugh and I are going to the pictures tonight, Miss – unless there’s anything you need me for?”

“Not at all, Dot. I can hardly escape my bedroom, let alone do anything daring! You go and have fun.”

Dot could hear the frustration in her voice, lighthearted though it was, and hoped Miss Fisher wouldn’t do anything too strenuous to endanger her recovery. Patience was not always one of the virtues which Miss Fisher was blessed with – though she made up for it in other ways.

“Thank you, Miss.”

*

With a last smile at her companion Phryne turned her attention back to the documents, white leaf paper covered in Jack’s handwriting spilling out. She wondered if Jack had copied the original police documents out for her. Dot closed the door as she departed, leaving Phryne in solitude as she noticed a yellow piece of cardstock atop the documents.

More of Jack’s writing, this time addressed directly to her.

Phryne,

I’m glad to hear you are feeling better. If you still want a challenge, these are the notes for my latest case. I confess, I have some theories but I would be interested to hear your opinion.

Phryne smiled to herself. That meant he needed her help. Perfect.

Have a read through, I will visit tonight to hear what you make of it all. I give you these documents on one condition: you continue to rest until you are truly better.

I suspect that will be a greater challenge than solving the murder.

Yours,

Jack

Phryne glanced at the tulips on her dresser. The crime scene photos sprawled across her bed. Jack’s distinctive penmanship. With a smile to herself, she got to work. She had a Detective Inspector to impress.

Author’s note:

Like Jack, I’m no flower expert – but I believe tulips usually signify perfect and true love. They’re right up there for powerful declarations of romantic feelings, next to preparing an entire bundle of casenotes to keep your partner entertained while on bedrest.

[jawllines]

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

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

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

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

or

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

part 1

(tw: mentions of suicide) 

ii.

Psst. 

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

Psst. 

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

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

Psst. 

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

Psst. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There’s no creature in the forest.” 

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

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

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

                                                      .                               .                              .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                             .                           .                          .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why are you sending girls over to me?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small smile pulls at her mouth. 

“Yes please.” 

                                                          .                          .                         .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry nods. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I would like that.” 

                                                             .                                    .                                  .

 “I can’t swim.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re okay?” 

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

“Yes, I’m okay. Are you okay?” 

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

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

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

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

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

                                                     .                                   .                              .

Harry was drunk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your little girlfriend’s not with you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” 

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please, please lick me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks for being my camp ‘husbad’.” 

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

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

[voiceswithoutlips]

Calico - Chapter Eight

— pairing: Hybrid ot7 x Human Reader (Female) — genre: hybrid AU, fluff, angst, slow burn (like real slow), eventual smut — word count: 3k — Rating: G — warnings: Slight mention of past abuse, description of a panic attack. — beta: Thank you @taegularities​ and @joheunsaram​ <3

Tag List || Masterlist || Schedule

— chapter summary:

Y/N is having a hard day, who will comfort her?

— A/N: Guys, I’m so bad at summaries, if this was an exam my grades would’ve been in the negative. Anyway, welcome to the new chapter! I know I was supposed to post fallen, but somehow I ended up writing Calico instead.

I’ve had a bad case of writer’s block this week so writing this chapter was really painful, words refused to come out of my brain xD I hope you like it! You guys have been so awesome, all your feedback is really helpful. Thank you so much <3

— taglist: @lovelyseomin @anaac28 @ghostkat23 @btswdwsmhrdt @sweeneyblue1 @luvtaeha @taegularities @ aajames217 @ littlewolfieposts @nochujeonjk @hamiltrashlebo @minyoonsh @hoebii @ sunshinee0-0 @egm09 @cstobitk @splaterparty0-0 @missseoulite @mirawi-fox @sea-nevermind-enthusiast @hemmofluke @seaoffangirling @gee-nee @woopetals @secretbangtnn @vminkook-ownsme

Ch. 1  Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 3.5 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8.5

I made my way downstairs in search of breakfast. Ice cream, that’s what I needed. It was that kind of a day. I was tired, jet lagged, and the tension in the house had me on edge. The flight home was fairly uneventful, except for the part where Jimin had gotten scared of flying. He had asked to hold my hand, but by the time we were in the air, the hybrid was practically sitting on my lap. Not that I minded, he was hella cuddly and his purring was downright therapeutic.

When I had asked Jungkook, if it would be okay to bring the newer hybrids home, the bunny had sounded excited, but as soon as we had gotten home, the mood had suddenly shifted. It was not the welcome I was expecting.

First, Jungkook’s hair was the color of the rainbow. His beautiful black locks were turned into a colorful mess, his white bunny ears poking out of it in stark contrast. It was a riot of colors, artfully mixed together, and I felt like I was looking at rainbow pasta. Not that the bunny didn’t pull it off, he looked really cute in it, but somehow I had a raging suspicion that it hadn’t been Jungkook’s idea.

Then, there was the growling match. I had never seen Jungkook so aggressive before. The usually sweet and well behaved bunny had started growling at Jimin as soon as we’d entered the house.. That had set off a chain reaction with Namjoon and Seokjin joining in to protect their younger packmate.

On top of that, I had to go to Seoul for three days to take care of business. I had to visit the main office to attend a few meetings and sign some papers. The whole time I felt guilty about leaving the hybrids alone. I was constantly worried that somehow they’d end up fighting. By the time I came back, somehow, someway, Jason had managed to convince Jimin to dye his hair pink. He was on a warpath.

And lastly, there was the issue of a certain stuffed penguin that went missing -  my nights were sleepless without him. All in all, this had to have been one of the shittiest weeks, and it felt like I was losing my grip on reality.

I stumbled into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, struggling to keep them open. Unlike Jason, who was cheerfully humming, I was not a morning person. Seokjin was busy near the stove, cooking something and by the smell wafting from the pan, I could tell that it was something delicious. I had thanked every existing god when I’d learned that the sugar glider hybrid was actually an excellent chef. The first morning, he had seen Jason cook breakfast, he’d been horrified, promptly taking over the kitchen after that. Even Jungkook had begrudgingly ate his food.

My stomach grumbled as I peered in the pan. Kimchi fried rice, delicious. Unlike Jimin and Jungkook, the two older hybrids weren’t really that affectionate. I wondered if it was because they weren’t used to me yet or if they just had a different temperament. I needed to do more research on that.

I plopped down on the chair with a groan, resting my head on the counter, hands securely wrapped around my stomach. Jason gave me an enthusiastic “good morning” and I shot him a middle finger, too tired to curse at him. The bastard chuckled.

I was debating if I should stab him with a fork when I felt hands wrapping around my waist, long fingers intertwined with mine. Jungkook bent down to nuzzle the side of my face. His muscular body pressed close. My lips curled into a small smile as I made small happy noises. My brain wasn’t awake enough to form coherent sentences yet. I needed my cup of coffee or better yet, some delicious ice cream.

Jungkook’s arms tightened around me possessively, I could feel the vibrations in his chest as he let out a low growl. I opened my eyes to see Jimin standing near the chair, looking distressed, hands balled into fists at his sides. His tail was swishing rapidly in agitation, ears flattened to his head. He was biting his lower lip, trying his best not to respond to Jungkook’s hostility.

“Bunny no,” I croaked, patting his hands, my voice thick with sleep. I lifted my head, extending a hand to Jimin. Jungkook took his cue and reluctantly let me go, keeping hold of my other hand. Jimin grabbed my hand and with his other one checked my forehead, a worried look on his face.

“Are you sick?” he asked, gnawing on his lip.

“I’m just sleepy.” He giggled at my pout and graced me with a forehead kiss. He sat down next to me, and now I was sandwiched between two hybrids who were holding my hands, glaring daggers at each other. I rested my forehead on the counter with a sigh. What was I going to do with them?

Once again I was in a dilemma. I could scold them and make them shake hands, like a couple of kids, or I could let them handle it on their own, like adults. Taking care of four hybrids was tiring. I shot a quick glance at Seokjin, who was now setting up the table; he was ignoring the two younger hybrids in front of him, but his tail was curled tightly, ears flat. It seemed as if he was tense too.

“Guys, I need breakfast,” I said, reluctantly pulling my hands from their grip. I made my way to the fridge to grab a tub of my favorite ice cream, ignoring the stares that the hybrids were giving me. I had to stop myself from pulling Jason’s ear as I passed him, not now Y/N. The revenge for ruining Jungkook’s hair had to be elaborately planned, something memorable, just like old days. Like the time when I had super glued his shirt cuffs closed, so he couldn't put his hands through the sleeves. He had started this war, I was going to finish it.

“I like your garden!” Namjoon said as he walked in through the back door. Ears perked up, an excited glint in his eyes. I didn’t even know he was out there. I wondered if he could help me with the hybrid situation, he was a pack leader after all. He had informed me about hybrid pack dynamics on the plane while I cuddled a sleepy Jimin. Apparently he was their alpha, the leader of their pack, Seokjin was second in command and Jimin was their maknae. He was excited to meet Jungkook, since he was a rabbit hybrid, they're usually very docile and friendly. Needless to say, we had both been shocked at the bunny's behavior.

“I’m glad you like it. Maybe you could help me with it?”

“Really? I would love to!”

We all moved to the seldom used dining table for breakfast - now that there were six of us, the kitchen counter was too small to occupy us all. I debated where to sit, I didn't want to take sides in the hybrid cold war, so I chose to sit at the head of the table, safe middle ground. I knew Jungkook would want to share the ice cream. I wondered if the other hybrids would too, so I had brought extra spoons, just in case.

"Seokjin, this is delicious!" Jason said as soon as he took a bite of the fried rice. "Where did you learn to cook like this?" I couldn't help but smile at the hint of envy in his voice.

"Madame hired a professional chef to teach me when she found out I liked to cook," he said shyly, ears turning pink from all the attention. It was his cutest trait: whenever someone looked at him, his ears would start to redden.

"That was nice of her," I said dryly, the distaste apparent in my tone.

"She was really nice," Namjoon said pointedly, clearly disliking my tone.

“Clair was kind, she saved us from our previous owners and gave us a home,” Jimin joined him.

"Oh?" Jason said, trying to coax some details. The three hybrids shared a quick look. Jungkook had abandoned his fried rice and was digging into my ice cream, his ears perked, listening in on the conversation.

“My first owner was a gambler, but he didn’t play poker. He and his rich friends were into blood sports. They had their own dog fighting ring. He had raised me since I was a pup, trained me to be a fighter, forced me to participate. One day, Clair saw me at a party and she wanted to buy me, she offered him so much money that he couldn’t refuse,” Namjoon finished with a sad smile. I wanted to go and hug him, but I was sure the hybrid wouldn’t welcome the gesture.

“I…” Jimin paused, looking down at his hands. “The lady who raised me, she brought me clients. She’d sell me to people… sometimes it was for a night, sometimes it was more. She used to tell me that I was her lucky charm. Clair rescued me from her, she was really kind to me.”

The spoon in my hand clattered on the table. There was a ringing in my ear. My limbs were paralyzed, heart pounding in my chest as I felt the panic rise, almost drowning in it. I couldn't get enough air, finding myself on the verge of hyperventilating while my brain went into overdrive. It wasn’t my first panic attack, I was aware of what was happening to me, I knew I had to get a hold of myself. I couldn’t lose it here, not in front of them.

“Y/N? Hey can you hear me?” I turned towards the voice, Jason’s face slowly came into focus, “are you okay?”

“Y/N?” Jungkook said, looking extremely worried. He was holding my hand like a lifeline. I slowly removed his fingers and took my hand back.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I murmured, trying to control my breathing. I got up from the chair with wobbly knees, making my way towards the door. “You guys finish up, I’ll be in my office.”

Redemption, what a joke.

It was well into the afternoon when my stomach informed me that I was hungry. I was swarmed with paperwork. I’d been busy the whole week, running errands, filling forms, trying to keep the hybrids from tearing each other apart, so the paperwork got neglected, and now I was paying for it. I briefly wondered if I should go back home and grab something to eat, but then I remembered the look on everyone’s faces this morning. I had panicked in front of them. I had been feeling restless the whole week without a certain comfort penguin. I was too embarrassed to ask the guys if they had seen it.

I groaned, leaning back in my chair. How was I going to face them? What would I tell them if they asked? A knock on the door pulled me out of my thoughts. “Come in.”

It was Jungkook, holding a bowl. He tentatively entered the office, looking everywhere but at me. His ears were drooping behind him. “I brought you lunch,” he said, setting the bowl on the table.

“I’m sorry I pushed you away this morning,” I apologized, extending a hand towards him, which he took hesitantly. I pulled him in my lap and buried my face in his chest; he smelled like vanilla.

“Are you okay?” Jungkook asked, wrapping his big hands around me.

“No,” I whispered. “But don't worry bunny, I’ll be fine. I just need some sleep.”

“Is it because of Jimin? Can’t we just send him away?”

That made me raise my head to look at him. “Why don’t you like him, bun?”

“He’s too clingy,” Jungkook pouted, jutting his lower lip out. It made me giggle.

“What about Namjoon and Seokjin?”

“They can stay, Seokjin hyung makes delicious food and Namjoon hyung is so cool.”

“Oh, did you talk to them?”

He shook his head no. I almost cooed at him - the poor bunny was too shy to talk to the older hybrids. “Why don’t you try making friends with Jimin? I bet you’ll like him if you got to know him better.”

He buried his face in my hair and shook his head, “...don't wanna.”

I took his hand in mine. “Won’t you do it for me?” I asked dramatically, trying to sound upset.

Jungkook leaned back to look at me, pout more pronounced. He knew exactly what I was doing. “Fine, I’ll try,” he agreed with a defeated sigh.

“Thank you, baby.” I kissed his palm in gratitude. At least he had agreed to try. “Why did you dye your hair?” I asked curiously, running my hands through his multicolored locks.

“Iwantyoutolikeme,” he said in one breath, hiding his face in my hair again.

“What?”

“I want you to like me.”

“You dyed your hair because you want me to like you?” Jungkook nodded. “Oh baby, I already like you!” I squeezed him tight, letting him know how much he meant to me. Is that what Jason had told Jimin? That I’d like him better if he dyed his hair? Jason was diabolical, I really needed to come up with a good plan to get back at him.

“Bun, next time, don’t listen to Jason.”

I was curled up on the sofa with a blanket. It was past midnight but I was wide awake and restless, staring at the ceiling. I had almost turned on the TV, but then I remembered that there were four hybrids in the house with phenomenal hearing, and I really didn’t want to wake them up. And thus, I suffered in silence.

I hadn’t seen the three new hybrids all day; they hadn’t been introduced to the shelter yet, so they stayed at home. When I came back from work, they were already in their room. They had insisted on staying in the same room, something about new places and pack bonding. I was giving Jason the cold shoulder, at least until he apologized for his crimes. And Jungkook was busy playing his new video games.

Clair had saved Jimin.

The thought rang in my head. Why hadn’t she saved me? Would things have been different, if she had stepped in? I had to admit, I was a tiny bit jealous of the panther hybrid. She had saved him.

Madame was so kind.

I was furious. How dare she? Clair had been a coward, had lived and died as one. I knew it in my soul, never in a million years would I ever forgive that woman. She didn’t deserve it.

“You’re angry,” a quiet voice said. I looked up to see a tall silhouette standing at the bottom of the stairs. Seokjin stepped out of the shadows, clutching a pillow in his hands.

“I was thinking. Can’t sleep?”

“Namjoon snores really loudly,” he complained. It made me laugh. The three of them were always attached to the hip, I had wondered if it was because they were uncomfortable here.

“You know we have plenty of spare bedrooms, you can take any of them.”

“Why are you here?”

“I can’t sleep.” I shrugged. Seokjin nodded understandingly, but he didn’t move an inch. “Do you want to sleep on the couch?”

He hesitated, looking as if he was unsure if he should accept my offer before he murmured, “can I?”

“Of course! But I think, a bed would be more comfortable,” I said, moving from the couch to the armchair. Seokjin sat down on the couch, placing his pillow near him.

“Why can’t you sleep? Is it because of what Jimin said?” he asked cautiously, ears erect and attentive.

“I have insomnia.” I shrugged, but Seokjin kept staring at me. I squirmed under his piercing gaze;  staring at me like he could see right through my bullshit. “I didn’t have a good relationship with Clair. She raised me, but she was cruel, unkind. I just… can’t fathom her as someone nice.”

“So it had nothing to do with Jimin being a prostitute?” he asked suspiciously.

“WAIT! Is that what you guys thought? Oh my god, I would never…” I was shocked. No wonder the hybrids were avoiding me like the plague. “I’m really sorry, if it seemed that way but it's not like that. I’m really happy that Clair rescued him. He deserves a good home, a family. I don’t think you’d believe me, even if I told you what my aunt was like. I’m really sorry, if I hurt you guys. But believe me when I say that this is not a place where you’ll be judged for your past.”

“You mean that.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I do.”

“You could sleep on the couch with me?” Seokjin offered sheepishly, ears turning the color of strawberries. I was surprised to see him be so direct. He had been very reserved around me till now, only talking when necessary.

“Are you sure? Won’t you be uncomfortable?” I asked, eyeing the couch. It was big enough to seat five people comfortably, but Seokjin was big too.

He nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

Seokjin adjusted the pillow and laid down on the sofa, leaving room for me. I stood there with my hello kitty blanket, wondering if it was okay. The sudden change in the hybrid’s demeanor was unexpected and I gave up trying to dissect the situation. I had to admit, I was feeling a bit cuddly since the loss of my penguin and I desperately needed sleep. I scooched on the sofa, covering both of us with the blanket, resting my head on his arm.

“You’re not okay,” he murmured, wrapping his other arm around my waist, his tail curling around my thigh.

“I just need some sleep,” I sighed. Seokjin was like a furnace behind me. I wondered why all hybrids were this warm.

“Lies,” he said as he lightly nibbled on my ear. I gasped at the unexpected contact, my heart beating so loudly in my chest that I was sure he could hear it.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” my voice came out breathier than I had intended.

“I do, I just didn’t know how to approach you. You seem so independent, I didn’t know where I could fit in your life. The only thing I could do for Clair was look pretty. But this.... this I can do, I can comfort you. I want to be useful.”

I turned around to look at him. “Oh honey, you don’t have to be useful. You’re you and that’s enough for me. I just want you to be happy.” I lightly kissed his cheek.

“I’m going to be your comfort blanket,” Seokjin said with a smile and hugged me closer.

Previous || Next

[chanelsebbie]

𝗩𝗶𝗰𝗲 | 𝘀.𝗿.

✝ Warnings: SMUT, manipulation, dub-con, innocent!reader, age-gap, dark!bishop!steve rogers, branding. 

✝ Masterlist

✝ Summary: After being caught committing lustful acts, y/n is brought to the bishop for reconcile. 

✝ A/n:  Reader just turned 18, this is sinful, if you are offended, please don’t read. With that being said, after reading this, you best chug a gallon of holy water. 

𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖓𝖊𝖊𝖉 𝖆 𝖇𝖎𝖌 𝖌𝖔𝖉

𝕭𝖎𝖌 𝖊𝖓𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍 𝖙𝖔 𝖋𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖚𝖕

Florence + the Machine, Big God

“No! Let me go!” the girl with a small voice ordered futily, the sound echoing off the large corridors as the nuns pulling her along payed no mind. 

She fought against them, but it was useless, for it would only make their conviction worse. She had sinned, and like everything, sinning came with a grave price. Especially at the young woman’s academy. 

She knew the bishop would be cross. Not only for her sin but for the timing. It was in the late hours of the night, but there she was, caught red-handed and in nothing but a snow-white bra and panty set, being dragged through the empty halls of the institution, everyone else sleeping. 

Soon enough, she was faced with the large wooden double-doors of the bishop’s office, the lion knocker on the door seeming to snarl smugly at the girl as if it knew her fate. 

One of the nun’s calloused old fingers wrapped around the handle clutched in the metal feline’s mouth, before knocking three times, the young girl counting absentmindedly. 

A harsh and inharmonious voice called out an ill-toned ‘Come in’. The girl could have sworn she was on the verge of a panic attack. What she had done was wrong, but why did it feel so good?

The door was opened by one of her captors, walking her in before throwing her to the ground, her knees scraping up against the stone floors as she let out a pained yelp. She refused to look up, knowing that his eyes would be trained on her. 

“Archbishop Rogers,” one of the nun’s began, “We caught this young lady committing an act of lust, and demand her to repent and save her faith plagued with desire.”

The man stood up from his working desk, setting his pen down, stepping in front of the trembling girl, almost anticipating her to look up at him. 

“Leave us, sisters,” 

His voice sent a tight shock through her spine, making her scramble to her knees, her ass resting on her heels, folding her hands in front of her, waiting as if she were about to be struck. 

As soon as the great wooden doors closed, the bishop took a deep breath and began to speak. 

“Tell me,” he starts, “what is your vice?”

She quivered at the question, embarrassed to admit what she had truly did wrong. But in knowing that the longer it took to get it out of her, the more torturous the punishment would be.

“I-” she cleared her throat, “I h-have committed a lustful act,” she swallowed hard as she heard the man above her sigh, beckoning her to continue, “I feel as if I’ve been consumed by demons. The devil has put thoughts into my head... scandalous thoughts... and it creates such a tension between my legs,” she took in a shaky breath, “I can’t help but touch myself to relieve the pain.”

His jaw clenched at her confession, crossing his arms. 

“Do you understand the gravity of your actions?” he catechized her, making her nod her head ‘yes’.

“Yes, Archbishop Rogers, I do.” she now had the courage to look up at the man above her, “I am willing to do whatever it takes to be right by the Lord’s name,”

His crossed arms unraveled, one of his hands going down to cradle the girl’s cheek as she leaned into his touch like an obedient dog, desperate for the relief and to bear no malice to her God. 

When she looked up at him with her doe-like eyes, full of hope, there was a glint of guilt. 

“First, recite ‘Hail Mary’,” he commanded, her head now hanging low again, not noticing that his hands were now reaching his pants, the leather of his belt coming undone. 

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she began, “The lord is with thee-”

Her face was suddenly jerked up, his hand wrapping around her head before pushing her forward, her open mouth suddenly filled with the mass of his cock, only half of her mouth consuming it. 

Her tongue squirmed as she tried to pull away, but the archbishop’s strength was unparalleled to hers, her struggles futile. Her hands went to his thighs to anchor herself. 

“A demon had infiltrated your mind, my child,” he grunted, “I know how to rid you of this evil, but you must do as I say.”

She did the best she could to nod her head, before getting pulled back by her hair. 

“Did I tell you to stop reciting?” he growled, “Don’t make me start you over,”

“Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit-” she was pulled forward violently back on his cock, deeper his time, his tip touching the back of her throat as she gagged, tears welling up in her eyes, doing her best not to bite down. 

She was pulled back once again, “of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary-”

Tears were now spilling down her face like a river, her face flushed as his cock seemingly went down her throat, the groans of her superior above her making her whimper. 

“Mother of God, pray for us sinners now,”

He didn’t pull her in this time like she was expecting, “and at the hour of our death.” she finished, panting as she winced at the archbishop’s killer grip on her hair, “Amen.”

“Remarkable job,” he praised, before standing her up, taking her hand and leading her to his desk, before harshly pushing her down against it, smirking at her gasping reaction. 

“P-Please? Haven’t we done enough?” she questioned, pleaded, earning her a slap on her ass, getting pulled up chest to back with him as his lips reached her ear. 

“I am a vessel of God,” he hissed, “And he lives through me as I do him. I’m cleansing you...,”

His fingers made their way under the hem of her underwear, pulling them down, her dripping cunt coming into view, the archbishop squatting down after pushing her back on the desk. She whimpered at the feeling of his breath against her sex, Rogers letting out a dark chuckle before leaning forward, licking a torturous strip across her slit. 

“God, you taste so good,” he groaned against her pussy, “why the fuck do you taste so good?” his rhetorical question made her clench. 

She let out a soft moan at the sexual touch that was for once, not her own. He did this several more times before he stood straight back up again. 

She whined when she felt his wide tip tease her entrance, circling his cock, the anticipation almost painful, his breathing echoing off the expanse of his large office. The moonlight shown through the stained glass windows, reflecting on the expanse of her back, making the archbishop all the more attracted to her seemingly supernatural glow. 

“Plea-” she was cut off by a loud moan ripping its way through her throat, the feeling of being stretched out so far painful.

“Fuck! Fuck, you’re so tight-” he cursed into the open air, his hands latching onto her hips when he bottomed out. 

He didn’t grace her with the opportunity to adjust, before he started to move, slowly, making her feel every ridge and vein. 

“You better start praying,” he coaxed, her head nodding.

“O-Our father, who art in h-heaven, gl-glory be thy name,” she whined out, making the man behind her rut his hips harder and harder with each verse, “hallowed be th-thy name. Thy kingdom c-come,” she paused to catch her breath, earning her a harsh tug on her scalp.

“Didn’t tell you to stop,” he growled, bushing harder and faster inside her. 

“thy will be done, on earth, as it is in h-heaven, g-give us this day our da-ily bread and... and...,” her brain was fogged with pleasure as he was getting pounded into, Rogers annoyed at her reluctance. 

“Don’t tell me you forgot,” he degraded, “don’t make me start you over,” his pace slowing down. 

She whined before starting again, “forgive us our tr-trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against u-us-”

She clenched around him, making him let out a genuine moan, and it was the most angelic sound she had ever heard, a coil tightening inside her as she cursed silently. 

“Come on, princess, we can finish it together,” he offered. 

“P-Please,” she gasped, gagging on air as she did her best to keep a level head and know what she was supposed to say next. 

“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” they said in perfect sync. 

“Come on, so close, just-” before he could finish, he released inside of her with a yell, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

The warm feeling in her gut made the coil inside her snap as well as she fell off the deep end, long and passionate moans leaving her lips as she trembled and tensed from such an earth-shattering orgasm. 

The archbishop walked in front of the lit fireplace, poking at it with a fire poker before setting it down, the pointy end positioned over the fire. 

The girl thought nothing of it as she sat in an armchair, covered in nothing but a blanket as she gave a dopey smile to the nude man approaching her. He picked her up, before sitting himself down, placing her in his lap. 

Her head rested against his chest as he gently played with her hair. 

“Am I cleansed?” she questioned, nudging herself closer into him. 

After a small amount of time, he gave a quick, lack-luster response. 

“Yes.”

“What happens if the demons come back? If my thoughts turn sinful again?” she whimpered at the thought. 

“Well, I have a way I can make sure they don’t.” he smirked to himself, “Stand up, will you?”

She did as she was told; his perfect little obedient pet. Before she could question anything, she was grabbed by the wrists and slammed up above her head, her back against the wall next to the fire place, Steve reaching over and grabbing the bow heated fire poker.

It clicked for her as her eyes widened.

“W-Wait!” she squeaked, looking at the red-hot end of the fire poker, his fingers wrapped around it tightly. 

When the scalding metal touched the skin of her breast, she let out a pained cry, a sickening sizzle ringing through her ears as she sobbed. The burning touch seemed to last for ages, before it was finally brought away, but the pain never ceased. 

The shape made her stomach turn, the man pulling the girl in an embrace as she sobbed, shushing her.

There, over her right breast, was the mark of the lord. A blistering cross, that would be an eternal reminder of their shared moment together.

“In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit,” Steve spoke, right before her world went black from shock.

[foulcrownkryptonite]

Tracing Constellations

A storm rages through the 104th's wooded training quarters, leaving a long hike for Jean and Marco to fix a water-logged issue... the time alone making for some unexpected discoveries.

(for the sake of the fic + levels of maturity I am achieving with this story, everyone will be legal adults!)

Chapter One: An Obscurity.

“I’ll kill them all! Just you wait and see!!” The dining hall had been relatively calm, the tranquil buzz of steady conversation and cutlery clinking against plates mixed to create a pleasant hum. It was one of those rare nights their usual starchy glop was exchanged for a more sustainable, hearty potato soup, paired with a cheap but effective booze. A good night to say the least. A good night until Eren (Dumbass) Jaeger opened his obnoxious mouth. The young man’s tired phrase reverberated throughout the hall, pitching obnoxiously off the high ember ceiling. God, I’m too sober for this…

Eren’s endless prattling of ‘I’ll save the world’ or ‘I have more passion than anyone here’ had gotten old fast. It bugged the ever-loving shit out of him, and with the current daggers-for-eyes and under-the-breath-scoffs Jaeger was getting, the sentiment was well shared.

“Don’t give me that Mikasa, I mean it! I’m going to kill every last one of those-'' Eren was promptly cut off by Jean’s hands smacking the table in front of him, causing a nearby fork to clink to the ground. Jean rose from his seat with an overly dramatic flare, making a show out of swooping his hair back. If the entire dining hall weren’t already watching the pair with dreadful, tired looks, they certainly were now. Some hushed whispers and exasperated groans sprinkled about the room as Jean assumed his stance towering over Eren.

“Well, all hail King Jaeger, eh? Oh don’t worry my friends, the man who can’t balance on his ODM gear will stop the incoming apocalypse!” he taunted, voice oozing with that special kind of ridicule Jean knew got Eren’s blood boiling. He was up and out of his seat before Mikasa had a chance to pull him back. Jean snorted loudly.

“Eager are we? Well then Jaeger, fight me like the man you’re always claiming to be.”

“Says the fucking horse face”

“Oh how original”

“Foal!”

“Jackass!”

The surrounding cadets watched with jaded faces, sighing at the scene unfolding for at least the third time that week. It was no longer entertaining, or really worth wasting any time or energy on, so they returned their attention to their much more exciting dinners and side banters.

The ever arrogant duo stepped to the center of the room, assuming, of course, all focus to be on them. Sharing dissent and ill-bred sneers, they theatrically assumed their fighting position. Guess I’ll just have to put him back in his pla-

“Nope. Okay-hah, we’re done here.” Marco interrupted, their foolish behavior striking his last nerve, the last nerve of the entire collective dining hall for that matter. Sighs of relief and annoyance sounded around them as Marco marched over and grabbed at Jean’s jacket, pulling him out from the table and towards the door.

“‘Ey, what’re you doin-” Marco wordlessly dragged the half pissed, half confused and positively tipsy Jean across the room, the grip on his jacket unwavering. A small chuckle escaped Jean’s mouth at Marco's unexpectedly forceful behavior. Damn, those muscles aren’t just for show, huh?

Marco sighed as he led him towards the door, a poorly concealed smile creeping its way onto his features. “Bedtime.” Marco concluded, biting back his smile in need of a more threatening look. Jean didn’t fight it. Instead, he bristled as he caught Conny’s snide face before the door to the dining hall was shut by Marco’s boot. The low lit lantern illuminated the two in a soft orange glow and the thick wooden door effectively drowned out the murmurs coming from behind it.

The change in air was drastic, shifting from a crowded and loud mess hall to the peaceful sounds of an autumn night and Marco’s freckled face incandescent under that old lantern. Marco’s hand remained firm in the layers of his jacket yet neither made motions to move. Jean was in a weird sort of trance and yeah he should move and unblock the way for Marco but for some reason he didn't. It wasn’t as if the other had really given him a chance to, what with him still holding onto the front of Jean’s coat.. A couple still moments passed and Marco had a strange, almost calculating look on his face.

Jean couldn't remember how long he had been standing there, the alcohol starting to intoxicate his body and the sheer closeness of Marco starting to intoxicate his brain. But if the loosening grip on his chest and Marco’s suddenly flushing face said anything, whatever this was had gone on a bit too long. The last thing Jean wanted was to make his good friend uncomfortable- No matter how nice just standing there in the cool breeze with Marco’s hand on his chest… Nope. Backtrack on that line of thinking. Immediately.

Things were getting awkward fast and Marco looked like he was going to say something and shit he probably shouldn’t have chugged that last bit of his drink, huh? To clear the sudden tension caused by his inability not to fucking gawk at Marco, Jean did the only thing his dumb tipsy brain could think of: make a drunken escape.

“Betcha can’t catch me.” he blurted before breaking out of Marco’s loose hold, running towards their quarters in a less than put together fashion. Was Jean literally running away from whatever moment just passed between the two? Why yes, indeed he was. But Marco’s eventual breathy laugh and quickening footsteps enclosing in on him told Jean everything was fine. Well consider that a job well done.

The two then stupidly ran around the camp, Jean hiding behind every tree and supply wagon trying to scare Marco, and Marco doing everything in his power to tackle the other. After a particularly bone crushing embrace and a loud laughing fit quickly admonished by Shadis, the inebriated pair walked the rest of the way to their dorm, the air around them now whimsy and casual.

They trudged through the wooded path, torches lighting the ground every few yards. They sprung into sporadic fits of giggles over absolutely nothing, both of the men now feeling the full effects of dinner’ mead, and Marco no longer playing the role of the responsible sober friend.

The cadets had been training in the woods for a week now, the goal being to get them used to ODM gear and combat in a dense forest. It was a welcome change of scenery from the usual parching desert and brutal heat. Being surrounded by rich greens and active rivers somehow made the strenuous drilling and long hours somewhat enjoyable.

Though navigating the dark forested path whilst drunk proved to be more than a little difficult. His attempts at walking straight in the dense woods were apparently remarkably entertaining, as when Jean confidently waltzed straight into a tree the slightly less drunk Marco lost his absolute mind, laughing himself into a puddle on the ground.

With minimal bumps and bruises, they eventually made it to their quarters. Marco plopped himself dramatically onto an old shipping barrel and started to squirm his way out of his jacket. Ok, perhaps the other was drunker than Jean thought.

Chuckling to himself, he walked over to help his struggling friend out of the confines of the fabric. Marco stopped squirming and tried to accommodate for Jeans helping hands, flushing slightly when his eyes met Jeans. He quickly averted his gaze, turning to eye the door as Jean finished struggling with the last button.

With the jacket discarded, Marco straightened his gaze to look up at Jean, who seemed to tower over him. A couple heated seconds passed in silence until Marco started… shaking? Before concern could settle in, sporadic chuckles started to escape from the man underneath him, evolving into a full on belly laugh. Jean took a small step back and looked down at him in bewilderment but Marco just shook his head, words be damned in his current state.

“Sorry, I just-” he began to topple over himself, a fit of laughter bubbling in his stomach. “I don’t know why I’m laughing honestly-” he spat out through giggles. He was fluctuating between attempting to catch his breath and then losing it all over again. It was utterly ridiculous, but Jean couldn’t hold back his own ugly laugh at the scene. Every couple of seconds Marco would try to stop and speak through the laughter but to no avail, making Jean slump to the ground in front of Marco, clutching his stomach as his body heaved with mirth.

Marco was snorting at that point and on anyone else he would’ve been annoyed at the sheer volume. Say, if Eren was sitting on that barrel losing his damn mind over nothing at all he would’ve slapped the sense back into him. But something about Marco’s water filled eyes and big loud smile just made him feel warm. Or.. perhaps that was just the alcohol.

He grinned as he looked only at the mad man sitting in front of him. From this distance he could see each little freckle adorning his nose and cheeks and the way his nose would scrunch in between sets of giggles. It was an endearing sight, cute even, though Jean would never admit that aloud.

Too caught up in their snickering, the two almost didn’t notice their comrades briskly stumbling in, Ymir being the one who pushed the two large wooden doors hurriedly. “In.” she commanded, and stepped back as everyone else dashed inside. Jean startled and Marco’s laughter alleviated as Ymir eyed them, her face contorted so it was impressively indecipherable. She had quite the poker face, though some general annoyance seemed to seep out as usual.

“What’s the damn ruckus about?” Jean demanded more than he asked, his filter coming back down hard now that more people were around. Ymir looked at Jean with a face that basically read as, ‘Shut the fuck up you’re the one making a dopey ruckus.’ Instead of voicing any of that though, she shut and locked the door as the final cadets made their way inside.

“Massive storm coming in, it’ll do some damage” she stated plainly before her eyes went back to Marco. “Maybe you two lovebirds would’ve noticed if you weren’t screaming like damn hyenas.” she joked dryly, her arms coming to a close across her chest. Marco snorted slightly at the tease but Jean stood up defensively, though perhaps a bit wobbly.

Before he could say a word, Ymir cut in with a raised brow. “Whoaaa relax there horsey, I’m kidding. Mostly. Just go lock the windows in the other rooms before they blow out in the middle of the night.” he nodded hesitantly in response and gave Marco a floppy wave of sorts. He still looked like he was glowing, as if somehow the light from the torches outside still reflected in his pale brown eyes. A sneer from Ymir brought his attention back to… what exactly? Oh right, the windows. Jean quickly left without another word, cursing the alcohol slightly under his breath. The rest of the cadets shuffled about, fulfilling whatever it was their makeshift Captain Ymir ordered.

Not without a scoff and an eye roll, she turned back to Marco. “Just us,” she demanded. “Help me with the rest of the rooms.”

__________

(MARCO POV)

After a solid half hour of flood-proofing the place to the best of their ability, as well as general clean up, Ymir poured the two of them a small whisky to top off the night. Marco relaxed into the sole couch of the common room and Ymir slumped herself into a chair by the window.

The living space was dusky and growing winds pounded the windows, putting them slightly on edge. Nevertheless, Ymir seemed to have something to say to him. She gulped down her drink and tossed the empty glass onto the ground, Marco’s eyes widening in both awe and intimidation. He steeled his nerves as he prepared for whatever it was Ymir needed out of him.

She looked at him like a scientist to a specimen, searching for something upon Marco’s features. Marco squirmed under the intense stare, and it was then that Ymir asked the burning question, cutting right to the chase.

“Do you like Jean?” she probed. Marco sucked in a quick breath at this question. The answer was yes, but why was she asking in the first place? Not knowing exactly what angle she was getting at, he tried to answer in the simplest, most non revealing way.

“Yeah I mean we’re definitely good friends.” he said apprehensively. Not wanting to look Ymir in the eyes, his gaze fell back to the rather pretty glass in his hands, thumbs tracing the engraved pattern.

Ymir smirked at this reaction and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees in a carefree ‘Ymir’ kinda way. “Marco. You know what I'm asking.” her voice was laced with mirth and her sneering face told him she probably already knew his answer. Damn her perceptiveness. Marco had hoped he wasn’t too obvious in his… feelings. But he supposes after tonight's less than subtle antics, e.g., grabbing a laughing Jean into an animalistic embrace and holding it for much longer than necessary, people would start suspecting something.

His eyes still didn’t meet hers as he sighed shakily, knowing there was little to no backing away from this conversation. “Please just… Don’t tell him?” he pleaded, looking back to the girl sitting across from him. Her previous visible mockery and inevitable taunt had faded, her features setting into something akin to understanding.

“Sure, you can trust me.” she said casually, taking a swig of the remaining whisky straight from the bottle. “We’re the same in that way if ya catch my drift.” Although compared to, say Christa, Ymir’s words would seem invasive and rude, they were sweet in their own way. And although Marco wouldn’t say this wasn’t invasive, he appreciated the kindness nonetheless.

Regardless, Marco definitely “caught her drift”. He looked at her with a sort of twinkle in his eyes, pleased to know there was at least one other person in the 104th that wasn’t straight. He chuckled, still embarrassed despite the genuinely accepting nature of their conversation thus far. “God, what gave it away?”

“Oh, I dunno,” she sighed dramatically, “Maybe the way he was looking at you. Maybe the way you were looking at him… Or maybe just a hunch I happened to get right.” Marco laughed at the sentiment before a frown crept onto his face. “Does anyone else…”

“Know?” she finished. Marco nodded. “No, they don’t. It seems only I had the misfortune of seeing you two ogle each other all the damn time. Awful luck on my part. But don’t ya worry, your dirty little secret’s safe with me.”

He snickered as he raised his glass to his lips, downing the rest of the liquid inside. Ymir gave him a curious glance, and Marco softly set the drink down to his side, hands reaching up to grab at his warming face.

“God, what do I even do about it?” he mumbled through the palms of his hands, and Ymir could taste the desperation from where she sat.

Resting her chin between her fingers, she spoke. “Look, hear me out before you interrupt and tell me I’m wrong - but he likes you too.” Marco lifted his head to speak but Ymir cut him off with a glance. “I said, listen. I see the way he looks at you. I saw the way he looked at you tonight. He wasn’t just glancing at his friend… He was admiring you, Marco, your features. Now to me, that’s pretty telling.” Marco contemplated what she was saying, tried to really think about it before he shot it down entirely.

Is that really true? Is it even possible that the oh so straight Mr. ladies man Jean could… Feel the same way about him? It’s true they had some… moments tonight. Hell they’ve been having “moments” for as long as they've known each other. Though Jean did end up speeding away from one of those so called moments just over an hour ago… Was he being too hopeful? Oh god was he coming on too strong?

Ymir groaned at Marco's crestfallen face and stood up, closing the distance between the seats and plopping herself next to Marco. He gave her a curious glance, and in turn she gave a patient smile, well it was really closer to a grimace but still, it was the principle of it all.

He sat quietly, picking his lips with his bottom teeth. Ymir let him wallow in his worry for a whopping three seconds before kicking his ankle with her boot.

“Ow!” Marco pouted. An unspoken question of ‘The hell was that for?’ being shut down before it could be voiced.

“Oh shut it you were visibly spiraling.”

Ymir sunk into the back of the couch, pondering a moment before speaking again.

“You know, Jean isn’t going to initiate anything. Seeing as you’re more in tune with your emotions than that knucklehead is, you need to drop your damn balls and make a move.” Marco scoffed, shaking his head with a slight smile at Ymir’s bluntness.

“I know, I know… You’re right.” Marco finally begrudged, causing Ymir’s ‘Of course I'm right’ smile to appear. “But we never get alone time - we’re always interrupted before he can fully open up to me…”

“Yes!” Ymir exclaimed. “You see it now. Sure it might seem tricky, but if Christa and I can find a way, you can too.” she winked and Marco damn near choked.

“You- and- I had no idea I mean-“ he stuttered before she kicked him again.

“Shut up. And don’t tell a soul.” She smiled cheekily. He nodded intently.

“Course, Ymir.” She playfully punched him, standing up from the sunken couch.

“Good luck, Marco.” she whispered.

He beamed, his chest gleaming with a soft gratitude. “Thank you.”

When Marco turned in for the night, his mind raced with endless possibilities, ranging from transcendent to nightmarish. Wishful thoughts flashed through his mind; Jean getting impossibly close, feather light touches of hands, his head resting in the crook of Jean’s neck, Marco being told he was wanted, telling Jean he wanted him. He bit his cheek, smiling stupidly at the fantasies before he felt a deep sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Jean could easily not feel the same. Jean could easily have never entertained the same idyllic fantasies as Marco was now.

Great, now it hurt.

Plagued with a new sense of guilt, he tossed and turned in the seasoned cot, praying for sleep to take him away from the build up of emotions in his chest. He pondered the possibility of similar thoughts dancing in Jean’s mind…

__________

(Jean POV)

Jean didn’t “wake up”, he just was up. That damned storm last night had kept him awake practically all night. What first was an occasional gust quickly turned into a rampaging wind-demon set out to prevent him and apparently only him from sleeping soundly. Someone had cursed him. Probably that damn Jaeger out for revenge due to Jean always winning their feuds. Typical.

The little sleep he did get consisted of repeated unsolicited scenarios about… Well that didn’t matter now.

It was the morning after a ferocious storm and he was reluctant to see the wreckage he knew he had to help out with. He groaned, rolling out of his bed in an overly dramatic pout. Sure he was acting a bit like a child but right now he just needed sleep so damn everything else, he’s going to throw his little fit. He caught Marco looking at him out of the corner of his eye, his hair ruffled and looking extra fluffy. He was giggling at Jean’s stubborn theatrics, a sweater-hooded hand loosely covering his mouth. Cute. Jean felt a bit more energized after that and he didn't bother to question why.

Once dressed, he headed out to meet the rest of the trainees outside the sleeping quarters. Holy hell, the damage was bad: shingles of the roof scattered the grass, trash was knocked down, even some large trees had fallen in the distance.

Eren rolled his eyes before their commander could even step close. “God, can’t we make someone else clea-” the brat began before getting hit softly by Armin.

“Eren! One day of cleanup doesn’t equate to the fall of humanity.” he sharply retorted. Jean chuckled at this exchange, overjoyed to see the prick put in his place by his own best friend. Speaking of which, he couldn’t seem to spot Marco…

“ATTENTION CADETS.” their Commander roared as he marched toward the gathered crowd.

“YES SIR!” They yelled back in unison, fists crossing chests in an assertive salute.

“Deep woods ODM training is put on hold for today due to the storm. I will be assigning you each in groups of two or three to aid in cleaning this mess.” Jean scanned the surrounding area nervously, where was Marco? “Proceed to the front to get your duty from me before you grab a cold meal.” the Commander directed. Pairs of people made their way to get their job of the day, but Jean stayed behind, unable to spot Marco. Nerves crept up his spine as the line got shorter, indicating he would have to grab a job with someone he possibly couldn’t stand - especially after such a shitty sleep.

A few moments later and the remaining crowd was scant, still no Marco to be seen. “Jean, you’re on running water. I need you to go up to the creek and find the source stopping the water from running back to us. We have enough for the day, but this cannot go on. You will need a partner…” Shadis trailed off, finding only Annie and some guy Jean barely could remember the name of. Tomas? Tobiaus? Timothious?

He sighed, knowing nothing but complaints would come from either cadets if forced to spend an entire day with him. Jean crossed his arms, awaiting a choice of partner from his boss while he dreaded the inevitably long journey stuck with either insufferable silence or annoying small talk.

“Commander sir, I can go with Jean.” A pleasant voice chirped in from behind. And with those few words: salvation. Jean subconsciously uncrossed his arms and smirked as the Commander let out a sigh of relief upon seeing Marco approach.

“Thank Heavens, the one person who can stand him.” he murmured, Marco frowning at the not so quiet comment as he walked up to Jean's side. “That is fine, pack plentiful in case you get stuck for a night, we are not sure how much wreckage is up there, nor how long the journey on foot will take. There’s a shed around there you could set up in for the night. Do not come back today if you do not have ample time before sundown. Now get moving!” he ordered, his last words reverberating in a loud squawk.

“Yes sir!” They saluted before Jean met eyes with Marco. “Where the hell were you?” he questioned. Marco playfully rolled his eyes.

“Worried, hmm?” he chuckled, “Don’t worry, I was just helping Ymir with something.” he replied brightly. Ymir? That seems random… But he decided to not question it.

The two went back to their rooms to pack for their lengthy and no doubt strenuous trip up the mountain. Jean found himself not only not dreading the excursion, but actively looking forward to it. He felt a bit like a hyperactive kid as genuine excitement coursed through his veins. Should he bring his comb? Nah he probably won't need it. But what if they do end up having to spend the night and Jean turns too much in his sleep and his hair gets all messy and floofy and Marco looks at him with damned bed head and then probably giggles to himself and makes a dumb but cute comment about it because its Marco and somehow he always manages to make what Jean is insecure about into something he can actually like about himself just like when he’d said Jean’s eyes were pretty like a brown hibiscus and he stopped hating the way his eyes looked when he saw his reflection looking back at him and- Jean grabbed the stupid hairbrush and threw it into his bag.

Once sufficiently supplied, they scarfed a crummy cold meal before heading out as quickly they could manage.

Marco seemed awfully giddy as they started down a gravely path lined with fern. Though cheerful he often was, Marco was struggling to hide a smile. It wasn’t a bad sight at all, though Jean was curious. “What’s got you so damn happy today?” he questioned. Marco shrugged.

“I think I made a new friend - always a nice feeling, yknow?” Jean would say he’s surprised, but everyone in the 104th loved Marco, even the stoic ones, and he had a sneaking suspicion of who exactly his new friend was.

“Ymir?” he asked plainly. Marco nodded, a soft smile finding its way onto his face.

“Yeah. Y’know, she may seem edgy but she can be really kind.” he expressed, eyes a bit starry and thoughtful. He clearly didn’t hear how the words sounded to Jean.

Jean bit back the bitter remark already forming as envy crept its way into his mind. Why was it bothering him? He’s still his friend. His best friend even. Gah, not a big deal, keep it together. He told himself before rephrasing whatever edgy comment he was going to sneer into a hopefully harmless question.

“You like her?” he ended up asking, false humor falling from his tongue.

Marco looked visibly confused. “What? No I’m- not my type. She just has a good head on her.” he surmised. Why won’t Marco ever admit attraction? Does he not trust Jean? Jean had no problem divulging about those he found hot, so why wouldn’t Marco do the same?

The next few hours were spent bullshitting around as they walked; sharing stupid jokes about who in their class was most likely to get kicked out, a stupid conversation about Ymir that probably shouldn’t have peeved him so much, Jean going on a long winded rant about how justified he is in smacking Eren atop the head, Marco stopping to pick up random bird feathers exclaiming each time that, “No Jean, you don’t get it, this one is rare.” and eventually, as the sun started its descent towards the horizon, their casual banter shifted into their hopes for the future.

“Eh, I don’t wanna get married. Who wants to be stuck with a chick forever?!” Jean quipped. At his words Marco chuckled nervously, his gaze diverting to the coarse dirt beneath him.

“Yeah, me too. I don’t wanna get married. I’m fine living a life alone with me and my hobbies.” he said flippantly, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. Jean found the tone of his voice had changed into something more sullen and somber, and a glance over at his friend did not yield him any better results. Jean must do something about this.

He lightly elbowed his friend. “Well, if ya change your mind, I think you’d make a great husband some day.” Jean said honestly, no lick of sarcasm to his voice. Marco’s knees wobbled for a moment before he corrected them, clearing his throat to cover his obvious nerves.

“Thanks, Jean. You too.” he replied, biting his cheek. Another glance towards his friend showed a soft smile and a flushed face. Jean succeeded. Though now he too felt a bit hot in the face. He once again decided not to unpack that.

As they hiked, they spotted a would-be stream leading down to their base. Taking note of the lack of obvious running water, they were certain something rather large had blocked it. “Guess it’ll be a chore huh.” Marco pointed out. Jean began flexing dramatically, his tight muscles showing slightly through the thin white tunic.

“Pfft, your ol’ buddy Jean here will fix it right up for us, eh?” he joked, Marco eyeing him with a raised eyebrow followed with a hearty laugh. Sure, he wasn’t helping Jean’s ego, but he didn’t care.

The more they conversed alone, the more Jean felt his social facade fade, ending up losing whatever filter he had in place for other people all together. He wasn’t sure why this was the case, only knew that it made him feel relaxed and just genuinely, all around good. Perhaps it was the lack of a crowd - or Eren Jaeger. Either way, he was loosening up and took joy in seeing Marco enjoy himself on this trip as well.

“This is nice,” Jean said, smiling at the open air and lack of obvious walls. It felt open here, almost free. Hell, for the most part, they’ve forgotten completely about life inside the walls. Marco looked over and followed his friend's gaze to the sky, basking in the comfortable feeling.

“It is…” he began, sneaking another glance at Jean. “Really nice.”.

PART 2!!! 

https://foulcrownkryptonite.tumblr.com/post/663166809268224000/tracing-constellations-pt2

[stonefreeak]

I am so sorry this has taken me so long. I can’t believe i missed updating in February entirely! Work is busy, and I have moved and am trying to get everything in my apartment put together and it’s just A Lot right now. But I will work hard to not forget to update again!

Shaak Ti walks through the halls of Kamino, projecting the sort of calm she knows she's become known for over the years. In times of upheaval, anxiety, and unrest, being a source of calm and peace is helpful not just for yourself but also to the people around you. She's long since learned to keep a tight leash on her emotional responses.

It's not that she doesn't feel, to suggest such a thing would be ridiculous—she's hardly had the emotional centres of her brain damaged or removed after all—she's merely cautious with how she lets herself express it. If she becomes agitated, if she lashes out, she risks bleeding her own agitation into the Force and affecting other people and beings around her, stoking their agitation. Not to mention that she risks entering a feedback loop with the Force, where she projects her emotions into it, and it sends those emotions back to her causing a spiral into ever deepening loss of emotional control.

As a Force Sensitive being, allowing your emotions to get the better of you means you risk losing control of yourself entirely. Usually that means that people get hurt, and Shaak Ti has no interest in people coming to harm.

She locks her emotions down, catalogues them, acknowledges them, and leaves them for meditation later when she's alone and has the time to properly dissect what she's feeling and why she's feeling it.

A side effect of this is that she has an amazing poker face—none of her fellow council members will play Correllian poker with her anymore—and as she tries to investigate the supposed chips inside the troopers' brains, it more than serves her well.

The people of Kamino have very limited emotional reflection in the Force, it seems to be an inherent trait of their species. That they're also so foreign to her that she still cannot accurately gauge their emotions from their facial expressions—limited as they are—means that she's always in a precarious situation when she speaks with them on sensitive matters. Being able to tell if they're deliberately hiding something from her or if they simply don't know is more than a little bit difficult.

But if Master Kenobi is correct, then they are deliberately hiding something from them all. Something that Former Chancellor Palpatine likely knows about, was told about, but which they haven't shared with Master Kenobi despite him being the new Chancellor.

She doesn't like the sound of that, the idea that they wouldn't speak about it with any Supreme Chancellor, but rather only Palpatine. It gives her a bad feeling, and she wonders if, perhaps, the Former Chancellor is corrupt in a way they have yet to discover? She's been told by the rest of the Council that he's been found guilty of some milder charges—as far as any corruption charges are mild—but perhaps there's more to the whole thing. Perhaps there are things that the investigation couldn't find, because all evidence of it existed only in Kamino's data systems, far beyond the reach of the investigative team.

When Master Kenobi had first brought it up, she had agreed despite her own scepticism—she is not one for dismissing possible dangers off-hand, after all. With how things have developed... Well, she's starting to believe that he was on to something, even though her own research so far has not yielded much results.

Of course she realises that if the Kaminoans wish to hide these chips from them, her access codes would not give her access to anything that is related to the chips. But she had to look into it through official and open—to her—channels first. There is no good reason to treat people as untrustworthy criminals when you have not even the smallest bit of proof that they are that. She had originally planned to simply ask the Kaminoans about the chips, but once she was about to, a sudden feeling of unease swept over her, and she held her tongue.

But her general research has failed, and now she's facing a very difficult choice: either she asks the Kaminoans directly regarding the chips thus tipping them off to the fact that she knows about their existence in the first place, thus risking them looking more closely at her actions following said discussion, or she tries to conduct covert and far from legal entrance into their systems before she so much as ask them about it.

She pauses and realises that she's made an error in judgement. While it's true that the Kaminoans would keep a closer eye on her if she were to bring any of her concerns up to them... They are unlikely to believe she would trust any trooper.

Of course, if the chips exist at all, then the problem comes in the form of what the chips do. She has never sensed any sort of duplicity or danger from any of the clones she's ever trained or interacted with. They are good and loyal men, men who deserve more life than what the Republic is willing to give them due to their status as clones, so she does not fear trusting them.

The question is... Who should she ask?

There is sure to be capable and subtle troopers among those stationed here. All her men are capable of course, though not all of them are subtle.

She needs to find a trooper who can be trusted to work covertly, but also without being detected. They also need to be without pride, because if they get caught, they need to allow her to run interference in any way she can, and trust her to be doing so for their sake.

Perhaps she should lay a false trail, express worry about information leaks, and ask the Kaminoans regarding their security. Vaguely, not pressing for any details of course. However, just as with doing any clandestine breaking and entering the secure data centres of Kamino herself, she is too noticeable a figure. She cannot blend in or hide herself away, and if she asks too many questions, she risks making them suspicious.

If the Kaminoans are hiding something from the Jedi and the Chancellor—possible because the new chancellor is a Jedi—then she cannot tip them off to the fact that they are suspicious. That they are trying to investigate.

She would like to walk into this potential fire first, ahead of her men, as the Jedi do... But in this particular instance, she is quite certain that her presence at the metaphorical front would do more harm than good. She will need to send a trooper in her stead, and put her hope in their skills and strength.

She'll look into it, there are sure to be some who stand out as appropriate choices. Some who will be willing to help her with her covert mission. The clones have no love for the Kaminoans, as far as she knows, even though they seem to consider Kamino their home world. As far as she's been able to ascertain, their loyalty is with the Jedi and the Republic—even though the Republic has never given them anything, and the Jedi has never been able to give them anything except a clear command structure and the occasional meditation help and teachings about the Force.

Perhaps once this war is over, the clone troopers who still live can finally be given personhood and a place to live and stay. Perhaps when they're all finally free from this terrible war, her men can be allowed to flourish in any which way they want.

Not just on the battlefield.

For now she'll speak with the Council again. She cannot tell them openly, just in case the Kaminoans keep some sort of watch on their communication channels, set up to trigger on specific keywords. If they do, then they may already know that she is looking, so all the more important to not let them know any of what she's planning. But while she cannot speak plainly, she can speak in the kind of code that will have the Council send out a fleet to Kamino under some sort of pretence, and through that, she can send back a coded flimsi message containing any and all information she's found until then. Whichever trooper she finds for this mission will have to go with the fleet, and perhaps that will be the safest way for them all.

The Council will be able to request the trooper's aid far away from Kamino and the Kaminoans, and without any risk of them overhearing it. The Temple, at least, is safe enough that jammers alone will keep the information safe.

If she were to use any here, it would most likely make anyone looking to overhear her conversations suspicious.

The last thing they want is anyone trying to hide away the evidence.

They cannot afford any mistakes. It's too dangerous for that.

She lowers herself to her knees and places her hands gently in her lap, focusing on her breathing as she wraps the Force around her.

She will meditate on her next step before she makes any move at all. It wouldn't do to move too quickly and make a mistake.

—

(Supreme Chancellor Obi-Wan Kenobi masterpost)

[lenievi]

I figured today should be a good day to rewatch The Corbomite Maneuver

- since this was the first episode produced after the two pilots, and it’s the first episode that introduces McCoy, and Sulu at the helm, Uhura, Rand etc., I consider it the true introduction to TOS, at least as far as I’m concerned lol

- me loves some Spock barking orders and acting like a good ship commander

- it’s fun how the first shot of Kirk is him being naked

- I absolutely love the first scene between Kirk and McCoy. It introduces McCoy really well, and it also shows the audience what kind of relationship McCoy and Kirk have, i.e. they’re close friends

BAILEY: Raising my voice back there doesn't mean I was scared or couldn't do my job. It means I happen to have a human thing called an adrenaline gland. SPOCK: It does sound most inconvenient, however. Have you considered having it removed? BAILEY: Very funny. SULU: You try to cross brains with Spock, he'll cut you to pieces every time.

lolol let Spock be an ass in fics please

“Have the department heads meet me on the Bridge.“  “Doctor McCoy is already perching on the railing, sir.” 

- ah, so this is where the “McCoy is the head of life sciences” comes from - which I guess explains why he would be called to the bridge

KIRK: Aren't you the one who always says a little suffering is good for the soul? MCCOY: I never say that. (...) KIRK: Doctor McCoy, I've heard you say that man is ultimately superior to any mechanical device. MCCOY: No, I never say that, either.

Honestly, if you need a short ‘what do I need to know about Leonard McCoy’ course, this episode should be your go to episode lol

KIRK: When I find the headquarters genius that assigned me a female yeoman MCCOY: What's the matter, Jim. Don't you trust yourself? KIRK: I've already got a female to worry about. Her name's the Enterprise.

Yeah, Jim, don’t you trust yourself? (I guess not considering the following episodes...)

I wish people didn’t forget that Jim thinks it’s a great idea to have a drink while his men are training~

(also I looked through the tag for this episode and it’s apparently wrong to eat salad leaves with your hands? Like, what’s wrong with it? Jim eating with his hands is completely normal in my world, especially since he isn’t thrilled.)

The look on McCoy’s face. (But I guess it can also be seen as concern for Bailey) In any case, the micro-expressions are great!

- oh yes, another episode that shows that it’s hard for Vulcans to improvise (which is then more explored in The Galileo Seven, and what also caused the Intrepid to die) and that shows how different Spock and Kirk are when it comes to command (not different as people, just different as commanders. In this I can accept that Spock and Kirk are different, even opposites, but not in anything else; on personal level they’re more similar than different and I’ll die on that hill)

- it’s probably very rare for Kirk to raise his voice at anyone on the bridge (because he needs to appear perfect), but especially raise his voice at McCoy (although it will get repeated a few more times in other episodes). Everyone’s like 👀👀 lol (but it also seems to catch McCoy off-guard a bit)

- the faces Spock and Scotty give Kirk though lol But I guess seeing them all poker-faced (but internally judging) made him think of poker

SPOCK: However, it was well played.

lmao Spock can’t be seen giving a praise or what? He got so awkward and started to talk about his father lol (I’m probably wrong, but it seems to me as if Spock actually considered the comparison a compliment)

- Kirk apologizing. McCoy apologizing. So wholesome. Their friendship is so good. (I love that this episode started a pattern.)

KIRK: What's the mission of this vessel, Doctor? To seek out and contact alien life, and an opportunity to demonstrate what our high-sounding words mean. 

Yeah, you showed that very well in The Man Trap, didn’t you, Jim?

- this episode really does feel that it’s only about Kirk and everyone else, including Spock, is there to support him. It also lacks the trio dynamic, because Spock-McCoy doesn’t exist in this one, and there’s more focus on McCoy-Kirk talking and arguing directly; it’s interesting (a similar McCoy-Kirk argument thing is also in Dagger of the Mind, but it’s followed by a McCoy-Spock scene, so it isn’t so glaring).

- I wonder how does it feel to watch this as the 10th episode tbh (looking at the order it’s even after Miri and Dagger of the Mind. Doesn’t it feel out of place?)

- I really like this episode~

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Miami Nights (Ethan x MC)

Warning: 18+, NSFW.

Summary: While in Miami to celebrate their upcoming wedding, Ethan and Naomi sneak away from the festivities to have their own celebration.

A/N: Like all of my NSFW fics, this was 100% self indulgent and written with only me in mind. 

Tags: @fanmantrashcan @ao719 @x-kyne-x @colourmeshy @writinghereandthere @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune @edith-eggs1 @thatysn @bellcat2010 @theeccentricbibliophile @cecilecontrera @junehiratas @choices-love-affair @openheart12 @kaavyaethanramsey @caseyvalentineramsey @desmaranj @mal-volaris @whatchique @nazario-sayeed @aestheticartsx @ruinedbypixels @mvalentine @nooruleman @rookie-ramsey

As always, let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged. And if your tags do not work, I’m sorry, and blame Tumblr. ~v~ In a perfect world, Ethan Ramsey would be at home, on his couch, a good book in one hand and a tumbler of scotch in the other. The last place he necessarily wants to be is in the crowded bar of a Miami hotel, sandwiched between a 21 year old girl and her friends, and some guy crying into his pint of beer.

The things Ethan does for love.

Coming to Miami was Naomi’s idea. She wanted a fun weekend away for their bachelor and bachelorette parties, and Miami was the only place she even considered going. What better way to celebrate their upcoming nuptials than to go to the city, specifically the hotel that started it all?

He hasn’t seen her all day, her friends kidnapping her as soon as their plane touched down. He misses her. They’ve been attached at the hip ever since they began dating, even more so after she moved into his condo, and being without her feels strange, even if it’s only for a night. And while he’s grown fond of Naomi’s merry band of misfits, spending the entire night with Bryce, Elijah, and Rafael requires more patience than he has.

He’s spent the entire day with them, and his capacity to be around other people has reached its limit. So while the guys were making plans of going to a strip club, Ethan left altogether, quietly slipping out of their room.

Ethan feels a tap on his shoulder. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

He’d recognize that voice anywhere, the slight drawl of Naomi’s accent when she has to pronounce certain words. Once he’s turned around, all thoughts of what he could possibly say are gone.

After two years together, Naomi’s beauty shouldn’t stun him anymore, but she still manages to render him speechless.

“Wow,” is the word his brain finally settles on.

Forever the drama queen, Naomi twirls around so her fiancé can get a full look at the sparkly dress she’s wearing. “I take it you like the dress?”

“You look beautiful.” 

“Thank you.” Her eyes sweep over Ethan, taking him in. He’s not doing anything in particular, but his presence is still commanding and magnetic. “You look pretty handsome yourself. Now, do you care to tell me why you’re missing your bachelor party?”

“I didn’t want to go to a strip club,” Ethan says simply. “And Lahela kept referring to us in third person, calling us ‘The Boys’ all night. It was becoming tiresome, so I left.”

“You can’t leave your own bachelor party.”

“Says the woman who ditched her bachelorette party,” Ethan shoots back.

Naomi rolls her eyes. “I only left my bachelorette party because you texted me to meet you down here.”

“I was simply over the night,” he says with a shrug. “We did a bit of gambling, we went to a cigar lounge, we got dinner. That’s more than enough entertainment for me. The other guys will be fine for the rest of the night if I’m not there.”

“Well if you’re checking out for the night, so am I.”

“No, you can still enjoy the festivities with your friends.”

Naomi shrugs. “Kyra and Sienna went too hard on the tequila shots at the club, and they’re currently passed out. Aurora, Jackie, and I were just in their room talking.”

“About anything in particular?”

“Mostly hospital gossip, nothing major.” Naomi takes a step forward and wraps her arms around Ethan’s neck. “Take me to our room, we can order room service and have our own celebration.”

One of Ethan’s eyebrows raises at the command. His hand travels to his fiancée’s hip, squeezing roughly. “Oh yeah? What kind of celebration?”

“I don’t know,” Naomi says, playing coy. “But I’m sure you can come up with something, doctor.”

~v~

They manage to get to their floor in record time, after Ethan requests that a bottle of wine get sent up to their room, which is a miracle because they spend entirely too much time stumbling through the halls, stealing kisses and touching each other.

Because they got separated early in the day, Naomi didn’t get a chance to see the room she and Ethan would be staying in for the weekend. As soon as he slides the key card through the door and pushes it open, Naomi just knows.

It’s the same suite she and Ethan shared the first time they visited The Celestial. “Ethan, this is...wow.”

“I take it you’re surprised?”

“I’m more than surprised.”

Naomi wanders around the room, her fingers lightly touching all of the fixtures. The bedding is still the same, white and lavender, the room open and light. It even smells the same, and suddenly she’s transported back in time, 3 years ago.

Leaving Ethan where he’s standing, Naomi heads to the balcony, throwing open the sliding glass door. Everything is so still, weird for a city like Miami that’s constantly buzzing with energy. She doesn’t notice Ethan step out a minute later, a chilled bottle of merlot and two glasses in his hand.

He pops open the bottle and pours them both a glass, handing one to her. “Would you like to toast?”

“Sure.” Naomi raises her glass. “Here’s to us, our upcoming nuptials, and the best marriage the world has ever seen.”

“That’s a bold toast.” Ethan gently clinks his glass against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”

Naomi takes a hearty sip, ignoring all of the tips a sommelier usually gives on how to drink, the fruitiness of the wine taking over. She watches as Ethan heads to the railing, his own glass less than full.

“I still can’t believe you managed to get this room,” she says, sighing wistfully, overlooking the ocean from her vantage point. “How did you pull it off?”

“Everyone has a price. I said money was no object, and when I told them it was a surprise for my fiancée, they were a bit more inclined to help.”

“Really?” Ethan hums and nods in response. 

“I told them the room has sentimental value to me,” he explains further. “It’s the room where I realized I was utterly helpless against your charms.”

“Ethan Ramsey, you’re truly a romantic at heart.”

He’ll never get used to hearing her praise him so openly. Ethan ducks his head down so Naomi can’t see the flush creeping up his neck at the compliment. “You bring out this romantic side of me.”

She goes to join him at the railing. He doesn’t say anything, but he slips his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

Butterflies bloom in her stomach at his words. It’s nice to know that their first trip to Miami means so much to him, because it was an absolute game changer for her.

“I remember everything about that night so vividly,” Naomi says, her voice almost a whisper.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Losing to Declan in that poker match, coming out here, sharing a bottle of pinot noir, and talking about Naveen and my dreams for the type of doctor I want to be. I remember it all.”

“And then we kissed,” Ethan adds.

“Oh yeah, we did kiss, huh? I can’t believe I almost forgot that.”

“Ha ha, Rookie.”

“You know I’m just kidding. Of course I remember that kiss. It was the start of quite the journey for us.” A pained look flashed across Ethan’s face. “What’s wrong?”

“I kissed you and then I immediately reneged. I started us on that ridiculous journey and wasted so much precious time because I didn’t want to admit that I was falling for you.”

“Hey.” Naomi grabs Ethan’s hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I love you, and look at where we are right now. We’re getting married next week, we’re starting the rest of our lives together. Yes, the journey took a bit longer than I had hoped, but I don’t think I’d change anything in our past. It’s led us to this moment right here.”

“How are you so much more...wise and articulate than me?”

Naomi shrugs. “It’s a gift. Not everyone is privileged to possess it.”

“You remember all of the broad strokes of that night in Miami, but I’m more fond of the tiny details.”

“Like what?”

“I remember your blue dress and how it matched my eyes,” he starts. “I remember the sweet smell of your perfume, jasmine. I remember your coconut shampoo. I remember the way your pupils dilated when you saw me step out of the shower.” Ethan pulls Naomi closer to him and one of his hands gently cups her face. “It’s the same look you gave me when you realized that I threw that poker game for Naveen’s benefit, one of pure awe.”

“Your skin was incredibly soft,” Ethan continues, his finger tracing a nonsensical pattern on her collarbone. “Like silk. And it still is. But you want to know my favorite memory of that night?”

“Wh-what?”

A hand underneath her chin, Ethan tilts Naomi’s head up, their lips dangerously close. If she moves just a hair closer, they’ll be kissing. She’s tempted to just take the plunge, but she’s frozen, trapped under a spell of his.

With that, Ethan’s mouth descends on hers, pulling Naomi into a kiss with a ferocity she wasn’t expecting. She melts into it immediately, moaning, her hand flying to the back of his neck, getting tangled in the hair at the nape. She can taste the wine of him, the sweet taste of cherries as tongue slips into her mouth, deepening the kiss.

Ethan pulls away only to nip at the corner of her mouth. “That fucking moan of yours. The tiny little noise you make at the back of your throat whenever you’re aroused. It’s been playing in my head on a loop ever since.”

His beard scratches a path down Naomi’s neck and shoulder as he kisses her.

“You want to make that sound for me again?” Naomi nods frantically, desperate for whatever is about to come her way. “Good girl.”

Taking her hand, Ethan pulls her away from the railing. Instead of heading back into their suite, he presses her into the tall pillar next to them, barely giving her enough time to put down her wine glass. The exposed skin of her back collides into the pillar with a soft thud.

“Out here?” She asks with a squeak as Ethan tugs at her dress.

Ethan shrugs. “Why not?”

His lips are on her neck again in an instant, clouding her judgment and making it harder to respond. “Someone can–” she dissolved into a fit of moans at Ethan’s ministrations. “Someone can see us.”

“We’re thirty floors up,” Ethan deadpans. “And it’s pitch black out here, no one will see us.” He grabs her hips, pulling her flush against him, and Naomi gasps at how hard he is. “Now hearing you, that’s another story. You’re loud and I have every intention to make you scream.”

If he wasn’t holding onto her, Naomi is sure she would’ve fallen over at his words. Ethan’s cockiness is on full display, and arrogant Ethan was definitely one of her favorite versions of him.

Ethan pulls away, giving Naomi a bit of breathing room so she can properly think again. “Does that sound like a plan, Valentine? Me having my way with you right here on this balcony?”

“God, yes.” She ignores the way he smirks at her unbridled eagerness. Ethan has a healthy enough ego without her stroking it.

“Correct answer, Rookie.”

Ethan’s hand wraps around the silky material at the top of Naomi’s dress and yanks it down. Naomi hears the ripping of the material and her eyes fly open in shock at the cool Miami air hitting her exposed chest.

“We’re going to have to talk about the serious lack of respect you have for my clothing.”

“You told me you got this dress because someone you called a “Pictagram influencer” advertised it and had a coupon code making it 70% cheaper,” Ethan counters.

“Yes, the dress was cheap, but you have to stop ripping all of my clothes.”

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“With a new dress?”

Ethan rolls his eyes at his fiancée’s quip, but he ignores it. “Something better.” He kisses down her neck and chest, stopping to wrap his lips around her nipple, biting down gently.

It takes a second for Naomi to register that the source of the unladylike growl filling the air is her. She grips Ethan’s shoulder to steady herself, her nails digging through his shirt, and her head falls forward at the sensation.

“You’re always so responsive to me,” Ethan murmurs softly. His mouth descends on her other nipple, his tongue flattening over the pebbled bit of flesh. “And I don’t even have to do anything to you.”

“Well, can you do something to me?”

“You young people have no patience,” Ethan clicks his tongue teasingly. Slowly, he sinks down to his knees in front of Naomi, tugging her dress down with him. He’s already ripped it, there’s no use in exercising any more care. The sparkly dress pools at Naomi’s feet and she kicks it away.

“You old people move too slow–”

The words die on her throat as Ethan hooks a finger into the band of underwear and tugs them down at a frenzied pace. His calloused fingers dig into her hips, hard enough to bruise. She always calls him old, teasing him into accepting whatever challenge she’s thrown his way. “I’ll show you old, Rookie.”

Leaving her hip, one of Ethan’s hands travels to her knee, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He hooks her leg over his shoulder, giving him more leverage.

She can feel his breath, warm and tickling on the inside of her thigh, so close, yet so far away from where she actually needs him to be. Her hips fly forward, a silent plea for him to continue this little game they’re playing. Thankfully Ethan doesn’t tease her any further as his tongue flies out, licking at her folds.

Naomi inhales sharply and she nearly hikes up the wall at the sensation. “Oh, God.”

“You’re so wet for me, Naomi,” Ethan whispers against the overly sensitive flesh.

He dives back in, moaning against her and Naomi throws her head back at the vibration. “Always for you.”

She can tell by the way his blue eyes sparkle as they lock eyes that he’s smirking. But Naomi doesn’t have time to care about that because his lips wrap around her clit and he sucks hard. Naomi cards her fingers through his hair, tugging at him roughly, like she will die if he doesn’t keep his attention right where it is. 

It doesn’t last long though, and with ridiculous strength and skill, Ethan manages to grab her wrists in one hand, and keeps her hips planted against the pole with the other. Naomi receives the message loud and clear: he’s in control here, unequivocally.

Secure in the fact that she won’t be doing too much moving, Ethan doubles down, his tongue lapping at her. The familiar scratch of his beard against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh only makes her more delirious with lust.

Molten core levels of heat prick at every bit of her skin, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. Her stomach tightens and there’s a tingle at the base of her spine. She’s close and it’s not fair that he can make her come this quick, and she’s not sure if she hates it or loves it. “I’m gonna–”

“I know.”

Ethan pulls away slightly, but Naomi doesn’t get the chance to whine about it. In an instant, he’s slipped a finger inside of her, earning a groan. He is just so...relentless in his goal, and Naomi barely has a chance to breathe before she’s keening (something so dramatic and unlike her. Ethan will never let her live it down). Her orgasm is swift, crashing into her like a tidal wave, knocking her off kilter almost instantly. Ethan doesn’t back away, his mouth still on her, working her through the release.

Her entire body is buzzing, still wracked with aftershocks when Ethan finally stands up. His eyes are dark, no longer the ocean blue they usually are, now taking on something closer to the midnight sky, fully dilated and hooded. His mouth is wet, slick with...well her, and Naomi has never wanted to kiss him more.

“That was a promising start,” Ethan says. “But it’s just that: a start. I’m nowhere near done with you.”

A start? If Naomi had the energy to do so, she would laugh at him, but one look in Ethan’s eyes lets her know that he’s being serious. She gulps audibly. She’s a shaky puddle of goo right now, and that was only the beginning?

“Turn around, hands against the pillar,” Ethan commands.

“Wh-what?”

“You heard me loud and clear, Naomi. Hands out, ass up.”

He’s using his commanding doctor voice on her, and she loves it. Naomi does what she’s told, palms flat against the pillar holding up the balcony.

She hears rustling from behind, and she’s sure he’s undressing. Now she’s extremely aware of their power imbalance: she’s stark naked, save for a pair of high heels, while he’s still fully dressed. It’s not fair. Shifting slightly, Naomi lifts a foot and shakes it, hoping to get the shoe off in one fell swoop.

She’s stopped short of her plan as a sharp smack is delivered to her ass. She’s unable to contain the expletive in her throat, a loud, “Fuck!” drifting into the Miami air.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Ethan asks.

“Taking off these heels.”

He tsks at her, as if the answer isn’t good enough. “I don’t remember giving you permission to do so.”

The authoritative tone zips straight through her, and Naomi turns to face him, putting on her best doe eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Christ.” Naomi didn’t know it was possible, but Ethan’s eyes darken even further at the word. He doesn’t bother stripping out the rest of his clothes, just quickly undoing his belt and pushing his pants down until they pool at his ankles. Without warning, Ethan wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Naomi’s back collides with his chest with a hard thud. “Kiss me.”

That’s not a command that needs repeating. Naomi tilts her head back in an attempt to kiss him, but their vast height difference and Ethan’s death grip on her make it a challenge. She just barely manages to capture the corner of his mouth before Ethan growls impatiently, and grabs her neck, forcing her head back to deepen the kiss.

It’s overwhelming and heady, and she’s so caught up in it, she doesn’t even realize his cock, hard and pulsing, is poised at the entrance until he plunges into her in one smooth thrust.

If he wanted her loud, he got what he asked for, because Naomi breaks their kiss in order to scream at the welcome intrusion. The air rushes from her lungs, and she can’t even begin to breathe again before Ethan pulls out and enters her again with just as much intensity as before.

She feels delirious, and she can’t pinpoint why. Maybe it’s the fact that they’re 400 feet above solid ground, and one look down makes her head spin. Maybe it’s the fact that someone, somewhere in this hotel knows exactly what they’re doing. Maybe it’s the fact that every inch of her skin burns deliciously as Ethan has her stretched at full fucking capacity, and she has nowhere to run or hide. There’s no sheets she can pull, no pillows to muffle her moans, nothing she can grab onto to anchor herself to reality. She’s suspended in this moment, and she can’t do anything but simply take it as Ethan fucks into her like a madman.

The noises she’s making along with the sound of their skin slapping together is wildly obscene, and it only spurs Ethan on. Abandoning her throat, his hand travels down to her chest, his forefinger and thumb pinching her nipple, bringing the tiny nub to an almost painfully hard peak. He makes sure to give the same level of attention to the other nipple, torturing his fiancée until she’s whining unintelligibly.

His lips find her earlobe and he bites down. “Are you close again?”

“Yes,” Naomi answers.

Instead of speeding up, Ethan slows down, his thrusts slowing down to an agonizingly deep pace, fully pulling out of her and thrusting in again at a leisurely pace, the sole intent of driving her insane.

“Ethan,” she whines. She’s a shaking mess, unable to do much else besides cry out and occasionally moan his name. Her spine curves, back arching and her head falls against his shoulder. “Fuck! Ethan, please.”

“Please, what?”

Despite his teasing, Naomi can tell he’s just as desperate as she is. His breath is coming out in ragged and uneven pants, there’s a thin layer of sweat, slick and coating his chest, and she can feel his heartbeat, wild and erratic against her back. He’s just as tortured as she is.

In a Hail Mary attempt to get what she wants, her inner muscles clench down on him, stopping him mid-thrust. Ethan’s knees buckle, the move unexpected and throwing him off-kilter.

“Shit, Naomi,” he manages to rasp out. “You don’t play fair.”

Being fair has no place in this, she plays to win, but she has no time to throw it back in his face as he presses into her clit with the pad of his thumb, applying just enough pressure to make her yelp.

If her last climax felt like getting slammed with a tidal wave, this one feels like floating down a river: languid and unrelenting, refusing to stop. It consumes her entire body, engulfing her in pleasure so white hot and intense, she’s sure stars are popping behind her eyelids as every bit of pleasure is wrung out of her body until there’s nothing left to give.

Ethan’s thrusts speed up again, messy and spasmodic, all rhythm gone. His hips snap against hers before she feels him coming, his entire body going rigid.

Thankfully, Ethan has enough energy left to pull them into a chair because Naomi was more than willing to simply collapse onto the concrete and stay there. She curls into his side, her face finding a spot in the crook of his neck.

They don’t speak for what feels like forever, both just trying to regulate their breathing and return back to normal.

Ethan breaks the comfortable silence, but Naomi barely realizes he’s talking before it’s too late to fully listen. She tilts her head back so they can lock eyes. “What?”

“I asked if you’re okay,” Ethan says.

“I can’t feel my legs,” is all Naomi manages to say. Ethan chuckles and reaches forward, slipping Naomi’s heels off, the relief pretty much instant.

“Better?”

“Much.” She sighs sleepily, her eyelids growing heavy. She burrows deeper into his side, Ethan’s body heat lulling her to sleep. “This was much better than staying in the girls’ room.”

“And it was much better than going to a strip club with your friends,” Ethan adds.

“You like them. They’re your friends too, don’t deny it.” Ethan doesn’t outright confirm or deny anything, which is all the confirmation Naomi needs. “Told you so.”

“How about a shower, Miss Know-It-All?” 

“Sounds great,” Naomi huffs, but she makes no effort to move.

“This is doing more for my ego than you’ll ever know.” Ethan is careful, extracting himself from Naomi’s grip in order to get up. He then hooks his arms underneath her, lifting her up bridal style to carry her back into their suite.

Naomi might as well be unconscious because she’s dead weight in his arms as he maneuvers his way to the en-suite. Thankfully the shower isn’t complicated and all Ethan has to do is turn a few knobs for it to turn on. He waits a few seconds to make sure the water is the perfect temperature, before pulling Naomi in with him.

They don’t spend too much time in the marble and glass box, as Ethan can see Naomi is probably seconds from passing out. The shower is over almost as quickly as it began. Both wrapped in large hotel robes, Ethan nudges Naomi back to the bedroom where she collapses face down onto their bed.

Once Ethan is in bed with her, Naomi rolls over, her face firmly planted on his chest. Upon making contact, Naomi sighs.

Ethan kisses the top of her head. “I can practically hear your thoughts. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong,” Naomi assures him. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“It just feels...surreal, being back in Miami, being back in this room,” Naomi explains. “We’re getting married next weekend.”

Ethan lifts Naomi’s left hand, her engagement ring sparkling in the moonlight. “It does feel surreal.”

“I think we should make it a tradition, coming out here.” Ethan looks down at her, a curious eyebrow raised. Naomi feels the need to explain herself, the words rushing out of her mouth. “It doesn’t have to be annual or anything, but I want this to be our special place.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Ethan says. The next they come to Miami, she’s going to be his wife, and the thought spends a thrill down his spine.

“And we have to have sex on the balcony. It’s tradition now.”

“I’m starting to think you only want me for my body.”

“Of course not,” Naomi argues. “I’m in it for your money, too.” Ethan pinches her leg for the teasing, and she squirms away from him, laughing.

“When I die, I’m bequeathing all of my money to Jenner.”

“He’s a good boy, he’d share with me.” 

Ethan rolls his eyes and pulls Naomi in for another kiss. They don’t make it very far though, as the sound of a cell phone pierces through the air, making them spring apart.

“Yours or mine?” Ethan asks, eyes scanning the room for the source of the noise.

Naomi bends over and sees her cell phone on the floor by their bed, and not on the nightstand. 

Weird. She picks it up, and her eyes widen at the amount of texts she’s received in the past minute, the vibration so strong, it knocked the phone off of the table. “It’s mine.”

Bryce L: DUDE!!!

Bryce L: Where the duck r u?

Bryce L: ????????????????????????????????

Bryce L: Srsly not funny, did u run away from ur own bachelor party?

Bryce L: Pick up fone. Nay will murder us for losing u. 

Bryce L: But I will murder fist, 4 running away

Bryce L: Oh shut. Naomi, ignore this!!! 

Bryce L: JK, false alarm

Bryce L: Ethan is fine, picky promise!

Between the misspelled words and strings of emojis, Naomi can tell that her surgeon friend is completely drunk, but she manages to figure out what he’s saying. “So Bryce is having a meltdown because he lost you.” Taking the phone from Naomi’s hand, Ethan holds it up to his face, squinting as he reads. “And he thinks he was texting you, when he really just texted me.”

Ethan chuckles slightly, and mere seconds later, his own cell phone rings ‘Dr. Bryce Lahela’ flashing across the screen. “He’s figured it out, and he’s calling me now. Should I answer?”

“No. Let them have their Hangover moment.”

“Their what?”

“From The Hangover. The movie with Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms, Zack Galifiniakis where they get totally shitfaced and lose their best friend a day before his wedding,” Naomi explains. Ethan just stares at her blankly. “Oh my gosh, you’ve never seen it?”

“How does this come as a shock to you, Rookie?”

“Well, we can't get married until you’ve seen the entire trilogy.”

That makes Ethan’s brows fly up. “There’s 3 of those movies that you want me to sit through?”

“God Grandpa, you’re so lame,” Naomi groans and her hand reaches out onto the nightstand, grabbing the remote control. She points to the large flatscreen tv in front of them. “Hopefully we can order movies on this. If not, I brought my laptop so–” Ethan plucks the remote from her hand, and tosses it to the edge of the king sized bed. It lands softly. “Hey!”

“I don’t care about some stupid movie.”

“It’s not stu–” He tugs at the knot holding her robe together until it falls open. “Ethan…”

“You have options, soon to be Missus Ramsey,” Ethan starts. He rolls over until he’s on top of Naomi, his arms bracing either side of her cage, caging her underneath him. “We can watch that movie, or we can pick up where we left off on the balcony. Which choice do you prefer?”

“The movie,” Naomi quips back with a smirk.

She laughs at her own joke and Ethan’s eyes darken mischievously, taking on the challenge. “Just for that, I’m going to guarantee that you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

[hopetwink]

maybe. just maybe. angsty anti love potion with kamukoma?

ask and ye shall receive 

Title: Aftertaste

Pairing: Izuru Kamukura x Nagito Komaeda

Genre: Angst; (Emotional) Hurt No Comfort (Unrequited Love/Pining)

Category: Oneshot

Background/Briefly Mentioned Characters: Junko Enoshima, Seiko Kimura, Kazuichi Souda

Content Warning(s): Implied (one-time) drug abuse, unhealthy idolization, use of a substance that results in emotional numbing

(ao3 link)

Komaeda turned the bottle over in his hand for the eleventh time that morning. He’d nicked it from Kimura’s lab once Souda had finished ripping the place apart in a frenzied search for spare parts. Something about building “the biggest, most awesomest beacon of despair known to mankind” which sounded an awful lot like another attempt to win Enoshima’s affection, or more accurately, a catastrophe waiting to happen.

In his humble (though honestly quite worthless) opinion, affection was overrated. Love that couldn’t sustain itself without reciprocation was just one’s selfish desires masquerading as romantic feelings, and no different than senselessly believing in a false hope. Souda’s feelings for Enoshima were tainted by despair; he could never expect to win her rotten heart through underhanded tactics such as flattery. 

However, on the subject of true love, Komaeda, Souda, and most of the other Remnants seemed to agree on one key philosophy: usefulness was the variable that determined whether or not one was worthy to be loved in return. 

Once someone stops being useful, they no longer deserve love. 

Repeating the mantra several times over in his head, he ignored the icy fist that had an iron grip around his heart. If only Komaeda was simply unworthy of love, he might not consider such a reckless course of action. But two days ago, he had proven to Kamukura that he was the lowest of the low, tactless scum so wretched and disgustingly filthy that he no longer deemed himself worthy of his own humanity. He no longer deserved to love Kamukura--no, perhaps he’d lost that privilege long ago, the moment he’d presumptuously offered his unsolicited services in return for permission to bask in the Ultimate Hope’s glory. As if he had any right to ask for something like that in the first place.

Pathetic. 

Komaeda’s fingernails scraped along the outside of the bottle as he unconsciously tightened his grasp, screeching unpleasantly against the glass. Despite his obvious shortcomings, he really was grateful for this stroke of luck--to think that the accomplished Ultimate Chemist had found a way to decrease the production of both oxytocin and cortisol in the brain at once without rendering the subject obsolete, a truly groundbreaking feat! If she were still alive today, he would be completely indebted to her. His predicament would only be temporary, and he owed it all to Kimura. Maybe there was even a chance he could still be useful to Kamukura in some way. All he had to do was drain every last drop and dispose of the evidence. 

But for some reason, Komaeda couldn’t bring himself to do it. 

He fidgeted with the cap, nonchalantly smoothing his thumb over its grooves and edges. While his feelings inconvenienced Kamukura greatly, he couldn’t help but fret over whether or not a version of himself incapable of love would show him the appropriate amount of respect. Of course pure, unbridled love should never be a precursor to respect, but the thought of being unable to understand why it would be inappropriate to complain about the conditions of his servitude mortified him, and as far as he knew, he’d still be capable of feeling shame. 

Komaeda wondered what Kamukura would do if he was here, watching him mull over the possible outcomes for each choice at the pace of a snail. He’d most likely be indifferent; perhaps feel some semblance of relief that Komaeda, who was no doubt a constant thorn in his side, would no longer cling to him like a shadow during his every waking moment. (Assuming Kamukura’s chemically altered brain allowed him to.) Or maybe even somewhat curious about what might happen to his deteriorating body and mind. Perhaps he’d object, claiming the hassle of dealing with any potential side effects outweighed the benefits. But otherwise, Komaeda could think of nothing that would cause the Ultimate Hope to actively dissuade him. 

As he closed his eyes, the image of dark, cold pity was seared into his memory. It burned sharp and white hot behind his eyelids, every line and muscle of Kamukura’s face etched into the skin there with jagged lightning. While he felt unsure of how best to proceed, one thing was certain: he never wanted to provoke that expression from his master again. It had hurt more than when he severed his own hand, fractured him into tiny little pieces that were crushed into dust under the heel of those shiny black shoes. No matter the personal cost, he couldn’t allow that to happen again.

Before Komaeda could consciously choose to drink it, his body decided for him. In one swift movement, he pulled off the cap, tilted his head back, and held the bottleneck between his lips until no sticky green residue remained. The bitter taste it left behind made him grimace, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop himself from gagging and subsequently wiping his mouth with a sleeve. The experience was more unpleasant than he’d expected, and he caught himself before he could regret his actions.

But none of that really mattered now, as long as he could still be useful to Kamukura.

Tossing the empty bottle into a nearby pile of rubble, Komaeda went about his day and waited for the medicine to take effect. After washing their dirty clothes in the abandoned laundromat and hanging them out to dry, he wasn’t tired. If anything, it felt as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders. 

Slowly, Komaeda forgot what it felt like to love. After five minutes, he didn’t remember what he’d been so worried about in the first place, and after ten, the memory of earning Kamukura’s disdain faded from importance. Once half an hour had passed, Komaeda found the entire ordeal foolish--Kamukura was undoubtedly a great man, but surely one little mistake was nothing to worry about. 

An hour passed, and Komaeda gradually lost the ability to care what Kamukura thought of him. In the back of his mind, an inkling of a thought tickled his brain, telling him he shouldn’t think of the Ultimate Hope as just another man, but he brushed it off. By the time his master came home, reeking of sweat and blood with his long black hair tangled ferociously, Komaeda almost recoiled at his presence. What had he found so attractive about this walking mess in the first place? His own past self’s desires were beyond his comprehension. 

The poker face must have slipped, because Kamukura immediately seized on the tension in the air. He crossed the room with a few long strides, tilting his head to the side. Komaeda could practically see the gears in his head turning, but for some reason, not even the wheezy laugh that tickled the insides of his cheeks escaped him. 

“Something is… different.”

Those words came out flat and apathetic, tinged with wariness, but the glint in his eyes betrayed him. 

Komaeda shrugged. “So?”

“What have you done.” Spoken not as a question, but a command. An order Komaeda supposed he ought to follow.

“Surely someone as intelligent as you can figure that much out on your own.”

Narrowing his eyes, the man stepped forward once more, into his servant’s personal space. “I have no interest in whatever game you are attempting to play. If you do not want to cooperate, I will simply leave you to your own devices and continue my search for entertainment elsewhere.”

Komaeda met his gaze unflinchingly. Deep down, a part of him vaguely wondered if his former self would weep at the next words that left his lips. 

“Go ahead.”

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

An Oxymoron - Mark Davies

CW: Box Boy Universe, implied non-con, implied future non-con, conditioning, box boy whumpee, box babe mention (like 2 words), non-con touch, BBU mindset

This also vaguely references/has correlation/implies real-life Hollywood issues, so please be advised. Nothing is stated outright, but it’s one of those “we all know” kind of deals. Stay safe, loves. 

[Other pieces here + here] 

It was poker night, but Douglas hadn’t invited the other agents over to smoke them at poker. No, not tonight. He had a special announcement for tonight.

“Gentleman, I want to introduce you to my latest superstar. Come in here, Mark,” Douglass called to the hall as he gestured an arm out. There were just a handful of men there, longtime friends of Douglass Archer.  

A boy popped his head around the corner, headphones hanging off one ear. He smiled and pulled them off his head entirely. He had a charming white smile, black hair tied up on his head in a loose bun.

“Hey,” he greeted casually as he reached a hand out for a handshake. The other agent smirked and shook his hand.

“There he finally is! I’ve been hearing good things about you, kid. I’m David Ferguson, but you can just call me David. Quite a devil you got yourself as a manager. Be careful, I’m pretty sure he bites.”

Mark smiled again and shook his head slightly. “Hey, I’m just grateful for the opportunity, you know?”

David laughed and clapped a hand on Mark’s back. “God, I miss when they’re young and humble. All my clients do now is call to bitch about their social media numbers.” He fished a card out and tucked in the pocket of Mark’s black jeans. “Call me if you ever find yourself find yourself in the market for a new agent, I’d love to have someone like you on my team.”

Mark squirmed a little under David’s arm and the other man took it as sign to back off. He pulled his arm away and bumped Mark’s elbow conspiratorially. “Joining us for the game?”

Mark shrugged. “Sure, but I probably won’t play.”  

“Oh, that’s fine. You can just watch me as I take your Manager’s beach house.” Douglass and David laughed at some inside joke and Mark cracked a smile, too. He said hello to the other three men and they sat down at the table.

Phil insisted that Mark dealt so it was fair.

~

Douglas leaned back in his chair and took another drink. His cards were fine, but nothing to write home about. David across from his raised an eyebrow a minute amount, but Douglass had played poker with him long enough to know it was a fake tell.

Mark sat at the table with them but didn’t play. He chatted with the other guys or scrolled on his phone, paying attention absently. Just there.

In the end, Phil won and they called it a night. When everyone was still milling around and finishing up their drinks, Douglass pulled his old friend aside.

“Hey David, you remember that idea I had early last year?”  David gave an amused yet exasperated sigh.

“Oh, come on Doug, you can’t expect me to remember all your hair-brained plots. Just fill me in.”

The other man didn’t answer, arching his brows and grinning like a cheshire cat.

David ran his tongue across his teeth and tried to remember which one of the plots would impress itself so hard into his friend’s memory when the others hadn’t. He groaned.

“The WRU one? Doug, there’s no way-“

Douglas put a finger up to stop him and turned his head.

“Mark? Show some respect.”

Mark had been standing off to the side, chatting with Phil. At the command, a thud rang through the room and Mark was on his knees, forehead pressed against the floor. Phil took a step back, surprised and muttering curses under his breath.

David’s jaw hung open, and Douglass relished in the responses.

“Holy shit! I didn’t notice anything! Damn, WRU can really do anything can’t they?” David mussed as he walked over. He snapped his fingers a few times to get Mark’s attention. “Position two.”

Mark sat up on his knees, chin level with the floor and eyes straight ahead. David took his chin and tilted the boy’s head to take a better look.

The boy he had been chatting and laughing with not ten minutes before.

Mark didn’t react, didn’t pull away or flinch. His eyes were different now, distant and softer. His body language was tense and stiff. Breathing shallow.

“This is crazy impressive. I think if I had mine try and act like a real person, you’d be able to see whatever’s left of her brain dripping out her ears. She’d last less than a minute before breaking out in tears.”

The man studied Mark’s blank expression for another moment before a slight look of confused amusement came over his face.

“Position 6.”

Mark brought his arms out, wrists up, and the man pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. Then his left.

“No barcode? How’d you get away with that? I thought that was some kind of requirement or something.” Douglass grinned and pulled a small black flashlight out of his pocket.

David nearly laughed at how well planned out this was. The meeting, the big reveal, everything.

He clicks it on and shines it on the skin of the boy’s right wrist, lighting up a previously hidden tattoo. Under the light, his barcode and the numbers are easily read.

“Ooh, very nice. But what if he gets lost?” Douglas turned off the light and put it back in his pocket with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, this kid’s going to be a superstar. Won’t be able to get five feet from me or a bodyguard, hell even the paparazzi. He’s not going anywhere.”

He reaches down and tugs at the boy’s hair playfully. His hands are still out in front of him, waiting for further instruction.

“Besides, he’s still chipped so you’re really not going anywhere are you, Mark?”

“No, Sir.” His voice is different now, soft and docile. David shakes his head in amazement.

“This is just crazy, man. Mark, what’s your designation?”

“Platonic, Sir.” His manager arched an eyebrow and grabbed the boy’s bun, pulling his head backwards.

“And?”

Mark swallowed as he leaned back to try and get enough slack to breath properly. He nearly jerked his arms back for balance, but he knew Sir would want him to be perfect for his friend. Perfect for the crowds and the pictures and the crew and for him. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Never a detail overlooked or glance in the wrong direction for too long.

He had just wanted to sing. He had just wanted to be an artist.

You signed up for this.

“Platonic w-with secondary ro-mantic training, Sir,” he squeaked out. His hair was released, and he fell forward slightly as he took a deep breath. He fought a shiver as David laughed. Whenever possible, Mark skirted around his saying romantic training. It was okay, he could be good, but wasn’t made for it. He was made for Sir, and Sir didn’t want him for that.

He’s supposed to, though. He’s supposed to want me but he doesn’t. The handlers told me that my owner would want me but he doesn’t. He doesn’t and he never will. People say I’m supposed to love him but they never taught me to do that and he doesn’t want me like that. 

“How does that work? Isn’t that some sort of oxymoron or something?” asked Phil, stepping forward and eyeing Mark with a different kind of look.

That was the other reason he didn’t want to mention his secondary training. Mark like to imagine that he shied away, but in reality, he stayed perfectly still. He could only pretend, only imagine leaning away from the hands that would come and touch and touch and touch.

“Oh he’s a platonic for me and a romantic for anyone who wants to sleep with a superstar.”

Mark swallowed again, hoping that it wasn’t noticeable. He didn’t love Sir, but he didn’t hate him. He was trained for him and he cared about him, but he knew it wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t even; Sir was still his owner and Mark was his pet. His pet that he could make do whatever he wanted.

The handlers told me collars are safe and my owner wants me, but I don’t get to wear mine most of time and he doesn’t want me. Mine doesn’t he want me. I must have done something wrong or misunderstood or something because something is missing and he doesn’t want me. But he gives me away to other people and I don’t understand. 

Why did he let them train me for him and then not want me? 

No, no no no bad. 

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.  

Phil used his foot to push down Mark’s shaking arms. He crouched down and lifted the boy’s chin with a smile.

“God, why didn’t we think of this years ago? Could have saved Hollywood quite a bit of trouble and maybe even a few scandals.”

The room laughed again, but this time no one expected Mark to pretend to laugh along with them.  

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Number 3 image with our beloved Billy Russo

Thanks for requesting this, lovely! I had an absolute blast writing this for you (and apologies that it took on a mind of its own!) I hope you enjoy!

Trigger warning: some smut, mentions/potential use of weaponry

Chasing Losses

Image prompt 3: Billy Russo (season 1) x reader

Rating: MA, trigger warning above as well as language

Word count: 3284 (Write drabbles, I said. I’ll be able to do it, I said.)

Tag list: @dylanobrusso @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @ms-delos @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @madamrogers @carlaangel86 @bicevans @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @ladyofnaps @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes

Follower event tag list: @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @witchygagirl @breanime

If you’d like to be added to/removed from my tag list, please just send me an ask!

Special thanks to @something-tofightfor for help by answering my endless questions, and to @the-blind-assassin-12 for being the best beta reader.

                                      ***     ***     ***     ***There were perks that came with being the CEO of a corporation. There was a lot of bullshit that came along with it, but the perks evened the playing field. Billy’s foolproof analogy was that of the oscillation of a swinging pendulum: back and forth, clockwise and counter-clockwise, chaos swinging around the equilibrium. Billy didn’t favor one over the other, the pandemonium and the calm. One perk of being CEO of Anvil Security was that he could choose his own assignments, and he preferred to be in the thick of it, involved, making no room for potentially fatal mistakes for himself or his crew. 

Covert operations that allowed Billy the ease of keeping his normal routine he kept as CEO–alarm clock blaring before the sun was completely hanging over the horizon, morning rituals of dressing in one of his custom-made suits before placidly drinking his coffee and heading to the office– these were the assignments that Billy took on often. Routine was what Billy thrived on; it was something that was essential in the military, and Billy had lived under strict discipline, no room for error, over a span of fifteen years. He was quick on his feet, gears in his mind never slowing, ready to react to havoc or upheaval even during sleep. The Marine Corps had created stability for a man who had none in his life. It gave him control. With a combination of the two under his thumb, Billy was unstoppable. 

Another skill he’d gained overseas was that of patience. Suffer patiently, patiently suffer. Those four simple words from Special Forces training were words that never left Billy’s mind, words that never failed him. Words that were perfectly applicable for this particular assignment. 

The basis was elementary: wait, watch, assure no senator or affiliate was threatened or harmed while money flew and cocktails flowed. It was a basic personal protection plan, and Billy likened it to the frequent waiting for higher-ups– he’d always have fucking higher-ups– to combat their logistics or command indecision. In his current case, the waiting, the watching, the act of assurance was done while laying low– another rich fuck in an expensive suit spending government money in a ritzy casino as far as anyone else knew— lasted as long as the senators stayed. It was one of the simplest jobs Billy had entertained, though mind-numbing.

And then, he spotted you. 

He was leaning on the bar in the VIP lounge,  just to the side of the third leather- upholstered swivel chair from the right. Left hand casually in his pocket, he held in his right  a glass tumbler half-filled with some kind of overpriced bourbon poured over ice. His dark eyes roaming over those crowded around the table games– blackjack, craps, three-card poker– the wandering of his eyes froze into a stare, and what a view they captured. 

Your dress fit you like a second skin. It was meant to command attention, first to your legs. They seemed infinite, both from the illusion your stilettos created and the hemline of that dress barely grazing your mid-thigh. It clung to every curve, the incredible roundness of your ass, the hourglass shape of your waist and hips. The back of your dress delved low, skin exposed just shy of your shoulder blades.  Your hair down and curled loosely, you’d pull it all around to your front only for tendrils to escape and caress your shoulders again. Long-sleeved and with a high neckline, the design was simple, but the entirety of the fabric was embellished in green sequins reminiscent of a peacock’s plumage. Standing there in that dress, your eyes trained on the roulette wheel, Billy made several discoveries, but one stood out to him more than the others: you were utterly bored. 

You played the interested and intrigued role well– eyes trained on the wheel and widened in interest, but if anyone cared to look close enough to your expression in lieu of your legs or that ass Billy could practically feel in his hands, they’d notice you were staring just past the game of roulette. You were paying about as much attention to the game than he was, and as a cacophony of excited chatter erupted from those you joined, your eyes came to life, and your lips quirked up into a picture-perfect, stunning grin. Billy was keenly interested, hungry, and you were the only one he could imagine at that moment who could satiate him. 

As if on cue, your eyes glanced away from the game once more just to land on a tall, impeccably well-dressed vision of a man. He had a head full of coal black hair slicked back, drawing more attention to his perfectly symmetrical face. His strong, angular jawline was peppered with short, neatly-trimmed stubble. Your attention was drawn to his lips as his tongue darted out to moisten them before leisurely taking a drink. He’d noticed you as well, and his eyes didn’t leave your face as you blatant appraised his own. You finally met his gaze, drinking in his eyes and how startlingly dark they were. 

His eyebrows quirked upward, and he pushed himself from the bar, walking your way with purpose. He knew he was attractive, knew you found him to be, and had a high amount of assurance in the way he walked. 

You were in for a treat. 

Billy stepped so close to you, his shoulder brushed yours feather-light as he passed right by you. You kept your expression neutral, steady, and felt his presence behind you. If it wasn’t for the palpable sense of arrogance he held, you’d have never sensed the man there behind you. He was silent on his feet. Unable to keep your chin from tilting upward just slightly, your face held an almost unreadable air of triumph. Yes, you were in for quite a treat. 

You were absolutely intoxicating. Billy made no sound of inhaling deeply, just as he made no sound as he stepped behind you. He was so close, the scent of your perfume was overpowered by the one of your shampoo: a scintillating mixture of citrus and spice with a hint of mint. Though he could feel the beginning of an arousal, he kept his composure, glancing around the entirety of the room one last time before speaking, low and close to your ear. 

“Are we betting on luck or chance here?” His voice was smooth like velvet, but rough around the edges: he was a New Yorker. You bit the inside of your cheek, both from the excitement of the situation alone as well as the devastatingly handsome man’s question. He had a brain in that head of his as well. Luck and chance were two very different animals, and you didn’t hesitate for a moment before answering. 

“If it were a game of luck, I’d be playing,” you replied. You barely turned your head to the side in order for him to hear you, your line of vision still glued to the wheel, the optical illusion of bright red and inky black spinning before your eyes as you imagined the expression on the stranger’s face. 

You couldn’t see Billy from the way you stood, but a shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips, eyes tinged with amusement. You were bold, and that was a turn on. The melting ice in his glass of bourbon clinked as he took another drink, taking his eyes off the deliciously smooth skin of your back in order to check his watch. His replacement would be arriving shortly. Perfect timing. “Mmm,” he mused, “Why is it you’re not taking a chance then?”

After a short beat of time, you spun to face him. You were struck again by how tall he was, and once again you appraised his features, still just as flawless as they seemed from across the room. Meeting his eyes with confidence of your own, you gave a soft shrug of your shoulders, several chunks of curly, silky hair falling past your shoulder. “It’s not my style. And you?”

“Not my style either,” Billy replied. “It’s not why I’m here.”

“Why are you here?” you asked, a lilt of curiosity in your tone. 

Billy let out a breath of a laugh, lifting his arms away from his sides, palms up. “Why are you here?” His question wouldn’t be considered one of interest as much as it was a challenge. 

A raucous roaring came from the men around the wheel once again, and you leaned in to speak into his ear. You knew with certainty that your lips would brush against his ear at least once, and it was entirely purposeful. “Franklin,” you purred, waiting for a reaction “Benjamin Franklin.” There was no blush crawling upward from his collar, not a single goosebump on his skin. As the noise died down, you pulled back to finish your answer to his question. “Old money.”

With a bitter laugh, Billy knocked down what remained of his bourbon, setting the glass on a mirrored console table behind him. “Old money,” he repeated, surveying you from head to toe. With a slight shake of his head, Billy’s hands slid into his packets. “Playing it safe for someone so lucky.” He sniffed, rolling his shoulders before lowering his voice. “Try something not so cloaked in certainty. I suggest a more avant garde approach.” 

Bingo. You raised your brows and dipped your chin. A familiar warmth built up in your abdomen, and you almost ached from sheer desire. You craved the weight of man over you, the satisfaction of being filled, the sheer headiness of pleasure of a tongue teasing the most sensitive of places. This man in particular seemed like as close to a perfect candidate you could get. “Do you have any suggestions?”

The door to enter the VIP lounge opened, and it walked Billy’s overnight replacement. The man was capable, former military, and chosen for the graveyard shift assignment for good reason. Almost immediately, Billy’s eyes were back on you and his arousal was building. “I suggest we get the hell outta here.” His eyes bored into your own, the inky blackness of his dilated pupils showing you what you already knew. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and his head nodded sideways toward the door. One second later, and he was walking toward the exit, another nod that could pass as a greeting to his employee, signaling everything had gone smoothly as he walked out the door. 

Billy strode through the crowded lounge of people, making eye contact with no one as he headed straight for the corridor lined with elevators. As he waited, he rolled his shoulders, tilted his head side to side and felt the satisfying cracking of his neck. Not two minutes later, Billy watched you, a goddamn knockout in that green dress, strut your way through the lounge, noticed almost every man in the room abandon any concentration on a table game or slot machine to watch you: the way you carried yourself, your seemingly endless legs–legs that would soon be wrapped around Billy’s waist, heels digging into his lower back– and your exquisite specimen of an ass that he was quite prepared to grab and squeeze and, according to your preferences, perhaps more. He jabbed at the button to call an elevator and just as you reached the entrance to the corridor, a set of doors opened. Billy stood in the hall, reached a hand to steel the doors open if necessary, and stepped into the elevator just as you vanished inside. He immediately pushed the button indicated to close the doors, pressed the one next to the 18th floor, and made his way straight to you, his companion for the next few hours. 

You were standing against the back wall of the elevator, and as it began to rise, Billy took two steps toward you, pressing his hands against the mirrored wall behind you. His body was pressed against yours, the swell of your breasts touching his toned chest, and you met each other halfway for a kiss. He coaxed your mouth open with his tongue; you could taste the bourbon he’d drank as he explored your mouth, one kiss melting into another, urgency building. You could feel his erection, his length hard against your thigh and when the elevator dinged its signal that you’d reached his floor, he stayed put for a moment as the doors opened, not caring who saw the way he nipped and tugged at your bottom lip before he broke the kiss, pushing himself away from the wall and allowing you to exit first, thoroughly enjoying the view you provided him with as he followed you. 

His suite was at the end of the hall, and as he slid his keycard into the slot to unlock his door, he pushed it open to reveal a stunning view. Billy didn’t give it a second glance. It was no more impressive than the view from his own penthouse. The breathtaking view, however, was stepping in behind him, closing the door with a soft click, and if you were the last thing Billy saw in his lifetime, he’d be satisfied. 

With one slight lift of his chin, you obliged and closed the distance between yourself and Billy, lips and tongues seeking each other hungrily. You wanted to devour him and it was evident that he felt the same way about you. 

The one difference between the two of you, however, was paramount. You knew his name, even if he had never formally introduced himself. You also knew that your name was a mystery to Billy. Basic information like that didn’t matter to Billy Russo, but your tits and ass and legs piqued his interest just like you’d known they would. That, for once and unbeknownst to him, was what mattered. 

Smirking against his lips, you pulled away after one last tug with your teeth to whisper in Billy’s ear. “I’m so wet for you,” you purred, hot breath over the shell of his ear. You smoothed your hands over Billy’s shoulders and to his chest, going for the button that held his suit jacket together. 

He groaned at your words, digging his teeth into his lower lip. Your hands roaming over his body, Billy couldn’t help himself from taking things further. His hands slid down your back, gripping your ass, squeezing as he relished in the handfuls of flesh beneath that dress that was a both blessing and a curse; you were dangerously gorgeous in it; he needed you out of it. 

Billy grabbed at your wrists, pulling your hands from his suit jacket. With one arm around your waist, he spun you to press your back to the wall. Raising his chin, he ground his hips into yours, making certain you felt every inch of him and how hard he was for you. Your chest was heaving with every breath, you were already moaning, and Billy’s own groan mixed with yours. He dipped his head to suck on the soft skin where your neck curved into your shoulder. 

Your body was on high alert but Billy was a master at his game. You felt the heat between your legs swell, were aware of that ache to be filled, and Billy allowed you enough space from the wall to snake his arms around you, unzipping your dress —just enough room for you to slip your arms from your sleeves and let the fabric fall to your waist. 

Billy’s eyes were inky black, heavy-lidded, and he had your bra off just seconds after the top of your dress. He allowed the black lace bra to fall to the floor as he drank in the sight of your chest, the perfect shape of your breasts before looking back up at you. He flashed a blinding smile, his eyes ravenous. Teasing you, he brushed his palms over your breasts, out and down over your waist. Your nipples were taut and he took one into his mouth, circling it with his tongue as he teased the other with his thumb. He loved how you were conceding to him, allowing him to do to you what he’d been imagining doing since he set his eyes on you.

Even so, Billy was also surprised at your cooperation, surprised that as brazen as you were downstairs, you hadn’t taken charge of the situation. He enjoyed the upper hand, the power. He knew what was coming within minutes, and he was ready. You pawed at his suit jacket again, and he distracted you by grinding his hips into yours again. You couldn’t help but reciprocate, and Billy didn’t fight you as you first unbuttoned and then unzipped his pants. He was dying for your touch, but had to play it smart, and he reached between the two of you, stroking his length as he nipped and licked at your collarbone and back down to your chest. He groaned, the noise low in his throat. 

Billy almost wished he could prolong things—almost. 

His unoccupied hand slipped down beneath the fabric pooling at your waist, long fingers flattening over your abdomen before delving down deeper. You wore nothing under that dress from the waist down.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. Without warning, you pulled his hand away from his length, gripping him tightly with your hand and stroking more urgently. His thumb circled your clit and you almost faltered. 

Bringing his hand further downward,  he teased at your center and If he didn’t have business to take care of, he’d be fucking you within seconds. You were slick with desire, and he craved the taste of you. Instead, he kept his eyes on yours and allowed your hand to drop to your side as he slipped one finger inside you, pumping it in and out a few times before bringing in a second. That was when you made the fatal mistake of moaning his name.

You realized your slip up immediately but were too slow for Billy. He ripped your dress off the rest of the way one-handed, exposing the blade you wore on your right thigh. Grabbing your wrist, his fingers were hurting you. Then, you heard a click. With a flick of the wrist, Billy held a cold blade at your throat. 

You looked up at him with a sneer of contempt, but there was no hiding the fear in your eyes. Billy’s eyes, however, were a stark, startling change from the way they’d appeared just minutes before. They were empty; they held nothing. 

“A tidbit of advice?” he spat, eerily calm and composed. “War taught me that life is just a game of roulette with higher stakes, the prize being your life.” With one swift movement, he pulled the knife from its holster and tossed it to the bed. He wouldn’t be needing it, and neither would you. “It’s not chance that we end up in the circumstances we do. It’s the forces at play.” He applied more pressure to the knife he held at your throat. “Still deluded by the idea of luck, Y/N?”

His eyes flashed then, suddenly coming to life and burning with arrogance and pride. Billy Russo did not half-ass things; just another attribute he learned in the Marines and held steadfast to as CEO. Still as a statue, you were trembling with fear. “Please,” you began, “Don’t–”

You were interrupted by Billy, staring you down, daring you to say another word. “I haven’t decided what to do with you yet. Don’t fuck it up.” He moved his head to the left, then the right, cracking his neck. “The deuce is wild.”