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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years ago

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Avery the Fae/Reader, Lemon

You don’t dress up for Halloween.

Not your fault, though, really, because your professors show no mercy for holidays, especially not ones that don’t land them a day off. Classes go on as usual, and so you wake up the latest you can without risking a tardy and go off in the comfortable clothes you slept in. Except for some cat ears and one superman, everything is perfectly normal, and the day passes like almost every other, save for a ‘spooky drink’ coupon at the local cafe.

I probably don’t even need a costume, anyways, you think as you catch your reflection when passing those special mirror-like windows on one of the campus’ buildings. Frankly, you look like you crawled out of hell itself. Dark circles under your eyes from lack of sleep, hair all askew and uncooperative, mouth in a permanent stressed line.

A zombie, probably, you decide, taking a sip of that hot caffeinated mess you ordered from the cafe. A hot zombie, for sure, but a zombie no less. A part of you wants to skip your next class and take a nap, but you’ve already used up your one absence, and you aren’t in a position to risk your grade for sleep. No rest for the wicked, right? Right. Everything else goes as smoothly as can be expected for being sleep deprived, and the night class seems to drag on for a fully stretched eternity, but you are finally free to go home and do your five hours of homework. Maybe if you’re lucky, you can squeeze in two or three hours of sleep.

It’s because you’re tired, you think, stopping for a hot minute when you realize that you’re lost. You hadn’t been paying attention to campus’ many twists and turns in its paths, and so you must have wandered away from the buildings and onto the forest trail that hugs the dorms, except there’s no cement beneath your feet. Not even a dirt trail marks a way out, and you take a full moment to come to terms with being lost, on your own damn campus, no less. You aren’t any kind of simpering pansy, so you turn around and begin to retrace your steps. Which doesn’t work, unfortunately, because after a couple of minutes of walking, there’s nothing to suggest that you’re only a couple of paces from civilization.

Except a drum beat, behind you. It’s faint, probably a half-mile away, but it’s the closest thing you have to a way back, especially since your phone can’t seem to pick up any signal. Maybe one of the school’s many bands are practicing? Right, you’re just going to stumble out into the football field, twigs in your hair, looking very much like you’ve gotten into a fist-fight with the entire forest…

And… Not a band, you realize, stepping into a clearing, but a party.

A costume party, too, by the looks of it, with everyone in soft, flittery clothing and fitted masks. Interesting how everyone seems to be on the same page with the dress code, there’s usually that one dick who shows up in a hotdog suit, regardless of any previous agreements. Elegant is the word you’re looking for, you decide, running into something tall and solider, correction: running into someone tall and solid.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” you apologize, shifting your weight on either foot, “I’m a little lost.”

“I think that you are right where you want to be,” your stranger says, mouth turning up into a strange, fanged smile. His black mask is trimmed with gold, and it doesn’t seem like he’s costuming as anything specific; rather, it appears to be just for anonymity.

“I think I really want to be in bed,” you say, trying to share a mutual we’re in college and want to die of exhaustion moment, but he doesn’t respond with the same energy.

“Perhaps a drink of wine before you go?” He offers, holding out an actual goblet of some kind. Maybe the metal-working students pitched in? Or accepted a particular commissioned order? It looks like genuine gold, which adds to the whole aesthetic of the party.

“Uh,” don’t accept drinks you haven’t seen made, “I’m good for now, really. Just trying to get back home to study.”

“Hm,” he says, taking a good swig from the goblet he had just offered, “good question. Through the trees from whence you came, most likely.”

Of fucking course, he’s drunk and doesn’t know left from right. Great. What an excellent position you’ve put yourself in. Frustrated and confident he wouldn’t roofie himself, you snatch the goblet from his hand and down several large gulps of shockingly sweet wine, maybe a sangria? Or something sugared up to be palatable?

Swirling the goblet around, to seem sophisticated, you ask, “so is this some kind of rich person party? Like an Illuminati meeting or something?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you speak of.”

“Right.” You draw out the single syllable, landing hard on the t. LARPers, probably, but not unattractive ones. Those masks don’t hide everything, and the shape of his jaw is not something to balk at, and those lips? Not to be forward in your own brain or anything, but they’re certainly decent to look at. This has to be some kind of weird-ass club, or like a rich dumbass ritual or something, definitely not your average frat party with a variety of random drugs mixed into the mystery punch. “Do you go to school here?”

He looks down at your university sweatshirt, cocking his head slightly. “A place of learning, is it? No, I’m afraid I have not attended such an institution, but I must admit that I have been tempted.”

“Well,” you take another sip of wine, “it’s not bad, as far as universities go. With decent financial aid, too.”

“Best not to drink too much of that,” your stranger says, “it’s much stronger than it tastes, and it’s best you stay clear-headed for the evening’s festivities.”

“One cup can’t hurt,” you say, and then realize that he’s just volunteered you to join in on the fun. Which is kind of weird, you guess, but then again, you aren’t going to complain. This is a way more interesting place to spend your evening, but might as well prop your backpack underneath one of the tables, hiding it beneath the skirt of the pale white cloth. You eye the unmarked bottle that one of the party-goers holds, but set your goblet down by the expensive-looking chinaware, flexing your fingers as they begin to tingle with the warmness that comes with alcohol. “What’s the party’s theme?”

He cocks his head, as though confused.

“Like a…” you try to think of a different way to phrase it. “A topic you pick, and everyone has to adhere to it. The people here all look like they’re, like, what Victorian thought the fairies looked like or something. I think it’s the clothes.”

“We are Faeries, though,” he says, the sides of his mouth curving upwards.

“Hm,” you say, “of course you are.”

“Join me for this dance?” Your stranger asks instead of any rebuttals, holding out a hand.

You look over at the band that plays, masks of distinct animal-like features flickering in the light of the bonfire roaring in the center of the clearing, all instruments vaguely familiar, yet not. Some of them you think you’ve seen before, at maybe renaissance-themed festivals, but the others must be from some kind of distinctly obscure genre of music.

The heat from the fire seems to lick out at your fingers, or maybe it’s the alcohol, already making its way through your system, but you stare, transfixed, at the way the lyre player plucks at the strings of their instrument. The quick movement plays too much with your eyes, you barely see anything more than the blurs of fingers, and you suddenly realize that you are swaying in place.

“I don’t know how,” you say, snapping out of whatever trance you had been in.

“It’s rather simple, come here,” he takes one of your hands, shockingly not unwelcome. Perhaps the warmth of his skin against yours brings you a kind of peace that you need during this period of your life. “I will teach you.”

Your stranger is correct; the dance is fairly simple to learn, mostly because there are very few rules. Sway your hips. Let your feet bounce against the soft forest floor. Let him spin you around and around until your head almost feels light. You’ll be honest, he’s the one doing all the work, guiding you, adding more flair to your steps, one hand resting on your waist, the other weaving its fingers with yours. Now, you may not be one to go out and ballroom dance on the fly, but you would be alright admitting that this is kind of fun.

So you dance. And you dance. And you continue dancing, letting the music remove you from time and space, everything else fades away except for the thrumming drumbeat, the wind in the trees, and your partner. You don’t feel the need to gasp for air, nor do your legs give out and collapse, but you aren’t even aware of how much time has passed. You dance out your pain, your stress, and any alcohol that lingers in your system, a layer of sweat keeping your body cool in the autumn night’s air. An eternity, perhaps, a small piece of infinity shared between you and this stranger, or the briefest of moments that still yield the most intimate bit of time that two people can share.

The song ends- or perhaps, the band finally runs out of music to play. You don’t know what time it is, but you aren’t finished with the party, not yet. The stranger sets his hands on both your hips, eyes as red as the fires of hell, and offers you a promising smile, his shirt loosely clinging to his body, having lost the fancily embroidered vest at some point while dancing.

“Do you want to get out of here?” You ask, making a snap decision not to let the night go to waste.

His smile widens.

The trees are your only audience when he brings you away from the rest of the party, the moon staring over the tops of the red and yellow leaves. The chill of the night might have discouraged anyone else, but you are broiling with energy and ready to continue moving wildly to keep warm. Despite barely being out of sight, you’re already working on his clothes, trying to find velcro or snaps of a cheap costume and failing rather miserably. He seems amused with your attempts, guiding your hands to find a variation of ties and buttons. Soon enough, you have his shirt off, his pale skin gleaming in the moonlight, revealing a chest etched in dozens of tattoos, red like blood against his pale skin, though it’s too dark to make out precisely what they are.

He seems to have a destination in mind, even though you steal most of his attention with kisses and touches. Even though you are in a place you’re sure no one would bother finding you in, he still seems determined to herd your desperate body further away from the camp, until the both of you get to a clearing, free of roots strangling the ground. Jupiter and Saturn stare blankly down from their perches in the sky, the stars surrounding them twinkling, as though applauding your conquest.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you gasp after a breathless kiss.

He pauses, almost put off by the request, like he’s startled you would even ask. Before you can even regain the ability to feel nervous, he says, “Avery.”

“Avery,” you repeat, running your fingers through his hair. “That’s a nice name.”

“And what may I call you?”

Like a fool, you give up your first name without much thought, but you are too excited about where the night is going to remember what you said even a second later. It doesn’t seem to matter, though, because his mouth is against yours, and your back is on the cold, dewy grass before you even register that he pulled your legs off balance. He’s a good kisser, you think hazily, his lips traveling down from your mouth to your collarbone. His mouth is nice and hot against your skin, already sending pleasant little shivers down your spine as he works, and you find yourself grasping at the cold, dying grass of the earth in order to pull your spirit back to reality.

The insides of your belly melt as he lifts your shirt up over your breasts, and you’re quick to discard the garment as he sucks at the skin just above the hemline of your pants. He needs help with the button and the zipper, his lithe fingers struggling to figure out the mechanics, so you undo everything for him. After letting out a thankful grunt, he leans forward, pressing his lips right on your stomach, sucking hard enough to leave a red mark that may bruise in the morning.

Then he kisses the skin just above where your underwear ends, a jolting shiver pulsing through your core at the contact. When you glance down at him, the barest light emanating from the roaring bonfire only a few meters away, he seems so… focused, you think, at his task of slowly stripping the last bit of fabric away from your body. Methodically, he tugs, fingers threading through the straps at the side, his eyes glimmering in the light bleeding out from the moon herself.

Slowly, steadily, he presses his mouth where your leg and torso meet, nibbling at a bit of flesh before moving ever so slightly downwards, opening your legs and seemingly liking what he finds down there. Carefully avoiding any of your puckered, wet skin, he instead moves his lips just to the side, clearly enjoying the act of driving you to the brink of insanity. You can feel the smile he wears as he teases you further, switching over to your other thigh.

Almost impatiently, you wrap one of your legs around his shoulder, arching your back when he finally lashes his tongue out to trace the outline of your flower. A heated spark ignites through your nerves, a charge of fiery need flooding your body and into your core. He seems to enjoy the breathless whine you offered in response because he does it again, inching closer and closer to your clit.

Roughly, you tangle your fingers into his long, flowing hair, pulling him closer and begging with no words for him to stop teasing and finally give you the pleasure you need. Avery finally complies, pressing his tongue right up against your clit and tracing little circles on and around it. The heat of his breath only helps further stir the coals in your womb, your back arching against the gentle curve of the world as you cry out.

He seems to deeply enjoy your keening, popping off your puckered flesh in the brief moment it takes for him to smile up at you, like a beast satisfied with the tortured screams of its prey. The way his tongue moves up, around, and down your clit makes you want to die, dirt clinging underneath your fingernails, bits of grass tearing as you claw at the ground. Still, he takes your keening reaction to double his efforts, using his fingers when his mouth is busy elsewhere, rubbing gentle little patterns in the opening of your slit.

There, you can feel your orgasm approaching as he begins to explore your core with his thumb, pushing and rubbing against the throbbing folds with some level of curiosity in his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, a passing observation.

You’re so beyond the point of return that you could barely even draw in the words to thank him before you’re overcome with shaking trembles emanating from your very core, your insides quick to bend and break at his beckoning. It doesn’t take much more teasing from Avery before you’re crying out for him, voice cracking with pleasure and desperation, your fingers threading through his hair so tightly you don’t know where you end, and he begins.

When you are nothing more than a heaping, teary-eyed mass of trembling flesh on the ground, he crawls up from between your legs, kisses your stomach, your ribs, your breasts, your collarbone, all the way up to your mouth once more. You can taste yourself on his tongue and lips, warmer than the wine and almost twice as intoxicating, and by the wild stare in his eyes, he’s drunk with your nectar. And, quite frankly, ready to devour you, his kisses all teeth and heat, mouth dexterous against the curves, rises, and plateaus of your body, like he knows so very intimately every square centimeter of you.

There’s a hard rock length against your stomach, one that you can feel, almost tragically against your skin as he lavishes your lips and chest with his blessed attention. Even though you walked into this situation expecting a one-night stand, you don’t know, this feels light it could rocket through your life and end up becoming

“More,” you rasp, surprised that your voice is even working, ” more.”

He understands that rough and demanding command, stroking your hair with one of his free hands, mouth offering up a myriad of kisses to your neck and collarbone, an odd, overcoming need to please you emanating off of him, one like you’ve never dealt with before. Out of the corner of your eye, you think you see the familiar masks of those at the party earlier, but Avery turns your wandering gaze back to him with his insistent, feral kiss, his chest trembling with heated need.

“Do you want my cock inside you?” He asks, wanting to hear you say it.

“Please,” you almost snarl, wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Hmm,” he almost manages to fool you that he could care less, but by the way his body grinds and presses against yours, he’s so, so close to traveling the radius of the earth itself to comply. You can hear the rustle of fabric as he strips away what’s left of his ensemble, moving away from your body and leaving you almost horrifically cold.

It doesn’t take a lot for him to angle your legs properly, your thigh rubbing up against his throbbing member. He’s at least gentle with how he impales you, his entrance slow and gradual, kaleidoscope eyes staring so intently into your very being that you wonder if you’ll survive the next time pleasure crashes down around you. And he feels so good, the crisp, autumn grass against your back the only thing keeping you from becoming so lost beneath his trembling body.

He must share your thoughts because even though he’s only eased in, his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing is short and shallow like he could hardly believe the pleasure your body gives him. Once he’s fully sheathed, he swears, voice quiet, yet filled to the brim with lust. You wrap your legs around his waist, hoping to feel him further, your voice and your body begging him to continue, to move, but he’s almost in a trance.

You’re impatient for movement, for that slick friction between your thighs, so you quickly take matters into your own hands. With no finesse, fueled only by spite and determination, you shift, switching positions using your legs and arms. Avery simply rolls with it, a ghostly smile on his mouth as you pin his hands to the ground, chest heaving from the effort, a layer of sweat misting your skin despite the chill of the night.

That seems to break whatever space he had retreated to, eyes lit like a roaring forest fire as he beholds your body from beneath your legs. His voice is raspy, but the demand is calm, collected, like he’s waited for thousands of years for this, for you. “Use me.”

You let out a breath, steadying yourself on his body to comply, and grind. His eyes roll back as you do, starting slowly, his back arching off the ground, his chest heaving with pleasure at the loss of control. Careful to control the pace, you let yourself be taken by the pleasure, the joining slick and hot, your core roaring with approval and greed. More, more, more.

Everything is suddenly vibrantly alive, the forest rustling with a wind you don’t feel, crickets singing hymns in the open field, the moon herself licking at your bodies with her soft, precious light. You think you hear chanting in the distance, your brain muddled with his delicious praises and lust that you don’t try to investigate, too focused on feeling his length pulse and move through your folds. Tears prick at your eyes, not from sadness, no, and you couldn’t possibly know their purpose because this feels so good, like his body was made for you.

This climax almost hurts, you felt it approaching and you knew it would be a lot, so you brace yourself, both hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline. You look into his eyes, and you see… more, than just fundamental attraction, more than pure, unadulterated lust, but you’re so far gone you can’t pinpoint what it is, exactly, before you’re overcome.

Everything in your body is aflame, your core quaking enough to make you think, for just a brief moment, that the earth itself is tearing apart, you cry, you whine, you scream for him, and he’s there, holding onto you for dear life. Telling you that you’re perfect, you’re beautiful, that you’ll never want another man so long as your legs are wrapped around him so tightly like this. You think you believe him, gasping for air, fingernails digging into his skin hard enough to draw blood, though he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest.

It takes a lot of concentration to bring yourself back into your body, your soul and spirit so besotted with desire, but you manage it, feeling his hands grip your thighs so tightly his fingers may leave bruise marks. You bend forward, letting him take the reins as you try to stay present enough in the moment to kiss and nip at his neck, teeth tugging at his skin, the aftershocks still moving through your nerves like waves on a storming night. Still, though, you want him to feel what you did, to become undone by your hand.

And he does, his thrusts becoming so uneven that you begin to grind, ghosts of your orgasm weaving through your flesh and womb. A crescendo of noise seems to overtake the clearing, the air becoming like static, the hairs on your arms standing on end. Overcome, he curses and snarls in a language you don’t understand, his voice hard and soft at the same time, his hips jerking as something warm and wet pulses out of his member, filling you up and spilling out onto his pelvis.

Avery sits up, still joined within you, shaken, but startlingly and brilliantly alive, chest heaving with the effort of breathing. He presses his mouth against yours in a myriad of kisses, soft, possessive, tender, needy. There is still some amount of desire on his lips, but without the same uncontrollable yearning broiling just beneath his fevered skin like before.

Then he says your name, and a shiver goes down your spine, your very being somehow attentive to whatever he says next, as though your entire universe suddenly floods down and descends on this one, single person. He says it again, rolling it over his tongue like a wine taster, trying out each of the letters as though they offer a different kind of sweetness, his eyes just as wild as they had been when you held him pinned to the grass. A sliver of fear pierces your chest, making you want to push him onto the ground and take him again, but he has other plans.

“I’ll walk you back, dove,” he says, pressing his mouth against your collarbone, though he doesn’t kiss you again, not yet. “The sun will soon be up.”

#exophilia #fae #fae/reader #fey #monster lovers #monster boyfriend #monster/reader

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beauvibaby · 4 years ago

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I hope so – c.hart

requested - yes

You were trying to look sympathetic, you swear you were trying, but you just couldn’t, Carter sat on the edge of your couch. If you were being honest, he didn’t look too torn up about his breakup either, but you knew if anything he just felt bad for hurting his now ex girlfriend. “I told you.” You finally spoke, moving from your spot at the open apartment door, it was late, a little after midnight, you’d be paying for this in the morning while you worked. “Can you not?” Carter snapped harsher than he intended too. “What do you want me to say, Carter? I have been telling you since the beginning she wasn’t going to be cut out for your lifestyle, it’s a lot to handle.” You sighed, sitting beside him on the couch, he gave you a glare before tipping his head back against the couch, his hat falling off in the process, his leg beginning to bounce as he ran a hand over his face. A very anxious tell of his. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know it’s hard.” You whispered, grabbing his hand and sandwiching it between yours. “It’s just-ugh,” he paused, looking over at you, debating on telling you this or not, part of him feeling like you would look at him differently after this. “She told me she loved me, and then I just broke up with her, I didn’t feel the same at all.” He admitted, your face falling as you thought of how heartbroken she must be right now. “You didn’t see her face, Y/N, I feel like the worlds biggest dick.” Carter mumbled, you pulled him down to rest his head on your shoulder. “You’re not though, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but telling her now is so much better than leading her on when you know the feelings aren’t going to show up.” You explained to him, smiling as he began playing with your fingers as he listened to you speak, a sign of him calming down. “I know.” He whispered in defeat, “why do you always have to be right?” He questioned, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. “Because I’m smart.” You retorted, giggling as he tried not to laugh at how seriously you said it. “You wanna stay here tonight? It’s late.” You murmured, trying to ignore the spark in your chest at how he was holding eye contact with you. “Yeah, thanks.” He kissed your cheek quickly before removing himself from you, making his way to the guest room he had stayed in so many times before. “Goodnight.” You called, forcing yourself to go back to bed as you felt a daze wash over you.

****

It wasn’t a good game for Carter, you were happy that it had happened while you were here though, knowing how he could be when he got worked up. You shifted nervously in your seat as they pulled Carter from the game, he whipped his helmet off as he skated to the bench, you tried to catch his gaze but he didn’t dare to look away from his feet. You sighed, slumping down into the hard chair, biting your lip as the rest of the game continued to go downhill, it just wasn’t their night you guessed. It didn’t make it any harder to watch as they made their way down the hall, losing by four, a nervous pit in your stomach as you instantly gathered your things and started heading for the locker rooms.

It felt like an eternity until they started piling out, Carter being the last one as he was analyzing the game in his head the whole time. “Hey.” You reached out for him, half expecting him to pull away and be stubborn, but he surprised you by instantly hugging you. “I fucked up.” He grumbled, you shook your head against his chest, pushing him away so you could see his face. “Look at me.” You demanded, not going to put up with his self pity party. “It was a bad night, it happens, you did your best. You learned from this game and the next one will only be better.” You spoke slowly, making sure he listened to every word. “Ok.” Is all he could respond with as he sighed, it was a good enough answer for now so you let it slide.

***

“Y/N? Is everything ok?” Carter’s panicked voice came over the line, he knew you were supposed to be on a date right now, someone you had known for a while through a mutual friend. “No, can you come get me?” You whimpered, embarrassed you had called him. The guy had been so sweet throughout dinner, he was nice and funny, but then he asked if you wanted to go back to his place, and the smirk on his face told you everything you needed to know. You kindly declined, not in the mood or feeling like going home with him. He got pissed and left you there, of course the one time you let a guy drive you to a date this happens. “Yeah, of course, where are you?” Carter rushed, you could hear him shuffling around his apartment, voices muffled in the background. “Oh, no, the boys are over I forgot, never mind.” You tried to back out, “who cares about them? Now tell me where you are.” He muttered a fuck off to the guys in the background who complained at his word choice. You told him the restaurant and he swore he would be there in ten minutes, easing your nerves as he assured you that he was glad you called him.

Carter hung up the phone and threatened his friends to be out of his apartment by the time he came back. They bregudgidly agreed.

True to his word, Carter was pulling up ten minutes later, you didn’t give him a chance to get out of the car, the second you saw him you were rushing to open the passenger door. You stared straight ahead, ashamed to look at him, the tears now drying to your face. “Y/N.” Carter whispered with a small sigh, he reached over grabbing your hand, urging you to look at him. You looked over and gave him a teary smile, completely done with tonight, and how idiotic men could be. “He didn’t hurt you, right?” He had to ask, giving you a once over, panic in his chest as he thought of how badly he’d want to punch that guy. “No, he didn’t.” You whispered, slumping in the seat after you put your seatbelt on. “Did you want to stay at mine tonight?” He questioned, seeing the tiredness floating in your eyes, it wasn’t even that late, but you were mentally exhausted. “Can I?” You responded sheepishly, Carter smiled at your sleepy figure, only then realizing you still had a grip on his hand. “Of course.” He whispered, not daring to move his hand despite how difficult it made it for him to put the car back into drive. You didn’t notice as you shut your eyes, telling yourself it would only be for a moment, but you fell asleep nearly instantly.

Carter couldn’t really feel his arm at this point, as your head had slumped down against it, but he didn’t care. This was the time where he realized his feelings for you had definitely surpassed platonic. He carefully removed his arm as he was now parked in the garage for his apartment, you didn’t make a peep as your head slowly fell against the seat, he let out a breathy chuckled as he moved around the car to get you. He opened the door, reaching for your seatbelt when you finally stirred. “Hey sleepy.” He whispered, your eyes fluttering open as you looked around, you landed on his face and smiled softly as the memories came back. “Hi.” You mumbled, voice rough with sleep, he moved away to let you get out of the car, tucking you under his arm as you shivered at the coolness in the air, your dress not doing much to keep you warm.

It was definitely not the first time you’d stayed the night at his place, so you easily went and grabbed one of his old shirts to sleep in before going to the spare room. Carter chuckled, making you glance back at him, “what?” You asked, feeling the heat rush to your face. “Why do you still bother? We both know you’re going to sneak into my room in an hour anyways.” He raised an eyebrow at you, waiting for you to falsely deny his statement. It had started once when you were drunk, and now it became like a habit, even when he stayed at your place, you would end up wandering in there in the middle of the night. Carter was so used to it, he basically was waiting for it. “Just come on.” He laughed softly, trudging into his room as you followed.

That night you fell asleep much closer together than you ever had, and it only made it harder for you to deny the butterflies in your stomach around him.

When you woke up before Carter, you took the time to look over his peaceful face. You felt his hand move, only then did you realize it was resting heavily against your side, he mumbled incoherently, shuffling closer to you, hiding his face half in his pillow. “What?” You giggled breathily, not missing the way he smiled into the fabric before forcing his eyes open to meet yours. Even with the way you had forgotten to take off your makeup, the mascara lightly smeared under your eyes, or the way your hair was no doubt a knotted mess on the back of your head. He was just in awe of you staring back at him. “Good morning.” He mumbled, rubbing his thumb across your skin where his shirt you were wearing rode up, “morning.” You responded, searching his face for anything aside from the blissful look plastered on it. “I could get used to this.” He whispered, deciding to bite the bullet as you laid face to face with him. “Me too.” You replied instantly, his smile widened, it going unspoken between the both of you that this was mutual. “Am I really about to kiss my best friend?” You wondered aloud, he laughed softly, moving his hand from your side, up to your face, pushing the mascara off your cheek lightly, “I sure hope so.” He whispered, eyes flickering down to your lips, you pulled your bottom lip into your mouth, his thumb moving down to pull it out slowly. You closed the gap, making him smile against your lips, it was a sloppy kiss, both of you smiling too hard, he tilted your head slightly, making it easier to kiss you the way he wanted too.

You pulled away breathless, “yeah, I could definitely get used to this.” You giggled, shrieking softly when he rolled you to your back, kissing you again. “Couldn’t picture it anyother way.” He mumbled.

Taglist: @heybarzy @kempe @bowenbyram @literarycharleton @kiedhara

#imagine #imagines #Carter hart imagine #Carter hart #Carter hart fic #Philadelphia flyers

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firstofficerwiggles · 4 years ago

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Sending a Message

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader

Rating: T, there are sexy situations, i.e. touching, but no actual sex, one use of the f-word, but mostly fluff and some longing

Summary: Basically, you and Din are in a cantina and you need his help to get men to stop hitting on you. You have an established friendship with him but neither of you have expressed your true *romantic* feelings. Enjoy!

Word Count: 2900ish

Author’s note: I love fanfiction and have been reading it for a looong time now, but I finally decided to take the plunge and write one myself. What can I say? Din is very inspiring. It’s very self-indugent and I hope you like it.

I wrote a Part 2 to this story (18+ version) (T version)

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The child is a sticky mess having eaten his way through a bag of ripe berries as you were trying to keep him occupied so the Mandalorian could suss out information for others of his kind who might know where to find the Jedi.

It’s been roughly three months since you joined the Mandalorian’s crew to help out with the child. You were enamored with the sweet little green baby the moment you saw him with Din in that marketplace back on Tatooine. Stressed and exhausted, Din let you pick up the child and entertain him while he loaded supplies on to a cart. You accompanied the two of them around on the rest of their errands that day, offering helpful advice and somehow gaining the Mandalorian’s trust fast enough to have him offer you a job as the child’s caretaker by the end of the day. You surprised yourself with how quickly you agreed to the arrangement, but in the end, you knew there was nothing left for you on Tatooine but memories and an empty house.

So now here you were, fairly content with your role as nanny to the child, although not quite prepared for how risky travelling with the Mandalorian could be. There were days when you could not believe the situations you found yourself in, yet through it all, you knew you had made the right decision. This was largely in part to the Mandalorian himself. There was just something so undeniably compelling about him. He was an execptional hunter and frankly, a deadly assassin, but he always seemed willing to put his violent skills towards a good cause, no matter how hopeless it may have seemed. But yet, no matter how lethal he could be, he was also so heartbreakingly soft and gentle with his small son, demonstrating a fierce protectiveness that had spread to you too. At first, the Mandalorian wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but little by little, you had begun to get to know him and had fallen into an easy friendship of sorts with him. All well and good, but, the more you knew about him, the more you started to feel an attraction to him. It started slow, and you played it off as just a weakness for his handsome armor and, let’s be honest, his strong, fit physique underneath all that beskar. But then, he started to share small jokes with you, ask you more about yourself, and reveal details about his own life, including his name, Din Djarin. After that, you really couldn’t deny your feelings, but you kept them to yourself not wanting to upset the contented balance you had achieved nor wanting to put him in the uncomfortable position of having to turn you down. Still though, the longing was there, even when you tried to distract yourself.

“Wow, look at you! I think we have a new record, kiddo.” Din has made his way back to you and is gently teasing his son. He scoops him up into his arms and the child coos with glee but also puts his berry-smeared hands all over his father’s shiny armor.

“Oh no! I thought I’d have a chance to clean him up before you returned.” You apologize a little embarassed.

“It’s not a big deal; we’ll take care of it.” Din has accepted the messiness of fatherhood in stride, “Let’s head over to that cantina. We’ll get cleaned up and you two can get some food while we’re there.”

As Din heads to the back of the cantina in search of a fresher to deal with the berry mess, you spy two seats at the bar and carefully make your way through the crowd. Several people, mostly men it seems, smile widely at you as you pass. It’s packed in here, but the warmth of so many bodies together is welcome after the blustery wind that had picked up outside. You shed your heavy cloak and drape it over the back of one of the barstools both so you can save the seat for Din and, you think eagerly, give him the chance to see the pretty dress you decided to wear today. It’s one of your favorites but he hasn’t seen it yet, however, with the cooler weather on this planet you were beginning to think you wouldn’t get a chance to show it off. Not that you should be thinking like that, you roll your eyes at yourself and your silly crush on the stoic Mandalorian. You’re just getting yourself settled at the bar when the bartender places a brightly colored drink in front of you. Confused you say, “I haven’t ordered yet.” as he just points behind you to a burly looking man with a scruffy beard. The man is grinning confidently at you,

“My treat, pretty lady! We rarely get strangers like you in here!”

“Thank you,” you demure, “but I really can’t accept.”

“Nonsense! You go ahead and enjoy and then we can get to know each other.” He winks at you.

“Maybe she’d prefer one of these,” another man has sauntered over, this one a lanky man with a bottle of something in his hand, “I think she might prefer something with more of a bite to it.” His entendre not lost on you, you hold up your hand and shake your head to fend him off when yet a third man tries to get your attention,

“Don’t let these bozos tell you what you want; I’ll get you whatever your heart desires!”

“I can buy my own drink, thanks,” you cut him off, turn back to the bartender, and manage to order your own drink and some food for you and the child, but this last guy is persistent and sleezy, coming over and perching himself on the barstool you were saving for Din. “Hey, I’m saving that for my…” what should you call him? “friend,” you finish lamely.

“Well, no problem, I’m looking forward to meeting her too.” he waggles his eyebrows at you suggestively. Giving him a sarcastic glare, you retort, “I don’t think he’d be interested.”

Things are starting to get out of hand, but thankfully, Din has spotted you amongst your crowd of admirers and with a small, rather amused tilt of his helmet and a bit of a shove, he’s now by your side with the child cooing happily from his satchel. “How about a booth?” he suggests, and you swear you can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Great idea” you reply, hopping down from your stool and snatching your cloak back from the other one.

“Oh c’mon baby, that tin can can’t make you happy like I can” the guy who rudely stole Din’s seat calls after you. Your face erupts in a blush and you hope to hell that Din didn’t hear him amidst the noise of the cantina. The other men voice their frustrations too at your departure. You put your hand on Din’s bicep steering him away from these guys just in case. You don’t need Din starting a bar fight over you. You’re still holding his arm and following Din closely when yet another man comes up to you,

“This Mandalorian isn’t bothering you, baby, is he?” this idiot dares to ask.

“No. He is not.” you grit out as Din says, “She’s fine.” in his best don’t-fuck-with-me voice. It’s lost on this drunk fool though as he just lets out “Woo hoo! She sure is!” and tries to slap your ass, but thankfully you dodge him just in time.

You’re starting to doubt the wisdom in coming into this cantina but now that you’re making it to a booth with Din, you figure you should be all right. The booth has a curved seat following the shape of its round table and as Din places the child in the middle of the seat, he sits down to his right. You slide into your side of the booth opposite Din but before you can get fully seated, a man from the booth right behind you leans over, grabs your wrist and leeringly says, “I got a much better seat for you, mama.” and gestures to his crotch. Repulsed, you slap his hand away and head over to Din’s side of the table. That creep was disgusting but he did give you an idea.

“Will you do me a huge favor?” you ask Din, “Always” he replies instantly. Putting your hand on his shoulder, you climb into his lap while sliding one arm around his neck and then bringing your other hand to rest on his cuirass. You can sense his surprise, yet his arm wraps around your waist instinctively.

“Play along, please?” you whisper to him.

“What are you doing, exactly?” he wants to know.

“Sending a message.” You tuck your head in closer to his in a clearly affectionate way and place a kiss on his helmet where his cheek would be.

“What message would that be?” Din asks still a bit stunned by your actions.

“That I’m yours.” You pause as he absorbs this and then you tell him quietly, “I need you to be a little handsy.”

“Handsy?” he tilts his helmet at you “This feels like a trap.”

“No, I want you to. Be handsy.” You tell him again.

“Ok” he drawls out, “but don’t punch me.”

“I won’t.” You flutter your lashes at him to give the impression to this room of horny strangers that you’re flirting with Din.

Din gives a tiny shrug that you can feel more than see but then brings his free hand up to your face. His gloved hand slowly strokes your cheek as he then lets his fingers trace over your jaw and then down your neck and chest, slowing down even more as he reaches your cleavage and then just gently ghosts his fingers between your breasts before resting his hand just beneath them. You feel your breath hitch and get caught in your throat at the intimacy of his touch and you have to remind yourself that this is just for show, just to get these losers to stop hitting on you. Reminding yourself of the message you want to send, you wonder if this is too subtle. You need to make this definitive.

“Be a little more obvious,” you tell Din, the blush returning to your cheeks, I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“More?” Din tries to confirm, “What do you have in mind?”

“Put your hand up my skirt.”

“Ok, now that is definitely a trap.” he chuckles lightly.

“Do it. Put your hand up my skirt,” you practically demand.

“Well, I’m not going to say no to that,” he responds appearing to be amused by this whole situation. He takes his hand, starts to play with the hem of your dress, and then slowly starts to slide his hand up your thigh under your skirt kneading gently as he goes. You feel like you are dying, it is so sensual and so exactly what you have been dreaming of for weeks now. You knew he would be good at this and it’s killing you that it’s just an act. You squirm a little in his lap unable to help yourself and you think you can feel his own arousal, but you tell yourself you must be imagining it.

Din cannot believe this is happening, how is he this lucky? When he caught sight of the men hitting on you at the bar, he figured it was inevitable that you’d be surrounded by would-be suitors and he cursed himself for leaving you alone in a place like this even for a few minutes. A quick scan of the room showed him that you were absolutely the most beautiful woman there. Not that he was surprised, as he’s rarely seen anyone as stunningly gorgeous as you in his opinion. Plus, given this sexy dress you have on, he’s lucky he didn’t have to pry one of them off you. He noticed it right away before you left the ship earlier and had to put on your cloak, but he was hoping to keep that sight to himself. He knows he shouldn’t think of you that way, but he has given up trying to ignore his feelings for you. It’s not just your beauty, but who you are as a person. He’s never met anyone who’s so easy to talk to and who treats him with such respect and kindness. It shocks him how strongly he trusts you and the way he’s let down his guard around you. You might not realize it but you are the best friend he’s ever had, and although he wants more, he’s not quite ready to risk your friendship. If he messes this up, you might see him as just another jerk hitting on you.

Speaking of, Din figured his intimidating presence would keep the jerks away once he got back over to you, but these fools had clearly never met a Mandalorian before because they didn’t have the good sense to leave you alone even when he was standing right next to you. He had been sure he was going to have to punch the creep that grabbed you but then you were sitting in his lap before he had a chance to stand up and defend you. And now, now, he was cuddling with you in the middle of this crowded cantina, touching you in ways he hadn’t let himself dare to think about. He didn’t need the child’s powers to feel the waves of sheer envy coming off of the men in the room. He smirked to himself under his helmet, letting his hand slide up even higher on your thigh than he would have dared but just because he could.

You are becoming entirely swept away by Din’s ministrations on your thigh, and you hear yourself sighing his name, making him smile even more unbeknownst to you.

“Hmm?” he responds gently

“I--,” but you’re cut off by the waiter finally bringing the food.

“Here’s your order, sir” the waiter gives Din a look that is both impressed and jealous as you hide your face in Din’s neck mortified that you have gotten so carried away with this charade.

“Thanks.” Din tells him, slowly removing his hand from under your dress. You slide off his lap into the booth next to him so you can eat. Din keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulders though and you’re still pressed up against his side. You turn away slightly towards the child who has been amusing himself somehow all this time. You give yourself a chance to regain your composure as you focus on giving him some food. You had started to forget the kid was even there and you feel your face flushing again at your shameless behavior. You take a deep breath and remind yourself that this was necessary, and as you glance around the cantina, you can see that no one is paying attention to you anymore. Your message was clearly received. You sigh to yourself and start to eat your dinner.

Din is relaxed and is enjoying the feel of his arm around you. Every so often, his other hand finds its way to your forearm and brushes over your wrist and hand, not quite trying to holding your hand but almost just to remind you that he’s there. It’s flirtatious and romantic in a way that you both love and can’t stand because you know you just want him to keep doing it. You finish your food slowly trying to find a way to prolong this interlude as much as you can, even if it’s not real. Din notices when you’re done though and says, “Ready to head back to the Crest?” You nod at him, knowing it’s for the best and figuring he must be hungry too. You pick up the child and slide out of the booth following Din. He takes the baby from you and secures him in his satchel before reaching back to take your hand. Din threads his fingers through yours and leads you out of the cantina before the jealous eyes of all the other men who tried to claim you for their own earlier. He holds your hand all the way back to the ship and you let yourself bask in the moment, imagining the two of you as a real couple.

Once you’re back on the ship, you busy yourself with putting the child to bed. He’s already drowsy and practically asleep when you get him secure in his hammock. When you turn back around, Din is just watching you, standing there. You can’t imagine what he’s thinking. You suppose you should give him some privacy, let him have a chance to eat his own dinner, but before you do, you figure you ought to say something after all that.

“Thank you, for doing… for helping me out,” you feel rather flustered and it’s making you babble, “back there.” “I just couldn’t get those guys to bug off.”

“It was my pleasure,” he responds rather cheekily, “I figured I was going to get into a bar brawl, but I liked your idea a hell of a lot better.” He tilts his helmet at you and you can swear that you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Well, thank you, again” you say softly. He steps closer to you and you’re practically touching him as he looks down at you and says with a chuckle, “Any time you need me to feel you up again, just let me know.”

And before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “I will.”

He laughs and tips his head down to you, “Message received.”

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#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #din djarin #din dijarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x female reader #the mandalorian x female reader

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flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

Text

Sour Stench and Sunshine Scent - Part 2/2

@kittynannygaming ask and you shall receive ;)

CW: angst, self-deprication, self-hatred, blood

word count: ~3k

read on AO3

previous part

Geralt’s chest rose and fell heavily. The fight shouldn’t have been that hard. Not if he had drunk all of the potions he needed.

If Vesemir knew that he had forgone drinking Cat he would have sent Geralt to run the walls until he collapsed.

But Vesemir wasn’t here and all the disapproval Geralt could expect would come from Jaskier. The memory of how he had looked at him with wide eyes and that sharp stench in the air that had threatened to choke Geralt was enough to last him a lifetime.

Jaskier didn’t need to a second time of seeing him looking any less human than he already did and Geralt had no illusions as to the sight he made. Blood – his own and the monster’s – dripped from his face, his eyes were inhuman even without them being pitch black and when he got back to Jaskier, he’d be carrying the head of the monster.

He wouldn’t fault Jaskier from running from such a gruesome sight. He wouldn’t be the first to do so.

With one final sharp intake of breath, Geralt got up from where he was kneeling on the ground next to the carcass of the beast he had slain.

He did his best to wipe the blood off his face, but it was no use.

His thoughts were dark and exhaustion begged him to rest before going back, but Jaskier was out there with only Roach to keep him company. Not that Geralt was better or more wanted company than her, but Jaskier needed him to get back into town. Geralt wouldn’t let Jaskier stay in these monster infested woods for longer than he had to.

When he finally got back to Jaskier, he let out a strangled sigh of relief.

Not a scratch was on the bard and he bickered with Roach while putting something into her saddle bags.

The sight of Jaskier speaking to his horse set something strangely warm off in his chest, a pleasant calm that had nothing to do with the successful hunt.

Roach neighed when she saw Geralt and Jaskier pointed an accusing finger at her.

“Really? First you are judging me for taking it out and now you give me attitude when I want to put it back?”

A small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips that he quickly straightened back into impassiveness. No need to let Jaskier see his smile that had been described as a baring of teeth.

He halted his steps far enough from Jaskier that he wouldn’t think him too close, wouldn’t think him an immediate threat.

“What are you doing?” He asked instead and almost winced at his own voice.

He hadn’t meant for the words to sound so gruff, but he was too exhausted to control the volume and the potions were still running through his veins. They might have helped him survive, but they weren’t kind to his throat, making any sound that came out more akin to a growl than a human voice.

“Nothing,” Jaskier said too quickly and a tiny spike of nervousness came off of him. Geralt’s shoulders tensed as if preparing for another fight when in truth he was bracing himself for something much worse.

But the mildly irritating smell of nervousness didn’t shift into what Geralt feared.

“Are you hurt?” Jaskier asked and with a few quick steps came to stand before Geralt. Before Geralt could do anything but freeze at the sudden proximity that he hadn’t dared hope for, a shadow crossed over Jaskier’s face and he hastily added, “Just asking to make sure you’re alright. I am worried about you. You know that, don’t you?”

Geralt could barely fight the frown off his face. What was Jaskier on about? Never before had he felt the need to explain his questions and there was something off about the emphasis he put on the ‘you’.

“Just some scratches.” And the overwhelming need to fall into bed and get some real sleep for once.

Jaskier tilted his head to the side and let his eyes wander over Geralt’s body, narrowing slightly at every small wound he could make out. “Do you want me to look at it now? Or can you make it back into town so I can run you a bath first? You look like you could need something nice and relaxing.”

There was something so gentle –and caring? – in his tone that made it hard to breath.

“I can make it back.”

“Alright then. Do you want to ride on Roach?”

He did. His aching body told him he should just sit on Roach and let her walk him back. But Jaskier was standing right in front of him, unafraid of being so close to him and he couldn’t bear the thought of putting distance between them again, unless Jaskier would give any sign that he wanted Geralt to pull away as he should.

Having Jaskier near would also mean that the faint floral scent that always clung to him would give Geralt something to focus on other than the stench of fear that would assault him once they went back into town.

Geralt quickly fixed the trophy onto Roach’s saddle and took her reins in hand.

The subtle nervousness coming from Jaskier didn’t let up as they made their way back, but underneath it all even stronger was that other scent, the one Geralt craved more than anything. The one that soothed his mind and let him relax and yearn for something more.

Geralt kept feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him. Out of the corner of the eyes he saw Jaskier giving him those strange looks; The usual expression that Geralt would call concern for him if he didn’t know any better mixed with something else, something soft that Geralt had only ever gotten glimpses off before Jaskier had turned away.

He didn’t turn away now. Whenever he would catch Geralt’s eyes, he would give him a faint smile.

It was too confusing to wreck his tired mind over. When Geralt heaved another sigh and closed his eyes briefly to let them rest for even a little bit, Jaskier even reached out to him, touching his arm gently.

Geralt’s eyes flew open.

Jaskier was pulling a face and the smell of disgust flared up when Jaskier’s hand met the monster guts clinging to Geralt’s clothes, but he didn’t let go.

It didn’t make any sense.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, all of his focus on the contact that burned his skin even through the clothes. “You’re different.”

“Am I?”

Geralt hummed in the affirmative. “You haven’t asked about the hunt yet.”

“Oh. Well. Yes.” Jaskier’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, something he did ever so often when he was nervous. “I just want to make sure you’re feeling better first. My songs can wait, you’re far more important.”

It was only the insistent but gentle tug at his arm that kept Geralt from freezing to the spot.

Him being more important than Jaskier’s songs? That wasn’t – there must be something else going on. Jaskier must have some ulterior motive.

Unless….unless Jaskier didn’t need any details about the hunt because he had finally decided that he had enough songs about Geralt.

The thought churned his stomach and his insides twisted painfully.

Geralt grunted. Even if he had known what to say, his throat had gone dry, making it impossible to form words.

Yet somehow Jaskier seemed to be able to know what Geralt thought. Maybe his carefully crafted mask had cracks after all. If it did, he was sure it was Jaskier who had put them there.

“Geralt? I told you I’m not leaving anytime soon. I meant it. The questions are coming, don’t you worry, I’ll have all the time in the world to get all the stories I want out of you.” He hesitated and his fingers on Geralt’s arm drew soothing patterns. “Of course that is not the reason for me staying. I’m just happy that I am here with you. Because of you.”

Geralt didn’t reply. What could he say to that anyway? There was so much relief flooding him that he wouldn’t be able to put into words, even if he wanted to. If he was being honest with himself, he did want to. He wanted to say it back, to tell Jaskier how much he appreciated him being there, but he knew that once he opened his mouth he wouldn’t be able to keep the truth out of his voice; The truth that having Jaskier with him was the best thing he had in this life, that no matter how much Jaskier claimed to be happy with Geralt he couldn’t possibly come even close to how much Geralt loved having Jaskier with him.

He couldn’t say any of that.

Monster guts and black eyes might not have been enough to scare Jaskier off, but having a witcher confess such a thing to him would surely drive him away and Geralt would lose even faster what wasn’t even his to keep in the first place.

They spent the rest of the walk in silence, but Jaskier’s hand didn’t leave him throughout it all.

Geralt didn’t need him to guide him or whatever it was Jaskier was trying to do, but he didn’t protest nor pull his arm free.

Even when they arrived at the inn, Jaskier didn’t take the opportunity to get a hearty meal or some proper company that would be able to tell him how wonderful he was.

Back in their room, Jaskier’s touch never left Geralt for longer than the few moments it took him to help unbuckle Geralt’s armour and for Geralt to take it off. The touch always came back.

At this point it was impossible for Geralt to tell himself that Jaskier had just somehow forgotten to let go of him. For some reason, Jaskier was seeking out Geralt’s touch.

It felt nice. Gentle. Caring. Not like any touch he had ever received from anyone else.

Not like the accidental brushes of arms that were always withdrawn sharply as if the other person had burned themselves once they realised what Geralt was.

Not like the shoves or punches he received form those brave enough to face a witcher. Even though those people mercifully didn’t stink of fear most of the time, the suffocating stench of hatred and disgust clinging to them was enough to make Geralt nauseous.

And Jaskier… Geralt still hadn’t found the right words to describe what he smelled like when he touched him. Yes, there was a hint of disgust on him now as he gently wiped away the blood from Geralt’s face with a damp cloth, but Geralt was almost certain that the disgust wasn’t because of him, not when that other stronger scent was there as well.

Describing scents was hard. There were no right words, only associations that might make sense of it all.

And all Geralt could think about when he took a deep breath and found the scent filling him was blue.

Blue eyes. A bright laugh. A brilliant smile. A soft touch. A carefree song. A voice calling out his name with something akin to joy after a long winter.

There was nothing that belonged to anyone but Jaskier in this scent. It was just so fundamentally him.

Maybe that was it. Maybe there was no great mystery to be solved. It wasn’t an emotion or something like that Geralt had been noticing.

It was just Jaskier.

Now that he knew the solution, it seemed so simple. So obvious. No emotion could last that long or be that strong that it wouldn’t leave him for even a moment.

Jaskier drew back again when the door opened and a tub was brought in. Geralt watched as Jaskier went to the other side of the room to put his lute away so that no water would accidentally splash on it and damage his most valuable possession.

Though the loss of touch left Geralt cold, he took the opportunity and began searching for his journal once Jaskier and him were alone again. The need to finally put an end to the question that had been on his mind for years by putting it on the paper was urging him on.

If only he could find his journal.

“What are you looking for?” Jaskier sounded worried once more. “Do you need anything? A potion? A bandage? I’m so sorry, I thought you weren’t that hurt.”

“Am not,” Geralt said. The concern in Jaskier’s voice did something strange to his usually so easily controlled heart. “I’m looking for my journal. Thought I had put it in here somewhere.”

“Oh.” Jaskier squirmed a bit, but his discomfort didn’t seem to come from being intimidated or put off, but he looked strangely sheepish, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. “Eh, it’s in the other bag.”

Geralt cocked an eyebrow but didn’t answer, instead following Jaskier’s hint.

“So…have you figured it out?” Jaskier’s tone was beautifully hopeful, excited. “That thing that you’re trying to place that totally isn’t the question of what yours truly smells like?”

The hint of teasing was back. Jaskier was such a brave idiot for being playful with a witcher.

It made the warmth blossom even stronger in his chest.

To hide the cracks in his mask, he looked back at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages, each line that caught his eye only strengthening his certainty of what it all meant.

Jaskier.

It was bittersweet to think about putting the name in the book, something to keep with him when Jaskier was gone, a reminder of all that Jaskier was, of smiles and songs and sun and flowers plucked from the side of the road as they walked side by side.

He finally found the page he was looking for and froze. His blood ran cold.

There was another word already, one that he hadn’t put in there, that he would never dare write down in here.

His breath quickened and he felt his heart give a sharp twist.

It couldn’t be. Not that word, not for him.

Someone like Geralt would never find out what… what love smelled like.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from that beautiful and taunting word, hovering over it with trembling fingers as if it was something breakable, as if it would disappear if he touched it too forcefully.

Maybe it would be better if it shattered and disappeared.

Geralt was so enraptured by the ache this word had set loose in him that he almost forgot that Jaskier still was there with him until Jaskier made a strange sound.

Geralt looked up and saw Jaskier looking back at him, nervously wringing his hands.

For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at Jaskier, that one word fighting its way to the front of his mind, the echo growing louder and louder.

Blue eyes. Love. A song and smile on his lips. Love. Jaskier. Love.

It was what Jaskier was to Geralt. It was all Geralt wanted to be for him too.

“What is this?” Geralt’s voice was hoarse and desperate, but he didn’t care. All he needed was for Jaskier to start laughing at him and shatter that impossible hope that was putting poison into Geralt’s heart, telling him that there might be a chance where there couldn’t possibly be one. Not for him.

“It’s an answer,” Jaskier said, his voice steady, though the nervous fidgeting hasn’t stopped. “The correct one, in case you were doubting.”

He had been. Still was.

It was a cruel joke, it must be. Jaskier had always been teasing him and only a romantic like the poet could come up with such an impossible thing as the idea of someone loving a witcher.

Some brave fools threw punches and shoved him. And one brave fool dared write such a lie in Geralt’s journal that hurt more than any punch or wound ever could.

“Why?” It was all Geralt could force himself to say. Why would Jaskier dangle this in front of him? Why would he plant this stupid hope for something he never could have in Geralt’s chest?

“Because you’re you.” Jaskier said, his gentle voice cutting into Geralt’s chest with every cruel word. “And you deserve it more than anyone I know.”

Geralt took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, trying to shut the words out, trying to shut out the world and Jaskier and the sweet scent of the sun that still wouldn’t leave him alone, that made him long for it to be true, even knowing that it never would be.

He shut the book with a loud snap cutting through the air before shoving it away.

Having the beautiful lie anywhere near him was suffocating.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier abandoned his lute and came over to him. He hesitated only for a moment before sitting down next to Geralt on the bed, so close, too close, not close enough.

Their thighs were pressed together and Jaskier’s hand came to rest on Geralt’s, gently prying the clenched fist open.

Geralt could feel his eyes on him. Could feel him see all that Geralt was, all that he never could want.

He let his head fall forward, his hair coming loose and shielding his face from Jaskier’s too soft eyes.

Geralt felt naked, vulnerable. The word in the journal that was branded into his mind had teared down the walls around his heart and left only rubble and the breakable thing inside that was begging not to be hurt.

“Don’t lie to me,” Geralt said weakly, his voice barely more than a breath. “Not about this. Please.”

He didn’t put up any resistance when Jaskier brushed his hair out of his face, revealing all that should be hidden away from him.

With aching tenderness Jaskier’s fingers trailed down his face, over all the scars that made Geralt look fearsome, down to his chin to gently tilt his face towards Jaskier.

Blue eyes met inhumanly yellow ones, the eyes of a predator. And Jaskier smiled.

He took Geralt’s other hand and pressed it against Jaskier’s chest, right above his heart.

“You could tell if I was lying, couldn’t you? You could hear it?”

Geralt nodded slowly.

“I mean it,” Jaskier said firmly. “I’m not afraid of you and you mean more to me than one simple word could ever encompass.”

Jaskier’s heart was steady beneath his hand and his voice was sure and free of any tremor or tightness. And his scent –

It was that one word. It was what Jaskier had written down in his journal.

Something sharp pricked at the corners of Geralt’s eyes and he swallowed against a lump forming in his throat.

“Can I hold you?” Geralt asked, his heart hammering against his chest. Can you hold me?

It wasn’t a question he had ever dared ask before. There had been no point, knowing what the answer would be.

But now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Or rather, there was a glimmer of hope in his chest burning brighter with each second that Jaskier’s smile was on him, making him think that for once he knew the answer to be a different one.

Arms enveloped Geralt and pulled him close into the most comforting scent.

Geralt breathed in deeply and wrapped his arms around Jaskier who didn’t flinch, only tightened his hold in him.

With a trembling sigh, Geralt nuzzled his face into Jaskier’s chest.

“I believe you.”

He couldn’t say it back, not yet. His mind and chest were bursting already, saying out loud what he felt would make him burst and break down.

He wasn’t ready to tell Jaskier how much he meant to him. But for the first time he believed that Jaskier truly meant it when he had said he would stay with Geralt. He had time to find the right words, to calm the onslaught of emotions inside of him.

Judging from the way Jaskier rested his head on top of his and pressed a soft kiss onto his hair, Jaskier understood him even without words.

Neither of them said it and yet, as they held each other in a warm embrace, the word hung between them, and for now that was enough.

#angst #self-decprication #blood #geraskier #fic #my writing #witcher #geraltxjaskier #jaskier #geralt

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dreamingsnowflake2013 · 4 years ago

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Tharn and Type discussing in detail financial issues like paying for bills and the division of household chores - some of the most mundane and unromantic but also the most important and complex aspects of every relationship, which are rarely touched upon in dramas for that very reason, makes the OTP acutely authentic and relatable. Because it’s precisely these realities of everyday life which are often the most poignant. Most dramas don’t touch upon them for the very same reasons: most viewers want their OTPs’ relatinships to be “healthy, fluffy, sweet and unproblematic” therefore arguments, the mention of money and who is paying for the happily ever after make them uncomfortable and offend their sensibilities.

One of the reasons why arguments are so messy is not only because both parties believe they are right, but because each parties often is at least partially legit as with TharnType’s argument about the laundry which comes from a very real and relatable place.

To understand what leads to it one needs to look at their respective professional lives. That’s why the writer spends so much time on exposition in episode 1. After graduating with his Bachelor degree, Tharn found a job and have been working for over 2 years now. He has a friendly working environment and he’s well-settled in it. On the other hand, Type went on to study a Master degree programme so he could stay with Tharn in Bangkok (his father had wanted him to come back home after finishing his Bachelor studies). Studying medical school is always hard, making it difficult to have a part-time job, so this is Type’s first working experience. The transition between school and work is always demanding: physically, mentally, socially, but also financially because fresh employees get a much lower pay. It’s already difficult enought, but Type has to deal with the added stress of a superior who makes his life a hell. Type is strong, smart, hard-working and very good at what he does and he knows it which makes it so much more frustrating for him that no matter how hard he works, his boss keeps bullying him and demeaning him. The worst thing for Type is that he can’t defend himself and punch his boss in the face like his former self woufl have done. He needs to last and keep the job a whole year to get the necessary working experience for his CV and find a better job with better pay and boss. Therefore Tharn and Type are in a very different place in their careers and it translates into their private lives, as well. As a result, Tharn bears most of the costs and has been doing it for several years, now.

He knows Type’s been struggling and doing his best so they can be together, that’s why he supports Type in any way he can, including comforting him, driving him to work and paying for the bills, to help him overcome this challenging period. Tharn does it gladly because Type needs him. And that’s also one of the reason why their relationship feels like real marriage - they are married in every sense of the word, with the exception of a marriage certificate and a wedding ceremony.

Type sees all of it and loves Tharn even more for it, happy that he isn’t in this alone and has someone to depend on. He’s mature enough to rely on Tharn and realize that right now, there isn’t much he can do and help. He needs to survive another 6 months with his hellish boss. And he really does it all for Tharn, so they can spend their lives together as they’ve promised each other. That’s the reason why he’s been controlling his temper, putting up with the bullying and why he haven’t told his boss to go fuck himself - he wants to be a worthy partner for Tharn, his equal, help him pay the bills, not a useless person who beats other people and Tharn has to be ashamed of. Type accepts this reality but wants to express gratitude and appreciation to Tharn in his own unique way because with Type, actions always speak louder than words.

So when Type says that everything he does, he does it for Tharn, he means it in every sense of the word - controlling his temper, putting up with the exhausting job and terrible boss, studying a Masters degree programme,... - just like he did 7 years ago with Lhong, curbing his temper in front of Jeed, introducing Tharn to his family and friends,...

Type decides to iron Tharn’s clothes to repay him for always being there for him and to show him how much he cares. He actually feels happy doing it, giddy to do something for Tharn, so when Tharn tells him he shouldn’t have, it feels like Tharn just stabbed him into the heart, leaving Type literally struck dumb for a moment, eyes filled with sheer pain which immediately turns into irritation and anger as Tharn digs his grave even deeper. Tharn’s words sting even more because when Type told Tharn that he’s ironing the clothes, seemingly annoyed, he’s actually expecting Tharn to praise him, in his adorably cheesy way that Type secretly loves so much, that Type’s such a good wifey who always takes care of him but none of it comes.

It’s not only Type’s heart that is hurt, but also his pride. Type always felt confident in his studies and abilities, but he struggles now in his first job, while Tharn is successful, satisfied and well-adjusted in his. This disparity drives a certain wedge between them.

Type misunderstands Tharn’s attempt to ease his workload as a rejection of himself and his love for Tharn. Type knows that right now, he can’t do much for Tharn so Tharn’s words break his heart. It makes him feel that he is not good enough, useless. Back in episodes 8 and 9, Type learned that if he only kept receiving from Tharn without giving anything back in return, it would make their relationship eventually break and he’s been trying ever since to become a good boyfriend to Tharn, someone who would make Tharn happy and not hurt him.

And at this moment, due to his issues at work, he must feel like he doesn’t give Tharn as much as he should in certain aspects of their relationship.

So when he thinks Tharn is rejecting even the little he can give, Type feels useless, disregarded and rejected. So he lashes out because that’s his defense mechanism and no amount of growing up is going to change that because that’s simply who Type is, lashing out his claws like a feral kitten when he feels threatened and hurt.

Tharn is usually so good at understanding and interpreting Type’s actions, but his mindreading ability can only do so much. More importantly, he is very drunk, which is a very important factor, and that is muddling his brain and, after 7 years, Type’s become much better at communicating his emotions with words so Tharn doesn’t need to read all of Type’s hidden intention because he’s grown used to the fact that Type tells him and shows his love more openly. He also feels secure in the relationship so he is much more unfiltered, not minding his words so much, no longer fearing that Type might get angry if he told him about his dislikes. Ironically, the argument occurs because they both mean well and are being considerate of each other, trying to show their love and care, but it backfires on them because they have different personalities and use different methods to show them so they clash. Therefore the argument comes from a very common and real place.

When Type throws the clothes at him and leaves, Tharn is compeletely baffled what has just happened. However, after he sobers up a little, it dawns at him that he must have hurt Type and hurries to apologize, desperate to make amends and clear the misunderstanding before it grows into something serious.

He is nervously fidgeting with his fingers the whole time, so insecure and vulnerable, and with his sad puppy eyes and the way he nuzzles against Type’s body he looks so miserable and needy, Type has a hard time not to forgive him right away.

It’s such a joy to watch two adults having an honest, unfiltered conversation about the realities and demands of everyday life. There is nothing romantic about it but it makes TharnType’s love story feel palpably real and authentic. It means so much when Type actually voices and openly communicates his insecurites about their relationship being unequal because Tharn has been the main breadwinner.

It’s undeniable how much Tharn understands his boyfriend. When he gently begs him not to think too much, you can tell that Tharn can feel that Type's struggles at work are weighting down on him, making him to overthink things. And Tharn assures him that none of those things matter to him. It reminds me of the time when Tharn told Type that he doesn’t have to push himself into accepting that he’s dating a man because Tharn would wait for him no matter how much time it would take. And now it’s similar. It doesn’t matter how long it takes Type to settle in his work or how much he struggles because Tharn will always be there for him.

Finally, it makes so much sense that Tharnk seeks reassurance that he’s been forgiven with cuddles because intimacy and physical closeness has always been such an important and integral part of their relationship. In the very beginning, they used to be the only reciprocation he got from Type since even when Type denied his feelings for him, Type’s body never lied to him and always wanted Tharn.

#tharntype #mew suppasit #tharntype 2: 7 years of love #mewgulf #gulf kanawut #analysis

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a-libra-writes · 4 years ago

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How the GoT Characters React To You Being Very Affectionate

So the original request was “HCs for characters being touch starved” and I dont think all of them would be necessarily so I kinda just did this? Sorry to that anon lol I did my best. we are slooowly working through the GoT request pile

In this preference, you’ll be doting on: Ned Stark, Robb Stark, Sansa Stark, Jon Snow, Benjen Stark, Jory Cassel, Dolorous Edd, Mance Rayder, Tormund Giantsbane, Theon Greyjoy, Yara Greyjoy, Daenerys Targaryen, Jorah Mormont, Missandei, Grey Worm, Tywin Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Sandor Clegane, Bronn, Podrick Payne, Petyr Baelish, Stannis Baratheon, Davos Seaworth, Margaery Tyrell, Brynden Tully, Edmure Tully, Brienne of Tarth, Ramsay Bolton, Roose Bolton, Oberyn Martell, Beric Dondarrion, Gendry

NED STARK

Initially, your affections and sweetness were a little overwhelming for him. He wasn’t used to such attention, but he really didn’t mind them. Even when he teased you about being so close and touchy in front of all his bannermen, he wouldn’t change it about you. Ned’s favorite thing is when you’d find him in the middle of the day and touch his face to reassure him, he liked to lean into your hand and enjoy your touch before he had to return to his duties. You had a feeling that Ned was only nervous about it at first because he was being bashful, but once he was comfortable, he loved the evenings when you sat in his lap and freely kissed and touched him.

ROBB STARK

Robb loves how open you are about affection and he feels so, so lucky that the gods gave him such a sweet wife. While he has to maintain his "strict" lordly facade when speaking to his men and other lords, he's more than relieved to melt into your touch at the end of the day. Whenever you’re by his side, holding his arm and beaming, he’s so proud and in love that he doesn’t even notice the eye rolling whenever you kiss his cheek or his hand. It honestly helps Robb get through the weight of the war and he sees you as a source of strength, rather than a weakness, as many less worthy lords would think.

SANSA STARK

Back when she first met you, Sansa loved how unashamed you were of affection. Some in court may see it as weakness, but still today she sees it as proof of your great compassion. Your touches and hugs comforted her greatly when you were friends, and when you became lovers, your soft words and kisses are just what she needed to bolster her spirit and be strong. Sansa takes great amusement in the fact you both can hold hands, sit close and whisper to each other and the court writes it off as "just close friends". She's happy and grateful to have such an affectionate, romantic partner, and she tells you often. Sometimes it’s difficult for her to return those honest gestures, but she knows you understand.

JON SNOW

Jon was completely flustered at first; even if it was a quick hug and kiss, he’d get red and stumble out whatever he was saying. At first he thought it was just because you were a girl, and he didn’t have much experience with those, but even just simple touches like holding his hand or brushing his messy hair out of his face would get his heart beating. Jon would realize that he’d never had so much attention and concern before, and while he liked it very much, he’d have a few moments of total surprise before happily returning the affection, albeit clumsily. Sometimes when you’re just holding his hand while talking, he’ll get distracted and grin at your connected hands, amazed he’s so lucky to have found someone like you at a place like this.

BENJEN STARK

Benjen adores this part of your personality, and he always takes it a step further just to tease you. Other times he’ll hold you close and not want to let you, giving you a taste of his own naturally affectionate nature. He’s glad you both are compatible like this, since there are times when you can’t see each other for a long time, and he loves that you’re just as willing to make up for lost time. Whenever you both have a long time alone, good luck being apart from him - aside from intimacy, he likes just having you in his lap or leaning on him. Tease him for being clingy all you want, he just gestures to your arms around him and says, “Well, that makes us a perfect match, doesn’t it?”

JORY CASSEL

While it initially flustered him to no end and took him off guard more than once, Jory easily adapted to your touches. He was glad you loved him that much, and you weren’t afraid to show it. Sometimes … okay, really often, he’s gently teased for it by his uncle and the other guards, but he wouldn’t change you at all. When Jory is feeling more bold he’ll return the light kisses, regardless of whose around. He’ll let you hug and touch and kiss to your heart’s content when you both are alone, and before long he’s total putty in your hands and will do whatever you please.

EDDISON TOLLETT

It always made him nervous when you’d take his hand to get his attention, or when you stood so close, which was often. Edd used to chalk it up to you being a girl, and from a better family, besides… But once you two were alone more and spent time together, he realized you were just a naturally touchy, affectionate person. Eventually he realized his nerves were from a damn crush. Before you were officially together, he watched you carefully, hoping you weren’t giving so many sweet touches to your other friends (you weren’t, and that’s what gave him the courage to talk with you about his feelings… that, and Sam all but shoved him to do it). Edd totally relishes in your affection, as he’s been lacking it in for years.

MANCE RAYDER

Mance enjoys how sweet you are, and thinks it’s amusing that such a young woman would want to lavish her kisses and touches on an old former crow like him. He always indulges you and even during meetings, he’ll let you sit as close as you want. Once you both are alone, he takes comfort in how easily you fit in his lap and how you rest your head against his chest. It gives him a warm feeling, one that feels like home … Something he hadn’t felt so strongly in a while. His favorite thing is when you doze off next to him, as nothing helps him think through his plans better than your scent and softness.

TORMUND GIANTSBANE

Oh, Tormund can’t get enough of you, and he’s delighted that you’re just the same. He thinks this just further proves how perfect you are for each other, and he’ll say it loud and proud as he holds you up in his arms and spins you around. Yes, the other tribes are exhausted with you two and find you nauseating … but the last man who complained had two punches to dodge. Tormund especially likes that it isn’t just lustful touches and looks; he adores that you’ll kiss and hold him just because you want to, for no reason other than you’re in love. Everyone knows when he’s thinking about it because he grins like a dork and seems lost in his own world.

THEON GREYJOY

At first, he’d always use your frequent touches as a way to brag to Robb and Jon about how you prefer him. You were flirting, obviously, and you must have wanted to be with him. The thing he didn’t tell them is how much you puzzled him, because your touches were so … kind. Gentle, even, when you brushed a leaf out of his hair or took his hand to look at a cut. He didn’t know what to do, and his usual ego was no help. He’d never been cared for so gently like that. Your kisses were worse because they gave him such a foreign, fluttery feeling, he thought he was getting sick, yet he kept yearning for it. You’d be able to get past Theon’s usual bragging and discover an amusing, needy side as he’d follow you around, almost waiting for you to hug or touch him again.

YARA GREYJOY

On one hand, Yara has her tough captain’s reputation to maintain, so she has little patience if you have a need for her while she’s working. She can’t be seen accepting your kisses and hugs, no matter how much she yearns for them. She understands you might be hurt by this, but she’d hope you’d understand. Besides, she more than makes up for it later in the evening. Even if Yara might consider you needy, there is a comfort in how readily you give your affection and how much you enjoy touching her. She can’t remember having a partner who kissed her so sweetly, not just lustfully, and of course her family didn’t give her so much reassurance. Her appreciation for it only increases when she’s drunk, because you’re going to sit in her lap and there will be no escape, so touch and kiss however you like, she’ll just laugh and go along with it.

DAENERYS TARGARYEN

When she was in the throne room, carrying her heavy queenly persona, Daenerys couldn’t afford to glance your way and seem distracted. Once there was finally a chance to be alone together, Daenerys just soaked up the affection you gave her. She loved that no matter what terrible thing happened to you, your nature stayed loving and doting. She admired that. When her duties felt like too much, she relished in being able to curl up in your arms and feeling your fingers run through her hair. She makes sure you feel loved too, of course, but she’s so grateful you let her be selfish now and again and just take up all your attention. She often tells you what you mean to her, and anyone can see the way she looks at you.

JORAH MORMONT

Oh, poor sweet Jorah. He’s so overwhelmed by the affection at first, it completely distracts him from what he’s doing, even if all you’re doing is coming up behind him for a surprise hug and kiss. He leans into your touches so eagerly and it confuses you, because wasn’t he married once or twice? Still, it’s cute how weak you can get him, and you definitely take advantage when you’re teasing him or trying to get his attention. In the evenings, Jorah will waste little time in pulling you into his lap and muttering how sweet you are and how much he adores you, usually making the affection lead into something more. More than once you two end up getting lost in your own world and forget who's around you; only to be reminded by the Dothraki whooping and laughing. Truthfully, Jorah is very happy that you’re just as doting in public are you are in private.

MISSANDEI

Your closeness and touches made her heart flutter and her hands get clammy, and it confused her at first. She’d be touched inappropriately, always against her will, but you always asked before you held her hand or hugged her. You were always so warm, and you smelled nice, and why were you hugging her, anyway? Missandei liked it more than she wanted to admit, but she wondered why. Once Jorah and Daenerys gave her enough hints, and you finally gave your confession, she realized she hadn’t been touched so sweetly and innocently before. Even after you’ve been together for a while, it’s the gentle cuddles and chaste touches that Missandei likes best. You don’t miss how she nuzzles against you when you cradle her against your chest.

GREY WORM

When you first took his hand as he escorted you through the market, you thought you overstepped your bounds. He just stared at your entwined hands, not even noticing the bustling activity around him. There were other times when you’d hold his face while cleaning a wound on his cheek, or sit close to him at a meeting table, and you could swear he stopped breathing. Grey Worm never told you to keep away, but he also looked so much like a caught animal that you felt bad. In truth it made Grey Worm so nervous when you touched him, and he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to react. No one else did this to him, and you rarely did the same to others as far as he observed. Finally Missandei noticed his palpable confusion and helped him work out his feelings. When you two are together, Grey Worm never denies the affection you want to give, though sometimes he’s clearly startled or confused by it. He slowly begins to return it on his own terms, squeezing your hand back, resting against your shoulder, or gently touching your back as you two walk. It takes time, but you slowly get to see his shoulders relax and a soft smile appear on his face.

TYWIN LANNISTER

As anyone would have expected of this man, he’s clearly proud to have you on his arm during social gatherings. You’ll sit close at the dais, sometimes leaning in closer to whisper something to him. The whole of the court gossips about your relationship enough, and you give them plenty of material with your affections. Tywin stays passive, although after a while he began to brush your hair aside and stroke your hand. Privately he continues to tell himself it’s for show and means nothing. That works until you both are intimate or enjoying a rare moment of peace together and he finds himself wanting you to stay close. He lets you cuddle close and kiss and touch, denying how much it affects him to the very end. It’s bad enough he has to contend with your wit and schemes during the day, he doesn’t need more reasons to become attached to you.

TYRION LANNISTER

Tyrion drinks in your affection like a man crawling in a desert; you figured that out quickly. You figured he was a naturally kind and loving person, and he was clearly taken with you, and you wouldn’t deny him the affection that came naturally to you. After a while you began to see how much he depended on it, how much he needed it. In private you gave him all he wanted - sometimes he still struggled to ask for it openly, you so took the lead - and in public you had to be careful. Not just because the court found your marriage a great joke and it was exhausting to deal with their gossip, but because it distracted Tyrion so much when you held his hand and gave him a simple kiss during a feast. He’d never grow tired of your attention and would tell you again and again how much he adored you for it.

JAIME LANNISTER

He relishes how affectionate you are and returns it tenfold, and more often than not ends up getting turned on and wants to take it further. While you’re fine with that, sometimes you just want to express your love. It doesn’t have to lead to anything more. Jaime was confused by this when you explained it - he tried to think back when someone kissed his cheek, stroked his hair or hugged him … just because they loved him. He especially needed that love and attention when he came back from the Dreadfort, and didn’t feel at all foolish asking for it, but he rarely needed you. You just always knew when to hold him, as if he needed more reasons to love you even more.

SANDOR CLEGANE

The first time you held his face to bring him closer, he flinched like it hurt. You noticed he was more willing to accept your touches when you were in bed together, and even then, his rough pace would slow and falter as you kissed him and brought him closer. To say Sandor was unused to affection is an understatement; he hated the panicky, anxious feeling it gave him, and his instant thought was to push you away when it happened. The feeling wasn’t a welcome one, but your touch and warmth was, so needless to say just simple touches gave him a mix of feelings. He tries to be gruff, but as time goes on he starts to just lean and melt into you, especially when you both are alone. He doesn’t want to ask for it, but you can tell he’s yearning when he sits around just staring and sulking at you.

BRONN OF BLACKWATER

At first he brushed it off as you just being one of those silly women, and you’d get tired of doting on him eventually. He thought you were trying to get something from him, but he didn’t have much to offer a lady besides the bed, which you weren’t always trying to get in. It confused Bronn when you kept doing this, and he denied himself how much the attention began to affect him. He started to get used to them, to want them, and he overcame these weird feelings by pulling you to his lap and trying to initiate something deeper. Pretty soon Bronn couldn’t deny what your affection meant, and began working out a way to tell you that you ought to do better than him. It was for himself as much as you, he wasn’t ready for this, but then you’d wrap your arms around him and the thoughts quickly left his head.

PODRICK PAYNE

You had to be careful when you were sweet on him and where, because the poor boy would redden to his ears and try to stammer something, if he could manage words at all. You thought it was cute that even after knowing each other for so long, Pod never got used to your affectionate nature. Sometimes when he’s working he gets distracted thinking about you, leading to him spacing out or making mistakes. Once you’re together, he begins to slowly gain confidence, although you’re still the one who usually initiates things first. Holding your hand or arm while you two take walks is his favorite, he feels all his anxiety slowly melt away.

PETYR BAELISH

Oh, he can’t hide how much he adores your attention. He tries to keep his cool, but the more you lean on him and look up through those pretty lashes, the less Petyr can resist giving you whatever you please. In private, he can’t keep himself from pulling you closer to keep encouraging you. All you need to do is act your usual, sweet self and you have him wrapped around your finger. When you both are intimate, his greediness is even more evident, he wants your hands on him and sometimes he even trembles from all the attention. Sometimes he breathlessly asks you not to tease him so much, but you know he wouldn’t have it any other way.

STANNIS BARATHEON

He hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do. You noticed that right away when he flinched anytime you expressed your affection. You outright asked Stannis if you should stop, and it’s not that he hated it, it was just… It was so new, he wasn’t sure how to react. It was difficult to dial back your naturally affectionate nature, but you did, taking things slower. Gradually Stannis began to enjoy the attention and return it in his own way, and he let you be as clingy and sweet as you wanted when you were intimate. He couldn't express it well with words, but he began to look forward to your embrace and anxiously yearn for your presence whenever he had to travel. Whenever you stood by his side during meetings, close enough that your shoulders brushed and he could feel your warmth, he’d feel a distinct sense of security and confidence.

DAVOS SEAWORTH

Davos finds you incredibly endearing, and he’s always considered himself lucky to have you, but he’s not always sure if he deserves your affections. You have so much of it, and he often wonders if you ought to be giving it to a younger man of a better station. Of course anytime he has these thoughts, you’re right there to reassure him and make sure he knows there’s no one else for you. He “scolds” you for being cheeky whenever you show affection in public, but in private he lets you do whatever you please. He can’t get enough of your cuddles in the evening and how you just curl under his touch, he thinks he might be the luckiest man alive.

MARGAERY TYRELL

Oh, Margaery thinks you’re just a doll. She loves teasing you about it, but she’s the one who pushes things and sees how much you two can get away with. The court assumes you’re just “good friends”, although her grandmother has given her plenty of scoldings about the rumors floating around Highgarden. Margaery loves being spoiled by your attention and often waits expectantly for a kiss or hug - you can get back at her by “forgetting” and walking past her. If she had her way, you’d be draped around her all day, fawning over her and she’d give you sweet praises and pets in return. No, this mental image is not awakening anything in her, don’t ask.

BRYNDEN TULLY

The old knight thought he was too old for things like this, which is to say, a beautiful lady doting on him and wanting his affection. For a short while he thought you should give your attention to someone else, but as the relationship went on, he felt like an idiot for thinking that at all. When you hold and kiss him, Brynden just melts into the warmth and comfort. He loves the more gentle touches you have, like when you hold his face as you kiss him or rest against his chest and curl up in his lap. Half the time he can’t even make a jap about your neediness, because he feels he needs it just as much. He loves feeling your warm skin under his rough hands and it’s even better if you start getting hot and bothered from all his touching.

EDMURE TULLY

Edmure loves it because he’s just as absurdly affectionate and touchy feely, and it makes him giddy with happiness when you take his face in your hands and just hold him like that, you don’t even have to kiss him. All of Riverrun knows how sappy you both are and it’s both sweet and just sickening. Brynden can’t decide if he’s amused or annoyed by it and Catlyn just dies inside at the ‘impropriety’ of you two mooning over each other at dinner. You two have quite a reputation in the Riverlands for being such a loving couple, and the smallfolk adore you.

BRIENNE OF TARTH

Your knight had such a strong reaction to your touches that you thought she hated it at first. You’d do something simple, like brush her hair out of her face to better see a bruise or hold her hand when speaking to her, and her face would go red as an apple. With great difficulty, Brienne finally explained that she didn’t hate it, she just … Well, she trailed off, but you could tell she felt like she didn’t deserve such attention. It’s worse once she realizes her feelings, she gets so flustered and starts to read into every action you take, wanting it to mean something, but positive that she was just projecting. You’d have to take the first step in confessing and reassuring her.

RAMSAY BOLTON

He used to take advantage of this, grasping you when you came close to brush something off his tunic or fix his hair. As much as Ramsay’s clingy nature could be suffocating, you were always an affectionate person, and you felt it was all you’d get in the Dreadfort. However, you began to notice that he’d be off-put by your genuine concern and softer touches. Sometimes he’d just stare at you, trying to puzzle out why you were doing it. He didn’t think he disliked it, he wanted your attention all the time, it just gave him such a startling feeling. After a while you were able to calm Ramsay’s more unstable moods by just keeping hold on him and distracting him with touches. Whenever something pulled him away from the Dreadfort, he'd grow antsy with each passing day, both from wanting to be back in your arms and not understanding why he wanted it.

ROOSE BOLTON

Even if you weren’t pleased with the arranged marriage, you couldn’t help but hold Roose’s arm as you both walked, or gently touch him to get his attention. You steadily got a little bolder, because you noticed there was a brief, strange look in his cold eyes anytime you touched him. You knew he didn’t dislike it because when you slept together, he’d almost shudder as you ran your hands along his body. You began to figure out what made him pause the most, what he responded best to, and that’s how you could sway him - just by being considerate, comforting, and a little needy. It was always a surprise how such a cold man began to expect and want the attention, although Roose pretended he didn’t care. He was more honest about his feelings in private, expecting you to give him even more.

OBERYN MARTELL

Oberyn adores that you’re such a sweet and needy thing, and he teases you about it all the time - but you know he’s the same and he wouldn’t change you for anything. He doesn’t care whose in the room, he wants you in his lap and just beams with happiness when you lay your head on his chest or wrap your arms around him. Eventually Doran will please ask you two to reign yourselves in, at least during important dinners and meetings. It’d be up to you to dial it down, because Oberyn will stubbornly want to keep you on his lap or right by his side.

BERIC DONDARRION

While he was initially bashful, Beric quickly began to relish in your affection and seek it out, especially when the day’s events were hard on him. In the evening he loves nothing more than resting next to you, his arm around your waist or letting you sit in his lap. When it’s time to sleep, he feels so much more peaceful when your head is on his chest and he can pet your hair as he slowly dozes off. Beric tells you many times that he’s grateful for your sweetness and warmth, and he gets plenty of it, quietly worrying he’ll forget something one day.

GENDRY

The first time you took his hand to pull him back from running into someone, he nearly dropped what he was holding. You kept holding it as you two walked home, and he was praying you didn’t notice how sweaty his palm was. You were like this as long as he could remember, always giving him hugs and standing so close and holding his hand far beyond the age when you two should’ve stopped. It was never really anything you two discussed, because it was just who you were, and as much as it made him blush, he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

#game of thrones x reader #game of thrones preferences #game of thrones imagines #got x reader #got imagines #god its been more than a month since the last GoT pref im so sorry lol

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pitubea1910 · 4 years ago

Text

Happy to oblige

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Featuring: Avengers + Harry Styles (random, I know)

Word count: 7k

Warnings: some swearing

Tags: -

Request: -

Notes: it’s been ages but I’m finally posting something again! Hope you like it :)

Masterlist

You were in love with your best friend and he had no idea. Cliché, right? Yes, you couldn’t deny it, but it was still frustrating and heartbreaking at the same time.

You and Bucky were inseparable since you two met. It turned out that you were the only person -besides Steve- who could keep him calm and, as a matter of a fact, he helped you get over the loss of your family during a terrorist attack that you couldn’t prevent.

After that day, he showed up at your room every day to check on you. He never forced you to do anything you didn’t want to. If you wanted to spend the day in bed, he could crawl in with you. If you wanted to cry, he could be your shoulder; if you wanted to scream, he would listen; if you needed to punch someone, he would be your adversary. It didn’t matter what you needed: he would give it to you.

It was kind of impossible not to fall for him, even if it was only one-sided. You had never told him how you felt, so you didn’t really know how he felt about you. However, Steve and Nat kept on insisting that he loved you back. You never believed them. It was easier that way. And, eventually, you got used to those feelings, they became a part of you and you learned to live with them while having him as a friend.

“You seriously aren’t going to tell him”, Natasha said when she watched you hug Bucky goodbye. He was leaving with Steve and Sam for a meeting with Tony and wouldn’t be back until later that night.

“How many times do we have to talk about it?” You said, stealing a few popcorns from her bowl.

“As many times as it takes you to tell him you love him”, she replied.

“Well, get comfortable then. I’m not telling him”, you shrugged.

“You are the most stubborn person I have ever met”, she sighed. “He loves you too! You could be living your perfect love story, having mind blowing sex every day and yet, you chose-”

“Friendship, Nat”, you interrupted her. “I chose friendship. Also, you don’t know if he loves me”, you added.

“Of course I do”, she said. “He told Steve.”

You were about to throw a popcorn in your mouth but stopped mid-way. You looked at her, not sure you had truly heard what she had just said.

“Excuse me?” You asked.

“Yeah”, she shrugged with a small smile. You narrowed your eyes at her.

Natasha was a great friend, but she was also really good at deceiving and you knew she would do anything in order to get you two together. Even lying about this.

“Don’t give me that look!” She said. “I promise I’m not lying. He told Steve at Clint’s birthday party. You were flirting with that guy from the bio team-”

“He was the one flirting with me!”

“Whatever. Bucky was drunk and got jealous, so he spilled the beans to Steve and I happened to be close enough to listen to him”, she shrugged.

“Clint’s party was weeks ago! Why didn’t you tell me?” You frowned.

“I thought he would tell you, to be honest. I never thought he would be so slow”, she said with a roll of her eyes. “Too much for a super soldier, huh? Take down terrorists, put himself in the middle of a battlefield, but sharing his feelings it’s too much.”

“Natasha, this is not funny”, you warned her. “If you’re lying…”

“I’m not!” She exclaimed. “Anyway, it’s not like you can say anything. If you did, you would have to admit that I told you and they would know I had been eavesdropping and I would look like a major gossip.”

“And your reputation is way more important than your friend’s happiness?” You asked.

“Five minutes ago you were refusing to come clean, so don’t try and make me feel bad”, she said.

You looked at her for a few seconds before grabbing another handful of popcorn and getting out of the living room. Was she saying the truth or was everything a trap to make you confess your feelings to Bucky? Her story seemed too real to be a lie, and you remembered Bucky’s strange behaviour during Clint’s party. Back then, you thought he was just drunk, but maybe he was really jealous.

You had to find out the truth without exposing Nat. Although you had no idea how to do it.

That night, you came back downstairs after spending the afternoon in your room trying to come up with a way of discovering if Bucky truly had feelings for you. You didn’t have a proper plan, but you had a few ideas. What you didn’t expect was that it would be Tony the one to give you the perfect plan without even knowing it.

“Is everyone back?” You asked Natasha, who was still on the couch, now reading a magazine.

“Yeah, they came back a while ago. Steve is making dinner”, she said.

“Oh God”, you mumbled. “Are you ordering pizza, then?”

“Yeah, I have the order ready on my phone. Check it out in case you want to add anything”, she said.

You took a seat next to Nat and took her phone, doing as she had said. To be honest, Steve was one of the best people you had ever met, but he was a complete disaster in the kitchen. He knew it, but he kept on trying. And failing. So it was always good to have a backup plan whenever he decided to make dinner.

“And Bucky is talking to Tony, by the way”, Natasha commented. You glanced at her but made no comment.

“Bullshit, Stark. I’m not doing it!” You heard an angry Bucky saying.

When you looked up from Nat’s phone, you saw him coming up from Tony’s lab, with a smirking Tony closely following. You sighed and looked at Nat, who just shook her head. It was common knowledge that Tony enjoyed messing with Bucky, so you barely paid attention to their little quarrels anymore.

“C’mon, it’s not a bit of a deal. We will all do it”, Tony said. This time, you were curious.

“Do what?” You asked from your spot on the couch.

“We have been invited to a premiere”, Tony shrugged.

“That’s cool!” You smiled.

“What?” Bucky frowned.

“What’s wrong about a premiere?” Natasha asked.

“Interviews”, you finally said with a chuckle. “It’s impossible for us to make an appearance in such a public event and not get interviewed. And someone here”, you looked at Bucky, “hates cameras, mics and interviews.”

“Plus, it’s not even for a good movie”, Bucky mumbled.

“Dunkirk premiere in London”, Tony shrugged. “Nolan called and invited us.”

“You’re friends with Christopher Nolan?” You asked shocked.

“Oh please. I’m his daughter’s godfather”, Tony said.

“Well, I’m in”, you immediately said.

“Of course you are”, Steve said coming out of the kitchen. “Harry Styles is on that movie so he’ll be at the premiere”, he winked.

“I never mentioned him”, you smiled widely.

“Who’s that?” Bucky frowned.

“Oh boy…” Natasha said in a whisper.

“(Y/N)’s celebrity crush”, Steve quickly said. “Nat, can you please order pizza? I burned the chicken.”

“On its way”, Natasha said taking her phone and placing the order.

“So, you’re in?” Tony asked.

“Of course!” You said with a huge smile. “I mean… the trailer looks amazing and I love London.”

“Yeah…, London”, Natasha mumbled.

You smiled to yourself but decided not to say anything else, especially since you felt Bucky staring at you which made you feel nervous and, for the first time, you allowed yourself to think that Natasha had told you the truth.

During the following days, there were still several fights about the premiere. Most of them between Bucky and someone else. For some reason, he still refused to go, which was stupid. Eventually, it just became exhausting to keep on listening to same excuses over and over again

“Bucky, no one is forcing you to come, for god’s sake!” You finally said the night before you all were travelling to London.

You were having dinner all together, as usual, and Bucky was complaining to Steve about how he didn’t like being in public, cameras, dressing up and all that ‘Hollywood shit’. You had had enough of him by now and you just wanted to have a nice dinner. Yet, everyone was surprised to hear you snap at him.

“Excuse me?” He asked frowned.

“You’ve been complaining for the whole fucking week, like a child who’s been forced to go to his great aunt’s birthday”, you said, everyone looking at you. “We are all excited about this trip, about having a distraction, about not being superheroes for just one. Fucking. Day. So if you don’t want to come just because someone might want to interview you, if you think it is so annoying, so shallow, just stay here!”

No one said a word after you finished talking, not even Bucky who usually had a reply for everything. You huffed and looked at your plate, just to find out that you had lost your appetite. Throwing one last glare at Bucky, you excused yourself and got up from the table, claiming you still had so clothes to pack.

You didn’t understand what had got into Bucky. Yeah, you knew he wasn’t comfortable around cameras, that he didn’t like being in the spotlight, but he never complained so much about it, so you didn’t get what was so annoying about this particular situation. Whatever it was, it was getting on your nerves. But no one was going to spoil this experience. Not even your stupid, whinny, alleged best friend.

“Hey…”

A while later, when you had finally finished packing, there was a knock on your door and Nat’s head popped in.

“Can I come in?” She asked and you nodded, sitting up on your bed and putting your phone down. “You okay? That was quite unexpected down there.”

“Yeah, I’m okay, don’t worry”, you shrugged. “I just got tired of his whinning.”

“Still, you had never snapped like that before”, she said, taking a seat on your bed.

“Yes, I have”, you laughed.

“Not at him”, she pointed out.

You opened your mouth to reply, but maybe she was right, so you just shrugged and looked down.

“I don’t know, it just annoyed me”, you finally said. “I’m so excited about this trip, going to London, the premiere, everything, and it felt like he was kind of ruining it with all his complaining. I don’t even know why he’s acting like that.”

“I think I may know”, Nat said with a small smile.

“Enlighten me, please”, you sighed.

“He’s jealous”, she simply said. You raised an eyebrow, not knowing what she was talking about. “The day after Tony told us about the premiere, I found Bucky doing some research on Harry Styles.”

“What?” You asked even more confused.

“Steve mentioned him, remember? That he will be at the premiere and that you have a crush on him”, she explained.

“So what? I have a crush on half of Hollywood”, you laughed. That was true. You were such a fangirl.

“Yeah, but you haven’t met half of Hollywood”, she shrugged.

“Nat, that doesn’t make any sense”, you said. “Why would he be jealous of someone I haven’t even met and someone I don’t even know if I will meet.”

“Oh, you will meet him”, Nat nodded. “I’ll make sure of that, don’t worry.” You laughed but said nothing, since you knew she could really make that happen. “And he’s jealous because he is in love with you. I already told you.

“Okay, I’m not having that conversation again”, you said. “I’m going to sleep, we have an early morning and a long flight tomorrow. So goodnight.”

“Are you kicking me out?” She asked, acting offended.

“Yes, Black Widow. Get out of my room and close the door on your way out”, you said, kicking her back gently.

“You know I’m the only one standing between you and a marriage with Harry Styles, right?” She said getting up from your bed.

“Yeah, you and a billion of other girls. Go!”

Next day you and Steve were the first ones to be ready and were already waiting by the mini van that would take you to the airport, where Tony’s private jet was waiting for you. As usual, everyone else was running late, which was extremely annoying to Steve. It was annoying for you too, but you had got used to it.

“They are waiting for us. We were supposed to be at the plane 10 minutes ago”, he said.

“We could just go and leave them here”, you shrugged. “That would teach them something.”

“As tempting as that sounds…” Steve said, making you laugh.

Finally, you heard people coming down the stairs, so you took your things from the floor, glad that you would be on your way. Wanda and Natasha were the first ones to show up, apologising over and over again and coming up with lame excuses that you had heard a million times before. To your surprise, Bucky was just behind them.

You hadn’t talked to him since last night, when you snapped at him, but you had seriously thought that he would stay behind, sulking. And yet, there he was, carrying a travel bag over his shoulder and looking as he had to go to war again.

“Where’s the rest?” Steve asked.

“Tony was just talking on the phone with the pilot, telling him we would be there in 30 minutes.” Steve huffed, obviously annoyed. “I know”, Natasha chuckled.

“Clint and Bruce called last night”, Wanda said. “They can’t make it. Clint’s wife has the flu and Bruce can’t leave the lab right now. They’re working on some healing serum.”

“Oh and Thor will meet us there”, Natasha added. “He sent a message and said he will be using the Bifrost. Parker has homework and we couldn’t contact anyone else.”

“Good”, Steve nodded.

“I’m going to the groceries store down the street to get some snacks. See you in a moment”, Wanda said.

“I’m coming with you”, Steve said. “I’m sick of waiting.”

“Me too! I want to get some magazines”, Natasha said.

You asked Steve to get you some of your favourite candy and soda. Although you knew you would have plenty on the plane, it was a long flight. The three of them left, leaving you and Bucky alone and in silence.

“So you decided to come?” You finally asked.

“I’ve never been to a premiere before, so”, he shrugged. “A new experience I guess”, he added.

“You could’ve started with that instead of whining about it for the whole week”, you said.

“Sorry about that”, he sighed. “I didn’t want to ruin it for anyone. I was being a jerk.”

“You think?” You said with irony and looked at him. He actually looked sorry, so you sighed and smiled a little. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Bucky’s face lit up with a smile, obviously glad that you weren’t mad at him anymore. It was one of the few things he couldn’t stand: the thought of not having you in his life. For the first time in a few days, he came close to you and pulled you in for a hug, kissing your head in the process.

Everyone knew that Bucky wasn’t the hugging type, but you had always been the exception. He loved having you in his arms, cuddling with you, hugging you. It made him feel safe, home, and he had been through hell the last few days without your contact.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Tony said rushing downstairs. “The pilot said we have a really small window of time if we want to leave before noon. Where’s everyone?”

“They went to get some snacks. They said they would be waiting in the van”, you explained.

“Perfect, let’s go then. You can go back to your cuddling on the plane. You can even have a private room”, he said rushing into the elevator.

You rolled your eyes, but followed him anyway. You were used to his comments, even if they still made blush every single time.

***

Lights, cameras, excitement, screams, noise. Those were the words to describe the moment you got out of the car at Leicester Square. The place was completely packed, surrounded by screaming fans, reporters, photographers or just curious people who happen to go by the Square on that fine summer afternoon.

The red carpet followed all the way from where the cars were arriving, to the doors of the Odeon theatre, creating a path where you could see the actors, producers and anyone who had been invited coming up and down, saying their hellos to those they knew or stopping for photos and interviews. It was exciting.

Since you had been the first one to get into the car, you were the last one to get out of it and stand next to Wanda and Natasha. Steve, Bucky, Tony and Thor came in the following car. However, at the sight of you, there was a raise in the volume of the screams. It looked like your presence was a complete surprise for everyone.

“Should we go on?” You asked.

“Let’s wait for the rest”, Natasha said, smiling at some girls screaming her name.

You were aware of people knowing who you were, you knew you were on the news many times and you had seen some fan accounts about yourself. But you had never been exposed like this and you had to say that the energy was exhilarating.

“Get ready for the screams”, Wanda said when the guys’ car pull over behind you

You three took a step aside, so they could come out comfortably and waited. The reaction when Steve first came out of the car was out of this world. You could literally feel the ground beneath your feet shaking a little bit. And it only escalated when Thor, Bucky and, finally, Tony followed the Captain.

“Wow”, Steve said coming closer to you with a small smile.

“I know”, you chuckled looking around before focusing on Bucky, who was a bit stiff but looked at handsome as ever.

Since you had been running late, you hadn’t had the time to see him before leaving but he was… hot. He was wearing a pair of black trousers, a black open blazer revealing a white shirt that fit him perfectly. He had let Tony’s stylist to get his hair ready, giving it a ‘just woke up’ look that really suited him.

“Hey there”, you said coming closer to him. He looked down at you and gave you a forced smile. “You okay?”

“I’ve been better”, he admitted. “But I’ll be okay.”

“Call my name if you need me”, you said, squeezing his hand gently before turning around.

“(Y/N)!” You heard him calling. You turned around, confused. “I need you”, he said with a small childish smile.

“Idiot”, you said with a small smile. “I think you can make it through the carpet without me”, you winked.

Bucky looked at you walking away, holding onto Wanda’s arm as you stopped for your first interview. He couldn’t help smiling as he took in how good you looked. You were wearing a long white jumpsuit that hugged your body perfectly and brought out the tan that you had got over the days of summer you had spent at the beach just last week. Its back was open, which –for Bucky- made you look even better.

Above all, you were happy and it was obvious. You couldn’t stop smiling, laughing, charming everyone, especially Bucky.

“You’re drooling, soldier”, Thor said, taking Bucky out of his trance.

“What?” He asked.

“She looks stunning indeed”, Thor nodded. “I would make a move before anyone else does.”

The God of Thunder patted his back and was on his way. Maybe he was right. But he wouldn’t even know what to say if he gathered the courage to talk to you. For the time being, all he could do was move along the carpet and hope this all was over soon.

It wasn’t like you were the biggest fan of interviews, but you were good at them. You knew how to avoid personal questions and how not to give much information about anything. You were charming, polite and kind with everyone, laughing at their jokes and making your own. Summing up: you knew how to make people love you.

“Thank you for your time, enjoy the movie!” The reporter from The Guardian said.

“Thank you, have a nice evening”, you said back and turned around to talk to Wanda, but she was busy talking to some guy you had never seen.

“You’re a natural”, Natasha said, walking up to you when she finished taking some photos.

“Tony gave me some tips”, you shrugged. “I just did the opposite of what he told me.”

Natasha laughed out loud, but before she had the time to say anything, the screaming grew even louder. You both looked at the beginning of the carpet, where a black Mercedes had just stopped and a black haired boy had come out. He was talking to a really big guy so he wasn’t facing your way, but you knew who he was immediately.

“Pinch me”, you mumbled to Natasha.

“What?” She asked confused and looked at you. “Oh…”

Harry Styles had just turned around and was walking towards the carpet, followed by who probably was his bodyguard. You had been a One Direction fan for years and had had a crush on this person since the beginning. You had even been to some of their concerts –both in the band and as a solo artist-, but you had never had him so close before.

“Are you blushing?” Natasha laughed when she looked at you.

“What? No, I’m not!” You said, placing your hands on your cheeks. “Am I?”

“Either that or you used too much blush”, she said with a smile.

“Shut up”, you said. “Let’s just keep going before we look like idiots.”

“We?”

“Can you just be a bit more supportive?” You said. Just then, Wanda was back with you.

“Now I know why you have a crush on him”, she said with a smile. “He’s hot.”

“Shut up! Both of you”, you said and walked away from them before they continued teasing you.

For the next half hour of the premiere you were completely unfocused. So much that you decided to talk with as less reporters as possible, convinced that you would look like a fool if you did. Every few minutes, the volume of the screaming would go up, meaning that some other actor of the movie had made an appearance. You truly thought you would faint when you saw Cillian Murphy and Tom Hardy together.

“Enjoying yourself?” Steve asked when he caught you alone after you were taking some photos.

“Pretty much, yeah”, you nodded. “You?”

“Yeah”, he said looking around. “We don’t get to do this often, so it’s a nice change.”

“(Y/N), Captain! Can we please get some photos?” A reporter said.

“Duty calls” you said with a smile as Steve placed a hand around your waist, to pose for the cameras.

“Finally, I find you!”

You turned around and suddenly felt your hands all sweaty when you saw Natasha coming up to you, followed by Wanda and –of course- Harry. You glared at her, having no idea what she was doing.

“There’s someone here who wants to meet you”, your alleged friend said with a huge smile.

“Hello there”, Harry said with a charming smile.

You had heard his voice and his accents on videos before but you swore it was even deeper than ever before. You took a deep breath and looked briefly at your friends, who slowly stepped away with small smirks on their faces.

“Hi”, you said, a smile appearing on your lips. “Really nice to meet you.”

“Likewise”, he said. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Turns out that Nolan is friends with Tony Stark so…”, you shrugged.

“Well, I’ve been wanting to meet you for ages, so I’m glad he invited you all”, the singer said.

“You wanted to meet me? Why?” You laughed.

“You’re kidding me?” He smiled. “You’re an Avenger!”

You laughed a little and nodded to yourself. You guessed he had a point. You had been crushing on him for ages, but you had never thought of the possibility of him actually knowing who you were. And now that he was right there, in front of you, admitting to be your fan, you had no idea what to do.

Just like Bucky.

He had been watching the whole interaction from afar and he could feel his blood on fire. The only reason Bucky had decided to join the trip, was that he needed to see this guy. Your celebrity crush who you were laughing with. He clenched his fists and looked at all the cameras pointing at you two. Of course. You looked great together. You were both young, good looking, obviously charming. He had been around long enough to know that the public would pair you up immediately.

“You shouldn’t stare”, Steve said, coming to his side.

“I’m not”, Bucky mumbled.

“If it was possible, there would be a hole on that guy’s face”, Steve laughed. “They’re just talking. Calm down.”

“I’m calmed”, Bucky said. Steve sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “What?”

“Do you realise that you have no right to be like this, don’t you?”

“Why not? Am I supposed to be okay with a British good looking guy just… charming her away from me?”

“No”, Steve replied. “But you have never told her how you feel, so she’s free to do whatever she wants.”

“You’re the one who never shuts up about her feelings for me”, Bucky said.

“So? You’ve never made a move, do you really expect her to wait forever?” Steve asked. “They’re just talking though”, he added with a shrug before walking away.

“Yeah… just talking”, Bucky sighed.

As much as he hated to admit it, Steve was right. Bucky couldn’t claim you anything. You didn’t even know how he felt about you, how he wanted more than just a friendship, how your smile would make his heart skip a beat and how not being able to kiss you was physically painful. And he hated himself for taking him so long to realise it. What if you were ready to move on?

“C’mon, this is your debut movie and you’ve worked with Cillian Murphy and Tom Hardy! Those are goals”, you said with a smile.

“You literally save lives for a living”, Harry replied and, to be honest, there was nothing you could say about that.

“I guess we’re both pretty awesome”, you said, making him laugh.

Just then, a man with a clipboard approached Harry from behind and said something in his ear. Harry nodded and looked at you.

“I have to go. They’re going to introduce the cast and everything”, he explained.

“Of course! Go”, you said with a nod.

“Talk to you later? We’ll have an after party, you should all come”, he said. You smiled and nodded. “Perfect. Here…” he gave you his phone. “Put your number in and I’ll text you.”

Without actually believing what was happening, you did as he told you and gave his phone back. He winked and left quickly towards the end of the carpet, where a stage had been set.

“Enjoying yourself?” You turned around to find Bucky behind you.

“Absolutely”, you smiled widely. “Although I’m freaking out.”

“Yeah, I saw you talking to that guy you like”, he said, looking at Harry who had just got to the stage.

There was something about his tone that you didn’t like. It was like he was accusing you of something, which you didn’t appreciate. He had no right to do so.

“If you have something to say, just say it”, you said crossing your arms over your chest.

“It just looks like you’re getting plenty of attention, that’s all”, he shrugged casually. Although you knew him well enough to know there was nothing casual about how he was behaving.

“Not from the only one that would matter”, you said and turned around without giving him a chance to think about what you had said.

Bucky kept his eyes on you while you walked away, trying to understand what you had just said and what it meant. Were you talking about him? Was he the one who mattered or was his mind playing games? He had no idea. All he knew was that you were upset with him and he knew he had been acting like a jerk for quite some time now.

Maybe Steve was right. Maybe you were tired of waiting. Maybe you were moving on.

***

Bucky’s attitude really pushed your buttons so much that you decided to keep your distance during the rest of the evening. He had been a total jerk since the moment Tony told you all about the premiere. You thought that the change of scenario would change his mind and he would relax. Obviously, you had been wrong.

The movie was everything you expected and more. It kept you on edge the whole time. The whole crew had done an outstanding job. It was definitely one of the best movies you had watched lately. And the whole situation of being one of the first people to watch it, only made it more special.

Before you could suggest going to the after party that Harry had mentioned –and already texted you about it-, Nolan himself invited you. So the moment the movie finished, you went on your way. It wasn’t far from Leicester Square, but it was still safer to go in the cars so no one would know where you were going and could have some privacy.

“So? Did you like it?”

Just when you walked into the party, Harry approached you, taking you by surprise.

“I loved it!” You said smiling widely. “And you were amazing”, you added.

“Thank you”, he nodded. “I’m proud of it, to be honest.”

“You really should be”, you said, biting your lip a little.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asked, pointing at the bar at the end of the place.

“Please!”

Bucky observed the two of you walking towards the bar. He sighed and walked down the few steps that were next to the door. He was feeling more and more like an idiot since you walked away from him at the premiere, and he was still thinking about what you had said.

“You okay?” Natasha asked, showing up with a drink in her hand and another one for him.

“Thanks”, he said, taking the glass from her. “I’m okay, just…”, he sighed and pointed at you and Harry, who were talking and laughing at the bar.

“Oh…” Natasha smirked and looked at Bucky. “She’s having fun, don’t you think?”

“Why did you introduce them?” Bucky asked, turning away from the bar, so he could get that image out of his mind.

“She wanted to meet him but would have never introduced herself”, she said. “I just helped a little.”

“Thanks for nothing, then”, Bucky said.

“If you like her, go and tell her”, she said. “But don’t expect her to wait around forever when you have never made a move to let her know how you feel.”

“And how does she feel? Am I supposed to just jump into the swimming pool without knowing if there’s water?” Bucky asked.

“If you still don’t know that the pool is overflowing, then you’re even blinder than I thought you were”, Natasha said.

Bucky sighed and ran a hand over his head. Why did it have to be so complicated?

“What would you do?” He finally asked. As much as he hated asking for advice, he was completely lost.

“Me? I would go across the room and kiss her”, she simply said. “But given she’s busy talking to someone and also mad at you, I wouldn’t advice it.”

“Then?”

“I would talk to her and tell her how I feel”, she said. “Not as dramatic as a surprise kiss, but still honest and useful.”

Bucky sighed and turned slightly to look at you two again. When he didn’t see you, he started looking around like crazy. Where were you?

***

“I really was starving”, you said as you and Harry walked down the street with a burger each.

“Why didn’t you eat anything before the premiere?” He asked before taking a bite from his burger.

“It was the cinema. I thought we would get popcorns, to be honest”, you admitted, making him laugh so hard he almost choked. “Don’t laugh!” You said, although you were laughing as well.

“You’re adorable”, he said, making you blush a little.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go indoors?” You asked once again. You didn’t want him to be on every page tomorrow, especially because of you.

“Don’t worry about it”, he said. “I’m having a good time.”

“Me too”, you admitted. Then, you felt your phone vibrating into your purse. “Give me a second.”

Harry took your burger so you could get your phone out. It surprised you to see Bucky’s name on the screen. Your first impulse was to pick it up, but then you remembered that you were still mad at him and decided to decline the call. You turned your phone off, shoved it back into your purse and took your burger back from Harry.

“Everything okay?” He asked concerned.

“It was Bucky just being annoying”, you said.

“I kind of saw how he kept on looking at you”, he said. You looked at him surprised.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Let’s say he has a really deathly glare”, he said with a chuckle. “If looks could kill, I would be ten feet under by now.”

“What? No”, you laughed.

“Trust me, I know what I saw”, Harry said. “He likes you.”

You frowned but said nothing about it. It was one thing having Natasha telling you about Bucky’s feelings. But if even Harry, a person who had zero contact with any of you, who knew nothing of you or Bucky, had seen that… then maybe Natasha never lied and Bucky did have feelings for you.

That thought would have filled you with joy at any other moment. But thinking about it now, it only made you angry and frustrated. Why did he have to be such an idiot if he had feelings for you? Why couldn’t he just make a move? Or where you supposed to just take a leap of faith?

“Sorry. I said too much”, Harry said after a moments of silence.

“No, no”, you quickly said. “Everything’s okay. It’s just…” you sighed.

“Do you have feelings for him?” He asked. You laughed bitterly. “What?”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation with you. My celebrity crush since I was 17”, you said. This time, Harry laughed quietly.

“Don’t worry”, he said. “I knew you were out of my league since I saw you and now I understand why.”

“Me? Out of your league?” You asked shocked and he nodded.

“There’s no competition if you already love someone else, don’t you think?” He asked with a smile.

“Am I that obvious?” You said defeated.

“I’m observant”, he shrugged. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just don’t get him”, you said. “We’ve been best friends for ages and I’ve loved him all along without saying anything. I got used to idea of just being his friend and the second I mention someone else, someone who I hadn’t even met yet, and he starts acting like a total jerk. If he have feelings for me, why doesn’t he just say so?”

“Sadly, sometimes we have to see those we love walk away in order to know how much we care”, Harry said. “I think you should talk to him.”

“And say what? That I know he has feelings for me because my crush suspects it?” You asked sarcastically.

“Well… that’s an option”, he said, making you laugh. “But I would just be honest and tell him how I feel.”

You sighed but didn’t reply. You couldn’t believe you were having this conversation with Harry Styles, the guy you had admired most in your entire life, the guy you had fantasied about meeting a thousand times. And there he was, giving you romantic advice on how to talk to your best friend. Life was nuts.

***

Bucky was going nuts. The moment he had walked around the party twice, not finding you anywhere, he had stepped outside to call you. And he got sent to voicemail. Over and over again. You didn’t just hang up on him, you had also turned your phone off. He was fuming.

Without saying a word to anyone, he took a taxi and went back to the hotel where you were staying. At some point, you had to come back, and he would be waiting for you just at your door. While he waited, he tried to call you at least five times without any success, he was filling your voicemail with nonsense but he didn’t care.

“I swear it, (Y/N), if you don’t pick up the damn phone”, he said on the phone, “I will-“

“You will what?” Your voice said behind him.

He turned around to find you standing there, as beautiful as ever, with the card of your room in your hand, and looking at him with a deadly look in your eyes.

“Where have you been? Where did you go?” He asked, putting his phone down and ignoring your question.

“Last time I checked, you’re not my father, so I don’t have to explain myself to you”, you said, walking to your door.

“You were with him, right? That British singer”, he said while you opened the door.

“So what if I was?” You asked walking in. You considered slamming the door shut, but you knew him well enough to know that he had no problem breaking in, so you just left the door open for him.

“You just met him”, he said, walking in behind you and closing the door.

“What does that even mean?” You asked, throwing the purse on your bed and turning to face him. “Yes, I left with him to have dinner, so what?”

“Something could have happened”, he said with a shrug.

“Something like what? He could have kissed me?” You asked. You could see him flinching at the word. “What’s the problem, James?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. You would only call him James when you were really mad at him.

“Did he? Kiss you?” He asked.

“What if he had?” You asked.

“Did he?”

You looked at him in the eye, feeling yourself getting angrier by the second. All you wanted was to scream in his face how much you loved him, that he was the only one you wanted to kiss, that you had spent the whole fucking night thinking about him and talking about him to someone else. Instead, you shook your head and sat down on your bed to take off your heels. Your feet were killing you.

“You haven’t replied”, he said.

“Neither have you”, you said.

“I asked first”, he shrugged. Without even thinking about it, you threw one of your shoes at him. “Hey! What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” You asked getting up, now barefoot. “What’s your problem? Why can’t you just be clear? Just say what the fuck you’re thinking instead of being a jerk!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, he said, looking away from you. Narrowing your eyes, you took a step closer.

“Do you love me?” You finally asked.

“You know I do”, he said, his heart beating faster.

“Don’t bullshit me, James. You know what I mean”, you said. “Are you in love with me?”

Bucky took a deep breath and closed his eyes, not answering your question. The words were burning in his throat, and yet he couldn’t say them out loud.

“Fucking hell, Bucky!” You almost yelled, pushing him away. “Can’t you even talk? Just say no, for fuck’s sake! I can take it, you know? It’s not that hard to be honest for once in your fucking life. If you’re not in love in with me, if you don’t love me, just leave me be! Stop being an asshole and let me kiss and like whoever I want!”

“I can’t”, he said.

“You can’t what? Stop being an asshole? I noticed, thank you”, you said.

“I can’t just leave you be!” He exclaimed, looking at you. “Because it kills me, okay? I’d rather go through a thousand battles and getting a billion injuries, traumas and brainwashes before seeing you with someone else, okay?”

You looked at each other in the loudest silence you had ever experienced.

“You…” he sighed. “You are everything to me, don’t you see? I’ve been miserable for the whole week and the only way I know how to handle it is being an asshole. And maybe I’m late, maybe I should’ve spoken sooner, maybe I should’ve gone across the room and kiss you in front of everyone, but I am here now and I’m saying it now.” He placed his hands on your cheeks. “I love you, (Y/N). I am in love with you. Hopelessly. I love you so much it drives me crazy. You drive me crazy.”

“And you have to be a jerk to show it? Couldn’t you just kiss me and get it over with?” You mumbled, looking into his blue eyes with tears in your eyes.

“You were kind of busy all night”, he said. “I’m a jerk, but I’m a polite jerk.”

You laughed a little and moved your hands to his chest, wondering if what he was saying was real and if it was just another one of your dreams.

“You could kiss me now”, you shrugged.

Bucky smiled a little and you bit your lip when he leaned over slightly, taking in your whole face before closing his eyes. Immediately, you felt his lips on yours and your mouth opened to receive him as he pulled you closer. The whole world around you disappeared and all you could feel and smell was Bucky. Nothing else mattered.

“I’m sorry it took me so long”, he whispered when you pulled away.

“You’re forgiven”, you smiled a little and rubbed his cheek. “By the way… he didn’t kiss me”, you said.

“Really?” He asked, sounding really surprised.

“Yeah”, you laughed. “We were just talking about you, to be honest”, you admitted.

“Wow…you really missed the chance of making out with your crush for me…” he teased. “You must really love me, huh?”

“Shut up”, you smiled, pulling him in for another kiss. And, for once, Bucky was happy to oblige.

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summahsunlight · 4 years ago

Text

Worth the Risk, Part 13

Rating: Mature(18+only)

Word Count: 2120

Pairing: Army Pilot!Poe Dameron x Nurse!Reader (1940s AU)

Summary: It’s the 1940s, Army pilot and Captain Poe Dameron is flying on missions for the United States Army in Europe. After being shot down off the coast of France, Poe wakes up in an Army hospital in England, to find you, a nurse, taking care of him. Throughout the process of his recovery, Poe finds himself falling for you, and even though you, for the most part, maintain a professional relationship with him–you’re falling for him as well. Both of you know the risks of falling in love during a war, but then again, both of you have never cared much for being cautious.

Warnings: Angst, gunshot wound, blood (nothing graphic)

Start from the beginning!

Taglist: @fanfic-addict-98, @thescarletknight2014, @blushingwueen, @americasassromanoff, @ginger-swag-rapunzel, @spider-starry, @totelpoedameron, @captain-america5, @liadamerondjarin, @m1rkw00dpr1ncess, @paintballkid711, @justanotherblonde23, @castiel-barnes, @itspdameronthings

If you like to be added to the taglist just let me know. This series is winding down and I only see it having a few more parts. I hope you are still enjoying it! Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated!🥰❤️

There had been very little time to breathe since the Army had marched into Paris. They were continuing their push to Germany, which meant endless bombing runs for Poe and Iolo. Endless bombing runs meant very little sleep and living in leaky tents in the woods--Poe had lost more crew than he could ever have imagined in his worst nightmares during this time and the Army granted his squadron a 48 hour leave. Immediately he went to work on finding a way to Paris, on a finding a way to spend as much of that leave with you before he was inevitably back in the air being shot at.

He sat, slumped in his seat on the train, reading over your latest letter. You had spent a lot of time with freed prisoners and your heart was breaking it smaller and smaller pieces each day. Poe wished he could have made it back to Paris sooner to hold you; he could feel your pain in every stroke of your flawless handwriting.

By the time the train arrived in Paris, Poe had read your letters over three times. Tucking them into his rucksack, he slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way off the train. He knew that you would be waiting for him on the platform but when he laid his eyes on you for the first time in months, he couldn't help but smile.

"Poe!" you cried, waving wildly, your smile just as wide as his.

Moving through the crowd, Poe made his way to you, dropping his rucksack at your feet, cupping your face between his hands and kissing you.

You eagerly returned his kiss, wrapping your warms around his neck and melting into his solid form. When you pulled away from his warm lips, you sighed, "I missed you."

He stroked your cheeks with his thumbs and gazed at you with loving eyes. "I missed you, too, sweetheart."

"I wish you had more time to stay in Paris."

"I know; me too. We just have to make the most of it."

Sighing, you rested your forehead against his. With some luck in a few months you would be together back home in America, planning your wedding, meeting each other's families--the war nothing but a distant memory. "Are you hungry? There's a small little cafe near my apartment. By the way, Jess can't wait to see you."

Poe chuckled and pulled away. He reached down and picked his bag up in one hand, and grasped yours in the other. "She just wants to ask me questions about the new recruits, you know if they're cute and available."

You laughed while you walked out of the train station. "That's not all true," you argued with him. "She likes you too."

"Not as much as that sergeant from North Dakota."

"Well, yeah, she can't kiss you but she can kiss him."

"You're the only I want to kiss, sweetheart."

"Smart answer."

He gave your hand a squeeze and laughed. He'd missed you so much over the last several weeks and he wasn't sure when he would be able to see you again--already Poe's heart was breaking thinking about having to leave Paris in two days.

You were just as heartbroken at the same thought--but you did your best to hide your sadness from Poe. Neither of you talked about the war, or your impending separation for the rest of the afternoon, that is until Poe leaned back in his seat at the cafe and sighed, heavily. "Something wrong?" you questioned, sipping your coffee.

Poe ran his tongue over his lips, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his own coffee mug. "When the Army marched into Paris over the summer, I thought it would be over. Maybe I just hoped it would be over."

There was an overwhelming feeling of sadness in his voice. You knew that he had suffered tremendous losses since the Allies had taken Paris back. For a man like Poe, with his big heart, you knew that each loss cut deep. "Darling, there was nothing wrong in hoping."

"I know, I just--I've been away from home for so long now."

"Are you afraid your dad will forget what you look like?"

"No--but my dad is getting up in age--he needs help on the ranch."

"I'm sure he's managing without you for now."

Poe frowned. "I'm worried about him, y/n."

You took a deep breath. "Why?"

He looked at you, sadly. "The anniversary of my mother's death is in a few weeks. My dad...he never really got over my mom...I just worry that he's lonely."

Reaching out you gently placed your hand over his. "Maybe this will be the last anniversary of your mother's passing that you'll miss. Maybe next year, you'll be home on the ranch."

"I hope so," Poe mumbled, running his thumb over your knuckles.

"When was the last time your wrote to your dad?" you asked, softly.

"Right before Normandy."

"Poe, that was months ago."

"There hasn't been time."

"You've found the time to write to me."

Poe looked at you, guilty. "You're easier to write too than my dad. You know what it's like to be in the thick of this war--I don't want to worry my dad too much."

Gently you shook your head. "Poe, your dad is a war veteran himself--I'm sure he knows exactly what is going on. Not writing to him is going to make him worry even more about you if you ask me."

He looked wounded. "You really know how to make a guy feel better, ya know that?"

Smiling, you looked him straight in the eye. "I'm just being honest with you."

"I know--and you're right--I need to get in touch with him."

"Promise you'll write to him before you leave Paris?"

"Yes, I promise."

"Good. I'll even make sure it gets in the mail for you."

Kissing your hand, he thanked you. Poe briefly wondered how he had survived without you--and if he had never been shot down, he may never have met you. He might have already passed his mother's ring onto you--under the guise of safe keeping--but he couldn't wait for the war to be over so he could properly ask you to marry him. "Shall we get out of here, darling?"

You smiled coyly at him, knowing exactly what was on his mind. "And go where, Captain?"

Poe sighed, lightly. "Oh, maybe a walk along the river....back to your room..."

"Let's go then," you said, standing up.

"Let's go," he echoed, tossing some money on the table and following you wherever you were going to lead him.

-----

Forty-eight hours went by way too fast for either of your likening, and after a tear filled good-bye, Poe found himself back with the Army. He felt more exhausted then ever with the cold weather moving in. He did hold true to his promise and wrote a letter to his dad, he even hand delivered a letter from Jess to the sergeant from North Dakota. Poe could never remember his name but he seemed excited to receive the letter.

Iolo grinned at him. "Look at you, playing cupid."

Poe rolled his eyes and pulled his coat closer to his body. "I didn't miss your shit for the last two days, Arana."

"Sure. That's fair. You were with your lady."

"What did you do?"

"Me? Found a nice village, got drunk, kissed a few French girls."

"A few?"

"Hey, I'm not attached so I'm not picky."

Laughing, Poe turned towards the tent he was sharing with his wingman and best friend. After Snap's death, the pair had become closer, looking out for each other as best they could--being there for each other after each and every loss. Poe felt grateful that he had a friend like Iolo--he didn't know what he'd do if he was facing the horrors of war each day alone.

Iolo was going on about something or another as they walked; Poe was so engrossed in what his friend was saying that he felt the gunshot before he heard it. The bullet tore through his upper left arm, burning, and Arana shouted, "Captain!"

Poe clutched at the fresh wound, blood seeping through his fingers and Iolo pulled him to safety as the ground troops sprinted into action trying to find where the shooter was hiding. "Fuck!" Poe cursed when he finally saw the blood on his hands, the pain coursing through his body.

"Easy, Poe," Iolo said, waving down a medic. "Looks like a flesh wound--you should live."

"Great, just great. It still fucking hurts!" Poe snapped at him. His face went white. "Don't tell her, Arana, please don't tell, y/n."

"You want me to lie to your girlfriend?"

"Yes! She doesn't need to know if I'm gonna live!"

"She's gonna know when she sees the scar!"

"And I'll tell her the story then!"

Iolo rolled his eyes as the medic joined him. "Ya might want to check his skull after you finish with that arm--he's talking batshit crazy."

Poe wanted to punch him but his arm hurt too damn much. He just didn't want you to worry about something as unnecessary as a flesh wound. "Can you hit him for me?" he begged the medic tending to his arm.

The medic looked anxiously between the two pilots. He was fresh on the field so clearly, he didn't understand their antics. "Sir... I'm just here to treat your arm. You'll...you'll...have to settle your differences with the Lieutenant on your own terms."

"In other words--he'd rather not get involved," Iolo chuckled. "It's cute he thinks we have some kind of beef with one another."

"Don't worry, once my arm is patched, I'm gonna punch you," Poe countered, curtly, to which Iolo responded with laughter. "I'm serious Arana!"

"Sure, sure, you're gonna punch me with your non-dominant arm."

"Fuck! Come on, man, just do it for me!"

The medic finished up dressing Poe's wound and quickly moved on to help the next guy. Iolo reached out and pat his friend on the shoulder. "Fuck Poe, don't scare me like that again," the other pilot whispered, seriously. "We've been through hell but I'm not sure I'm ready to lose another man I consider a brother."

Poe sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. He knew that if the bullet was in centimeters in a certain direction he'd be dead. "I know," he responded, all the venom from earlier gone from his voice. "But I'm serious, please don't tell her. She worries enough as it is."

"Don't worry," Iolo said, firmly, "your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks buddy," Poe whispered, opening his eyes. "I owe you one."

"She's gonna find out, ya know."

"Yeah... yeah I know. I'll deal with it then."

Iolo frowned at him and helped him to his feet. Quietly, the two friends walked back to their tent and didn't speak about the gunshot wound in Poe's arm again.

------

You did find out--from North Dakota boy when he came to visit Jess.

He'd casually talked about as if you and Jess knew it had happened. It wasn't until he saw your eyes go wide and Jess' mouth fall open in shock that he was aware he'd let the secret out. Poe was probably going to beat his ass when he got back to camp for this...

...you excused yourself and found a small closet in the hospital to shut yourself away in and have a good cry.

After the day you'd had, nursing freed German prisoners back to health, holding their hands while the fate of their loved ones was either dealt to them or still kept a mystery, and crying at their bedside as they took their last breath. In between all that you were still expected to perform your duty as a lieutenant and care for the wounded soldiers.

It was clear why Poe hadn't told you he'd been shot--he knew the fragile state you were living in, but was this better? Finding out this way, from Jess' new boyfriend?

"Lieutenant?" Jess called on the other side of the door. "Are you okay?"

No! "I'm....fine...I just need a moment," you replied, wiping your eyes on the back of your hand. "I'll...be out soon."

You heard footsteps fading away and knew she had left you alone. If you could, you would have stayed in that closet all day--but the airhorn went off, signaling incoming wounded. Dusting yourself off, you got to your feet, and went to work. There was still a war going on after all.

#my writing #star wars imagine #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x reader #WW2 AU #100 followers celebration #worth the risk

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awkwxrdapple · 4 years ago

Text

Sometimes - Javier Peña x Reader

“Sometimes, just sometimes, well alright maybe all of the time.” - Sometimes by Gerry Cinnamon (x)

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: mentions of injury

A/N: What you have to know is that I am a sucker for “there was only one bed” style tropes. It’s just fluff and sleep related angst. With no back story, it just is what it is. This came to me while I was in the middle of my chem midterm so enjoy :) I’ve set it up for a second part I think, so we will see how it goes haha.

“Forgive me for asking, but are you ok?”

Javi exhaled smoke slowly. You weren’t expecting an honest answer, or any answer at all. You just had to ask. Watching him sit, slumped, on your sofa was worrying. The man looked exhausted. You were used to having him lounge lazily on your couch whenever he came round, but this time it was different. Before, he still had an air of confidence around him, whereas now he looked like he was ready to drop any minute.

After a few seconds of no reply you changed your question.

“Are you sleeping?”

“No.”

The short, blunt answer startled you as you were still expecting to get nothing back from him. You were happy he was with you now, that he had come to your apartment. Something was clearly bothering him, and maybe a stranger wouldn’t have been able to tell, but luckily for Javi, you weren’t a stranger. Far from it.

“Do you try to sleep?” It was a stupid question, but one you needed to ask. You knew his habits, he could spend all night out in a bar or a brothel to avoid sleep if he wanted to. The latter being one that brought a nasty taste to your mouth.

“Not any more.” As you had expected.

“Javi, you need to try.” Your voice was soft.

“I have tried.”

“Try again then.”

The lights of the buildings of Bogotá were bright against the inky blackness of the night sky. Your curtains were still open showing the proof that it was late. You had been sitting in each other's company for a while.

Javi saw you looking up at the window, and instantly felt guilt at keeping you up too. Just because he wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight, doesn’t mean that he has to stop you too.

“I should go Y/N.”

Bringing your attention back to Javi, he seemed to look even worse than he did a few minutes ago. There was no way you were going to let him out of your apartment to go and do God knows what until tomorrow morning when he would start the self-destructive cycle all over again.

“No, I want you to stay. Please.”

“Why? You need to go to sleep and I’m keeping you up.” Javi removed himself from your sofa and took steps towards your door.

“Javi, look at me.” He did stop and brought his gaze to yours. “Would you sleep if you stayed here?”

Your question threw him slightly. It was something he had never considered as to him, that would be a huge imposition on you. But now you were the one to mention it, maybe it would work. He had nothing to lose in the sleep department. He either would, or he wouldn’t. Yet, he also had a lot else to lose. Staying here, in your apartment, knowing you were lying peacefully only a room away, had so many domestic connotations. That was a reason he had never considered staying at yours ever, because could he put himself through that? The magnetic pull he felt around you would be ever harder to resist if he said yes.

As soon as he let himself slip just once, it would be harder the next time. And then all his worries of keeping you safe and out of his complicated, dangerous life would manifest into reality.

“You can sleep in my room and I will have the sofa. I really don’t mind.”

Your eyes were pleading him to stay.

“Thank you. But I can’t. But thank you.”

Trying not to look at you again, Javi left your apartment before you could try any harder to convince him to stay.

+ + +

The next time Javi knocked on your apartment door, it was much later in the evening. You had even been lying in bed for the past half an hour reading. The knocking on your door had startled you considering the hour.

“Javi, what-”

“Can I take you up on your offer?” He was leaning against the door frame in a way to hold himself up. His body language screamed of fatigue. You wondered how his day had gone. Had he been on a stakeout? Had it been dangerous?

“What offer?” You were confused for a moment.

“Sleep… here.” It almost pained him to admit he wanted the comfort and safety of your apartment.

Your eyes widened when you finally realised what “offer” he was referring to and opened your door further to let him in.

“I don’t want to bother you at all.” Javi started, wandering over to your couch. “You won’t even know I’m here, apart from the fact I’ll be on your couch.” He let himself fall heavily down onto the cushions.

“Javi it’s fine don’t worry. You can have my bed if you want and I’ll sleep out here.” You walked to the linen cupboard to reach down a spare pillow and blanket.

Even before he entered your apartment he knew you would say this, and he had planned what he would say in return. There was no way he was going to have you give up your own bed. He was the one imposing on you.

He hadn’t even consciously realised he was at your door until you had opened it to reveal you wearing pyjama shorts and a tank top. You found it hard to sleep sometimes in the Colombian heat. The amount of skin on show surprised Javi, making him even more aware of your presence. The thrill of the idea of running his hands over every part of your exposed skin was intoxicating. If he wasn’t so utterly exhausted he may have done. Soft. That’s the first word that came to mind upon seeing you in cozy clothing.

“No, I’m fine here, honestly.” At least Javi had the strength to fight you on this.

You considered him for a moment, weighing up your points for a good counter argument, but he had already made himself comfortable. Instead, you just handed him the pillow and blanket.

“Thank you, hermosa.” Javi drawled lazily shoving the pillow underneath his dark hair.

The nickname didn’t go unnoticed. Your Spanish was good enough to know what he had called you. You wanted to revel in it, allow yourself a small bit of joy that he used that word to address you. Until you remembered that you probably weren’t the first, or last, girl to be called that by Javier Peña.

“Goodnight Javi.” You saw he had already closed his eyes. And for the first time in weeks you could finally describe him as peaceful. You were going to ask him about his day at work, to try and work out what had finally made him come to you, but by doing so now you would only disturb his peace.

+ + +

You woke suddenly, and surprised yourself by the blackness of your room. It still wasn’t morning yet. Your phone read 4:32.

Remembering Javi was in your apartment, you had the urge to see if he was actually asleep. Was being here actually giving him any respite against his insomnia?

Trying not to make any noise, you crept to your bedroom door and opened it as quietly as possible. From here you could see his figure lying still on the sofa. A thin sliver of light from in between the drawn curtains shed a small amount of light into the main room. You could tell from the slow and rhythmic rise and fall of his chest that he was in fact, asleep.

Smiling to yourself you closed the door again and retreated back into the darkness.

+ + +

Javi sleeping on your couch sometimes became routine very quickly.

You had got used to leaving the pillow and blanket there every evening, as more often than not he would turn up to use it. You liked it, it was nice knowing where he was, and even nicer to know that when he needed someone, he came to you.

When you offered him your spare key he was incredibly reluctant to take it. You wanted him to have it so he could come and go as he pleased at night. You knew staying at his own apartment wasn’t working for him, so you wanted to give him freedom in another safe space.

Eventually, he did accept the key, and sometimes he did use it. Whether that be to leave and come back at night for something, or to let himself in if you had gone out for the evening. You would come back to find him passed out in your living room, the curtains still open giving the tranquil scene an urban backdrop. You would creep around him and close them silently, before retiring to your own bed.

Amazingly, you found your sleep had improved too. Although some nights you were more aware of the man in your apartment with you. Knowing he was in the other room was soothing, but at the same time maddening. The fact that you were too good friends meant you could never offer your own bed to him, with you still in it. No matter how much you wanted to. So you just were content with knowing that you were helping a friend. Javi had started to look better even from the first night he had spent at yours, something that only got better with time.

One night was very different though.

You had just finished eating dinner at the little breakfast bar in your kitchen when Javi practically stumbled into your apartment. At first you thought he was drunk, but then it became apparent that something else ailed him. There was a horrible purple bruise on the side of his face.

“Javi!” As soon as you saw him you ran towards him and helped him to sit down.

“I’m fine, it’s fine.”

“Well it’s obviously not.”

You cautiously brought the tips of your fingers to the afflicted skin. He winced as you touched it - just as you thought. It wasn’t fine.

“What happened?” Your voice was almost a whisper. You knew what he did for a job, you knew it was dangerous, but only now were you seeing that with your own eyes. In all the time you’d known Javi, you had seen him get into a few scrapes but nothing as bad as this. The bruise covered from next to his right eye all the way down his cheek.

“One of Escobar’s sicarios had a gun, which ran out of ammo, so he used it in another way.”

You were still inspecting the damage. There was no obvious swelling so icing it wouldn’t do anything now. Rest is what he needed.

“Please tell me you managed to get a few punches in too.”

“Unluckily for him, my gun was working perfectly.”

“Ah…” You wondered how the other guy managed to get so close.

Javi turned to look you dead in the eye. Your face was already so close to his and the close proximity almost winded you. You had always been fascinated by his dark brown eyes. You hadn’t known anyone to have eyes as dark but still so lovely to look at, because they were so warm, and comforting. Yet, there was something else that was there too. Something that may be considered wary or even haunted. What had Javi witnessed as part of his job?

Neither of you had said anything for a few moments, however neither of you had made a move to shift away from each other.

“Has work been a lot like this recently?” He could still hear your whisper even though you could barely hear yourself.

“Yeah it’s been… difficult lately.”

“You are so brave and strong though Javi.” He winced at your words. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

“I don’t, not from you. You’re just wrong.”

“No I’m not. You are, even if you don’t believe it.” You allowed your words to be flooded with determination. You hated that he thought this way about himself.

Javi leant forwards and instinctively put his head in his hands. He winced again at the contact. The affection you felt for him in that moment was overwhelming.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“Not really, I feel more dizzy than anything.”

“You need to go to the hospital.”

“No I don’t. Cause for one, this was an unauthorised stakeout.”

“Javi.”

“Y/N please, just let me rest.”

Putting everything else aside and prioritising Javi’s well-being you found yourself saying, “Come and lie down on my bed.” The couch was no place for someone injured.

You briefly saw a flash of worry cross his face. Was the thought of lying on your bed so bad?

You helped him up and he leant on you on the way into your bedroom. He kicked off his shoes at the door and you allowed him to lie on his back.

“You know you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I know, that’s why I came here, because I know you would watch out for me.”

You were now lying on your side next to him, and upon hearing that you felt a blush creep into your cheeks. You would always watch out for him. You were glad he knew that.

“You should rest.” You moved to get up but a strong arm caught your arm.

“Stay please.”

“I was only going to get the blanket to sleep on the floor in here.”

“No I mean, stay here. Please.” His hand was still wrapped around your forearm.

“Ok.” You agreed, and settled back onto the bed, bringing the sheets up over the both of you.

“Goodnight Javi.” You said softly, for what felt like the millionth time recently. That in itself was soothing.

“Goodnight Y/N.”

Every cell in your body was on fire as you could feel his body heat radiating through your bed. You wanted to reach out and have some physical contact with him. Nevertheless, you knew he needed rest, and you were only friends, so there were boundaries. You rolled over to give him space and willed yourself to sleep.

+ + +

The first thing you thought when you woke up was how warm you were. Not an uncomfortable heat, just nice warmth.

Javi’s arm was around you.

Sometime through the night he had moved so his chest was up against your back. The muscles of his arm were strong and solid. You wondered if he had moved consciously, or unconsciously. You couldn’t decide which was better. He was definitely still asleep though, as the rhythm of his breathing was even and shallow.

You, consciously, snuggled back into his embrace, and could feel yourself dozing off again until you were startled by movements from him. Javi’s arm tightened around you even more and he moved so his face was nestled into your neck, you could feel his nose lightly touching your skin.

You couldn’t help but grin. You thought about all the times he had slept in your apartment but not in your room with you - it was a waste. You’d both been missing out on this. Maybe in Colombia this was the closest feeling to home you both of you would get.

Masterlist

#this is actually the first time ive written for any of the pedro boys #just fancied writing this one #to see how i could do and whether i want to do anymore in the future #javier pena #narcos #javier pena x reader #javier pena imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal imagine #storyofavengers

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xempasuchil-love-blog · 4 years ago

Text

Hope (Harry x Uma) one-shot

Summary: Sometimes the VK’s cannot believe that true love exists. It is something so alien that it sounds like a farce, a story that parents make up to scare. Mal proclaims from the rooftops that she has found it, but her false smile is fooling no one. But when the VK’s see Harry and Uma, they can't help it. They feel hope. They do not know what it is love, no one has taught them, so they cannot name what they see between those two, they only know that it is a bit similar (and so different) to what Auradon calls love.

HOPE

10 years

Uma, daughter of Ursula; and Harry Hook are two of the most unusual children on the Isle of the Lost. The adults know it, and they try not to run into them, because the monsters know no limits. No one respects a good villain anymore these days (most are just old and pretty tired, though the evil hasn't left their dreams and bones), and if you run into the pair of bored kids, you're more than likely to end up being the target of some particularly painful joke. No, thank you very much.

A villain, on one of his good days, can put either of the two children in their place; drag Uma by the braids to her mother's shop (though it would surely end with a good handful of scratches and bites) or lead Hook's son by the ear to the docks (who gives a real hook to a ten-year-old boy, anyway?), but it happens that they are never separated. And together… together they are a true force to fear.

They ravage the isle like a tornado, robbing stores, painting walls and emptying pockets. They spend every stolen penny as innocent as they should be at their age, buying sweets and trinkets, and enjoying them on the deck of the Jolly Roger. (They always share their loot.)

The girls on the isle want to be like Uma (until Mal has a fit of envy, throws a bucket of shrimp at Uma's head and, since everyone is afraid of her mother, they decide they want to be like her), and kids envy Harry's hook.

11 years

A year has passed since the incident, and Uma has not been able to get the shrimp smell out of her braids. Every day for the past year she has gotten up earlier than everyone to earn some soap in the daily supply shipments, but even when she gets it, the smell never goes away. Uma screams and curses Mal in all her rage, because during that year in which Uma's life has taken a nosedive, Mal seems to win everything. She is considered one of the meanest girls on the isle and Maleficent has given her a bit of territory to terrorize; all Uma gets are screams from her mother, the beginning of a severe case of anemia, and the nickname Shrimpy.

But Harry is there for her, her faithful friend. He holds her when her legs buckle from exhaustion, lets her hit him when she's so mad at the smell of her hair that she wants to burn it, and threatens to hook on anyone who dares to call her Shrimpy.

Maybe Uma has gained something: a best friend.

12 years

Harry is about the perfect age to look like Peter Pan, and his sly, cheeky personality causes his father to throw him off the ship for a few months. He won't admit it, but he's scared. The only consolation he has is his hook, and suddenly a wonderful idea occurs to him. His father will want him back when he sees that he has a real hook hand, right? So, he leans over the water and waits for hours for Tick tack to show up. When the crocodile finally starts to close his mouth over his hand, Harry panics, somehow manages to get a punch at him and runs all the way down the dock towards Ursula's shop, his hand dripping with blood because anyway, the crocodile's teeth ripped a bit.

Uma yells at him more than she has ever yelled in her life, even more than with the shrimp, and she is not at all soft when heals his wound. She is beyond angry, she is so furious that she cannot see him in the eye without starting to insult him; she looks so exhausted, and Harry notices that sometimes it is hard for her to breathe, but she gives him a place in her bed (even though they fight at night over the only blanket she has) and steals some of the food from the store for him.

When his father finally lets him go back to the Jolly Roger, Harry promises himself that he will find a way to make Uma's heart beat slower, to erase the daze from her face; so, he struggles and every food he steals, if it is edible, he gives it to her. Uma giggles in his face, cheeky, but in the end, she ends up eating so hungry that it hurts Harry to watch. Still, he looks.

(He can't deny that he cares about her).

13 years.

Uma's heart beats at a normal rate, she has regained her strength and demands that Harry teach her to fight with swords. She's tired of feeling weak and small, so she runs in the morning, she trains with Harry every night, and her arms start to get muscle. Like, real muscle.

She wants to be a pirate, the sea in her blood calls her to have adventures and be free, take whatever she wants and live each day as if it were her last. Harry is not only satisfied with teaching her, he pushes her to the limit until one night she seems to forget everything and the only thing that can be heard on the beach is the thunder of metal colliding with metal, furious, and suddenly Harry is no longer giving blows but stopping them, until he realizes that his sword is lying on the ground and Uma smiles triumphantly, screams with joy and turns on the beach laughing, her arms outstretched and her braids moving in the suffocating sea breeze. Harry could only stare at her in a daze; because he suddenly notices that there is a delicate curve in her waist and her features are more delicate.

Two months later, when Harry walks into the Chip Shoppe one morning, as usual, he can't find Uma anywhere. Without daring to ask Ursula, he sneaks into the tavern and runs up the stairs to where Uma's room is. He worries that she's gotten sick again and hasn't told him, or something like that; he remembers seeing her grumpy for the past week, but what he doesn't expect is to find her curled up in her bed, scared.

"Uma? Are you okay?” Harry asks, and she looks up at him. He is her best friend, she should trust him (even when everything on the Isle is about mistrust, they like to break the rules), right?

But she seems torn between shame and fright. Harry approaches her bed, and she looks away from him as she forces the words out of her lips, even a few angry tears escape because she is not used to being afraid.

"I'm bleeding."

But no matter how hard Harry looks for a wound on her face or arms, he can't find it. So, she seems to want to die of embarrassment and it all fits into Harry's mind, because he remembers Harriet crying the first time it happened. He is relieved to know that Uma is fine, but he is still a thirteen-year-old boy, so his face turns red. He swallows his pride to place a braid behind her ear with his hook, in a gesture that pretends to be affectionate (but he does not know affection, so he does not know if he achieves it very well).

“Don't worry, it's normal. I'll go find Harriet to ask for her help and I'll come back. Right?"

Uma nods without looking him in the eye, and when Harry is about to walk out her bedroom door, he hears her say thank you. Uma has never said thank you or please, so he can't stop a smile from spreading across his face.

That year, no one attends her birthday party (The Sinister Thirteen) because Mal has decided to have her birthday party on the same day. Harry and Gil, Gaston's youngest son, take her to steal some alcohol and get drunk for the first time in their lives.

Uma doesn't want to know why alcohol makes her want to be closer to Harry or what is this strange feeling in her belly that she can only name as needing. She never says anything about it, anyway.

14 years

Harry is upset. He has had to listen to several guys say how hot Uma is, how much they want to kiss her face and that her waist is so provocative. He has been wanting to break faces all week, but he can't do anything, because he reminds himself that he lives on the Isle and that any little weakness he shows can be twisted in the worst way. He reminds himself that he would be putting Uma in danger, because the Isle has a motto: "if you can't have it, break it." They would break her just to amuse themselves with his anger. So, he grits his teeth, squeezes his hook until his fist turns white, and goes on his way.

There is a part of him that doesn't understand why he gets so upset. Uma is one of the most beautiful girls on the Isle, so she is more exposed. But he has heard the same comments about Harriet, Mal, and other girls. He realizes that what bothers him about that is the way they talk about her, as if she were just another girl, when Harry knows that Uma has divine heritage running through her veins.

They should have more respect for goddesses.

For what else could she be, whose laughter sounds like the tempest, whose blue-green braids are like the tide, whose voice can be as sweet as foam and as cruel as a typhoon?

The next time he says her name, he can't help it sounding like a prayer.

15 years

Sometimes Uma wishes Harry would stop flirting with everything that moves. (She's not jealous at all!) But there is something about it that irritates her. It seems like a lie, and although everyone on the isle lies, she doesn't like to see him lying to himself. She can't help but wonder why he does it if his eyes fill with pain as he smiles (and the girls swoon at his feet).

One night, Harry steals his father's alcohol, and they hide on the beach, staring at the sea and cursing Auradon (because they realize their future is having no future) and making fun of Mal and her entire gang, and Uma feels so good to be there with him that she forgets to be cautious and gets drunk.

She is tired. She hates working for her mother, she hates the Isle and she hates lies. She hates secrets. So she, emboldened by alcohol, decides to be honest with herself. She looks at Harry, who seems happy and relaxed, staring up at the sky, always trying to find the Neverland star, and she tells herself that she's sick of this shit: she accepts that she's in love with him.

Uma doesn't try to deny it. She has no patience for such nonsense.

"I want you to be mine," she tells him (it's the closest she can dare to say her feelings), and Harry is so shocked that he accidentally drops the rum bottle, spilling its contents all over the beach. She is claiming him, more or less, and Harry feels incredible satisfaction from that fact.

"I already am," he tells her, all dangerous serenity.

Uma kneels on the sand, impatient, and then sits on Harry's lap with her legs on either side of his hips. Her sense of need returns, but she finds that she feels a little sated if she rubs against him. She likes the way his lips moan and his eyes blur, for her.

Harry kisses her, his lips taste of rum and adventure, just like a pirate should. Just like she always imagined Harry would taste. Afterwards, they look for any excuse to lock themselves in closets and rooms. Lust is common on the isle, but Harry's touch is reverent, and Uma finds the most tender side of her, which is like the sea breeze and calm waves, to caress his lips.

And he does not make her his as a prize, an easy conquest, an object that is used or a simple means to satisfy his needs. When he makes her his, he makes sure Uma knows that he loves her. (He can no longer deny it).

16 years.

Harry and Uma are unusual on the isle. Sure, everyone fears Mal and her gang, so when they are sent to Auradon, basically betray the villains and forget about them, the fear easily turns to hatred and desire of revenge. Uma and her new crew take over Mal’s old territory and, although it is impossible to believe, things improve a bit, because Uma doles out the supplies and the fear that Harry instills keeps the territory, to some extent, safe. The safest thing that can be being the Isle of the Lost.

It is not a secret that Uma hates Mal, it is not a secret that she wants revenge on her. Everyone on the isle knows that now the queen of the place is not a queen part fairy, but a Pirate Queen, everyone knows that she is dangerous, deadly, and that she would not hesitate to cut a neck with her sword.

Sometimes the VK’s cannot believe that true love exists. It is something so alien that it sounds like a farce, a story that parents make up to scare. Mal proclaims from the rooftops that she has found it, but her false smile is fooling no one.

But when the VK’s see Harry and Uma, they can't help it. They feel hope. They do not know what it is love, no one has taught them, so they cannot name what they see between those two, they only know that it is a bit similar (and so different) to what Auradon calls love.

And not even the cruellest dare to break it. It is like seeing a single flower being born in the middle of a field where nothing has ever sprouted, it is like finding an oasis in a desert that stretches across the entire horizon.

Uma smiles at Harry, and he looks at her like she is the world.

Although the swords hang from their hips.

#harry hook x uma #harry hook #uma daughter of ursula #Huma #uma x harry #uma x harry hook #descendants

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spencer-reid-in-a-pool · 4 years ago

Text

It Was You All Along (Part 6)

Author’s note: I want to thank @ayyyyitswednesdaymydoods for helping me and listening to me ramble constantly about this series. I know I am probably annoying, but she inspired much of this fic just through our conversations and I am so thankful every day that I met her and that she is my friend. This chapter is Jaskier’s POV, so hopefully you will learn more about that night that (Y/N) eavesdropped! Enjoy~

Tags: @ayyyyitswednesdaymydoods @blackjay04 @mxsmwndr @bravelittlesunflower

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If the gods could have blessed me with some other talent besides music, it should have been the ability to figure out where the hell I was in this forsaken forest. I wish I knew how to map out these routes in my head like Geralt seems to do, but I simply can’t. I guess you could say it was my own fault for running off after the attack, but I couldn’t risk getting punched again. Gods know that I am the one bringing in the most money, what with my music and all. Witchering be damned.

I mean, what can I say? I’m irresistible.

The trees in front of me seemed to stretch out infinitely, and I sighed as I came to a stop. I knew Geralt would be alright, of course. My thoughts were mainly focused on (Y/N) and where she might have ended up. I couldn’t help but think us getting separated was my fault. But I only did what I thought was right in the moment, and that was getting her as far away from the danger as possible.

She has been acting a bit strange lately, and that consumed my thoughts going forward. Was it... girl problems? Those happen monthly, right? Wait- what month is it?

A snapping sound drew me from my thoughts and brought me to another abrupt stop. It sounded far away, so I decided not being around to find out what made the noise was the best course of action.

It was starting to drop dark now, and I had found a fallen log to sit on and rest. It was so quiet. I hated the quiet. My thoughts and fears were always loudest then, so I decided to pull out my lute and strum mindlessly to bring about some comfort. Without meaning to, I started playing the song I was writing for (Y/N). It just kind of happened. I thought she was onto me and knew about the song when we arrived at that town the other day, but luckily she didn’t seem to pay any mind to it. If only she didn’t make me so nervous and loose-lipped, maybe she wouldn’t have even realized the song was new and unfinished.

My heart sped up the tiniest bit as I played, just like it always did when I thought about her. Which was quite often, to be honest. I simply couldn’t help it. She was my muse, even if she didn’t know.

Of course, thinking about her made me think about the other night in the tavern with the other woman. A stab of guilt made my chest hurt, and I cursed myself for that night. (Y/N) didn’t seem to be catching on to anything I was doing, so I had wanted so badly to be distracted. How stupid was I to let that woman be my distraction? Incredibly. And I would regret it for the rest of my days.

Obviously, thinking about that night and that woman made me think of the conversation Geralt and I had after. I remembered the whole thing, surprisingly, considering how drunk I was. I think- no, I know- the cause of me remembering was how much I was thinking about (Y/N) then. How badly I had wanted that woman to be her, in my arms and safe and loved.

I told Geralt everything. But I’m sure he already knew with his Witchery-ness...I swear he could read minds sometimes.

I went to the woman’s room- I don’t even know her name, now that I think about it. I don’t think I asked. It didn’t really matter, because it wasn’t (Y/N). Instantly, I had regretted my actions. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want this woman on me, touching me. So as soon as I had come back to reality, I pushed her off, probably a bit too hard, and winced as I realized how purple my neck would be soon.

Of course she was hurt, and I felt awful. But a second later, she smiled at me with what looked like understanding on her face.

“It’s that girl down there, isn’t it? You’re thinking about her.”

I didn’t answer her, and she took my silence as a yes. And that was that. I spent the rest of the night getting drunk to try and drown away this feeling I had. It didn’t work, of course. I suppose karma was being her usual bitchy self. Although, I knew in my heart that I deserved it.

As I strummed her song over and over, I replayed the conversation Geralt and I had that night in my head.

“You couldn’t have been any quieter when coming in?”

I pulled out a chair and sat in it heavily, the drink and regret weighing me down.

“Shut up, Geralt,” I groaned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

I was silent for a moment, and decided to just come out with it.

“You wouldn’t understand. I- I so desperately want (Y/N)...What do I do?”

If he expected something else from me, he made no mention of it. He simply stared at me with that same stupid expression he always had.

“You want advice? You need to grow a pair, Jaskier, and stop whining. Watching you be like this is incredibly exhausting.”

I sighed once more, like I had so many times previously tonight.

“That woman...seeing her was a bad idea. (Y/N) can’t know how I feel. At least, not yet. I don’t want her to know.”

He glanced at the wall for a split second, but I thought nothing of it. He was probably just tired of listening to me talk.

“You truly are an idiot. Both of you are.”

And without another word, he left for the washroom.

I played until it was pitch black outside, and even after for a little bit. I didn’t need light to see where the strings for her song were. I knew them by heart, even if it wasn’t quite finished yet. Only when my fingers started to ache did I stop, and I didn’t really want to. Playing her song made it feel as if she was right next to me.

I sighed and placed my lute down gently before laying myself down next to it. There probably wasn’t a really comfortable spot around here, so I balled up my doublet and used it as a makeshift pillow. Before long, I fell asleep and dreamed of (Y/N) all night, as I so often had since meeting her for the first time.

When I woke in the morning, it was just after dusk, and a bit cold out. I put my doublet back on quickly and grabbed my lute, ignoring the ache in my back and the growl coming from my stomach. There wasn’t really much else to do besides start walking and hope for the best.

Eventually, I made it to a small, run-down cottage near a stream. It was as good a place as any to rest and catch my breath. There didn’t seem to be anyone home, but I knocked nonetheless. What can I say? I’m a gentleman.

No one answered, so I let myself in. But what I didn’t realize was that the door was on its last limb, so as soon as I opened it, it collapsed onto the floor, sending up a cloud of dust and dirt directly into my lungs.

“Melitele’s tits,” I croaked.

After I recovered from my little ordeal, I dug around the place to see what it had to offer. Was it too much to hope for food?

I came across a plant potted in the corner. Underneath the cobwebs and dust, it almost looked edible. Almost.

“Should I?” I thought out loud.

I stared at it for a good while, heavily considering eating it, before realizing it was probably not a good idea.

“I should not.”

Defeated, I sat down on one of the rickety chairs, thanking the gods that it didn’t fall out from underneath me. Maybe I’ll eat my own arm off. Wait, then I can’t play the lute anymore...

“Bollocks...”

I hadn’t realized that I had fallen asleep in the chair until I heard rustling and voices outside, which startled me awake. It looked to be later in the day, probably the afternoon. So I couldn’t really take off running- they would definitely see me.

The voices and footsteps got closer and closer. In a panic, I scanned the room looking for something- anything I could use to defend myself if need be. There really wasn’t much. The place has probably been ransacked more times than I can count.

Unfortunately, all I had was my lute. How horribly tragic.

I hunkered down in the corner farthest away from the door, and waited until they were right against the house before shouting, “I’ve got a very large- very hard sword! And I’m not afraid to use it. You had best leave- right now. Please.”

Idiot, why did you say please at the end? You sounded like an insufferable p-

“Jaskier!”

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t my name. And it definitely wasn’t (Y/N) stepping over the fallen door.

Time felt frozen for a second. A bit annoying really, considering how all I wanted to do was run to her and hug her. But she made it to me first, and before she threw her arms around me, I looked at her like it was the first time.

She was disheveled of course. Scratches and bruises decorating her skin. A particularly large bruise was right in the middle of her forehead. Wonder what caused that monstrosity.

Twigs and leaves and grass were twisted into her messy hair, and for a split second all I could think about doing was getting it all out for her and washing her hair. She’d like that, I think.

Even in her condition, I had never seen such a beautiful woman. And I realized that even looking at another for the rest of my days would simply be a sin.

Her arms finally fell around my neck, bringing me closer to her and back to the present. I took a deep breath, telling myself that this was actually real. She was actually here and she was okay, and I wrapped my arms tightly around her waist. I simply could not have her close enough to me.

I sighed her name, relaxing against her, and hoping against hope she couldn’t feel how hard my heart was beating right now.

Geralt stood in the doorway, his arms crossed. But there was a gleam in his eye.

“Shut up,” I mouthed silently to him, turning slightly with (Y/N) still in my arms as if I was hiding a sweet I refused to share.

He simply shook his head, and stepped back through the doorway from where they came.

Geralt and I sat around the fire now. (Y/N) was asleep a few feet away, curled up on a ratty old blanket laid out on the forest floor. I couldn’t help but watch her sleep. She was so peaceful. So beautiful. There wasn’t a single thing I would not do for her.

I had spent the better part of an hour picking out all the offensive bits of nature in her hair, and combed it out as best as I could.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, darling,” I had said to her after finishing with her hair, “But what in the gods’ holy names happened to your forehead?”

Her expression fell instantly, and she grumbled something under her breath. I leaned in closer to hear what she had said, ignoring the weird expression on Geralt’s face.

“I ran into a branch while I was escaping on Lily.”

If she hadn’t had such a pitiful look on her face, I would have lost my shit then and there, laughing until I felt sick. But I managed to stifle it, if only to laugh about it later.

“What a special girl you are,” I said instead.

She turned away from me for a moment before telling me to shut up.

Geralt’s words startled me from my recounting of the events in my head.

“If you don’t tell her, I will. You’re ridiculous.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks, and quickly turned away from (Y/N)’s sleeping form.

“I’ll tell her. Just...not yet. When the time is right. She deserves to know, even if she doesn’t feel the same.”

His only response was a sigh. Then he laid down on the other side of the fire, facing away from me.

That was fine. I’ll be up a while, and I preferred it that way right now. Perhaps I’ll finish her song...

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adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy · 5 years ago

Text

“Forget what I said,

It’s not what I meant

And I can’t take it back

I can’t unpack the baggage you left.”

- Falling, Harry Styles

A/N: the long anticipated third installment of “that angsty threesome story.” this shit hurted y’all. that’s all i’m gonna say. hope you enjoy :)

Sharing Isn’t Always Caring masterlist

word count: 13k

content: A N G S T, drunk sad!harry, melancholic relationship flashbacks, and Niall being an amazing friend. oh and lots of pining pain

preview:

“Y/N, I am so sorry.”

He really didn’t know what to expect on her part but he was willing to take anything she deemed fit. Screaming, yelling, cursing— anything. Anything was better than the suffocating silence that had been hanging over his head for what had felt like eons.

What he didn’t expect was the energy he received in response. It wasn’t brutal or enraged or bitter, it was just…hollow. It was tired and defeated, as if she’d spent hours combing through her feelings to the point of surrendered exhaustion. She held no spite or resentment, just a tone of flatlined renunciation and honest common sense.

“I know.”

The answer was curt and calm and for some reason, it packed a harder punch than anything he could’ve imagined. He would have rathered she tell him off and shout in his face and even slam things; at least then he would know she was still sorting through the ordeal and trying to come up with a resolution.

But this was way more difficult to stomach. If she had no screaming or crying left in her, it meant she had already come to her senses on the matter. It meant he had no wiggle room, no chance to change her mind, no way to win her back. It was cold and condemning; it felt like a death sentence.

or Harry and Y/N breakup after the incident and the next two months are the worst either of them have ever known

///

Two months and thirteen days.

That’s how long Harry and Y/N have been broken up.

It’s poetically ironic, if you ask him, and he felt like the universe was playing a cruel game at his expense. Though it’s not like he didn’t deserve it.

The length of time that had passed was coincidentally parallel to how much time he had spent sitting on his couch that dreaded Saturday morning— which had been two hours and thirteen minutes— wringing his hands, boiling in his regret, and waiting for her to come out of their bedroom with a verdict on their relationship.

When Y/N had finally surfaced from her hiding spot, she had barely acknowledged him other than a few one-worded, snipped answers to his questions. She was headed out, she’d said, and that she would return later. Her path had been straight for the front door and the body language and aura she had displayed from the frame of their room door to the frame of the front door had been enough to clearly communicate a simple message: Don’t come after me.

He had followed her to the edge of the corridor that led to the exit, but he knew better than to chase her once she was out of the door. He remained put and watched her walk out without so much as a glance back.

She needed time, he had assured himself. Y/N needed a chance to cool off on her own and smothering her would do nothing but dig him further into the hole he was already neck-deep in.

In hindsight, Harry should have gone after her. Maybe it would’ve made a difference, or maybe it wouldn’t have at all, but all he’s aware of now is that he’d never know.

The minute she got back, a few hours later when the sun had just finished dipping over the stretch of forest that extended beyond the balcony of their apartment, he could immediately tell he had to prepare for the worst.

From the second Harry had met Y/N, he had always been able to read her. It’s something he prided himself in and something he always admired about the connection they shared— that it had been instant. It had been one of those rare pockets in life when he met someone and clicked with them automatically, so effortlessly that it was almost fictional. He’d always been a hopeless romantic and he had his mother and sister to thank for that; growing up with two women who constantly fed him stories about true love and the importance of emotions had molded his relationships down to the very core. And through that characteristic, which had been engraved within the man he had grown into, was how he and Y/N so easily came to be.

Harry had been able to read the nervous excitement she was wading through on their first date, watching her with fond amusement as she had contemplated the menu, trying to pass as nonchalant but being betrayed by the obvious cinch in her brows.

He had been able to read the first time she had wanted him to kiss her, eyes absorbing her features like the pages of a novel. He had picked up on the metaphors she depicted in the form of wine-swollen lips twitching with longing anticipation. He had picked up on the similes that translated into her slowly dilating pupils, the glittering specks of color that shimmered in the depths of her irises dancing with anxious enthusiasm as his face drew closer to her’s. He had picked up on the analogies that painted themselves onto the warm, supple skin of her cheeks as he cupped the side of her face with the palm of his large hand, fingers tucking lose strands of hair behind her ear as he thumbed over the faint smile lines chesiling themselves into existence along the edges of her mouth, her action thick with enamored awe.

He had been able to read just how taken Y/N was with him the first time they had slept together. It was certain in how she had clung to the bare, sweaty muscles of his shoulders as her nails clawed memories along the soft sides of his torso, her head dangling over the edge of the kitchen island to allow him the intimate comfort of pressing hot, wet moans to the searing skin of her throat. He had whined and shuddered as he’d spread her open over the cold marble surface, fogging it with the heat of their conjoined bodies, the air tinged with the scent of desperate sex and blurbs of orgasm-drunken praises that to this day he can feel burn his lungs. Barely coherent mumbles of “God, been needing you for the longest time now.” and “Fuck, you’re an absolute dream.” and he had even made himself susceptible to some of his deepest vulnerabilities, confessing how quickly and dangerously he was falling for her in a breathless little whimper of, “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Tiny zaps of invisible electricity had passed through her fingertips and into the flexing tendons of his back, revealing that she was just as scared and jittery and needy and absolutely whipped for him as he was for her. He had never been able to read her better than at that intense, emotion-packed moment, and he knows he’ll cherish that wordless instance of assurance for as long as he lives.

The only other occasion that competes is the first time Harry had known Y/N loved him. They had planned to go bar-hopping with their friends but, in a spur of laziness and utter disinterest, had decided to stay back. The night had been filled with board games and hot chocolate and half-burnt quesadillas because Harry had bought a new panini press that he didn’t quite yet know how to work. He knew she loved him when he beat her at CandyLand for the third time in a row and in a whirlwind of victory dancing, he had knocked the coffee table with his knee and ended up with cooled cocoa all over his striped pajama pants rather than in his belly.

He knew she loved him because she wasn’t upset that she’d have to help get the stain out and she wasn’t mad that he’d gotten marshmallow goo on the carpet and she wasn’t angry that his silliness had ended with her favorite vase rolling across the ground. All Y/N had been focused on was Harry and that ridiculous wide-toothed grin of his, her own lips nestling into an endeared smile as he giggled out of sheer shock at his ruined pants, clutching his stomach and throwing his head back against the couch cushions. Through teary, delight-blurred vision he saw her staring at him with this doe-like gaze, her eyes soft and glossier than he��d ever seen them, a tender laugh evident on her cheeks. Her eyebrows had been slightly furrowed with a type of disbelieving wonder at the utter moron she had chosen to share her heart with, but specifically at how she loved him all the more for it.

That’s when Harry had read that she loved him and she had confirmed it with words about ten minutes later as they both sat on their knees against the ground, scrubbing at the mess he’d made and sharing soft little snickers under their breath.

In the end, all of these milestone moments in their relationship had all funneled through his mind the minute Y/N had walked back into the living room on that forsaken day, hours later. They all sped past the inside of his eyelids every time he blinked, each one dissipating with each step she drew closer. She had stood before him as he sat forward tensely on the couch, forearms propped on his knees as he grasped his knuckles nervously, though they had stopped cracking ages ago.

It all flashed back to him like a film on fast-forward and it was because for the first time ever, he wasn’t able to read her face and it fucking terrified him.

Y/N’s eyes were the first factor that had given away the impending end. Even at the darkest of times, Harry could always count on Y/N’s eyes for support. They had always held a permanent admiring warmth towards him, even beneath clouds of rage or annoyance or worry. They had been empty that day.

Her lips had been etched into a emotionally-detached straight line, though the corners dipped down ever so slightly. Her eyebrows were void of any wrinkle, groove, or lifting that would suggest even a smidge of sensitivity and somehow her cheeks seemed more sunken in, as if the last couple of hours had aged her years.

Y/N had approached him with her hands cradling each other before her stomach, footsteps heavy against the carpeted ground, muffled yet somehow loud. She’d taken a seat before him on the glass coffee table, knees pressed together tightly and unintentionally brushing his as she settled her hands into the crease between her inner thighs, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of the world was using her back as shelf, the flyaway hairs that had fallen from her ponytail kissing along her jaw and caressing her temples almost apologetically, as if trying to comfort her for what was next.

Y/N hadn’t spoken a single word before Harry was already breaking down.

It wasn’t dramatic or spontaneous like the break-up scenes in the rom coms he often fancied; it was quiet and concise. The hot tears streamed down his cheekbones and followed the slope of his sharp jaw, squeezing out of his tear ducts and rolling along the bridge of his nose, itching the very tip, to which his instincts responded by spurring him into wiping away the water with the front of his shoulder.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look up at her out of self-hatred and shame— how could he be as selfish as to cry when everything that was about to unfold had been solely of his doing. He knew he didn’t deserve the best outcome, but he had hoped for it. Prayed that she could find it in her tattered heart to grace him with the option to rebuild what he had so recklessly torn down. He didn’t deserve it and he’d felt like he never would, but he had promised himself he would try and earn it if she gave him the chance.

But that was just the hopeless romantic in him flaring up again. Reality was sharper and much icier.

Harry had taken in a deep, trembling inhale, feeling it cut his lungs and tug at the pit of his stomach. He’d released it in stuttery spurts through his nose, back muscles contracting with dread. He found it in himself to uncoil one of his index fingers, gently grazing the curve of Y/N’s right knee with the bed of his nail.

She’d tensed up momentarily, toes curling into the rug below her feet, but didn’t shed him away. It was the first time he’d touched her since last night and though it made her feel sick to her stomach, she figured she’d allow it as a parting gift.

The air stood still for a few elongated seconds that seemed to drag out for an eternity. Finally, one of them spoke up.

“Y/N...” Harry had choked on the singular word, swallowing thickly in an attempt to recuperate.

The syllables seemed to lodge in his throat, outright refusing to emerge, likely due to the fact that he spent the day soundlessly moping to himself. He forced them out anyways in a low croak.

“Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“I know.”

Harry had cleared his throat softly, mind treading through his jumbled thoughts to try and sew together a worthy sentence, the pad of his forefinger tracing down the visible threads of Y/N’s worn jeans.

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

Though it’s the truth, it sounds feeble and pathetic. His words had then started tumbling out of his mouth with no rhyme or rhythm but simply in an attempt to communicate his rawest emotions.

“That’s not an excuse or anything, but I just want to make sure that you know. And if I knew all of this was going to happen, I would’ve never brought it up in the first place. You’re important to me— I hope that all the time we’ve spent together shows that— and to lose you over something like this…” Harry pauses, choking up at the sheer notion of having to let her go. He continues his speech slowly to avoid another mishap, though it quivers nonetheless. “To lose you over something that was so stupid on my part would tear me to shreds, Y/N. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. There’s nothing I can do now except apologize until my voice gives out and pray that you give me the chance to make it up to you. I know I don’t deserve it and I know that the damage I’ve done could be beyond repair, but I also know that I will spend every second trying to mend it if you allow me to. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you and I know we’re young and that it sounds dramatic and I’ve been told a billion times over that I love too deeply for my own good but I don’t care because I know it’s the truth. Without even the slightest bit of doubt.”

His words had echoed across the walls of the flat, the dim buttery light of the single lamp in the living room casting their seated shadows over the creme surfaces. The dark silhouettes of their bodies seemed to absorb his message, picking it right out of the air and engulfing it into the ominous shade.

All that could be heard was Y/N’s faint breathing as she processed his confession and the occasional sniffle on his part. The silence stretched for exactly two minutes and fourteen seconds— Harry had counted. A frail distraction, but a distraction either way.

A deep inhale had cut off his mental stopwatch and he could tell Y/N had cried recently before arriving because the air had to force itself through her stuffy nose. His index finger had twitched anxiously against her knee. He found himself counting again, this time the target had been the thin lines of the rug beneath the reinforced glass of the coffee table. He hadn't known it then, but his urge to count whatever he could to pass the time had been the start of what would later develop into a coping mechanism.

“I don’t know what to say.”

It had only been a day but Harry had missed the sound of her voice more than he’d ever care to admit. She was talking to him rather than at him and it was enough to halt the fresh flood of tears that had been gathering across the glossy sheen of his irises. It was a victory, no matter how small.

The sentence she spoke, however, was a whole new battle he had to face within itself.

The words hurt, but luckily, they didn’t cut. There were dozens of harsher possibilities of what could’ve come out of her mouth and that makes him thankful for what he’d received.

Harry had shifted in his seat, pulling the sleeve of his old Greenbay Packers sweatshirt over his free hand and tucking his arm across his stomach. His other hand remained on Y/N’s leg as non-intrusively as possible. “Is there anything you want to get out? Anything at all? I want to hear it no matter how bad you think it is. I deserve it as much as you deserve to express your feelings.”

He hadn’t noticed when, but at some point he had absentmindedly tilted his head up to look at her. What brought it into clear attention was when she did the same and their eyes met.

Y/N’s expression had crushed the oxygen from Harry’s lungs.

He had hoped it would be different after everything he had said. That her eyes would hold some form of love within them, even if it was shrouded with sadness and disappointment. He had aimed to draw an ounce of forgiveness from her that he could cling onto and expand; he had aimed for redemption.

Instead, her eyes held the same barren gaze that she had doted when she had walked in— vacant acceptance.

Her own speech had confirmed his worst fears.

“I don’t know if we have a future together. All I know is that right now, I feel like I could never forgive you for what you did. Watching you treat someone you barely knew the way you treat me made me feel like what we have isn’t real. Sex can be something both meaningless and meaningful and the lines between those two is finer than most people think. And even though I know in my heart that you’re telling the truth about not feeling anything towards her, I just can’t let it go. I can’t. I can’t get over the fact that you called her what you call me. That you kissed, touched, and held her the same way you do me. You made her feel the same way you make me feel. And the whole time, I was sitting there watching you do it, begging you not to and trying to communicate to you that you were crossing the line and you didn’t even notice.”

Y/N had lifted her hand from her lap, running the back of her wrist across her cheeks messily. Harry could see the tears sparkling on her lashes and he felt like his chest cavity was going to collapse in on itself.

When she had spoken again, her voice was tight and packed with all of the pain she’d been holding onto since the incident happened.

“You took all of the private little things that had built our relationship and shared them with someone else just to get your dick wet.” She releases a short spurt of a laugh, miserable and humorless, her palms smacking down against her thighs as she shrugs her shoulders for emphasis. “Intimacy is the most important factor of genuine love and you went and tossed it around like it was nothing. We’ll never be able to regain that; not in the way we had it before. I don’t know if I could ever trust you with it again. I shared myself with you because I love you— we opened up to each other in that way because we worked up to it. And now that you so carelessly let yourself have it with someone else, I’m too disappointed and hurt and fucking terrified to let you see me vulnerable like that again.”

Y/N had locked her eyes with Harry’s and his heart had shattered into a million shards.

They had been swollen and bloodshot, tiny red veins webbing across the dull white, scraping at her irises and relentlessly chipping the color from them. There was no twinkle left whatsoever; the specks that normally decorated around her pupils had completely defused, disappearing into the murky sea of the muted shade behind them.

“You broke my fucking heart, Harry, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to let you pick up the pieces.”

He had never heard her say his name like that, so dismal and void of emotion. He’d never felt more unworthy of love than at that moment and he knew there was nothing he could do to change her mind. He’d fucked up and now he had no choice but to marinate in it for the rest of his days.

The process of separating was painfully fast.

As it turns out, when she had left the morning after everything had happened, she had gone to visit Niall.

Niall had been the mutual friend that had introduced Harry and Y/N in the first place so, naturally, Y/N’s first instinct had been to seek his counsel. She had kept the details of the breakup to herself but from how distraught she had seemed when Niall had opened the door to his flat, his hair sticking up at weird angles and his eyes crusted over with sleep, he had known it was not on good terms. She had stood there with dried trails of tears staining her cheeks as her entire body shook like a leaf and the second he had opened his arms caringly, she immediately collapsed into them, violent sobs wracking her body unapologetically.

The Irish lad was as big-hearted and supportive as friends came and it was seen in how he offered her the spare room in his apartment that was normally occupied as a home gym.

“I haven’t had a roomie since I was twenty but as long as y’don’t leave your dirty underwear in the living room, I think we’ll get along just swell.”

With Niall’s help, Y/N had finished moving out by the end of that same week.

They did the brunt of the job while Harry was busy at work, though there was an awkward instance when he unexpectedly came home early on the last day of moving.

Luckily enough, Niall had been the one retrieving the last couple of items so Y/N was saved from the ordeal.

The two men had contemplated each other, Niall standing with the cardboard box tucked beneath his arm while Harry stood parallel to him stiffly, keys grasped tightly in his fist. Harry didn’t know how much Niall knew of what had happened, and he didn’t want to stick his foot in his mouth, so he had remained silent until the blue-eyed boy finally spoke up first.

“Mate, I don’t know what happened between you two or why, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this torn up before.”

Harry had sighed, partially in relief, but mostly in forlorn agreement at Niall’s comment. This was Y/N’s indirect way of telling him that the reason behind their breakup was meant to be kept a secret amongst their friend group. It was one last act of kindness towards him on her part because both of them knew that if word got out on what had happened, everyone would likely turn on Harry and shun him out. Y/N didn’t want that for him— despite everything, she found herself genuinely wishing him the best because she still loved him. A part of her always would, no matter how deeply she tried to bury it.

The last thing she needed was to cling onto bitterness and make him suffer; it would be counterproductive considering her end goal was to move on. The whole situation would stay hidden and hopefully everything would eventually blow over.

Avoiding each other proved trickier than expected in the beginning, but it gradually became routine amidst their everyday lives.

Y/N avoided grocery shopping at Harry’s favorite market and he proceeded to change the coffee shop he went to every morning before work, well aware that it was the one she fancied the most due to the specific brand of creamer they carried. Y/N insisted on the second closest movie theatre whenever she went out with her friends for a film, knowing that Harry liked the one closest to Niall’s apartment because it was smaller, more homey, and did free refills on popcorn and drinks. Harry started frequenting the gas station near the twenty-four hour gym instead of the one near Y/N’s place of work and started doing his early morning jogs at the park on the opposite side of town, which wasn’t too bad considering it was only about a ten minute drive. Y/N stopped going to art museums all together— they were mainly Harry’s thing, either way.

When it came down to their friends, they did the best they could. Whenever there would be a plan to go out for lunch, dinner, drinking, or any other event, they made sure to invite one and not the other, alternating turns. It kept the situation fair, though birthday parties were much more complicated. Staying on opposite ends of the club or flat would have to do.

No one ever questioned the breakup too thoroughly, thankfully. All Y/N told them was that it ended really badly and that what was best was that they stayed clear of each other. Harry stuck to whatever he learned Y/N had said, brushing off the occasional curiosity thrown his way with a tired, “I’d rather not talk about it, yeah?”

They were grateful to all of their friends for not pushing for details too much and respecting their privacy. Family members were harder to shake off, but both managed to keep things under wraps with the right amount of sternness.

///

Three weeks and four days had gone by, according to Harry’s calendar, and things were remaining seemingly civil. That is, until Harry had a bit too much to drink on the fifth day and ended up drunk calling Y/N as he sat on the floor of his kitchen, eating from what he was sure was an expired box of Cheerios while counting floor tiles and wondering why the fuck he even liked tequila in the first place.

The phone had rung three times and then the line abruptly cut off, sending Harry right to voicemail.

“Hey, this is Y/N! Sorry I couldn’t come to the phone right now, just leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible!”

His eyes had immediately begun to water as her voice crackled through the speaker of his phone. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d heard it and he hates that he had almost forgotten its gentle trill. The bright chime of her words were so different than the last time he’d heard her speak— her tone was easy and good-natured rather than dismal and hurt and he missed when she would regard him that way. Now, it was directed at a random person on the other end of her phone line who she might not even know and for some reason, that made his stomach twist.

The Cheerios had started to taste funny so he opened the cabinet across from his spot on the ground and chucked them in the bin. He had then leaned back against the wall of the kitchen island, head repeatedly thunking against the polished hardwood as he redialed her number and waited, tiny hiccups plucking at his vocal chords and shuddering his shoulders without consent.

This time, it had rang only once before cutting off, meaning that she knew it was him and that she was actively delicining.

But Harry’s stubborn and insistent— which admittedly are some of his worst traits— and the fact that he had been shit-faced had fueled these characteristics. He’d continued to call her another four times before the line was finally picked up.

His voice had filled with enamored relief as he quickly sat up, a weak smile starting to spread his cracked lips. “Y/N, hi, I—”

“Harry, you gotta cut this shit out, man.”

It wasn’t Y/N. The person speaking had a much deeper voice with a smooth, raspy undercurrent covered in a heavy Irish accent. Their tone held a stern yet concerned edge.

“This isn’t good for either of you. You’ve got to try and move on, H.”

It was Niall and he was on Y/N’s phone and Harry could feel himself about to vomit.

He had forced himself to speak, clutching his stomach with one hand as if it would keep the bile from rising. His words came out slurred and numb, tongue feeling heavy and unbelievably large in his mouth. “Where’s Y/N?”

“She’s asleep and you should be, too. It’s three in the morning.”

Harry’s brows had cinched down angrily over his lashes. Somehow, in his muddled brain, he was able to form a coherent train of thought about the current situation. If Y/N was asleep, that meant her phone had probably been on a nightstand beside her bed or splayed across her duvet or even on the floor considering she had a habit of twisting and turning too much. If Niall had picked it up, it meant he had to be in close proximity to her. It meant he had been in her room, possibly in her bed...

Harry’s throat burned as acid rose from his stomach.

“I wanna talk to—”

He was cut off by the alcohol he’d had earlier resurfacing and splattering across the off-white kitchen tiles he’d been counting.

The spluttering noises filtered through the phone crystal clear, much to his friend’s disgust.

“Jesus, Harry, just get yourself together, will you?” There’s a pause on the other end of the line and then Niall’s voice had come through again, gentler and less annoyed. “Do you need me to come over and help?”

“No.” Harry had blurted out with panic evident in his demeanor. He’d wiped at his soiled mouth with the sleeve of his black Nike jumper, staring hollowly as the mess before him traveled across the cracks of his floor. An all too familiar swelling had started to fill his tear ducts. “No, I’m fine. Goodnight.”

Apparently, it had been the third time he’d drunk-called in the span of two weeks, though he didn’t remember the first two times. He did remember this third time though— the stench stuck to his sweatshirt for a while.

///

The next month that followed that cursed Friday night had been significantly better for Harry.

He went out with friends and actually had fun more times than not, as long as he didn’t let his mind wander to what Y/N could be doing since she wasn’t with the group. Slowly but surely, he began to mend.

The movies had always been his and Y/N’s favorite date idea so the first couple of times he’d gone out to see a film after the breakup had been tough, but he’d powered through the rough patches. Their favored seats at the very back of the cinema had gradually just become exactly that— seats. He was eventually able to enter a theatre without even as much as a glance to the last row. When Harry would go out to eat, he relearned not to order in excess anymore since he wouldn’t be needing those extra fries or two extra beef tacos or those couple buffalo wings she used to pick at religiously. Going out for drinks was easier on his wallet now that he could drink both of the two-for-one Happy Hour shots, the only issue being that sometimes he’d forget and order the next round while he had a perfectly untouched whiskey shot right there. He had sworn off tequila— he could still feel the way it had seared his throat, somehow manifesting an aftertaste of honeyed cereal.

Niall usually went out with the rest of the gang, but not as much as he used to and that bothered Harry extremely— bothered him to the point where he’d get the overwhelming urge to tear his hair out if he allowed himself to amble in his head too much. He hated being the jealous type, especially when he was no longer entitled to it. Especially not when Niall was such a nice best friend, willingly present for him on the nights where things went downhill and he needed someone to pick him off the ground— literally— and tell him that he would be alright.

The days Niall missed out were spent with Y/N and it wasn’t a secret. Harry had heard about how much closer they’d gotten recently through conversations that would happen across the other side of the booth, when his friends thought he wasn’t paying attention or that he was too sloshed to be properly present. He wasn’t, though. He was hyper-aware of every anecdote and syllable exchanged and it would make his mouth go sour.

One night, he had drummed up enough courage to ask Niall outright about Y/N. They’d been out bowling and the Irish brunette had been standing off to the side waiting his turn, sipping on a pint and cackling his ass off every time Adam rolled the ball into the sideline gutters.

Harry had been standing next to him for a while, leaning back against the machine that redispensed the bowling balls, taking tiny gulps of his third white rum margarita. The liquor filled his tummy with a certain type of empty warmth that numbed his better judgement and before he could talk himself out of it, the words were escaping his lips in a low, sheepish tone.

“How’s Y/N?”

Niall had paused mid-sip, his entire body going rigid for a second as he kept the rim of his large glass perched at his lips. He had then pulled back from his beer, licking the froth off his Cupid’s Bow and craning his neck to acknowledge the green-eyed boy directly.

“She’s doin’ good. Treading through the bills and tryin’ t’fill the rest with thrills, like we all do.”

Despite the light nature of his response, Niall’s accent had been heavier and Harry’s not sure if it was due to the alcohol or the tension-packed subject of conversation. Probably both.

Harry had nodded his head slowly— casually— and taken an ice cube into his mouth, cracking it with his teeth in the way Y/N used to scold him for. He had stared intently at the condensation gathering around the tips of his warm fingers for a few heartbeats before looking back up at Niall with aching curiosity.

“Is she happy?”

The Irish bloke had opened his mouth to answer, and then hesitated, thinking over what he had been about to say. That teeny fraction of time filled Harry with enough nerve-grating suspense to that he was sure he’d pop a blood vessel.

Niall had cleared his throat softly, sighing tiredly through his nose. “She’s better than she was right after the split.”

Harry hates that Y/N’s doing better. He knows how petty and selfish it comes off, but he can’t help it. If she’s doing better without him, it means she might never need him again— it means he’s replaceable to her. He can hardly fathom that thought without the backs of his eyes prickling.

Harry had swallowed thickly, nose stinging and jaw clenching. “Is she seeing anyone?”

Niall tilted his cup against his mouth, savoring the tanginess of the beer, grateful for its help in making this talk way easier. He’d given Harry a sympathetic slink of his head. “I don’t think that’s the type of question you should be asking, Har. One day, you might not like the answer you get.”

Harry’s fingers had tightened around the stout cylindrical glass in his grasp, rings biting into his skin. His voice came out strained but unwavering. “Is she?”

His friend’s blue eyes had flitted across different points of his face, sussing out Harry’s attitude and whether he could be convinced to back down on this specific topic.

When it was obvious he wouldn’t budge, Niall sighed heavily once again, this time through his lips. “She’s not, no.”

Harry can’t quite place a name to the flood of emotions that had crashed into him like a tidal wave. The closest he can relate the experience to is breaking the surface of an ocean of suffocating uninformed doubt, instead filling his lungs with illogical optimism and stunned relief.

There was hope for them, even if the sliver was fine as a hair.

Harry had found himself drawing closer to Niall, eyes doe-like and pleading, the neon lights of the bowling alley washing his face out with bright purples and drunken blues. “I wanna see her.”

“You can’t.” The objection had been quick and authoritative, causing Harry to blink as if he’d just been smacked between the eyes.

“Why?” It was a stupid question— he knew why. It wouldn’t be healthy for either of them.

“Because you’re only going to set yourself back. And even though you might not be thinking of the consequences it could have, I am, and I’m not going to let you hurt her or yourself more than you already have.”

And that’s when Harry realized that Niall knew. He’d heard the whole story.

The guilt-ridden young man had broken eye contact, looking down at his scuffed heeled boots. “You know.”

“She told me a while back.” Niall’s confirmation had hung across Harry’s shoulders like a lead jacket. “You fucked up, mate. Bad.”

A weak, remorseful, “I know.” was all he could muster.

“She knows you didn’t mean it, but I don’t know if you can come back from this, H.”

Harry repeated his previous phrase, but this time, it had been heavy with a form of undignified recognition. He was slowly coming to terms with the crushing possibility that he might never get her back.

He’d downed the last of his drink, feeling it reluctantly settle into his stomach. He had then locked gazes with Niall once again, his own conflicted and needy, which in turn caused his friend’s to mold into one of deep worry and pity.

“Will you just...Will you tell her that I love her so much. That I love her to the point where it’s pathetic. And that I’m so fucking sorry. That a day doesn’t go by when I don’t think of her and that I’d give fucking anything to earn her trust again...And that I found her Sherpa jumper under the bed and washed it in case she wants it back.”

Niall had snorted lightly, shaking his head in amusement at Harry’s ability to be so unintentionally pure even under the most stressful circumstances. He’d tossed an arm across the jade-eyed boy’s loaded shoulders, pulling him into a hug that was very obviously needed.

The reluctance had melted out of Harry in less than a breath, his arms wrapping around Niall’s torso, face pressing into the shorter man’s broad left shoulder. The tears he was holding back were evident in his quaking voice. “I miss her.”

Niall had remained silent for a while, not wanting to push any more boundaries.

He had made due with running his palm across the expanse of Harry’s back in soothing circles, only speaking up when he felt his mate’s tears seeping into his knitted sweater.

“You’re gonna be okay, yeah? You’re gonna get through this.”

Niall wasn’t entirely sure if his words were the truth. All he knew was that he wanted to be there for his best friend, so he comforted him to the best of his ability and prayed that whatever happened in the couple’s future would bring them closure.

Harry had gotten home that night feeling deflated and more regretful than ever. The emotional exhaustion had fused into his muscles and joints and he’d ended up collapsing on the couch, too depleted to take the walk down the corridor that led to his bedroom.

His sleep was restless and worthless, as it tended to be of late, but it beat having to sulk consciously. The pain was less sharp and his sorrows were covered in a hazy fog that somehow made everything bearable. He slept well into the afternoon and awoke with a mean kink in his neck and a dull thumping in the back of his skull— karma, obviously, for his lack of self-care and shitty drinking habits. Nothing coffee couldn’t fix.

///

As it turns out, Niall had struggled some to pass on Harry’s message to the intended party.

Y/N had been sitting on the couch when he’d gotten home from the bowling alley, snuggled cozily in a Friends blanket Niall had gotten last Christmas in a game of White Elephant. She had been so focused on an episode of Master Chef that she hadn’t even heard him unlock the door.

Y/N had momentarily glanced away from her show when she saw Niall enter the living room through her peripheral vision, watching as he toed off his rusty brown Clarks boots, kicking them into the corner beside the television stand. “How was bowling?”

“It was good! Mitch beat me by two points but, frankly, I think he cheated while I went to refill my pint.”

Y/N had scoffed in amusement, taking a sip of the chamomile tea in her Mickey Mouse mug, shaking her head distractedly. “Can you even cheat in bowling?”

Niall had shrugged his navy blue peacoat of his shoulders, draping it over the backrest of the worn recliner that was perpendicular to the couch she was currently inhabiting. He’d arched his eyebrows challengingly. “Obviously there has to be a way ‘cause I never lose. And especially never to Mitch and his shitty hand-eye coordination.”

Y/N had set down her mug in the small hole created by her crossed legs, the warmth of the drink radiating through the ceramic cup and seeping through her cloud-patterned pajama pants, heating her inner thighs soothingly. Her expression had then matched up to his, brows raised tauntingly. “Or maybe you were just off your game.”

Niall had slumped into the old recliner, sighing heavily as it creaked and extended. The Irish bloke had snuggled deeper into the cushioning of the seat, absentmindedly wiggling his toes in their rainbow polka-dotted socks before giving his housemate a pointed look. “Maybe you should shut up and go back to watching random people make squash noodles.”

“Actually, it’s eggplant ravioli.”

“Actually, that sounds like arse.”

A round of bubbly laughter had belted out of Y/N and it had been contagious, the same type of giggling escaping from Niall’s lips. Then, comfortable silence had fallen over the two as they centered their attention back onto the cooking show.

Niall hadn’t been sure how to approach the topic. There was no real proper segway into conversations about exes— he didn’t want to upset Y/N with the sudden intrusion on her healing process. But he had made a promise to Harry.

Aside from the obvious negative factors, mentioning him would also give Niall insight into how she was currently feeling about the entire situation. He’d be able to accurately gauge what her emotions had resolved on the matter and therefore be able to give Harry a solid response on whether he had any chance left for reconciliation. He’d be able to confidently tell him whether hanging on was worth it or if letting go was the best choice.

Though Niall and Y/N had been living together for almost two months, she hadn’t started opening up to him fully about the breakup until three weeks in. And even with the whole story laid out bare for him to examine, Y/N shared very little of her mending path with him until they were five weeks in. For a while, her version of “opening up” was simply telling him what had occurred and he’d had to fill in the rest of the mental and emotional blanks himself.

It had not been hard to come to the conclusion that she had been feeling like utter shit right after it happened— insecurity was awfully present as well as the haunting weight of thinking she wasn’t enough. Though Harry had put those worries to rest the day they had separated, they still lingered in her subconscious, constantly poking and prodding and picking at the membrane of recovery she had developed around her heart.

Y/N had felt numb for days after she had ended things. Boiling anger had created a buffer for the pain that was dwelling just under the surface and it had powered her for about three weeks. Then, at four in the morning on a random Thursday, her real emotions had burst through the fine cracks that had been webbing themselves into that unstable wall of rage.

She’d had a dream about him that was actually a memory. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the scene as it had been one of many alike— they had been cuddling on the couch. But for some reason, it cracked something inside her.

It had been scarily vivid to the point where she could feel the ridges of Harry’s finger pads tenderly passing over the skin of her exposed arm as she had laid between his legs, her head nestled into his strong chest, ear drums thumping with the sound of his relaxed heartbeat. She could feel his breathing, pectoral muscles rising and falling with penetrating inhales that had fallen into rhythm with her own. There had been faint movement above her and a sudden warmth had erupted across her forehead, his lips flushing caringly between her brows. The heated glow had washed down her temples and nose like syrup, vignetting her mind with a feathery, sleepy haze. It dripped over her tingling cheeks and buzzing ears, running down her neck and infusing into her chest, calming her from the inside out. He had whispered something unintelligible against her skin, his deep voice warbled as if he was talking underwater. Though she couldn’t make out what he was saying, the mellow, pleasant tone of his voice was enough to lull her. She had never felt happier, more fulfilled, and more at peace than at that moment.

Harry had always been the one factor that could drown out the static of her troubles with the simplest caress of his touch. He could make any problem sink away just by cupping her jaw and thumbing over her cheekbones. Could make the end of the world creak to a stop just by knitting his mouth to her’s. Could melt away any obstacle by brushing his palm over the dip of her spine. He had always been there, and at the time, it had felt like he always would be. Through that assured remedy of relief, she had been able to live her life one step at a time, bracing even the worst moments with a clear mind and strengthened energy, all because he stood behind her— with his warm hands and consoling aura— every inch of the way.

Y/N didn’t have that anymore and though she pushed it down and claimed it didn’t phase her, she was falling apart inside.

It was only a matter of time before it came rushing out all at once.

She had jerked awake from the dream as if she’d been stabbed, face wet with tears, her pillowcase dampened to the point where she would have to replace it. The breakdown that followed hadn’t included any screaming or slamming or stomping; it had been quiet and concise, much like Harry’s on the day she had left.

She’d laid on her side, wrapping her arms around herself and tucking her knees to her chest, drawing into her body as if it could keep all of her feelings from spilling out. Heavy tears had swelled her already bloodshot eyes, her entire face stinging as fresh sheens of water washed down the dried saltiness of the ones prior. Her nose had run so badly she’d had to resort to using an old t-shirt as a tissue. The sounds that had escaped her were low and broken— cracked, stuttery whimpers with no real words behind them. The noises were just another outlet for the aching to seep out; her eyes just weren’t enough.

Her back had hunched over as she constricted into herself even further, burying her face into her sopping pillow, feeling hot tears soak into the saturated fabric. She could barely breathe that way and it helped calm her down some— no air meant no sobbing. No sobbing meant she was on the way to picking the pieces back up to put herself together again.

It took her awhile to come to her bearings. Her body had stopped shaking but the tears didn’t seem to want to go away. It irritated her that she couldn’t control this— she hated not being able to do anything other than just drown in it.

Without meaning to, she had released a gut-wrenching growl of frustration that tapered off into another round of heart-breaking sobbing. Her stomach throbbed, the pain so deep it was almost palpable.

Y/N had hoped the pillow would muffle it enough not to wake Niall, unaware that he was already up. He’d awoken on his own, making a trip to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. He’d been sipping at it slowly, mind still stuck in a meaningless dream, when the sudden noise had echoed down the hall that led to Y/N’s room.

Niall rubbed at his tired eyes with the palms of his hands, irises grey with sleep. He had blinked a few times, downing the rest of his water and setting the glass down carefully onto the marble counter, trying to limit any sound interference as his ears strained to listen for any more crying. He had wanted to make sure he wasn’t imagining it in a half-unconscious stupor.

But no, it was very much real. If he focused enough, he could just barely hear the soft sobbing coming from his friend’s bedroom. He had a good guess on what it was about.

He’d stood still for a moment, mulling over what he should do. His first instinct had been to go in and comfort her, but with more thought, he wondered if it would be better not to meddle in her grieving out of respect for her privacy. He knows that if he were crying over a bad breakup, he’d want to be left alone. But he also knows that shouldering a burden like the one she’d faced could put anyone in a really dark place; he wasn’t just going to stand around and let her crash and burn.

Niall had wandered down the corridor attentively, footsteps light as to not startle Y/N. He’d turned to knob to the door with immense care, pushing it open with his shoulder and peeking in.

The crying had stopped abruptly, which gave away that she knew he was there. He couldn’t see much in the dark room— the moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the curtains didn’t do much for the fact that he was lacking his glasses— but he could see the silhouette of Y/N’s body curled up under the duvet, trembling ever so slightly with the effort of keeping in her sobbing.

Her housemate had cleared his throat to get rid of the gravel in his dormant voice, as well as to fully alert her of his presence. His words had still come out in a raspy croak, but at least they were understandable. “You alright in here?”

Y/N had sniffled feverishly, desperate to put out a collected facade. She hated when people saw her so vulnerable without her anticipating it.

“Y-Yeah, I’m good. Thanks for checking in.”

Her voice had cracked near the end of her response, giving away that she wasn’t good at all. The air had been silent for a moment, then Niall’s muddled footsteps thudded against the thick carpet.

Y/N could feel him standing behind her, his body heat radiating off him like a furnace, the soft scent of his ocean-scented deodorant tickling her itching nose. “Are you sure?”

There had been no response other than the comforter tightening around her frame. Her hair was splayed across her face in a wild, matted mess, keeping him from being able to read her features.

Niall had sighed heavily and then the bed had dipped with his weight, sheets shifting and springs squeaking as he settled into place beside her, swinging his legs up onto the mattress.

More silence followed, Y/N refusing to budge. She hadn’t wanted to drag him into this considering he was still friends with Harry; she didn’t want to split him down the middle or force him to take care of her alongside her ex. She knew Niall too well, certain that he had been offering help to Harry, too. She’d heard him answer the array of drunken phone calls on her behalf so she wouldn’t have to deal with more trauma. She’d heard him leaving the house at unintelligible hours only to return smelling like Harry’s favorite vanilla cinnamon candle. She’d even found one of Harry’s t-shirts (which she had gotten him herself) in the laundry basket, which had probably been lent to Niall after an alcohol-related accident.

Niall was too kind for his own good— too caring. Y/N had learned a lot about him in the time they had lived together and the one characteristic that stood out more than anything was his savior complex— his default setting to provide love and assurance to anyone that needed it, no matter the stress it put on himself. She didn’t want to take unfair advantage of that.

Her friend’s voice had torn her out of her guilt trip, loaded with adamant concern. “Y/N, I’m not leaving this room until I know you’re genuinely better so stop being stubborn and let me help.”

She’d jerked suddenly when she felt his large hand coast up her back. His touch was gentle and nurturing, squeezing her shoulder expectantly. It wasn’t hard for her to let go into him.

Y/N had turned towards Niall, hand ducking out from beneath the duvet cocoon she’d swaddled herself in, moving her hair out of her splotchy face. Their eyes had locked and she’d immediately felt the remaining anguish flush out of her system.

The look on his face was so kind and protective and it made her feel safer than she had in the last couple of weeks. Even in the limited lighting, she could see his eyes were glossy with the genuine desire to help her heal, inviting her to share her problems with him, silently promising that they could shoulder the weight of it together. She didn’t have to fight this on her own.

Y/N had spent the rest of the night in Niall’s arms, crying into his chest and utterly drenching his Eagles t-shirt, though he didn’t complain once. He had kept his lips pressed to the top of her head, running his warm palm up and down her shuddering back and telling her that she shouldn’t bottle up her feelings— that it didn’t make her weak to show them, that openly sorting through them with someone else would make it less scary, and most importantly, that it was “okay not to be okay all the time.”

For the next month or so, Y/N and Niall’s heart-to-hearts had been a real breakthrough for her. All of her undealt fear and self-doubt no longer badgered her anymore— it was almost all gone. She hadn’t felt this emotionally liberated since before the split and she could feel the shards of her heart welding themselves back together, ushering her into a more healthy, serene state of mind. She was on the road to her old self again and the relief it brought was otherworldly.

It could be seen physically, too. The bags under her eyes had faded and her face carried a certain rejuvenated glow that it had lacked for weeks. Her smile and laughter were buoyant and loud again, not hindered by any inner conflict anymore whatsoever. When she went out with her friends, she didn’t find herself mentally checking out in the middle of conversations or movies or drinks like she had plenty of times before. She actively participated and engaged in events instead of just going through the motions and it felt so fucking good to get a taste of actual joy for the first time in so long. Things were looking up, and though she still had that hole in her chest that only Harry could fill, she was learning to deal with it in a beneficial and independent manner. It was okay not to be okay all the time.

///

All of these instances had scattered across Niall’s eyes, whirling around in his skull as he sat back in the old recliner, trying to decide if he should pass on Harry’s bowling alley message onto Y/N. He knew she was doing way better, but he didn’t know if hearing from Harry would break her all over again. He didn’t want that, but he also didn’t want the sheer sound of his name to send her into a self-destructive spiral for the rest of her life— she had to learn to cope with him being mentioned regularly because it was bound to start happening again. People couldn’t walk on eggshells around both of them forever.

And Niall also needed to know where she stood on her relationship to the British boy— whether she was willing to give it another shot or whether it was best to tell Harry to move on completely. They were adults, after all, so questions needed to be answered and ties needed to be either tightened or severed for good.

“Harry was there.”

“I know, Niall. That’s the reason I wasn’t.”

Her tone had taken him by surprise. It had been jokeful and amused, holding no obvious resentment he could detect. It’d been a good start to the Ex Talk, if Niall had ever seen one, as long as it didn’t turn into her using humor as a deflecting mechanism.

“He asked about you.”

Y/N’s hands had tightened around her mug, crossed legs shifting her weight. She had broken away from the television screen, meeting Niall’s cautiously hesitant gaze. Her eyes had held an emotion that he couldn’t quite place— it was mostly blank, but it held a smidge of something he could only think to refer to as pained curiosity.

When she’d spoken again, it had been soft and fragile. “What’d he say?”

Niall had leaned forward in his seat, elbows propping onto his parted knees as his fingers sifted together, chin resting on his knuckles. His voice had been as cautious and hesitant as the look in his sky blue irises. “He said to tell you that he misses you and that he’s terribly sorry. That he’d do anything to earn your trust again, that a day doesn’t go by that he doesn’t think about you, and that he loves you so much ‘to the point where it’s pathetic.’ His exact words.”

Y/N had been quiet for a while afterward, the TV droning on in the background with chefs running around kitchens, cursing about food burning and incorrect ingredients. Niall hadn’t pushed her on an answer; he’d simply sat back with his hands flat across his belly, allowing her all the time she needed to process the speech.

When she finally spoke up again, her voice had been taut, strained by the heaviness of the message she’d received. “Anything else?”

Niall had intentionally left the lightest part of the conversation for the end, hoping it would provide her with some form of ease, as minimal as it would be. “Yeah, he said you left your Sherpa jumper at his place and was wondering if you wanted it back. If I were you, I’d say yes. Fleece sweaters are fuck-you-in-the-arse expensive.”

His comment had the intended affect, his heart fluttering with relief as he watched Y/N’s face break into a huge grin, eyes crinkling as airy laughter bounced all around her. Some of the tension in her body remained, but most of it had dissipated out. A fraction is better than none.

Y/N had managed to talk through her giggles. “Yeah, I think I would like my sweater back, actually.”

“Great!” Niall had clapped his hands together once, head wobbling in a jerky shake for silly emphasis. He’d pushed his palms against the armrests of the recliner, catapulting himself onto his feet and pointing at Y/N playfully. “I’ll get that sorted for you, then. Now, if you need me, I’m gonna be in my room, passed out on my bed for the next twelve hours, neck-deep in a beer coma. Feel free to check if I’m breathing every now and then, yeah? Got a dentist appointment next week that I’d hate to be dead for.”

Y/N had sat on Harry’s words for the next week or so. They hadn’t spurred her into a meltdown (as she’s sure Niall had worried they would), but they did loiter in the back of her mind, keeping her awake past appropriate hours by playing her heart strings like a violin.

There was one part of the message specifically that took up a chunk of her sleep more than the others, scattering inside her head and running along the crevices of her brain, the meaning behind it stirring the pit of her stomach into a hollowed frenzy: I love you so much to the point where it’s pathetic.

That one measly sentence carried so much baggage to unpack.

Harry’s choice of words were transparent on how he was dealing in the aftermath of the split.

Y/N knew how much of a hopeless romantic he was— it had been obvious in the way he had put her on a pedestal for the entirety of their relationship, constantly showering her with all different types of affection to let her know how much he cherished her. It ranged from the simplest gestures— like keeping her favorite chocolates stocked inside the pantry at all times— to extravagant actions— like randomly buying her an expensive necklace she’d stared at for a bit too long at the mall. He was always aware of her, always going out of his way to show her how much he loved her, and she had never felt more appreciated than when she was with him.

When it came to expressing that love verbally, Harry only ever connected it to words that carried positive connotations. Words like, “truly,” “madly,” “deeply,” “immensely,” “entirely,” and “wholeheartedly.” He wanted her to know that when he thought of her, any negativity was immediately expelled from his mind; she could always make him happy, no matter what.

This being taken into consideration, one can understand why Y/N had been utterly baffled when Niall had told her that he’d referred to his love for her as “pathetic.” It gave her insight into just how hard he was taking the breakup— hard enough to the point where he was so desperate to get her back that he felt pathetic. This told her that he loved her so much he was willing to admit that it was sad and pitiful, especially since he was a grown man, and especially because they’d been split for just over two months. That span of time is long enough for a person to at least start moving on; long enough for someone to sever themselves from that stage of hopelessly clinging to what once was and to look forward to what the future could bring.

But instead, Harry had allowed himself to regress back into a lapse of needy pining, pleading with Niall— and in public, no less— to tell her that he missed her so much it was embarrassing; that he cared for her to the extent that it was humiliating; that he loved her to the point where it was miserable. He wanted her to know that what he had done had been tearing at him nonstop since it happened, that it would likely haunt him for years to come, and that he would never forgive himself for it.

All of these confessions weren’t any different than what he had told her the day they had broken up— they were the same bullets he’d hit when he was sitting before her, teary-eyed and distressed, begging her to give him another chance. However, for a reason unbeknownst to her, they penetrated deeper this time, slamming her square in the chest like someone had punched through her ribs, squeezing her heart with their fist.

Maybe it was the fact that she had finally let go of the splintering anger she’d been clutching onto from that day, which had likely blinded her from absorbing the rawness behind Harry’s apology. Maybe it was that she’d had weeks to work through all of her jumbled emotions, finally untangling herself from the bitterness that had been clouding her mind for what felt like ages. Maybe it was just the simple notion that she fucking missed him— missed him more than her pride would ever let her admit.

Missed the way his nose would scrunch up in distaste when he didn’t agree with something, the way the edges of his eyes would wrinkle when he smiled, missed his boyish giggling and how it would go up in pitch when he laughed too hard. She missed the way his dimples would carve into his cheeks when he smirked, the way the little mole under the left corner of his lips would jolt with the slightest motion of his mouth, and the way his large, warm hands would feel as he would knot their fingers together, his thumb caressing over the tops of her knuckles.

Y/N missed the way her head would sink into his chest when she would hug him, his arms cradling her against his body while he played with the ends of her hair. She missed the small group of freckles at the base of his neck— missed tracing them with her lips while he chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into spontaneous giggles at the feathery sensation. She missed the way he smelled, like mandarin shampoo and musky, spiced deodorant and his ocean salt cologne and that stupid fucking candle.

Y/N had remained on the fence for a few days about what to do, mentally jotting down the pros and cons of reaching out to Harry to make amends. The defining moment had been the day she’d gotten her sweater back.

///

Niall had gone out with Harry to see a movie, returning home with the Sherpa jumper hung across one of his forearms, tucked into his elbow. He’d held it out for her between his thumbs and index fingers, flapping it back and forth triumphantly, eyebrows arched with dramatic glee as a huge goofy grin buckled his cheeks. “Look at what we have here, then!”

He’d tossed it towards her on his way to the kitchen, belting out a cocky, “You’re welcome!” over his shoulder before disappearing behind the archway.

The minute Y/N had caught the hoodie in her arms, the scent hit her like a bus. It invaded her nostrils without permission, sending a sharp ache through her chest.

It was perfectly faint since Harry’s smell never tended to be overpowering— he had a very light hand when it came to cologne, well aware that too much could be agitating. That being said, the brand he used was potent even when dispensed in small amounts, so it’s salty sea aroma usually lasted through a couple of washes. He had probably nonchalantly chucked the jumper into the laundry with his clothes, which had resulted in the smell being strung through every single thread of the fabric.

Beneath the initial layer of his cologne laid the softer scent of the vanilla cinnamon candle that she knew too well. It was tender and homey, just the right ratio of sugar and spice, its cozy undercurrent enveloping her in familiarity.

It launched her into a round of fleeting flashbacks.

The fractions in time consisted of a winter day spent snuggled on the sofa under thick blankets, half-empty mugs of hot cocoa discarded on the coffee table and a Netflix show drawling on aimlessly in the background. Not a single soul had paid attention to the screen; Y/N was too busy straddling Harry’s lap, planting wet, sloppy kisses down his throat as he dangled his head over the side of the armrest, hands gripping her hips needily as she rocked against the bulge in his sweatpants, a dreamy, pleasure-drunken smile adorning his swollen lips. Low hisses and weak whimpers had resonated from deep in his chest, rolling off his tongue as his mouth had absentmindedly fallen open at the warmth growing between her thighs. Her fingers had twisted into the loose curls along the back of his skull while she’d gasped his name all breathy and whiney along the underside of his jaw, working herself against him at a desperate pace, his palms trailing underneath her pajama bottoms to grope at her ass.

Harry’s voice had been distant and echoey in the memory, but it made her cheeks sizzle nonetheless. “God, I love you so fucking much. Could spend the rest of my life between your thighs...Could spend the rest of it anywhere as long as it’s with you.”

Another flashback had shuffled forward like a deck of cards. This one was of a foggy, rainy evening spent napping soundly in their bed, limbs tangled messily with their bodies half-naked, her heated lips pressed to the lulled pulse that throbbed beneath Harry’s flushed neck. His hand had been petting over her mussed up hair, mouth pressed lovingly to the ridges between her brows, smoothing them out in order to defuse whatever was troubling her in her dreams.

She’d awoken, her eyelids heavy with the remnants of sleep, her mind partially conscious as she had taken in a long inhale, blowing it out through her nose. Harry had run the pad of his thumb over her lashes gently, helping her get rid of the blurriness that had taken her under. She had blinked up at him drowsily, a watery smile spreading her buzzing lips. Harry hadn’t said a single word and he didn’t have to— he’d just stared down at her over the tops of his lightly colored cheeks, the right edge of his mouth flicking upwards in endearment, his bright jade irises glossy with fondness. He didn’t have to say a single word because his expression silently told her everything she needed to know.

Y/N had snapped out of the memories in the blink of an eye, a sudden tickling sensation bristling down her cheeks. She’d reached up to touch her face in confusion, the tips of her fingers coming back wet, the water glinting cruelly under the dim lighting of the living room. Her brows had furrowed in objection, both at her tears and at being so abruptly yanked out of moments in her life when she had been the happiest. Her body reacted out of instinct, desperately searching for a trace of him to clasp onto, her hands fumbling to bring the flouncy material of the sweater to her nose.

She’d taken a saturated breath in, the pleasant odor hugging her trembling frame and kissing her heart. The tears had then started flowing freely across her waterline and down the bridge of her nose. They had seeped into the fleece hoodie and she’d immediately jerked back from it, not wanting the treasured item to suffer the same fate as most of her pillowcases. She didn’t want to do anything that would make her have to wash it— she refused to let the comforting aroma leave her.

Y/N spent the next three days in that jumper, only taking it off to shower. She wore it religiously, taking it to work, to the superstore when she went grocery shopping with Niall, to lunch with a friend, to a doctor's appointment she barely paid attention to, and even to bed. In the span of seventy-two hours, she had developed an addiction to the scent that was woven into the fluffy article of clothing, needing to have it around her at all times in order to function properly.

It was sad, really. It was just a smell and she knew it would eventually fade away, but she just couldn’t help herself from wanting to be wrapped in it every second of the day. It reminded her of a time in her life when everything seemed flawless— where there wasn’t a gaping hole in the center of her chest that could only be filled by the one person who had accidentally hurt her beyond compare.

Y/N couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand the flood of memories that the stupid hoodie had fished out from the corner of her subconscious, where she had shoved them with the intent of never looking back. They loitered her dreams, broadcasting over the inside of her eyelids for hours on end, dissolving away when her alarm blared beside her ear, leaving her with a hollow feeling toiling at the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know how long she could deal with it, but her sanity was starting to wear thin, cautioning her that she had to do something or else she’d go absolutely mad.

On the night of the fourth day, Y/N finally cracked.

///

Two months and thirteen days.

That’s how long Harry and Y/N have been broken up.

It is currently 11:43 PM, meaning that in a meer seventeen minutes, it would be two months and fourteen days since the split.

Harry is laying in bed, as far away from his digital clock as possible, watching a random Christmas movie that Netflix had recommended, one hand buried in a bowl of kettle corn that he’d already refilled twice as the other holds his phone an acceptable distance above his face.

The movie is cliche, if he’s being honest; something about Santa Claus dying and passing on the torch to his dead-beat son that didn’t want it, so it ended up going to his overly-perky younger sister instead. The twist was supposed to be that a woman had never been Santa Claus, but he could see that ending coming from a mile away, what with her natural ability to get along with kids and the fact that she dressed like a literal Elf on the Shelf. It’s heart-warming in the way that all Christmas films are and it had the witty humor one would expect it to, alongside a cute furry animal sidekick that people couldn’t help falling in love with.

But it just didn’t really impress him. The message is sweet, the execution could’ve been better.

Yet, he only deemed it fair that he finish the movie. He’s already three-fourths of the way done and though the intended surprise was obvious, he might as well see it through.

In the middle of the climax scene where the young woman was putting on the Santa suit for the first time, his phone dings with a chime he hadn’t heard in too long— two months, thirteen days, twenty-three hours, and forty-four minutes, to be exact.

Harry had been so startled he’d dropped his phone on his face.

“Ow! Fucking hell!”

He sits up in one quick, stiff motion, the hand knuckle-deep in the popcorn bowl flying up and knocking the dish upside down, the sticky kernels rolling across his disheveled duvet. The sleek black device falls into his lap, nose pulsing in pain as it had taken most of the heat, his caramel-coated hand rubbing messily along his flannel pajama pants to try and get rid of the stickiness. He then pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger to stifle some of the stinging, bumbling to get his smartphone into the palm of his clean hand.

The screen lights up with a text message and Harry blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it in some type of pain-induced hallucination.

But no, the message is very much real and it’s authenticity sends him into a dull stupor for a minute. He comes back to when the phone vibrates with another ring, alerting him for the second and last time that the person he wanted to talk to the most had actually reached out to him; it was in his best interest not to keep her waiting.

Y/N: Hey, are you free to talk tomorrow?

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