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mickeys-malarkey · 1 year

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BATDR Analysis/Post-Playthrough Theory Revision Pt. 2/4!

Fair Warning: Lots of spoilers and some pretty gruesome topics ahead (this game definitely lived up to the “scarier than BATIM” promise, wow)!

The unexpected key to understanding how the stories of BATDR, TLO, TIOL, and even DCTL intertwine: “The Mug and the Maiden: Vol. 1 by Sir Wilton Moore”

(This is my absolute favorite part, it made Wilson one of my favorite characters in the entire series~! 💕)

Let's just get this outta the way, “Wilton” is literally only one letter away from “Wilson,” this thing was definitely written by some version of him. Now, I'm sure most people skipped over this thing like my brother did, it's very long and seems borderline nonsensical at first. But I think it's much more important than it seems on the surface; not just comedic relief to break up your horror adventure or meaningless flavor text to fill out the world, but in fact a “twisted riddle that reveals more than meets the eye,” as Wilson's character bio says. Here's some screenshots, if you wanna read the story in full (described in alt text like everything else, if you can't make it out):

When I first read this, it struck me (when I wasn't busting a gut laughing) that several descriptions sounded very similar to characters in the Bendy games and books (and that there's a lot of returning repeated themes, like people going by two different names). The mouse who went to find cheese in the governor's basement, got crushed by the false wall, and eventually only briefly had the fact his wife worried when he didn't come home mentioned (also who apparently decayed much faster than he should've, his body practically reduced to nothing by sundown) sounded like Brant from TLO following Bill and Constance into the factory's secret moonshine basement hoping to get a scoop, getting crushed by the secret door, and eventually only briefly having Bill wonder if he had anyone who would miss and go looking for him (also who freaking turned into an ink bubble and popped moments after passing out from the pain so that the only remnants of his body were ink splatters). The cheese store man with big eyes and ears and belts of cheese around him sounded like Norman (I mean, besides how the man has a hobby of eavesdropping on and watching everyone from the shadows, just look at his ink form: The Projectionist). The ugly lizard man in the blue cloak with the distracting eyebrow hair sounded like Joey Drew in his blue bathrobe who many complained in BATIM was designed/animated too uncannily so that they found his face distracting. Riktor the Cracked sounded like Wilson with his scar (speaking of which, I'm not at all convinced that he's who Boswell Lotsabucks really represented. I'll explain more as we go)…

In fact, it occurred to me that Riktor's entire story sounded similar to the story Wilson tells about himself, both directly and through context clues (no, I'm not gonna bother with writing out sound effects/tones for this guy; that would add so much extra text that this would be incomprehensible. Just assume that the whole time he's talking he's wheezing like it's physically laborious for him to breathe and he has a Resting Villain Tone™).

“It seems that Arch Gate Studios, in all its misplaced admiration, was so eager to absorb the life's work of that crooked charlatan, Joey Drew, they didn't fully realize what they had acquired. Call it fate that I just happened to be there on the loading dock that morning. When the delivery boys dropped one of the crates, it smashed open, and inside there was something truly special. A mass of yellow steel and beautiful rivets. Some kind of machine. No one knew what it was. So the fools put it on display for all to see. But I could tell that this crude device held secrets. Secrets that could be mine.” ~ Wilson Arch, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “The Machine” audio log (emphasis added)

(I'll come back to the red part later.)

“When I first entered this world, it was an untamed wilderness. A wretched, crawling slum, ruled by that grinning demon. From chaos, I brought order. From order, I brought peace. Once you cut the head from the snake, the snake bleeds out quietly onto the ground. Now the only question that remains is: ‘What if the head grows back?’” ~ Wilson Arch, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “The Snake” audio log

“The machine speaks to me revealing its many possibilities. What I can accomplish using its power is beyond any measure. Life and death can become a thing of the past. Poverty and hunger, a distant memory. I can remake the world anew. But does the world deserve such a gift? For now, I have bigger matters at hand. A man in a black coat came asking at the front desk about the machine. Said he was from the Gent Corporation. Fortunately, the receptionist knew nothing and he left quietly. Later, I found his name on the sign-in form. Mister Allen Gray.” ~ Wilson Arch, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “A Gift To Mankind” audio log (emphasis added)

(I'll come back to the green part later, too.)

“It's been years and my face is still a mystery to my co-workers. They don't know me. They avoid me as if I carried some infectious disease. At first, I felt this was an insult. But now… it is a gift. With the right costume, I can play the part of anyone. I can go completely unnoticed, hidden amongst the shadowed walls. As a clerk, an artist, a producer. Or even… a lowly janitor.” ~ Wilson Arch, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “In Plain Sight” audio log

Wilson: You must be very tired. A quick rest will do you good. Betty will show you to your room. She's my housekeeper, among other things. . . . Audrey: And… do you trust Wilson? Betty: This is the realm of the Ink Demon. His shadow hangs over us all. I don't trust anyone. But Wilson takes care of me. Keeps me safe. He once said I remind him of something he called his… “mother?” Tell me, is that a good thing… where you two are from? Audrey: I'm not sure. I don't think I ever had one. Betty: Well, no matter. Now, I was told to make sure you get some sleep once you got here. So get nice and comfy and relax. I left something for you on the table that might just help you nod off. It's my own recipe. Works very fast. Just follow the instructions. Carefully.

Riktor was a “distant descendant” of one of the Three Grand Flagon Kings whose ancient exploits were legendary, though which one he comes from he isn't sure. I think this 100% confirms that while Nathan Sr. was never officially involved in JDS, he was always pulling strings behind the curtain, cause that brings the count to Three Kings of JDS. We, the audience don't know which of the studio's three original “rulers” (as Audrey calls herself at the end of the game) Wilson is the apparently-estranged son of – Henry Stein, Joey Drew, or Nathan Arch Sr. – until right before he dies (I know when Audrey was confirmed Joey's daughter, he first said he wanted to save his father's life, and I hadn't yet questioned if “Fake Henry” was actually fake or not, I wondered if maybe he was Henry's son), but there's definitely a reason he told Audrey, “shh, don't fret. We're going home,” when he sacrificed both her and himself to the Ink Machine: they were going home, to the place their fathers ruled over so very long ago!

(Anyone notice that they literally call the Ink Dimension a “kingdom” right there in the game's description??)

Riktor is called “the Cracked” even though everyone can see that he isn't cracked at the time the narrator is telling us this, and the narrator basically calls us stupid for wondering why the heck that is; we find out he gets the crack from being used to shatter a lizard man's face (which must've gotten better seeing as he was seen again the next week) at the end of this story that begins with the deaths of two major characters. Sure sounds like Wilson being called “the Man Who Killed the Ink Demon” even though half the Lost Ones we run into say “he says he killed the Ink Demon, but I saw him” and we frequently get chased by him ourselves, and how he basically calls anyone who questions this filthy slanderers; we find out that he's been trying his darndest (describing his previous attempts at doing so as cutting off a serpent's head that winds up growing back) and the reason he sacrificed himself and Audrey to the Ink Machine at the beginning of the game was because he needed her for his big plan to finally kill Bendy for real.

Riktor was the second son of his parents; the first was apparently more well-known because the narrator says there's probably no need to tell us his name, and apparently nobody liked him. Sure sounds like how everyone just already knows that Nathan Arch Sr. must have a son named “Nathan Arch Jr.” since he's called “Senior,” and Exhibit A for Boswell Lotsabucks not being Wilson: we just got confirmation he's Nathan Jr.'s younger brother! Also, I can smell the intense sibling jealousy, roflol. Either that, or… did Nathan Sr. also dislike his Favorite Son™, but like him enough to make Wilson jealous?? I mean, he does only ever mention having one son throughout the whole series and, as @dreamfisher-nux pointed out, says that son is as important to him as Bendy was to Joey, but he actually rarely ever speaks of even him and, unless that “Nathan Arch” portrait in Archgate's animation department is actually a replacement one of Junior (or perhaps even Nathan III, either of which would support my “Nathan Sr./Nathan I is actually dead from old age, at this point, the reason the JDS museum is bankrupt is because his [grand]son is nowhere near as ruthless a businessman as his [grand]dad, and Nathan Sr./Nathan I's soul is the ‘new evil’ in the Ink Dimension” theory), then we don't even see his face where we see Nathan Sr. and Joey's; he claims Junior's the one who gave him the idea for a studio/etc., it doesn't make sense not to memorialize him in any way, shape, or form.

(Sidenote: we also get a year of birth for Wilson, here. Twenty years before Mr. Darble Mouse/Brant “died;” he was born in 1926, so he's only 47 in BATDR… The stress of being Nathan Sr.'s son really did a number on ya, huh, bud?)

Riktor was “accidentally” put under a sleeping curse by a seemingly kind witch who at first offers him cake, then when he's still convinced she's evil instead offers a scone, which he does accept. She seems confused when Riktor falls asleep after eating it, then just finishes her cake and walks away to get a civil service job like she doesn't care; when he fulfills fate's purpose by getting cracked and wakes up, she just nods from her faraway office like she knew what was gonna happen all along. This witch sure sounds similar to Betty, the seemingly kind doll-like housekeeper who “accidentally” winds up sending us on a convoluted and pointless scavenger hunt for the final sleeping draught ingredient that honestly felt like some sort of test to see what we'd be willing to do if we thought we were supposed to with the way she just happened to catch us right before we went through with killing the fish we already sent into shock with the suspiciously convenient piano… and when we finally do take the sleeping tonic we're captured by Twisted Alice— Wilson, buddy, pal, friend, did your dad have your mom put you through some sort of obedience test, at the end of which she drugged you with some kind of sedative, and that was the reason you happened to be on the loading dock when the crate broke (Betty, honey, I… don't think it was a compliment)…??? Also, wait— why did you make an ink creature who reminds you of your mother the housekeeper? And... oh gross, was my initial assumption as to the meaning of “among other things” correct—?? Wilson, are you not the son of Tessa Arch but Nathan Sr.'s illegitimate son from an affair he had with the housekeeper (a bit Soap Opera™, but… it happens)?!?! Is that why he hated you (also, clearly Nathan Sr. did not learn his lesson, seeing as he was looking for girls to dance with at the Sparkle Unicorn a year after Wilson was born… Tessa, honey, you need a better husband. Blink twice if you need help escaping your current one)?! Nathan, dude, it's your own dang fault if you can't keep it in your pants!! Don't take it out on your kid, ya @$$hole!!!

Riktor sits unsold on the cheese shop man's shelf for years. Sure sounds like how Wilson goes unnoticed by all his coworkers in his dad's studio (or wherever the heck he was working when he recorded that audio log) for years.

Riktor became a “hero” not through his own actions, but by “accident,” just happening to be in the widow's sack when she swung it at the ugly lizard man. Sure sounds like how Wilson just happened to be there when the crate containing the Ink Machine was “accidentally” dropped and broken, setting him on his seemingly noble mission.

Riktor goes off to fight another great Evil that awakened at the stench of death, his adventures not over yet. Sounds like Wilson setting his sights on Gent CEO Alan/Allen Gray/Grey (he spells it all the ways in different audio logs/memos), who's apparently been trying to get the Ink Machine since JDS was still around (I dunno if I believe that, except by a very specific technicality, which I'll explain later) and isn't happy Archgate has it now that Joey's dead, hm…?

My most important epiphany about this story, though, came while I was complaining to my bestie how creepy and nonsensical it was that the “who's the real villain?” attention seemed to be being pulled in even more directions than before, now, and even less attention was being paid to Nathan Sr., his audio logs making him out to be a genuinely friendly and grief-stricken man who didn't know what was going on with the ink machine and was creeped out by its apparent influence… Why the absolute heck was so little attention being paid to the man within whose animation studio/museum two of our main characters – one of them his own son – perished at the beginning of this game and so many of whose previous statements absolutely do not line up with what he's saying now?? Then, I noticed the weirdly specific discrepancies in The Mug and the Maiden, and I realized…

“I just received the call. Joey Drew is dead. What a quiet end to an extraordinary life. Last I heard he was staying in some cramped apartment downtown. You could practically hear the rats through the telephone when he called me last April. In spite of that, old Joey sounded quite happy when last we spoke. More like the excited, hopeful young man I knew once upon a time. Ah, well, farewell my friend. What will become of your creations now?” ~ Nathan Arch Sr., Bendy and the Dark Revival, “End of an Era” audio log

“I'm ready for something different in my career. I've built steel companies from the ground up, dabbled in petroleum, even tried political office once. ‘That Nathan Arch,’ they used to say, ‘He's got the magic touch!’ But I'm hungry for a bit of fun, I think. Something both the masses and I can enjoy. My son suggested movies. Open a studio! Now I love a good film as much as anyone, but the magic of animation, now there's something special! My old friend Joey knew the thrills of bringing characters to life, rest his soul. Maybe with a bit of elbow grease and a small cash investment, I can resurrect the past.” ~ Nathan Arch Sr., Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Inspiration” audio log

“The papers are signed! The animation staff is hired! Arch Gate Pictures is open for business! As of nine o'clock this morning, Bendy and all his little cartoon friends now belong to me. I'll admit, it's strange owning a dear friend's legacy. But I think Joey would be content knowing it's safely in my hands. ‘You just gotta believe,’ he used to say. He was such a showman. Well, I believe Joey. I wholeheartedly believe!” ~ Nathan Arch Sr., Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Grand Opening” audio log

“I haven't had much sleep the past few nights. I usually can separate myself from the office when I get home. But lately, I've been feeling something pulling at my mind. My thoughts fall to the Joey Drew exhibit we opened last week. Outside one or two of the artists, I don't think I've ever seen a single soul go inside. It's a shame how so many of us refuse to learn from the past. The past can give us our greatest lessons. But still, ever since we moved in Joey's old things, there's been a strange feeling around Arch Gate. Like the ghosts of long ago are wandering about. Calling out to me.” ~ Nathan Arch Sr., Bendy and the Dark Revival, “The Exhibit” audio log

…the widow symbolizes Nathan Arch Sr., and there are actually two characters that symbolize Joey— the ugly lizard man, yes, but also the widow's dead husband. We already examined, in small part, how similar her interactions with Riktor's story were to Archgate's interactions with Wilson's; let's get more in-depth examining her story, now.

The widow was already planning on adding her cheddar cider idea onto her preexisting business before her husband died, she was just using distraction from her grief over him as an excuse to kick her plans into gear. Sure sounds like how Nathan Sr. admitted to working on his museum for years before when we find out Joey apparently died, back in TIOL, but then he turns around and tries to gaslight us into thinking that this is a new idea he just had shortly after Joey's death to try and spice up his life while also preserving his beloved friend's memory in BATDR (and, by extension, that TIOL is no longer canon), doesn't it? Also, wow, the repeated theme of alcohol returns, once again. 👀

The widow just goes from grief-stricken, to making herself skip mourning her husband to move on with her life, to suddenly crying about her situation in front of the cheese store man with the big eyes and ears so he'll give her what she wants (including things that don't match what she originally said—? Swiss? You were supposed to be getting cheddar?? And how are you picking up things like some random cat, a personalized pen, and the cheese store man's cash box “on accident???”). Sounds an awful lot like how Nathan Sr. just goes from “oh no! Joey's dead!” to “oh well, wonder what'll become of the Bendy IP” and then kicks his aforementioned plans into gear (and how he, for some reason, grabs that random painting of Joey's I was confused about and keeps this machine which also makes no sense for him to keep if he doesn't know what it does— it could be completely unrelated to Joey as the engine out of some truck or boat that a previous tenant left behind, for all he knows), hm? I realized the cheese store man doesn't symbolize Norman, he uses Norman's image to symbolize all observers of Nathan Sr., Joey, and the situations surrounding them. 👀 Both Nathan Sr. and the widow are putting on a performance of grief to manipulate observers (this also feels like more gaslighting us into thinking TIOL is no longer canon)!

The widow is the best-looking creature in the kingdom, who all the men desire now that she's single, but that seems implied to only be because nobody knows about the beautiful deer woman who lives over the hill. I wonder if it's not an accident that nobody knows about the deer woman, cause that sure sounds like how Nathan Sr. makes himself out to be the most innocent, kind, and intelligent character in the whole series, especially after not only erasing the evidence of multiple people's existences but also writing a whole smear note against Henry in TIOL that seemed to successfully gaslight a lot of fans into believing that Henry might be the real villain. 👀

The widow gets angry when the ugly lizard man tells her he's reformed, saying right after previously saying that she has to go because she has no time and he eats people that it's boring if he's not gonna be the danger in the story which means she came all the way there for nothing (wait, I thought you supposedly came to the forest by accident because nobody in this place can read) and now that's why she should just leave, causing him to panic and beg her to stay while claiming that actually he's not reformed he was just putting on an act to manipulate her. Sure sounds an awful lot like all of Nathan Sr.'s manipulative self-contradiction (e.g. saying he wants to dispel the negative rumors about Joey and then turning around and saying things about him that he really shouldn't be saying if that were his goal) and how I pointed out in my original analysis/theory that he seems to get off on not just turning people into Murder Puppets but also seeing how absolutely brutal he can make them while still having them believe they're in the right and was not happy when one of his favorites' (Joey) conscience grew loud towards the end of his life, doesn't it? Is… this saying Nathan Sr. did something to make Joey play the villain again, after he was reformed…? Might this even be saying that it was under Nathan Sr.'s manipulation that Joey claimed responsibility for a lot of things that he didn't actually do…? 👀

*Stares at the ending of DCTL when Joey claimed that A: Sammy was nabbing random people who stayed at JDS too late at night under his orders when it was clearly implied to be because of his own hallucinations, and B: Buddy had been hired specifically for the purpose of sacrificing “a real person,” meaning someone who hadn't had their soul leeched out by the ink; which doesn't make sense because, for one thing, that should mean they'd already be in the Inkwell without having to die like in TLO, and for another, it's implied Buddy was hired before Bendy (the first ink creature, apparently soulless because Joey's soul failed to merge with him for some reason, seeing as it's heavily implied that Mr. Unger can tell that Joey's hand perfectly matches Bendy's handprint) was even created – heck, before the Ink Machine was even working, seeing as Buddy witnessed Tom bringing Joey blueprints – with Twisted Alice (the second ink creature, who definitely has a soul) being implied to have also been created by the time he dies, so he can't have been hired for that specific purpose*

The widow acts surprised that something in her sack of cheese smashed the ugly lizard man's face, despite swinging it at him like she fully expected doing so to save her. Sure sounds like how Nathan Sr. acts confused and creeped out by the strange energy contained within the museum exhibits in BATDR despite keeping this junker-looking machine as if he knew full well it was related to JDS and having made very ominous comments in TIOL about how he now understands all of Joey's unhinged musings which should also mean he definitely knows what it does, successfully gaslighting most players into thinking that he didn't take the Ink Machine for nefarious purposes (and, by extension, that TIOL is no longer canon), doesn't it? Not to mention his company's “accidentally” setting Wilson on his seemingly noble mission… 👀

Riktor winds up having a lovely friendship with the widow once he “saves her life.” Wilson wanted his dad's attention and approval (what child wouldn't want that from their parent? Poor baby /gen 🥺), but seems to know at this point that the best he's gonna get is showing him he succeeded at life despite what he thought of and how he treated him (or possibly… that he can be a useful puppet too); he tries to trick Audrey into giving him her soul with the lie that they'd be saving his dad's life with his big plans and doesn't even get the extremely messed up “good enough” ending because he gets freaking shredded in his own soul extraction machine (I was not expecting— there were pieces of him on the floor, my gosh 😰).

Now… I want to get into the widow's dead husband symbolizing Joey in addition to the ugly lizard man a little more. I still think I was right about Freaky Teeth Bendy's link to grayscale being a hint that he's Joey, but now I think there's more context around that. In my original analysis/theory, I mused about how it seemed like Nathan Sr. was trying to create a very specific image of Joey in the public consciousness with his notes in TIOL (a simultaneous A: genius and saint whose inventions should be accepted with open arms, and B: perfect scapegoat to take all blame in case we don't… *Stares long and hard at the fandom's reactions to the Memory of Joey*). I also mused on how several characters seemed to have become personifications of different parts of Joey's psyche once inked, but right now I want to make special note of the fact that Susie Campbell/Twisted Alice's story seems to parallel Joseph Dempsey/Joey Drew's in many ways.

I think that the dead husband symbolizes the Memory of Joey, who in turn is the image of Joey that Nathan Sr. has ingrained not only into official real-world history, but also into the memories of everyone trapped in the Ink Dimension. Did anyone notice that… the Memory of Joey literally introduces himself with the intro of the BATIM audio log I think directly addresses that Joey hated being who Nathan forced him to be (“I believe there’s something special in all of us…” Nathan Sr.'s just outright flaunting that this is his version of Joey straight out of the gate)? What about how the nasty mouth-spider monsters we fall into a nest of right before meeting the Memory of Joey for the first time… those were called “Widows…” and the boss one was called “King Widow…??” Or how the followers of Amok, who decorated everything including themselves with Widow motifs, had a whole thing about “passing on the name” when the previous holder dies…??? 👀👀

“Within our isolated walls, Lord Amok reigns. The drips and drops of the leaking world above cannot stop his rule. Those who oppose Amok's hand, have their bodies crushed and fed into the narrow pipes that lead below into forgotten sewers under our feet. Those tunnels are even deeper, even darker, than this one. There is only suffering down there. But, should anyone defeat Lord Amok, cast him down, our small kingdom will belong to the conqueror. This is the secret of Amok's immortality. Pass on the throne, pass on the name.” ~ Unknown, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Next in Line” memo (emphasis added)

(Holy monkeys does the first red part reek of Nathan Sr.'s disappearing people mafia-style, as well… 👀)

The husband “didn't do much. Until he died…” Does that sound like Figurehead Joey having his image hijacked by his “good friend” Nathan Sr. postmortem to A: create a much more successful business in the real world than he did in his lifetime as a human, and B: meddle much more personally in Ink Dimension affairs, to anybody else…? 👀👀👀

The ugly lizard man, on the other hand, symbolizes Bendy and his Dapper and Freaky Teeth sides, who in turn are the Joseph Dempsey and Joey Drew sides of the real Joey. At the point in his life that Audrey knew him: the healing heart of the reformed old man who tried his best to be a good friend and uncle/father vs. the habitual remnants of the “become a manipulative abuser” survival mechanism brought on by Nathan Sr.'s manipulation and abuse. I'm especially convinced of this after listening to the experiment logs detailing how inhumanely the Keepers treated both Freaky Teeth and Dapper Bendy in their attempts to help Wilson vanquish the Ink Demon…

“Experiment thirteen: The Ink Demon is successfully sedated for transport. Laboratory 9 is prepared for arrival at the receiving bay. Be advised that sedation will not last long. Termination must commence immediately upon reception. Wilson will expect a detailed report of the creature's demise.” ~ A Keeper, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Experiment 13” audio log (emphasis added)

“Experiment twenty six: Frequent delays due to the Ink Demon's refusal to terminate. Keepers have administered quarter hourly sessions of physical tortures and surgical invasions to wear down his powers. All of these efforts have been ultimately unsuccessful. A new method of control must be devised. Termination impossible.” ~ A Keeper, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Experiment 26” audio log (emphasis added)

“Experiment forty four: We have successfully pressed the Ink Demon into the form designated as Bendy. He is smaller in size and harmless in this more timid state. His powers are also greatly reduced. Using lengths of steel wire to cut into the side of his body, he now registers emotional responses. There were tears of ink documented. Screams of pain. It was delightful to see such progress. The Ink Demon will remain in this small form indefinitely.” ~ A Keeper, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “Experiment 44” audio log (emphasis added)

…and the way Wilson said, “to truly destroy such a monster, he must be dethroned. Humiliated…” How the actual heck do you humiliate a soulless ink blob and why would that help you defeat him? That line just doesn't make sense, unless… Well, I'll just say that all sounds uncomfortably similar to some of the things I talked about suspecting Nathan Sr. did to Joey (loving to belittle him and watch him suffer, especially in front of large groups of people?? Having him kidnapped and tortured for failing/disobeying too many times, his mobility problems being caused by injuries he sustained during that time??? Etc????) in my original analysis/theory, based on things said in the books and BATDR archive images. Which… doesn't make me feel good about the ending of The Mug and the Maiden…

“…But for now, dear reader, we return to our own lives. So let us end this tale with one closing thought, shall we? Be we cracked, or small, or even dead, there's always a purpose to where we all are led. Be brave, and strong, and lest we forget: Fate isn't quite done with any of us just yet. The End” ~ The Mug and the Maiden: Vol 1 by Sir Wilton Moore, Bendy and the Dark Revival, ch. 5 (emphasis added)

“They promise us peace. But they bring us only more pain!” ~ The Ink Demon, Bendy and the Dark Revival, ch. 5

I think “fate” is symbolic of Nathan Sr.'s machinations, I was right to describe Joey as being “a very-long-term abuse victim who can't even escape his abuser postmortem” in my thought summaries… and this actually might still fit my “the perfection vs. imperfection of the ink creatures comes from the intactness vs. brokenness of their hearts, not the purity” theory, if we include healed/healing hearts like I said Dapper Bendy represents. Anyone notice that Dapper only seemed to turn back into Freaky Teeth after betrayal? When Audrey tells him, “it's okay. I won't hurt you. I promise. It's okay. See? I'm your friend. I won't hurt you,” only to accidentally hurt him with her powers? When she talked to the Memory of Joey in what I suspect was actually Dapper Bendy's hideout, not his (Dapper was just down the hall on both sides of it… the Memory of Joey might've literally just been camping the doors to keep Dapper out and catch Audrey)? When she promises him that they'll stay together and she won't let anything happen to him, then disappears for way too long talking to the Memory of Joey yet again before walking right up to the front door of the laboratory that tortured him alone because he's disappeared presumably in heartbroken fright?? Coming to kill Shipahoy Wilson after it freaking ripped her legs off (and had Wilson's soul banished from it, which – alongside the very fact that Shipahoy Wilson was capable of not just physically existing, but also being alive without his soul in it just like Bendy before Joey's human death and unlike, from what I can tell, literally every single other ink creature, which I'll come back to – tells me that his soul may have been powerful enough to defeat him just like Audrey's, but I'll come back to that, as well) and then save her when she's bleeding out on the cold laboratory floor??? Freaky Teeth literally even calls Audrey a traitor when she chooses to play the End Reel partly to resurrect the Memory of Joey in the end.

“It's time, Audrey. Your road is broken. Join the Dark Puddles and give in to your suffering. You have nothing. You are without purpose. Your very existence was a terrible lie. You're a mistake. A monster. Like me. But I will make you strong. I will make you meaningful. It's time… *Offers his hand, which Audrey accepts* We are one. The daughter of Drew. The power of the Demon.” ~ The Ink Demon, Bendy and the Dark Revival, ch. 5

“…The only important question is this: Who are we, Henry? I thought I knew who I was… but… the success starved me. Nothing left but lines on a page. In the end, we followed two different roads of our own making. You, a lovely family… Me… a crooked empire. And my road burned. I let our creations become my life…” ~ Joey Drew, Bendy and the Ink Machine, ch. 5

Sounds to me like what might've felt like freedom to Joey/Bendy (and Nathan Sr. certainly wanted him to think was freedom) – becoming a monster – was not actually freedom (*stares at my notes on Constance and Susie/Alice's personification of parts of Joey's psyche, particularly how they're both conflicted between feeling bad about doing/being forced to do bad things and doing them because it makes them feel so powerful/in control/etc., and then at how Dapper Bendy admitted he doesn't want to hurt Audrey like Freaky Teeth does* …It was odd how Audrey worded her apology, wasn't it? “I didn't mean to hurt you… and I really don't think you want to hurt me either, right?” It's almost like… she already knew that both Bendys were the same being…), like the kinds of circumstances under which I noted that Joey's “cruel prank” survival mechanism kicks in were when Audrey saw her dad's ugly side, and like Freaky Teeth merging with her in that moment was symbolic of her leaning on her dad's maladaptive coping mechanisms generational trauma-style.

“I reached up and pushed [Mister Drew] away, hard. Harder than I'd ever pushed anyone away before, and he fell back against the wooden stage with a crash. I felt strangely powerful. I also wasn't in any pain anymore. I stood up. I marched over to him. It was my turn to stand over him. He cowered. He actually cowered in fright. I felt really good about that. ‘What did you do to me?’ I asked. ‘Now, Buddy,’ he said, holding up a hand, ‘don't be angry. Just remember I saved your life.’ ‘What did you do?’ I took a step closer, placed my hands on my hips. I enjoyed that my shadow loomed over him like this, filling his small world with darkness. ‘You're angry. You're frustrated. You can't express yourself, I understand, but don't you see that I fixed you? And now you're, you're—perfect!’ . . . He was talking to me like I was stupid. Like I was him, the happy wolf who shares my mind. I know he was excited about it then. I could feel him pulling me, wanting me to go to Mister Drew. But at this moment, back then, I was much stronger than he was. Mister Drew didn't know that. That was my advantage. I turned to him. We stood face-to-face. He smiled. ‘Come with me.’ He extended his arm toward me and I grabbed it. I held it hard, and he cried out in pain. I wasn't going to kill him. I can't kill. That's not who I am. I threw him to the floor. And I stood over him. And breathed for a moment. I ran then. I ran away. Into the darkness of the theater, down the trapdoor and through the vents. I just ran. I disappeared into the building. Into its secrets that even Joey Drew himself didn't know. I hid. I hid and he didn't find me. He couldn't find me…” ~ Daniel “Buddy” Lewek, Dreams Come to Life, pg. 288 and 295 (emphasis added)

*Stares at my notes on how it seems like Joey went into hiding to escape Nathan Sr. after JDS shut down* Maybe I'll be right that there's yet another secret ending that will involve unlocking Grayscale Mode to fully reveal the truth (though I'm sure that'll take a while for anyone to uncover if it exists, considering what unlocking BATIM's Grayscale Mode was like)? Maybe something involving merging the Memory of Joey with Bendy the way Bendy merged with Audrey in the default ending, or separating the Bendys and revealing them both to also be Joey, either way symbolizing that we can only know the truth by looking at the full picture? Or revealing the Memory of Joey to straight-up be Nathan Sr. in disguise (which would support my “Wilson's not actually the ‘new evil’ in the Ink Dimension, it's Nathan Sr.'s soul” theory)?

Back to the fate thing, there's actually a freakish number of “accidents/coincidences” and weird amount of attention that gets called to the “accidents/coincidences” before they get brushed aside in this series. Remember all the ones I called out in my original analysis/theory? Remember that rant of Wilson's I mentioned earlier, about how nothing that's going on makes sense?

Audrey: You did this to me. You brought me here. Turned me into this… this thing! This doesn't make sense! I've never done anything to you! Wilson: Open your eyes and look around you! None of this “makes sense.” Drawn walls. Nightmarish creatures. An ancient studio that died out almost thirty years ago. It's all fiction. Utter nonsense! And yet… in here, it exists. It breathes. It flourishes! Reality guided by its master's pen. The foundation for a new reality we can bleed into our own. Just think of it. Anything we create in here, we can release out there. *Pours blob of ink into hand* But first, this world must be controlled. *Makes a mini Bendy out of the ink blob* Made safe. *Plops mini Bendy onto his suitcase and pokes it until it stands up* These… things. These angels and demons. *Mini Bendy waves at Audrey, she waves back* Are they really life? *Picks mini Bendy back up* Or are they just… *crushes mini Bendy* stains? Old mistakes ready to be cleansed away for newer, greater things?

How the flipping heck does this rant make sense as a response to what Audrey said? It doesn't, unless there's a hidden, second meaning to it. Another riddle? Is he telling us that there's a specific reason that this doesn't make sense? That there's a Puppet Master behind the curtain, pulling everyone's strings, altering our perceptions of reality through gaslighting, manipulation, and complex plots executed in secret, and who sees people as playthings to shape into monsters that may not be who they really are and will destroy and/or erase any who become a liability or that he simply grows bored of? That many of his victims turn to Joey's Illusion of Living “philosophy,” deciding that if they're not allowed to know what reality is then they're going to create their own, better realities in order to cope (which Nathan Sr. of course loves and encourages because that makes them easier to control, so it'll only be safe if someone takes control away from him)?

“…And I got to know the world underground. I got to know the theater and the studio. I watched, hidden, as they were merged together. I watched Mister Drew fire people and hire new ones, and I watched as he tried to make the machine work. I learned that pictures came to life. Like I always feared. Like I always knew. And so I decided to write this down. And I think, I think I'm done. I think I have to be done because, Dot, I'm so tired. And he's getting stronger. Now I'm really not Buddy anymore. I am also Boris. Descending deeper into this world of aging, yellowing madness…” ~ Daniel “Buddy” Lewek, Dreams Come to Life, pg. 295-296 (emphasis added)

Something tells me that the entire reason Wilson speaks in riddles is because he figured out that's the only way he can trick his dad into letting him say what he wants to say… and that the version of him who wrote The Mug and the Maiden did so because he could tell that his dad's Murder Puppet process was working on him… and that he indeed connected to the hivemind, as that one Lost One was worried about, but for much less nefarious reasons than they thought… *Stares at my notes on how Joey seems to have had to jump through hoops in order to be permitted to publish TIOL and then create the hivemind in order to get more S.O.S.es out*

“That Wilson! He's everywhere! Yet he's nowhere! I don't know how he does it! It's madness! Madness!! What if he's inside my head? What if he can hear my thoughts?! Can you hear me now, Wilson? Can you?! You won't get me! I've got a plan! If I tear out my brain then you can't hear my mind! Ha! I'll show you! I defy you! All hail the Ink Demon! Hail! He's not dead, I tell you! He will rise again! And his dark revenge will be terrible!” ~ Unknown, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “In My Mind” memo (emphasis added)

Maybe all that's another reason Nathan Sr. hated him, he really was “one smart mug of cheese…” Too smart to be kept alive— was Riktor putting the cowbells on the skunks symbolic of Wilson warning people about what his dad was doing?! And was the great skunk famine that forced Riktor to “seek a new purpose” and get a job as an adventurer symbolic of Nathan Sr. punishing him for doing so, starting him on his journey to Murder Puppet status?!?! @inkdemonapologist pointed out that TLO calls attention to how these teens seem to have been swept up in the mess they were “for no reason,” they just happened to be in the wrong places at the wrong times (I don't recall any specific parts to quote, myself); now this fairytale calls attention to how the mouse (Brant) and the widow's dead husband (Joey) didn't need to die because there was a nearby cheese store, brushing the reader's questions as to why the mouse did this aside as unimportant? Could… this be saying that the “accidental” events of TLO were not, in fact, accidents?

“Again I shook my head. Didn’t [Constance] understand that this was not how it worked? She hadn’t lived in my world. Any company that could afford such a machine, that could hide it, that had such dark huge secrets, they had to be protected by something huge as well.” ~ Bill Chambers, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 191 (emphasis added)

Bill's right, not only did Joey definitely already have the investors money, at this point, based on DCTL, but he also must've already had Nathan Sr.'s protection, like I pointed out in my original analysis/theory… So, why, exactly, were Joey and Allison in Atlantic City schmoozing Bill's dad? Were they trying to get the richest, most influential, most dangerous man in Atlantic City on their side in order to get out from under Nathan Sr.'s thumb after whatever event happened in between DCTL and TLO to start waking Allison from his trance? And did Nathan Sr. decide to retaliate by causing the very same man to put a price on Joey's head for causing the “death” of his son so that Joey would have no choice but to come running back with his tail between his legs and beg for his protection from Mr. Chambers??? Was the diving board incident sabotage staged to see if Bill was as good at fixing things as the rumors said, and then were the blackout at the party and projector malfunctioning during the ad screening further sabotage staged to impress Scott so that he'd bring Bill into the Ink Machine situation???? Could everything have been orchestrated in order to ensure Bill would come back until he “died” (none of the kids in TLO actually died, remember. Brant and Bill were absorbed by the ink, and Constance was still alive last we saw her. For all we know, she's only in the Inkwell now because it became too much work to keep taking the very, very temporary “ink cure” every single day), specifically?! Except, perhaps… Well, I have a sneaking suspicion that Brant was the only person involved in this fiasco who was never supposed to be there… I'll come back to that in a bit.

Back to Nathan Sr.'s side of things, could it be that behind all the horrible events in this series that get written off as “accidents/coincidences,” there really is “always a reason, even when you can't understand it,” as the Memory of Joey says? There's another very specific and horrific incident in BATDR, itself, that literally gets described as “fate dropping a solution in your lap.” I wonder if this side story, told through memos and an ink window message…

“Management has come up with a new way to ‘reward’ us employees: Instead of paying out bonuses or overtime, they've started handing out these little tokens that you can spend in company vending machines. Besides that, these tokens ain't got value of any kind. Obviously, a lot of people didn't like the idea. But the best part about the whole thing is that, within a week, someone figured out how to make fake tokens that fools the vending machines. We started calling the fake ones ‘SLUGS.’ Now, I can't remember the last time I've seen a real token around here. Them SLUGS are everywhere! Probably costing the studio a TON of money in snacks alone.” ~ Hudson Doyle, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “The Slug Problem” memo (emphasis added)

“Fate is a strange thing. Just when you think you've run out of options, it puts a solution in your lap. Andre stopped by my office to say goodbye on his way out the door. As far as everyone else knows, he's gone home to Rio. But, he never made it. Never even made it out of the kitchen. Little Andre slumped over dead right in front of me. Barely even made a sound. And here I was worried about running out of meat for today's special. Fate is a strange thing. Just when you think you've run out of options, it puts a solution in your lap.” ~ Chef Buck, Bendy and the Dark Revival, “A Bit Of Fate” memo (emphasis added)

…could be yet another of the many incidences there seem to have been of Nathan Sr. A: disappearing anyone who displeases him mafia boss-style, and B: turning ordinary people into Murder Puppets through suffering that made them believe they were in the right by committing their horrific acts, all without anyone ever being the wiser Nathan Sr. himself was even involved? Did he hire the worker who figured out how to make the counterfeit tokens to do so and/or to share the info on how, in order to make sure the studio – especially the cafeteria and snack machines – would be so flooded with them that if he ever needed somebody to conveniently dispose of a body for him, all he'd have to do would be to ensure the person just happens to die in front of this chef in desperate need of free meat? 🤢🤮 And what if this particular story, centered around food, and the fact that so many characters now kill us by “consuming” us, is also a way of Nathan Sr. getting back at Joey, once again twisting his dreams into something horrific to continue punishing him for his disobedience postmortem…?

“An amusement park. A land. A fully immersive place where illusion and reality danced together to create something else. Something wholly new. It wasn't just about fun rides or tasty treats, though of course we'd have plenty of that, it was about an experience. A whole new way of looking at life.” ~ Joey Drew, The Illusion of Living, pg. 204 (emphasis added)

“(After Richie is sent to get Joey because the teens have no idea where else to turn for help and then Buddy describes in excruciating detail all the sensations of drowning and fatal injuries that the soulless Ink Demon inflicts upon him, leading him to beg Dot multiple times to just give up on him and save herself and Jacob because he was beyond saving and he knew it.) The five senses: Touch: nothing. Taste: nothing Sound: nothing. Smell: nothing. Sight: blackness. And then: Nothing [I was already dead when Mister Drew got there]. . . . I'm dead. That's my dead body. ‘You see, I saved you,’ said Mister Drew. . . . ‘That's your body, Buddy. But it isn't you,’ said Mister Drew, crouching beside me. He said it as if he could read my mind. I looked at him angrily. I knew now I couldn't speak. I didn't even bother trying. I pointed instead, at the body's face, torso, legs… Something is missing. ‘Those are just parts. The real you. The real you is here.’ Mister Drew reached up and touched my chest, placing his palm firmly on my ribs. ‘Your soul.’ . . . ‘I saved your soul, Buddy. And you saved me. You're going to save Bendy.’ . . . ‘This is going to be wonderful. You'll see, you'll see,’ said Mister Drew. ‘Now come with me. I've set up a nice little room for you. A nice place. You'll like it. There's food.’” ~ Daniel “Buddy” Lewek, Dreams Come to Life, pg. 284, 291, 293, 294, and 295 (emphasis added)

“Because ultimately there is no conclusion to this story. Even after my death I am certain the story of my life, of my studio, and of my philosophy will continue. Of course, I intend to live forever, so that will never happen! Ha, a joke indeed, but in a way not a joke, for what is art but a doorway to immortality? The greatest Illusion of Living then, living on after we are no longer alive. What is more of an illusion than that? All this being said, while forward has always been my direction, and backward has always been unnecessary to me, I will concede that there may indeed come a day in the far-flung future where I will revisit all that I have done, walk through the halls of my mind, and spend time with the characters of my past. I hope then we can all sit around a table and have a drink—the fictional characters and the real, Bendy, Boris, Alice, Dr. Squier, Isabel Newsome, Mr. K, and so forth—and toast to the great accomplishment they were all instrumental in helping me create: the Illusion of Living.” ~ Joey Drew, The Illusion of Living, pg. 248-249 (emphasis added)

…When I first read that second-to-last paragraph of TIOL, it sounded like Joey was saying he wanted to immortalize particularly interesting people alongside himself or something. But now, with the broader context, I think it's sounding like he was hoping to make a paradise for people who've suffered in life (the scene where Buddy notes he seems disgusted driving through a crowd of his neighbors in their poor neighborhood easily explained by his shame over his own poor-person origins that Brant became, in part, a personification of) and that he couldn't bear the thought of losing. If Norman and Dave were really already infected by the ink (as anyone who spent too much time around it definitely was, seeing as it could slip off pages to crawl into the mouths of sleeping people), they would've already been “safe” in Joey's mind. The only one in that pile of bodies who wasn't “safe” was this boy who reminded him a lot of Henry; these kids came to him for help and Buddy was already dead with zero chance of resuscitation when he got there. Of course he'd try to bring him back, why wouldn't he?? Of course he'd try to soften the pain of knowing his human body was dead for Buddy even if he had to keep up the ruse of the reason behind events to avoid Nathan Sr.'s wrath, why wouldn't he???

What if the Ink Dimension originally existed for Joey's regret but now exists for Nathan Sr.'s revenge? What if it started out as a poorly-executed attempt to rescue those who fell victim to Nathan Sr.'s machinations, including at Joey's hands under his influence (*stares at my notes on how Joey seems to have genuinely hoped his Illusion of Living coping mechanism would help people, and on how he seems to have used the Illusion of Living to pretend he'd saved Lottie's life rather than having lost her to suicide*), and eventually became a prison for whoever Nathan Sr. wanted, including Joey (similarly to my original theories)? Perhaps the machine was speaking to Wilson of Joey's true, original intentions? “Life and death can become a thing of the past. Poverty and hunger, a distant memory. I can remake the world anew…” Maybe the whole “entertaining the masses” angle was largely or even purely to get Nathan Sr.'s approval of the plan, like how it seems a lot of the horrible and/or nonsensical things he said and did were to keep Nathan Sr.'s approval?

“‘…but after that comes the team. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good one?’ . . . …You have to find the right mix, you have to find men who can work without you looking over their shoulder but at the same time don't feel that urge to add their own personal improvements. At least not without your permission. You need loyalty, so you need people who share your vision. But you don't want them taking over either.’” ~ Nathan Arch Sr.'s business advice, The Illusion of Living, pg. 149 and 150 (emphasis added)

Did anyone notice all the Alice in Wonderland imagery in BATDR? The memo heavily implied to be from Dapper Bendy/Real Joey titled “White Rabbit,” Twisted Alice throws that “tea party” for Audrey where we have to play a game of riddles (remind anyone of the Mad Hatter and Wilson?) with the Lost Ones in Wilson's mansion… Alice in Wonderland imagery joined the hivemind when Bill Chambers was infected. This is all another callback to TLO…!! I wonder… was the Alice in Wonderland stuff how Wilson was trying to warn the kids about what his dad was planning to do to them…? It wouldn't surprise me if he chose Alice in Wonderland for his warning riddles because he could tell Bill was familiar with it and he hoped both of the other kids would have it as fresh and clear in their minds (much like he seems to have done in making his fairytale's main character a cracked mug, trying to communicate what happened to him to Audrey. I'll come back to that)… Was this incident how Nathan Sr. found out that Wilson was helping his victims escape, the incident that genuinely started all the trouble in Wilson's story as the mouse dying supposedly started the trouble in Riktor's…?? Was Wilson being punished off-screen while Joey was collecting the “oysters” who almost escaped as he now had no choice but to do…???

“‘“The time has come,” the Walrus said, “to talk of many things…”’ replied Bill, walking toward it. I followed him. ‘The Walrus?’ I asked, feeling a little concerned. . . . ‘From Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Have you ever read the book?’ he asked, still looking at the machine. I didn't want to admit that I was not much of a reader… . . . ‘I know of it,’ I replied. I was standing next to him now, but I didn't want to touch the machine. Something about it made me uncomfortable. ‘Well, it's a poem from the book. The Walrus and the Carpenter take several young oysters for a walk along the beach.’ ‘Odd,’ I replied. Perhaps odder still was why on earth he was telling me any of this. Why was he acting so strange? It occurred to me then how dangerous innocuous strangeness could be. The beginning of our night together had been such fun, but now it had turned, like overripe fruit. I felt my defenses rise. . . . (About what looking into the machine felt like) A hole, like Alice's from her book. I knew that much. She fell for forever and ended up in a completely new world. I felt a shudder rising in me. I didn't want to fall down any holes today. . . . ‘How does the rest of the poem go?’ I asked, trying to make him feel a bit better. I looked up at the machine. It rose up so high when standing this close. There was a pipe here, large and winding like a boa constrictor. ‘Oh, it just goes on and on, more absurdity, very typical,’ replied Bill, standing next to me and looking up as well. ‘Of why the sea is “boiling hot?”’ But of course that's not true. Was that what the absurdity was then? Just a lie? ‘What's the point of it?’ ‘They eat all the oysters,’ said Bill. He was looking closely at the pipe. ‘I don't understand,’ I replied. ‘They invite the little oysters for a walk and then eat them.’ He tapped on the pipe. It made a hollow sound. He moved his hand and tapped again. The same sound. ‘That's the point of the poem?’ Something about that horrified me. ‘I don't know. But that's what happens.’ Another tap. Another hollow sound. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘It's what happens.’” ~ Constance Gray, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 147-148, 149, and 151 (emphasis added)

(I'd already noticed, when I first read this, that it seemed like something was telling them that bad things were gonna happen to them. At this point, it definitely sounds like Wilson saying that he didn't yet know why, but he did know that Nathan Sr. was using Scott and Tom to take them on this adventure and “kill” them. Yup.)

“My beam landed on a wide toothy grin. Sharp teeth loomed above me. Like the Cheshire cat's smile, just floating there. But I knew the monster had claws. It looked at me, or at least seemed to. I was paralyzed. I couldn't move. I couldn't turn off the flashlight.” ~ Bill Chambers, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 267 (emphasis added)

(Could this be Wilson saying that the smiling face everyone's so afraid of, aka Joey, is not the real danger, the real danger is the unseen claws who won't allow anyone to escape nor to look at anything but the smiling face, having found out what the reasons behind Nathan Sr.'s plot were?)

“Here we go. This was madness. But weren't we all mad here?” ~ Brant Morris, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 273 (emphasis added)

(This is the line that made me realize we were dealing with a hivemind. Brant wasn't there when Bill was talking about The Walrus and the Carpenter, there's no reason for this line to cross his mind other than someone else's thoughts were entering his head.)

“I started running again. I didn't feel tired, even though my muscles ached. I felt grateful for my rage. It spurred me on. It made me want to get out of here, and most importantly it made me confident that I was right in all my decisions. I knew this was probably problematic in the real world, but in this strange underground world, I was like Alice from the book. This wasn't reality. It was Wonderland. I was falling down a rabbit hole except I was running along it and it was sideways. We're all mad here. . . . Something yanked me from behind. My head snapped in a whiplash and I fell hard on my back, dropping everything in my hands . . . I saw a shadow along the wall, a creature. The monster? No. It seemed to have two long ears. Like a rabbit, or possibly some dog. But it was tall and human sized. And fleeting. The shadow vanished down the hall. It left me. It had attacked me and then left me. I didn't understand. I turned to look at the mess around me. I watched as the poker rolled away from me a few inches and then suddenly vanished [over the edge of the cliff I'd just narrowly been saved from running off of].” ~ Constance Gray, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 277-278 (emphasis added)

(First of all, Constance literally told us she hadn't read the book, so this can't not be more hivemind shenanigans. Second of all, could that second part be Wilson saying both that the reason Joey ran to Atlantic city after Buddy died was to try and prevent Nathan Sr. from hurting anyone else through him and that the reason Dapper Bendy runs away and hides so much, even tiptoeing away if he's not sitting down during battle, is to protect us from Freaky Teeth?? I'll come back to the first part in a moment.)

My gosh, that all adds whole new levels of chilling to the story… and sends me to whole new levels of “I hate Nathan Sr. and wanna adopt Wilson—” he was such a good, sweet boy, the poor baby /gen… 😭 Back to that sneaking suspicion… Does the amount of attention the story draws to the idea that Brant might just be a nobody whose disappearance won't even go noticed not seem… excessive, to anyone else?

“Knock knock! Who's there? Brant. Brant who? That was all my mind could tell me, repeating the same phrase over and over. Brant who, indeed. Did he have a family? Were they missing him? Would the police start looking for him? Brant who?” ~ Bill Chambers, Bendy: The Lost Ones, pg. 216-217

It feels like… this moment might not just be about Bill's emotions. Like it's not just him wondering this because he's been effing traumatized. It… feels like Wilson might be trying to tell us that his dad didn't have a reason to lure Brant in. Like, perhaps, he's panicking because he, himself, doesn't know if this boy's disappearance will garner attention. Like… he didn't think this through enough, and now he's regretting it hardcore. I wonder if it was Brant's “death,” specifically, that got Wilson caught because he did a little orchestration of his own trying to get our beloved Mr. Reporter-In-Training to expose his dad to the world just like Brant, himself, had originally planned to do to Bill's dad, but things really, really didn't go according to plan…?! 🤯 Moving forwards, I wonder if that especially important line of Buddy's at the beginning of DCTL was a message from Wilson, as well?

“This has always stayed with me: Of all the memories that are getting mixed up a bit in here, in this brain, in this head, this… this for some reason just sticks out. Right then when he clapped, the lights came back on. It was like they were waiting for him, it was like he was in control of them. He wasn’t. But I made that connection back then. Somehow it made sense that maybe, just maybe, he had the power to do that. He didn’t. And he doesn’t. Don’t let anyone make you think he does.” ~ Daniel “Buddy” Lewek, Dreams Come to Life, pg. 20 (emphasis added)

While we're on the subject of Wilson and the abomination that is Nathan Sr.'s deplorable parenting (this is the worst possible way I could've been right about Wilson being just another Murder Puppet, oof… 💔🤬), I find it strange that Wilson's scarred-blind (heavily implied to be his dad's fault by The Mug and the Maiden) vs. undamaged seeing eyes are switched in the real world vs. the Ink Dimension. In his human body, his right eye is whited out presumably due to the same injury that scarred that side of his face. In his ink body, the right glows just like Audrey's, Porter's, and so many other characters', suggesting he can see through it, whereas his left is dissolved into black ink on the same side of his head as what appears to be an injury from either falling and hitting it or being bludgeoned. And then both of his eyes are blacked out and he's undamaged in his posters— until you get down to his laboratory and discover that he's subtly colored his posters so that you can tell that his eye sockets are empty and bleeding? There's gotta be some sort of symbolism, there.

Where has left vs. right been important before, in this series? Anyone remember in BATIM…?

And what about in TIOL…?

Angel: Spending my time with a devil has been an enlightening experience. Working with you over these years with you sitting on that left shoulder, so far yet so near, all our debates, they were invigorating for the spirit Devil: So that is a yes [you'd miss me if our human has become only good and I have to leave]? Angel: I suppose it is. Devil: I won't miss you [if he's become only bad and you have to leave]! Fighting all the time, trying to trick you into agreeing with me, trying to push you off that right shoulder of yours. The violence and the anger. I won't miss it at all! Angel: Oh, but you will, dear Mr. Devil. (Pause) Devil: Maybe I would a little.

I think Wilson's posters symbolize the fact that if we allow Nathan Sr. to gaslight us into ignoring the evidence of his crimes, then we, the audience, are blind to the truth behind the horrors of the series. And I think that the difference between the two has to do with how Nathan Sr.'s manipulation and abuse completely and utterly fudges up his victims' consciences (“…most importantly it made me confident that I was right in all my decisions. I knew this was probably problematic in the real world, but in this strange underground world, I was like Alice from the book. This wasn’t reality. It was Wonderland. I was falling down a rabbit hole except I was running along it and it was sideways. We’re all mad here,” as Constance said… To people living in the literal and figurative real world, it looks as if Nathan Sr.'s victims just have no consciences and are evil for the sake of being evil; but, in the literal and figurative imaginary world that Nathan Sr. traps his victims in through gaslighting and so on, they're seeing the good intentions/desperation/etc. behind their actions, and therefore see themselves as good and their actions as justified even if they still have a sense that maybe they're not, in reality) and possibly also the different ways we perceive the results of Nathan Sr.'s actions in the real world vs. the Ink Dimension (not a fully formed thought, feel free to disregard that one). By the way, did anyone notice Bendy seemed to have control of the right hand – that's the hand he crushed the Memory of Joey with – while Audrey seemed to have control of the left hand – that's the hand she picked up the End Reel with – when they were first sharing a body? 🤔 This feels a possible hint that the End Reel was created by Nathan Sr., not Joey, as part of turning the Ink Dimension into a prison (“those tunnels are even deeper, even darker, than this one. There is only suffering down there,” after all)… and that the Memory of Joey/Nathan Sr. is not actually a good entity, but Bendy/Real Joey is, at the end of the day…?

As for Boswell's monocle meaning he was actually Wilson… Exhibit B: Boswell first appeared in 1932; Nathan Jr. and his baby bro Wilson were literally little kids at that point. Exhibit C: monocles usually aren't worn all the time in real life like they are in cartoons, they're usually used by farsighted/longsighted individuals and kept in one's pocket until one needs to pull them out for reading. If Nathan Sr. did have a monocle, he probably would not be wearing it to pose for a painting. Exhibit D: Ignoring that one slightly similar design detail, and regardless of whether the “Nathan Arch” portrait is of Senior or Junior, I think Boswell resembles the round, mustachio'd Nathan much more than the angular, bare-faced broomstick that is Wilson…

…In conclusion: honestly, it sounds to me like people being convinced that Wilson and Nathan Jr. are the same person and therefore Boswell must not be Nathan Sr. is literally just another example of Nathan Sr. successfully gaslighting everyone into an altered perception of reality (and you should just assume from this point forward that when any form of the phrase “Nathan Sr. is altering reality/memories” comes up, you can replace it with “Nathan Sr. is gaslighting us,” lol). Speaking of which, now that I think of it, I'm very suspicious of the fact that the comics where Boswell seems like a decent and oblivious person and Bendy seems to be (trying to) take advantage of him are sepiatoned, whereas the comic that I think got the two main comic artists disappeared is in black-and-white… *Stares at my notes on the possible symbolism of the sepiatone color pallet representing a preserved altered perception and the grayscale color pallet representing an easily destroyed purer perception* Also, my gosh, they make him look so goshdanged welcoming and saintly in his portrait. That smile is glowing with Santa Claus Vibes and I don't trust it.

Curious about Henry and Allison's story retcons being blatant lies and my theories on Audrey's origins, Gent CEO Alan/Allen Gray/Grey's true identity, etc? Read Part Three!

To Read the Original Analysis/Theory: Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Unexpected Part Four

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itskenickie · 1 year

Text

it’s almost 11 pm when kaeya finally finished all of his paperwork - or, more accurately, when jea finally kicked him out of hq so they could both go home.

kaeya may have left with a teasing comment thrown jean’s way and a little smirk tugging on his thick lips but, in reality, his heart felt heavy.

a heavy sigh escaped his lips and the little twinkle in his exposed eye died out as he begins his walk to his apartment.

it’s his birthday tomorrow and yet kaeya didn’t feel all that excited.

don’t get him wrong, he’s proud of his age and all that he had accomplished so far. and he’s more than thankful for having such wonderful friends celebrating this special day with him. but, still…

the sound of the thunder in the distance broke kaeya free from his melancholy thoughts. looking up, kaeya’s hand was held open as a raindrop landed on his palm. two, three more drops followed before the rain increased.

and even still, kaeya didn’t hasten his walk. instead, he basked in the light shower and took his sweet time getting back to his apartment.

the cold, which made him shiver, and the cute little sneeze he let out didn’t dampen his mood.

there’s something about the rain that calmed kaeya. during his ups and downs, the rain has always been by his side, like a dear friend.

kaeya stopped in front of his apartment, eye unseeing.

he stood there for what seemed like an eternity when it was just a few minutes, mentally preparing himself.

for what you may ask?

that kaeya will spend yet another night alone in this large apartment that he had for himself.

an apartment that didn’t posses a personal touch save for the few pictures of him and his friends littered here and there and the dead plants by the windowsill.

yet, his apartment didn’t feel like home. didn’t feel like-

taking a deep breath, as if to trick his mind into believing that he is home, kaeya unlocks the door, opens it and steps in.

kaeya is welcomed by darkness, and he tried his best not to sigh in disappointment.

he shrugged his coat off, dumping it carelessly on the ground, unbothered by the squelching sound and the rapidly growing pool of water. kaeya just wanted to go to bed and sleep his sadness away.

fumbles in the darkness, kaeya finally found the light switch and flicked it upwards.

he squints his eyes, for a moment, to adjust to the darkness, when he noticed something off.

there was a bouquet of red and blue lilies on the coffee table. a bottle of what looked like wine and, upon closer inspection, a brand that was so expensive that it costed both of kaeya’s paycheck. and next to it was a small red box with a blue ribbon.

kaeya’s eyebrow furrow in confusion as his eye rapidly scans his living room.

kaeya is used to having admirers and them giving him presents but none of them had been bold enough to leave something in his home. especially when most of them didn’t know where he lived.

kaeya didn’t know if he should be scared or flattered.

picking up the box, kaeya’s lips frown at the lack of card. usually, these things would have cards with them, covered in inks of love confessions and empty promises.

biting his bottom lips, kaeya contemplated if he should open it.

a heartbeat later, kaeya was untying the ribbon and lifting the lid.

a little gasp of surprise fell from his lips at what met his eye.

there, resting peacefully inside the box, was a gold chained necklace with a shiny ruby as its center piece.

“do you like it?”

the low, husky voice that came from behind him shocked kaeya so much that he nearly dropped the necklace in his hand.

turning around, kaeya’s eye landed on the lone figure leaning against the window.

his fiery red head rivaling the beautiful shine of his necklace.

his arms were crossed in front of his chest and his lips were tugged into a lazy, yet amused, smirk.

and there was this certain glimmer in his eyes that kaeya only noticed when the figure pushed himself away from the wall and slowly approached him.

“diluc.” kaeya whispered. scared that the person in front of him was just a figment of imagination. that if he spoke louder or made any sudden movements, he would disappear and kaeya would be all alone again.

“kaeya.” diluc greeted as his smile grew.

they stare at each other, no words being exchanged but their eyes spoke volumes.

silently, diluc’s bigger and warmer hand grasped kaeya’s, the one holding the necklace.

the redhead took the present, his fingers brushing kaeya’s in the process.

“turn around for me.”

and like a good boy, kaeya did as told, bringing his long hair over his shoulder, exposing his neck.

kaeya heard the soft little inhale of breath and felt a shiver run down his spine as goosebumps rose in anticipation and being touched by those warm fingers again after so, so long.

kaeya nearly whimpered when the necklace was placed on him and diluc’s finger clasped it for him.

but diluc’s fingers didn’t move and instead, they glided across soft skin. they moved without rhyme nor rhythm. kaeya’s head spun and he found it difficult to concentrate.

a tiny little moan filled the room when those warm fingers were replaced by soft lips pressing into his neck, placing a gentle kiss.

“happy birthday, kaeya.” diluc’s lips brushed his neck and kaeya didn’t stop the little whimper from escaping and quickly turned to embrace diluc. he held him, desperately, and buried his face and that pale neck.

“let’s go home.”

kaeya’s head snapped upward, nearly hitting diluc’s chin, and stared at the man with a widened eye.

“you mean…?”

diluc nodded his head.

kaeya blinks three times before a tear fell from his eye and down his dark skin before crashing his lips into diluc’s.

“thank you. thank you. thank you.” kaeya whispered between kisses before resting his forehead against diluc’s.

“let’s go home, kaeya.”

end.

#this can also be found on my twitter #luckae #diluc x kaeya

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epitheta · 2 years

Text

[1.3k] casual, [ACT II], mags and 03. they draw.

mags (he/hymn) and 03 (it/its - but you knew that one already).

Ink pulling across ivory and color drowning another canvas every which way, this duet accompanied by yawn of internal mechanisms and quiet rustle of leaves. Atop the southwestern temple’s tower were the Scrybe of Magick and the Scrybe of Technology. With the latter having lost their tiebreaker for today, the two were creating their pieces opposite the stairs and facing each other upon the center carpet. Specks from the wizard’s gaudy-bright pigment stood out starkly and stained the ground. A given, but different from P03 who worked with something cleaner and familiar.

"Magnificus," it said. "Tell me what you’re making.”

Dipping his brush into the bucket beside hymn, he hummed and swept excess paint over the rim.

“Pray tell, P03.” They do not look away from their respective easels. “Would you be able to comprehend the entirety of my vision if I revealed it to you, who would not tell me your own?”

Then came a noise almost as grating as an alarm–a frustrated huff.

“OK. Don’t tell me.”

He would have found the machine to be uninspiring at best, long ago.

Now there is a wide breadth of things that Magnificus had come to learn about his subject. Though daylight pierced the room, P03’s chassis was lackluster and absorbed most of it rather than reflected, even though a Scrybe of tech should have had a much more impressive design or want to maintain its appearance. But perhaps that was due to its work. There was never much need for it to leave its station.

And the cerulean of its display-face was not as bright as it used to be; rust and grime enveloped its form in areas like clover to the point he had to wonder if it could feel discomfort at all. At times its body movements would be erratic, even though its means of locomotion were as stable as the bastion it’s built above the sea. It was inorganic and without a beating heart. Yet as similar as to the necromancer that was to embody death, this automaton managed to feel even a smidge filled with life.

Another noise–longer, drawled–a sigh, he supposed this time. Perhaps it was the personality it took on that made it human, all with its own thoughts and actions, and…

”You really take forever, huh?”

Magnificus’s features wrinkled.

“You cannot rush art.”

“Whatever. Come look at how cool mine is and you can finish yours after.”

”No need–” Stepping back, he would look over his painting one last time and, after dramatically striking one more touch, cried–“I have completed my masterpiece you see!”

“Then hurry up over here…”

Despite the show of impatience, the wizard would drag the brush across the rim of the bucket again and allow the last drops of paint to return to its source. He then held his brush at an angle and, an arm kept folded behind hymn, would amble closer. Slowly at that. P03 twisted out of the way and allowed hymn to inspect its work, its expression a default nonchalance and the hue of blue much stronger. Expectation.

Magnificus stroked the beard part of his already confusing tangle of more beard and leaves. It was unlike Leshy’s heavy and dynamic strokes, charcoaled fingerprints usually imprinting the edges. Unlike Grimora’s deliberate use of smearing ink along thin lines that gave way to gestures. Perhaps it was due to its background of working with blueprints and the like given what it was, but it had depicted an exquisite image of his tower as seen from afar with a clear fondness for structures. Its linework was consistent and did not taper or hesitate. There was seamlessly straight hatching to give the illustration more depth, and he wondered if it had taken his remarks into consideration from the first piece it did for hymn.

To put it simply: it was in no means thoughtless.

As someone who seldom left his tower somewhat out of pride, there were several details that Magnificus could hardly recall that revealed P03’s memory and care for perfectionism. If it had less respect and no care for his craft, it would have just given hymn an outline of something–or nothing at all–and left after tossing the canvas somewhere for the wizard to look at another time. So, he was charmed. Maybe a little disappointed that none of the other Scrybes particularly enjoyed in dabbling with color like he did, but charmed nonetheless by all the different styles he had gotten to see all the while here.

”I feel honored. This is wonderful work,” he nodded.

A higher pitch (yeah-yeah), the lift-wave-roll of a clamp. ”Of course it is. Who do you think I am? Now show me your piece.”

After taking another moment to look at it, he bowed his head. Magnificus ushered it to his side and moved the easel. Its screen transitioned into ellipses–it quieted. He had drawn P03’s likeness in a manner that could be considered flattering, a three-fourths angle that was seen only slightly from below, and with every brushstroke in that awful-tacky signature palette meaningful. Creepy–disgusting? That did not describe it. That would stray from the truth, for he had captured all the intricate details with a delicate hand. Even its flaws felt like a compliment here since he had decided them beautiful enough to paint.

"You do not have to take it if you do not desire my work. I am content as is to have one of yours."

"I never said that." P03 was committing the piece to its memory. While not certainly bad, it was… embarrassing in several ways. To compare its piece to with an old master. To see itself regarded in such framing, far from the way it had considered itself–had thought it would be seen by anyone aside from its subordinates. It dismissed a small blip of a warning message, did not allow its fans to whirr faster. It leveled out its thought-circuit and tapped the top of the canvas with its clamp. "But yep, I'm not taking it to my factory. Where am I going to put that thing?” Its expression static-defaulted as it drew back. “It’s a distraction, so keep it here."

Magnificus rose a brow knowingly and cocked his head to the side. "Hmm… so you are worried you will ruin it in some way."

“Huh?” It pressed the base of its clamp into his face. "Don't twist my words, old hack."

He smoothed back a smile and carefully removed the metal before hymn, slowly lowering it and letting go. "Very well. I shall house it within my very tower so that you may gaze upon it when you next visit. Alas…” He shook his head. “Next time as well, I will do better to capture your essence.”

It twitched and moved back an inch, pinching and unpinching air. Do better? As if the #$%^ thing wasn’t already good enough. P03 would never let something like that come from its mic however, and so it clicked. "I am leaving if that is all.”

The Scrybe of Magick’s eyes shone curiously. The day was still young; morning gold had yet to bleed into an afternoon’s auburn through the towering windows of his floor. There was, at least, time for one more–if not many more. He drew his brush outwards.

"Are you certain?"

It grimaced. Hesitated, for once. Had the offer had been for a duel, it would have never refused; out of all the Scrybes, he was the most interesting to strategize against. This? It was wasting time to be productive by creating something that can easily be ruined. Something that it didn’t even need to do with the ability to display projections on the spot.

And it would never admit that it truthfully enjoyed it. (He already knew.)

Silently, P03 went to retrieve new canvases for two and could hear hymn laugh under breath.

#[w.doc]#long post #|| > unfortunate my prose isn't the way it used to be for the vibes I want but that's ok. I'm relieved I just could create something #since my mood was Really Off earlier [-:#don't think I really need to add any commentary to this one just don't look at me lol

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frauschneidersridingcrop · 2 years

Note

I'll take one Spartacus AU and one Selkie AU please 🌼

TWO?!?! You’re lucky we’re friends (jk ilysm)

I’ll put the snippets under the cut

Spartacus AU:

So I’ve rewritten this about...50million times in my head, but the one thing that never changed about it was that Till and Richard are Germanic warriors who get captured by Romans after a disastrous battle. They’re separated, and Till is sent off to become a gladiator.

It’s very angsty and there’s a lot of yearning, but tbh y’all should expect that from me by now.

Selkie AU

I’ve said it before, but if I had a nickel for every time you and I have had similar ideas for stories, I’d have two nickels.

I’ve changed this one up a little, but like the Spartacus AU, it’s kept a similar premise. This is also the closest I’ve ever come to writing something in Modern Day, but even then I failed because it’s set in the 80s. :P

Basically Till is a Bear Selkie who’s forced to work for this evil circus. Richard, Paul, Flake discover this, and plan to bust him out.

(Sparty)

Not once has he seen the Sun since arriving in this place, and he never realized how much he took it for granted. All he can see of it is the faint light from its rays that shine through the gaps between planks of the ship’s upper deck. It’s the only thing that tells him how many days have passed.

The ship has not moved in sometime. He can hear people speaking a language he does not know and the telltale squawks of gulls outside the ship. They’re at a port far from his homeland, or at least somewhere on the coast, but where exactly they’ve stopped he does not know.

It’s the sound of men descending below deck that wakes him fully. Two of them--both Roman. One is the captain of this vessel that he had been sold to by the soldiers that captured him. The other is an older man dressed in finery. In his hair there are few traces of his original hair color as most of it has long since turned gray.

The appearance of these two seems to be a shock to the other prisoners in the pens. It’s a shock to him as well. He had assumed that they were to be auctioned as no one but the captain himself and the sailors under his command are allowed in here. Though given the other man’s appearance, he probably had enough coin to bribe his way in here.

The Romans are speaking, and with every word the surprise of the other men turns to resignation. He wishes he knew what they were saying, but his understanding of the Romans’ tongue is minimal. None of his fellow prisoners share the same language so he can’t ask them either.

(Selkie)

“Will you go if Scholle comes along?” Hearing Paul mention him was enough to get him to stop absently playing his guitar.

“Wait, what am I being volunteered for?”

Flake adjusted his glasses. “Paul is trying to get me to go to this circus with him.”

Scholle snorted. “A circus? Really? What are you, seven?”

A crumpled up flyer was shoved into Scholle’s hands. There was a drawing of a clown being fired out of a cannon that looked like it had been poorly copied from another drawing, The ink rubbed off on his fingers whenever he touched it.

“My parents used to take me every year when I was a kid. I thought they had shut down!” Paul’s eyes gleamed with childlike wonder.

“They probably should have stayed that way. It just got worse and worse every year. I don’t know why you’re so eager to watch a bunch of sad clowns try to walk an unraveling tight rope.”

“It’ll be nostalgic!” Paul plopped down on the couch next to Scholle who held on tightly to his guitar to keep from dropping it. He grabbed Scholle’s shoulders and shook him playfully. “C’mooooonnnnn. If you don’t come, Flake won’t.”

“I never agreed to that.” Flake quickly interjected.

“If you want to go so badly, why don’t you just go by yourself?”

Paul looked at Scholle like he was crazy. “Because that would be so lame. What grown ass man goes to a circus by himself? People are going to thing I’m weird.”

“These two people” Scholle gestured to himself and Flake. “already think you’re weird.”

“If the three of us go, it’ll be cool in an ironic way.” Paul lightly shoved Scholle. “C’mon it’ll be totally punk.” There was no way Paul was ever going to convince either of them that a circus was ‘punk,’ but…Scholle could kind of see where he was coming from. There was something appealing about wanting to relive memories from a simpler time.

#ask me anything #tagged stuff #fic stuff #nekronalya

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st-voisins · 2 years

Text

𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎 𝐍𝐎 𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐒𝐀

Twenty-three. Senior. Linguistics + Theory of Spell-Crafting. Praetor of House of Gol.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘:

Stalked by an aloof ambience, every step another note in a melancholic melody, Nagisa serves a striking presence in the halls of St Voisin's… even if that is the last thing they want. A statuesque figure whose words are sparse and laughter sparser still, they appear from a distance akin to a glacial breeze, as imposing as they are silent. Clipped replies and a poker face form the foundations of their social persona, marking them a figure upon a tower, untouchable. Yet, time delivers a peek beyond the impression. Softer contours are found in fleeting little gestures: a sarcastic quip, a quiet hum, a fond smile. The glimmer of passion when a new spell is discovered, the snicker they fail to hide at an awful pun, the wordless delivery of calming tea after a rough night. There is much to see in Nagisa, if you look deeply enough, and it leads one to wonder why they reveal so little. In the answer lies a fundamental key to their nature — that after a youth spent in a lonely manor, held under iron grips and plagued by terrors too often of their own making, all Nagisa sees in themselves is something to fear.

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒:

PLAYED BY HAKKEN RYOU. A peculiar mix of delicate and intense — tall but not towering, slim but firm, with an onyx stare that bores into you but never cuts. Each feature is prominent, none too much more than the other, sharp lines with rounded edges coming together to form a picture almost sentimental. Once a child like an ink painting, all jet-black hair on ghost-white skin, it is only in recent years that Nagisa has gained more life to their impression, with color in their cheeks and occasional smiles on full lips — their time at St. Voisin's has brought about drastic change, indeed, reflected in their loose clothing and dark locks cut short just above the shoulders. And yet traces of the past remain, lingering in their fluid grace, when slender fingers drift over the keys of a grand piano or a light gait carries them soundlessly through the bustling corridors.

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂:

𝙎𝙋𝙀𝘾𝙄𝘼𝙇𝙄𝙏𝙔: Voicerfy — Better known among witches as cursed speech, vocifery has, in fact, nothing to do with curses at all. A mecurial magic where every spoken sentence has the potential (but no guarantee) to become a spell, it allows its users to verbally affect reality in both tangible and intangible ways, which can range from the most subtle to the most disastrous. Believed to be a purely inborn ability that is nigh-impossible to master, its volatility gives it the reputation of being a pseudo-curse on its users and thus its popular name. Theory around it is sparse due to its supposed rarity. In general, the effects of Nagisa's cursed speech are instantaneous and temporary (eg. don't drop that / I remember this / the door opened) but have no apparent rules in terms of range or scale. Its potency tends to be inversely related to how much control they have over it, particularly in times of distress. Overuse can cause spiritual and physical exhaustion. Verbal Spell-casting — The sound of spells are visceral and almost tangible, like waves waiting to be surfed. Most spells come easily to Nagisa and, once learnt, they are rarely forgotten. More academic than practical, though useful when mixed with other skills.

𝙄𝙉𝘾𝙇𝙄𝙉𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉𝙎: Spell Inscription — Imbuing magic into written words and symbols, either with ink (and, in extreme cases, blood) or by etching them into a surface. Prized for their ease of use and enhanced power, though most inscriptions have limited time and usages before vanishing. Common forms of inscriptions include charmed jewelry, paper talismans and magic tattoos, the latter two which Nagisa most prefers. Abjuration — A necessary tool against themselves, though occasionally also useful when faced with rowdy freshmen. Nagisa is best at Counter Spells — most effective against other spells, curses and incantations — closely followed by magic shields and boundaries. Papyromancy — The enchantment & manipulation of paper or paper-like medium. Aside from controlling their movement, Nagisa is most adapt at extending their senses through their paper dolls and they pull this off using incantations plus a knack for origami.

𝙄𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙈𝙀𝘿𝙄𝘼𝙏𝙀𝙎: Xenoglossic Magic — Allows users to be able to understand languages they've never learnt. Potions — Specifically, healing & recovery potions, which help an athlete greatly.

𝙋𝙍𝙊𝙁𝙄𝘾𝙄𝙀𝙉𝘾𝙔: Spell Inscription, Abjuration, Papyromancy

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓:

NAGISA IS PLAYED BY TRIPLES

character card template by lubsofrph

#student: nagisa #st-voisins #champions #house of gol

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dreamerstreamer · 3 years

Text

A Terrible Tutor

Pairing: Dream / Clay x gn!reader

Summary: [High School!AU] He’s cocky, annoying, a total tease, has a laugh loud enough to shake the stars, and you hate him. But as luck would have it, he’s also your tutor.

Word Count: 4.8k

Warnings: minor cursing

A/N: this is based on a classmate i had way back! (we did not fall in love. he was awful.) i’ve also never taken physics, but i tried something a bit new for the reader’s personality. i hope you enjoy :) <3

You glared down at your physics textbook, the open pages staring back up at you with beady eyes made of diagrams and labels. Off to the side, your notebook was strewn across your desk, a list of questions scribbled across the top line in a hurried rush. The handwriting was messier than you would have liked, but the thought didn’t irritate you.

What did irritate you was that it was nearly half past four, and your so-called tutor still hadn’t shown up.

You could still envision the concerned look on Mr. Craftson’s face as he held you back a moment after class, watching as the rest of your classmates poured out of the door with an anxious look. He had offered you a kind smile before pulling out your test from the week before, and you winced at the numerous red marks scattered across the front page alone.

“I know you’ve been struggling in this class,” he said, gazing at you almost pitifully.

You tried not to glower at the sight of his apologetic eyes trained on you, instead nodding your head slowly. “It’s been… hard,” you said slowly.

He leaned an arm on his chair, pushing your test toward you. “You ask questions in class,” he hummed, “and from what I’ve seen, you complete your homework diligently.” His smile fell. “Yet here you are me, with the lowest mark in my class.”

You wanted to shrivel up into a ball. Maybe he didn’t have to say it like that, but he wasn’t wrong, either.

At your silence, he prodded at you. “Is there anything going on at home that might be hindering you, or…?”

You whipped your head up, your eyes wide. “No! Things are—things are great. It’s just…”

You swallowed, then sighed, fidgeting your fingers on your lap. “I guess,” you murmured, trying to quell the shame flaring up inside you, “I’ve just been really struggling with the material, and none of it’s really been clicking.”

Mr. Craftson’s face softened in an instant. “That’s alright. Thank you for being honest with me. If my teaching hasn’t been working out with you…”

He paused, rubbing at the blond stubble on his chin for a moment. Then, his face lit up and he leaned forward. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a great student who I think might be able to explain things to you in a way you might be able to grasp a little better. He’s got the best marks in this class.”

Your eyes widened. The best in the class? He had to be a genius.

“I have a good feeling he can meet you tomorrow at four after school to help you out,” he continued, leaning against the arm rest of his office chair. “What do you say?”

You blinked, a thoughtful look passing over your face. Lord knew you needed the help—you were practically failing the class—but an uneasy stone settled into the pit of your stomach. You’ve never needed tis much help to pass a class before. The thought made you want to gag. Slowly, you opened your mouth.

“Do I have to…” You gestured vaguely. “Pay him or something?”

His cerulean eyes blinked at you for a second, then he laughed—the kind of deep-belly laugh only teachers seemed to be able to have. “No, no,” he said, waving his hand at you, “not at all. He’s a good kid. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

You bobbed your head, your insides crumbling. You didn’t want to accept, you really didn’t. Part of you guys wanted to believe that you could just work harder, study by yourself even more. You were a dedicated student, and you were doing just fine in all your other classes. Surely the content couldn’t get that much harder, right?

But as your gaze lowered to the red ink staining your test once more, you felt yourself swallowing the lump in your throat. Straightening your back, you let your stubborn pride seep out of your shoulders and onto the floor.

It looked like this was a sacrifice you were simply going to have to make.

“Thank you so much for the offer,” you said, letting your lips curl up into a genuine, grateful smile. “It—it really means a lot.”

Mr. Craftson grinned at you, an easygoing flint shining in his eyes. “Of course. You’re a bright student. Sometimes we all just need a little push.”

You could still remember shaking his hand in thanks before bundling your stuff in your arms and shuffling into the hall, tucking your feet between the pages of your textbook. That had been yesterday, and now, the same one was sitting on your desk, open to a new page full of jumbled words you could hardly decipher.

The chair across from you was distinctly empty.

He—whoever he was—was late.

You distantly wondered to yourself who your tutor even was, your gaze drifting down to your textbook. Mr. Craftson had said he was the best student taking the class. Would it be George? He always seemed like he knew what was going on, and he never really asked questions. But sometimes, he looked like he was just zoning out. Maybe it was Technoblade. He was smart. You paused, then shook your head. No, everyone knew he was one of those English kids.

The thought made you furrow your brows, wracking your head even more. The words on the page grew muddled and fuzzy as you thought even more. Just who was it?

Just then, you heard the classroom door swing open with the same loud creak every door in the school seemed to have. The sound of heavy breaths and panting filled the air, then a haggard voice spoke up.

“Hey, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

You didn’t look up from your page, letting a sigh escape your lips as you lifted your head. Plastering a polite smile to your face, you let your gaze travel toward your tutor. “Hi, it’s nice to me—”

Suddenly, your voice died in your throat as your eyes locked onto the figure standing in the doorway. Towering over the desks with a duffel bag resting against his hip, his dirty blond locks were damp and matted against his forehead, his emerald eyes blinking at you. Something bitter and warm twisted in your gut at the sight, and the smile dropped off your face and into a scowl.

“Oh,” you said flatly. “It’s you.”

The smile he offered you was easygoing, but you didn’t miss the strain in his gaze. “It’s me.”

You bit on the inside of your cheek, your heart practically revolting against your rib cage with the way it was hammering. A million questions were darting around the inside of your skull, only making your blood boil even more with each passing second.

Of all the people you had expected to show up, Clay was easily the last.

The two of you had first met back in freshman year in your first science class—he had sat behind you and had the loudest laugh on the planet, or so you were convinced. You were quieter back then, but just as stubborn and snappish as now. Soon enough, one thing led to another, and you swore the two of you were suddenly enemies for life.

Although you couldn’t remember what had caused your little feud, you knew that he was the one who started it. He was loud and kicked your chair, he just loved to borrow your pens and never return them, and you could never figure out just why he loved to tease you so much. You don’t think you learned a single thing in that class, always distracted by the presence staring a hole into your back, and you wanted absolutely nothing to do with him.

Naturally, that meant your teacher assigned him to sit behind you for the rest of the year. To this day, you were convinced she hated you, and you still avoided her in the halls.

To say that science class was your least favourite would be an understatement, and soon enough, everybody was in on your hatred for each other. Clay never seemed to stop pestering you no matter how hard you tried to ignore him, and you would never forget the day you finally snapped at him, whipping around to glare at him with your cheeks on fire.

“Will you please shut up?”

The shocked look on his face was still burned into your memory as it melted into a wide, proud grin.

“Only if you make me.”

Even years later, he always seemed to find a way to worm himself back into your life, and you hated it. You hated him, simple as that.

So, seeing him standing in front of you like this, it took every ounce of your strength to keep your voice as neutral as possible.

“What took you so long?”

He patted his duffel bag before slipping it off his shoulder and setting it on the ground. “I just finished football practice. Coach ran a little long and I figured it would be polite to take a shower before so I didn’t smell all sweaty when I tutored you.”

You blinked, your mouth falling open. That explained his wet hair, you guessed. While you were vaguely flattered, you were distracted by something else. “You knew that you would be tutoring me?”

Clay nodded, pulling back the chair in front of you. “Yeah. Phil asked me.”

You gaped. “You call Mr. Craftson by his first name?”

His smile was a touch too smug for your liking, and you wanted to wipe it off his face. “Maybe. I was surprised when he asked, though.” He wrinkled his nose and shot you a teasing smirk as he sat down. “I didn’t think you would be failing this class.”

You glowered, that same bitter feeling bubbling up in your chest, again. “I’m not failing,” you snapped. “I’m just…” You paused, your cheeks growing hot. “…not passing.”

He gave you a deadpan look, then laughed. “That’s the same thing.”

You sent him a gesture that your teacher most certainly would have scolded you for if he was here, and he laughed even harder. You were suddenly reminded of just how damn loud his laugh was, sounding like fireworks in your ears. Slumping over, you hung your head in your hands.

“Ugh. I can’t believe you knew you were going to be tutoring me of all people.” You paused, then added, “I can’t believe you agreed.”

He tilted his head at you, brushing his damp hair out of his face. “Did you not know I was gonna be your tutor?”

“No.” You frowned. “If I did, I wouldn’t have shown up.”

His eyes flickered with mirth as a smile stretched across his face. “Aw, am I really that disagreeable?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, your gaze as sharp as a blade. “Without a doubt. A hundred percent. I didn’t even have to think about it.”

He whistled, feigning a wince. “Harsh.”

Wryly, you said, “You deserve it.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I wasn’t that bad as a freshman, was I?”

You gave him a hard, callous stare. “Do you really think I’m the one you should be asking that question?”

He thought about it for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, point taken.”

You dragged a hand over your face, then pointed at your textbook. “Are you going to teach me now or what? We’re already behind.”

He winced for real this time, and you almost felt bad for him. Almost. “Sorry, again.”

“Seriously,” you muttered under your breath, reaching into your back to grab your pencil case, “and to think that you have the highest grades in this class.”

“Hey,” he shot back, “I’m brains and brawn.”

You shot him a look that was nothing short of disgusted. He cringed a little at the sight.

“Okay, that was cheesy, but I’m not wrong. Besides, coach says I have to keep my grades up or else I’m off the team.” He leaned closer to you, and you tried to ignore the feeling of his hot breath fanning over your skin. “You know I can’t let everyone down like that.”

You looked unconvinced. “Uh huh. Totally.” Whipping out a pencil, you tapped at the bottom of the page you had open. “Can you explain this to me, now? The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.”

He quietly chuckled, and you hated how soft it sounded. Leaning closer to the textbook to read, his lips mouthed the problem silently. You tried not to stare at his mouth as it moved, your gaze tracing over the soft dip of his lips as his viridian eyes flashed with recognition. A moment later, he sat back and cocked his head at you.

“So, what exactly do you not understand?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “Everything.”

He blinked, disbelief colouring his features. “Everything? Like, the whole thing?”

You scowled. “I thought that was obvious. All that stuff about velocity and the funny diagrams—” You shook your head. “—none of it makes sense.”

He raised a brow at you. “I thought you were paying attention in class. You really don’t understand a single thing?”

You bit back the urge to scream. “It’s not like you’re much smarter.”

Clay snorted derisively. “I am. That’s kind of the whole point.”

You groaned, letting your voice ring out in the quiet of the empty classroom. You caught a glimpse of his amused smile in front of you, and it only made you groan louder.

“You’re the one who ruined science for me, you know? I hated going to that class, and look at me now.” You gestured to yourself, using your finger to draw a ring in the air. “It all comes full circle.”

There was a brief second of silence. “I’m the reason why you hate science?”

You didn’t budge. “I wasn’t exactly jumping for joy knowing I was going to be stuck in a class with someone who never gave me my stuff back and kicked my chair.”

Another wave of silence washed over the two of you, but this one was tense—heavy. He swallowed, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob.

“You…” His eyes swirled with something sad and honest. “You really hate me that much?”

He suddenly looked a lot like a kicked puppy, and a pang of guilt shot through your chest like a bullet. With a panicked gaze, your voice grew shaky as you spoke. “I—I don’t hate you. I just… I had a grudge, I guess.”

Your tone grew soft, and you lowered your gaze to your lap. “I… I really didn’t like you back then, but things have changed.” You offered him a small smile, but it felt shy. “We’re not exactly fourteen, anymore.”

He returned your smile with one of his own. Just like yours, it was small and tender, and it sent something stirring in the depths of your belly. “No,” he murmured, “we’re not.”

“I,” you breathed, gulping down the last dredges of your grudge, “was stubborn back then.” You raised a shoulder. “In a way, I still am. I have too much pride for my own good too, but I don’t hate you.” The look you sent him had a spark of mischief, and his breath hitched. “Strongly dislike, at best.”

Clay blinked at you, looking half-surprised and half-awed at you. You squirmed under his gaze before he snapped out of his stupor, almost bashfully ducking his head. “I’m… It’s definitely too late for me to say this now when I really should have said it all those years ago, but I’m sorry. Really. I was a dick.”

You snorted under your breath, fondly mumbling, “Yeah, you were.”

His face perked up at the sound of your bitten back laugh. “I really shouldn’t have teased you so much. My reasons were… dumb.”

You cocked a brow at him, almost as if to say, Oh? Do elaborate.

But instead, you watched as his ears burned crimson red and he flashed you a pair of bright, pleading eyes. “Forgive me? Please.”

Your heart leapt into your throat, something new and warm bursting along the seams of your lungs. You couldn’t possibly say no to a face like that. Even the toughest person on the planet would crack under a look as sincere as that, you tried to reason, ultimately letting out a sigh with a stammer.

“O-Only if you actually can get me to understand this unit.” Pushing down the heat creeping up your neck, you pointed at him with an accusatory look. “Until then, you’re on thin ice.”

The grin he sent you was beyond dazzling—you couldn’t have brought yourself to look away even if you wanted to.

(And you didn’t.)

“Gotcha.”

Clay finished scribbling a diagram onto the new page of your notebook, flicking his thumb back to reveal the hordes of previous pages you had filled with other practice problems. If you were being honest, you were a little envious of just how neat his drawings were. No one should be able to draw a line as straight as that without a ruler, yet here he was, doing exactly that.

What a show-off.

Feeling your eyes on him, Clay lifted his head to catch your gaze, turning the notebook to face you. You tried to pretend the stumbling of your heart wasn’t because of him—not at all. “Do you get it?” he breathed.

You glanced back and forth between him and your page, your grip on your pencil falling slack. “I think so,” you said slowly. “Mostly, at least.”

He hummed for a moment, then flipped your notebook around until it was facing him again and holding an expectant, open hand toward you. Without even thinking, you dropped your pencil into his palm, a spark running up your fingers at the slight brush of his skin against yours. Carefully, he wrote a string of words on a new line, circling the sentence when he was done.

“Here,” he said gently, pushing the pencil back between your fingers, “try this question. This was one of the harder ones from my test.”

Gingerly, you peered down at the page, and your mouth fell open at the sight. This question was far more complicated than anything you had been solving in the textbook before this. What was he thinking?

“If you get it right,” he said suddenly, casting you out of your thoughts, “you should be all set.” His lips curved up into a taunting, knowing grin. “But it’s okay if you don’t get it—it is difficult, after all.”

You stared for a second longer, then grumbled under your breath. How could he read your mind like that? You were going to prove him wrong, even if only to knock that smug look off his face.

Leaning down, you tackled the problem head on, your pencil flying across the page as you spelled out formulas and equations, doodling a diagram when you had to and pausing to think every other breath. Before you, you didn’t see Clay watching you with a soft, tender gaze, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted against your pencil when you stopped and how you chewed on your mouth when you got nervous.

You really were more endearing than you could ever know.

Suddenly, you let your pencil clatter against the table as you pushed your notebook toward him, eyeing your pencil scratches with a wary look. “Done.”

His viridian eyes gleamed with excitement. “Alright,” he said, plucking the paper from your desk with a practiced ease, “let’s take a look.”

His gaze scanned your work intently, his lips pressed together in focus. You folded your hands onto your lap, trying to focus on his analysis of you work. But the longer you looked, the more you felt your gaze trailing up to graze his cheeks. Did he always have so many freckles? You didn’t remember seeing him with this many as a freshman, but you also spent more time glaring at him than staring at him back then.

In a way, he was kind of... pretty. Handsome, even. Not that you would ever say it out loud.

You suddenly had a strong urge to reach up and trace feather-light lines between each of his freckles, but before you could even take another breath, Clay’s eyes were on yours again. Unlike earlier, the look on his face was grave, and a small grimace overtook his features.

“I have bad news,” he said dryly.

Your heart fell.

Of course you got something wrong. You were a fool to think that things would change just because Clay would be teaching you instead.

But then, his grimace curled up at the corners, and your jaw dropped.

“I have nothing left to teach you in this unit.”

Your eyes widened.

“I got it right?”

He turned the notebook back to face you. A large check mark had been scribbled in pencil along the side of the page, a tiny smiley face decorating the corner next to it.

“Perfectly.”

The gasp you let out sent you barrelling for your feet, and you nearly started jumping for joy in the middle of your seat. “Yes!” you cried, pumping a hand up in the air. Suddenly, you whirled to point at Clay, a pout forming on your lips. “Oh my god, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t do that.”

He chuckled, leaning back with his hands up defensively. “Sorry, sorry. I saw the opportunity and just had to take it.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you stuck your tongue out at him. “You’re terrible.”

His eyes softened—sincere and sweet. “I know.”

Ignoring the sudden burst of warmth rushing through your veins, you huffed at him. “Well, at least I have two pieces of good news for you. First,” you said, sliding your notebook off your desk, “we can both go home, now.”

“And the second?” he prompted, looking at you inquisitively.

You folded your notebook shut, boring a hole into your backpack with the intensity of your stare. You couldn’t look at him right now, you just couldn’t.

“Second,” you nearly whispered, “I accept your apology.”

Slipping your textbook into your bag, you heard him take a sharp intake of breath. “Really?”

You reached for your pencil case, fumbling with the zipper. “Yes.”

There was another breath, but this one was gentler, less harsh. You peeked up at him from your bag, and your heart stuttered at the ecstatic look on his face.

“This,” he said, “is the greatest day of my life.”

You blinked wildly at him, zipping your backpack up all the way before slinging it onto the desk. “That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”

He shook his head, his smile never once faltering. “Are you kidding? I thought you were going to hate my guts forever!”

You shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I might have.” You paused. “Actually, I probably would have. But luckily for you—” You shot him a sincere look. “—not anymore.”

His grin grew impossibly wider, yet it somehow still looked natural on him. Deep down, a part of you wanted to bottle up his expression and remember it for as long as you lived.

“Like I said, greatest day of my life.”

You giggled, rolling your eyes. “Weirdo.”

Pushing in your chair and gesturing for him to stand, you jutted your head toward the door. Clay didn’t need to be queued twice before he was rising to his feet, pushing the chair back to its rightful spot before heaving his duffel bag off the floor and onto his side. As the two of you headed out towards the door, a bought suddenly flickered across your head, and your lips began moving before you could even begin to think.

“One of these days, you need to tell me why you liked to pick on me so much. Like, seriously, why me?” You gestured to yourself as the two of you stepped outside into the school hallway. “I’m not exactly special.”

You hadn’t been looking at him in that moment, focused on closing the door behind you, but when he didn’t respond for a moment, you looked up and felt your lungs tighten. You had never seen Clay look so bashful in his life, with his ears flaring crimson red and a faint rosy tint dusting the panes of his cheeks. His freckles were only more noticeable with the pink background, and you nearly blurted something you knew you would regret.

“Maybe I’ll—” He coughed, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

Before you could even ask what he meant by that, he was firing off once more. “In the meantime, if you still need help, I don’t mind coming in again next week or something.”

You nearly took a double take. Next week? He wanted to help you, again?

“Don’t you have more important things to do?” you asked, scanning him with wide, curious eyes. “Like studying your own stuff.”

“You’re important,” he said abruptly.

You choked on your spit, and by the way he went absolutely stock still in front of you, you had a feeling he hadn’t meant to say that.

“Oh,” you whispered.

That warm, fuzzy feeling from earlier was rising between your lungs again, only this time it sent your heart racing around your chest. Sucking in a deep breath, you nodded your head once, twice.

“Sure,” you managed to say as calmly as you could. “The, um, the next unit looks a little confusing, so I might need some help.”

Clay’s face suddenly brightened at your soft request for assistance, and you caught his shoulders slumping with relief as he smiled. “Awesome.” He paused, then waved his hand. “Not the part about you needing help, I mean.”

You laughed a little at that, your nerves calming a bit more. “I would hope not.”

He smiled back at you. “So,” he said, drawing out the syllable, “I’ll be back same time next week?”

You couldn’t help but reach over to elbow him a little playfully. “Try to be on time though, yeah?”

He flushed a bit, but cracked a crooked grin nonetheless. “I’ll try my best.” He glanced over his shoulder down the hall, and you suddenly realized you would be heading in the opposite direction.

“I’ll see you around?” he murmured gently, brushing away his now dry hair from his forehead.

One of your hands tightened around the straps of your bag while the other waved back at him. “See you.”

With one last grin at you, you watched as he turned on his heel, striding down the hall with his duffel bag bouncing against the side of his hip. Just then, your eyes grew wide, and you cupped your hands around your mouth to call after him.

“One last thing, Clay!” you shouted, your voice echoing down the empty corridor.

At the sound of his name, he whipped around again, his brows knitted together. Breathing in deeply, you screwed your eyes shut and called out once more.

“Thank you!”

When you opened your eyes again, his emerald green eyes were blinking at you with wild abandon, his lips parted in what could only be described as a look of pure wonder. Your heart skipped a beat, and you wondered why he was looking at you of all people like that.

Swallowing, he sent you a lopsided, earnest smile and cupped his own hands around his mouth to shout back at you.

“Anytime!”

You kept waving at him even after he let his arms drop back to his sides and he vanished around the corner of the hall. Almost immediately, you bent over to bury your head into your knees, letting out a soft, muffled yell.

Why did your chest feel so warm when he looked at you like that? Why did you want to count his freckles so badly when he smiled? Was he always so nice, so helpful and kind? Why did he look so cute when his face flushed all pink like the way it did before? When did he become so endearing instead of annoying?

Did you like him?

You let out another muffled cry into your hands, feeling heat flood every part of your body like a tidal wave crashing into your system. You could hear your heart ringing in your ears like a bell that wouldn’t ever stop, and your toes curled into your shoes.

You had so, so many questions, none of which you knew how to solve.

Hopefully Clay could help you figure out the answers.

610 notes · View notes

jawllines · 3 years

Text

There was very little Y/N could take from Anne’s brief testimony. At this point from the judgment of character alone Y/N had long since abandoned the idea that he could have killed his wife. The part of her that is immersed in the world of stories, dark literature, and mystery, tells her that she’s naive to trust him so wholly. That certitude like this would personify, walk with her hand-in-hand off the ship on a wooden plank, and there she’d find her naivety with a sword to her throat, telling her to jump.

Y/N could be intuitive when she wanted to be. When she truly opened up her heart to a situation and saw it for what it was, and despite quite a few attempts of trying to make the accusation of murder make sense, she simply couldn’t. That didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear it straight from his mouth though. Just because she had made up her mind about the idea of him killing her, didn’t mean she knew the details that led to that judgment from the town. Who heard when about what and why; there was no way to know other than the two ideas she’d come up with:

1. Break into the police department and look through classified records.

2. Ask Harry.

She thinks she’d try her luck fighting off a policeman first.

Y/N’s questions are answered and Harry’s been through a lot, hasn’t he?

(TW: mentions of murder, suicide, abuse, alcohol/drug use)

part 1

part 2

part 3

iv.

For four years, Harry had been stuck in a meadow.

Not a beautiful one that flourished beneath a vivid blue sky, with colors aplenty and life in abundance. It was cold; clouds hung low and heavy with icy rains that pierced his skin with every drop. The world was grey, the flowers were dead, the life was dormant, and Harry was alone. Stagnant in old memories that he wished to forget, haunted by new ones as the days passed and grew shorter, the night came quick and stayed long, his insides hollowed and his skin froze. Each passing day felt empty, bunnies with chubby paws and gurgling, giggly faces brought small beads of happiness but bunnies had to sleep, and he has to work.

Numb -- he felt numb and bitter, starving for warmth in four years of winter. Even his tears had frozen, the hot sting no longer brought comfort but more pain. And he lay there among the dried yellowed grass, wondering when it might get better. He lay there the first year wondering if his marriage was a mistake, and the second year he questioned if it would’ve been better if they had not met. The third-year he ponders if he were ever meant to be loved-- he wonders if it was supposed to feel this rotten. Had love stories no truth to them? Had all the authors been lying? Within the bad, there was always some good, but Harry hadn’t felt much good for three years by then. The fourth-year he wondered if it was his fault, all of it, just as the wind whispered in his ear. Maybe had he done something different then nothing would have happened. Maybe if he had been different then everything would be fine. Maybe then the bunnies wouldn’t have eyes that didn’t match his own.

It had started with a speckle of sunlight. The kind that appears at the end of a sluggish storm that came in the afternoon, filled the streets and soaked the soil of ditches with rain. Clouds withdrew, revealing the sun had begun sinking past the horizon, only thirty minutes or so until night inked the sky, but even for those few minutes there’s comfort. Reddish hues cut through the gloom, half the sky is dense clouds that ease to another town and the other half are cooed promises of a stormless day come morning. That’s how it started. . .just a little bit of sun with a giggle that drowned out the thunder.

The next day, the rain stopped. He blinked up at the clouded sky questioning why it had stopped pelting his skin like glacial stones -- it had been so long of this he panicked for one moment, maybe two (maybe three), but he tried to make do with it. His hollow stomach growled for the first time in ages, the scent of almond jam tarts slithers through his nose and makes his mouth water. The sun peeks out through the clouds to giggle again, teasing him with a few minutes of warmth -- the bunnies came to bask in it too, from beneath the burrow he’d made for them. One he lay on top of to keep them from the rain. They nudged at his back, demanding to come out, and so he rolled over and let them and they enjoyed the heat as well.

Each passing day the sun shows itself more and more, first timidly -- meek and mild, a little unsure. It smiled at Harry though he rarely smiled back. . .his cheeks were frozen how could he? But slowly he thawed; he could move his head again, look side to side, visualize the grass was now lush, healthy green, and wildflowers in an assortment of colors had begun to bloom. When the sun first came, he’d been so guarded. . .so worried. . .so angry that he couldn’t welcome the feeling of it kissing his skin. As each day passed the sun grew warmer and brighter, and as each day passed, the grass grew greener and the flowers more lively, and as each day passed, Harry’s smile grew bigger.

Harry liked laying in this field much better, bathed in golden rays.

And Harry liked waking up with Y/N beside him.

She was a rather heavy sleeper, or so Harry found which confused him greatly. The few times he’d woken her with his nightmares, somewhere behind all the murky fog of him trying to gain his footing back in reality, he would wonder how she woke so easily. Was he really that loud or did she rise at the sound of a pin colliding with linoleum? It had been the second night she’d coaxed him back to sleep that he realized it had been the former as it was easy to quietly slide out from the cocoon of her arms and the blankets that she’d made to bring him comfort. Y/N slept like a log -- he’s sure she could sleep through a marching band storming up and down the halls of the hotel -- but she always woke for him. Woke for him and coddled him.

Harry hated needing it, but he loves it while it’s happening. In ways it felt like a guilty pleasure; something that he indulged in though he probably didn’t need to, akin to an extra scoop of ice cream on his waffle cone, or staying up an hour later to finish binging a show. As he came down from the horror that his subconscious had fed him, to melt in Y/N’s arms was very pleasant. She felt like sun but she smelled like spring rain, and she held him like she knew how much he needed it. Like she knew how good it felt for him to be in someone’s arms. . .how happy he was to not wake up alone.

He preferred this though -- to wake with Y/N beside him, no memory of a night terror tormenting his brain as he blinks his eyes open. Y/N was not curled as close to him as she had been when they’d fallen asleep and while this made him pout for a moment, he is glad to watch her from this angle. She was close enough to him that he felt her warmth diffuse from her body beneath the sheets, but far enough that he could make out all of her features without having to move his head. All he does is press the corner of the pillow from his face with his fingers so his view isn’t obstructed at all.

This wasn’t a creepy thing -- he knew if she woke it might look like a creepy thing, him just watching her, but Harry was simply looking. He enjoyed the calm that her face contained; soothed and undisturbed. He could tell from one look at her face when her mind was racing, whether it be the faint furrow in her brow or the way she starts playing with her lips with her fingertips or nipping at her nails absentmindedly. That spacey glow in her gaze when she stares out the windshield of the car lost in a daydream that Harry wished to join her in. What does she think about when she spaces out like that? Harry would love to know but he found himself too shy to ask most days.

Too shy? It was novel, the idea of him being shy. Had anyone in his life known that he got absurdly shy and flustered when it came to this girl, they’d find it laughable. He wasn’t like this normally. . .even after everything that had happened, he was able to put on a brave face and fake the character that he’d always presented himself as. To make people more comfortable, to force the pity out of their stares when he walked into a room, to make himself feel normal when he had every reason not to.

But when he was with Y/N, he felt all jumbled and rearranged, his thoughts knocked together like the beads inside Charlie’s little rattles. It made little sense to him but his feelings never made much sense to him, even the ones he thought he’d understood. As a young boy, he’s always felt his emotions so intensely, like they could encompass his being sometimes, both the good ones and the bad ones. Rarely did they ever make him act out, but his mind was constantly going, it felt, and his mum always told him he was governed by his heart. And when he grew and chose to be more analytical, he’d thought he’d pressed that all aside. At the point that Y/N had entered his life, he’d made the assumption he’d grown out of it.

He’d been wrong.

That was okay though, wasn’t it? It was alright to feel things but they were so big. That’s the only way he knew how to describe them -- incredibly big, ardent, impassioned. Did she feel these just as he was? When she saw him, did her heart race unreasonably fast? Did she feel bashful beneath his gaze? Was she happier when they were together? Why couldn’t Harry just ask?

Why couldn’t Harry just ask?

The ache in his knuckles reminds him of what he’d done the night prior, mixed in his emotions regarding it. His reaction to Emmett had been boorish, and how he took the guitar even more so. After the little anecdotes, Y/N had shared with him about the kind of man Emmett was, it filled him with such hatred. Such hatred and spite for a man that he had not once met, but had raised memories from Harry’s own brain that he could not leave ignored. He hated him. . .he hated him for what he’d done to Y/N -- hated him for the broken look in her eyes at the thought of him, at what life he’d taken from her.

And he hated him for his own personal reasons. . .selfish reasons.

How could there be so many of the same type of person in the world?

Y/N wriggles in her spot, her brow pinches as her arms emerge from the covers and reach toward the headboard, a soft groan stirs from her chest. Harry held his breath for a moment -- should he look away? If she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, would she be unsettled? Would they be okay like she said they would? He hoped so. . .he really, really hoped so.

Her eyelids flutter first, before she blinks, squinting against the sharp morning sun that filled the room. Only a moment passes before she turns to him, a small, sleepy smile pulls at her cheeks. Eyes puffy from sleep, Harry struggles not to coo aloud -- she’s terribly cute.

“G’morning.” Her voice sends sparkles through his body; glittering, dazzling, iridescent bubbles.

“Good morning,” he cleared his throat after his gravelly response, and watches as Y/N pushes herself up from the mattress, but her bottom lip pouts, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She nodded, “Mhm,” it’s gentle how it leaves her mouth, it makes him want to protect her from the world, “You made me all sticky last night.”

Harry’s brows raised -- he hadn’t thought she’d mention it. If anything, Harry half expected them both to pretend it hadn’t happened. It probably shouldn’t have but at the moment, Harry had not considered what it might mean afterward. All he’d known was in that moment, he needed to touch her, and taste her, and feel her in every way imaginable.

It would hurt, Harry thinks, if they had to pretend that things hadn’t changed. Harry’s body, his mind, his heart sang too loudly for him to drown the sound of it out and play pretend. He had felt her against him in every way imaginable the night prior and still it hadn’t felt like enough. It had been a part of the reason he’d tried his best to hold out for as long as he could. If that were to be his only time with her, he wanted to make it count, but even then. . .even with how much they did and how long they did it for -- he just wanted to be even closer.

And he almost can’t stand it. Almost can’t stand how much he wants her.

“I cleaned you up, Sweetheart. Did I not do a good job?”

Y/N tilted her body toward him, and very suddenly did she plop across his torso, words muffled from where her face was pushed into the covers, “You did alright I guess, but I need a shower.” He smiled, laying his hand flat across her back, rubbing circles over the cotton fabric of his shirt she wore and he felt her melt; her muscles ease and her bones jellied, “Don’ wanna get up yet.”

“Don’t have to,” he murmured, “Can sleep as long as you like.”

Y/N’s response is a low hum that vibrates from her chest to his belly. The familiarity in her actions brings relief to the tension he’d been stacking in large blocks throughout his body. He had filled with such dread that they might revert back to their old, sheepish tendencies in how they regarded one another. Part of the reason he’d watched her wake, he’d admit, was because he’d been so happy that she was still there and he had to make sure for the first few minutes that it wasn’t a lovely dream. That Y/N was right beside him resting, not sat in her room in deep contemplation about how to go about reorienting their situation to how it had been.

Of course, if Y/N told him that she was uncomfortable and that things were weird, he would respect whatever decision she’d make in response to it.

He is, however, more than delighted that that wasn’t the case.

Still, he voices his concern slightly, in case he was reading her actions wrong. He doesn’t stop rubbing on her back as he begins speaking, and she startles some as he’d just woken her back up, “We are okay, yes? We’re still good how we were?”

Y/N re-earths her face from the blankets, lying on her cheek so she could face him. Her face looked so soft -- Harry’s tempted to reach his fingers out to stroke against her cheek, but he stops himself, “Are you worried?” He does not waste a moment before giving a solemn nod, swallowing thickly when her fingers find the bare skin of his chest, stroking there gently, “Why?”

His brows furrow, trying to deviate his attention from her careful caresses, “I. . .we did a lot last night,” he murmured, “I’m worried that you might regret it a little.”

“I’m glad you said it, ‘cos I was g’na say I was worried you regretted it but I’d been too embarrassed to ask,” she moves her hand to cradle his cheek, and Harry’s face warms as he lets his eyes flutter closed, leaning against her soft palm, “I don’t regret a thing,” her words were sincere, “We’re silly.”

Harry nodded, a small smile painted his face as he allowed himself to get sucked into the moment. Free of his memories, free of his worries, free of anything. . .anything at all that doesn’t have to do with being in this bed. It feels good. Harry doesn’t think he’s felt this good in a long time.

Harry doesn’t think he’s felt this good ever.

“We’re silly.” He repeats.

. . .

Feeling things could be a lot sometimes.

Emotions could be cumbersome.

At least that’s how they had felt before, especially with Emmett. Y/N always felt like her emotions were trudging through sludge, grappling for the edge of a riverbank but being dragged back into the murky water. They were conflicting and confusing; they didn’t feel good at all. And they dwindled so thin that by the time she was packing her things in her car, the tears she cried were out of frustration that she was the one who had to pick up and move her life around, not because she was sad she lost him.

But these feelings for Harry have always felt so. . .light? That didn’t feel like the right word. Not light in the way that they weren’t intense for her, because they were earnest and enthusiastic -- but they didn’t feel heavy. It had felt like Emmett was always at her hips, yanking her down to the deep end of a pool she’d drown in. With Harry, he pulled her hands gently toward fields and hills of green, where they floated just above the soil, giggled and tumbled and skated their fingertips along the morning dew.

She felt calm with Harry. . .her feelings were big, and they were good.

For the rest of their time in the city, things had felt as if they changed but in the same breath, they hadn’t much at all. Harry is still as tender as he always is, and he still trips and fumbles over his words. As they had grown to know each other his stony exterior cracked progressively but it had felt that he’d dragged down a full wall for her. Maybe two even; she’d taken a chisel and sledgehammer to the mortar fixing the stone together and carefully broke it. A soft glowing center had been revealed but only sometimes, she found. Only sometimes would he hold onto her for a little longer than normal. Only sometimes would his gaze linger. Only sometimes would it look like he might kiss her, but he pulls his lips into his mouth instead.

Y/N doesn’t push him because she knew there were at least two more walls left fixed around him, and both of them are components of life before her. Whatever had happened, had left Harry a broken man, and no matter how desperately she wanted to know everything about it, she wouldn’t pry. She even tried to stop quietly theorizing about it all, though Anne does not make it very easy at all.

Last night they all went out for one last dinner together, and when Harry and his father excused themselves to go to the restroom it was only Y/N, Anne, and Charlie left at the table. Charlie had found his way into Harry’s lap at some point throughout the night, and Harry passed him off to Y/N’s lap when he’d left the table, but he pulled off one of his rings so that Charlie could keep playing with it. Y/N held the marching teddy ring between her thumb and forefinger as his chubby hands gripped around it and he marveled silently.

Anne smiled gently at her as she pierced a piece of steamed broccoli onto her fork, “I want to thank you, Y/N,” she had begun, before she twisted her body around to look at the direction of the bathrooms then turned back to face her, “I’ll be quick about it, the two of them never wee for long. I want to thank you because. . .well, I don’t know what you’ve done to him, but he seems less. . .less miserable than he has been these past few years. I know part of it could just be the healing properties of time, but something tells me you bring a lot of light into both his and Charlie’s life.” Slowly she shook her head, “He’s misunderstood, a lot of the time. He always has been, even when he was a child. Just loves with his whole heart and some people take advantage of that. I don’t know the nature of your relationship but I just ask that you continue to treat him kindly, no matter if it is platonic or not. God knows he needs that after what she put him through,” she hovers the broccoli over her mouth, “Though I hate to speak ill of the --”

Y/N wanted more. She wanted to take Anne out for coffee after dinner, find themselves a secluded booth in the back, and ask her every question that she could possibly think about what she didn’t know. Deep in her marrow, she knew it would be wrong to find out from someone who wasn’t Harry, but it would be easier wouldn’t it? Y/N would know and Harry wouldn’t have to relive the traumatic events for her to know. It would be the easiest solution, she’d think.

But before Anne could even finish her sentence, Harry appeared. The worst of it was she couldn’t even be irritated with his sudden reappearance, because the smile he gave her was sweet enough to melt her heart as he placed his hand on her shoulder then squeezed past her to get back to his seat, “Through the windows, I saw a candy store. It’s the same chain that has those fudge-dipped Oreos you like. Would you like to stop there after dinner?”

There was very little Y/N could take from Anne’s brief testimony. At this point from the judgment of character alone, Y/N had long since abandoned the idea that he could have killed his wife. The part of her that is immersed in the world of stories, dark literature, and mystery, tells her that she’s naive to trust him so wholly. That certitude like this would personify, walk with her hand-in-hand off the ship on a wooden plank, and there she’d find her naivety with a sword to her throat, telling her to jump.

1. Break into the police department and look through classified records.

2. Ask Harry.

She thinks she’d try her luck fighting off a policeman first.

How could she just ask? There was no way to, she was certain of it -- no appropriate way to, at least. Any way that she tried to phrase it in her head sounded too nosy, too forward, too abrasive. Not only had she come to the conclusion that she didn’t believe he could kill his wife, but she’d also come to the conclusion that it was simply impossible to string the right words together so she could question why everyone would think he did. What was their relationship like before? He’d said they’d gone on trips -- that she’d liked the sun, and her only solace moving somewhere as dreary as the vacation town they inhabited was the beach. And she knew that Anne didn’t like her, for some reason or another -- that she put Harry through a lot. But that’s it.

That’s it.

If she thought about it for too long, her head ached. And when her head ached, her brows knit and she’s staring off into space without thinking all too much about it. So she hadn’t realized that Harry had even appeared back beside her in her hotel room, until she felt the tenderest of caresses just along her jaw, something he typically only did at night. When she turned to face him, his fingertips met her face, smoothing out her brow with the pad of his thumb, “Your head is hurting,” he murmured knowingly, the icy mint scent of his gum flutters along her nose, “Do you want to rest? I could finish packing for you.”

“How did you know my head was hurting?” Harry continues to rub her brow until she’s relaxed the muscles in her forehead, and the tension begins to dissipate from her shoulders.

“I’m observant,” he murmured, letting his hand fall away from her face but he slips it down, letting it rest on the curve of her throat, “You slept very little last night. Could feel you tossing and turning.”

It was true; she’d fallen through the rabbit hole of her thoughts as she’d spent many nights doing, only now when she was doing it, chances are she was laying beside Harry. One of the things that had changed was their need to find an excuse to sleep in the same bed, which was a blessing. Now, how Harry asks, is by offering her a shirt to sleep in while he feeds Charlie his last bottle for the night, cradled in the crook of his arm. Y/N gives Charlie plenty of cuddles and kisses, they lay him down in his crib, and the both of them get ready for bed themselves.

All of it feels very domesticated, especially the bits where after they’ve washed their faces and brushed their teeth, they crawl into bed and Harry finds them a movie to watch that they inevitably speak through half of, then get invested in the last quarter. Y/N thinks Harry finds it easier to touch and cuddle at night; this is when things feel most different than what they had been. He indulges in soft caresses, gentle squeezing, pulling her flush to his body, and skimming his fingers all along her skin, giggling when she shivered like he found joy in rousing goosebumps in his wake. The way Harry holds her spoke for how touch starved he’d been, and Y/N melted beneath the attention. Especially since this was when he was most open and willing to give it.

The night prior, he’d fallen asleep after one movie and the half of a second one (typically he tries to wait for her to fall asleep first, but she had taken to combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and when she peeked up at him as his eyes began to flutter shut, he scrunched his nose at her, “Thank you, Darling”), and she’d stayed up. Her mind chattered at her, tweeted thoughts like a rose-ringed parakeet. What had Harry gone through? That would make him have horrible nightmares? That would make people think he was capable of murdering his wife? That his mum would thank her for bringing light into his life? The whole dark mess of it was so lost on her. It just made her want to hold him, kiss his rosy cheeks, protect him from the world and only share him with the sun and the moon.

After she had gotten up to have a wee, checked on Charlie, and crawled back in bed, she didn’t want to disturb him by weaseling her way beneath his arms again so she stayed on her side. So she tossed and she turned, wondering and searching for answers she couldn’t pull from thin air. Maybe she could just call his mum -- she’d given her, her number -- she could call her, ask her, sit on the phone for hours because she loved to talk (Y/N would guess that’s the outcome of a relatively silent husband) and she’d divulge every nitty-gritty secret Y/N knows she’s been nearly frothing at the mouth to tell.

But she couldn’t. . .she just couldn’t.

It was after she’d sighed to herself, quiet enough that there was no possible way she woke him up, but she felt a hand meet her side. His forearm slid along her hip, tucked around her body, and dragged her from her spot to meet him back in the middle. Y/N gave a questioning hum as she rolled around to look at him, but his eyes were closed, and he still appeared to be asleep. That is until his lips parted, a small, tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, “Sleep now. I’m giving you half of my sleepiness to help you.”

She rested her head on his chest, packaged all her inquiries in a tightly bound bundle, and tossed them outside for the night.

His notice reminded her of this, and her shoulder slumped as she tipped her forehead against his chest, “Aish, I forgot I woke you up last night. I’m the worst bed buddy.”

Harry rests his chin on her head, “Don’t say that,” he murmured, “You take away my nightmares and you smell like how I think the moon might, so you’re the best bed buddy.”

So gentle. Soft. How could he ever even hurt a fly?

Did he have something dark in him? Y/N wonders what it might have looked like to see him with Emmett, as she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him to her body. This rare display of daytime affection made whatever relationship they were developing feel real. More than just a drunken romp after emotions had run high; something tender and warm. Something that Y/N could get lost in.

“I reckon you take the title of best bed buddy. You gave me half of your sleepiness, remember?”

Harry hums, “Mhm,” he pulls back, letting his lips touch to her temple, “And I’ve just given you a quarter more. Lie down Sweet thing, I’ll pack the rest.”

Just as Y/N’s flipping back and forth between lying down for the nap or sucking it up and packing the rest of her things after taking paracetamol or two, there was the telling babble that told them both someone was awake. They unwind from each other, turning around to see that Charlie had woken up from where he’d been napping in his car seat. Y/N peeks around Harry, brows rising at the big, bright eyes that stare at them tiredly, “Well look at that! The absolute sleepyhead just woke up.” She made her way to Charlie, clicked the buckle that secured him to the seat, and fit her hands beneath his armpits, “C’mere, you little sloth. Say good afternoon, Daddy! I slept so long so that I could have an extra good time on the way back home, hm?”

Charlie lies his head down on her shoulder, holding out his chubby fingers toward Harry who made his way over easily. He took Charlie’s hand and kissed each of his fingers, before pretending to eat them, and smiling triumphantly when a bubble of giggles is the result. The scene makes her heart warm, but not nearly warm enough for her to not remember their check-out time was briskly approaching.

“Here,” she murmured, handing him over to Harry, “Cuddle, and I’ll finish packing, yeah? I’ll save my quarter of sleepiness for later.”

“Could I --” Harry began, just as she was about to move toward the bathroom. When she pauses and looks back toward him, he has that shy look on his face again. . .the one that appears just before he starts to fumble over his words a bit when he asks her something. Whether it be for a cuddle, or if she’d like to visit someplace with him, or if he wants his hair played with, “--could I kiss you?”

She tries not to smile too hard as she pushes up to kiss him.

And she presses an exaggerated kiss to Charlie’s cheek too.

. . .

Being back at home is. . .different.

They got home around dusk; the sun sank low in the sky, disappeared behind the tree-line, and with it the end of their trip together. Coming home from a vacation always felt a bit off, after pretending another place was your home for a little while. Rooms were stiff, the air was stale and un-lived in, and it took about two hours of lighting candles, pushing open windows, turning on fans, and turning on every light and telly so that it wasn’t so quiet. Silent, and weird, and lonely without the people she’d been with.

Even though Y/N had technically had her own hotel room, by the end of their trip they had been spending every night together. She was with Harry, Charlie, and Marzipan which was much preferred than the stillness of a flat post-vacation. If she were honest, she struggled not to tear up as Harry was helping her take her suitcase from the trunk, and to hide her emotions in an effort not to appear clingy, she hugged him and hid her face in his throat. Harry curled his arms around her tightly. He knew though -- in the weird Harry way, he knew how she felt, even though she was making good on not letting it show on her face, “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Sweetheart,” he dipped his face into her hair, pushing a chaste kiss to her head, “I don’t start at the university again until next week, and I’ve only got a bit of work to do at home, so you’ll be bothered with me all day.”

Harry kissed her cheeks and sent her to her flat with Marzipan. She aired the place out, desperate to make it feel less uninhabited, and had even shoved her linens in the wash before she showered (which made for a very cold shower -- after so long of being gone, she’d forgotten that warm water for her sheets meant frigid water for her body). Marzipan reacquainted herself with her surroundings and though it all smelled of her, she even appeared to be discontent with the change.

Around 10 PM her phone buzzes on her bedside table, just as she had moved her linens into the dryer while simultaneously regretting washing them at all (she just wanted to lay down at that point). Brows pinched, she reaches for it and sees Harry’s contact on the screen -- had she forgotten something? Why would he be calling her?

“Hello?” She held the phone close to her ear, “Harry? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” Harry responded, and he paused for a moment, just silent on the other end until he cleared his throat, “I -- well, I believe this was much less embarrassing in my head. I don’t mean to sound as if I’m fixed at your hip, but I missed your voice.” A dish clatters on the other end of the line, and he mutters a small ‘shit’ before continuing, “It’s -- um. . .it’s very quiet without you here. Not that I think you’re loud or anything I just. . .yeah. I just miss you.”

Y/N is incredibly fond; her heart swarms with warmth that stretches it three sizes too big for her chest, and she feels soppy and softened. Her lips curl in a tiny smile though he can’t see it, she wonders if he’ll be able to hear it in her voice through the receiver, “I miss you too,” she responded, brushing her hand against her cheek, “It just feels weird.”

“I’m not keen on it. Which is why I -- well, I wondered if you would like to stay on the phone with each other? Would just tell you to drive over now but it’s so late, I don’t want you on the roads.” He explained to her, “I had thought about just coming to get you myself, but then I’d have to strap Charlie back in his seat and for some reason, I feel he would not appreciate being woken up.”

Soft -- she would say it again, and again, and again. Harry made her feel so unbelievably soft, she’d reckon if someone tried to hug her right now she’d mold into the shape of their body. It’d been so long since someone had evoked such strong emotions from her and she just isn’t used to it anymore. All the heart racing, the stomach flutters, the sweaty palms, the goosebumps. . .everything.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she sat down on her bare mattress, tracing the diamond-shaped dips and curves of the upholstery, “If you’re falling asleep and I’m talking too much, you’ve got to tell me though. I’ve just put my bedding in the dryer so it’ll take me a minute before I’m actually lying down.”

Harry hummed, “I should’ve thrown mine in the wash, now that you’ve mentioned it.”

“No you shouldn’t have, ‘cos I’m miserable now,” she lamented, “Would give anything to just pop my head on the pillow and pass out.”

“Poor thing,” he murmured, “You don’t have extra bedding?”

She flopped down, tucking the phone between her ear and the uncovered pillow, “Harry, I’m lucky to even have the ones I do now. Hate spending money on bedding, it’s too much! Especially if it’s anything worth sleeping in.”

“I get what you mean,” the sound of running water cuts on, and she hears the sound of ceramic plates clinking together again, “Plus, it’s few and far between you find something aesthetically pleasing, innit? And then it’s got to match your room. White is the easiest to match but I reckon if you’re an on-the-bed-eater then that could be a bit problematic.”

“No kidding,” she agreed, “I guess for like -- I dunno, cum stains -- white works out though.”

”Christ,” she could picture it, Harry shaking his head in the way he does when Y/N says something he wasn’t expecting that may have been on the side of vulgar -- he did it several times when she would briskly and casually mention the fact that he’d morphed into something short of a male Aphrodite. He’s shy -- he’s always been shy, but he just manages to get shyer in the bits that he should be confident in. “I guess -- I guess, yeah for cum stains, that’d work out wouldn’t it?”

“Mhm,” she let her eyes close for a moment, “What’ve you got to do tomorrow? Tell me all about your engineering and I’ll try to keep up.”

He does. Harry explained the project that they were currently working on and Y/N attempted to understand the large words and abbreviations he was using, but eventually she did have to tell him to bring it down to a freshman at college level so that she could at least kind of follow. It made sense that he was a professor, and a good one at that, because he knew so much but was able to break it into smaller bits and pieces so that she could digest it. When she had questions, he had full-fledged answers that swiped away the dark areas. By the end of it, she was halfway certain she could take a crack at computer engineering (like running their coffee orders and half understanding what they were discussing around meeting tables, but still a better understanding than she had in the first place).

Around 12 AM, Y/N’s made her bed up and sat star-fished staring at her fan blades whipping above her, listening to Harry’s syrupy voice tell her about his trip to Scotland he took with his parents when he was around 15. Explained to her that he met a man there who taught him how to play guitar in the two weeks they were there, and connected him to a woman who would further his learning in London. Harry had mused about how he had used to hope to be a musician of some kind, but he never thought he’d been good enough. Y/N told him that he’s silly because she thinks he’d be lovely.

“You’ll have to play for me,” she told him, rubbing the corner of her pillowcase between her thumb and forefinger, “On the telecaster. Y’know that’s yours now, don’t you?” Knuckling tiredly at her eyes, she suppresses a yawn so she could continue speaking, “Not to re-gift something from my ex or anything, but it’ll only collect dust in my closet.”

Harry, who had long since finished his nighttime routine (he’d politely excused himself to brush his teeth and wash his face), sounded like he was shuffling in his bed, “Wouldn’t you want to sell it? You could make a pretty penny off that, Sweetheart, especially the one you bought. It would feel wrong to have it wasted on me.”

“Wasted on you?” Y/N scoffed, “How could it be wasted on you? I don’t care about the money, I just want it to have a loving home. Now if you don’t want it because it’ll just be a hassle I’m sure I could pawn it off on someone, but nothing could ever be wasted on you. You’re the whole reason I even have it back!” Lulling her tongue over her mouth, she wiggles her toes at Marzipan who eyeballs her from the floor, where she had been sat for the past twenty minutes falling asleep, “Which -- could I ask you about that?”

He’s silent for a moment -- a pause long enough to make her regret asking, to disrupt how smooth the conversation had been going before her question -- but he does respond eventually, “You can ask me anything you want. Anything at all.”

“How did you get it back?” She swallows, “Like, I’d assume from your knuckles he hadn’t just handed it over.”

Harry, again, pauses for a moment but this time it seemed like he was only gathering his thoughts, “When you had gone to the bathroom, I went to the green room they had to get it back for you. I know you hadn’t asked but. . .well, it didn’t seem right for him to have it. Not after what he had put you through, you know?” Y/N hummed, encouraging him to continue, rolling out the muscles in her shoulders that had gone stiff in her idle sitting, “So I went in and I asked for it back, and he was. . .difficult about it. He offered to pay for it and then told me I was trying too hard and that you weren’t “worth it”. . .so I punched him and said a few choice words. I’m --” he sighed to himself, “I’m not a violent man, I just couldn’t -- I can’t stand when someone acts like that. . .like he deserved that guitar. I apologize for resorting to violence though. I shouldn’t have done it without speaking to you first, and now that I recount the details I feel a bit silly. Barbaric or summat -- like -- I’m sorry for talking in circles, I feel like I’m talking in circles. ” He does another deep sigh, Y/N can almost feel it against his cheek, like the content ones he lets out after they’re finally cuddled in bed but with a slightly annoyed lilt, a warm and gentle puff, “It frustrated me and I acted out, but I don’t regret it. It’s your guitar.”

Y/N dipped her face back into the pillows, tingles zip down through her body like sparks of electricity as he recounted the story and began to fumble around his feelings. He doesn’t realize how much she appreciates it though -- how refreshing it is to hear him speak. It always sounds so open and raw, like he’s saying the words as soon as they pop in his brain. Brisk pauses, talking in circles, expressing how something had made him feel and how he feels now because of his actions.

“Harry?” She shuts her eyes, pretending that he’s laying across from her.

His voice is small but clear, “Yes?”

“I think you’re amazing,” she began, “And I think, you don’t have to apologize for anything because if you would have first cleared it with me I would’ve suggested more barbaric antics, like kicking him in the chest and something with fire.” A breathless giggle comes from the other end, she smiles a dumb, big smile that makes her cheeks hurt, “Thank you for standing up for me. If anyone ever says something to you, I’ll kick their ass, how about that?”

Another chuckle leaves him, Y/N feels as if she’s swallowed it, feeling it warm her bell, she keeps her eyes closed and melts into the mattress while Marzipan jumps up and claims the space behind her back.

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”

. . .

It was rare that they went into town together.

Well, not so much rare as it was relatively nonexistent. The only time they’d been here with each other, they had made a beeline to a private beach where they couldn’t be disturbed. It was simply them, the fine grain sand in tiny hills and mountains and the gentle plodding of waves against the shoreline. They hadn’t even stopped for food or sweets, and Y/N couldn’t blame him -- if it were her in his situation, she would avoid the town at all costs.

So, it was safe to say she had been surprised when he suggested it.

They’d been back from their trip for four days, which they had spent re-acclimating to life at his house again. Y/N got back into the pattern of her regular nanny duties while Harry got back into his work, though he does take a few more breaks than he had been prior to their trip. These breaks last a bit longer than the old ones did as well, and are typically ended with a kiss to her temple and a raspberry blown into Charlie’s neck. If he takes a break while she’s sat in Charlie’s room during his naps, he scouts her out with a snack of some kind and will sit in there with her for a little while as they share it.

One night, Harry had asked if she would like to stay over and of course, she had agreed to it. Their day went as normal, Y/N put Charlie to bed while Harry finished up the course plan he’d been working on for several hours. After she showered and got ready for bed, she slunk down to the kitchen and brewed lavender vanilla tea, before pouring the both of them a cup and finding her way to his office. Despite the door being cracked open, she knocked first and waited until he called for her to enter before she did so.

“I made us tea!” She began as she entered, smiling gently when his eyes met hers, “It’ll help get you ready for bed too, since your brain has been so busy all day, reckon it should calm you down.”

Harry looks surprised -- the kind of shock that might light someone’s eyes if they weren’t expecting something. She thought he’d have heard her bumping around in the kitchen, but she wonders if he’d assumed she was only making some for herself. If he had even paid mind to the disturbance in the quiet at all. The apathetic look he’d been giving his computer prior to her arrival is replaced by one of gentle delight; his lips pluck up at the corners, “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured as she set the mug down on a coaster, “Thank you -- I appreciate this a lot.”

“Of course,” she smiled before fixing her handle on the mug, about to pivot on her heel to make her way out of his office but his fingers loop around her forearm suddenly, “Oh! --”

“Why are you leaving?” He inquired as Y/N steadied herself, and he plucked her wobbling mug from her hands to set it down on the desk.

She nodded toward his computer, “I figured you were still working,” she explained, then motioned to herself, “And I didn’t necessarily want to annoy you today.”

The skin between his brows crinkles as he shook his head, “You could never be a bother to me,” he responded, no teasing lilt in his voice that would have matched her own -- he seemed almost offended that she would even suggest such a thing, “Stay with me. We can drink it together.”

“Yeah?” Harry nodded earnestly, “Well, alright. I guess I’ve always kind of wanted to try sitting on that couch --” she turned again, her mind set on going toward it, but Harry’s grip only tightens around her wrist, stilling her.

“Wait --” he began, but when their gazes locked, his cheeks pinkened quickly; she thought it was cute, how easy it was from him to blush, and she thinks if she reached out they would be warm to the touch, “ -- I. . .well, this feels silly now,” he shook his head at himself, and sighed heavily, “With you, I always act and speak before I think things through, it’s very -- it’s troublesome, for me. I get flustered too easily.”

“That’s okay,” she told him, “Just means every word out of your mouth is authentic. Plus,” she succumbed to her desire, reached her fingers out, and touched the warmth of his cheeks, “I think it’s a bit cute.” As always, he leaned into her touch like he was starved for it -- just wanted her near. . .as close as possible, and then even closer than that. “What were you going to say?”

Harry’s hands found the hem of her shirt and he ran the pad of his finger along the seam but he was never one to avoid looking into her eyes. No, instead he stared at her, pupils fixed on her face, “I wanted to know if you’d like to sit in my lap? Not in a filthy way!” He rushed to say, “I just wanted to hold you for a little while, if that would be okay?”

“Of course!” She used her knee to push his chair out further, plopped down on his thighs, and wiggled until she could settle. Y/N would have been a little coyer about it had the situation been with any other person, she thinks, but Harry responded much better to this. He asks for things like she’ll judge him for them -- like he’s worried her reaction to his inquiries will be poor, that she will be disgruntled or angered by them. And Y/N’s goal was to make sure he knew there was not a doubt in her mind when she agreed to do something that he suggested. He had good ideas, she wanted him to know that.

Albeit startled, he acclimated to her position on his lap easily. He slung his arm around her waist, and held her still and close, scooting them both nearer to the desk. He reached for her mug and placed it into her hands before picking up his own. After a sip, he hummed low and dipped his forehead against her shoulder, “You’re always so warm,” he murmured, “And soft.” Once he set his mug down, his fingers floated up toward her neck, stroking against the delicate chain of the necklace he’d gotten for her, “I’m glad you like this.”

“How couldn’t I?” She responded, raising her hand to his knuckles, “It’s a very thoughtful gift. How did you know I liked rubies, hm?”

“I didn’t,” he spoke into her shoulder, “Really, it was one hell of a guess. The jewel was just so beautiful it reminded me of you.”

Y/N felt her face heat up, “Aish, here you go -- always buttering me up,” she turned some, craning her neck to look at him, “Flattery will get you nowhere, y’know? If you want me to do something for you, all you’ve gotta do is ask.”

Harry nuzzles back and forth, his face brushing and crumbling the back of her shirt. She’s not sure if he’d been doing it to shake his head or if it was a sign of his affections, but either way, Y/N hummed and poked his thigh, pushing for a response. “I’m not buttering you,” he murmured, “You deserve to hear these things. They’re the truth after all.”

“So there are no ulterior motives to all these sweet words?” Harry shook his head once more, “Then what’s poking my bum?” She had noticed it after she had shifted on his lap the first time in an attempt to get comfortable and had been toying with the idea of mentioning it. They hadn’t done anything sexual since New Years', just cuddles and caresses, but the opportunity really hadn’t arisen. And Harry, well, she couldn’t imagine him initiating anything, with how much he second-guesses himself.

His response had been to squeeze her tighter, and tuck his face deeper into her shoulder, and she hummed once more “Hm?”

“Sorry,” his words muffled, his tone bashful, “I -- I get them sometimes, when. . .it doesn’t have to necessarily be because I’m turned on, y’know?”

Y/N leaned back into him, “Ohhhhh,” she tutted her tongue, “Like an affection stiffy then, yeah? You big softie.” She slid her palms against his forearms to carefully unwind him from around her waist despite his protesting whines, as she sunk to the ground, the thud of her knees muted by the rug, “Get your kit off, I know a good remedy for affection stiffies.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to,” he murmured as she fit herself between his legs, her hands firm on his knees when she split them apart, “I could do you instead.”

Her brows pinched and her mouth pouted as she looked up at him, “Hm? But I want to do you,” she told him, then tilted her cheek against his knee, keeping her gaze fixed on his, “Do you not like blowies?”

Harry’s cheeks are such a rosy pink -- he’s so damn shy, she couldn’t stand it (in the best way). Such a domineering, strong-willed man all flustered and red-faced from just her speaking about having her mouth on him. It made her head spin in circles.

“No, I -- I really like them, but --” he shuffled his hips, his hand found her head and he stroked her temple, and if not for how mesmerized by him she was, she might have let her eyes flutter shut, “-- I just don’t feel like I deserve one if I haven’t made you cum yet.”

For fuck sake.

Y/N slid her hands up his sweatpants and pulled at the drawstring of his sweatpants until the knots are undone. She tucked her fingers into the waistband and started to tug, before he finally raised his hips to help her get them down, “Technically we’re at an uneven orgasm ratio. You got me off four times, I’ve only gotten you off once.” Y/N found quickly that Harry hadn’t bothered with underwear at all, and she swallowed thickly as she looked at him. It felt like the first time all over again; the delight and the nerves, the way her mouth waters. The head is swollen, ruddy, and wet -- he was so big that she knew once she got her lips around him, only a quarter of the way down would feel like an absolute mouthful. She could already feel the ache in her jaw.

“Well, you’ve -- oh,” he paused when her fingers looped around the base, “I mean if we’re being. . .if we’re being technical, you’ve made me cum plenty. The thought of you at least.”

She didn’t know what to do with the information. The knowledge that Harry got off to the thought of her -- the imagery that invades her brain is enough to make each of her cells feel electric; sizzling and sparking as she pictured it. Harry is in his bed, surrounded by his crumpled bedding, face heated and body flushed as he works over himself. She imagined what it must have been like. Had he been trying to fall asleep but his mind danced toward her? Had it started out as an affection stiffy or was it pure arousal? What did he imagine when his fingers were wrapped around his cock? Was she riding him while he sat on the couch? Did he fuck her roughly over his desk, or was it soft sweet, and tender in his fresh cotton sheets? Maybe he’d even imagined sticking his prick deep in her mouth and fucking her face? Did he look as shy as he did right then?

It was difficult to bite back the lewd noise that crawled up her throat, so she plugged her mouth with the head of his cock and stifled it against him. Harry’s head tossed back as her lips stretched over the tip, lulling her tongue against the slit where precum deliciously oozed. Y/N mustered all the spit in her mouth to drool over him -- she wanted it to be wet, sloppy, and messy for him -- wanted it to feel as if he’d dipped his cock into a warm pool. He deserved it, or at least she thought he did.

Plus, she thought, if he kept looking down at her so shyly, with his knuckle tucked between his teeth as he watched her, she would just have to clip off a part of the moon and hand it to him.

Despite her desire to keep watching him, Y/N had to tilt her head down so she could take more of him into her mouth. Her tongue stroked against the underbelly, slicked across the throb as she forced herself downward. Though her gag reflex was dodgy, she hummed to suppress it, sending vibrations down his shaft. His thighs squeezed around her body, her eyes watered once she got him to the back of her throat. She was only able to keep him there for a few seconds before she had to slide off, popping him out of her mouth before she gasped wetly. Strands of spit and his precum attach them to each other, but they bow and snap once she starts to twist her hand up and down quickly. Her lungs burned as she sucked in a breath to make up for the fact she hadn’t really been breathing well through her nose.

She cradled his prick to sponge wet kisses down the side of it, down to his balls where she suckles and drools as she peeked up at him and felt a shiver run down her spine. Harry already appeared so fucked out, his chest heaved, his knuckle still tucked into his mouth to keep quiet. “Hey,” she panted, swallowing the spit that had collected in her mouth, “I want to hear you.” The hand that wasn’t preoccupied with his cock, she used to grab his wrist and pull down, “Let me hear you.”

“Sorry,” he let her take his hand, but he maneuvered them so that he could slot their fingers together, and he held her hand tightly before he rested them on his thigh, “Haven’t had this done to me in a while, and with it being you I -- well, I’m just a bit of a mess.”

“I like messes,” Y/N murmured against his head before she flicked her tongue along the frenulum, “Do you wanna hold my head? Or you could stand up and fuck my throat -- I’m good with either.” The moan that left his lips was well worth taking a moment to breathe, and she shivered at his whimpers when she circled the pad of her thumb at the underside of the head, “I just want you to feel good.”

Harry squeezed her hand again, “I don’t know, Sweet girl, I just -- oh! Oh, fuck, baby,” Y/N had sunk back onto his prick by then, without a thought other than sucking him down and sucking him dry. He deserved it -- she thinks that if she could for him, she would stay on her knees for days on end and leave her mouth open for him to use as he pleased, “You’re going to make me cum if you keep doing that.”

Again she hummed and sank as low as she could go, her throat spasming around the head while she used the other hand to cup his balls and his thighs tighten around her again in a little hug. It restricted the movement of her hand a bit, but he mewled, goosebumps pebbled over her skin as she felt him throb against her tongue once more. She drags off of him again for another breath, only this time she doesn’t tug at him while she does so.

Y/N wondered what she looked like to him from this position. She’d only ever let one boy take a polaroid of her before when she’d been on her knees for him, and when she’d witnessed it after the fact she cringed. It was blurred, but the angle was awful and his thumb was halfway in front of the lens, so after he fell asleep she took it, cut it up into little slivers, and saved it to burn in the next bonfire she attended so that she would never have to look at it again. It had put her off blowies for a while, actually, but she had thrown all caution to the wind when it came to the man sitting above her. She hadn’t concerned if she looked pretty or not, she just wanted him to feel good, but now as her chin is wet and her lips no doubt reddened and swollen, she wondered if he thought she was still pretty.

Maybe with anyone else, she would be far too self-conscious to ask, but with Harry, she doesn’t worry about it. Isn’t even the least bit nervous when she swallows and asks, “Do you think I’m pretty?” She murmured, blinking up at him.

Harry didn’t waste a second to respond, “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Even like this?” Her hand began to move over him slowly, and she watched with delight as his eyelids fluttered, “Even all messy?”

Another whine slithers from his throat, long and drawn, low and pitiful, “I --” he sucked in a deep breath, she watched as the air filled his lungs through a heave of his chest, “I always think you’re beautiful,” he admitted, “I think you’re an angel.”

Satisfied with his answer, Y/N tucks the head of his prick in between her lips again but stays put. Only lets him sit against her tongue, trying hard not to smile when he makes a little desperate noise, “Baby,” he wiggled, “Please!”

“Hm?” She hummed against him, and he bucked his hips a little in response.

His hips stuttered away from her, “Sorry -- sorry, I --” she squeezed the hand she still held of his, encouraging him to do it again. It took him a minute to understand what she meant by it, but when she stayed in her place and squeezed his hand a second time, he rocked his hips up into her mouth again, “You want me to --”

“Mhm,” she hummed again, and Harry does it again, and again, and again, stroking against her tongue and fucking shallowly into her mouth. She feels him throb again, and she knew it was going to happen soon; her insides bristled at the thought of him filling her mouth.

“So good,” he murmured, his head tilted back, “So, so, so good, fucking hell,” he panted, “Your mouth -- I’m g’na cum,” his hips jutted forward, “I’m g’na cum, I’m g’na cum.”

The ache in her jaw burned only slightly, but she began to bob her head and started moving her hand. She wanted him to cum, and the quicker the better, honestly, because she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it up. Y/N thinks she would have pushed herself just to make sure that he came, no matter how long it would have taken, but this was much better, she’d say, at least for her mouth.

His other hand did eventually find her head, and he doesn’t slide his fingers through her hair but he does lie his hand on the back of it. The pulse drums in her mouth, she tilted the head against the inside of her cheek and all his muscles go taut as a bow while he squeezed her hand tightly. His groaning is loud, he didn’t bother to muffle it at her request as he began to spurt into her mouth. It’s warm, so much of it filled her mouth and if she could smile at the joy of it then she would have but she had to keep all of it. She worked him through it, twisting her palm against his shaft until he squeezed her hand again, this time for a different reason as she kept on him until he was twitching and sensitive.

Y/N pushed herself from her spot on the ground, and took hold of Harry’s chin, and used her thumb to pull his lips open. It took him only a moment to understand what she wanted, and he opened up for her easily, as she fixed their lips together and pushed his cum into his silky mouth. Harry moaned against her as he tasted himself, and once she parted with another little peck, she pulled back and swallowed the rest. He swallowed as well, staring at her with spit-slicked, fuchsia-colored lips as he panted.

With the back of her hand, Y/N dragged it across her mouth to dry it, “You cum a lot,” she was careful in how she handled his softening prick, tucking it back into his sweatpants that she helped him tug up, “It tasted good though, so I guess that’s alright.”

“Thank you,” he wrapped his arms back around her waist when she sat back down on his lap, where she had been before, “You’re wonderful. I’ll make you cum next, yeah?”

“Mm,” she hummed, “I’m good for t’night, just wanted to do you.” The lavender tea was still warm, she could feel it from the ceramic that heated her fingertips, as she passed it off to his hand, “Since I have the most wonderful-est mouth in the world though, you could make me cookies or something.”

Harry took a drink, she wondered if it sank warm and comforting in his belly, “I don’t have anything for making cookies, Pet, I’m sorry,” he continued before she could pout, “But -- well, I thought maybe we could go into town tomorrow. A picnic on the beach might be fun if you’d like that -- it’s supposed to be a bit nicer out than it has been. We could even stop by that bakery you like so much and get sweets, yeah?”

“I love picnics, but --” she stopped herself, the words dance on her tongue but she shot their feet and watched them crumble because she couldn’t say but you hate going into town, don’t you? Since they think you killed your wife? -- no, that wouldn’t do. Her stupid brain had been just seconds from ruining a nice moment, and no matter how badly she wanted to know the truth, she didn’t necessarily want to find out after his prick was in her mouth. It felt like a heavier conversation than just post-orgasm cuddles on his chair, “-- but I didn’t bring my basket.” She settled for instead and she watched as the concern that had been building on his face dissipated, “I’ve got a wicked picnic basket but I think I either lost it in the move or it’s still at my old place.”

“That’s alright,” he began to rub her back with his free hand, “I’ve got one. It may not be as spectacular but it will do.”

She pushed a kiss to her cheek, “Okay, good,” she told him, “Now finish your tea, I’m exhausted.”

. . .

They cuddled that night; Harry liked to be a big spoon so he wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

There is a nightmare -- a small one, nowhere near the extent of the other’s that she’s woken him from -- so she doesn’t have to wake him up as abruptly nor aggressively. She merely spun in his arms and petted at his face, murmuring for him to wake up only two times before his eyes blinked open. Before she could say anything, he reached up and held her hand closer to his cheek.

“I’m okay,” he said, his voice gravelly, “I’m awake?”

“Mhm,” she hummed, “You’re awake.”

Harry nodded, “I’m awake,” he agreed quietly, his eyes fluttered shut again, “I love you.”

Y/N’s brain doesn’t really catch it -- how could her brain catch anything, really? She was so sleepy, and Harry was so warm, and soft, and she wormed her body closer around his.

“Love you too.” She murmured but her mouth is filled with marbles and her brain doesn’t catch that either.

. . .

“Baker bezzy!” Adam cheered when the bell on the store door’s knob clinked against the glass at their arrival, a grin stretched wide on his mouth as he stuck his arms out high in the air, “Oh, how I’ve missed you -- but the cash registers have missed you more, m’sure of it.” His brows shot straight to the sky once his gaze shifted over to Harry, “Mr. Styles, always a pleasure! And Mr. Charlie, looking dashing.”

Y/N loved a warm welcome and Adam was always keen on giving them. Charlie was strapped to her chest in his best picnic gear, dungarees beneath his purple coat and buckled shoes that Y/N knew she was going to pop off at some point so he could stuff his toes in the sand. He held her finger in one of his hands, flashing gummy smiles with a singular tooth that had begun to sprout, and Adam waved at him with three fingers. She was appreciative of his treatment toward Harry most of all though; despite his clear surprise that he was seeing him for the first time in what may be more than a year, he covered it well.

“Hello,” Y/N smiled brightly, “My wallet surely hasn’t missed you though if I’m honest.”

He holds his hand over his chest, “You wound me, but I’ll let it go. Lucky for you, I’ve just pulled your favorite out of the oven.”

“Cinnamon rolls?” She gasped, and Adam used both of his hands, waving them toward himself.

“Yes, yes, you can say it -- Adam, you’re the best, you’re so cool, oh my god what would we do without you -- wouldn’t be the first time I heard it, and you know what?” He plucked off the glove on his right hand, typing something into the register quickly, “They’re on the house, ‘cos I missed you lot so much. Take me on your trip next time.”

Y/N thanked him about a dozen times before picking out what else she would like, and looping one of her fingers in Harry’s belt loops to tug him closer to the display, “D’ya want a chocolate puff? I dunno’ what that is but it sounds yummy.”

She effectively racked up a little too much, but it’d been so long since she’d been here so she deemed it only appropriate. Plus, she got free cinnamon rolls which made it a little better. Y/N tried not to spend so much time speaking with Adam as she usually does, especially when she’d realized quickly that Harry was not adding much to the conversation. He probably felt awkward -- Y/N might if she hadn’t been down walking about town for a while, unknowing of how he might be received. Adam had been kind outwardly, but were his thoughts filled with malice? Was he looking at Harry up and down, debating on whether or not he was a cruel being?

Adam had been the one to bring it up to her, but he was also the first to disagree with the population consensus. Harry didn’t know that though -- all Harry knew was that Adam was working smack in the middle of a town that thought he’d killed his wife. Y/N couldn’t say that she would be up for much conversation at that point either, but she still tried to incorporate him into the conversation though he was more so responding with polite smiles and nods. There was little tension behind it but she could still sense his discomfort and ended the conversation with a wad of cash as her gratitude; he told them to come back soon and sent a wink in their direction.

She thought nothing of it -- he always winked, whether it be to her, or the older women that come in, she reckoned he was just being a flirt. It had been so insignificant, actually, that after they made their way to the private beach, laid his lavender-colored “bleach blanket” out to sit on, and unloaded the basket (that was filled with sandwiches, chips, fruit and veggie slices, the cinnamon rolls they’d just gotten for dessert, and some mashed peas and sweet potatoes for Charlie to eat), when Harry said, “He likes you,” Y/N is more than confused.

“Who, Charlie?” She had pulled him from where he was strapped on her stomach, flipping him around so he was sitting in her lap, leaning against her torso and staring out at the ocean, “I’d sure hope so, he has to see this ol’ mug often enough.” Y/N popped open the container of mashed peas, while she let him hold onto his spoon, his fingers wrapped tightly around it while he marveled at the ladybug figure on the handle.

Harry shook his head pensively, “No, not Charlie,” he responded, and in turn, Y/N’s brows furrowed, as she took the spoon from Charlie and dipped it in the peas, “Your baker bezzy. . .Adam.”

A scoffed laugh left her mouth as she gaped at him, “Adam?” Her movements pause, the spoon stopping just short of Charlie’s mouth, and a frustrated whine peels from the back of his throat, “He absolutely does not like me!”

“I think he does,” he twists his ring at the bottom of his pinky finger, but instead of bashfully looking to the side his eyes bore into her own, “How he looks at you and talks to you -- he winked at you and gave you free cinnamon rolls. . .” he trailed off, before repeating firmly, “I think he does.”

“I think that he’s just a bit of a friendly flirter and I leave good tips,” she shook her head again, “But like me? Not like that, I’m certain of it.”

Harry straightened out his back, “How do you know?”

It hadn’t been what she was expecting, and she’s flustered as she fumbles over, “Because I just know! I figure I could piece together if someone had feelings for me or not.”

“You didn’t know I had feelings for you,” he pointed out, reaching forward to wipe away some of the food that had dribbled onto Charlie’s chin before wiping it away with a napkin, “I’d been -- I’d been enamored by you since the first week we’d met, and you had no clue, did you?”

Her eyes bulged wide, as she exclaimed, “No you weren’t!” Because she wasn’t that blind, was she? The first few weeks they knew each other Harry had been so cold and closed off; she would shuffle back and forth anxiously behind him while he methodically made his morning coffee hoping he wasn’t moments from telling her she was fired. As time went on, they’d certainly gotten closer, but she would have had to say that bridge was crossed further than just a week of meeting, “Harry, I thought you hated me that first week.”

“I was incredibly fond of you. More so than I should have been and more so than I particularly cared to admit at the time. You smelled like fresh linen and sweets all the time, and your smile always reached your eyes; I never imagined you would feel even remotely the same for me, so I tried to be as distant as possible with you working in my house but it was difficult -- you made it very difficult.” Again, Y/N wishes that even for a moment he would break away his gaze, because she’s captivated by his words and mesmerized by the way the sunlight brought sparkles to the green of his irises, “When you held me for the first time, it felt like my insides had melted and it was all I could think about for weeks after.”

Her heart was hammering, thundering in her ears, “Harry --”

“And I was so cold toward you because I hated myself for feeling that way, but it felt good to be warmed in the light that you emit. All of that is beside the point,” he huffed out a breath, pointing his finger toward himself, “If I could hide that right under your nose, then he could definitely hide liking you behind free cinnamon rolls and cheeky winks.”

It took Y/N a while to find what to say, her mind racing a hundred thoughts a second, but she felt as if no response she conjured up would be good enough. Her heart filled with butterflies, that fluttered down to her stomach and made her giddy all over. She felt like a kid again, as she flushed warm, so it was only reasonable that in true teenage fashion her response was to nudge him with her foot, trying not to grin as hard as she wanted to.

“Harry,” she began, “You’re jealous.”

A disgruntled look took his face, and for a moment Y/N almost regrets saying it, but then he responds.

“I am,” he admitted, shoulders slumped and for the first time he shifts his gaze from her to the ring he’s twisting around his finger, “Like a petulant child,” he sounded upset with himself, giving a strong sigh, “I am jealous that you may have feelings for him because I think you two would do well with each other. And I -- I fear that I’m not very fun.”

His honesty is a lot, but it’s refreshing. Like breathing the air of a meadow far from the city smog that sat heavy in the lungs, where the grass is green and dewy, the flowers have all blossomed, it feels like living in a painting and it smells like renewal and it’s clear as looking through crystals. He speaks from his heart; his words are sincere, and it makes her feel like she’s floating. She wishes he didn’t look so grumpy about it though -- and she wishes he didn’t think that he wasn’t fun.

So Y/N plopped the spoon back into the peas and set it off to the side for a moment, placing her hand on Charlie’s tummy and keeping him pressed to her body as she began to shuffle from where she’d been positioned. She carefully avoided the food they had set up, but she urgently pats at his thighs until he gets the hint to spread them open. Y/N spun around so she faced out toward the water again, only this time she pressed her back up against his torso and lied against him, settling Charlie back in the cradle of her crossed legs, taking the peas in hand.

“If I had feelings for Adam that surpassed friendly, then I would be in the bakery kneading bread or summat. And if I didn’t have fun with you Harry, then I would avoid every chance of seeing you outside of your house for more than a few minutes at the time,” she tilted her head back, craning her neck so that she could look up at him some, and she finds that he’s looking at her, “If I wanted to be anywhere else right now, then I would be, but I’m not because I want to be with you.” She knocks his foot against hers, “Aish, you’re silly.”

Harry smiled, his hand cradled the side of her face and petted at her jawline tenderly, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the waves crash against the shore in a particularly loud burst but he’s so close she can still hear him clearly, “I know I worry too much. I’ve never had this amount of reassurance before.”

She grinned, “Well if it’s reassurance you need, then I’ve got a load of it!” Y/N dipped the spoon in the peas and fed Charlie again, “I love a bit of reassurance myself, so I try to dish it out as much as possible, y’know?”

He dips his forehead against the back of her head, and breathes in deep, wrapping his arms around both her and Charlie.

Harry says nothing but he doesn’t have to.

Their lunch is pleasant, the sun is warm, and Charlie fell asleep soon after they had finished, resting with his cheek on her chest and his arms slung around her body. Y/N was moments from sleep herself, with her belly full and her mind swimming in drowsy clouds. It hadn’t helped that Harry was petting so gently at her arm, accompanied with murmured stories of his childhood by her request. Harry had always told her that he’d grown up with money, and from the time spent with his parents that much was clear, but she was curious by the extent of it. Growing up her family hadn’t been in the worst shape, but definitely not the best, so the polarity of their younger years was interesting to her.

He’d told her about the birthdays that he had, one of which included him and his four closest friends taking a trip to Disney World. His parents covered the entirety of the visit, along with bringing Harry’s nanny along so that she could watch over all five of the nine-year-olds (which clued her in that paying for nannies on their trips was a standard practice Harry had carried over). Nothing had been off-limits, he’d told her, that whatever he had set his eyes on he got and Y/N mused over the possibilities of all the things his nine-year-old self had determined he needed. Shirts, stuffies, figurines -- he told her his mum had kept them all, and each year on his birthday she sends one of the stuffed animals with his actual gift (which she’d been doing for eight years now, meaning that he had gotten at least eight stuffed animals and with the price of those things? Christ!).

And then he told her about his first kiss, back when he was 11 under an apple tree at his Nan’s farm, with the daughter of a family friend. He told her it was horrible, and he’d been so nervous that he’d cried leading up to it, but he regarded the memory fondly. Harry kept in touch with her for years after and had even been the first person she’d come out to when they were teenagers -- he came with her on her first date and spied from a distance because she had watched one too many crime shows and had been positive she was going to be kidnapped, but it went well. When the date had gone to the restroom, Harry slid over to the table and slipped her money to pay the tab and get ice cream afterward.

Y/N had inquired about his schooling, and he told her all the ins-and-outs of the private school that he’d attended. He said it had been pleasantly boring, but went on to tell her an extensive four-part story about a student-teacher relationship that somehow managed to last three of their four years there. It had pulled her from the dreamy state she had slipped into, finding that she’d slipped down so her head was in his lap as she opened her eyes and gaped up at him, “That’s like -- like, incredibly illegal.”

“Don’t I know it,” Harry had agreed, “I always knew something was up with the bloke — he ate raisin bread every lunch period.”

A horrified gasp left her mouth, “No, the monster! Why every lunch period?”

“Couldn’t tell you. It was very unsettling.”

After that, Harry started describing a trip that he’d taken to Japan during cherry blossom season, and went into extreme detail about how the air smelled, and how the wind felt against his skin. He told her that words and pictures would never be able to translate how beautiful it was, but he tried his best to as he traced looping patterns with the tips of his fingers onto her cheeks. That’s when her eyes had fluttered closed, and that’s when she started falling into a pleasant slumber. Harry still spoke though she knew he could see that she was falling asleep, but he doesn’t mention it other than caressing her jaw and murmuring, “Sleepy thing.”

Y/N is unsure how long they are there, but she is very sure that she’s never been more comfortable in her life. And as he coaxes her awake, she opened her eyes, squinting at the sun that still sat high over them while she tried to refocus on his face, “Hm?” She hummed and Harry giggled brightly.

“I said let’s get you two home, Angel,” he helped guide her from his lap, but he doesn’t rush her -- just a gentle hand on her back as she cradles a still-sleeping Charlie to her body as she sat up, “When I checked the weather they called for rain in an hour or two. Reckon it wouldn’t be very fun to get caught up in the storm.”

They clean up after themselves thoroughly, and Y/N carefully places Charlie in his holder that was fixed on Harry’s chest this time. As they walk toward the car, Y/N can tell that Harry is deep in thought but she doesn’t question him on it -- she didn’t like to pry or push him to say things if he wasn’t ready to, which made it all the more gratifying when he did open up to her, even about little things. Though this thing, apparently, had felt very big to Harry -- at least the furrow in his brow was telling her that.

“I --” he began, and Y/N paused, her hand wrapped around the handle of the door, humming to let him know she was listening, “I need to go to the store.”

She controlled her features well enough, she’d say, because her brows don’t skyrocket at the suggestion of going in an even more public area than the bakery, “Oh? What d’ya need?”

With a clear of his throat, he explained, “We ran out of creamer and paracetamol,” his fingers are clutched tight around the keys but he finally digs the pad of his thumb on the button to unlock the car, “It’ll only be a moment.”

Y/N popped the door open, “Well that’s easy enough! I can pop in for you if you want. Or we could go in together too!” It rolled off her tongue -- she tried to act as natural as she could about it; she couldn’t let him go into that store alone. The thought of it gave her hives all over, “I might as well pick up a few things myself.”

Harry gave a ruminative smile, one that barely reached his eyes and only twitched the corner of her mouth by the smallest of quirks. It was very reminiscent of the sort of smiles she’d been privy to when they’d first met, and she’d not realized how much she hadn’t missed it at all. She liked the smiles that she received now, big and bright, rosy cheeks but a beautiful light behind his gaze. No, this one was cold and contemplative -- this one spoke of loneliness and pain.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to go in by yourself.” Harry questioned and she didn’t waste a moment, nodding quickly.

“Of course,” she popped the door open, “Yeah, we’ll both go in then. In and out, right?”

He was nervous. Even if Y/N had not an inkling of a clue about his past (and his present, she guesses) with this town, she could feel the tension thick and heavy in her chest. It makes her shuffle uncomfortably, silence filling the car apart from the tick of his blinker as they made their way to the market. Her heart hammered as he parked the car, and it continued to hammer as they got out of the car, Harry placed Charlie into his holder against his body and they walked toward the store. Y/N tried to lighten the mood even just a little, and again she got that tiny little smile, that made her shoulders sink just slightly.

She thinks the tension eases when they walk through the doors and are not immediately stoned. Y/N isn’t a hundred percent sure what the both of them expected, but she guesses something to that extent was what had built up in their heads. A deep breath in and she tried one more time, and squeezed his shoulder once as a silent reminder that she was right there beside him, “They have those red bean buns here, right? I’ll get us some of those.”

Harry scrunched his nose at her, “I think your body functions solely off sweets now, doesn’t it? If not for me you would not eat any real food.”

It felt as if both of them had been holding air in their lungs but finally sighed out, and each passing minute without a scene breaking out among the others in the grocery, the more they both relaxed. While she could still feel Harry’s worry, he had even begun joking some with her, not letting his guard down but making an effort not to let on how uncomfortable he was to her.

Y/N had really thought they’d made it through the whole store without any trouble, as she slipped the red bean buns into their basket. Harry had been right in the middle of asking her if she’d like anything else while they were still here, just as they passed a woman in a purple knitted sweater. If Y/N hadn’t been staring at one of the stitches at the back of the neck that was just a bit loose, she may not have caught it, and maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t. Maybe it would have been better if her ears hadn’t perked up to hear the uttered, “Disgusting,” that left the woman’s mouth as her gaze caught Y/N’s.

Her brows dip as she paused, her upper half had already been turned and her bottom half followed so she faced the woman fully, “Excuse me?” Y/N said it without thinking, and Harry hums as if he thought she was speaking to him, “Ma’am, what did you say?”

The woman had little shame as she turned to face Y/N, face pinched as if she were revolted, and Y/N’s heart began to sink as she realized what was happening, and with Harry right beside her no less, “I said disgusting,” she put emphasis on the word, “For him to show his face here. We all thought he’d moved.”

Y/N scoffed, “Listen, you need to --”

“Y/N,” Harry’s voice cut through her sentence, his hand resting idly on her shoulder, drawing her attention from the woman, “It isn’t worth it. We should go home.”

The pain in his eyes makes her heart sink lower; she felt as it eroded in her stomach’s acid, and the fight in her had been snuffed out like a small flame beneath a shoe. Y/N looked from the both of them, perturbed by the situation, conflicted only slightly as she swallowed and began to turn away from her. She would have left to -- for Harry’s sake, she would have left and pretended that it hadn’t happened at all until he felt comfortable enough to bring it up -- she would have, really.

“Yeah, why don’t you go home? Wife killer.”

She really would have.

“Actually, I think you’re the disgusting one,” Y/N had begun as she turned back around, “To say something so cruel. He lost his wife and you’ve decided that it’s his fault? You’re the worst kind of cruel -- downright evil,” her nails pinch into her palms, “You’re awful!”

“Y/N --” Harry tried again, but the woman cut her off quickly.

“He’s the awful one!” She seemed shocked Y/N could have even suggested otherwise, “You’re new here, Honey, so I’ll let you in on what your boyfriend did. He killed his wife after treating her awfully -- cheating on her!” Her words were vile, and to say all of this in front of Harry. The rage that lit through her vessels was enough to make her feel like she was burning up, “And he got away with it ‘cos he can afford fancy lawyers to cover up the truth. So before you go around calling people you don’t know evil, look at the man beside you. And learn some respect.”

Y/N took a small breath, just a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Fuck off.”

“Excuse me?” The woman’s brows raise.

“Respectfully, Fuck. Off.” Y/N’s glare was undeviating, but she could feel eyes on them -- other people watching them closely, though they wouldn’t show it outright, “Were you there when it happened?” She stepped forward, “Or are you God? Some deity?” The woman appeared confounded, like her argument should have been able to sway Y/N, “I don’t think you are -- I think. . .I think you’re a foul creature that thinks you have the right to judge a situation you had no part of. And I think you should think about someone’s feelings before you start saying something with no real basis other than word of mouth from other people just as rotten as you. You really need to do some soul searching if you think that this is the proper way to confront anyone about your feelings. I hope you think about this before you go to bed at night.” She stepped back, closer toward Harry before taking another small breath, “You’re lucky you didn’t wake the baby, or you would have really upset me. Goodbye.”

With this, she turned back on her heel, and carefully guided Harry by his shoulder to follow her as he let the basket sit on the ground where they’d been. Her eyes burned with tears of frustration and anger, as the look on his face when the woman had first stopped them replayed over and over again in her head. Maybe if she had fought him on it -- maybe if she had just fought him a little harder, he would have stayed in the car and she could have spared him from having to hear that woman. She gave in too easily, and when he tried to get them to leave, she stayed to fight which. . .well, she doesn’t regret saying anything that she did, but she does regret making Harry look bad if she had.

All she had done was bring more attention to them -- she blew it out wide open and brought everyone into his business. She wouldn’t be shocked if he were upset with her. . .no matter her defending him.

“Y/N,” he says her name, but she doesn’t respond at first, swallowed in her thoughts she barely registered that he’d said anything, “Y/N.”

“Yes?” She responded, her hand sliding from his shoulder and back down toward her side.

He paused for a moment, “You knew?”

For a moment, everything freezes.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart hiccuped over a beat; Y/N’s fingers twitched where they sat at her sides, her lips hung open waiting for her brain to muster a response -- anything. Could she figure out something to say? Anything at all?

“Y --” she sighed, her blood roaring in her ears, “Yes,” she answered, shoulders slumping in defeat, “I knew. But not -- I didn’t know at the start at all.”

“How long?” Charlie began to blink his eyes open, slow as a pleased cat, “You knew for how long?”

Was he angry with her? Y/N couldn’t tell -- she couldn’t read him at all and it made her palms sweat. She hadn’t been technically lying but she still felt immense guilt suffocating her at the realization that she hadn’t been entirely truthful either. Not that she ever had the opportunity to just. . .bring it up, but still -- fuck, she didn’t know what to do.

“Since the third week.”

. . .

The ride to his house is silent.

Not the comfortable one that they sometimes fell into; like when she’s so focused staring out the window that no words come to her mouth, where the engine’s lulled purr and Charlie’s small giggles and babbles fizzled through the quiet. The kind where Harry had much recently started placing his hand on her thigh, resting it there with no real purpose other than to touch her. One where she feels content and calm, and if she let her eyes flutter shut she could drift off to sleep, the sun disappearing and reappearing as they drive past trees creating pink flickers behind her lids.

No, this wasn’t like that at all.

There was no noise. It felt like even the car had sensed the tension and held its breath waiting for one of them to slice words through the quiet. Her gaze was trained out the window but her fingers shook and her heart raced -- she could hear it thumping in her ears. She should have kept her mouth shut, she’s decided that if she hadn’t said anything at all then everything would be okay. If she had ignored the woman’s tasteless murmur, then she and Harry could have been laughing right now. Maybe they would have sat at one of the park benches, or pushed Charlie on the swing. Maybe Harry would share one of her sweets with her while the sun began to sink. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so downtrodden and gloomy.

Clouds thick with rain pulled in from the North and had Harry not mentioned them earlier, she would have thought the weather had changed with the mood. It was befitting, at the very least, the heavy drops spatter the glass as the gates open for them, and the loud iron hinges that usually make her cringe is a welcomed piercing into the silence. If it were a normal day, Y/N would joke that they should ditch the gate and invest in a moat instead -- she thinks Harry might have chuckled.

Y/N half expects him to tell her to go home, but he doesn’t. The first words he spoke after about 20 minutes of nothing was a gentle request to take Charlie in, and warning her that Niall would be stopping by for something. She vaguely remembered him mentioning Niall earlier before all this, so she doesn’t panic that he was lifting her of her duties and going back to how things had been before her, but the thought had still arisen, no matter how fleeting.

“Do you need help grabbing everything?” She inquired, but he only shook his head.

“I’ll be okay.”

It was rotten -- this feeling that had begun to overcome her was as rotten as the wood in a forgotten cabin and as dense as sludge from the bottom of a polluted river. This was her fault. . .god, if she had just kept her stupid mouth shut!

But how could she? The lady had been so spiteful and so cruel, and to witness it happening rather than just theorizing about it, made it much too real. At that moment, the weight of what Harry had been going through here had finally settled deep in her chest and it made her sick. She didn’t know what happened but she knew he had vivid nightmares -- she knew the lost, faraway look that would take over his face at the mention of his wife, and she knew the pain that crossed his features every moment he’d uttered how he doesn’t really go to town.

They all so viciously passed judgment on them for something they knew absolutely nothing about and Y/N defended him for something she knew nothing about. It felt as if it had happened either seconds ago or hours ago like she was caught in a figure-eight of time that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be -- seconds, minutes, hours. Tears still burned behind her eyes but she refused to shed them, as she hid away for a little while with Charlie in his playroom. The only time she comes out is just a little over two hours of them being home when it was time for Charlie’s supper. Just as she’d stepped onto the hardwood from the last step, the doorbell rang and Y/N was quick to answer it.

Niall is revealed once she pulls the door open, and the warmth of his grin combats the chill of evening air that rushed in the foyer, “Hey, Y/N!”

“Hi,” she smiled, stepping out of the way so that he could step in, “How was your winter break?”

Niall loosened his scarf from around his throat, “If Mr. Styles asks, it was dull, boring and I couldn’t wait to get back to work, but between you, me, and Charlie, I wish we had about four more weeks of it.”

She led them in and went to the kitchen while Niall made his way to Harry’s office. Y/N fuddled about making Charlie’s dinner, but could only stomach a glass of water for herself as she fed him. Normally she would dance between giving Charlie some, then eating a bite of her food, and making idle chatter with him as she did so. She still tried to chatter at him so he didn’t notice the difference, but she knew he could feel something was off. Babies were smart little things, and they could read energy better than anyone in a room like they had built-in radars that either dampen or strengthen with time.

Instead of feeding off it in a bad way and getting fussy, he’s just extra cuddly though. Held one of her fingers while she slid mashed carrots into his mouth and cooed at his puckered lips while he tasted it. No matter what happened today, this little guy knew no different -- just another day for him. . .she longed to switch places.

Just as she had wiped his face clean of his food and filled the dishwasher with what she used, the door to Harry’s office opens, followed by a call of, “See you, Mr. Styles!” So she turned her body toward the opening to the kitchen so she could bid him a farewell too, and soon enough he pops into the frame, “Hey, I’m heading out. Mr. Styles said after you lay Charlie down to come speak with him,” Y/N’s breathing hitched, Niall raised his fingers that he had crossed with a grin, “Hope it’s for a raise. See you later!”

“See you later,” she called after him but it was weak, and her heart (that had just finally begun to settle) began to hammer again. It continued to do so as she pulled Charlie from his seat, and all throughout his nighttime routine. She still tries for him, smiling at him, humming, and talking as she washed him clean of the day, blew raspberries into his tummy after she lotioned his skin, and dressed him in something warm and cozy. Charlie would fall asleep if she set him in his crib, she knew that, but to soothe herself and prolong what may be an intense conversation, she sat him in her lap and read him a story. Even after he’d fallen asleep in her arms, she pressed her nose to his soft hair and tried to calm herself down.

Eventually, it couldn’t be helped any longer. Her nerves got the better of her and she lowered him into his crib, turned off the light, clicked his sound machine on low, and crept out of the room quietly. She knew Harry would still be in his office because she hadn’t heard him go to his bedroom, so she walked down the steps and tried to soothe the worry from her bones as she grabbed a water bottle from the kitchen. No matter what, it was still Harry -- still the man who was always so gentle and kind with her. Today had thrown him off -- it would throw anyone off, so she understood why he was so quiet and distant. She would be too if the circumstances were flipped.

Still, she hated how this felt, as her knuckles knocked against the wood and she held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

“Come in.”

One more deep breath and she pushes the door open, and instead of making her way to his side like she had been doing, she stood at the door awkwardly, waiting for him to speak first. If she had been the one to initiate this then she would have prepared something to say, but she stays quiet -- he invited her down, so he had something to say, and she was keen on hearing it. Harry stood in front of his desk, his bum resting against the lip of it with his legs outstretched, and he held himself up with his hands on either side of him. He doesn’t avoid her gaze, locking it with her own, and she watched as he took a deep breath of his own, blowing a small stream of air through pursed lips.

“First, I want to apologize,” he finally started, and Y/N swallowed thickly, “I shouldn’t have -- I shouldn’t have subjected you to an environment I knew could have been hostile. We should have gone home and I should have just ordered it.” Her brows knit immediately, and she opened her mouth to refute that, that could have been his fault in any way but he held up his hand, “Please, Sweetheart, I -- I need to -- I need to get through this.”

She nodded, the twist in her belly partially satiated by the term of endearment -- he wasn’t mad at her, at the very least -- that helped a great deal.

“I should have, but I hadn’t because -- because things just feel so normal with you, and I wanted that. . .I wanted to go to the grocery store with you how we could in the city, and to be normal here. I thought that maybe we could, but for my own selfish reasons, I didn’t think it through nearly enough.” He shook his head at himself, “And I apologize for shutting down the way that I did on the ride home. It was naive of me to believe you could work for me this long and not know what is thought of me here. I think a part of me thought you might know but you had always -- you had always treated me so kindly, and you never asked questions so I had suspicions that you may have heard a passing word of it but not in great detail.” One of his hands, he combs through his hair, sighing before he started again, his voice shook only slightly with the first syllable before he got a hold of it, “I told myself several times that if you. . .if you had ever asked what had happened to my wife, I would tell you everything. I would open my heart to you in every way imaginable before you could -- before they could say anything to you. So I was frustrated finding out that you had already heard that side of it, and that I wasn’t able to speak with you before you could think that I was a murderer --”

“I don’t,” she cut him off firmly, “I don’t think that at all.”

His lips twitched again, in a small smile that just barely reached his eyes that tilted down to the floor, “I want to tell you,” he took in a shaky breath, “I need to tell you, but I’m scared. I haven’t. . .I haven’t really told anyone the whole thing, but --” he looked back up to her, “Do you want to know? Are you -- are you willing to listen to me?”

“Yes, Harry,” she answered with assured conviction, without even a moment passing by, “I want you to tell me everything. If you want me to know then I want to know.”

He nodded, “Okay,” he murmured, “Can we sit?”

They positioned themselves on the couch, and Y/N took the decorative pillow that would be pressed against her back and sat it in her lap. She curled her arms around it, her fingers idly playing with the tassel at the bottom left corner just to give herself something to do. Harry was preparing himself to speak, and despite how relieved she was to finally get the story, she felt her heart clench in pity for him. Re-living it would be difficult, but he wanted to tell her -- he said he needed to tell her -- so she would listen.

“Ebba and I had met when we were 18 but had only been officially together for 2 years before we started to have problems,” he finally said, shifting uncomfortably on his side of the couch, his fingers fixed around the ring he’d been playing with earlier today, “It was little stuff at first -- little fights and grievances, but we both had decided that it was normal, that kind of thing. Couples bicker and argue because they love each other enough to, that’s what my mum had always said and it had always sounded about right. So we would have tiffs and make-up and it would be well again, but. . .well, the arguments started getting a little worse, especially around our anniversary. She kept accusing me of cheating on her, again and again, and again, but I hadn’t even so much as thought about another woman since I asked her on our first date.” He stared at a spot on the floor -- he looked far away, “And it’s a shit feeling being accused of something like that, so I would fight her back.”

“You’d think we would have taken a break or something to cool off from each other, but we were 23 so instead we moved in together. Thought maybe if we were around each other more then questions of infidelity could be shattered because we would be around each other more. This is around the time I started really gaining my footing in the industry, you know? And Ebba -- well, she’d already had a well-established place at her mother’s company so she was doing just fine. We played happy home for a little while in the new place in the city but it went. . .it went bad again, a few months in. She became very. . .aggressive when we fought, like -- like smashing things and breaking things, but I always figured that was kind of my fault. Could never admit when I was in the wrong about something so I’d just keep pushing her, y’know? Or it had felt that way at least, like no matter what I said I would just push her and push her and push her. But we --” he dipped his head down, staring into his lap, “We loved each other so much, we didn’t want to end things. Had plenty of conversations about ending it, and she’d even packed her bags a few times but we’d never go through with it. If she left, she’d show back up at our flat the next day.”

He took a small breath, pausing for a moment like he was collecting his thoughts again and Y/N offered him the water that sat at their feet. Harry nodded and took two drinks before he continued.

“My mum suggested couple’s counseling, ‘cos she and my father had once when they were younger, so we did. The woman they had gone to see was still in practice so we went and did about 12 sessions. It worked for a little while, or well enough that I thought proposing was the next best step -- we had re-entered that honeymoon stage again and it felt like we were on top of the world. So I proposed and we got married, and it was good for a few months but then I got a promotion,” he twisted the cap back on the bottle, setting it back where it had been on the ground beside her leg, “So I was traveling less with her, and I had less time off but that was a decision I made for myself, the company hadn’t made it. I wanted to -- for selfish reasons. . .it was all for selfish reasons. I wanted more money and I wanted to climb up the company and to learn from the best, but I couldn’t do that if I was spending summer weeks in Cabo. But I never -- I was never clear behind my motives for doing it, so she thought I was just trying to avoid her. Avoid her and “fuck some old computer prick’s wife” is what she would say. And the more we would fight, the longer I would stay at work, the less we would see each other.”

Y/N’s mind was spinning; it felt like Harry was dropping pieces of information that she followed closely behind to collect, fixing them into a timeline that he’d created. Her heart was still beating quickly.

“The first time I caught her cheating, she cried to me after I walked in on them -- it was some bloke from her job, I think, but she had thought I was gone at a business conference for a week. We’d had a massive fight before I left about me leaving, so I had changed my flight a day early to surprise her. The flat was trashed and she was there on the bed with him in our room. I wanted to leave -- to stay at a hotel for the night but she was sobbing, and she was drunk, and I couldn’t leave her alone. So I stayed, and the next few days were rough but then we talked it out, and we cried, and it was good again.” He gave a small self-deprecating smile, “That happened only one more time in that flat, but it technically “didn’t count” because we were on something of a break. I didn’t really see it as that kind of break, but I hadn’t been clear, I suppose.”

It was hard to hear him reflect on it, still finding fault in things that he shouldn’t at all find fault in. Her chest ached for him.

“I went back to school for my Master’s in an accelerated program when I was about 25. I told her I wanted to teach because I wanted to share my knowledge and help students put their best foot forward how some of my good professors allowed me to. Which was true, for the most part, but most of me just wanted to be away from her. I couldn’t handle it anymore -- the fighting, and the breaking, the yelling and the. ..and the hitting. It just felt good to not be home, but instead of being honest with her, I just found more reasons to not be alone with her for more than a dinner or two. I regret that. . .I regret not being honest.” He took in a shaky breath, “2ish before she died, we moved out here, and that was the real end for us. It started out kind of good, like always but then she started disappearing for days at a time. She had started drinking a lot and partying, and the worse our fights got. I tried to get her help -- I could see she was unhappy and this was never the life she wanted to live. It was too close to her father, and she hated it, and so I tried but she didn’t want it. She would say that she wasn’t addicted to anything, she was just having fun because life with me was miserable. I told her I wanted a divorce.”

His eyes had started to become glossy, she noticed how dewy they looked from the glow of his lamp, so she placed her hand on his knee and stroked it carefully with her thumb.

“At first she didn’t fight me on it, only packed her bags and said she would be with her mother for a while. A week later she came and told me that Charlie was in her belly and he was mine -- it was bittersweet. For once I understood why people tried to make marriages work for a child’s sake, and for nine months we were. . .fine. We weren’t awful but we weren’t good either -- we were just fine. But when Charlie was born I. . .” he paused, “When he was born I just had a feeling. A sick, disgusting feeling but it was there nagging at the back of my head and I couldn’t quiet it. So one day when she had gone out with her friends, I took Charlie and we got a paternity test.”

Y/N forces her face to stay neutral.

Her breathing pauses entirely.

“5 days later I found out that Charlie wasn’t mine,” his brows furrowed, and he shook his head, “I confronted her about it. I didn’t -- I didn’t care that he wasn’t mine, I had already fallen in love with him but I needed her to know that I knew. I wanted to know who his real father was. I wanted to know why, if there was any doubt that he could have been mine, did she not tell me. She got upset, she took Charlie and went to stay with her mother again. I didn’t see either of them for 4 months, until -- until one day someone knocked on my door but they were gone before I’d gotten there, and in their place was Charlie. It was too cold for him to be out there so I brought him inside first and I made sure he was warm and taken care of before I called her. I called her again, and again, and again, and again. Niall was there for that, which -- well, he really shouldn’t have been here even while he’s a TA but he was struggling with the material for an exam in one of his other courses and asked me to help him. I hadn’t been on campus so he drove out and we’d been studying in my office.” He explained, wiping a tear from his cheek, “I wonder. . .I always wonder what must have been going on in his head to see his professor like that. Couldn’t bring myself to look at his face but he was playing with Charlie for me, while I was pacing.”

“I checked her location and saw she was in the city, and I -- I apologized and begged Niall to sit with Charlie while I went to see if everything was okay. I just had this horrible feeling, because it hadn’t felt like the other times where she would just disappear and not answer my calls. If she was in the city already then it couldn’t have been her to drop Charlie off, someone else had. Halfway there I got a call from her mum and -- she was sobbing, and asking if Ebba was with me. If I knew where she was, and I told her I was on my way there. She told me that Ebba had written her a letter and left it on the counter for her, for when she got home. She said she was going to -- she said she was done with it all. With everything -- with life.”

It’s getting harder for him to continue, tears fall freely from his eyes now but he still won’t allow himself to truly break and Y/N’s hold on his knee tightens.

“She was at this bridge -- it used to be really popular a decade ago but they started construction on it that never finished, so it was basically deserted. By the time I had gotten there, the police were already there and they were -- her body was covered at the river below the bridge. I cried into the dirt, and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed until an officer’s hands touched my back and he sat me up. Her mom showed up around then too. It was awful. . .it was so, so, so fucking horrible.” He wiped at his face again, “When they actually looked over her, she was -- she had a lot of different drugs in her system.”

“And everyone. . .everyone in this fucking town had thought I killed her and after. . .and after all this time, it started to feel like it. I would have -- I hadn’t seen her for months at that point, there was nothing I could have done, but they look at me like I’m a fucking monster. Like I pushed her off the bridge myself. There stupid fucking theories -- they didn’t think I could hear them but I could. How I didn’t act like Charlie was my son because I resented him and his mother. I love him with my whole heart but those first few months after her death and even sometimes now I’m just so. . .I’m so scared that his biological father will come for him. I didn’t want to -- it sounds stupid now, but I didn’t want to get too close so it wouldn’t hurt as bad when he was taken from me, but even that didn’t work. I’m stiff and stuffy but I love him, and even though the whole relationship was nothing but tattered ribbon by the end, I would have never hurt her. I had. . .I didn’t love her anymore. I hadn’t felt any true love for her for years at that point, but I didn’t want her dead, and with a child in this world no less! But no -- no they made me out to be a killer.“

Y/N is overwhelmed by all of it -- every single word had been more and more difficult to process, and there was no hope of her being able to formulate a response that would do him any good just moments after he’d finished telling her. Sympathy and sorrow weigh in her muscles as she moves forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Harry’s body and dragging him into her own. As if had taken a sledgehammer to the last stonewall he had up around him, he sobs. He holds her close, even tighter than he has after a nightmare, and he lets every emotion that he’d been bottling up out all at once. It’s heartbreaking; her own tears wet her cheeks.

She isn’t sure how long he cried, but it wanes slowly, reduced to hiccups and sniffles. Y/N would have held him to her chest as long as he wanted -- all night and into the morning if that’s what he needed -- but when he’s finally settled, he begins to withdraw. His cheeks are red and wet, his eyes are puffy, his lips are bitten swollen and fuchsia red -- he looks absolutely fucking exhausted. Y/N cradles his face in her hands and guides him to look at her, stroking the damp skin of his face with her thumbs as she spoke.

“Thank you for telling me. I know it must have been very hard,” he nodded, “I don’t think I could ever have the right words to say, to absolve you of any guilt you’re feeling, or to make any of your pain go away, but I do -- I do want to tell you,” his lips quiver, “That Charlie is your son, even though you don’t share blood. You’ve raised him, and you care for him, and when he sees you you can just tell that he is yours, and no matter what happens nothing can change that fact. And I wanted to tell you, that you were not at fault for her death. There was nothing you could have done, so you cannot blame yourself for that, because she was sick Harry. And you can’t solely take the blame for what you’d been through in your relationship either -- it was abusive. You’ve been through so, so much and nobody should ever have to go through anything like that,” she leaned forward, and pushed a kiss to his forehead, “I’m so sorry, Harry. I wish I could take it all away.”

Harry took in a shaky breath, “Thank you for listening to me,” he murmured, “And for. . .and for not believing them and what they said about me. And for telling Mrs. Stuart off in the grocery. And for. . .for everything,” he dipped down, touching their foreheads together, and he giggled a small bit, “I want -- I want to get better. To process all the trauma of it so I can be the best version of myself for you and Charlie. Reckon I should probably look into therapy.”

Y/N breathed out a laugh, “I think that may be beneficial, yeah. Think everyone could use a bit of therapy -- nothing shameful about it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “I think I’ll do that.”

. . .

Y/N had not foreseen how light the air around them would be. Even lighter than before; if a week ago it felt like floating on clouds with him, then now they move when the wind blows even a gentle gust. It’s good and it’s freeing, and if it feels as if there’s a weight off her chest then she knows Harry must feel a weight off his.

It was a lot — all of it was so much, and she doesn’t think she could truly comprehend the pain that Harry had suffered through but though it hurts to know, she’s glad to understand him more. To understand all his stony bits and all his worn, weathered bits. To push a piece that had been missing in the puzzle and see the full picture — and while it was agonizing to retell, she noticed how even now Harry has softened more, and she had already thought he was as soft as he could’ve been.

As if he were porcelain, Y/N treats him delicately. She knows how he must feel right now, exhausted and raw; his inner thoughts and the source of his nightmares cracked open and spread out before the both of them. He deserved to be touched kindly, and gently. With warmth and love and care. Y/N knew it wasn’t her responsibility to pick up the broken pieces and tape them back together -- that would be too much work for any one person to do for another -- but she vowed right then to help him. In her mind, she promised to hand him bits of tape when he was sticking parts together or helping him reach his back. She’d support him in any way she could because she. . .she felt so deeply for him. Y/N doesn’t think she’d ever felt this way for anyone before -- she knows she hasn’t, actually.

She drew him a bath and sat with him while he soaked in the tub, the both of them just wanting to be close. Needing to be close. He had offered for her to climb into the tub but she politely declined, “Let me take care of you for tonight,” she murmured, “I’ll take you up on that tomorrow though if the offer still stands.”

“The offer will always stand.”

Y/N shampoos his hair for him, massaging his scalp and soaping up the strands for no other reason than she knew it would feel good. They understand it without words, which is why Y/N simply sheds her clothes and digs through his drawers for a shirt to sleep in as he dries off. And it’s why she crawled into his bed beside him, immediately adhering to his side, their legs tangling and their arms wrapping around each other like if they even for a second thought about letting go, the other would float away.

Y/N pushes kisses all over his face, loving on him in every way that she could because she could and he accepted it happily. His smiles were soft and sweet and made her melt. She just wanted him to remember that he was with her, right now, in the present -- away from that. Away from the pain and the hurt. The look in his eyes when she paused and just stared at him for a little while said everything that she needed to know without words, but when he said it aloud, it felt even sweeter.

“You mean the world to me,” he hummed, the pads of his fingers smoothing over her temple, stroking down to caress her jaw, “I love you.”

Her heart swells full, and she bites down a grin that threatens to split her cheeks.

“I love you too.” She responded, lowering down so her face was pressed to his chest. He’s warm -- she lets her eyes flutter closed as she immerses herself in him. His essence and his being; she breathes him in greedily.

Harry is quiet for a moment, long enough that she thinks they may be going to bed for the night, but he chuckled suddenly.

“Weird,” he murmured, “Feels like we’ve said that before.”

#WOOOOOOOOOOO #YAHTZEE #SHE'S FINISHED :D #I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE HER #WRITING #HARRY SMUT #LOVE THESE GUYS #LOVE YOU GUYS #WOOOOOO

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