#the laundry has been sitting there for three more days than necessary

[zafiro-anyejo]

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[lasciviouspoison]

my first full length smut fic! this shit took weeks to edit ngl, but it was worth it. with that being said, there are probably still some mistakes so excuse those, lol. tw: breeding, eren calls himself “daddy”, word “mommy” is used, reader and eren are extremely (heavy emphasis on extremely) frustrated. not a tw, but like i always say, this is for my chubby black women, but all are free to read <3

eren has loved you for an extremely long time. he’s spoiled u, fed u, he’s even dressed you head to toe while you were sick.

yet, all of this spoiling and caring for u, does not warrant your brattiness right now.

he’s been studying tirelessly for his midterm for about 2 weeks now, finally on his last day of review before his test in a couple of days. yet, he can’t seem to focus because you keep coming in and out of your shared study every three seconds.

“‘ren, where are the extra washcloths?”

he looks up from his textbook, glasses falling off his nose a bit. you’re even dressed like a brat, skimpy little white tank top and baby pink panties. it makes his head hurt worse than the passage he’s read over 4 times now.

“there’s no way you’re asking me where fucking washcloths are right now. there’s no way.” he says with some bite to his voice. he just needs to finish these last two pages and the longer it takes him, the more it kills him.

your arms cross over your chest, pushing your bra-less chest up and exposing a bit of your chubby stomach. “does it look like i’m joking with you? where are they?”

he clenches his jaw and in a very clipped tone, he responds that they’re under the sink. you scoff slightly and walk out, making an effort to slam the door a bit harder than necessary.

he sits back in his chair and throws off his glasses, big tattooed hands wiping his face. eren knows he’s been neglecting you, and it’s killing him just as much as you. he’s tired of coming home from class too tired to touch you. he’s tired of you having to tell him to go lay down after his head rocked one too many times over his dinner plate.

he’s tired, but he’s not gonna let you act like a bitch just to get what you want. simply because it’s fucking working.

he pushes up from his desk and walks out of the study. he hears the bathroom cabinets opening, so he does everything but sprint to get there.

you peer over your shoulder at him and roll your eyes, “they weren’t under the sink. in fact, they’re all dirty cause, you know, you act like you can’t help with laundry anymore-“

erens grabbed you by the nape of your neck and brought your body close to his. you can hear his semi-heavy breathing despite still being bent over, which caused your heart to race a little. although you knew eren would never hurt you, it doesn’t mean that his pent up energy won’t go to waste.

“a couple things: one, don’t talk to me like i’m a fucking child. two, i do still help with laundry, there’s a whole basket full of folded shirts sitting on the bedroom floor that i didn’t get the chance to put away. and finally, you that cock hungry, or are you genuinely mad at me?” he finishes with a finger running up your spine, back arching at the feeling. he knows this rills you up, which is perfect for him. you don’t get to frustrate him and remain unscathed.

your eyes widened a bit, yet you couldn’t bring yourself to stop eren’s hand from moving. you could feel just how hard he was and it made you think that he almost had it worse than you. however, that doesn’t mean your just gonna lay here and take it.

“get the fuck off me eren” you said through tight lips. his hands now steadily making their way under your top, with you making no advances to stop him.

he bent down towards your ear as his body almost covers yours entirely, with his fingers now gently pulling at your nipples.. “you know what’s funny? you can act mad at me all you want, but this pretty pussy is never ever mad at me. maybe i should gag you and let her do the talking, at least she’s not a fucking liar” at this point, eren’s hands feel like hot coals against your body. while they slowly make their descent back down your body, you can feel your resolve slowly melting away under his touch.

before you could reply, his fingers begin to softly move along your covered slit, causing your breath to hitch. you push your hips back a little and eren gives you a breathless laugh in return.

“i know i’ve neglected you pretty baby. daddy’s really sorry, just let me make it up to you. i promise, you can have me all night if you just tell me what you really want”. sometimes, you swore that you could hear the smirk on eren’s lips.

you shook your head no and felt a soft slap to your pussy. you wanted to scream at him and tell him just how badly you missed him, but your mouth refused to open. you bit your lip once he began touching you again, attempting to coax a confession from your pretty lips.

you felt him bend over once again, this time to place small kisses behind your ear, kisses that started to travel down your neck and onto your back. the entirety of his ministrations were torture, but it was when he stopped kissing you and replaced his lips with his tongue to lick a stripe up your back that you really wanted to cave.

eren’s middle finger finally found your bare clit, the initial contact causing you to jump hard against his body. small whimpers leaving your lips as you tried to maneuver on his fingers before he stilled your movements.

“m’not doin anything more till you tell me the truth. what do you want from me baby? tell me and i’ll give it you ya”.

you try to grind against his fingers once again before a hard smack to your ass forces you to stop. his grip on your hips tightening, letting u know that he’s really gonna deprive you until you speak.

“want you to touch me ren! wan’ you to fuck me so fucking bad!” you finally scream out.

every gives you a small chuckle before his middle and index finger burry themselves into your cunt. his body almost shakes at warmth you provide. blood rushing straight to his dick, making him indescribably hard.

“that’s it baby, that’s all i wanted to hear.” he sounds breathless, almost like he’s the one that’s been getting teased.

he’s pumping his fingers in and out of you, a small squelching sound coming from your sopping pussy. your grip on the cold marble counter top has your knuckles turning white. at this point, you’re so desperate for more that your meeting his fingers half way.

with tears threatening to run down your chubby cheeks, you make pleas for more. “ren please, please gimme more. i’ll be good i promise!”

he feels so bad. you’ve never acted like this, even when the two of you were still forced to live separately on campus. the desperation in your voice is surprising him just as much as it’s surprising you.

because he knows you like it when he fucks you with his hair down, he pulls his hair from his already loosening bun and all but rips his sweats off. dick hitting his bare stomach with a heavy thud.

he takes his fingers out of you and rips those pretty pink panties off, he makes a mental note to buy you another pair.

he rubs himself between your sticky folds till his cock is shiny, hitting your clit a couple of times in the process, drawing more whines from you. all he can do is look down in awe. it’s amazing to him just how wet you get from just a couple of fingers, but who can blame u? his dick’s been throbbing for four days straight.

he finally anchors himself and spits, emitting a soft puh before he smiles. you’re such a mess underneath him and he can’t wait to make it even worse. he finally starts to push in, but your tight little cunny won’t let him in no matter how gentle he tries to be.

“lemme in baby… please lemme in” his voice is so strained it’s making u gush even more.

“i’m tryin!” you say with a pout, tears running down your face.

eren knows you’ve always been big on eye contact when the two of you fuck, it’s almost necessary… so, he hooks his fingers into the side of your mouth and forces your head to lift. finally you were able to see that tattooed chest and pretty face, and he was able to see those pretty eyes and beautiful tear stained face.

almost immediately do you loosen up and he accidentally on purpose pushes all the way in, causing the both of you to moan loudly.

“there you go baby, take it for me ya spoiled fuckin brat”. his hands have found purchase on the fatness of your hips, his grip so tight that you think he’ll bruise you. not that you’ve ever cared.

“fuckfuckfuck” is all you can say as you watch his facial expressions through the mirror. his hair is down and there’s tiny beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. he’s gone slack jawed while stroking you, a relaxed expression gracing his pretty face. no matter how many times he’s buried himself in your warm walls, he’s never gotten used to how good u feel. once his green eyes make contact with yours and that smirk graces his face, it makes u realize just how in control he is no matter how gentle he may look.

“squeezin’ me so tight baby.. u miss me that much?” he says with a breathless laugh, voice dripping with sarcasm. the both of you know that going this long without touch was both odd and frustrating. it caused the both of you to miss each other equally, hence why this could be categorized as some of the best sex you’ve ever had.

at this point, he knows you’re gonna cum soon, he can feel your walls pulsing and eren feels like his dick is gonna pop.

“g’nna cum rennie, g’nna make a mess on yo- ugh fuck!” your little hands balling into fists as he hits that spongey spot in you. you can hear just how hard he’s thrusting into you, each stroke sounding more sticky than the last. it’s making your eyes cross and toes curl.

your convinced he’s gonna kill you with that horse dick of his one day.

“let it out baby, i’ll clean it up the mess, wanna feel you cum on me.” even he’s getting whiny now, so it’s only a matter of time before you-

“-ohmygod eren!” you cum so hard that your body’s shaking and your knees are buckling. thankfully, eren’s always there to catch you.

despite chasing his own nut, he desperately wants to see you ride out your orgasm. he’s so desperate that he’s picking you up by your hips, forcing you to do small circles against his waist cause he knows it drives you crazy.

however, it doesn’t take long before he’s digging deep into you again, the force of his thrusts causing your head to bounce a little harder than intended.

“god i’m gonna cum so hard in this pretty pussy. i’m so fucking sorry i neglected you baby.. never again, god i’ll never do it again baby i promise. gonna fill you up okay? awe, you like the sound of that yeah? make you the prettiest mommy for me. promise i’ll take care of you forever. god i love you”. he’s rambling and his voice is getting rough. it’s only a matter of time before he cums.

after finding some strength, you finally look back and smile at him and that’s all it takes for eren to cum. his face screws up and his warm hands slide up your back to make you arch a little deeper. you wish you could run your fingers through his hair so badly, but you couldn’t ask for a better view of your beautiful boyfriend.

after a few moments of silence, eren finally comes down from his high with a big huff of air. gently, he spins you around so you face him. he moves your curls from out of your eyes and gives you a slow kiss on the lips, hands resting gently on your chubby, tear stained cheeks.

after a few moments of silence, he starts to speak, “i meant what i said. i’m sorry i left you alone for so long baby. i just gotta pass this test.” his eyes full of remorse.

“i know eren, i just wanted some attention… it’s really easy to miss you, even if we live together”. small smiles find both of your faces and eren finally pulls out to run the two of you a warm bath.

he strips you out of your tank top and carries you over to the tub, where he holds you tightly.

after some comfortable silence, you can’t help but look over your shoulder and ask the question that’s been plaguing your mind, “you really wanna get me pregnant?”

he looks towards the ceiling and let’s out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “i mean, eventually yes. right now? fuck no”

the two of you fell into laughter while the smell of lavender filled your noses and achy bones were finally allowed to rest.

[iamjacksragingboner]

Thinking about much too overbearing Soap again.

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings: Light NSFW, no smut, slightly obsessive Soap, very much not proofread

A/N: Not too sure what this is, I haven't actually written anything in a while so this is just me getting back into it. Let me know if you have any ideas for where else this could go, but at the moment this is kinda just a standalone thing.

Part Two

Johnny is on military leave for whatever reason, and he needs some sort of purpose to fill his endless days with nothing to do. Hence, he practically lunges at the opportunity to help his pretty neighbour when he’s brought out of his apartment by the sound of metallic clanging on the door next to his.

Peeking his head out, he sees you struggling through the heavy door whilst trying, in vain really, to keep your foot off the ground with some too-tall crutches. What goes through his head in a millionth of a second can only really be described as misplaced eagerness to take care of you. Sure, he wants to help out and make sure you’re alright, to hover around you and fulfil your every waking need and desire while you heal, but he has his own rather dubious desires as well that he’d like to take care of. Fantasies—with you as the main focal point—that he’s spent plenty an evening fucking his fist imagining.

He’s by your side in a heartbeat, pushing the door open for you and grabbing the bag off your shoulder. “Here ye are, lass. Let me help ye with that- that’s it.”

As you breathe out way too many thank you’s and apologies that he insists aren’t necessary, he follows you into your apartment. Despite sharing many a hallway and elevator conversation, neither of you have ever set foot into each other’s apartments, keeping up that firm wall between friendly neighbours and friends.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Johnny hasn’t imagined what the inside of your apartment would look like, or what you fill your days and nights with. It’s cozy—lived-in would be a better term for it—dishes in the sink, a lumpy couch next to the window with a rather colourful and fuck ugly quilt strewn atop it. Your bed, much like his, was unmade, and there was a pile of unfolded clothes accumulating at the end of it. It was definitely a great deal more welcoming than his own sterile, almost untouched apartment.

"Sorry about the mess in here, it's just that with this broken foot, I haven't really been able to keep up with shit like cooking, and cleaning, and laundry, and groceries," you stopped to catch your breath. It sounded like the list could go on for a while, though Johnny had gathered that from the state of your apartment anyway. "Just set my bag down anywhere," you said finally, hobbling into the cluttered kitchen, "I'll get you a cup of tea or something."

Setting your bag down on the kitchen counter with a thud, Johnny stares at you with furrowed brows. “Weesht, ye’ll do nothin’ of the sort, bonnie. What ye will be doin’ is sitting yer behind on that couch and proppin’ that foot up- must be mighty painful."

Before you'd even had time to think about protesting, Johnny had already swiftly guided you to the couch and positioned you lengthways, with your foot idle on the armrest.

You were speechless for a grand total of three seconds before you were getting up to stop Johnny from digging through your pantry looking for teabags. “Really, Johnny, it’s no bother,” you exclaimed, hobbling over on your crutches and stepping between him and the pantry to dig out the teabags. “Let me put the kettle on to boil and I’ll wash up a mug for you in the meantime. You go and sit on the couch.”

How you ended up back on the couch with Johnny now washing all of your dishes with an unexplainable amount of enthusiasm evades you. Hell, he’d even managed to tuck you in, and was rambling on and on to himself as he scrubbed at a bit of muck in your bowl.

“I mean really, it’s no trouble at all. Ye just sit there and look like a proper bonnie lass and let me take care of a couple things around yer place. Clearly you need the help. Ye’ll pay me back eventually ‘m sure.”

Only once Johnny had washed and dried all of your dirty dishes, put your dirty laundry in the machine to wash and made you and himself a cup of tea did he sit down beside you on the couch, propping your feet on his lap as if you were much closer friends than you were.

"I don't know how to thank you, Johnny, really. You didn't have to go to all that effort- I would've sorted it out eventually."

Johnny merely laughs, it's a barking, hoarse sound that grates your ears but warms your chest all the same. "Aye, but isn't it much easier if I sort it out for ye now, as opposed to yer 'eventually?"

You supposed that made sense, and it wasn't exactly unpleasant to have a handsome, built and cheery Scottish man flitting around your apartment, helping where he could. Still, you could have done it yourself.

Lying in bed that night, there was little time to sleep for Johnny when he was much too busy thinking about you, the poor bonnie lass. With his ear pressed against the wall, listening to your faint movements, he fucked his fist in desperation, thinking about all he could do to take care of you.

Within twelve hours, Soap is back, bright eyed and bushy tailed, carrying in several bags of groceries, meals planned down to the crumb for the next three weeks. The second he's put them in the fridge, he's darting to fold your laundry as you hobble around him. He bats your hands away when you reach to fold your underwear yourself, face flushed red with embarrassment as he pulls out one of your nicer bras.

Within a week, he's already made a copy of the key to your apartment, although that's not something you need to know about. He'll only ever use it if he's sure you've injured yourself and can't get to the door, or if you're out and he wants to roll around in your bed, bathing in your scent and leaving his own.

You do happen to take a fall one day, although luckily he's there to catch you, as he's been hovering around you like a fly any time you try to get up. He makes the decision then to stay the night, in case you want to make any trips to the bathroom and take a tumble in the dark.

When you offer him your bed to sleep in, he happily accepts, but the minute you begin to turn your couch into a makeshift bed for yourself, the face he pulls is not too far from a kicked puppy. He was, of course, under the impression that he'd be sharing your single bed with you, and you can't blame a man for being a little disappointed when he finds out that's not the case.

"Come on, bonnie," he all but pleads, "we don't want ye hurtin' yer foot layin' on that lumpy old thing. There's enough room for the two of us in yer bed, don't ye think?"

Despite being a little put off by Johnny calling your beloved couch old and lumpy (worn and well loved, you would say), you relent, and decide to share the bed with Johnny, under strict rules of course. "Don't try and cuddle me, don't get all up in my business, don't steal the blankets and above all else, don't touch anywhere you shouldn't be touching."

Johnny responds enthusiastically—which should've been a warning in itself that he hadn't heard a word you said—and practically leaps into the bed, patting the spot next to him with a dog-like grin.

You climb in a little hesitantly and settle down to sleep, under the impression that Johnny will obey these simple rules. The minute you feel a heavy arm slump over your waist and an even heavier leg hanging limp over your own, essentially trapping you against his form, do you realise that he had not, in fact, ever intended to follow your rules. The little grunting snores he would let out gave you some reassurance that he at least wasn't doing this consciously, even as his hands found their way across your chest and down your torso, even as his lips that were pressed against your shoulder stretched into a canine grin.

[ingek73]

REPORTAGE

#MediaToo & The Crisis in British Journalism

Truby’s Truth – How Murdoch Made Dan Wootton into a Monster

All Alex Truby wanted to find was the washing powder. Instead, he says, he found the key to a scandal now rocking the British media

Tom Latchem and Dan Evans

1 August 2023

Alex Truby

Alex Truby is the former partner of GB News’ biggest ratings-puller Dan Wootton – the New Zealand journalist who has made a career out of invading private lives and passing public judgement for big bucks.

From Prince Harry and Meghan Markle to Johnny Depp and Amber Heard; from Philip Schofield to pop star Duncan James and the late, tragic Caroline Flack, Wootton was Rupert Murdoch’s celebrity attack dog for more than a decade.

So, when instead of cleaning his clothes one fateful day in 2012, Mr Truby happened, he says, upon Wootton’s own dirty laundry, his conscience simply would not let him take the easy path of turning a blind eye – as many others have done since.

In his first ever interview, Mr Truby – gently spoken and determined, with a pronounced sense of fair play – relates the events that led to Byline Times’ special three-year investigation being published last month. This newspaper’s reports have exposed Wootton as a serial sexual catfisher, blackmailer and prolific workplace bully – all of which the presenter denies.

Byline Times has asked his representatives on numerous occasions to confirm or deny whether Dan Wootton is, or is connected to, ‘Martin Branning’ but it has received no response.

But for Alex Truby, it all began behind the big double doors of the laundry cupboard in Dan Wootton’s former one-bedroom flat on Leman Street in London’s sought-after E1 postcode.

A Cat-Sitting Discovery

“I was cat-sitting for Dan while he was on holiday in New Zealand,” Mr Truby explains. “One day, I was doing some laundry – I was looking for the dosing ball for the washing up powder, and put my hand down the side of the washing machine. And there was a holdall, rammed down there.”

Intrigued and suspicious, Mr Truby says he pulled at the black nylon and found the bag zipped and secured.

“I could tell it had stuff in it,” he says. “It wasn’t just an unused sports bag or something – and my immediate reaction was that it was hiding something. So I pulled it out completely and found there was a little travel padlock where the holes in the zips met.

“And so I thought, ‘okay, this is weird’. And because it was a flexible bag, I crumpled it to get the zip open wide enough to get my hand fully inside. And I started pulling stuff out.”

Among other personal items, Mr Truby says he found computer storage drives.

“There were also two external hard drives,” he says. “And I was very interested in those. I plugged one in and there was one file I was drawn to because I recognised the name as someone who was a friend of Dan’s.

“I started to dig into this one folder and there was a video and a text file, which I opened first. It was the transcripts of an MSN Messenger conversation between two people. One was Martin Branning, whose name I’d never heard before, and the other was the boyfriend of the person whose name was on the file.

“The transcript was between the boyfriend and Martin Branning. Branning was introducing himself as someone who was interested in making some sexual content. The transcript was essentially persuading [the boyfriend] to make this video, without the consent of his partner, if necessary.”

He adds: “The video file was exactly what I expected based on the transcripts. It was a wide shot of a bed from a camera put up high in order, I immediately thought, for it not to be seen. It was of [the two people] having sex. And I took it from the video that [Wootton’s target] had no knowledge or consent of that being made at all.”

At the time, Mr Truby had been in a relationship with Wootton on-and-off for about three years. He says he was stunned by the discovery.

“I had always known Dan was obsessive about this person and I had never found it healthy,” Mr Truby told Byline Times. “My immediate gut reaction was that ‘Martin Branning’ did not exist. It didn’t make sense. How could it have come into Dan’s possession? And I knew that Dan was already obsessive about [the target].

“I knew Dan was Branning and that he had manipulated [the partner] into making the video. I felt sick to my stomach. Dan was my boyfriend. I was horrified.

“And when Dan came back to the UK, I confronted him about it. He didn’t even try to deny it. I said to him ‘Martin Branning doesn’t exist – it’s you!’ And he fell on his knees and said ‘I’m sorry. I’m really f****d up. I can’t help it’.

“It was him. He did it. And from that day, I have known 100% that Martin Branning does not exist – he is just a name and an MSN account and email that Dan has been using to fix stuff for himself.”

The revelation marked the beginning of the end of a relationship that limped on for another year but never recovered from what Mr Truby regards as a terrible betrayal, both of those in the film and himself.

“I stayed with him because Dan emotionally blackmailed me all the time,” he explains. “Whenever I tried to leave, he would say I was deserting him at a time of crisis. He controlled me. He watched and monitored me. I caught him accessing my emails and snooping on my social media. I feared him.”

‘It Enabled the Worst Parts of Him and Amplified Them’

It wasn’t always this way. When Alex Truby first met Wootton – three years his junior – as a fresh-faced 23-year-old in London, they quickly became friends.

Wootton was still a journalistic green-horn, freshly arrived from New Zealand and working for the television industry magazine Broadcast. Mr Truby was still embarking on his own career. Everything was possible for them and they became close friends.

But after a couple of years knowing each other platonically, and as Truby’s relationship with a man he describes “as at that time the love of my life” ran into trouble, he says Wootton began to pressurise him for more.

“I thought Dan was my best mate,” he says. “But he put me under immediate pressure to move things forward with him. I was asking for time and space, but I got ultimatums. I was put in a position. He said ‘we either get together or I’m gone from your life completely’.

“I was vulnerable. I had just lost what I thought was the love of my life, and suddenly I was going to lose my best mate too. I didn’t even have time to grieve the relationship. I just found myself tumbling into this relationship with Dan.”

Mr Truby says the change in Wootton once he left Broadcast in 2007 for Rupert Murdoch’s most-feared tabloid, the now-defunct News of the World, was profound.

“When I first met him, the biggest stories he did were about who picked up TV rights for this or that show,” he says. “It was very different to the News of the World. But working for Murdoch, that environment – which was very ruthless, very cut-throat, very competitive for the biggest stories – changed him. It enabled the worst parts of him and amplified them.

“He was so driven by the pressure there that, after a while, it was everything. He became one of their biggest-ever performers, getting all these splashes [front pages]. He would get very angry if he ever felt screwed over on a story. He would make moves against colleagues to stop them from sharing bylines with him – if he ever had to share credit for a story, he wouldn’t like it. He got mad about it.

“He was very, very, very focused on getting his name on the front page of the News the World, week after week, as many times as he could possibly get it on there. And his bosses loved him for that and rewarded it.

“The toxicity of that paper, which everyone knows about now it has shut down, probably did push him into employing bad tactics. But I think, by nature, you’re either capable of that kind of level of ruthlessness or not. Something came together there. There was pressure and, because of his ambition, he was capable of it.”

Wootton’s growing power at the then most-read newspaper in the English-speaking world led to practices which Mr Truby now regards as potentially corrupt and which gave Wootton the financial power to further his own interests.

“Dan had the News of the World pay money to my bank account as a ‘source’ an absolute minimum of 10 times,” he says. “He told me it was for his actual sources, and I knew his boss knew who I was, so I didn’t question it too much. It was never life-changing sums – always hundreds not thousands, but still big lumps.

“I didn’t really understand his world – I just thought it was a normal thing for reporters to do sometimes in order to protect people’s confidences. I would give the money to him and I don’t know what happened to it after that. He had other friends who’d do it for him too.”

‘To Try and Paint Me as Abusive is Abusive’

When the News of the World shut down in disgrace in 2011 amid the phone-hacking scandal, Wootton moved first to the Daily Mail as an “editor-at-large” before returning to the Murdoch fold with The Sun titles.

He eventually moved on from The Sun in 2021 after falling out with editor Victoria Newton and found himself at GB News where, Mr Truby says, he turned his back on a long background of left-leaning personal politics.

“When I knew him, his politics were centre-to-centre-left,” he says. “He was always so proud that one of his first breaks was interviewing Helen Clark when she was a Labour Prime Minister in New Zealand. Dan comes from a family of liberal people. His family are educators. When I knew him, his politics were the same as theirs. I never got an inkling from him that he would ever align himself with the hard-right.

“I think he is faking it on GB News for the money and because he burnt so many bridges in the mainstream media.”

Mr Truby looks back with regrets on the four years from 2009 to 2013 he spent with Wootton.

“I wish I’d been braver,” he told Byline Times. “I wish I’d walked away sooner. I wish I hadn’t given him so much of what should have been an amazing part of my life. However, I did. And I’m over it. I’m not here for some kind of personal revenge against Dan or for how I was mistreated. I’m not that kind of person.”

The powerful platform Wootton enjoys with GB News allowed the presenter to launch a live-on-air attack, after the first part of this newspaper’s investigation was published, on Byline Times, its journalists and others he alleges – erroneously – are part of a “hard-left” campaign to have the channel “cancelled”.

Mr Truby – who had already written about the holdall revelations in a viral Twitter thread – was attacked by his former partner as abusive live on air, with Wootton making strong allegations that Alex Truby had previously threatened him with violence.

Speaking to Byline Times, Mr Truby candidly addressed Wootton’s accusations.

“To try and paint me as abusive is abusive in itself,” he says. “It was an extension of his behaviour when we were together. I know I am no abuser and I am square with that. I still share a dog with my most recent ex. I am close friends with the two before that. I am in a very happy and supportive relationship now.”

On the alleged threat of violence, Mr Truby says: “On more than one occasion, Dan targeted my friends online. And knowing what I did about Martin Branning, I was scared of what Dan would do. Something did happen not long after TV presenter Caroline Flack had died [around February 2020].

“I saw Dan crying what I thought were crocodile tears about Caroline. It galled me. So I tweeted briefly about the holdall discovery.

“I deleted the posts after about eight hours. I’d had a call from a mutual contact who put pressure on me on Dan’s behalf. Later, Dan’s lawyers started following me on social media. It felt intentional to silence me with legal threats.

“At the exact same time, Dan went after someone very close to me. It felt predatory and intentional. I didn’t see any choice but to act. And yes, I messaged him. And yes, I told him to stay the f**k away from my friends. And in the heat of that moment, I used strong words – but just words. I am not a violent person.”

Mr Truby is still bruised by Wootton’s on-air verbal assault.

“The moment I saw it, I felt sick,” he says. “It was scary. I knew that he was going to hit back at me for speaking out – that’s in character with the man I know. But to try and call me an abuser live on TV, when I could find a hundred character references to the contrary? That, I didn’t see coming. And I still can’t believe his bosses let it happen. It’s deranged.”

Yet despite the deeply personal ad-hominem abuse a national newscaster allowed Wootton to bring down on his former partner, Alex Truby is remaining calm and committed to his truth.

“I’m hoping this story goes somewhere,” he says. “I’m hoping the right people look at what has gone on and that people learn the truth. And that is it.”

Tom Latchem and Dan Evans are former colleagues of Dan Wootton’s from the News of the World. Alex Truby was not paid for his testimony

[thessalian]

Thess vs Effort

Today has been ... A Day. And it's not quite over yet.

First, I woke up earlier than I wanted to, but I had shit to do so I didn't just go straight back to bed.

Had some coffee, checked some bus timetables, and went out for some supplies. Mostly mallet meds, coffee, sugar, and some baking potatoes ... though I did splurge, if you want to call it that, on an acorn squash. (For everyone else, it's pumpkin spice season; for me, it's acorn squash season.)

Could I have got a better treat? Well, treats are expensive. However, I have ingredients at home. Just requires ... effort. Which is a problem, but effort can be manufactured - or scraped from the bottom of the barrel in my case - but money is a monthly event and mine is kind of at low ebb until a week Wednesday. Painkillers are expensive.

Anyway, before I could expend effort on that, I had three hours of overtime. Which made a dent, but ... well, there's just so much fucking typing. So that's in no way enough dent (83 reports is "not enough dent"; fuck my life) and I'm going to have to do more later. I might wait until Sunday, I dunno. Basically they've authorised "as many hours of overtime as I can physically manage". I will do my best to manage as best I can, and be all about the extra money. I mean, MCM Comic Con is coming up.

So after the three hours of overtime, it was finally time to try the gluten-free pizza dough recipe I found on Gluten Free On A Shoestring. I have lactose-free mozarella, I have pepperoni, I have onions, and I have the fixings for pizza sauce (including fresh herbs from my garden). The making of the pizza dough was not as difficult as I feared, at least. Still, it takes a lot of effort to get decent gluten-free anything, because gluten-free is not forgiving enough for mass production, I guess. Either way, there's going to be pizza.

After that, I cleaned off my mixer attachments and hit up B Dylan Hollis' TikTok for the "Poor Man's Ice Cream" recipe. I actually put a can of evaporated milk and the necessary bowl in the fridge last night in preparation for this, so there you go. Instead of vanilla, I put in 2/3 cup of my homemade hot chocolate mix, because someone in the comments mentioned that you could make hot chocolate ice cream that way. And if that doesn't work out, I still have another can of evaporated milk, so hey, I can try again and just stick with vanilla next time.

And after all that, I brought out my little Dyson and hoovered the kitchen floor, because a lot of what I do in there gets powder all over the place. Then I had a careful wash of my hands because I usually keep my nails fairly long (until one breaks; then I cut them all and start all over again) and every hobby I have gets stuff stuck under my nails.

Now I am finally sitting down as I wait for my pizza dough to rise and my ice cream to start to set. I should just be able to finish this entry before I have to start Doing Shit again. I need to part-bake my pizza crust (one can apparently go in the freezer), start my pizza sauce, and whip the ice cream before putting it back in the freezer to set.

I hurt. I'm very tired. I'm fed entirely up. But at least some of my back-breaking effort today has gone towards treats, instead of just maintenance or ... you know, carrying the fucking department. At some point there also needs to be laundry. There's a lot of "Please let me do this tomorrow..." in my life right now.

[sun-like-dem-bones]

Catchy title? THERE'S THREE IN YOUR RELATIONSHIP

Jk. Sorta. This is a random rambling post with possibly a point lol. Saw that clip from the show 1923.

TL;DR: household work has always been a "labor" just as necessary to the common human as farming or trade or any work we do today. The value comes from how much time and effort it takes to learn how to do something. Women did not have societal support for other aspirations in the past. But household labor is still an essential need whether we're raising a family or we're single. The show 1923's scene highlights the lack of recognition of women's labor of the time and reflects how we still see its value today. It gave the women in the scene an interest in higher aspirations when they were limited to few- that they could do other things while automating their laundry in a washer, but would have to pay the electricity and rent on the washer.

So that's it right? No?

It doesn't take a genius (only a bored human). In the past, women did the work needing to be done that the men couldn't get to because his focus was on income/resources to feed the family (anything- farming, trading, livestock, materials/tanning, mining and much more variety than you'd think). Housework was never paid to the wife because someone had to do it and the couple are a team in the best situations. Someone brings the food home and someone cooks it and cleans the following mess and the home in general. In. Order. to. Live. Obviously this is highly simplifying. Chopping wood for the fire and carrying water from the well and all that.

These days if you're living alone, you're doing it all yourself, which is why we pay for these conveniences that we're so used to already. We couldn't be single otherwise- we'd need a community if not a partner. I just think of the microwave- if we didn't have electricity or gas, I think how long it would take to heat up food, which would be rotten from sitting out unless it was like cheese or something. There were other processes to preserve food in the past that we've forgotten to teach.

A post I read long ago read that clothes were designed to only require minimal washing (granted I don't recall what era this is) they would only wash their under layers of dress that were close to the skin and they was made out of a naturally antimicrobial textile (linen I think?). The outer dresses and coats (of which they only had a few anyway) didn't need washing. Perhaps more stitching, leather polishing, I dunno not my area. So why the need for washers?

Meanwhile comments I read mentioned that the men would have viewed farm plows and tools for their trades as very valuable to assist their work. Due to traditional values I presume, the women, not allowed nor had the support to have higher aspirations, could not choose to better themselves at the supposed cost to the men's work. Some of these shows seem to imply that women were supposed to lead the moral high ground in society if you were high up. Cool. Guess you had to watch it around the churches though lest you offend them and trigger a witch hunt

Boy do we live a very different life now- I think as I sit in my cubicle and my partner out working his trade so we can rent an apartment and have food and pay for electric and water. We don't have to do much and it's whoever wants to make food or have a clean sink or clothes does it.

Household labor has been hugely cut out due to technology that I fear it will never be recognized- an insult to our mothers of mothers. But we're STILL paying for it! We're paying for so much convenience because we can't stop work long enough to build our own house, tend to our own gardens and farms, and become self sufficient (which I personally believe has always been a myth until recent times and solar and wind power plays a part in that thinking)

Anyway and so housework labor has likely never been seen as a valuable, because we never had to pay for it in the past. You either did it, or had a wife and/or children who did. The women in the show saw the refrigerator and washer with inherent value and then men only saw the cost and how much they'd have to work more for it. The salesman had an impressive pitch.

We don't see women's traditional labor as valuable, and yet now we pay for it.

Ladies, we're paying for traditional labor now. So if you catch yourself doing any more housework than your s.o. when you both work already, I hope you can find a way to change/remedy the situation.

Also. From this analysis, I've changed my mind on some personal beliefs. It's always been a "two-person" income household, unless you make well enough moneys (like many men did before ...psst higher aspirations...). First it was one income for two people's work, now it's two incomes for two people's work plus bits and bits of random other people's work (for simplicity maybe we say three). But because people profit off of these conveniences, that's where it all goes downhill. The 2:1 ratio is worse than 3:2. That's true. But it can't actually be 3:2 because of wealth inequality (in the us alone and globally if I'm so bold). That corporation selling you the convenience price rather than the materials and labor price, is making that at least a 4:2 ratio then if not 5:2- who knows?

You don't need a man. You don't need a woman. A partner. (I do believe we still need community for mental health reasons and that it takes a village to raise children.)

Conversely, in a world of profiting corporations and wealth inequality, I believe that no one can do it all alone.

I could go on but I'm not an expert. Hope these words mean something lol. Thoughts?

(I haven't seen the show, just read comments about the clip I watched.)

[bitsandbobsofwriting]

Control Part 3

Those left in Camelot feel Merlin’s absence like a shard of ice through the heart, and Lancelot’s second letter makes things a million times worse:

TW: BIG tw for Suicide attempt. Drug addiction/self-harm recovery. PTSD-like symptoms.

Part 1   Part 2   Part 4   Part 5   Part 6(Final Part Coming soon)

Camelot:

The first week flies by. At least it does for Arthur.

He had refused to take on another permanent manservant during Merlin’s... sickness, only allowing George into his room for necessary chores only: delivering and removing food, laundry, etc. He is not permitted to serve, as it were, and he certainly never stays longer than he absolutely has to. Which means Arthur actually has to learn to tidy and organise and stoke his own fires and turn down his own bed and sort his own itinerary.

He uses it as a distraction, and whilst it works just fine for the first couple of weeks after Elyan had stumbled upon Merlin’s not-really-secret-just-ignored problems, the better Arthur gets, the quicker he gets, and the more he notices Merlin’s absence. He feels guilty for not taking it in sooner, but he supposes he got used to Merlin not really being... present, months ago. And oh, if that doesn��t just bring the guilt back full force.

Gaius deals with it by continuing to heal all that he can. Morgana deals with it by squirreling herself away in the library, hiding from even Gwen and sending mournful, desperate gazes to Arthur every time they’re in the same room. Gwen throws herself into her work, and Elyan restarts the family forge, spending every spare second of the day, and even the nights sometimes, putting together an arsenal, pretending he can use it to protect all of his friends from everything. Even if the enemy was in their own mind. Leon trains the knights harder, faster, longer; volunteering himself for every patrol and every mission and every investigation in an effort to make himself exhausted enough to be able to sleep without nightmares. Gwaine drinks, and Percival stops him drinking when he goes too far.

Arthur... Arthur. He works. He tidies. And when he finds that it stops working, he starts putting things away where Merlin would put them, instead of where they should actually go. He spends hours on every speech, every address, attempting to imitate his servant’s way with words as best he can.

He can not bear to be without Merlin, so he will simply try to make it seem as though he isn’t. He lives for that precious second the moment after he walks into his slightly messy chambers, when he can convince himself that Merlin has fallen asleep in front of the fire, or is sat at the desk, or has run off for their dinner and will be back momentarily. 

He sees the gap, in his own life and in the lives of those important to him, and he tries to fill it.

He joins Gwen in the laundry room sometimes, and the other washer women learn to not question why The King occasionally appears with a basket of clothes and rolled up sleeves. He draws up commissions for Elyan, and battle plans with Leon. He helps Percival drag Gwaine home from the tavern, an arm over each of their shoulders, and chuckles along with the giant as they tuck the other knight into bed. Both of them know they’re laughing because it’s easier to pretend that Gwaine is drunk just because he’s drunk and not because he doesn’t want to think about Merlin, about how he failed him, about how they all failed him.

Eventually, not even that is enough, and three weeks after Lancelot and Merlin rode away, Arthur allows himself to grieve. He thinks he put it off because Merlin is not dead, just gone. But gone because of Arthur; he doesn’t deserve to grieve. Doesn’t deserve to sit around and mope and cry as if this were all some accidental tragedy and not a series of specific events that could have been prevented if he’d only tried harder, noticed more.

It’s then, that Lancelot’s letter first arrives with a tap at The King’s window, from irate looking messenger hawk:

My Lord, Lady Morgana, Gaius, Guinevere, Sirs Leon, Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine,

Merlin and I arrived some days ago, so I apologise for my late letter. Things have been hectic, the healers here are worried about the immediate recovery, but are hopeful long-term; their first impression’s guess is that we’ll be here five months, less if we’re lucky. Nothing too troubling has happened quite yet, but in all honesty, Merlin spends most of his time in bed or doing simple, easy work. He was losing a lot of rest in the City, and he has several months worth of good sleep to catch up on to allow his body to recover. He’s not eating much yet, but the healers say that’s expected and he is gaining weight, slowly. When he is awake, he prefers silence, he rarely speaks, but he’s spending a lot of time outside, getting some sun and dipping his feet in various streams; the healers say it’s good for him.

Don’t worry about us, Merlin’s having a tough time, and I dare not say “everything will be ok” quite yet, but things are going well, I think. I don’t know what to say other than it’s nice here, safe, I never have to carry a sword or wear armour and that’s refreshing. They’re teaching me a lot, mainly about healing—Gaius will be pleased— but other things too, I’ll pass it all on in person when we come home.

Attach your reply to the bird (her name is Laurel), she knows to come straight back here. I can’t promise future letters will be as long and detailed, but I’ll send them once a week, if I’m able, and I’ll keep you well updated. Hope things are going well your end, let me us know.

Lancelot, Merlin 

Arthur reads it over ten, fifteen, twenty times before he gathers everyone else and has Gaius read it aloud. The Physician’s voice shakes only slightly as he reads, but no one mentions it, and all of them have slightly lighter hearts by the end. Especially when they see that Merlin’s name is scrawled in his own messy handwriting. Of course they’re worried, of course they feel guilty, but Merlin is getting better and that’s all that matters.

~

The Camp:

Lancelot and Merlin make it to the Druid’s camp after a three day journey. Thankfully the weather holds out; it’s the beginning of summer, and in this area of the world that does occasionally promise humid storms or cold snaps, before the sun really sets in.

Merlin barely speaks a word the whole time, and even riding tires him out, but Lance is patient, holding one sided conversations with the servant and pushing him to eat and stretch his legs whenever he can. He can tell that Merlin is struggling with the idea of being away from Camelot, away from Arthur, but he also seems invested, if in a very quiet, blank kind of way, in getting better. Lancelot knows how much joy Merlin’s magic used to bring him, and he can only hope that they can get back to that point before too long.

Merlin’s hands shake when he tries to build camp, so Lancelot does the most work, or at least he does the dangerous work: laying and lighting the fires, cooking, etc, but he lets Merlin unpack things and look after the horse. He rather easily admits to himself that Merlin is the type to stay busy, not allowing him to do anything would likely cause a spiral that Lancelot really isn’t equipped to deal with.

It’s the evening of the third day when they come across a small stream, a young teenaged boy sat washing various pots and pans in it. He’s small, but well-fed and well-sunned, his blonde hair streaked and his cheeks covered with a smattering of freckles from a life lived outside. He doesn’t seem to notice them at first, and Lancelot halts the horse a few metres away, not wanting to startle him, or Merlin, who is dozing on his shoulder:

“Excuse me?”

The boy whips his head up, falling backwards onto his hands when he sees Lancelot’s armour and red cape, but the knight just smiles at him and holds a hand out placatingly, gesturing at Merlin in front of him. He speaks quietly:

“I swear, we mean you no harm, my name is Lancelot, this is Merlin. Iseldir is expecting us.”

The boy relaxes, clearly aware that someone was expected, though the suspicion isn’t completely wiped from his face as he stands, gathering his belongings in his arms and speaking evenly:

“Wait here, I’ll go get him.-”

He frowns slightly as he nods at Merlin, his expression turning soft and worried:

“-Is he... is he alright?”

Merlin shivers in his sleep, and Lance’s smile turns a little mournful as he glances down at his friend before looking up to the boy again:

“Hopefully he will be soon.”

The boy nods, and bounds off into the woods without another word. Lancelot debates with himself for a few seconds before deciding that surprising Merlin isn’t the best idea right now; he gently shakes the younger man awake, holding him steady as he jolts up with a gasp:

“Hey, hey, it’s ok. Deep breaths, Merlin, everything’s ok, sorry to wake you.-”

Merlin shuffles slightly and twists his hands in his tunic as his head twitches. He shuts his eyes again, tightly, and Lancelot waits for Merlin to calm down a little, staying as still as possible until the other man relaxes some:

“-We’re here, Iseldir is on his way to meet us, ok?-”

Merlin tenses, and Lancelot eyes the flowers growing on the floor behind the horse with a regretful mistrust, not continuing to speak until they stop:

“-We should dismount, let the horse graze for a little. Is that alright?”

Merlin doesn’t answer, just slips off the horse quickly and wanders towards the stream where he stares at the water like it’s the most boring thing in the world. Lance removes the packs from the horse, figuring he can just carry them to the camp to make the last bit of her journey a little easier; he throws a concerned glance Merlin’s way, but decides against saying anything. He may not be taking anything anymore, but any sort of emotion has his magic acting up, and any sort of stress has him rubbing his knuckles and twitching his head like it’s as necessary as breathing.

Thankfully Iseldir isn’t long, and he emerges from the trees a few minutes later, led by the freckled boy. He looks tired, worried, even more so when Merlin doesn’t react to his presence. Lancelot approaches him with a smile on his face, refusing to stop the bloom of gratitude growing in his lungs at finally having someone who actually knows what they’re doing on side. The two of them, fuelled by a desire to help their friend/Lord, greet each other with a brief, though tight hug, despite not knowing each other all that well. With a hand still on the knight’s shoulder, the Druid turns to the boy and speaks quietly:

“Thank you, Tommy, head back home and help with the set up of our guests’ quarters.”

The boy, Tommy, nods, giving Lancelot a shy smile and Merlin a worried glance before running back through the trees again. Iseldir once again turns his gaze to Lancelot, his eyes stopping momentarily on Merlin, who still stands at the stream’s edge with a blank look on his face, and now with tightly clenched fists:

“Come, we have already set up for you a small living area tent, we can speak in there whilst your sleeping quarters are being set up.”

Lancelot smiles and nods:

“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble, we would’ve been fine with one room between us.”

Iseldir shakes his head but returns the smile:

“Nonsense, the two of you are honoured guests here for medical treatment. We have the space, and considering the length of time you’re likely to be here, it will be beneficial for you to be able to spread out a little. Come.”

He steps to the side and gestures to the path leading back to the camp, looking between Merlin’s turned back and the knight worriedly. Lancelot gets the hint, giving the Druid a smile before walking noisily to his friend’s side, not wanting to startle him. He clears his throat, and though Merlin’s head twitches in his direction, he doesn’t look away from the stream. Lance takes one of his hands softly in his own, prying Merlin’s nails form his palm and stroking he back of his hand with gentle fingers:

“Iseldir’s going to show us where we’re staying, Merlin, it’s time to go.”

Merlin takes a deep breath, and Lancelot glances down to the stream when he notices the water begin to flow just a touch faster that it should be. Iseldir watches with a scholarly, though still worried, curiosity, and Lancelot supposes seeing it happen might be the best way for him to gain a better understanding of what’s wrong. Merlin shakes his head, his voice coming out cracked and quiet after several months of rare use:

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. We... I... I shouldn’t have come here.”

Lancelot holds in his sigh (and his tears) and steps in front of Merlin. He takes the Warlock’s other hand as well as he teeters on the edge of the stream, trusting that even in this state, Merlin wouldn’t let him fall in. He waits until the servant looks up at him with tired, dull eyes before he speaks:

“You haven’t hurt anyone yet, and you’re not going to. They’re going to help us, ok? And then, if you want, we can go home, and you won’t have to be scared anymore. You remember how much you used to love your magic?-”

He leans their foreheads together when Merlin’s eyes fill with tears and the stream grows high enough to wet the knight’s heels. Lance waits for him to nod slightly and squeeze his hand before continuing, his voice only just loud enough from Iseldir to hear, even from only a few feet away:

“-We’re going to get you there again, I promise, but you need to work with us. No hiding away, no trying to deal with this on your own. We just want to help, Merlin, will you let us?-”

Merlin only hesitates for a moment, glancing to Iseldir quickly and taking a deep breath when he sees the older man’s encouraging smile before nodding again:

“Please.”

Lancelot smiles at him and returns his nod, grateful to feel the stream settling again:

“We can stay out here for another night or two, if you need time before we get started?”

Merlin shakes his head quickly, pulling away from the knight and stepping back. He takes a deep breath and wipes his face clean with a slight twitch of his head before looking back up to the other man:

“No. I want to just... get better and go home.”

Lancelot nods with a proud smile and walks over to where he dropped the packs, slinging them over his shoulders and offering the horse’s reins to Merlin, knowing that proximity to animals calms and distracts him. The Warlock takes them wordlessly, following behind Iseldir and Lancelot as nervous clouds gather overhead. It’s such a subtle change from the trees’ shade that Lancelot doesn’t notice, but Iseldir does, able to feel the power and fear rolling off Merlin in waves large enough to capsize ships. He doesn’t draw attention to it, just sends his own magic out in calming trickles, hoping that it’ll be familiar and comforting to his Lord. The clouds dissipate a little, and the Druid comes to the quick conclusion that perhaps forcing Emrys to spend almost a decade in a Kingdom where the only place the world’s magic could hide was in amongst his soul, was not the kindest idea.

He imagines that the constant fear and knowledge that almost all of his relationships are conditional on the fact that people never know who he truly is is rather draining as well. He keeps his sigh to himself as he enters the camp, grateful that everyone paid mind to his previous request that the three of them be ignored when they arrive. Tommy is the only one to approach them, and even then it’s only to take the horse from Merlin so she can be fed and untacked. Merlin hands her over with no preamble, giving the boy a short smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. It barely even reaches his cheeks, but Tommy doesn’t say anything, just nods and smiles at the Warlock’s murmured “thank you.”

The three men quickly come to two conjoined tents on the opposite side of the camp; one has people ferrying in and out, carrying blankets and pillows and chests. Someone comes to take the packs off Lancelot with a smile, and they get put into that tent as well. The other one stands empty of people. 

They enter, and Lancelot gazes around in wonder as the warmth hits him; a small wood burner sits in one corner, heating the entire room nicely, a table large enough for at least six people to sit at is pushed to one side, and the other side of the tent is covered in blankets and pillows and rugs. There are also various large chests that are, unknown to Lancelot and Merlin, filled with books and tomes—on both magical and non magical subjects, fiction and non-fiction—writing equipment, spare clothes and bedding, anything they could possibly need for the duration of their stay. It looks... cosy, and Lancelot has a feeling that they’ll be spending a lot of time in here; he’s incredibly grateful that Iseldir insisted on giving them so much space.

At the Druid’s gesture, the three of them settle on the blankets. His eyes flash golden as he mumbles a few words, summoning a glowing light above their heads; it’s gentle and warm, though Merlin seems to shy away from it. Lancelot frowns slightly, but doesn’t let Merlin see as he looks to Iseldir expectantly, hopefully, his eyes wide and somehow also pleading. The older man gives him a soft smile, and asks quietly for a more in depth explanation of the last few month’s issues.

~

Merlin and Lancelot settle in quickly, though it’s not until two weeks into their stay that Lancelot wakes in a panic because he hasn’t sent a letter back home yet, not even to confirm their arrival. It’s an hour or so after dawn and he can vaguely hear the camp around them bustling with a simple business, but Merlin is still asleep, as expected, curled in a foetal position under a heavy pile of furs, so he shuffles into the next room quietly.

He’d bought paper with him, thankfully, and Iseldir had shown them the box of writing equipment on their first day (and told him how to call for one of the camp’s messenger birds), so he’s quick to settle at the table and begin writing. He debates how honest to be, but decides that, in the end, their friends deserved the truth. In all honesty anyway, not much had happened yet. Iseldir had seemed reluctant to begin playing around with Merlin’s magic until he had gained some weight and energy, so their time is mostly filled with easy chores and slow walks through the forest. When Merlin isn’t sleeping, that is.

Just as Lance finishes signing his name, Merlin stumbles into the room, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders despite the warm temperature. Lancelot thinks that maybe it’s the weight that’s comforting, more than the actual warmth. The knight sends him a smile, which Merlin nods briefly at (an improvement, considering even a week ago Merlin would’ve just ignored him, or sent him a fake smile, which is so much worse), before he waves the paper at him:

“I’ve just finished a letter for home, would you like to read it and add or change anything?”

Merlin looks a bit frightened at that and takes a step back, but before Lancelot can even frown in confusion, he shuts his eyes and shakes his head slightly, like he was getting rid of a thought. He tenses his jaw but steps back forwards and takes the letter in a shaking hand. His eyes scan over it quickly, his brow furrowed, but he nods once he reaches the end, leaning over to rest the paper on the table as he holds his hand out for the quill. Lance hands it over wordlessly, but with a smile that grows when Merlin crosses out the “me” to write “us” and scribbles his own name at the end.

The two of them get dressed in silence before heading out into the camp towards the birds’ perch, the letter, rolled up and tied, clutched in Merlin’s hand.

~

Camelot:

Gaius advises against everyone writing their own letters, insisting that, given Merlin’s state emotionally, it would almost certainly overwhelm him; they didn’t want to make him feel guilty or overload him with too much information from too many sources. Elyan puts up a bit of a fuss, but is quickly put in his place by his sister’s fierce glare.

In the end, they all sit at the round table as Morgana writes, reading her cursive aloud after every sentence and making amendments and additions as and when the others request it. Arthur contributes only once an dis mostly silent, but smiles ever so faintly at Gwaine’s amusing suggestions and is the first to jump up to sign his name at the end of the finished product.

It’s not too long, an extra paragraph or two compared to Lance’s letter, but it sends all of their love and support, reiterating that they can take as much time as they need despite them all being excited for their eventual return. Morgana and Guinevere add in a little of the castle gossip, so they don’t feel too left out, and Leon tells them of the new recruits. Gwaine and Elyan promise to drink the letter recipients’ share of ale at the tavern, Percival promises to not let that happen, and Gaius promises to look after them all properly. Arthur says the castle feels a little empty without them (though the whole group knows that what he means is his room feels empty without Merlin), but promises to keep their spaces open, promises that they will always have a home here.

Writing the response seems to make everyone happier than receiving the initial letter, and they all rush up to Arthur’s chamber—where Laurel the bird had been left perched on the back of his desk chair—to send it off out The King’s window.

They all hang around for a few minutes, and the silence is tense. Arthur was right, it feels empty without the other two men. When they’re all on their own it’s not so bad, but when they’re all gathered together, each one of them is gripped by the feeling of something being wrong. Something being missing. The overwhelming notion in the back of their minds that they are waiting for something. For the other two men to arrive, they suppose, though they have to push the thought from their minds, because they won’t be back for a long time. 

Eventually, everyone bar Morgana leaves, though Arthur had half expected that; the two of them have been spending a lot of time together. Arthur however, is slowly growing sick of the looks his sister keeps sending him, a condescending mix of desperation and pity, with just a splash of blame that he doesn’t think she realises is even there. He doesn’t turn from the window, knowing that she’s staring at his back behind him:

“Do you think you’ll ever tell us the truth?”

Morgana sighs and Arthur clenches his jaw, forcing himself to keep from looking:

“We will, you just have to be patient, Arthur. I... I’m sorry, I swear, if I’d realised what was wrong I would’ve pushed for him to get help sooner. I didn’t know-”

Arthur huffs quietly and interrupts her:

“But you do know, don’t you? And you were once sick with... whatever this is, and no one knew? No one but Merlin and Gaius and Lancelot?”

He can almost feel Morgana frown at the back of his head as she replies:

“I... yes. though Lancelot didn’t know until much later, he wasn’t in the city when I was... sick. You also have to bear in mind that I was no where near as sick as Merlin, not by a long shot. I only needed a few days’ worth of help before I got better. You... you know how I used to suffer from constant night terrors?-”

Arthur finally turns to her at that, a confused frown on his face that dawns into realisation. He nods slowly and Morgana gives him a short, tight smile:

“That was sort of connected, a little. I never stopped getting night terrors, Arthur, I just got better at... dealing with them, understanding them. I guarantee Merlin suffers from night terrors, and that’s why he started taking those draughts. They just... didn’t help, made it worse alongside the rest of his illness. He’ll get better, I promise. I did.”

Arthur’s frown falls into something a little softer, just as he himself falls into Morgana’s offered hug. They only hold each other for a few moments before parting, but The King mutters a quiet apology for his earlier... terseness, and Morgana smiles at him forgivingly and walks softly from the room, leaving Arthur with his too full mind and too empty chambers.

~

The world keeps spinning, though slowly now; Arthur feels almost like the world might have stopped, frozen in place. Maybe it’s because he feels as though Merlin should never be gone from his side for more than a moment, so every moment that he is gone is stretched into an eternity. Maybe it’s because there are a hundred instances in each day when he is reminded all over again of his absence; it’s like time keeps resetting, and nothing he does between realisations is real, or worth anything.

Of course he knows he can’t think like that, but it’s as if he’s not even in his own body. Arthur had withdrawn so far into his own mind, only emerging a little when with the others, that he’s almost sitting as an audience member to a production of his own life, and someone else is playing King Arthur. A few council members have picked up on his odd moroseness, and indeed on the Lady Morgana’s and a few of the knights’ as well, but other than some castle gossip and conjecture about The King’s missing manservant and knight, nothing is ever brought up to them. They are still performing adequately, so no one really... cares.

The group is honestly comforted by that. Partly because they don’t want to out Merlin’s issues, but mostly because they know it wouldn’t be taken seriously, he’s only a servant after all, and they aren’t in the mood to explain why he’s so important to them.

When the second letter comes two and a half weeks after the first, Arthur doesn’t summon the others for several hours; he’s too busy struggling to get past the first few lines without furiously breaking something or numbly falling out of his own mind or sobbing uncontrollably. When he does finally call for them, they gather in his chambers instead of the round table room. They all stare uneasily as The King hands the letter over to Gaius with shaking hands, not even attempting to hide the broken mirror or the tears on his cheeks or the forced blankness of his face.

Gaius takes the letter with nervous, but steady hands, clearing his throat before beginning to read:

Everyone,

I know I said I’d try to send a letter a week, so I apologise once again for the long wait, but things took a turn for the worst and I didn’t have time to write. Merlin seemed to get a lot more sick all of a sudden—the worst he’s been yet—once he gained some energy back. This will be incredibly difficult to read, but I swore I would tell you as much of the truth as possible, so prepare yourselves. At the beginning of last week, Merlin atte-

Gaius stops reading, his breath hitching and tears slipping down his cheeks as his eyes automatically skip ahead by a few words. His hands begin shaking even worse than Arthur’s, and he shuts his eyes as he lowers the letter, a short, quiet sob escaping his mouth as he mutters “My poor boy,”. Arthur doesn’t react at all, bar the fresh tears that escape his eyes. 

Everyone looks to the two of them in a sort of panicked haze, but Morgana is the one to step forward and gently take the letter from the Physician’s hands. She scans ahead in the writing, gulping and failing at blinking away the tears before she clears her throat and starts reading aloud, her voice shaking and quiet. Despite that, the words seem to echo around the room:

At the beginning of last week, Merlin... Merlin attempted to end his own life.

The group’s reaction is instantaneous and explosive.

Gwaine whips around with a loud curse, violently kicking a chair across the room like Lancelot had all those weeks ago. He bends at the waist and leans his hands on his knees as he breathes deeply in an attempt to stop the tears. It doesn’t work. 

Elyan and Gwen fall into each other almost automatically, and whilst Elyan’s face remains blank, bar the tears, Gwen’s expression crumples as she covers her mouth with her hands and turns into her brother’s chest. He distractedly wraps an arm around her, but otherwise doesn’t move, staring at Morgana as if she’d told them the world had ended. In a way, she had.

Leon collapses back into a chair, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands as he stares at the floor. He’s usually so... well put together, so calm, if the others weren’t already so wrecked by Lancelot’s letter, they certainly would have been wrecked by the way he, the strongest of them all, falls apart so quickly. Later on, Elyan, Gwaine, and Percival, will casually realise that Leon is part of the group who’ve known Merlin since the very beginning, and they wonder what it’s like, to be told that your baby brother has attempted to end his own life, and to know that partially, it was your fault.

Percival paces away slightly, turning towards the wall in perhaps an attempt to hide his horror as he wipes a hand down his exhausted face. After another few steps, he finds himself in front of Gwaine, a hand strong on his back as the other man leans his head into his stomach. He wonders how much more often he will need to drag Gwaine from the tavern, he wonders if perhaps he’ll end up losing two friends in one fell swoop.

Morgana gives them a few moments, waiting for them all to at least glance at her before she clears her throat again and continues:

We found him quickly, just in time, but he was completely out of it which proved useful to us because we could move and treat him quickly and efficiently; that’s not to mean it was an accident and he was unaware, it was definitely deliberate. Physically, he’s healing just fine, though he’s back to sleeping a lot again now. The healers, though disheartened, seem almost as if they expected this to happen. The leader here explained to me yesterday that it’s almost as if the more energy Merlin has, the more energy his sickness has as well, and this first hurdle will be the hardest to get over. Once we get there, it should be much simpler, much easier, but getting him to a place where he can successfully heal, fully and properly, will be difficult.

I’m still being taught about healing, though only in bits and pieces when there’s someone else available to watch Merlin. He’s not to be left alone. If he succeeds in his second attempt to overcome this first hurdle—and in the moments he’s awake he seems like he wants to—then it’s likely we’ll be home around the end of Winter. I’d hoped to be home for Autumn, I know Merlin wanted to celebrate Samhain with his mother this year, but I don’t think that will be possible. Hopefully we’ll be around for the start of Spring.

Gwaine, stop drinking so much. Leon, lay off the new recruits, I promise they’re trying. Elyan, Gwen, look after each other, you both have a habit of overworking yourselves. Lady Morgana, stay calm, do not fall down Merlin’s path, remember what they taught you. Percival, I know you’ll be looking after everyone else, you mother hen, but check in with yourself as well. None of this was mentioned in your letter, I just like to think I know you all well enough. Let me know if I hit the mark. Gaius, I can tell Merlin misses you. Before the incident, and in the last two days or so now he’s beginning to go outside again, he occasionally finds himself picking herbs as if he has somewhere specific to deliver them to. I think going through the motions, picking, tying, hanging, packaging, helps calm him, and the healers are always happy to take them. Which Merlin is... not pleased, but satisfied with.

Arthur, Gods know how you’re reacting to all of this. You’re either behaving like Leon, but worse, in which case stop being such an arse to everyone (it feels safe to say that, now that I’m several days’ journey away) or you’re behaving like Percival, and trying to look after everyone. Remember, you are not just a King, you are a man also. Do not blame yourselves, any of you, there was nothing to be done. 

I’ll try to write again soon,

Lancelot

Merlin’s signature is missing from the end of this letter, and the gap on the page feels almost as painful as the gap in their lives.

Morgana sits next to Leon at the table, taking her friend’s hand in her own in an attempt to comfort both herself and him. eventually, everyone else follows them, though Elyan and Gwen push their chairs together and Gwaine keeps his face pressed into Percival’s shoulder. Arthur is the first to break the heavy silence, wiping a hand down his face and clearing his throat, though it does nothing to disguise the croaky-ness:

“Lancelot mentioned Merlin’s mother. I didn’t think to... has she been... informed?”

Gaius answers softly and Morgana gives the physician her other hand; Merlin may be their friend, their anchor, but he was Gaius’ son:

“I wrote to her some weeks ago, explaining that Merlin is sick and would be leaving Camelot for some time, that he would be unreachable and if she wanted to pass anything on she needed to send it to me first. I believe her intention is to travel here and stay with me until Merlin returns, once Ealdor’s summer farming preparations are made. If I had... explained the true severity, she would have come immediately, but I did not want her to panic.”

Arthur nods absent-mindedly, and the silence falls again as he stands and makes his way to the chambers’ entrance. Morgana stares after him, frowning as she considers that her brother may be so desperate to be alone that he abandons his own chambers just to be rid of company, but he simply sticks his head out the door and murmurs quietly to a guard before coming back in. Next, he goes to a large storage cupboard, the one he knows Merlin uses for spare bedding, carefully avoiding the broken glass from the destroyed mirror as he goes, and pulls out the remaining blankets. He grabs the big one from his bed as well.

He drapes one of them over Gwen and Elyan, and though the knight still stares at the table blankly, Gwen gives him a small smile in thanks. The other blankets go over Gaius, and Percival and Gwaine, and the biggest of the three goes over himself, Leon, and Morgana. Though of the two of them, Morgana is technically the oldest, she and Arthur are so close in age that neither of them had ever really played The Older Sibling in their relationship; Leon had slotted himself into that space when they were children and he was a squire, and had stayed there throughout their lives. It’s no wonder that the two of them gravitate to him.

Arthur speaks again once he’s sat comfortably, his hand clutched tightly in Leon’s and Morgana’s under the blanket. His voice is quiet, and monotone, and Morgana squeezes their hands:

“Food is on its way, just some simple bits and pieces. You’re all more than welcome to stay here for the night, we can fit at least four in my bed and another three in the antechamber. Or you can sit in the chairs or on the floor in front of the hearth; anywhere you want, really.”

No one responds, but when the food—bread and cheese and ham, like Arthur said, simple, easy to stomach—has come and gone again, no one leaves. Gaius gets the comfiest of the chairs, warmed by the hearth, and Gwaine and Percival settle on a pile of blankets and pillows below him. Arthur, Leon, and Morgana stay in their huddle, but move it to Arthur’s bed instead, and Gwen and Elyan squeeze themselves in the space at their feet. No one mentions that no one goes into the antechamber, but they all know it’s because they don’t want to be far from each other, not tonight. It’s wordlessly decided that they’ll write a reply in the morning.

As he drifts off, Arthur finds himself feeling guilty that the second to eighth most important people in his life still don’t amount to even half of the comfort that the first most important person could’ve provided... if he had been here, instead of days away, suffering so much that the only way he sees out is death. 

When he has nightmares of Merlin, bloody and lifeless and pointing a finger his way, Leon wakes him with a hand through his hair and a kiss where his crown normally sits on his forehead, sending him to sleep again, just a little less fitfully than before.

~

The Camp:

Lancelot is worried.

He hasn’t been unworried for quite some time, but the panic squeezing his chest is getting more... insistent. He’d thought Merlin was getting better, and he had been, he was sure of it. They still hadn’t messed with his magic, but he’s eating more, sleeping more but with fewer nightmares, moving around more when he’s awake. He isn’t smiling, but he isn’t faking smiles either and he isn’t shaking when presented with other people’s emotions or conversation, just his own.

But he just looks... lost in his head. Like he’s still taking something, but Lancelot and Iseldir know he isn’t; he’s never alone, he doesn’t have the chance to take anything, not even when Lance is asleep. His movements become routine, automatic, his voice is low and monotone, his eyes stare at nothing. Or, Lance thinks, it’s more like he’s staring at something only he can see, peering through this realm into something... other, something he feels he can never glance away from.

The knight asks him one day, whilst the Warlock collects herbs and he skips stones across a small pond under the sun:

“What do you think about, Merlin? When you’re being quiet?”

Merlin doesn’t look up from the spread of chamomile blooms at his feet, though like usual, it doesn’t seem as though he’s really seeing them:

“I’m always quiet.”

His voice is soft, but empty, and Lancelot finds himself missing the servant’s old boisterous chaos once again:

“Well what are you always thinking about then? You always look like you’re... I don’t know, seeing something that no one else can see.”

Merlin pauses in his movement, moving to sit cross legged on the sun-dried grass, careful not to crush any of the flowers as he finally looks up at the other man. They make eye contact, and for a split second, Lance can see the recognition in his blue eyes before it’s gone again, and he goes back to feeling like a ghost among the living. Or maybe it’s Merlin that’s the ghost?

“The universe. It’s so... big, and cold, and empty. It feels like I could float for a thousand years and never come across another living soul, it’s... nice. And if you look close enough, you can see the strings that make it all up, that give it substance, that make existence... exist. And if you pull them, things come undone. It’s... odd, making things not exist. Have you not noticed the stars going out?”

Merlin’s eyes come back into focus again, and his blank gaze pierces straight through Lancelot. The knight frowns slightly, but tempers his panic as he tries to force himself to comprehend Merlin’s meaning:

“What do you mean, going out?”

Merlin tilts his head. But it’s the slight upwards twitch of his lip that catches Lancelot’s eye. He doesn’t react, just waits tensely for Merlin to answer:

“I’ve been pulling strings, extinguishing stars. Nothing too close to us, nothing that would change maps or time or the axis, just... far away lights. It uses up energy. I dream of an empty sky now, it’s... scary, but less scary than a sky full of smoke.”

As he says smoke, a brisk wind whips through the clearing, sending aggressive ripples across Lance’s pond and Merlin’s flowers; the moment the knight shivers, Merlin’s eyes lose their focus again, and the wind stops as quick as it had started. The sliver of gold in the Warlock’s eyes fades, and Lancelot is sure he can see cold stars reflected in his pupils.

Lancelot looks up to the harsh noon sun as he decides to push aside whatever the hell Merlin meant about time or axis, stepping towards the other man carefully:

“It’s getting late, we should head back so we can help with lunch.”

“So I can talk to Iseldir and stop myself from becoming scared of you” goes unsaid, and Lancelot prays to every God he knows the name of that Merlin can’t see it written out in his strings.

~

Iseldir explains that using up as much of his energy as possible is not a healthy way for Merlin to solve the problem. That doing so in such a colossal, cosmic way, is even less healthy.

Lancelot sits besides his friend, eyeing his tensing hands as the Warlock stares into his lap with a blank look that somehow seems closer to a scowl:

“What do you expect me to do? I tried holding it in and it almost killed me. I let it do what it wants and it kills someone else. I...-”

His eyes fill with tears and a loud crash of thunder shocks the other two men. Iseldir manages to keep his gaze on Merlin, but Lancelot looks nervously to the tent flap as rain beings thrashing the fabric. Ten seconds ago they had been sheltering from the summer heat and heavy sun, now they’re sheltering from a thunderstorm of rather epic proportions:

“-I thought my mag... I though it was meant to be a gift, but there’s just... it’s too much. It’s...-”

He looks up, tears on his cheeks but his eyes stormy and angry and golden:

“-It’s like your blood being poisonous. Imagine your blood was poisonous, deadly, to everything but you, it kills everything it touches but you. But not just people, trees and animals and flowers as well. Except not even just that, a drop of your blood gets on a brick, and the whole house will crumble. A drop of blood escapes your body, and everyone within a mile of you chokes. That sounds fine, right? Annoying, inconvenient, but easy to deal with. You just make sure not to bleed, you be careful, you don’t go near anything sharp. Except now imagine you have chronic nosebleeds, and ear bleeds. Sometimes you cry blood and there’s always blood in your mouth and blood in your sweat. Sometimes your hands just randomly start seeping blood from between layers of skin. How do you deal with that? You bleed yourself, you lose as much blood as possible without dying so maybe it stops dripping from your nose and your eyes and your hands.-”

Merlin gets up angrily and paces away. Lancelot and Iseldir share a nervous look as a gale force wind almost rips the tent from the ground, but suddenly, Merlin stops. He faces away from the them, the storm outside settling to a light, summer shower as the Warlock sags in place, staring at the floor:

“-I am scared. What do you expect me to do?”

Lancelot takes in a lungful of bravery, approaching Merlin slowly and wrapping his arms around him from behind, resting his forehead softly against the nape of his neck, his lips brushing over the other man’s skin as he speaks:

“Stop trying to solve this on your own. Right now, we’re gaining strength, then we’ll work on controlling your magic, then we’ll work on getting you feeling better, and then we can go home. Ok? You don’t have to solve this on your own, Merlin.”

Iseldir quietly leaves the tent after sending a few waves of his own magic to the other two men, wanting to assess any damage outside and get it fixed before Merlin sees; Gods know that the Warlock doesn’t need any more guilt right now.

Lancelot stays wrapped around Merlin for a long time, until the rain outside stops completely and Merlin has cried away the gold in his eyes. The Warlock pries the knight’s hands from his waist softly, turning around to press his cheek to Lance’s shoulder apologetically, only for a moment, before he walks into the other tent to ready himself for sleep. He climbs into the bed without another glance in the other man’s direction, and Lancelot shortly follows him, falling into a shallow and fitful sleep within minutes. 

That night, he dreams of a sky without stars.

~

When Lancelot wakes the next morning, the sun is back, but Merlin is gone. He worries a little, but Merlin has been spending more and more time out of the tent; him waking up early and leaving without Lancelot is... unusual, but not impossible.

The knight, though he’s feeling less and less like a knight with every passing day, and more like a healer’s apprentice (they’ve only been here about three weeks, but time moves slowly in such a place), dresses slowly, forcing himself to take his time. He needs to show Merlin that he’s trusted, that he’s not being babysat; if Lance goes running after him the moment he’s out of sight, he’ll begin resenting everyone.

Lancelot hasn’t worn his armour in ages, not carried any weapon larger than a small dagger hidden up his sleeve for even longer, and he’d grown out of the habit of paranoidly checking his belongings every morning. His armour and weapons had meant a lot to him back in Camelot, they were a show of everything he’d earned, everything he’d fought for (almost everything), but out here they mean very little. That isn’t a bad thing, it just... is. It’s sort of pleasant actually, to be worried about memorising herb remedies, among other things, instead of the most efficient way to kill someone.

He stretches his arms above his head as he emerges into the sun, allowing his eyes to rove over the camp, bustling around him. He catches Iseldir’s eyes from across a sparse crowd, tilting his head in question. The Druid frowns, eyes flicking around the camp like Lancelot’s had moments earlier, though his is in a distinctly more troubled manner. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for, Iseldir makes his way to Lancelot quickly, and the knight meets him in the middle, seeing the other man’s worry easily:

“What is it?”

Iseldir keeps his voice quiet as he responds, but he speaks quickly, eyes still darting around the camp:

“I thought Merlin was still inside, no one’s seen him leave your tent yet today.”

Lancelot immediately picks up on the gravity of the situation:

“Well, he definitely went to bed, but I fell asleep quickly. Normally I’m a light sleeper, but Merlin’s good at sneaking, he could’ve left without me waking. Can’t you... feel him?”

Iseldir shakes his head, mentally summoning a few of the camp’s healers, the ones who had been put on hold until Merlin was ready to get more serious about getting to grips with his magic. He quickly sends them out searching, subtly, not wanting to panic anyone, especially Merlin:

“No. He’s powerful enough to hide himself if he wants to. After living in Camelot for ten years, he likely does it without even realising when he wants to be alone. Were his things missing?”

Lance frowns but shakes his head hesitatingly, before quickly making his way back to the tent, Iseldir hot on his heels:

“Not that I noticed, but I didn’t look.”

The knight quickly makes his way to Merlin’s neatly stacked belongings, looking through them quickly before standing again:

“No, everything’s here. What are you-”

Iseldir turns from where he’d been rummaging in Lancelot’s chest, gripping an empty dagger sheath in his hand:

“Are you carrying this? Or keeping it anywhere else?”

Lancelot pales, the colour draining from his face as quick as lightening; he looks from the empty sheath to Iseldir’s grave face:

“No, I... no. That should be there, I haven’t moved it since I put it away. Why would he...-”

Lancelot’s expression falls even further and he wipes a hand down his face as he paces. He freezes, rushing out of the tent once more, again with Iseldir following closely behind, the empty sheath abandoned on the floor by the beds:

“-Fuck. Where would he go?”

Iseldir grips Lancelot’s shoulders and forces him to turn around and look him in the eyes:

“You know him best. You spend a lot of time in the Northern section of the forest, and the pond clearing towards the East, are those our best bets?”

Lancelot nods quickly running a hand through his hair as his mind fills with horror after horror. His breathing comes fast and deep, and he only manages to focus his thoughts again when Iseldir shakes his shoulders and harshly asks “Which?”. He blinks rapidly before forcing his mind to turn away from the panic:

“Uh... the pond.”

Neither of them wait for even a second longer, rushing off towards the rising sun with a gut-tearing sense of urgency. Iseldir drops a mental message to the searchers, telling a few of them to check the forest just in case, and telling the others to meet them back in camp. Merlin might be... injured.

The moment they break the treeline, it’s like a spell shatters. The metallic scent of blood almost knocks them from their feet, and their eyes are drawn to the pitch black streaks under the grass. They stretch across the ground like poisoned veins, and when their desperate gazes follow them to their epicentre, they see Merlin.

He lies pale, and still, and bloody in the centre of the field, blood dripping now sluggishly, pulled by nothing but gravity and pushed by not even a heartbeat, into the dirt around him. His eyes stare unseeingly to the sky, his glassy skin seems stretched thin, and the world around him, this previously vibrant clearing, seems toxic and defiled. Lancelot’s horrified mind unhelpfully reminds him of Merlin’s metaphor from last night, and his last coherent thought before Merlin’s corpse becomes the only thing he can focus on, is that his friend’s poisonous blood is contaminating the ground he’s standing on and the air he’s breathing and the tree he’s leaning on for support.

~

END of part 3!!!

Sorry not sorry :D

Part 4 WILL be looking up!!! I know I keep promising that the next part will be happier, but I actually mean it this time😅 

The way the timeline jumps around means we know that Merlin recovers from this, and maybe that makes it less dramatic in the end, but I also think I like the tension of finding out what happened through a letter written after the fact, and then going back to the beginning to see it happen in real time. Plus I’m a fan of the whole... writing the same scene from two different perspectives trope so... this sort of does that I suppose.

Anyway. I hope y’all are enjoying it so far, and are looking forward to the next part!!

I love y’all!!

[asciendo]

Your Eyes Tell

You break up with Zuko when Ozai threatens his life if you continue with your relationship. But when you find out Ozai sends an assassin to kill him when he leaves to join team Avatar, you leave the Fire Nation to save him despite knowing how much you hurt him. 

It's been two months since you broke up with Zuko and now he's gone.

You heard from your father that Zuko switched sides and joined the Avatar. You tried to hide your concern at the dinner table as your father broke the news to your family. Your mother gave you a worried look as she always had suspicions about your relationship with the Prince.

"Ozai is furious. I don't think he's going to give Zuko another chance after this." Your father stated as you continued to fiddle with your hands. "That's his son. I don't think...do you think he'd go that far?" Your mother questioned. "I don't know...you saw what he did to Zuko after he questioned him..." Your father sighed. You tried to remain calm but you felt like your heart was beating out of your chest.

Your father was a high ranking general and was a close confidant of Ozai. Although, lately you could tell he's been questioning Ozai's methods after seeing the destruction and death he's been laying upon the other nations. Your father was loyal to the Fire Nation would do anything to protect its people, but you'd overhear him and your mother talking about how he was worried about Ozai's methods.

"He's sending an assassin after Zuko." Your gaze shot up, "WHAT?!" You blurted out. "A-are you sure?" Your mother asked and your dad nodded. "He's sending the combustion mad." You froze. He was known to be one of the most ruthless assassins in the Fire Nation. He was known to master a rare style of fire bending that allows him to trigger explosions from a tattoo on his forehead. "I'm not feeling well...can I go to my room?" You asked and your father nodded leaving your mother with a concerned look in her eyes as you left.

As soon as you entered your room you fell to the floor and cried. You hated this. You hated yourself for breaking up with Zuko but you had no choice.

It was two months ago and you were walking around the palace. Thanks to your father's close relationship with the Fire Lord, you spent your whole life within the palace walls. You grew up with Azula and Zuko and your families were close as well. It wasn't until Zuko returned from his banishment that the both of you began your relationship but decided to keep it a secret as he still had a lot to prove to his father. Zuko wanted to prove he was focused and determined and if Ozai found out he was seeing you, Zuko would be right back where he started before leaving to capture the Avatar.

Unfortunately, your fears came true and Ozai discovered your secret relationship. You were on your way home after sneaking into Zuko's room and as you made your way to the throne room until you heard voices. You recognized one to be Ozai's and the other Azula's.

"Your brother appears to be distracted these days." Ozai's voice boomed throughout the room. " Well it's because he's with his little girlfriend most of the time." Azula replied

"Girlfriend?!" Ozai fires back and you gulp. "Yes, your favorite general's daughter." There was a hint of disgust in Azula's voice which made your blood boil. Despite being "friends" with Azula, it was obvious she looked down on you along with Mai and Tai Lee.

"First, Zuko questions me, now he's frolicking with that girl instead of focusing on his duties as Fire Prince." Ozai growls and you heard his footsteps walk back and forth as he paced around his throne. "He has to be taught a lesson that boy."

"I couldn't agree more, father." You could almost see the smirk on Azula's face at the tone of her voice. "I wonder...does Zuko really need his other eye?" Your heart dropped. His father was about to punish Zuko again...because of you. Your memory shot back to the moment Ozai burned Zuko's face in their Agni Kai. You remember burying your face in your hands while trying to shut out Zuko's screams. .

"Bring him here." Ozai commanded. You don't know what came over you, but you found yourself running into the throne room.

Azula and Ozai both stared at you and Azula chuckled. "Don't hurt him." You were surprised at your own voice coming out. "And why shouldn't I? He's being careless and has to be taught a lesson."

"I'll end it." Your voice shook as you were being stared down by the two of them. "Would that even do anything?" Azula rolled her eyes as she lazily observed her fingers.

"It will. You'll see...it was my idea to start a relationship. Not his. If you're going to punish someone...punish me." Azula raised an eyebrow at your suggestion and looked towards Ozai who began to think.

"Not necessary." Ozai stated and Azula frowned. "Your father is an important ally of mine, wouldn't want to upset him."

The room fell silent as the three of you stared at one another. "I suppose...if you end your relationship with my son...that will do for now." Your shoulders dropped in relief.

"But, I don't care if you're together or not, if he upsets me in any way again I won't hold back." Ozai turned his back and left the room. Azula smirked at you and followed him out.

You were lying in bed that night and couldn't sleep. Your mind was racing with thoughts of Zuko and how you were going to end it. You heard the window open and the sound of familiar footsteps making its way to your bed.

Before Zuko could slip in next to you, you immediately turned away from him.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he chuckled but you refused to answer.

"I don't need you anymore." You spat out and he stammered back. "What do you mean you don't need me anymore?!"

You buried your head in your covers, trying not to look at him. "I mean, I don't need you anymore, Zuko. I'm done."

"Done?! W-what do you mean done—did something happen?" you heard his footsteps come over to your side of the bed and you huffed.

He lifted the covers over your face and you had no choice but to look at him.

Zuko's eyes were a mixture of sadness and confusion and you chocked out a sob. He slowly brought his hands to your face, but you swatted it. Knowing exactly what to say to get him to leave, to leave you for good. "I can't be with a coward." Zuko stumbled back after this. You knew about his never-ending torment about betraying Iroh out of fear of his father. How he barely slept every night thinking about his uncle sitting in his cell, about how he was scared to do the right thing because he would lose his honor in his family again. "W-what?" Zuko was farther from you now, sad eyes staring into your like daggers. You were fighting the urge to break right there, tell him everything you knew about his father's warning, but you had to protect him. "You left Iroh to rot in a cell. You can't even stand up against your father and you're a disgrace to the Fire Nation. What kind of future is that?" You said coldly, biting your tongue to fight back the tears that were fighting to come out. "

"Do you really mean it?" His voice broke and you were dying to apologize to him, to tell him you thought he was so much more than what he thought of himself, that he was one of the few genuinely good people here, but you had to do this to protect him.

"Yes. I hate you, Zuko...I didn't realize it till now but...I'm embarrassed of you. Being with you...makes me hate myself too." You stated, face blank. Zuko's face dropped. You've never seen him like this, so empty, like he lost all the hope he had in the world. You wanted to reach out to him, you did...but he was gone before you could.

You'd see him in State events but never spoke, and the one time he had to greet you out of courtesy it was like he was talking to a stranger.

Now, here you are somewhere in the forest, looking for him. You heard from one of the guards who was loyal to you that combustion man was able to track Team Avatar near the mountains next to the refugee camps. He told you that he got his scent and was close by.

You heard voices and crouched by the bush. You saw a figure by the river and crawled closer to see who it was. It was a girl, probably your age dressed in blue who was doing laundry. This must be the water bender you thought. Mai and Ty Lee would tell you stories about their time chasing the Avatar and reuniting with Zuko.

Deciding to confront her and ask where Zuko was you began to walk towards her. Her shoulders tensed at the sound of footsteps behind. The girl whipped her head around and her eyes grew wide. Before you could speak, she was shooting water in your direction. "HEY!" You dodged, but she kept going. Grunting in frustration, you began shooting fire back at her.

You were fighting for a while now until suddenly, a boomerang was flying next to your head which caused you to duck.

There was a boy in blue running towards you with a smaller girl in green running next to him.

The girl stomped her foot on the ground and rocks in the shape of bars began to form around you but you were able to roll out of the way. The water bender was about to attack once more but then you heard your name being called behind you.

"Y/N?" You froze and your heart dropped. You haven't heard Zuko's voice in so long and you swore you almost crumbled right there. Slowly, you turned around and faced him for the first time in months. "W-what are you doing here?" he asked, and you couldn't answer. The Avatar arrived and the whole group was staring at you.

You couldn't speak. You didn't know what to say to him and time just stopped. Your eyes never left Zuko and he was staring right back at you.

"Who is she?!" The water bender asked as you and Zuko continued to look at each other.

"Y/N." Was all Zuko said which caused everyone to look at one another in confusion except the guy with the boomerang. "Oh...is she the one you were telling me about?" Zuko blushed in embarrassment but walked towards you.

"I'm sorry, I'm lost...who is she?" The Avatar asked.

"Zuko's ex-girlfriend." Boomerang guy attempted to whisper but failed as everyone heard him. The water bender stared at you curiously while the earth bender huffed and stuck up her nose.

"What are you doing here, Y/N?" Zuko was in front of you now and your heartbeat was rising. You missed him. All you wanted was to kiss him right then and there, but you knew whatever you two had was over. Before you could reply, you saw a figure suddenly appear behind Zuko. The rest of the team was too busy waiting what would happen that they didn't notice combustion man's arrival.

Combustion man's eyes turned red and he smirked, the eye in the middle of his head started to glow and you knew he was about to attack.

"LOOK OUT!" You shouted and shoved Zuko to the side before Combustion man could strike.

The rest of the group were on the floor from the explosion except the Avatar who was on a tree.

"WHO IS THAT?!" Boomerang guy yelled above the explosion.

Looking down, you realized you fell on top of Zuko. Your eyes met his and you noticed his expression change to somewhat of realization. He looked like he was putting the pieces of a puzzle together while looking at you and he was frozen. Combustion Man tried to attack Zuko again but you pulled him away.

"WHAT IS HAPPENING?!" Boomerang guy yelled once more. Spotting the boomerang attached to his waist, you created a plan.

"AVATAR!" You yelled and he looked down at you from the tree. "Distract him!" He looked at you with confusion. You realized they didn't trust you yet, still being in your Fire Nation clothes, they still weren't sure what side you were on. "Come on! Do it!" You yelled and he nodded.

"BOOMERANG GUY!" You shouted once more and he looked at you in fear. "When the Avatar has him distracted, throw your boomerang at the eye on his forehead, it will block his chi."

"Why should I listen to you?! You were just attacking my sister!" he yelled back. "GOSH SOKKA JUST DO IT! THIS IS NOT THE TIME!" The earth bender yelled and Sokka jumped back in shock. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!"

The Avatar shot an air ball at Combustion Man which caused him to stumble. While he was caught off guard, Sokka threw his boomerang hitting him directly on the eye.

Combustion Man grunted in pain but suddenly lost control and shot an explosion to the nearby mountain. Suddenly the rocks began to shake and immediately rolled down the mountain and crushed him.

The whole group sighed but Zuko was still looking at you. Suddenly, you felt rock squeeze around your wrists. Looking down, your wrists were bound in handcuffs made of rocks.

"Seriously?! I just saved your lives!" You yelled but the group continued to stare at you. "Yeah, but you were attacking Katara when we got here." The earth bender stated.

"SHE ATTACKED ME FIRST!" But they weren't having it. You looked at Zuko and his expression changed. He looked deep in thought as he stared back at you.

"Come on...just let me go and I'll be out of here." You whispered still looking at him. "We still don't know why you're here. You could be a spy." You rolled your eyes at the small girl.

"If I as a spy I would have let you all be killed by Combustion Man." You stated.

"That makes sense..." Katara nodded slowly but earth bender was still not having it.

"Still. It's risky to let you go, you're coming with us." She announced and began to walk away. Sokka grabbed your elbow and began to lead you behind her.

Zuko wasn't moving for a moment, watching the scene unfold like it was a movie. "Zuko...are you coming?" The Avatar asked. Zuko nodded slowly began to follow.

The earth bender, who you learned was called Toph made you a makeshift cell in their campsite. Rolling your eyes as you watched them enter their tents to go to bed, you sunk down and sat on the ground.

You started to drift off to sleep until you heard the door of your cell open. Slowly opening your eyes, you look up to see Zuko.

Your lips part in surprise as you slowly stand up to stare at him.

"What do you want?" You finally gained the courage to speak to him.

The Zuko in front of you is a different one than the one you left. The broken Zuko. The Zuko you hurt. Now, all you see are his golden eyes pouring into yours, mixed with anger and determination.

"Why are you here?" he asked, his tone was serious.

"Your friends put me in here! I don't wanna stay in this dumb cell—"

"No. Why are you here?!" He almost yelled at you, but he kept his voice low enough so he wouldn't wake the others.

"I don't know what you mean—"

"Bull Shit." Zuko interrupted but moved closer to you. "I don't know what you want me to say—"

"Do you still hate me?" His question caught you off guard. Unlike last time, there was no sadness in his voice, now, it felt like he was challenging you.

"Zuko—"

"Did you come here to protect me? I know you knew about Combustion Man." You looked away, refusing to meet his eyes. You didn't know why you were being so difficult. It wasn't like Ozai or Azula were here. But you felt immense guilt for what you said to him, you didn't deserve him.

"When you broke up with me...there was something else right? You were just saying all of those things to protect me?!" Zuko was angry. He had every right to be, for you to just show up here, and not even telling him the real reason why you came.

"I'm not stupid, alright? I know combustion man is an assassin under my father! I know he was here to kill me...and after everything, you show up out of nowhere...I know you were here for me!" He was yelling now but you refused to budge.

"You made me think all this time you hated me! I thought the person I loved the most in this world hated me! For months I couldn't get you out of my head and it was torture seeing you around the palace looking like you didn't care! And you won't even tell me the real reason why you're here?" You looked at him in shock but still refused to speak and he shouted in frustration.

"Y/N...tell me right now why you're here—"

"Yes. I still hate you." Was all you said. You didn't though. You loved him. You were so proud of him for finally standing up to his father and carving his own destiny, but you didn't want to cause him anymore pain. You wanted him to continue being the man he was meant to be...even without you. You felt like you would bring him down, that you didn't deserve Zuko. You wanted to leave, to finally leave him, for good.

"No you don't." His voice was hard and his eyes didn't leave yours. "Zuko, what do you want from me?" You asked and he sighed.

"Do you really hate me?" He asked once more but he took a step closer to you and you backed away.

"YES! God, Zuko I don't know how many times I have to tell you! I hate—"

Before you could finish, Zuko's lips were on yours. Your eyes widened in surprise but as soon as his arms snaked around your waist, you melted around him.

You missed this. The feeling of his lips on yours. His touch. The way he clung to you like his life depended on it.

"No you don't." Was all he said when he pulled away. You were out of breath, and you looked up at him. The hard expression he had was replaced with tender eyes and you felt tears forming.

"H-how'd you know?" Your voice cracked as Zuko began to gently wipe the tears on your face.

"Your eyes tell." Was all he said and before you could speak, his lips were on yours again.

[tracybirds]

Not quite sure how to do the star, but something for Mechanic?

Thank you :D no worries the sparkles are not necessary, I just like them lol

and oof I am definitely rusty but hey this was fun :D I have been thusly entertained for a morning, thank you! So I rolled “See The Day” by The Altogether and the lyrics “Dive out of nothing into something more | But I can’t quite tell what I’m hoping for” has very loosely inspired this :) It’s an awesome song, very soft and fresh start vibes!

(and then Brains wanted some words so oops it’s now 1800 words long lol)

[send me a character and I’ll write a (maybe) short fic based on a random song]

---

He wakes up and there’s light streaming in the window.

He hasn’t seen light nearer than fifteen lightyears away in months. The Hex had been angled away from the sun, “for his own protection” the GDF agents charged with his security would sneer, their voices echoing around him in the darkness.

He knew more about radiation than all of the dim-witted fools they’d charged with guarding him. It caused too slow a death for one trapped eternally among the stars.

But the darkness matters no longer.

His hands sink into the mattress as he pushes himself upright into a realm of suspicion. The landscape is unfamiliar, the birds’ strange song twining together with the crash of waves in all direction, and he knows where he is.

The thought strikes him again.

He knows where he is.

He’d expected a new cell, not this.

Stepping over the clothes that had been laid out for him, he tugs forcefully on the door knob, jumping back as the door swung inwards.

A small, old lady sitting in a wicker chair jumped at his appearance, but soon settled into a calm smile.

“Mechanic. You’re up. How are you this morning?”

He stares.

She tuts.

“No matter, no matter. We’re glad you pulled through.”

“What do you need?”

“Your help,” she says simply.

There’s no pretence in her words and out of the darkness, a familiar conversation floats into his mind.

“You got me out.”

“Personally? Not at all. You’ll have to thank your rescuers later.”

“Thank them?”

“It’s good manners. Do you want breakfast?”

His stomach growls at him but he squashes its protestations.

“No.”

“Oh, you’re just like my boys,” she says, looking disappointed. “They find an early breakfast discomforting. No matter, go and get dressed and I’ll take you down to Brains.”

“I’m fine.”

She shrugs.

“Suit yourself. The rest of the family are on a mission, so it’ll just be the three of us for lunch. Any requests?”

“No.”

She eyes him sharply.

“Not eating won’t help you. We aren’t going to poison you and we aren’t willing to let you starve yourself.”

“Why do you care? You’re not going to let me go.”

“We need you. After that we can ensure a fair trial for you, and we’ll fight for the same for the Hood. It’s a better deal than you had.”

The galling truth was he knew it. He only had to consider the cost.

“If I don’t help?”

“We can’t force you. We’ll still begin legal proceedings against the GDF on your behalf, if you wish it, and ensure those you harmed receive justice and that you have a chance to rehabilitate.”

She pauses.

“It wasn’t right, leaving you up there. You might not believe us, but we’d have fought it either way. Just not so… explosively, if it weren’t urgent.”

He says nothing.

“Come along then. Brains knows what we need better than I. You don’t have to decide now. But I hope you help us.”

She leads him down through a labyrinth of corridors, the sunlight growing fainter and fainter and the air getting colder and colder. He spies hints of life as they descend; a tennis racquet leaning against a wall, a forgotten mug on a counter, a trail of clothes that lead to a pile of abandoned laundry. The twists and turns are carefully catalogued – he’ll be damned if he can’t find his own way in and out of this maze – and they finally end as they pass through an archway into a cavernous space carved into the island itself.

“Brains,” the old lady calls, and he watches as the engineer starts, pausing his diagnostics to meet them.

He doesn’t care about swapping pleasantries with the man he owes his mind too, doesn’t want to face the debt owed. It’s not fair of them to call him on it.

He looks down, turning his back on the advancing man.

“What’s your name?”

She pats his elbow reassuringly.

“Everyone calls me Grandma. Dr Tracy is too formal for our little island.”

“I am not calling you ‘Grandma’.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’m not going to help either.”

“If you say so. But talk to Brains first.”

“Hello.”

He knows that quiet voice, has heard it a hundred times over since their first confrontation. He’d known then that he’d recognised it, and now he was about to put a face to the name.

He blinks.

“Hiram?”

Hiram squints behind his glasses.

“You… know mm-me?”

“We all knew you,” he says, dumbfounded. “I didn’t exactly stay in touch with our peers.”

“I’ll let you two catch up,” says Dr Tracy, looking all too pleased.

They say nothing as she leaves.

“Did she know?”

“Probably,” replies Hiram, looking amused. “She knows a lot m..more that she tells.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

He stares. He remembers Hiram’s lonely figure as he walked between library and lab on campus – the only teenager in the doctoral program, and the only one who had no-one standing by his side as he accepted each of his academic accolades.

He knows Brains wasn’t yet sixteen when he’d disappeared off the face of the Earth with a dual PhD, only to now rematerialize in an underground workshop on a lost island in the Pacific twelve years later.

He doesn’t know how to begin to approach this man he’d never known.

“Why me?”

Hiram shrugs.

“I knew your work. I know what you can d-do and I understand how you’ve suffered, m..more than they realise.”

He feels more than hears the roar of blood in his ears.

“No, you don’t,” he snarls. “You can’t.”

“I d-do,” says Hiram’s calm voice, cutting through the fury. “Only I could have unpicked that mm..mess he’d left in your brain, because only I have ever d-done it before.”

The anger freezes in his veins.

“You?”

“You s..say you knew m-me? That’s not true, no-one then knew me. I f-found work to support myself, lost myself in it and by the time the news hit about what he’d actually been, it was… it was t-too late.”

Hiram doesn’t meet his gaze.

“What I did for you in minutes took m..me everything for two years. T-two years of self-awareness and forced labour before I broke free. So, yes, I understand you very well.”

He’s struck still, an odd sense of protective compassion welling up inside. It’s foreign to him but he can’t help but be lost inside the feeling. He’d never known he wasn’t the first.

“I couldn’t get mm..more work; I was too young and I had gaps in my life I couldn’t explain. No-one to vouch for me. No mm..money to go back to university. No f-family to return home to. I ran coffees for the astronomers at CNES in Paris, and m-made my own improvements to the technology they used. And that’s where Mr Tracy f-found me. Asked if… if I wanted to help him change the world.”

His eyes grow piercing and hard as diamond.

“He’s g-given me everything and kept his promises a thousand times over. If you want an antithesis to the Hood, you’ll f-find it in him. I would do anything for Mr Tracy, anything for his f-family. Grandma Tracy might have t-told you we can mm…manage without but I know we cannot. And I’m not willing to f-fail them now. For better or worse, they’re my f-family too.”

Walls fly up at his declaration, one after another. His will is his own and nobody’s to control. He has no family, nothing owed to anyone else. It’s better than to be trapped by promises he could only fail to keep.

He finally understands too why he wasn’t being held captive; the Tracy family believe him bound by common decency.

They’ve saved him after all, saved him the way they saved everyone although he’s not once asked for them. They’ll hold that position over him until he complied. They’d done it to Hiram who couldn’t even recognise his own prison.

His snarl becomes a despairing laugh.

“Are you alright?” asks their pet engineer, his peer of long ago.

“They’ve trapped you too, you know.”

Hiram says nothing, only looks him up and down with narrowed eyes.

“F-follow me.”

They bypass the maze that leads back to his room and take an elevator upwards, back into fresh air.

“What is this?” he asks, squinting in the full force of the sun.

“Just watch.”

He watches.

Before him a scene is laid out, a scene of devastation and destruction. A news report describes the dangers, the fears, telling a story of the team of men and women trapped in the basement of the collapsed building and the flames that are racing through the nearby structural shells.

But that’s not what he sees.

He sees the five lights that race around the scene, co-ordinated from above. He sees the unforgiving task before them, he sees the perseverance and the pain.

For the first time, he can see a glimpse of hope.

Dr Tracy catches his eye and he turns and stumbles away from her.

Hiram follows him, saying nothing as he chokes on his own stubborn cowardice.

“It’s pointless. Even if you could do it, why go? He’ll be dead.”

“He won’t be.”

Hiram can afford to believe. He doesn’t know how to be like that, how to see past despair and shine with hope.

“Will you help us?”

He doesn’t know. How could he possibly know? Hope reeks of false confidence and lies. He’s had nothing to do with such things for years.

“I never thought I’d see this world again,” he says, staring at the sunlight dancing on his skin. “I thought the rest of my life would be darkness and cold, cold stars. It was beautiful.”

“Was it lonely?”

Of course it was lonely, he wants to snarl. What did it matter, he’d been lonely long before he’d let the Hood crawl inside his mind and take over his soul.

“It’s pointless,” he says again, feeling the warmth beginning to dissolve his resolve.

Hiram shakes his head.

“Th-think about what they did for you, an enemy who has hurt their family time and time again. Do you think they’ll do any less for their father?”

He stays silent. He can’t put his faith in something so uncertain. It’s not his way. He’s spent a lifetime fighting and hiding and hating himself for it. It can’t be as easy as Hiram suggests, to put your trust in another man, to be so sure.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for, didn’t know what the best-case scenario could possibly be. But a step towards them had to be a step away from him.

Maybe hope wouldn’t burn him this time.

“I’ll help. However I can. If I can.”

Hiram smiled.

“You can. We can. We’ll get him home.”

[imboycold]

Procrastination: How to Overcome It Forever

How to overcome procrastination permanently? It's no surprise that we've discussed how to overcome procrastination several times - it's productivity's archenemy. We're constantly kicking procrastination to the curb on our path to success, and it often reappears a few steps further down the road. In the never-ending battle between procrastination and production, some of us fare better than others, but few of us have taken the time to fully understand what procrastination is, where it comes from, and how to combat it effectively. In fact, most of us only know two things about procrastination: a basic, iceberg-level definition and how not to do it. Knowing "not to procrastinate" is insufficient. How can we learn to overcome procrastination if we don't understand what it is? You wouldn't go into a battle without researching your opponent; perhaps it's time to get to "know your enemy."

Which tasks do we put off?

We all know - in a broad, hazy sense - when we procrastinate, but a closer look at our least favorite tasks can reveal exactly when we procrastinate. Most of us have certain behavioral patterns that we follow, such as delaying certain types of tasks with specific attributes. According to psychologist Edwin Van Hooft, three task traits cause "task aversiveness," which is the catalyst for procrastination: - Difficulty of the task When faced with "difficult" tasks, people tend to procrastinate. - Task significance. When a task is deemed "unimportant," people tend to procrastinate. - Task effectiveness. People are more likely to procrastinate when they do not consider themselves "good at" the task at hand. Also read : How to Work Less and Produce More

Procrastination with a Plan

Structured procrastination involves rearranging tasks in relation to their true importance. When faced with a particularly unpleasant (but necessary) task, such as filing your taxes, you may discover less important things to do, such as washing your car, completing your laundry, or exercising. You might even devise tasks that are almost superfluous, such as disinfecting your desk or checking the air pressure in your car tires. It's all about coming up with justifications to avoid doing the more important work. Structured procrastination appears to be harmless, even semi-productive, but it is a serious problem. Your "to do" list has been turned upside down, rearranging your tasks from least to most important. You're putting off important tasks in favor of minor details that aren't worth your time. Your productivity may be increasing, but it is only to conceal the fact that your priorities are completely backwards.

Waiting for the "Spirit of God to Strike You"

Instead of springing into action, as structured procrastinators do, some people become paralyzed by procrastination. Rather than avoiding the unpleasant work by focusing on minor, insignificant, or unimportant tasks, they stay on track, tackling the most important tasks first. However, this does not always imply that they are doing the work, and procrastinators frequently feel safe as long as they are "in position," even if they are not making progress. The classic case is the college student who has a large paper due the following day. The student's fingers are frozen on the keyboard. They aren't writing, but they believe that if they leave, they will miss an opportunity to write. Sitting at their desk, the student is relaxed and anxiety-free. They are not avoiding their work; rather, they are confronting it... quite literally. However, they are still not doing it. Also read : How to Complete Your To-Do List in 6 Simple Ways

Perfectionism

Perfectionism is frequently portrayed as a positive trait, but it is a common cause of procrastination. Work simply will not begin unless the conditions are ideal, and it will never be completed unless the results are flawless. This is the type of behavior that will prevent a gym-goer from starting their workout unless they are completely rested, perfectly hydrated, and optimally fueled through a pre-workout diet. Similarly, an author may never complete their book until every word is flawless.

How Can We Overcome Procrastination?

Recognize the various flavors of motivation. Internal motivation stems from your own values and goals. External motivation includes both rewards (such as a salary) and penalties (such as a poor performance review) for task completion. As much as we would like our strongest motivation to come from within, we have a tendency to prioritize externally motivated tasks over internally motivated ones. In other words, you may want to spend the evening with your family but feel obligated to complete that externally-motivated project report by midnight. Exercise your willpower. "Volitional skills" is simply the scientific term for "willpower," but there is an important distinction between the terms: Willpower is thought to be innate, something you are born with (or born without). It appears to be an easy way out; whenever you want to procrastinate, you can shrug and say, "I just don't have the willpower," as if there's no way to summon the initiative to get the job done. The excuse simply does not hold water: "Willpower" is not a natural ability. It is a skill that can be developed, improved, or neglected. Consider your volitional abilities to be like muscles; you can strengthen them but also exhaust them. They benefit from rest, so choose your willpower battles with caution. Stop referring to yourself as a procrastinator. If you become too comfortable with procrastination, you will eventually neglect your job, family, and personal health. Rather than labeling yourself as a procrastinator, declare your productive intentions and remind yourself of your objectives. As David Campbell put it, "Discipline is knowing what you want."   Read the full article

[thatfanficstuff]

Unexpected - Stucky x Reader

Pairing Grouping: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

Warnings: Steamy fluff with a dash cupful of foul mouthed Reader and super soldier. Also liberal use of sugar and baby but no sugar babies.

A/N: short fluff is no 3300+ of very steamy fluff. I’m gonna go with 16+ on this one folks. Oh, and STUCKY!!!

***

They didn’t think anything of it at first. It was just little things after all. Things that hardly warranted their attention. It wasn’t until Tony mentioned it that they began to take notice.

“Hey, Capsicle, you and tin man been sneaking off to the store without telling anyone? You could at least ask if we needed anything? I’ve been out of blueberries for days,” Tony said one night as the team sat to watch a movie.

“What are you talking about, Stark?” Steve asked with a furrowed brow.

Tony gestured at the bag of gummy worms that you and Bucky were currently sharing. “Just that you two seem to be the only ones around here that never run out of your favorite goodies. You could have stocked up for everyone. That’s all I’m saying.” He shrugged his shoulders and waved a hand through the air as if it wasn’t important, though clearly it was if he’d brought it up.  

You rolled your eyes. “Tony, you’re a billionaire. Pay someone to do your shopping and have it delivered, you big baby.”

The super soldiers on either side of you laughed and you settled more firmly into your seat between them. Tony started to say something else but Natasha smacked his arm. “Shut up. Movie’s starting.”

He grumbled which brought another smile to your face. He really was an overgrown kid sometimes. Really, you were just pleased that he’d shut the hell up. After all, if you’d wanted your crushes to know you were secretly taking care of them, you would have done it not so secretly. Liking both of them was awkward enough without them being aware of it, thank you very much.

Honestly, until that day, Steve had just assumed that Tony had someone that replenished the food in the kitchenette on their floor. True, they’d never seen anyone, but it wasn’t like it happened by magic. It was just over a week later when Steve glanced up from his drawing when Bucky walked into their living room. “Hey Buck, you didn’t do any cleaning did you?”

Bucky snorted. “There’s never anything to clean is there?”

Steve frowned. “Yeah, I noticed that to. I asked Stark if he had a service that did our floor. You know what he said?”

“I’m guessing he said no or we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Bucky answered as he sat across the table from his boyfriend.

“He asked if I wanted him to get someone in to help us out.”

Confusion caused Bucky’s brow to furrow as he leaned forward. “So, someone has been coming into our space, replacing our food and cleaning up after us and we have no idea who it is?”

“Looks like it.”

There was a stretch of silence before Bucky asked, “Why?”

***

It started when the boys were on a mission. You’d raided Buck’s candy stash for movie night and before you replaced it, you’d done an inventory and picked up everything else they were needing. It wasn’t like it took much more effort. And when you’d seen how happy they were when they arrived home to all their favorites, that was all the incentive you needed to keep doing it.

You made sure to refill their stash when they were on mission or out for training so they wouldn’t catch you. There was always the chance they’d return when you weren’t expecting it, but the odds were slim. After all, you made a living by sneaking around unseen, hence the name Shadow. The cleaning started when they were gone on a mission and you didn’t want them coming home to clutter and dust. You weren’t even sure that they noticed, but it made you happy to have something else you could do for them.

Steve and Bucky were currently on week three of a mission with Nat and Sam and you were sorting out the groceries you’d just bought while you tried to think of something special you could do for them.

“So, why do you do it exactly?” you heard from behind you, causing you to jump. The twins were in San Francisco until tomorrow so you should have had the floor to yourself.

You scowled when you found Tony standing behind you wearing his infamous smirk.

“Jumpy?”

Your cheeks heated as you turned back to the task at hand, hoping Tony wouldn’t notice at least half of your food was for the super soldiers. “Mind was just elsewhere. What’s up?”

“I was just wondering why you pamper the geriatric twins if you aren’t going to take credit for it?”

You froze briefly before finishing up and placing the boys’ food back into bags so you could carry it upstairs. Finally, you turned and crossed your arms over your chest as you leaned against the counter behind you. “I don’t suppose it would do me any good to deny it?”

He chuckled as he moved closer. “They asked me to look into it before they left. It was the complete lack of evidence that led me to you actually. Only one person I know can get around my system like that.”

“Shit.” You were a technomancer and were very skilled at making tech do what you wanted. Tony hadn’t been thrilled the first time you’d completely circumvented the tower’s security. Now he used you to test out new systems. Finally, you quit freaking out enough to meet his eyes. “Are you going to tell them?”

He tilted his head and frowned at you. “Why are you so dead set against them figuring this out? You know they won’t be anything other than grateful.”

“Because they’ll want to know why and I can’t tell them that.” Your voice was quiet but you knew he’d heard your answer.

“Well how about you tell me then, sparky?” he suggested.

You rolled your eyes at his stupid nickname as you sighed. He wasn’t the most trustworthy when it came to secrets but you were dying to tell someone. And honestly, he would probably be the least judgmental out of everyone. “You can’t tell anyone, Tony. I mean it.”

He rubbed his hands together and closed most of the distance between you. “My lips are sealed. You have my word.”

You arched a brow but chose not to comment. You closed your eyes not wanting to look at him as you made the confession. “I might possibly be just a little bit in love with them.” When you got no response you opened one eye to find Tony grinning at you as he rocked on his feet. You opened the other eye to give him a narrow-eyed look. “What?”

“I think you should tell them.”

“Not funny, Stark.”

“Wasn’t meant to be, sweetheart.” You just stared at him, saying nothing. After a few moments, he sighed. “Listen, as amusing as it might be to trick you into having that conversation with them and recording it to watch at my leisure later, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“That little admission didn’t exactly help your cause any.”

He ran a hand down his face. “I can’t tell you that I know for sure how they’ll react, because I can’t. I also can’t tell you how many times I’ve caught them checking you out when they think no one’s watching. Or how many times they’ve argued about who got to sit beside you when there was only one seat left. Or the number of whispered conversations they have that fade away when you walk into the room. And while I have had many female friends over the years, I have never suggested any of them sit in my lap unless I was trying to take things beyond friendship.”

You frowned. “I sit in their laps all the time.”

His hands went out to the side as if to say ‘see?’.

Your frown deepened as you recalled something else. “Wait, didn’t you try to get me to sit in your lap when I was still new?”

Tony chuckled and turned around to walk off. “Only proving my point, Y/L/N,” he called over his shoulder.

It was barely five minutes after he left that you gathered the bags of food to take upstairs and put away. You weren’t certain you’d survive sitting around doing nothing and there was only so much training you could stand in a day. “Protocol five, J,” you said as you stepped onto the elevator. “Super soldiers’ floor, please.”

“Of course, Miss.” Protocol five would shut down all recording devices anywhere in your vicinity until you turned it off.

You made short work of putting the food away and glanced around. Things were fairly tidy though they could use a dust and a quick vacuum. A peek in both bedrooms had you wrinkling your nose. They’d had back-to-back missions before they’d left on the current one and obviously hadn’t had time to do laundry. While the boys normally slept together, they maintained their own spaces in case one of them was having a bad night or just needed some time to themselves.

Moving into Bucky’s space, you gathered up all the laundry and threw it out into the hallway. You also stripped the bedding and added it to the pile. You put a load in the washer before moving to Steve’s room. There was more laundry there as it was the space they shared the most often. You added to the pile already in the hallway before stripping those sheets as well.

After sorting the clothes into loads, you took about half of them down to your floor and started a load there as well before heading back upstairs. You opened windows in both bedrooms to let them air out as you put fresh sheets on the beds. You dusted and straightened and vacuumed only pausing as necessary to switch out the laundry.

By the time you finished all but the last loads of laundry, their rooms looked better than they had in months and they had clean sheets to crawl into when they got home. You’d cleaned the rest of the floor as well and were heading back to your floor to take care of the last of the clothes. You had to wait a bit for them to finish drying, but then once it was all folded and sorted, you loaded up the laundry basket to put it away. You were happy you’d gotten so much done.

Apparently ignoring your feelings made you productive, who knew? Most of the clothes in your basket were Buck’s so you headed to his room first. You reached for the handle, only to have the door open on its own. Your mouth dropped and the basket fell to your feet as you ran your gaze up a naked torso to see Bucky frowning at you. He was dressed in a pair of sweats and his hair was still wet from a shower. His gaze darted from you to the basket and back as a grin crept over his face. “Fuck,” you breathed out and took a step back. “I’m sorry. I-I need to go.”

He reached out and snagged your wrist before you got more than a step. “I don’t think so, sugar.” He tugged you gently back in his direction and lifted your chin with a finger since you seemed unable to look at him on your own. “Where do you think you’re going to escape to anyway, Y/N? We know where you live.”

“I was thinking of moving to Alaska. I hear it’s nice there this time of year.”

“You hate the cold,” he said with a laugh and looped an arm around your waist.

Your heart raced and you prayed that his stupid super soldier senses wouldn’t clue him in, but who were you kidding? You’d never be that lucky.

“Oh, Steve,” he called in a sing-song voice. “I have something for you.”

“Not now, Buck. I’m…” Steve’s voice trailed off as he stepped into the hall and saw you. His ears and cheeks turned a rather adorable shade of red and you couldn’t stop a giggle at the sight. “What’s this?” he asked looking between the two of you.

Bucky nudged the laundry basket into view with his foot. “I intercepted her on her way to put away the last of the laundry.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Oh, did you?”

And damned if his voice didn’t drop a whole octave when he said it. Now it was your turn to be embarrassed. You squirmed in Bucky’s hold but didn’t try to escape. There was no point. He chuckled behind you and passed you over to Steve when he held a hand out toward you. You licked your lips as you took it and let him lead you into the living room.

He sat on the couch and pulled you down onto his lap. Bucky sat right beside him and pulled your legs onto his lap. You cleared your throat. “I can sit by myself.”

“I’m sure you can, baby,” Steve assured. “But I’m happy with you in my lap. And you like to make me happy, don’t you, Y/N?”

Oh.

My.

God.

That was not fair. Not fucking fair at all.

Steve trailed a finger up your spine, chuckling when you shivered at his touch. His finger continued it’s journey up your neck then back along its previous path as he talked. “When Buck and I were kids, there wasn’t a lot of money to go around. Less so for me because of my meds. Our folks taking care of us meant putting food on the table and mending our clothes. Sometimes there might be enough for a dime novel or some sweets, but for the most part we took care of each other.”

Bucky kept rubbing little circles on your ankle with his thumb. “That hasn’t changed much over the last several decades. You know, except when I was trying to kill him. But then someone else started taking care of us. In a million little ways we didn’t always notice. Not right away anyway.”

“But then we did notice and we started making note of everything that made us feel cared for.” Steve’s hand flattened on your back and his fingers flexed slightly as he said, “Loved.”

“So, tell us, Y/N, why did you do it?” Bucky asked.

You shrugged and stared at your hands where they twisted together in your lap. “I stole your candy and needed to replace it so I picked up some other stuff. But then I saw how happy you were when you had your favorite snacks when you got home and that made me happy. The more I did, the happier and more relaxed you seemed so I kept doing it. I like it when you’re happy. Both of you.”

“That the only reason, baby? You like us happy?” Steve asked as he trailed that damned finger back up your spine.

You jumped out of his lap and stepped back until you were out of easy reach for either of them. They stared at you in surprise and you held out a hand to stop them when they started to stand. “No. You stay put. You two aren’t playing fair.”

“How’s that, doll?” Bucky asked, his blue eyes sparking with amusement.

“You with the touching and the sugar and the arm around the waist,” you said gesturing to Bucky before turning to his boyfriend. “And you with the baby and more touching and the deep voice. It’s not fair. It’s not.” You sucked in a breath. “My entire life I’ve been attracted to the unattainable guy. Every fucking time. But this time I really outdid myself because I fell in love with not just one, but two unattainable men and they’re dating each other. I mean fuck my life. Seriously. What is that? So yes, I did all of this because I love you. Both of you. And I’ll keep doing it for the same reason and it will always make me happy to see you happy. But at the end of the day, you two have each other and I don’t and that’s not fucking fair so stop. Just stop, okay?”

Steve stood first as if afraid to startle you. He stepped forward and swept his thumb across your cheek wiping away the tears you hadn’t been aware of. His hands settled on either side of your neck as he studied your eyes for the longest time. “You’ve got quite the fucking mouth on you, baby,” he said then tugged you forward and slammed his lips onto yours.

You hesitated for only a moment, a brief stretch of time and then you let yourself go. Your Steve was kissing you and it was nothing like you’d imagined. There was nothing soft or questioning about it. It was firm, sure, and altogether fucking fantastic. His hands moved to your thighs and lifted as his lips stayed glued to yours. You wrapped your legs around his waist and as he turned, his lips slid from your mouth to travel the length of your neck. His open mouth kisses alternated with tiny nips that were sure to bruise and you rolled your hips against him in response. He hissed against your skin and you smiled.

A large hand grasped your chin and turned your head until another pair of lips slanted over yours. Bucky. His kiss was dark and rich and full of promises. He shifted his body so he supported your back as his hands found the hem of your shirt. Cool metal and warm flesh contrasted against your skin as he slid over your belly and up to caress your breasts. “Oh God.” You rolled your hips again, Steve pressed against your front and Bucky pressed against your ass.

“Fuck,” Steve said as his hands tightened on your waist in an effort to still your movements.

Bucky chuckled against the back of your neck and bit at the skin there, his bite firmer, more punishing than Steve’s. “What’s the matter, punk? She pushing you to the edge already?”

“Suck it, Barnes.”

“I intend to, Rogers.”

That had you grinning. This playful love they had between them was what you wanted. Was part of the reason you fell in love with both of them. Bucky’s gaze shifted to you and he mirrored your grin. “I love you, Buck.”

His grin widened. “You hear that, Stevie? She loves me. God, that’s sexy.” He kissed you soundly then pulled you from Steve’s arms to carry you bridal style to the bedroom. “I love you, too, sugar.”

That earned him another kiss. You put your hand against the door frame to stop him before he could carry you inside. This needed to be said before you were all in bed together. You turned to find Steve with a question in his eyes. “I love you, too, Steve.”

His smile was sweet, soft. “I know you do, baby.” He placed a hand on your cheek and gave you a soft kiss. “I love you, too. Have for awhile if I’m honest. We both have. Turns out we were both feeling guilty for loving someone else and it was the same girl. Never dreamed you’d actually be ours though.” You kissed him again and it only took a moment for it to take on a rougher edge.

Bucky turned you so he could carry you into the room, causing your lips to be pulled from Steve’s. You whimpered at the loss of contact and both men chuckled. “Don’t worry, baby, you’ll have more of us than you can handle in a moment.”

You squealed as Buck tossed you into the middle of their king sized bed. You propped yourself up on your elbows and bit your lip as you looked at the two men standing before you. “Promise, soldiers?”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s a goddamn guarantee.”

[butterbeerblurbs]

tired but never of you (f.w.)

💌 : when you look tired and fred can sense it, he does what he does best. stealing you away from the crowd and self-care freddie activates.

📝 word count: 2,618 words / fred weasley x reader / 🌸 a fluffy mess

💬: just... live with me thru this guys 🤡

after numerous hours of studying and days of all-nighters, you finally had room to breathe again. It was nearly a couple more days before christmas break and boy oh boy you were excited to get a long week full of rest ahead. (though, you doubt you’d be able to squeeze in a week, maybe a day or two. mindful that you’d be spending christmas with fred and his family back in the burrow)

as you decide what to wear for a night out, there’s a knock on your door. angelina announces she’ll go answer and you reply with a mindless thank you as you stare yourself in the mirror, debating between two outfits on hangers over your body. with a small pout, unsure of which to choose, you hear the door closing and you call out to-”angelina, could you help me choose?”

you remain looking at your reflection, and when it feels longer than the usual time angelina takes to rush to you, you’re greeted with-”would freddie be alright?” you flinch at the pair of arms that sneak around your waist and you gasp as fred pops his head over your shoulder, grinning at you through the mirror.

your elbow nudges him playfully, getting him to move but he refuses, only squeezing you tighter, “you cheeky prat,” you huff at him, only to literally have heart eyes sparkling at him as he smiles at you with such warmth it’s making your heart full.

“hey there, beautiful,” fred murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips, earning himself a satisfied smile from you. he pecks your lips a couple more times until he’s satisfied, moving himself away to sit on your bed as he watches you get dressed. you turn around to face him, now making him decide since he probably shooed angelina out of her shared dorm with you (as fred weasley would).

“help me choose, freddie? which one looks better?”

the boy snorts, “neither. maybe consider your pajamas?”

your brows knit together, face scrunching in confusion, “love, we’re going to the three broomsticks,”

“yeah,” he nods, leaning back into your pillow as he stares at you, “but you should be going to bed,”

he watches as you take a couple of seconds to process his words, before you groan and roll your eyes at him. you decide to go with your first option - a black velvet turtleneck dress paired with a white wool duffle jacket, shoving the other into the closet. fred makes himself known as he pulls your shirt off your body, staring at you through the mirror.

“c’mon, love, you know i think you look gorgeous everyday, anytime - even now! but you look like you got hit by a train,”

you nod a couple of times, a little preoccupied with getting dressed, half-ignoring him, “yeah? do i?”

he nods firmly, arms crossed in front of his chest, “absolutely. like the train dragged you for a few rounds to reach hogwarts and decided to keep going, too,”

“you’re quite the charmer, aren’t you, weasley?” you huff at him, blowing your fringe from your face as you grab ahold of your shedded clothes and shove them into the laundry basket. as you gather your hair to the side, fred smirks at your back exposed in front of him. but when you frown at him at the mirror at his lack of helpfulness, he decides to play later and helps to zip you up.

before you can reach for your jacket, he smoothen his palms on your waist, reeling you in as you make grabby hands at-”i want my jacket, freddie!”

“and i want you to stay in with me,” he tuts, spinning you around and locking you in front of him, not letting you budge even when you hit his chest playfully.

“y/n, you hadn’t had proper sleep the past few days. you promised you’d sleep as soon as christmas break rolls around,” he frowns, swaying you back and forth and he watches as the small movement is already driving you to sleep. yet, you keep your feet grounded, snaking your arms around his neck and pulling him down so you can kiss him. he’s a little surprised, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy it as he reciprocates the kiss, pressing his lips deeper against yours and relishes in the soft mewl he swallows from your lips.

before he can go any further, you push him back enough for you to have space to snatch your jacket, rushing out the door in a hurry; not bothering to check if fred is coming after you. but the rummaging from behind you, followed by loud thuds, already indicate fred is running.

“hey! at least change into your boots first! your feet are going to be ice before we even get there!”

//

“it’s not too late to back out now, y/n,” fred whispers into your ear as the whole lot of you make your way together. george and angelina were taking lead in the front, followed by katie, jordan and oliver in the middle and the pair of you were in the back. you squeeze fred’s hand in his pocket, hissing at him, “you can’t be serious! i got dressed for this!”

he presses a kiss to your temple, swinging your hand back and forth as much as he can despite being confined in his pocket, almost child-like it’s making you giggle, “and you look absolutely gorgeous! but you would also look much better if you had some sleep,”

“why do i feel like you don’t want me to have fun?” you pout at him, and he huffs, “hey, that’s not fair and you know it. you know how much fun we can have together,-”yep, no lie there. sometimes, you and fred alone caused more havoc than fred and his twin. that statement is a lot coming from most people-”-it’s just, you know, love. i’d want to have fun with you when i know you’re enjoying it too,”

“but it feels wrong to miss this,” you whisper this time, and fred leans down a little so you wouldn’t need to reach him with much effort, “we won’t see them in a bit and i promised i’d come. didn’t want to be a downer,”

“love,” he calls out, earning a huh as you look up to him. he sneaks in a kiss to your lips, grinning at how you blink at him profusely before you register what he had done the thing he’s done countless of times before, “you can never be a downer. have you seen yourself?”

your mouth opens to respond and you swear you see fred about to lean in to shut you up but-“oi! lovebirds! try to keep up, yeah?” george hollers as they’re a good distance away, seeing there’s already enough snow to cast between you and your friends. you yank your hand along with fred’s out of said boy’s jacket, pulling him to follow your lead, “coming!” you only laugh as you hear him yelp, trying to keep up at your sudden spurt of energy. 

//

the place was already packed with people but it wasn’t a surprise to any of you. of course it would be, nearing a time like christmas and all friends would be on their different ways (except a couple), but the vast majority would be. so it wasn’t a surprise a lot of friend groups would try to sneak in one last meet up like the ones you had with your friends (and boyfriend, and boyfriend’s brother).

drinks were poured and downed, a couple of bites here and there but a shared feeling of comfort and belonging. secrets being exchanged, chatters of what happens within the castle, out of the castle - the works. it’s a cogwheel of how the group functions - all in good fun, mutual excitement and trust that what is said here would stay here.

it’s been a little over an hour and a half since the group started getting loose and shaking off the nerves of the semester ending, buzzing for the holiday soon arriving. fred would enjoy it without a thought as well but seeing how the light alcohol is getting the best of you, lulling a bit here and there in the midst of loud chatter, leaning against him for support, he decides to call it a night. especially when there’s a lack of response coming from you.

it captures the group’s attention as they watch how your cheek is pressed to fred’s arm, though, seeming like you’re trying your hardest. fred has puppy eyes as he stares at your sleeping figure against him and he can’t help but allow his heart to swell at the sight.

“i’m always fascinated by this,” katie snorts, earning a nod of approval from oliver, “i’d say. truly, the only person who can tame the wild fred weasley,”

fred exhales deeply and as he wiggles his brows to your group of friends, they already know what’s to come. “well, we’ll be taking our leave now,”

“just make sure you don’t lock me out,” angelina chastises, remembering the night fred did that by “accident” and she had to snooze off in the common room. “you’re welcome to join me, if he does!” george calls out, earning a fake look of disgust from angelina before she decides to laugh it off.

the short yet loud interaction between george and angelina jolts you awake with a yes?, snapping out of your slumber almost instantly. your lips quickly zip shut as you notice how all eyes are now on you, and fred is like your shield, willing to bat away any takers to tease you. before they can, however, fred is reminded of the many reasons why he loves you. a joke, is something you can take, never making it an awkward situation on anyone. (unless necessary)

“good morning, your highness,” george coos, and you grin sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck, “good day, sire!”

“had a good rest?” katie chuckles, reaching out to playfully mess with your hair. you managed a small yawn, covering your mouth with your hand, shaking your head, “could’ve been better. this place is too loud for a nap,”

the group erupts with a small round of laughter before fred pulls you up with him, preparing yourselves to exit. it’s not after a quick moment for you to say goodbye to everyone and wish them a good break (including george, who he reminds you he’ll be with you during the break because you’re going to stay at his house, as a matter of fact his room too with freddie that it makes you blush before laughing it off). once that is done, fred quickly snatches you away and the pair of you make your way back to the dorms.

fred keeps your hand warm together with his in the pocket of his jacket, idly humming the walk back. it’s peaceful, being in fred’s presence and the way he checks on you every now and then to make sure you’re still walking, doing his best in creating conversations with you so it actively keeps you up. your heart feels all sorts of things, mainly love as you stare at fred’s side profile.

when he catches you staring, he can’t help but tease.

“enjoying the view there? might want to look where you’re going, love,” he says quietly, yet, seeing there’s no affect on you as he effectively dodges anything that’s coming your way, guiding you to a safe path. when he sees your eyes aren’t shifting from him, he’s full on laughing, enjoying the attention he’s receiving.

“hello? is my girlfriend still awake? may i ask the reason why she’s staring at me and not saying a word?”

“she’s... enjoying the view,” fred swears he feels his heart almost leaping out of his chest when he glances to see her smiling so wide, her eyes dissolve to mini crescents. he stops walking and it grants her to do the same. he grabs onto her shoulders and gives her a light shake, “woman, you can’t be this adorable even when you’re sleepy. choose one,”

this was a coded question for: “are we going to have fun tonight? or sleep?” (though, you know fred already knows the answer as they line the under of your eyes, another yawn escaping softly).

“sleep, please,”

“yes, ma’am.”

//

you think in your past life, you must’ve saved an entire kingdom to be with fred. (no doubt, he’d say the same thing about you, if not double up and say two kingdoms but these are your thoughts and he can’t possibly argue with you in your mind). still, you think it’s very much true when fred patiently undresses you and redresses you in your sleeping clothes - a loose sweater and joggers, followed by a t-shirt underneath because it gets a bit more chilly as the night transcends.

now bundled up in the covers, in his arms, his warmth, scent and his voice is the perfect recipe to lull you to sleep.

before you do, though, you’re staring at him and that’s when fred says: “you’ve done so well, y/n. get some sleep, hm?”

“this is so unfair,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the way he adores and is amused at the same time. he decides not to show it as much, only squeezing you around him as he stares down at you, allowing you to let your train of thought escape your mouth as you fall into deep slumber. “you can’t be that handsome, that clever and love me that much... you’re...” there’s a small yawn that captures fred’s heart even more “...absolutely... bonkers...”

fred only snorts quietly, watching as your eyelids flutter shut and you’re dozing off pretty quick from all the all-nighters and lost sleep due to papers and assignments. not only were you trying to be on top of your grades, he recollects how you’ve helped him as well, which he was very grateful for. his eyes remain on you as you get the rest you truly deserve, his hand coming up to brush your hair from your face and he stares at you lovingly.

you were unfair, too, he thinks. you, the person who accepted him fully for who he is and encourages him to chase for his dreams, willing to be by his side regardless of what happened. you, who was insanely patient with him, yet, took no bull and gave him the honest pill he needed from time to time. you, who came into his life like the light he’d been searching for in the dark, only to get blinded once he was within reach. when he was in your heart, however, his days have been warm ever since.

as you snuggle up against him, arms gingerly wrapped by his torso and resting your face to his chest, fred smiles at the thought he’s able to return the gesture you’ve done to him. his eyes close after a while, hoping to see you in his dreams as well.

as he's halfway drifting into sleep, he hears a soft murmur of freddie... that makes him smile, certain his smile would still be there when he wakes.

[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.”  

[actualbabe]

i'm still working on it but here's a snippet from the New Girl Gay Nick AU for @grasslandgirl and my other schnick comrades huddled in the trenches

***

They're sitting next to each other on the couch, Nick distractedly playing his video game while Schmidt lounges beside him and idly flicks through a magazine. Winston is out with a few friends ("I know people outside of you three," he'd insisted as he walked out the door) and Cece showed up about an hour ago to pick up Jess for their date, so it's just the two of them left, seated slightly closer than they really need to be given how empty the loft is.

Schmidt's wearing his stupid kimono, which is way too short to be taken seriously and definitely some form of cultural blasphemy. It rides up even higher when he sits down, revealing a frankly ridiculous amount of his pale thighs. Nick focuses very deliberately on how Schmidt looks like a total douchebag instead of his growing impulse to sink to his knees in front of him, to rest his broad hands around the slim width of Schmidt's ankles, to lean in and scratch his stubble against the sensitive skin of Schmidt's inner thighs. He wonders what would happen if he manned up and just did it, if Schmidt would gasp in surprise before running his hands through his hair, if he would berate Nick for stealing his conditioner while Nick sucked the head of Schmidt's dick into his mouth.

The controller buzzes in his hands, and Nick realizes belatedly that his character has died while he was too busy staring at Schmidt's legs. He scowls and hits the Respawn button with slightly more force than necessary.

***

Schmidt would say yes, if he asked. In the parade of sexual partners Schmidt’s brought through the loft, there’s been a near fifty-fifty split of men and women. And Nick might be nose-deep in denial, but he’s not blind. He sees the way that Schmidt looks at him sometimes, the way he’s looked at him since they were Freshmen in college. Schmdit flirts with anything that has a pulse, and far be it from him to spare Nick such a privilege. Of course, it’s not like he excludes Winston or Coach or Jess or Cece, either. Fuck, he flirted with the checkout lady at the grocery store last week, and she was like sixty.

Point being, if Nick wanted to, all it would take is one word for Schmidt to... well, you know. With him. He wouldn’t even have to get him drunk to do it, though there’s no way in hell Nick would ever be stupid enough to suggest it sober, and it feels unfair to be on an unequal playing field.

He thinks about it, sometimes, though it’s hardly his choice. Nick’s lying on his freshly-washed sheets, courtesy of him working a double that coincided with laundry day and resulted in Schmidt stealing them off his bed and throwing them in the wash with the rest of his linens. They smell like the needlessly fancy laundry soap that Schmidt uses, and Nick rolls onto his stomach to breathe it in, pressing his hips firmly against the mattress and begging all three of the saints he knows the names of that he won’t do anything fucking stupid, like jerk off while thinking of his roommate of nearly ten years.

...

The thing is, if Nick just asked him, Schmidt wouldn’t think he was serious. Or even if he did, it wouldn’t be any different than any of his other conquests. As his roommate of nearly ten years, Nick is all too familiar with the way Schmidt treats the people he sleeps with. To him it would be nothing, just another opportunity to get off. But to Nick it would be the end of the fucking world. There’s no scenario in which they sleep together and it doesn’t flip his entire reality on its axis. He doesn’t think there’s any way that he could go through that with Schmidt, one of the most important people in his life, if not the most important, and not treat it like something special.

If Nick knows anything about himself, it’s that he can’t be trusted to hold on to good things. He’s the inverse of King Midas, everything he touches falls apart near-instantly. He’s a bull in a china shop, except this time it’s his fucking heart and soul on the line.

[cdroloisms]

Do you think c! Quackity are skilled on the mastering of "necessary convincing" on a person? And man the stream yesterday was so intense dark theme.

hello ! 

this is testament of how behind i am in asks, haha, considering this was sent basically at the beginning of q’s visits and it’s been ,, uh ,, several months since then ASJKFLJAS - but im going to try to answer it now while pretending that we dont have months proving that c!quackity is very willing to do whatever the hell it takes to get the revive book from someone.

i think that the ,, technicalities? of the torture were never an issue - everyone in the dream smp universe has to know how to use a weapon in its most basic form, after all, just to defend themselves from mobs and stuff, tho some people are clearly more adept at using them than others. torture is ultimately just hurting someone until they do what you want them to do (way oversimplified, but this definition works here) - physically, if you’re able to kill a zombie, there’s functionally little different with inflicting harm on a defenseless unarmed human with no means of defending themselves.

the real challenge, as with most things in the minecraft roleplay, comes from the mental side - how far is c!quackity really willing to go? obviously he *can* hurt someone, but doing so also tends to go against a lot of our most basic instincts as humans. defying that becomes the real question to consider - and c!quackity, in his increased willingness to hurt not only c!dream, but everyone as he’s manipulated people more and used people more for his own gain in the last few months, seems to providing as much of an answer as we’re going to get. 

this obviously isnt to say that he isn’t conflicted, or that he’s pure evil !! but c!quackity, by his own admission, seems to hold little trust for other people and ideals anymore. his main goal is Las Nevadas and whatever he needs to make it great - anything and everything else is either a means to his end or an obstacle in his way. i dont doubt that there are chinks to this mindset to exploit, things that he cares about enough to take his single-minded focus off of Las Nevadas. as of now, though, i don’t think that torturing c!dream and the violence it’ll require of him will be that breaking point.

anyway, have a really dark snippet exploring c!quackity some more !! he’s really fun to write, though i don’t think i’ve really mastered his voice yet - practice makes perfect, i guess. heed the warnings and hope you enjoy! 

tw: torture, abuse, blood, injuries, branding, violence, death mention, abuse apologism, mental deterioration, dark content, dark imagery, very dark portrayal of c!quackity, pandora’s vault/prison arc

There’s a certain learning curve that comes with torturing someone.

It sounds obvious, thinking back, as much as it sounds morbid as all hell, but it’s not like he’s in any position to judge. Quackity swipes another stack of iron from a chest, momentarily grumbling about the cost, before melting down three ingots for the blade of his next axe. He could just do it in a crafting table, but there’s a degree of calm in the monotony of doing it all by hand, slowly watching as the iron begins to glow red hot in the heat of the furnace and then hammering it into shape on his anvil. He hadn’t been good at it before, had let Sapnap do the majority of the smithing for the three of them in the past, but. Well.

When you’re eating through several sets of iron tools a week, either from bending them out of shape against unforgiving obsidian or melting the blades past saving in lava or burning them all entirely, when he’s too tired to be bothered cleaning off the blood and simply chucks the used tools after a session into the molten rock outside the cell, you kind of have to figure out how to make your own shit so others don’t get suspicious.

He beats the metal into a block, humming softly over the clangs of his hammer. There’s definitely a learning curve to crafting weapons, too - he’s pretty proud of the ones that he can make, now, even though he’s still no good at any of the fancier furnishings and finishes (nor does he particularly care about them). Figuring out how to torture someone effectively was a similarly slow process - finding their limits and how far to push before something, inevitably, gives. He hadn’t exactly handled it the best in the first few visits, usually retching into the nearest wastebasket at the smell, at the feeling of blood coating his fingertips, at the screams ringing incessantly in his head. It wasn’t all that long before he forwent sleep altogether, devoting all of his time on paperwork and calls and anything that would deafen the cries that would’ve haunted him otherwise. He was no good with his tools, either - more than a few times, in those early visits, did he end up slicing too deep or going too far and needing to cut the session short for Sam to come in and administer health pots before Dream died and rendered all of their efforts useless.

(Sapnap had been the one to first teach him how to wield an axe, correcting his stance and his grip with gentle, calloused hands. He remembers them training on the newly laid dirt surface of Mexican L’manburg, sweat dripping down his neck from the sun beating against their heavy armor, Sap laughing at his unbalanced, heavy-armed swings and demonstrating with his own weapon, movements fluid and graceful as if it was an extension of his own arm. In the cell, he thinks of Sapnap’s voice, firm in his focus - feet at least shoulder width apart, hands braced on the axe handle, left sitting just above the end and the right just a few inches below the head - and swings.)

It had been...a process. A bloody, often painful process - his hands are calloused, now, in ways they never were before, from the constant handling of his many tools. His back aches constantly from bending over, and his shirt - more often splattered with blood than not - now bears some permanent pink stains that he can’t get out no matter how hard he tries. (The laundry, he thinks wryly, had been a hell of a learning process as well.) He picks up the metal with a pair of tongs, easing it back under the fire’s heat until it glows a soft pink, and then places it back onto the anvil to work - slowly beating the metal into shape.

He’s had to learn a lot. The lessons are fascinating, in a gruesome, morbid sort of way. He’d brought a brand the other day, painstakingly carved into a fancy, curlicued Q all on his own, used in his work at Las Nevadas originally to finish furnishing a few pieces of leather furniture he had scattered around the city. As Dream struggled under him, skin blackening under the white-hot metal, he’d immersed himself in the sight, far more similar to his past leatherwork than he might’ve originally expected. He almost wanted to do it again, just to compare, but the stress of it all had been enough to knock the prisoner into shock, which had put a significant damper on the rest of his visit. He watches the iron glow contemplatively from his anvil, not nearly as hot as he works at it.

Another dip in the furnace later, it’s heated just enough to work out the finishings, and he carefully knocks the ends into a blade. Picking it up with a pair of tongs, he holds it up to a nearby piece of glowstone, grinning at the finished axe head. There’s still quite a bit to do, technically - he still needs to sharpen it along with the other ones he’s finished, as well as fasten them to their handles, but even so - it looks good. He examines it, back and front, against the light. It’s probably his best one yet.

Quackity smiles to himself as he puts it down with the rest, pulling out his calendar from behind him and carefully marking another red X over the date. Learning to torture someone takes a hell of a lot of time, but. Well.

He has all the time in the world.

[inb4belphienaps]

crying over spilt milk

warnings: none word count: 2285

“Truth be told, I’ve been having these dreams. Dreams almost of another life, a past life perhaps. One that I’d lived and seen and breathed through at some distant point in time.”

I read over my words, holding the letter in my hands.

“They are, by far, the most intricate and detailed dreams I’ve ever had. Usually, I don’t remember them. But these…these feel too real, too specific, too thought out to be anything except something akin to memories of a bygone era.”

I recall a few of them with some difficulty. That was always how dreams worked, like trying to grab mist with your bare hands and having nothing tangible left as evidence.

“Shall I confess?

They have now become a source of entertainment for me, having increasingly rooted themselves in my mind, to the extent that I find myself looking forward to (for lack of better phrasing) the ‘next installment’.

It’s bizarre, I’ll admit. How eager I am to get to sleep as soon as the clock shifts from afternoon to evening, when the hour hand turns to six and I wonder if I’ll see him again…”

.

.

.

as you slowly float back up to the surface, the first sound that hits you is the singing of birds. their bright and cheerful chirps filter in with a hint of irony. though they're pleasant, quietened by the curtains hanging over the windows, it means that it's still rather early.

there's a chill in the air and you turn over under your duvet, tucking your feet in further towards your knees, eager to keep the warmth on your skin. and yet, you open your eyes, not needing to blink any sleep from them. oddly enough, you're more awake than you'd thought. whatever dream you'd been having is far from your mind as you bask in the scattered sunlight dancing on your walls.

such serenity ignites a type of mild excitement in you. and with that in mind, you will yourself to get out of bed.

you draw back the curtains and glance outside, looking out at the landscape, where the sun is shyly peeking over the hill. dawn is only just breaking and as you open a window, a gust of wind greets you, sending a rush of floral scents your way.

you can place notes of rose and lavender, and maybe honeysuckle too. the scenery is beautiful, and you lean against the ledge to admire it. clear skies and waves of green, dotted here and there with reds and pinks and yellows. there's a calmness to the color and vibrancy. something you hadn't stopped to feel in a long time.

it stays in the background. while you pour yourself some tea and sit down for breakfast, and when you turn on the radio to the crooning of some ballad you can't quite place. and even as you set about doing the laundry, humming every now and then to a tune only you seem to know.

the basket you use is one you've weaved yourself (in an attempt to be impassioned by a new hobby). it's small and sturdy and it does the job. you wonder whether it'll last you, hoping that if it breaks, it'll at least do you the favor of waiting until it's empty.

though it doesn't take long, you're startled to see the sun in the sky as you step onto the gravel path, basket in hand. it seems to stare down at you and wink as clouds roll overhead, creating capering shadows on the field as you start hanging the wet quilts one by one.

a couple of bees follow you around as you go about your business. and when you stand still to breathe in the smell of freshly washed linen and admire the warm glow cast on those sheets by the light, a butterfly flutters past.

it brings with it the distant ring of a bicycle bell. you look to the east where a man in uniform comes riding up the hill and the smile on your face could bring shame to the flowers lying near your feet.

"good morning", he says, slowing and stopping a foot or two away from you. he tilts his cap and you note the way in which his fringe barely covers his right eye.

"good morning", you reply. "it must be exhausting having to make that trip every day."

he laughs. it's sweet.

"i don't really mind."

in his hand he carries a metal basket and neatly arranged inside are six glass bottles full of milk.

"how many would you like today?", he asks, and you have the urge to tell him you'll take everything he has to offer. but of course, you don't say this aloud.

"just the one, please."

as he picks up one of the bottles to give to you, you swallow your spit and gesture towards your house. the shadows continue to dance above it, making it seem fluid despite its usual rigidity.

"can i get you something to drink? a coffee, perhaps?"

he appears taken aback, eyes widening a fraction before he smiles, and you feel your heart leap into your throat.

"i'd like that very much. a coffee sounds great."

you momentarily freeze, having expected him to refuse your offer. and then you're taking the bottle of milk and your basket back inside as he follows after you. you turn back to him as he enters and the sheets you'd hung flail slightly behind him, almost like a set of wings.

"cream and sugar?"

"um, no. but could i trouble you for some ice?"

an iced americano, you think. placing your basket on the floor and leaving your bottle on the kitchen counter, you busy yourself with preparing his beverage.

"my name is belphegor, by the way. i think you should at least know who it is that's been delivering you your milk."

you pause, having taken a mug out of the cupboard, and meet his gaze. his tone sounds a little indignant. were you simply being sensitive?

"it's a pleasure to officially meet you, belphegor."

the both of you exchange a shared laugh (the sudden bit of formality is embarrassing). he's the first to look away, breaking the eye contact that has goosebumps erupt on your skin. hm, perhaps you were overthinking things. only, the problem is that you're not sure you have any ice in the fridge.

"were you listening to music?"

"yes- oh", you say, confused at the static that greets you. "the program must've finished."

he glances at the radio and then at you. in your bid to locate the instant coffee you have, you don't notice.

through a strange coincidence, you find it sitting pretty on the top-most shelf of the pantry. you frown, wondering if you'd placed it there by mistake.

belphegor is about to open his mouth to speak again when he sees you reach upwards, fingers brushing across the jar mere centimeters out of your grasp. you're on your toes, leaning forward, barely balancing as you try your hardest to take it.

the man remains silent, watching you with a detached type of curiosity.

darn shelves, you think, as you stretch as far as you're physically able. still, the glass slips from between your fingers and you resort to stepping on a sack of flour. right as you grab it, the corner of the sack slides out from underneath your foot and you gasp, knowing all too well how this was going to end.

but there's a hand on your shoulder and a solid chest against your back, and a pleasant voice in your ear that suggests otherwise.

"so much trouble for a coffee."

his breath tickles the nape of your neck and you twist around to thank him, unprepared for the amused expression painting his face. from here, you can see every freckle, every eyelash, and every stray hair left untamed by his cap.

"you okay?", he asks, too close and quiet. too intimate that you forget yourself for a second.

"i'm...i'm fine."

those furrowed brows of his make you think twice and you place a hand to his chest, marveling in its warmth. you can feel his heart beat. it's steady, unfazed by whatever silly accident had happened just now.

"thanks", you mutter, swiftly removing yourself from his arms (firm and inviting). "i'll uhh...i'll make your iced americano, shall i?"

he doesn't say anything as you take a spoon and measure out the ground powder. and the silence lingers as you bring a pot of water to the boil. your thoughts, however, are that much louder, that much more pronounced. you were never one to invite strangers into your home. why was he such an exception?

"you can stop staring."

belphegor chuckles and you hate the fact that you can't ignore it. his laughter, it twinkles, and it has you looking at him all over again.

"i was keeping an eye out for you. in case you decide to make a habit of falling while i'm here."

you scoff, opening the fridge door to remove the ice tray. six cubes blink up at you and you ease three out, popping them into his mug in rapid succession. it's a tad violent and some of the coffee sloshes out onto the counter.

"thank you for your concern. but it's really not necessary."

he walks towards you, and you remain fixed on his bowtie, hoping to avoid being trapped by his alluring purple irises.

"if you say so."

and he takes a sip. and you find a cloth to wipe the spilt coffee with.

"it tastes good", he says. "maybe i should ask you to make me one every morning."

"tough luck", you reply, glancing at him as you clean. "i'm afraid this is the last of my hospitality."

besides, you didn't have it in you to continue acting an utter fool around him. something about his self-assuredness serves as the antithesis to your nervous energy, fueling it further to the point that you're doubtful about whether he'll return tomorrow.

"is that any way to talk to your knight in shining armor?"

oh. nevermind. that question makes you want to slap the handsome smirk off his face.

you give one last swipe of the counter, as if to stand your ground, and straighten up. yet it only leads to disaster.

the lonesome bottle of milk that you'd put atop it, comes crashing down onto the tiles, spraying its contents along every surface and scattering glass shards in its wake. the knot in your stomach tightens and you refuse to acknowledge the man who hasn't budged an inch.

he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"what am i going to do with you?"

as you stoop down to gather the glass, he mirrors you.

"i can-"

"it'll be faster with the two of us."

apparently, it's your turn to watch him. you slow your movements as you focus on his hands, how meticulously they pick up each broken shard and how conflicted you feel about him doing as such. in your daze, the edge of a particularly sharp fragment digs into your thumb and you flinch.

"fuck-"

he reacts before you do, tossing the glass he's holding into the bin and taking your hand in his to help you remove the fragment.

"this might sting", he mutters. that was the last thing on your mind. did this man have no sense of personal space?

the fragment is tossed out with the rest of what used to be the bottle and you're about to reluctantly thank him for a second time until he's bringing your thumb up to his mouth.

"wh- what are you doing?"

he suckles gently on the cut, putting a stop to the bleeding, and you're rendered speechless. when he speaks, all you can think about is his lips.

"can't you be more careful?"

"not with you here, no", you say, finally admitting to the reality that was beginning to suffocate you. you can't pay attention to anything other than him.

"figured it out, have you?"

"figured what out...?", you ask, leaning in as his voice drops to a whisper.

"you have a crush on me."

you stare, perplexed, and you tear your eyes away from his mouth to look at him. there's a secret lingering in his facade. of words unspoken and confessions kept hidden. what does he know?

"prove it", you mumble, perfectly aware of how ridiculous a demand that was.

except he obliges, closing the gap between the both of you and meeting your lips with his own. they're soft and as you snake your hands around his neck, his cap comes loose, falling to join the mess on the floor.

neither of you care to address it and he pulls you back up, hugging you to his front and wrapping his arms around you. it's intoxicating. bitterness lingers on his tongue and there's the faint taste of cigarettes. but you're kissing him like someone starved. or perhaps someone parched.

sparks fly beneath your eyelids and rouge caresses your cheeks. (or was it the ghost of his palm against them?)

there's a need, an intensity to the way he grips you and the way clenches his jaw when you tug at his hair. you match him blow for blow, digging your nails into his shoulder and moaning softly into the kiss.

when you part and rest your forehead against his, you're not the only one who's out of breath.

"belphie", you whisper and the look on his face is a mystery in itself – surprise and longing, haphazardly hidden behind a mask of indifference.

"thank god i brought another five bottles with me, huh?"