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whump-town · 4 years

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Comfort

Each member of the team comforting Hotch while he’s sick/hurt

“Spencer.”

Reid jerks at the sudden intrusion, his brain struggling to pull itself from the novel in his lap. “Haley,” his eyebrows pinch in confusion before he looks down at his wristwatch and red letters flashback at him the time; 7:15. He’s been here for five hours. “I-I…”

She smiles softly, he recognizes the look from earlier. Hotch had given him the same sad-eyed smile as Reid failed to keep the pressure on his wound. Reid had never seen an example of couples adopting one another characteristics before. He finds it to be both unnerving and amazing.

“Lost in your head,” she asks, coming further into the room. She glances at him once more before going to Hotch’s side. She slides her hand under her husband’s, whispering something too soft for Reid to hear and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “He says you have a-a tendency to get lost in your head.”

Reid is silent. He’s been to their house a few times. Only after Gideon dumps whatever plans they made, it seemed he’d get off the phone with the older man and within the hour Hotch would call. He’d some odd knickknack for Reid to see or a StarTrek marathon to offer.

Haley runs her fingers through Hotch’s hair, unsettling it from the hold the gel Hotch had put it in that morning. “It’s good you’re here,” she says, looking up at him instead of Hotch. Haley’s an intelligent woman, keeps Hotch on his toes. Reid holds a soft spot for her, she makes him feel warm and safe. The same way Hotch does.

A soft grunt sounds from the bed between them, Hotch shaking his head loose of the oxygen canal. His head is turned, his eyes open and all he sees is Haley. “... tried-” he shifts on the bed, pain shooting up his middle as the movement pulls sore muscles. “Sean?” He croaks the name out, lost in times that passed long ago.

Haley glances up at Reid once before centering her focus on her husband. She soothes him softly, shushing him when he tries to pull away from the IV in his arm and the sheets over his hips. “Aaron-Aaron,” she brushes a hand through his hair, smiling when his attention shifts back to her owlish blink. “Hey,” she brushes her thumb across his cheek. “Sean is safe. He’s in New York, remember? Gonna be a chef.”

Hotch swallows thickly, brain turning this information over slowly. “Not-Not a lawyer,” he recalls.

Haley smiles with a shake of her head, “no. Not a lawyer.” She moves over him and positions the oxygen canal back under his nose. “You’re safe too, Aaron.” Her smile fades back into that sad-eyed, soft smile from earlier. “Agent Reid is with you,” she says motioning her head to Reid.

Reid can see the confusion in Hotch’s brow but he turns his head and settles his eyes on Reid. There’s no scrutiny. If Reid didn’t know better he might say fondness is the crinkle in his supervisor’s eyes.

“Your team is okay,” Haley adds squeezing his hand. “Everyone’s okay.”

Concussion. Reid’s mind helpfully deduces. They hadn’t done a brain scan when Hotch was admitted. There was no real reason to suspect brain trauma with a bullet to the abdomen. Not when Reid hadn’t told them about the crack that sounded through the room when Hotch hit the floor.

The concussion is to blame for Hotch’s sluggish thoughts and obvious confusion. “Dad?” Reid’s never heard Hotch’s voice raise to an octave like that, an inflection of fear. Haley’s eyebrows tighten, clearly aggravated but not at Hotch or his confusion.

“No,” Haley says forcing herself to relax. “He’s dead, Aaron.”

Reid’s never seen so many emotions cross his boss’s face at once. Relief immediately followed by sadness and the clench of his fist that Reid loses the meaning to because he can’t tell if he’s reacting to physical or emotional pain or maybe he’s angry.

“Dead,” he echoes. His brow scrunches in confusion and Reid can see the realization cross his eyes. The ‘dead’ sinking in. “Oh.”

Haley tries to direct his attention back to Reid. “Don’t worry with him, Aaron. Spencer’s here,” she nods her head again but it’s becoming very clear that Hotch is fighting a losing battle against the narcotics streaming in his veins.

“Mm,” Hotch turns his head to Reid. He smiles and lifts his hand from the bed, a tired wave.

Haley brushes a hand through his hair again, catching his attention. “Get some sleep,” she doesn’t move away. Instead, her hand continues to work through his hair, slowly easing him lower and lower into sleep. “Shh.”

Reid can’t see Hotch’s eyes flutter shut but he can see the last deep breath he takes before they even out.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Haley says, settling into the visitor’s chair on Hotch’s left. “He worries about the team when he’s away from you.” She says this without looking at him. Her attention is on Hotch’s face, half-turned to look at her. “He worries about you the most.” Her eyes rise to his and she shakes her head with a sigh. “He’s always worried about something or someone.”

He’s a protector. They’re not supposed to profile one another, it’s a rule between them all, but it doesn’t take a profile to note that Hotch is a protector. It’s what he does. “It’s what makes him so good at his job,” Reid looks up, forcing a smile on his lips. “He’s a good boss.”

Haley chuckles, a soft sound and a puff of air from her nose. She sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of Hotch’s palm. She doesn’t say anything. Exhausted, her shoulders are hanging low and for the first time, Reid sees just how tired she is.

“Hey…” Emily puts her novel down. Hotch’s vision is foggy but he catches the horrendous orange and blue blur as she forces the book shut. His mouth feels thick, heavy and his head like tiny dancers balanced on thumbtacks are tap-dancing across his brain. “I didn’t expect you to be up.” Her eyebrows pinch, “doctors said they have you on some powerful stuff.”

He rolls this information over in his head, her voice drowning in and out with his heartbeats. He can feel it, his heart, beating through with the pain in his side. “Vonnegut.” He’s a favorite of Emily’s, he can faintly recall a conversation she’s had with Morgan about him. “It’s-It’s…” he’s read a few of Kurt Vonnegut’s works.

Emily takes a moment to understand his slurred speech. She holds the book up with a smile, “yeah. Kurt Vonnegut.” She thumbs through the pages, confused. “How-How did you know that?”

The title is revealed as she leafs through it. He places it then, a burden lifted from his chest. Breakfast of Champions. Kilgore Trout and his journey through the midwest as his fiction becomes another man’s facts. That’s not her favorite though and that copy, it’s new. It’s the same copy that sits on his bookshelf. “Vonnegut,” Hotch mumbles like she should have put this all together herself. “He’s your favorite,” his voice cracks through the sentence, hoarse rasp cutting off what remains of the sentence.

Emily understands well enough. “How-” she shakes her head at him. “I don’t want to know how you have managed to remember that.” She’s not that surprised. They live by the rule of not profiling one another but it’s hard to turn it off.

“ Sometimes, I get tired of being profiled through my office window.”

“New,” he croaks, he points to the book now on her lap. He swallows thickly, brain forming the words but mouth unable to form the right ones. “You had an older copy.”

Before. Emily taps the cover, he’s right. She carried one of his books everywhere, a comfort to curl up on the jet on the way home with some tea and a blanket. She knows the most of the books by heart, her old copy was dog eared and the cover faded. A small part of her felt comforted, now, just sitting here reading.

Like old times on the jet.

“I lost it,” she answers truthfully. No real point in lying when he might be able to see it. If there’s one thing she knows about Hotch, it’s that you can never underestimate him. “I-I didn’t think to ask JJ to grab them from my apartment.” She shakes her head, “everything was so… It was all so crazy, it would almost be silly to worry about a couple of books in the face of everything going on.”

It takes a moment for him to place what she means but blood loss hasn’t made him stupid. He knows exactly what she means. She must see the clarity in his eyes, the moment he realizes what she means. She starts talking, nervous. Her hands come together and he’s listening to her nervous words but he’s focused on the way her thumb digs into her nails.

“I-I don’t blame you and JJ, you know?” She draws blood but she whips it away. She doesn’t raise her eyes to his. “That’s not important, though, the books or Doyle. You did what you had to do to protect me, I know that.” She moves to the next hand, digging. “It’s funny- well, I mean it’s not funny but you know humor overrides trauma- but the last time you and I were in the hospital-”

She looks up, eyes moving straight past him to the heart monitor. She glances back at him, eyebrows frowning. “Shit,” she stands up but before she can say anything there’s a nurse grabbing her shoulder. She’s pushed out, the heart monitor still sounding in the background. She’s forced to watch from the doorway as a doctor swarms in with the rest of the nurses.

She’d been talking with Rossi earlier in the week, so he knew that she’d been sent back to the states. With her own case solved, she came to Virginia to meet them. To see them. She just hadn’t been expecting Rossi to text her the address of a hospital.

“Agent.”

She turns to the doctor, tearing her eyes away from Hotch. He’s glaring at a nurse, watching her dispense a clear cocktail of drugs into his port. “Y-Yeah?” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“He can’t be put under any strain,” the doctor’s voice is tight, making it very clear to Emily how important it is she listens. “Do you understand, Agent?” They stand, locked until Emily nods her head. It’s like Foyett, that fear and his vulnerability. That same warning, all over again. “Okay.” The doctor leaves her, small frown but no more words.

“Sorry.” His voice rasp behind an oxygen mask now. The straps pushing his peppered hair up in odd directions. His eyes are slits, his battle with sleep a losing one.

Emily settles back into the chair, pulling her book into her lap. “You know, Hotch, next time you want me to shut up you can just ask.” She can see him smile under the mask, a rare sight. “No need to-to stop breathing or have a heart attack on me.” She thumbs the pages, the words feeling wrong. She didn’t come to taunt him. She misses being on the team. Hell, she even misses him profiling her profile him. Mind games. He’s the best.

“Read.”

She’s so lost in her mind that she hadn’t realized she’d opened the book. She looks up, confused, “read? I thought you want me to stop talking?”

He turns, paler than even his normal vampire tan, and shakes his head. “No,” he motions his head at the book, again. “Just read.”

It’s all the “I’ve missed you” she’ll ever get so she cracks the book open. It doesn’t matter where she left off because it doesn’t matter to him. “So, in the interests of survival, they trained themselves to be agreeing machines instead of thinking machines. All their minds had to do was to discover what other people were thinking, and then they thought that, too.” She looks up and his eyes have fallen shut, his breathing even and steady. She turns the page. He’s asleep but she continues anyway.

“Woah-Woah!” Morgan’s ears are ringing, his head empty. He gags, falling over himself as he loses half the sandwich he had at lunch. He can’t move, frozen as his stomach cramps painfully. A hand, warm and solid lands on his back. After a moment, his eyes lock onto black dress pants and a blue dress shirt. “Hotch?”

The other man doesn’t react to the sound of his name. Instead, he pulls Morgan up. Hotch’s arm is looped under Morgan’s and they both groan as they stand back to their feet. Morgan, now eye level with Hotch, frowns, “Hotch, you’re bleeding.” He points to the wound but it’s like Hotch can’t hear him.

“We have to get out of here!” He’s speaking too loud, body trembling. Morgan moves as much as he can in Hotch’s grip and sees the side of his head. Two small streaks down to his collar, both starting in Hotch’s ear. Morgan doesn’t mention it but he suspects Hotch knows he’s caught it. “Come on.” Morgan frowns, Hotch’s eardrums really can’t handle being burst again.

They stumble.

Hotch keeps Morgan up, his face unnaturally pale… even for him. “We can’t stop,” Hotch grunts, his own feet shuffling. He tries to take another step but he can’t. He falls to his left knee, releasing Morgan. “Go,” Hotch grunts, body curling in on his right side. “Go, Derek!”

Morgan isn’t a child and no matter how low Hotch drops his voice it doesn’t scare him. He drops to his own knees, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He moves, throwing his right hand out and leaning against the wall as he settles his back on it. “Come on, Hotch.” He waves the older man closer, patting the hard cement beside him.

Hotch doesn’t move, now settled on his side. His eyes dropping, slowing losing consciousness.

Morgan moves and bites down a whimper as it lights up his side. He pushes himself a little more. He grabs Hotch’s shoulder hooking his arms under Hotch’s and pulls them both against the wall. Sighing as he positions Hotch beside him, the other man’s head on his left thigh.

“A fucking bomb,” Morgan mumbles. That’s how it’ll end. Some punk kid and a bomb with their names literally written on it. “This isn’t how I thought it would end.”

Hotch blinks, eyes slowly finding his. Morgan shakes his head, so the bastard isn’t as deaf as he thought. “Not surprised,” Hotch grunts, his left hand pulling away from his side sticky with blood. “Kind of figures,” he lets his hand fall back over the wound, fresh blood pouring over his knuckles. “Get stabbed nine times and some pipe bomb does me in.”

Morgan laughs, his head rolling back to the wall behind him. The mood turns bitter and Morgan can’t help but feel cheated. “Did the other’s get out?”

Hotch grunts, it’s as much of a yes as he can manage at the moment. “Dragged Reid and JJ out myself.” He’s trembling, shivering despite the sweat pouring down his brow. “Emily was going to come back in for you but I-I told her I’d get you.” He smiles, “two kids grabbed her when I turned to come back in. Morons. Garcia looked like she was going to pummel them both.”

They share a laugh at that. The poor kids are probably sporting bruised ribs by now. Almost everything she knows about self-defense Morgan taught her. He’s a dirty fighter and Hotch knows Morgan teaches dirty fighting. Garcia, though neither had ever personally been hit by the tech analyst, they’d seen a person or two get swatted with her purse. She’s got an arm on her.

“Rossi?”

Hotch’s smile falls off his face. Morgan looks away, afraid of the emotions he sees creeping over his boss’ face. His voice isn’t as steady. It’s heavy with fear,” I don’t know.” Silence fills the clouded air between them. Both considering the fate of their friend. “Derek?”

Morgan looks down, Hotch’s head bent away from him. He’s blinking slowly, face ashy. “Yeah, man?” A pang of fear rolls through his stomach, coiling tight in his chest. His heart hurts. They’re running out of time, Hotch is running out of time.

“I never thanked you…” his voice trails off, eyes fluttering as he fails to keep them open.

Morgan swats at his face, keeping it up until Hotch blinks his eyes back open. “Never thanked me for what?”

Hotch swallows thickly around the dryness in his mouth. “After Foyett,” he rasps, “the hole in my wall. I know you fixed it.” He turns his head, blinking owlishly up at Morgan with half-open bloodshot eyes.

Morgan nods. It was the hardest repair job he’s ever done and he wonders what it was like for Hotch to clean Elle’s blood off her wall. Morgan reaches down between them, grabbing Hotch’s hand with a tight squeeze. “That’s what families for.” He doesn’t let go, just lets his hand fall on Hotch’s chest as the other man fights consciousness. “They’ll find us. They always do.”

Hotch hums and Morgan doesn’t know if it’s in agreeance or in pain. It doesn’t matter. Morgan knows they’ll come. They have to.

“You really shouldn’t fall asleep, sir.”

She watches him blink his eyes back open, a dark iris settling on her. She knows he’s not mad at her but his face is still twisted in aggravation. “Garcia,” he says, in a voice much lower than even his normal baritone. “Now is no time for formalities.”

His eyes slide back shut. She glances back at him and kicks his knee, grimacing when he startles. “I asked you not to fall asleep,” she reminds him when he looks less than pleased. He doesn’t shut his eyes though, he stays awake. “How are you, Hotch?” She’s genuinely interested. He doesn’t get to talk to her that much anymore, she feels like she hardly knows him these days.

He leans his head back against the wall, eyes open but unfocused. He’s not sure how he is. His heart hurts. “I’m fine, Penelope.” His dark eyes find hers, half-hidden as his eyes blink drowsily. He catches the hint when she frowns tightly and she’s surprised by the little smile on his lips. “I really am fine. Beside this headache, of course.”

She tries not to dwell on how bad the headache must be if he’s admitting to it. Instead, she soaks in the warmth of his little grin. “Well,” she’s much gentler when she knocks her foot against his knee this time. “Tell me how ‘fine’ is treating you. I feel like you never talk to me anymore.”

She’s keeping him talking. She can see the gash across his temple and she’d been forced to watch as their UNSUB brought his gun across Hotch’s head. Leaving only her to witness the way her boss’ legs crumbled beneath him, limply his body hitting the ground beneath him. He’d been so limp as the UNSUB picked him up under his arms, dragging him to a side room.

His grin falters just a little at her wording and he supposes that maybe he hasn’t been talking to her as much as he thought he was. Then again, how does short phone calls about serial killers count as talking? “Jack’s growing up so fast,” he tells her, his grin a soft mix of sadness and pride. “He’s almost as tall as me, isn’t that crazy?”

She smiles, “it feels like yesterday you were pushing through the bullpen in his little stroller.”

Hotch shakes his head, “starts high school this year and… I’m terrified.” He leans his head to the side, against the wall. “He’s so grown up. I feel like he doesn’t need me anymore and then-” he’s full-blown smiling and Garcia finds is contagious. “Then he comes into my room or he strikes up a pointless conversation and I know all he wants is for me to be there. To ask about his classes and listen to him gush about the girl in his English class. He still wants me around after…”

Garcia can sense the switch and she reaches over, taking his hand. “Hotch…”

He shakes his head, wincing at the movement. He puts a hand up, touching at the edges of the wound. “I killed his mother, Garcia.” His voice is devoid of all the joy it just held and she blames it on the concussion. She wants this to be the concussion and not how he actually thinks. “I would understand if…” he winces again, this time fingers probing a little too hard and he draws blood.

He swallows thickly, face paling considerably. “Penelope, you’ll have to excuse-” he’s half up-right, leaning with his side on the wall as he vomits. He brings almost nothing up, just gagging miserably.

Garcia turns her head, rolling her eyes. JJ always taunts Hotch, behind his back of course, for his ‘southern manners’. She’d seen it for herself a few times but this certainly takes the cake. However, she’ll never betray his confidence to tell the others about Hotch trying to excuse himself with a bad concussion to puke in privacy while being held captive by a killer.

“You okay, boss man?” She only looks back at him when the gagging stops and she can hear him position himself back against the wall. He’s still pale, shaking from the strain of holding himself above his vomit.

His eyes are closed but she can see he’s not sleeping. Just trying to calm back down. “Probably should have eaten lunch,” he replies softly, right arm protectively draped over his stomach. She would be mad if she expected anything different from him. It’s just like Hotch to bring the others sandwiches or coffee and to send them home to sleep but to starve and deprive himself of sleep at the same time.

She hums in agreeance. “You should start eating more period.” That catches his attention. He peels an eye open, frowning at her. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I see it all. I know everything.” She points to his chest, “I’ve noticed your shirts don’t fit you like they used to and when they did fit you, you didn’t have weight to afford losing more.” She raises an eyebrow, daring him to challenge her. “You’re going to put the weight back on, sir. Even if I have to start hand-delivering you breakfast and lunch.”

He opens his mouth but she raises her hand. “Nothing you say can change my mind. In fact, I think I will.” She bites her lip, “let’s see… JJ and Reid. Yeah, they’re your soft spots. The chinks in your unchinkable armor. You won’t be able to tell them you’re starving yourself.”

He sighs, head still tilted back but resigned to his fate. “Penelope?” His voice is soft, devoid of fight and, dare she say, tinged with fatigue. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him and stands, moving over until she’s sitting beside him. She pulls his hand into her lap, squeezing it. “Anything for you, my liege.” Because someone has to protect the man who protects everyone else. He’s hurting and someone needs to be there.

And when his head falls on her shoulder she doesn’t say anything.

“For once in your life-” Rossi is so close to just decking his former protégé in the face and letting Derek haul his body up on the couch. “Goddamn it, Aaron!” Then, at least, Hotch can’t sneak away and refuse to sleep or take care of himself.

Hotch flinches, fever-ridden bloodshot eyes looking at Rossi in confusion. Carefully masked fear trembles down his hands and Rossi doesn’t dare try to act like he doesn’t see it. Right, he’s not being helpful if he’s being an ass. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm back down.

Rossi knows Hotch doesn't respond to over-controlling authority. He was abused by his father, Rossi knows that. Hell, Hotch has never once admitted to it, but they all know it.

Rossi runs a hand down his goatee, tired of fighting the stubborn unit chief. “Here,” he hands Hotch a palmful of pills. There’s a vitamin C from Emily, a Tylenol from JJ, and some colored flu medicine from Derek. It wasn’t hard to convince them to fork over their supplies. Hotch had emerged once from his office all day and the man looked like a walking corpse.

With JJ fielding Hotch’s calls, Rossi forging his signature on a few things, and Garcia clearing his meeting with Strauss in an hour they can afford to let him take a well-deserved rest.

“I have paperwork,” he rasps but knocks the handful of medication back into his mouth. He’s smart, he can argue his way out of the nap he’s cornered into but it’s pointless to push Rossi on taking medicine.

Rossi rolls his eyes, “lay down, Aaron.”

He hesitates. Rossi watches Hotch’s inner debate with himself. He frowns, looking away to the couch before nodding. Giving in. Rossi sighs in relief, he thought that was going to be much harder but maybe Hotch going down without a fight is more a bad thing than good.

“Is something-” for once in his life, Rossi isn’t sure what to say. He swallows thickly and shakes the thought away. “Here,” Rossi takes a step back, moving to grab the blanket sent up by Garcia. It looks well-loved and it’s soft in his hands, heavily scented with fabric softener. He lays it over his protégé with a small sigh. What he wouldn’t give to go back in time. He should have never left the BAU.

He shouldn’t have left Aaron.

“Get some sleep, kid.” He cuts the lights off to the office, standing in the doorway a moment too long.

“Dave?” Rossi hums, eyes still on Hotch. The other man’s on his side, blanket pulled to his chin. His voice is nasally, finally giving in to his symptoms instead of trying to pull off his stoic baritone grumble. “Whatever you’re thinking,” he pauses, gathering the right words. “There’s no need to punish yourself.”

Rossi rolls his eyes and opens the door, stepping out. “That’s very thoughtful, Aaron, but we’re not supposed to profile one another.” He pats the doorway, fondly rolling his eyes. “Get some sleep mio figlio.”

Hotch chuckles, “I know what that means, Dave.”

Rather than let himself dwell in being caught, he laughs himself. “Yeah,” he shrugs. “I would certainly hope, Aaron. I told Jason you were a smart boy, quick. I would hope age hadn’t stolen that from you.” He lingers again.

“Dave, I’m fine. Really.” His voice softens, “go.”

Rossi puts a hand up in submission, “alright. Alright.”

As soon as Rossi shuts the door he knows all their eyes are on him. Garcia’s the first to gather the courage to ask, “how is he?”

Rossi’s smile is soft but happy. He shakes his head, rolling his eyes for the pure drama that is dealing with Aaron Hotchner. “He’s getting some much needed rest. He should be fine.” He chuckles to himself, “he’s just a bit stupid. Too hard headed for his own good.” Rossi steps towards his own office, glancing through the window. Aaron’s already asleep. One hand dangles off the couch, a foot on the floor as the other stretches over the edge of the couch.

He’ll be fine.

“Hold still.” Stupid. For such a smart woman, well rounded, and agile she could be so stupid. She knew what she wanted to do. Liaison. She loves talking with people, offering comfort, and engaging the public. Sure, she didn’t give that job up but she’d give anything to go back to the station. “Hotch, please!”

He’s bleeding all over the two of them. His exhales wet as blood trails out of the side of his mouth. A muffled cough that he attempts to spare her as he rolls onto his side but he’s out of his mind in pain and can’t muffle both the cough and strangled cry on his lips that the movement causes.

If JJ had stayed a liaison, she wouldn’t be looking her friend in the eyes as his blood pools wider around them. “Aaron,” her voice is the only soft thing to happen to the room. From the moment Hotch’s knuckles rapped on the door to her screaming, mixing in the living with the sound of guns firing. “Aaron, please don’t do this to me.”

He blinks up at her, cheeks ashy and lips paling. He gasps, voice trembling, “it’s okay- I’m fine.” His left hand moves atop hers, larger than both of the ones she’s pressing into his side. “If you just…” he blinks sluggishly, too much blood around them and not in him. “Just keep applying pressure even if I- even if I pass out.”

JJ shakes her head, “you’re not passing out!” She pats his cheek, blood smearing on his ashy face. There are two days worth of hair on his cheeks and the bags under his eyes so much more prominent. “Talk to me, please?” Dark eyes blink back slowly, his adam's apple bobbing as his mouth opens but no words leave his mouth. “Tell me something. Keep talking because I can’t lose you.” Her voice thickens with unshed tears, “you’re my friend, Aaron.”

His eyes sink back shut but he opens with the first tap of her hand against his cheek. He draws his knee up, body wanting to writhe away from the pressure on his abdomen. He can’t keep his knee drawn up and it limpley slides back down. “Do you-” his voice is thick, sluggish as it leaves his mouth. “How do you not hate me?” He swallows, mouth impossibly dry, “you didn’t need to know about Emily.”

He’s right. Alone he could have faked Emily’s death. He could have bore that cross and she would have been spared the guilt of being amongst the knowing. She wouldn’t have had to work to be friends with Spencer again.

She shakes her head, “you do make me mad, you know that right?” She wipes a hot tear away from her eye, “but I’m glad you told me. It would have destroyed you, it almost destroyed the two of us with each other to lean on.” She looks up, certain she can hear faint sirens coming. She smiles down at him, “we’re like… Sonny and Cher. Batman and Robin. We’re a team and I would hope there is never a time when you spare me, Aaron.”

He smiles but whatever he opens his mouth to say is lost in his weak coughing.

She looks up, this time certain she hears sirens and doors being shut.

“Hold on, Hotch. Helps here.”

He grins, pale and sweaty. He squeezes her hand, “hey, JJ?”

She squeezes his hand back, “yeah?”

“Am I Batman or Robin?”

She sees an unbelievable amount of mirth in his half-open brown eyes. He’s exhausted, tired of fighting and weak from bloodless but he’s smiling up at her. Holding on, for her. She smiles back, gently she leans over him and kisses his cheek. “I’ll let you be Batman.”

The room is flooded in loud noise. Heavy boots stomping right up to them. In the commission she nearly doesn’t hear his whispered remark. As a paramedic hangs a bag of saline above his head and another takes JJ’s place he calls her name.

“I’d be Robin for you.” He blinks much slower, eyes hardly coming back open. “ ‘think you’d look better with a cowl. I could pull off a domino mask.” His eyes fall shut, a lopsided grin on his face. She brushes his bangs from his sweaty forehead, watching the medics do their job. She’ll remind him of this later and she’ll bring up his guilt over Emily.

But for now she just holds his hand.

(I really enjoyed writing this so if you have any idea similar I would be very interested to hear them... also originally posted on A03)

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #emily prentiss #derek morgan #david rossi #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau

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spencers-renaissance · 4 years

Text

Pull Me Out of the Glowing Stream

Summary: Spencer develops bacterial meningitis and Hotch sort of forgets how to breathe

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Protective Hotch, Spencer Reid Whump, Major Illness, Angst, Fluff, Medical Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending

Pairing: Gen, Paternal Hotch

Word Count: 3.8k

Read on AO3

A grotty police department in rural Illinois was really not the time and place for Spencer’s body to decide to have a minor breakdown, but really, what was he expecting at this point? For things to go right for once?

It’s the kind of headache not even two paracetamol and a cup of coffee can shift and he sort of feels like his head might split in two. Not ideal when he had a complicated geographical profile to work up to help the team locate an enraged killer who was flitting between various small towns in the northwest corner of the state.

“Spencer?”

He’s shaken out of his depressing thoughts by Derek’s slightly concerned voice, causing him to pull his hands away from his head and force himself from squinting against the light. He’d felt fine this morning and he can’t really put his finger on what exactly is wrong besides the headache he just feels… off.

If he can help it though, Derek will most definitely not find out. His coworkers don’t need to think he’s anymore weak than they already do.

“Sorry,” Spencer says, feigning a weak smile. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Derek doesn’t look completely convinced, but he nods anyway. “JJ and I are headed to interview the most recent victim’s family but Rossi and Blake will be back from the ME’s office shortly. Hotch is just in the break room talking to some LEOs, alright?” he says, grabbing his leather jacket from the back of one of the chairs. “See you in a bit, Spencer.”

Spencer has to stop himself from physically falling on the floor and rolling into a protective ball as soon as Derek leaves the room. He’s so exhausted and in so much pain, the last thing he wants to do is gather around the table and have to propose valuable theories about the case to build the profile. He just feels like such an outsider sometimes, and it’s been even worse recently. He’s felt himself withdraw from the group, sheltering himself from the prying glances and teasing comments, but he just can’t help it; he doesn’t even know why, really.

Honestly, he’s desperate to crawl back to the hotel room and bury himself under the covers and never resurface again, but he can’t. The only time he really feels valuable is when he’s working, when he’s tangibly contributing to solving the case, and he can’t sacrifice that for a little head cold or whatever’s going on. Besides, nobody needs to hear him whinge about his stupid problems. Everyone has enough to deal with without him as an added burden.

Hotch is shooting him concerned looks and it’s only making him feel worse. He really doesn’t need to be berating himself for making his team members worry on top of already feeling at death’s door. The real problem, however, is that it’s only getting worse. He’s struggling to concentrate and feels hot under the collar, and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore the swirling nausea in his tummy. But his health cannot be the priority right now and surely Hotch must realise that: there’s a killer on the loose and he knows that he can be an immensely useful resource, headache be damned.

Focus. He tries to look back towards the board -- he knows there’s something in one of the pictures that’s not quite right, not that he can remember which one or what it was -- but his neck protests as he tries to move it, stiffening up in response to the pain. Keeping his head down instead, staring at the case file he has open on the desk in front of him, he notices his pen quivering a little in his hand as it shakes. His glance upwards to check if anyone saw is immediately met by Hotch, whose muted concern has clearly morphed into full-blown distress, and he quickly looks away.

“Spencer?” Hotch says gently, trying not to attract the attention of the other team members who are quietly discussing the case at the other end of the table.

It’s the jerk of his head to look back up at him that does it. He feels his head loll and his stomach drop out from under him, nausea pouring into his insides as his eyes lose their focus. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, though it comes out far too slurred to be intelligible, and everything fades to black.

★

Hotch is pretty sure his heart stops beating for a moment as he watches Spencer slump forward in his chair, falling to the side a little as his muscles give in to what’s clearly been plaguing him all day. The others snap out of their conversation fast, Alex rushing to his side. “Spencer?” she asks, voice insistent and full of anxiety. “Spencer, wake up, come on.” She pauses to press two fingers to his pulse point as her other hand feels his forehead before looking Hotch in the eyes, urgency filling her voice. “His pulse is weak and he has a serious fever.”

“Call an ambulance and explain what’s going on,” Hotch says, feeling the colour leave his face as he takes in the situation. “Dave, I need you, Derek and JJ to carry on working the case, Blake and I will go to the hospital with Spencer.”

The paramedics arrive quickly, by which time everyone in the PD is nosily peering through the windows, eager to watch the macabre theatrics of a medical emergency. Hotch backs away from where he’d crouched to hold Spencer’s hand, as does Blake and Spencer is quickly hooked up to the portable monitor. Hotch didn’t miss the grave glance that was shared between the two of them; he’d given and received enough of them in the course of his career to know they meant not good.

“Blake, you drive behind,” he murmurs softly as he watches an oxygen mask be placed over Spencer’s nose and mouth. “I’m riding with.”

He hasn’t felt so sick to his stomach since he was driving to his own house to meet his wife’s dead body, and God, did he absolutely not miss the feeling. Spencer’s hand is freezing cold, and he’s still shaking slightly through the deep slumber that has overtaken his body, though luckily he’s stable enough that the paramedics don’t seem to be able to do a lot more for him until he is admitted to the ER.

Seeing Spencer lie so small and frail under all the wires as he’s jolted about slightly by the ambulance’s fast pace cuts deep into an area of his heart he usually keeps so closely guarded, reserved for moments with his son and the grief that lingers cold and heavy from Haley’s death. Spencer is family: he’s watching the man he considers a son teeter far too close to the edge of death, and all he can do is remind himself how to breathe.

“Hang in there, Spencer,” he whispers, gently pulling the cold hand he’s holding to his face and holding it there a moment. “You’re going to be okay.” He has to be.

The nearest hospital is thankfully close, and Hotch sends up a prayer of thanks that they were sent to a city and not on a rural, buttfuck nowhere case. The paramedics waste no time wheeling Spencer’s gurney into the ER, reeling off his stats in code Hotch couldn’t hope to understand to the awaiting doctors, admitted immediately for further tests to establish treatment while he’s steered by a patient nurse to a quiet waiting area.

Alex rushes in less than five minutes later, filling with relief when she clocked Hotch sitting in the corner. “Any news?” she asks, cautiously optimistic.

Hotch grimaces in response. “No, he was only just admitted,” he sighs, emotion creeping into his face in a way he usually staves off at work. A hurt Spencer Reid warrants that much, at least. “He was stable in the ambulance, though. They’re running tests now for a diagnosis.” He looks down at his clasped hands. “I should have noticed it sooner.”

Alex sits down next to him slowly and sighs. “There’s no use in blaming yourself,” she says gently. “Spencer wouldn’t want that. We all could’ve picked up on the signs sooner or been more persistent in asking what was wrong, you’re not in the wrong here. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.”

“I know,” Hotch says eventually. “I just feel so responsible for him. He’s still so young and has so much in front of him, if-- if something happened to him, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Yeah,” Alex whispers, pressing her lips together. “None of us would.”

“I just couldn’t live in a world where Spencer doesn’t exist.” His voice chokes off as the dam breaks and he cries quietly into his hands, pain blossoming in his chest as the thought of Spencer dying and the crushing agony of muffled sobs collide.

“Oh, Hotch,” Alex murmurs sympathetically as she watches her boss crumble in front of her. “No-one’s told us to prepare for Spencer dying, okay? You said yourself that he was stable in the ambulance and aside from a thready pulse and a fever we don’t know anything else about his physical state. Don’t torture yourself with a future that frankly looks unlikely as of now, it’s not worth it.”

Hotch nods, taking a deep if shaky breath in and wiping his eyes one last time, looking back at Alex. “I’m sorry for panicking.”

“Don’t apologise,” she dismisses him gently. “It’s a scary situation, and Spencer is like a son to you.”

“This must be even harder for you,” he says, looking up and meeting her eyes. “I should have stayed stronger for you as well as Spencer.”

“Please,” Alex scoffs. “We all have our ways of coping. Ethan died a long time ago and although the grief I feel for him is like glitter I can’t brush away, I’ve learned how to move forward with my life, carrying that gorgeous shimmer with me.”

They share a small smile over that, and Hotch pats her upper arm with his hand softly before patting his knees and standing up. “I’m going to step outside to call Dave,” he says, a new resolve and determination finding its way into his voice. “I expect that it might be a while, but find me immediately if anything happens, I’ll be just outside the entrance.”

“Aaron?” Dave asks, voice a little tinny and muffled down the phone, swept away slightly by the midwest wind. “How’s Spencer?”

“Not sure yet,” he replies, voice grim. “He was admitted immediately for tests but he was relatively okay the last time I saw him, I think. Alex is here now, and we’ll keep looking over the files while we wait, seeing if we can build on the profile. Ring me with any developments, alright?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Dave says. “Morgan and I have come to follow a lead we got on a possible associate, and I’ll give you a ring when we leave. Sit tight and give my love to the kid when you see him, Aaron.”

They don’t have to sit in vigil for long before a middle-aged doctor calls Spencer’s name in the waiting room. “Unfortunately, Spencer has bacterial meningitis,” she explains gently as soon as they approach her. “It’s been caught relatively early so his chances are good, but this is a serious disease that needs to be monitored closely so he’s been moved to the ICU. He had a seizure shortly after the lumbar puncture we performed which is a sign of an escalation, but we’ve adjusted his meds accordingly and I can assure you he’s getting the best treatment possible. The ICU is limited to one visitor at a time, but you can see him now; he’s awake though a little drowsy.”

Alex smiles at him and ushers him forward while she goes to sit back down without a word, leaving Hotch to follow the doctor. He wishes desperately to have Spencer walking next to him, rapidly reeling off statistics and fast facts about the disease, because he feels a little in the dark, here. All he remembers is that bacterial is the most serious manifestation of meningitis and it has a high fatality rate. The same heavy sickness from the ambulance sinks deeper into his stomach, weighing him down. Spencer could die.

He looks small on the hospital bed. It’s such a cliche but it’s true, his already small frame and the spacious bed combined with his pale face and outfit of wires make him look so tiny and all Hotch wants to do is climb into bed with him and wrap him in a protective hug and never let him go.

“Hotch?” Spencer murmurs as he approaches the bed, smiling gratefully at the doctor before she leaves them to it.

“Yeah, Spencer, it’s me,” he says gently, sitting down in the chair next to the bed and scooching it as close as possible. “How are you holding up?”

“Hurts,” he says, voice weak. “A lot. Bacteria sucks.”

“It does,” Hotch chuckles. “It definitely sucks. Big time. I’m sorry this is happening, Spencer. And I’m sorry we didn’t catch on to you sooner and get you here faster.”

“Please,” he laughs, wincing a bit as the movement settles an ache deeper into his muscles. “I wouldn’t have let you. I can be a little stubborn.”

Spencer’s voice is slurred slightly but the relief settling into Hotch’s bones at how lucid he is feels almost euphoric. “You’re definitely stubborn,” he says fondly, caressing Spencer’s hand with his thumb. “Our stubborn little mule.”

“Not little,” he pouts in response, eyes drooping slowly closed.

“No,” he reassures him. “You’re not little. You’re strong, and you’re going to fight this, Spencer.”

“Yeah,” Spencer mumbles. “Fight it. Hotch… stay with me?”

“I’ll stay as long as they’ll let me stay, Angel.”

“Angel,” Spencer whispers, a happy smile playing on his lips as he finally gives in to the sleep tugging at his body.

★

It takes Spencer another three and a half days before he’s awake for more than a few minutes at a time and satisfactorily lucid. Thankfully, the anticonvulsants had staved off another seizure and his temperature was slowly but surely dropping as his body fought off the infection, aided by the intravenous antibiotics being steadily dripped into his bloodstream. His oxygen mask had been swapped for a nasal cannula and he was no longer trembling.

Hotch spends the majority of visiting hours sitting beside his bed, texting or phoning the team while working as many angles as he could with only a laptop and the case files Alex is bringing him, but it seems so trivial everytime he looks up and Spencer is lying there looking small and peaceful as he sleeps, meningitis ravishing his body. He’d been worried for the first day at how much Spencer was sleeping, but a kind nurse explained that it was normal; his body was just fighting off a brutal infection and could do that best when he was asleep. Now it just makes him happy to see him dreaming away, knowing that his body is doing the best to help him get better.

He’d tried to avoid googling ‘bacterial meningitis’, but he gave up on the second day and scrolled through endless sites, torturing himself with statistics and facts and prognoses. It gave him a newfound respect and empathy for Spencer: he knows these about pretty much everything and has to live with them all the time. He knows his own survival chances very well, can probably recite specific cases and studies and has no escape at all.

Spencer manages to sit up on the third day and Hotch pulls out a portable chess board that Dave had gone out and bought specifically for this moment.

“You play?” Spencer asks sceptically, raising his eyebrows.

“I’ve dabbled,” Hotch replies lightly, a smile playing over his lips as he takes in Spencer’s doubtful but eager expression.

“I’ll probably win in under twenty moves,” Spencer challenges, matching Hotch’s smile.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Hotch chuckles. “But I’ll put myself through it anyway.”

Spencer stays true to his word and wins in 17 moves, making Hotch throw his hands up and lean back in his chair, smiling at the other man before packing the board back away. Spencer looks miles healthier, the antibiotics clearly starting to do the trick, but he’s still seriously fatigued and shuffles down the bed to lean his head back and relax a bit more, sitting up for a few minutes tiring him out.

Hotch pauses for a moment before deciding to broach the subject. “Spencer,” he starts softly, meeting the man’s hazy gaze, “why didn’t you say anything to us sooner? You clearly had a crashing headache, muscle pain, nausea. You said you felt the fever come on. You could have said something sooner and I would have helped you. Your health should come before a case.”

Spencer closes his eyes in shame for a moment, a blush blooming over his cheeks as he looks back to Hotch. “I’m sorry, I just-- It was a grisly case and I thought that was the most important thing, I guess. I’m no use stuck in a sick bed. I just felt bad making everything about me when in the grand scheme of things, a headache is pretty menial. Felt… isolated, maybe.”

“Oh, Spence,” Hotch says sympathetically, reaching back over to grip Spencer’s hand in both of his. “This is really serious, okay? If we’d left it much later or you hadn’t passed out but continued to suffer in silence, you could have died.” He has to pause for a moment as he chokes on the word. “Missing one case and being better for hundreds more is better than working yourself to the bone on this one and then not being around for anymore, isn’t it? You are so valuable, Spencer. Not just your eidetic memory or IQ, you. Spencer Reid is special and loved and important, and I don’t want you to ever think that a case is more important than you, or that we’ll be annoyed by anything that you need to talk to us about. If you ever feel alone, you come and find me and I’ll do my best to banish that feeling, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Spencer murmurs again. “I guess I just find it hard to believe that people care about me for more than what I can offer them. I never had anyone value me the way you do, and I still struggle to wrap my head around it. I’m sorry for scaring you, but I promise I already feel better. I’m not going anywhere, I promise, Hotch.”

“You’d better not,” he replies, letting himself smile a bit. “I know it’s hard for you to trust us, Spencer, but we’re your family, okay? Any of us would drop anything for you, stubborn little mule.”

Spencer doesn’t correct him this time, opting instead for a wide smile. “Thank you, Aaron,” he whispers intimately. “For being here, I mean. It’s scary on my own and having you next to me makes me feel safe.”

“Good,” Hotch says, smiling at Spencer’s use of his first name. “You’re always safe with me. You should rest now, you’re tired. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

★

Once Spencer’s moved out of the ICU on day five, the team are finally allowed to come and visit him, bringing Penelope, presents and smiles and noise. And reprimands. Many reprimands.

“If you ever put a case above your own damn health again, it won’t be meningitis you have to worry about but Penelope’s wrath, alright Spence?” JJ scolds as she gives him a gentle hug, though her smile betrays her. Penelope is stood at the foot of his bed trying her best to look scary, but like JJ her eyes are far too soft and relief colours her body language. Plus it’s hard to look domineering in a bright orange floral dress and flowers in your hair.

“Sorry, Pen, JJ,” he says sheepishly, looking at each of them apologetically. “Bacterial meningitis will definitely teach you to listen to your body.”

“Well if that’s the only good thing that’s come out of this then so be it,” Penelope says with finality, before she melts away her faux stern look and smiles at him. “Now, we bring you gifts and cookies.”

He opens each of the presents with the wide, open smile he doesn’t let cross his face very often, feeling deeply loved and cherished by his found family. His hospital room is covered in flowers and chocolates and academic books as well as endless gift bags and wrapping paper by the time he’s finished, and although he’s still in a lot of pain and knows he might never fully recover, in this moment he’s the happiest he’s been in a long time.

The doctor tells Spencer and Hotch a week and a day after his admittance that he’s been lucky enough to escape relatively unscathed. “You need to look out for any of the long term effects of bacterial meningitis such as concentration issues, hearing loss, visual disturbances, chronic pain etcetera but our tests seem to suggest you’re in the lucky c50% of survivors who escape without a permanent disability and we’d most likely have caught it by now. You need to take it easy for two weeks, make sure you’re resting and drinking plenty of fluids, and if you feel any symptoms coming back or becoming more severe you need to get to a hospital as soon as possible,” she says, handing him the discharge paperwork.

“Spencer, I think you should come and stay with me for those two weeks, okay? I’ll be there to take care of you and keep you company while you finish recovering. How does that sound?” he asks as Spencer signs the sheet of paper and hands it back to the doctor who smiles at them before turning to leave.

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?” he asks. “I don’t want to impose on you and Jack.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m offering. Besides, Jack will love having his own personal encyclopedia in the house. He loves you.”

Spencer grins widely at that. “Then that sounds like a plan.”

He sleeps for the majority of the two hour flight home, leaning against Hotch’s shoulder buried under the blanket JJ always carries with her in case anyone gets cold while the older man fills in some paperwork for the case they’d wrapped up a few days prior. The gentle noise of his family chatting around the plane and the comforting smell and feel of his protector surrounding him lull him into a sense of safety and reassurance, resting in the knowledge that his family loves him unconditionally. No matter what happens next, even if a long term condition was going to hit him like a ton of bricks, they weren’t going to leave him, and he was valued. Not for his brain, but because he was Spencer Reid, loved and cherished member of the BAU.

#criminal minds fic #Criminal Minds #criminal minds writing #angst #hotchreid #Spencer Reid #Hurt Spencer Reid #Spencer Reid Whump #my writing

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ssaseaprince · 3 years

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Hannigram with Will saying prompt 15👀

Tysm for the request ! Sorry it took so long to get out, this fic kinda got away from me. I’m not very good at dialogue, but I tried. I hope you like it <3

Will got lost some times. You could see the exact moment it happened, his body would freeze, tendons and bones and joints all locked up, eyes unfocused. Sometimes it was just seconds, usually it was a few minutes, but the worst time had been a couple hours. Hannibal was used to it now, being so attuned to Will. He learned to wait a minute or two, see if Will would come back on his own, and if he didn’t Hannibal would sit them both down and lay Will’s head on his lap. Stroking his curls he’d recite poetry, Lithuanian stories from his childhood, mantras of stability. When Will did come back, it was either slowly or all at once. It was either a sudden jerk of awareness or a slowly, drowsy awakening, like he’d just woken from a dream. He never talked about where he went in these times.

It could’ve been from the fall. Will had hit his head, ending up with quite a severe concussion that they hadn’t realized he had until far later than they should’ve. They’d been occupied with their more visible injuries, gunshots, stab wounds, and broken bones threatened them with blood loss and sepsis. His dizziness and slurred words were written off as a result of his more obvious wounds and his concussion was left unnoticed until the blurred vision and balance problems couldn’t be written off as blood loss anymore. Hannibal doesn’t feel guilty for much, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for missing it. It had doubled Will’s recovery time and still left him with some more permanent effects. Forgetting what he was saying and having his words drop off in the middle of sentences, struggling to memorize new things, forgetting where they were and the date, and slurring his words at random became common occurrences. Will would always be the smartest person Hannibal had ever known, there was never a doubt about it, but it was heartbreaking to watch Will’s frustration, his self doubt. They did what they could to help minimize the effects, and Hannibal learned how to reassure Will in a way that didn’t make him uncomfortable. But reassurance could only go so far, and Will still had bad days.

It could be a result of the trauma he’s endured, because no matter how otherworldly Will seems, he’s still human. Having been a psychiatrist had its benefits when Will’s PTSD presented and Hannibal needed to know how to react. Hannibal had mastered the art of moving around without making near any noise, but now the house was filled with his loud footsteps. Will still flinched at times, but Hannibal making his arrival known when he approached him prevented spiraling flashbacks for the most part. For a long time just the sight of Hannibal holding a needle was enough to pull Will into his memories of the past, he’d passed out from hyperventilating the first time Hannibal had tried to give him some painkillers through one after the fall. Their fourth week on the run, Hannibal had learned to avoid flashing light after a lighting storm had sent Will reeling, huddled against the wall and yelling at Hannibal to get the fuck away from him. He memorized Will’s triggers and together they learned how to best avoid them. Of course there are times where the nightmares and flashbacks still come, but they work through them together. They’d gotten a dog, and during times when Hannibal can’t be the one to comfort him, Will can cuddle her into his arms and press his face into her fur to ground himself.

And maybe it’s neither of those things, maybe it’s just Will. One of the things Hannibal loves most about Will is his unpredictability, and that nobody can ever fully understand his mind. It’s such a beautifully intricate, complex thing that Hannibal could gorge himself on it’s knowledge and thoughts and never get tired.

But Hannibal doesn’t know why, and he doesn’t know where Will goes when he gets lost. For the most part, their relationship has grown into one devoid of secrets, but whenever Hannibal asks Will where he goes when he leaves at those times, Will won’t answer. He tells Hannibal about all of the flashbacks and nightmares, sometimes even without prompting, but he won’t tell him this.

It’s immensely frustrating. Hannibal has always wanted to know everything about Will that he could, and with them as conjoined as they are now, the fact that Will won’t explain it to him is extremely upsetting. He understands why Will could have hesitations fully trusting him, but the ocean had washed away their walls and exposed them completely to each other.

Hannibal is an extremely jealous person, and he has no problem admitting that. With Will refusing to talk to him about it, he’s left to assume that he goes to someone else when he leaves. After the fall he had promised Will he would not go after Molly and Walter, and he would keep his promise, but the idea that they could be taking up any space in Will’s mind is maddening. Will had taken off his wedding ring a week after the fall, thrown it into the ocean and said goodbye. He’d been transparent with Hannibal, explaining that he did love Molly when he was with her, and he would always hold fondness in his heart for her, but that he couldn’t love anybody but Hannibal now. He’d explained it by comparing him to Oxygen, he takes up all the space in the air and in his lungs that there isn’t room for anything else. They made love for the first time after that, the memory perfectly filed away in Hannibal’s memory palace. But Will’s gaze still lingered when they passed happy families in restaurants or in the store, his eyes full of bittersweet longing. Hannibal knew he thought of Molly and Walter, and Abigail too. Will was insistent that they didn’t need to add anyone to their family, he didn’t want to or feel the need to be a father and their lifestyle wouldn’t be sustainable with a family. And Hannibal agreed, so he left it as it was. He knew Will missed Abigail too, they both did and they both had cared for her, her death had been one of the harder things to reconcile over. Will had admitted to hallucinating her after her death, when he went to Italy, and as much as Hannibal had cared for her and as much as he still mourned her death, he couldn’t help the deep rooted jealousy he felt over the fact that she had occupied a part of Will’s thoughts for so long. He wondered if Will saw Abigail when he went wherever he did in his mind.

And so his resentment grew, as did his jealousy. But Abigail was dead and Molly and Walter were across the world and promised safety, and he couldn’t be mad at Will. So the feelings built with nowhere to go.

He and Will hunted together, just not often as they didn’t want to draw suspicion. So he tried to use their hunting as an outlet, but it never seemed like enough.

Life went on, and their domesticity continued. Every time Will would freeze and his eyes would glaze over and you just knew his mind had called him, Hannibal continued the ritual of laying Will’s head on his lap and softly speaking calming words to him, but each time added to his anger, and his jealousy flared. Will’s mind was going somewhere he wasn’t permitted to follow and it ate at him. He knew Will saw his frustration, but he had a lot of practice at hiding his emotions behind walls and he used it. Eventually though, it all spilled over.

Before they had even fully recovered from their fall in the ocean they had come to a compromise. If Will was to stay with him and kill with him, they would only hunt together, and the sins they killed people for would be far more grievous then just rudeness. Because of their criminal status, they wouldn’t be able to display their victims as they’d like to unless they were prepared to move right after. Hannibal had quickly agreed to it, and the decision had been worth it. They got their domesticity, and when they hunted, he got to watch Will stalk and then help him slaughter their prey. Beautiful avenging angel. Of course, when they encountered individuals whose rudeness was staggering he took great pleasure in imagining stringing up their corpses, making beautifully refined dishes out of them. But they both liked where they had finally settled down, and he knew Will didn’t want to move again, so he never gave any thought to going against their agreement.

Until now. The day had started innocently enough, in fact it was a pretty good day. Will had gotten lost for a few minutes in the morning, but he came back fairly easily and quickly and there weren’t any other issues the rest of the day. It was evening, and Hannibal was off to the market to get some last minute ingredients he would need for meals tomorrow, when a woman looking at her phone and ignoring her surroundings pushed into him, spilling her coffee all over his shirt. They both stopped walking, and flustered, she looked up at him. It hit him like a train.

When Will and Molly had gotten married, their wedding announcement had been alongside a collection of others in the local newspaper. Will hadn’t wanted it, but Molly liked the tradition and had a lot of friends and acquaintances, so they had gone with it. Chilton had gotten a hold of a copy, and had used it to taunt Hannibal during his incarceration. Next to the small printed words announcing their marriage, was a picture, black and white and grainy but obvious as to who it was. Will was wearing a tuxedo, not the best quality or the most tailored, but it was decent enough and looked well on him. He was flashing a shy smile to the camera, and while he looked a little uncomfortable, he seemed happy, except that the camera quality was just barely good enough to catch the glimpse of longing in his eyes. Molly, next to him, was radiant. She wore a beautiful white wedding dress and had a beaming smile that lit up her whole face, she was clutching Will’s arm and her happiness was palpable. They made a very visually pleasing couple, Hannibal had mused. Chilton had given him the clipping, and he had folded it in half so Molly wasn’t visible, then spent hours drawing Will with the picture as a reference.

It was one of the few times he had seen Molly, the only other time had been after the fall, when they were reading interviews done to make sure everybody believed them to be dead. Freddie Lounds had gotten an interview with her, and next to the column had been a picture of Molly, stiffly sitting and blankly looking at the camera. Will had to take a break after reading it, sitting on the deck of their boat and watching the sea. That had been the day he threw away the wedding ring.

Hannibal was acquainted enough with Molly’s appearance to remember it, and the woman who had just run into him was quite the spitting image of her. It wasn’t actually her of course, there were enough differences to tell, but they looked a lot alike. And something in Hannibal snapped, a quite impulsive plan blooming in his mind.

The flustered young women profusely apologized, offering to pay for the shirt. Hannibal smiled, assuring her it was no problem, charming her and asking if she would like to go get another coffee with him at his home. Of course she agreed, how could she not when this handsome, charming and kind man had offered? Naïve thing, Hannibal thought. And with that, he lured her away.

It was extremely easy to kill her, quite a shame she didn’t put up much of a fight. Quick suffocation, the killing wasn’t the important part of his vision. The important part was the presentation.

He transformed her into Semele, the beautiful princess of Thebes that Zeus fell in love with. Hera found out about the affair and disguised herself to befriend Semele and made her doubt Zeus’ affection. So, Semele decided to ask Zeus to grant her a wish, and he took an oath on the river Styx that he would give her anything. Semele wished to see Zeus in all of his glory, and Zeus was forced to comply, even though Mortals could not survive looking upon him without bursting into flames. Semele died that way, witnessing Zeus’ true form.

It was fitting. Molly had never seen Will in all of his glory, Hannibal is the only one who could ever truly know Will because he was his. They are each other’s, and no one else had the privilege of witnessing Will’s becoming, nobody else could fully understand and appreciate the beauty of it.

He risked leaving the body to buy charcoal and a few white dress shirts. He kept his surgical instruments in the car for when they hunt, keeping them under the guise of a medical kit, so there would be no issue removing her organs. He cut up the white shirt in even, clean pieces and draped them over her like robes. She was laid in the charcoal, ruining the white of the shirts, one arm draped across her eyes and the other arm reaching out. Hannibal only took her heart, and while it was a shame to take nothing else, it was important for the symbolism.

It was beautiful, and would hopefully serve as a reminder to Will that he is his, nobody else could ever fully appreciate him as Hannibal can. Wherever Will goes when he gets lost, it will not be to others.

He ended up calling and leaving an untraceable anonymous tip to the police, telling them where to look for the body. It was risky, but his jealousy was making him rash and he wanted Will to hear about it by tomorrow.

Will was asleep by the time he got home, and he packaged away the heart before he changed and showered quietly and quickly, slipping on some pajamas after and getting into bed. Will didn’t wake, just sighed softly in his sleep as Hannibal wrapped his arms around him and buried his face in his curls.

The next morning Hannibal had woken to an empty and cold bed. Will only got up before Hannibal is he was having a bad night with nightmares, so there was always some concern for him when he wasn’t there when Hannibal woke.

He could hear small bits of noise coming from the living room, so after stretching and getting up, he went to go find the source of the noise.

Will was sitting in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by suitcases, their little puppy Penelope sitting next to him as he pulled her favourite toys and belongings into a bag. Hannibal stopped in at the doorway, and having heard his steps, Will looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and hair in a disarray, deep bags underneath his eyes. Will glared at him for a moment before going back to his task, his hands shaking as he picked up things to stuff into the bags and suitcases.

“Will,” Hannibal ventured softly, “What are you doing.”

Will flinched at the sound of his voice, and looked back up, squinting his eyes. His voice was rough and raspy, and he sounded like he’d been crying. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m packing.”

“Why are you packing? There’s no need for us to leave as of now.”

Will let out a hollow laugh, humourless. “Well, Dr. Lecter,” the title came out scathing, “Since you decided to put murder before my trust, all in the name of jealousy, officials are already poking around.”

Hannibal froze. The news must’ve broken a lot sooner than he had intended, he had planned to have some time to prepare Will for it but it seems that wouldn’t be the case now. He had faith in his ability to talk his way out of things, but Will had always been entirely unpredictable. Now, in the light of a new day, his impulse killing the night before began to seem like a mistake. A grievous mistake at that, he hadn’t considered all of the outcomes, something he usually did well.

He took a step forward, slowly, like one would approach a wild animal. Will wasn’t acting physically defensive, didn’t seem like he’d be on the attack, but he could never be too careful. The tremors in Will’s hands gradually became more violent and his breathing became more laboured with each step Hannibal took closer.

Will hadn’t had a seizure in awhile, they happened more in the beginning of his recovery and were most likely due to his head injury. Extreme bouts of stress and anxiety still caused them sometimes, but they were rare.

Hannibal saw the exact moment his eyes glazed over, and he lunged, catching Will’s head before he hit the floor. Cradling Will’s head, Hannibal looked at his watch, counting the seconds. It lasted about a minute and a half before Will’s body relaxed, his breathing coming out in harsh, raspy puffs. They sat for quite a few minutes before Will felt well enough to sit. He pushed Hannibal away and rubbed a hand over his face, refusing eye contact.

“Why’d you do it? I know how jealous you get, Hell, I get I feel that way too. But you swore before we moved here that we’d only hunt together, and that we wouldn’t draw attention to ourselves.” He let out a ragged sigh before looking up, bloodshot blue eyes connecting with Hannibal’s. “And Semele? Really Hannibal?” His voice wavered slightly as he continued. “We’re conjoined, I know you’re the only one who could ever see me fully, because I’m the only one who could ever truly see you. This is a reiteration of what we’ve both known for a while.”

There was a beat of silence. Hannibal opened his mouth to respond but Will cut him off. Continuing, “And using someone who looks just like Molly? I know how possessive and jealous you are Hannibal, but I thought we were past this kind of pettiness. I left Molly behind, left everyone behind, when I fell into the ocean with you.”

Of course, Hannibal knew everything Will was saying was true, but he was rendered speechless for a moment. He swallowed, taking a second to catch his voice before responding. “Will, it wasn’t meant to hurt you.”

That dry, hollow laugh made another appearance between Will’s lips. “It wasn’t meant to hurt me? What the Hell, Hannibal. How could you think this wouldn’t hurt me?”

A brief flash of anger, burning hot, rushed through Hannibal as he remembered his reasoning. “You leave, Will, and refuse to let me follow. The moments of absence where you fall into your mind and won’t let me know where you go. I am only left to assume that you find others there, I thought we were beyond secrets.”

Will scoffed, “That’s what this is about? The only person permanently residing in my mind is you! You want to know where I go? I’m thrown back into past realizations and thoughts. I am stuck with the realization that this is real and that you, us, is real. I’m brought back to memories of when I used to yearn for this. Because I’ve been so fucking happy here, Hannibal, with you. That when it hits me full force I sometimes just don’t know how to cope with it, and I get stuck in the memories of when I was alone, and I thought I’d be alone forever. And it takes my brain awhile to realize that I’m not dreaming. I don’t want to talk about it because I don’t want it to make anything feel less real.”

Hannibal was quiet after Will’s tirade, processing everything that he said. Will didn’t leave because he wanted to be somewhere else or with someone else, he just was overwhelmed with how much he wanted to be here. Reaching out, he clasped Will’s hands between his own and brought them to his lips, painting them with tears in apology.

“My beautiful, beautiful Will. I could never entirely predict you, you never fail to surprise me. How much I love you. You prove your loyalty and love everyday, I have no right to doubt it, and I am sorry. I acted impulsively and rashly without fully considering the effects, it was a mistake, and I hope you’ll extend me your forgiveness again.”

Will sighed, leaning in to lay his forehead against Hannibal’s. “We’ve been doing so well at communicating better, we need to keep doing that, and I’m sorry for not telling you when you’ve asked. We need to not put walls back up, all it does is cause unnecessary pain.”

Hannibal nodded, softly pressing his lips against Will’s.

“We still have to leave,” Will said when they pulled apart. “This is already bringing too much attention and it hasn’t even been a day. When we leave, you have to keep to the things we agreed to, we both know how fragile trust can be and I need to be able to trust that you’ll keep to what we compromise on.”

“It is regretful, and I apologize for forcing us to leave, I know you love it here.” Hannibal replied mournfully. “This won’t be a repeat occurrence Will, I promise you, I value your trust greatly and understand the importance of the rules we have both set.”

That brought a brief, small smile from Will. “Alright. And I get to choose where we move next.”

“Of course, Will. Anything you want. I love you.”

“I love you too, Hannibal. And I forgive you, but don’t do it again.” And with that, Will leaned into kissing Hannibal again. Hannibal felt a sharp sting on his bottom lip, and when Will pulled away his mouth was stained red with blood. Beautiful, dangerous thing, Hannibal thought as he licked his lips.

#nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #dark Will Graham #hannibal fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction requests #Anon #anon ask #hannigram #hannigram fanfiction

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tracybirds · 4 years

Text

Bad Things Happen Bingo #2 Virgil + Hearing Loss

for @fictivekaleidoscope (EVIL!! EVIL THAT WAS!!) Had to get it out of the way early or my heart would have gotten all cowardly xD

What it says on the tin, so hope you enjoy it!

Edit: hi, my brain is tired, I must also shout out @gumnut-logic for helping me with the ending and reading things through

—————————————————————

The door at the end of the corridor was all the mattered. John is telling him to move, his voice getting sharper and sharper, the intervals between that same instruction being issued getting shorter and shorter. As though he was simply ignoring that one simple direction.

If he had focus to spare, he’d be yelling right back at his brother. He’s running already, he can see the display in his helmet just as clearly as John can. The hydrogen level is rising. The fire is getting closer.

He doesn’t intend to be in the room when they meet.

Steam is hissing from the pipelines, and he lifts his gloved hand to wipe away the condensation. He can’t get at the sweat, dripping down his nose. He can’t escape the heat.

He’s lifted off his feet before he registers the sound, the shockwave blowing through the building.

A sharp crack and the display in front his eyes flickers and dies. His breath quickens, making the most of the oxygen spilling out between the polymer seal in his helmet.

A wave of dizziness keeps him on his knees even as he spots the fire on the ceiling above him.

The pressure is building, his ears screaming against the change in equilibrium.

Virgil has just enough time to recognise the danger and pull himself into a protective ball when the second explosion hits.

Heat seeps into his helmet, the rest of his body strangely cool in a room filled with orange and yellow flame.

He can hear all his brothers now, indistinct as the pain in his ears flares.

It’s the last thing he hears.

Yellow and orange fade to black.

***

Awareness returned with a ringing nausea. Virgil could just make out the strains of muffled conversation bleeding into his consciousness. Blearily, he tried to open his eyes and a deep groan escaped him. He could feel a frown forming even as he shifted to find a more comfortable position.

Something felt off. Beyond the way the ground had changed from hard concrete to soft mattress. Beyond the way his head protested at the slightest movement. His senses were too dulled by exhaustion to work out what had changed.

A hand lightly touched his arm and he flinched away, eyes flying open to see a room filled with harsh sunlight. A silhouette sat next to him and the muted words seemed to take on a more urgent tone.

He peered at the figure, and Scott swam into view, his eyes drawn together in a frown.

“Hey, Scott,” whispered Virgil, the sound getting lost on the way.

Scott made no reply, only frowned more deeply, and Virgil felt his attention start to wander. He didn’t recognise his surroundings, not warm enough for the island and not sterile enough for a hospital.

A sharp tap against his shoulder drew his eyes back to his brother. His lips were moving and Virgil stared at them, trying to blink back the fuzzy feeling in his head.

Scott shook his head, the frustration evident in his sharp actions.

Virgil closed his eyes, struggling to comprehend what he was trying to communicate.

Too soon, he thought. He was rapidly sinking under a wave of exhaustion and the persistent buzzing was starting to wrap around his head in a dizzying manner.

A gentle pat pulled his eyes open one last time and he smiled dopily at his brother’s worried face as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

***

His awareness slowly returned to the sight of silent moonlight spilling over the covers. Every part of him ached and he had vague memories of being thrown across a room. His breath felt tight in his lungs, but worse than that was the dial tone ring that accompanied his every waking moment thus far.

It was starting to get annoying.

“Oh, hey, Virgil,” came a slurring voice out of the dark.

A shadow leaned across the bed, and he scrambled away, unsure of who was in the room with him.

“Hey, hey,” said the voice again, slightly louder now. “It’s me, it’s Gordon.”

The light at his bed clicked on and he stared wild-eyed at his younger brother.

The motion had done little to help his cause, and the buzzy sentences were starting to overlap like two people speaking over each other, arguing and pushing against his own frustration that the world didn’t sound right.

And he still felt sick.

“Wha’ happened?” he rasped, releasing the covers from his grip.

Gordon’s response was rapid, seeming to slice right through him as he tried to untangle the start of the sentence from the end.

“Double explosion.”

Virgil closed his eyes from the effort, no longer interested in the rest of the sentence he had missed.

“I feel it,” he mumbled. He brought a hand to his face and winced as he prodded a strange, goopy substance.

“Yeah, let’s leave that,” said Gordon, pulling Virgil’s hand away. “You want that where it is.”

Virgil stared at his brother, concentrating on the sounds.

“Your voice is weird.”

Gordon’s perpetual smile dropped and his eyes grew tight.

“Yeah?” he said, slowly and clearly over that incessant buzz. “Tell me how, big guy.”

Virgil slowly rocked his head back and forth.

“You’re all muffled. And the timing’s off.” He stared at Gordon, expression pleading. “Keep talking.”

Gordon’s lips quirked, but he obliged without question. Virgil couldn’t make out the content, already his attempts to process the sounds were wearing on him, but he needed to know what had changed. There was a reason he’d mistaken his brother for a stranger. There was a reason his brother sounded like a conversation with a meaning just beyond his reach.

“I can’t hear it,” he snarled, shaking his head.

Instead of replying, Gordon grabbed a tablet and began to type.

Virgil stared at him, emotions welling up within. Gratitude that his brother had noticed his distress warred against the hateful feeling of helplessness, that things might have forever changed.

The tablet made it too real.

You ruptured both your eardrums. Grandma says they can run tests tomorrow. Your brain scan was registering some weird stuff. No need for hospital, so Lady P offered a room.

Virgil read the text in silence. The frustration that had so freely bubbled up only moments before faded away, leaving only exhaustion.

There was one more thing he needed to know before he would allow himself to rest easy.

“Why here?”

Gordon shrugged.

“In case we needed to launch.”

His brain offered up the sound he’d stopped registering, hearing it in his memory as if for the first time. He inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut at the phantom pain.

“Aw crap, Virg, hang on.”

Gordon ducked into the ensuite and returned with a damp flannel. Virgil took it gratefully and cradled it around his ear, warmth chasing away the steady ache.

He could feel himself relaxing, sinking down into sleep once more.

“Yeah, go to sleep, V,” said Gordon, settling into the chair next to his brother’s bed. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

***

He was pretty sure it was the incessant talking that woke him next.

He rolled over, dragging the covers with him in the hopes his family would get the hint that he was still firmly asleep.

There was to be no such luck as Alan pulled the covers back with a blinding smile.

“Virgil! You’re awake!”

The response in the room was deafening, the sounds overwhelming as they all tried to grab at his attention. The ringing increased, syllables overlapped and all the while Virgil’s brain tried to sort through the mess of sound, to try snatch any kind of meaning from the burst of chatter. But no matter where he turned, only a jumble of noise was left behind.

It would be easy to lose himself, he thought, watching his brothers pile words upon words on top of each other. The world had turned into a foreign soundscape, muffled calls, sentences slurring and sliding into each other, and dissonant voices he could no longer align with his memories.

“Boys! Enough!”

Sharp and discordant in a way that tugged on his ear, Grandma Tracy cut clear through the cacophony. The buoyant white noise subsided until he was left with just one sound. He was ready to gouge out his inner ear than continue to deal with that particular annoyance.

He didn’t catch what was said, still unused to the energy required to partake in conversation, but he watched his brothers leave without protest.

Grandma’s cool hand brushed against his flushed cheeks and she smiled softly.

“Now,” she said. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”

Virgil knew that fever was setting in, knew that the ache deep in his bones told a tale of injuries more serious than ruptured eardrums, but he saw his Grandma and his defences fell to their knees as she brushed the hair away from his forehead.

“Grandma, I can’t hear right.”

“I know, hon,” she soothed. “Your left ear’s got an infection, we couldn’t keep it out. There’s a course of antibiotics waiting for you and it’ll come back, right as rain.”

“The world…” His breath caught in his chest. “The world sounds wrong.”

He wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. Not over this.

“Tell me how, sweetheart.” Her fingers ghosted over his skin. “It’s okay, just tell me.”

The tears pricked against his eyelids.

“You don’t sound like you should. Like there’s two of you talking.”

“That can happen, that’s your ear infection messing with your sound perception.”

“Everything’s making the wrong sound. I can’t hear the pitch anymore.”

Virgil sucked in a breath and bolted upright, staring at Grandma Tracy in terror.

“Grandma, I won’t be able to play.”

Her steady hands found their way back to his cheeks and she pulled him close, careful to avoid the burns across his face.

“You will when you’re better,” she said, slowly and clearly, making certain he couldn’t mistake her meaning. “There’s been no damage to your inner ear, it’s not going to be permanent.”

He relaxed against her, folding into the hug.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

She smiled softly as he sank back into the pillows, before straightening in her chair, eyes firm as she looked him over.

“Anything else to tell me?”

Virgil shook his head.

“Sore. Tired. The usual.”

“Good,” she said, patting his shoulder. “This could have been a lot worse. In a few weeks, your ears should be healed and you can go home to work through the duty checks.”

Virgil smiled weakly. He didn’t want to sit around listlessly, with sounds blurring together and two-toned. He wanted to be up and moving, impatient for health and the world vibrant again.

Grandma Tracy leaned forward, and her lips moved with a murmur that couldn’t penetrate his ears.

He’d heard it enough times that it didn’t matter. His brain conjured the sound in her place and lulled him to sleep. At least he could still hear in his dreams.

***

The days went by and Virgil could stay awake for longer and longer periods. The antibiotics took care of the infection and the overlapping voices that had plagued his hearing. The tinnitus faded to almost nothing following a visit to a specialist who had patched his eardrums. Even his bruises had yellowed and started to fade.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?” asked Scott, hovering anxiously. “You’re meant to be resting.”

“I’ve rested plenty,” said Virgil. “I’m fine, a short walk won’t kill me.”

“Yeah, but if your not, it’ll be my head Grandma come after.”

“Stop worrying and help me tie my damn shoes.”

“Sure,” muttered Scott. “Can’t even reach down to tie his shoelaces, but no, Virgil Tracy is fine, just peachy.”

Virgil kicked him.

“I liked you better when I couldn’t hear you.”

“Not like it matters, seeing as you ignore me either way,” shot Scott back at him. “You ready?”

Virgil nodded, grasping the offered hand and hauling himself upright.

They walked in silence for the most part, no need for words between them. With no chatter in his ears, Virgil could focus on why he’d needed to get outside – he’d needed this. Needed to feel fresh air on his skin, to feel the warmth of the sun sink into his bones. To hear the birds chirping their songs.

He stopped and grabbed at Scott’s arm.

“Do you hear that?” he whispered, hardly daring to interrupt the joyous sound.

“Hear what?” Scott jumped to attention, slipping in front of his brother and eyes roaming the garden.

“The birds, Scott. I can hear the birds.”

“Oh,” said Scott, relaxing. “Yeah, man, I can hear them too.”

Virgil closed his eyes and listened, a smile creeping up from the hope blooming in his heart.

Scott grinned as he watched, his own spirits lifting with his brother’s discovery.

“I guess you’ll be able to hear the mouse in your room now too.”

He opened one eye and glared at his brother.

Scott’s lips curled just a fraction.

Virgil shoved him off the path.

#virgil tracy #scott tracy #grandma tracy #gordon tracy #thunderbirds are go #sometimes i fic #bthb card

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outerjjbx · 4 years

Text

Mayward Week 2020

Day 7: free choice

Songfic: You Were Drunk by Anthony Amorim

Pope stares at the hammock, watching smoke curl around JJ’s figure and twist into the trees. The blond is laughing, telling a story Pope isn’t paying attention to. He usually hangs onto to every one of JJ’s words, hooked on the way they spill from his lips like they’re desperate to get out, but this time is different. All Pope can focus on is that smoke, that God-forsaken smoke, and the way it spills out just like the words do, like a visual representation of JJ’s thoughts.

He usually hates it when JJ smokes weed. He hates it when any of his friends do, really. He thinks it’s stupid. Why would they risk getting caught by a cop that already hates them, just for a few minutes of dazed oblivion? They’re crazy when they’re high, too, especially JJ. Apparently weed is supposed to relax people, but it does the opposite to JJ. He bounces of the walls when he’s high.

This time is different. He’s just swaying in the hammock, one hand holding the joint near his head while the other brushes by the beer on the ground almost protectively. His head is craned, eyes closed as he speaks. The moonlight is reflecting off of the water, dotting it with white specks and making it almost indistinguishable from the night sky. JJ seems as if he’s just floating in space, completely at peace.

Time passes too fast, and Pope spends the entire time staring at JJ. He doesn’t realise how long it’s been until John B and Kiara are already inside, probably passed out, and JJ is staring back.

“Hey, man,” the blond grins. “Can you- can you get me another beer from the cooler? I’m all out.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” Pope replies, forcing a chuckle into his words.

JJ shrugs and lets out a heavy breath. “I’m- you- can you come here?”

Pope blanks, barely processing the words. “What?”

“Come here,” JJ repeats. “I want- I mean, I’m cold. Just come here.”

Pope stares for a few more seconds, this time trying to decipher what exactly JJ is asking for. He brushes aside his confusion and stands, making his way towards his friend. He’s about to climb into the hammock with his head on the opposite side of JJ’s; how they usually are, but a hand around his wrist stops him.

JJ blinks slowly. Pope thinks of a cat, and how they blink slowly when they trust people. Pope isn’t sure if JJ trusts him, though. Not when still insists on lying about the dried blood on his lower lip and the purple splatter of a bruise on his cheekbone.

“Can you-” JJ hesitates, struggling to get the words out. Instead, he motions to the space beside him.

Pope’s breath catches in his throat. He freezes, unsure of what to do, before nodding and falling into the space beside JJ. His heart is racing, his hands trembling. JJ looks calm as he rolls over, his face resting on Pope’s shoulder.

They stay like that for a few minutes. Pope is telling himself to relax, relax, relax, because he wants to enjoy this, but all he can do is lay tensely as JJ breathes against the fabric of his shirt. They’ve always been affectionate, always been close, but this is different. This isn’t JJ kissing his cheek to tease him or wrapping an arm around his shoulders. This is different.

Different is scary. JJ is drunk and high, too out of it to feel awkward, and Pope is almost jealous of him. He would do anything to just calm down and enjoy being so close to the most beautiful person in the world.

“I want to kiss you,” JJ mumbles.

Pope nearly chokes, his voice hoarse as he speaks. “You- you what?”

JJ continues as if he never even heard him, his words slurred. “Have for a while. You’re- you’re so pretty, Pope.”

Pope feels his heart seize uncomfortably, and for a moment he’s pretty sure he’s about to pass out. There are butterflies in his throat, choking him, stopping him from speaking, but he doesn’t even know what he could say.

JJ lifts his head and Pope turns his, and suddenly their noses are almost touching. Pope can still smell the smoke he was so infatuated with earlier. That’s what draws him back to reality, and he closes his eyes, exhaling softly as his muscles loosen.

“Can I kiss you?” JJ asks, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Pope wants to reply. He wants to say yes, to nod, to do anything, but all he manages is opening his mouth, his words stuck on his tongue. JJ seems to understand, though, because JJ always understands, and leans forward until their lips meet.

JJ kisses gently, carefully, and Pope feels himself get lost in it. He’s fallen into JJ’s oblivion, into the peace he feels among the stars. His heart bursts into flowery flames, and it’s the same feeling as when he successfully rode his first wave, or when he gets 100 on a test, but still so much better. It’s indescribable, and his mind is racing as he searches for any logical definition for whatever the fuck he is feeling.

They break for air but return without a second thought. They’re working in synch now, together, and it feels like they can read each others’ minds. Pope doesn’t even have to think about it as he opens his mouth; as JJ slides his fingers into his hair; as he rolls on top of the blond, his leg slotted between JJ’s.

Pope’s never made out with anyone before. He expected it to be awkward, to be bumped-noses and bitten lips. But everything with JJ has always been so natural, so smooth, that it almost feels as if this is a daily occurrence. He cards his hands through JJ’s hair, tightens against the strands, and genuinely feels as if he’s ascended to heaven.

They pull away, both out of breath. Pope’s eyes are wide and calculating, trying to memorise every aspect of the blond’s face. JJ’s are the opposite; hooded, concentrated on the way the moonlight reflects off of Pope’s irises, completely at peace.

“Cool,” JJ whispers, and his just-kissed lips spread into a smile, and Pope is reminded of just how drunk his friend is.

His heart is heavy as he grits his teeth and swallows, feeling dread set in his chest as he wonders what will happen next. JJ is a blackout drunk. He does impulsive things, things he always regrets. He rants, or he cuddles, or, apparently, he makes out with his friends.

JJ isn’t going to kiss Pope when he’s sober. And if he remembers what they did, he might not even talk to him. What if they’ve fucked everything up? What if Pope has fucked everything up? He isn’t nearly as gone as JJ. He’s a little buzzed, and he’s probably going to wake up with a headache, but he knew what he was doing when he leant in. What if JJ didn’t?

A shiver runs down Pope’s spine. He’s still staring at JJ, but it’s gone from awestruck to panicked. He isn’t sure if the blond has noticed; he hopes he hasn’t. Pope blinks and inhales deeply, letting the oxygen blossom in his lungs and untie the knot of anxiety in his chest. He can worry about this later. He doesn’t have to think about it yet. Right now, in the hammock, in a sea of stars, he doesn’t have to think at all.

Pope forces a light chuckle and lets his head fall to the space between JJ’s shoulder and jaw. “Cool.”

“I’m so tired,” JJ mumbles, voice low.

“Me too,” Pope agrees, eyelids growing heavy. He somehow feels both awake and asleep; both energised and exhausted. He breathes in JJ’s scent, the strong smell of weed and surfboard wax now comforting, and lets himself relax into it.

The hammock sways, the breeze rocking them both into deep, comfortable sleeps. They lay together, protected by cicadas and the soft sounds of the water behind them. For a few hours, as their breathing matches and they dream of one another, angry fathers and scholarship deadlines don’t matter.

Nothing matters until the morning, when JJ flinches awake, and Pope has to open his eyes. It takes a moment to think and remember through the pounding in his skull, and once he does, he practically falls out of the hammock.

JJ does the same. They stand there for a moment, on opposite sides, breathing heavily. JJ’s eyes are darting around, flicking between the hammock, Pope, the hammock, Pope, and again and again.

“Do you remember?” Pope asks, voice scratchy and rough from sleep.

“I-” JJ pauses, and he stills for just a moment. Pope can tell that he’s thinking it over, milling every option and outcome he can conjure. He looks up. “No.”

He’s lying. Pope knows he’s lying, and it hurts more than he thought it would. He nods and twists around the trees, making his way towards the Chateau. He passes Kiara on the pullout and eyes John B in his room, both of them sleeping peacefully.

The bathroom is small and dirty, but it’s enough for Pope to slide against the wall and rest his head in his hands. He breathes consciously, in and out, in and out, in and out, and focuses on that. He’s been through this so many times, freaking out on John B’s bathroom floor over fucking JJ, but this time is different. It’s always JJ doing something reckless, something stupid, something dangerous.

But it’s not so different, is it? JJ is impulsive. He does things without thinking them through. He never thinks things through. Pope is supposed to be the one that stops things, that keeps his friends in check. So why didn’t he this time?

He’s selfish. He’s selfish enough to kiss back, to not put an end to it, to not be sensible enough to realise that kissing Pope was just another one of JJ’s stupid decisions. He doesn’t know how they’re supposed to come back from this. How they’re ever going to be the same.

It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. Pope is slipping, collapsing, breaking, and it’s his own fault. JJ was drunk. He didn’t know what he was doing. Pope was more sober than him. He was more conscious. He was more capable of stopping them.

JJ was drunk.

#mayward #obx #obx fic #outer banks #jjpope #maywardweek2020

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matildashoney · 4 years

Text

Loving You’s the Antidote: Chapter Eleven

MASTERLIST // MOODBOARD // TAG LIST // TAGS // PLAYLIST

TAG LIST: @cock-a-doodely-doo, @ihearthemcallingforyou, @goldenfeelin, @detroitkiwis, @wherearethewatermelons

talk to me about it! feedback is greatly appreciated!

this chapter contains themes of sexual content please read with caution.

author’s note: there are no words to describe what a despicable time this is in the world, right now. i know this is a trying time, and i am posting this chapter early to hopefully give you space from the negativitiy if you want one. take care of yourself. i love you. i’m here for you. i see you. here is a page of links for you to sign petitions, learn, and donate. i encourge everyone to educate themselves. thank you for reading.

Going out was fine in the beginning.

Talia and Mylie were sat in the chairs opposite Amelie, their drinks nursed in their hands, talking about their boyfriends and their lives and their jobs. Her phone is vibrating every so often, likely from Harry, but they’ve already given her flack for not going out with her friends enough – even though she sees her best friend nearly five times a week – and always being attached to his hip when they’re together – which makes sense when he’s out of the country about six months a year – and it’s made her too anxious to excuse herself to check it. Harry would understand when she explained it.

“Can you tell me what you two are staring at or are you just going to keep looking past me like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“Getting a weird vibe from this guy that’s been staring at you all night,” Mylie says, squinting to try and get a better glance at who it was. “Don’t know, maybe I’m seeing things.”

“Anyways,” Talia interrupts, trying to break the underlying tension that is hovering above their table and causing all three girls to draw circles around their glasses, “How’s Harry? You two alright? Haven’t seen him in a while.”

Amelie smiles, her lips tingling with the mixture of tequila and the sensation of Harry’s lips on hers. “Harry and I are good. Love that man, I do.” Her teeth clink against the rim of the glass, taking the rest of the drink smoothly down her throat and standing. “Want another?”

“One for me,” Mylie smiles, sliding her glass towards Amelie. “Want me to come?”

“Not that crowded,” Amelie shrugs, taking a deep breath and gathering all her anxiety into her stomach. “I can do it.”

You can do it. Ask for a drink, wait for it, leave. Two minutes max. You can do this. Harry would be really proud of you for going out and being able to do it. You can do it.

Amelie walks to the wooden bar, slightly less crowded than it had been an hour and a half ago when they arrived, Talia and Mylie’s attention turned towards their own conversation. Her arms lean on the sticky counter as she waits, the bartender walking away to make her drinks, her hand reaching into her pocket to grab her phone and message him back, to tell him that everything was going alright. Amelie’s mind is elsewhere, clouded with tequila and rum and the drink that the bartender made when they walked in.

Until a hand lingers a bit too long on her lower back and a breath hits the back of her neck.

Amelie’s muscles immediately tense, dropping her phone on the counter and her head turning over her shoulder, all of the oxygen knocking out of her lungs at the sight in front of her.

“Look at you,” Jack slurs, his hand brushing the curls hanging over Amelie’s shoulder behind her back. “Get rid of that boyfriend of yours, finally?”

Amelie gulps, shaking her head, her hands reaching for her phone, fingers shaking, her eyes drawing out a path that would take her to her friends and they could leave. Her thumb is too sweaty to swipe across her screen, and every breath that she takes seems to be weighted and never make it into her lungs.

“Doubt that he’d ever leave you alone when you’re out. Always has to ‘ave an eye on you,” he mumbles, drawing his fingertip along her arm, chuckling darkly when she shrugs him away. “Must not be here, then.”

“Leave me alone, Jack,” Amelie spits, her tone echoing the fear that is welling tears in her eyes. Harry’s contact was the first on her screen, a few swipes and there would be a message to get him to her.

He steps impossibly closer, their chests touching, his breath hitting her face. His height is much shorter than she remembers, her fingers tapping anxiously against the bar as her eyes try to make contact with her friends or anyone that could see that the situation was uncomfortable.

And before Amelie could realise what was happening, Jack was leaning in to kiss her, his breath hot on her mouth, her head turning quickly as he grabbed her forearm, his lips hard and rough against her cheek. Her lips parted as she squeaked, her hand pressed against his chest, pushing him away. Her vision fades into flashing stars and her cheeks heat, all of the blood rushing to her head.

He stumbles backwards, fumbling into the security guard. His eyes fade into darkness that Amelie doesn’t recognise and there is this pit in her stomach that is making her want to be sick. Her eyes squeeze shut, trying to picture herself anywhere but where she is, anticipating his hand on her jaw and forcing her to kiss him like he likely would have, until one of the bartenders walks towards her, gently setting her hand on her shoulder and nodding towards the security guard, eyeing the situation.

Amelie is barely able to make out the words that are being said to her, only the thoughts about getting outside, to the fresh air, to the one setting where her lungs could get oxygen and feel full. Talia and Mylie nearly run over to her, grabbing her hands and her phone and bringing her outside, their concerned voices making her head feel like it’s going to implode at any given moment. Her hands are shaking as she messily scrambles to call the only person that would understand her, that would help her.

His phone barely reaches a second ring, his breathing slightly heavy through the receiver. His voice is rasped and worried as if the air was knocked out of his lungs the moment she called.

“Harry?” Amelie hiccups, her throat tight and tears falling down her cheeks.

“Doll, what’s wrong?” Harry whispers, his legs swinging over the edge of their mattress and reaching for the nearest trainers.

“’m out and ‘m scared,” she mutters, her breathing shaky as she walks further away from Mylie and Talia and beneath a light, her phone tight against her cheek, her body pressed against the brick wall. “Need to come home, Harry. I need you. I want to come home.”

“Mon ange, ce qui se passe?”

“’m sorry ‘m calling so late,” she chokes, trying to catch her breath.

“Hey, hey, j'ai besoin que tu respires pour moi,” he soothes, his voice calming and talking her through. His fingers brush through his hair, drying the sweat that gathered there. His voice is tense, hating that he’s not there to talk her through her panic attack, to squeeze her hand and remind her that he’s there because he’s sure that she’s near the point where she might go unconscious because of how heavy she’s breathing. “Don’t have to apologise to me. ‘m always here. Can you tell me where you are?”

“’m at some bar,” she says shakily, drying her eyes and trying to see anything she recognised around her. “Haven’t been to this one before, I don’t think. Mylie and Talia wanted to try it.”

Harry is starting to get nervous. He knows her. He is sure that she wouldn’t have called unless something was really wrong. That’s when he knows. He is sure that he knows what was making her feel uncomfortable, or who rather, and the thought alone makes him livid and his fists grip the duvet.

“Can I come and get you? Would that be that alright?” Harry questions nervously, a quiet hum in agreement all that was needed. He walks downstairs, mumbling that he would be right there, his hands reaching for a sweatshirt to toss over his torso to avoid meeting the bitter air. “Getting in the car, now,” he says, his fingers tugging at his roots and bringing it to a knot on the top of his head, the length becoming a burden with the knots and the strands sticking to his forehead. “’m gon’a stay on the phone until we’re together, alright?”

“Okay.”

And the line goes silent for a minute, Mylie and Talia walking over with their boyfriends and talking to Amelie, yet every thought in her head is spinning and she wishes that Harry would talk more to take her mind away from the feeling of his lips on her cheek and the harsh grasp that he had on her arm. His touch stung, cold and bruising, much like a wasp stinging the centre of someone’s chest. Her breathing is shaky, coming in pants, and Harry’s about to swear at every stoplight that he hits on his way to her.

Twenty minutes is twenty minutes too long.

His thumb drums dramatically against the steering wheel, his eyes scanning over the outside terraces of restaurants and bars and the nightclubs scattered in between. “Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me why you want to leave?” Harry’s fingertips tap against the screen, using the directions to her location to guide him. Hearing her take a breath; Harry isn’t sure he wants to know the answer, even though that’s what he has to do. “Do you want to wait until we’re together?”

Amelie sucks in a breath. “Had fun at first,” she says very slowly, the alcohol evident in her voice, “and all ‘f us were dancing, drinking. Mylie and I wanted more, and it didn’t look like the line for the bar was too crowded, and it was me that offered to go. Felt someone touch m’ back but didn’t know who. Turned around and it was, you know.” Her voice goes silent. “He leaned in and said something ‘bout you, he smelt like booze,” she whispers. “’m not even sure what happened but ‘e went in to kiss me and I pushed ‘im away. I was really uncomfortable, Harry.” He can hear her start to cry, again. All Harry wants is to be holding Amelie in his arms, comforting her. “That’s not, I just. He isn’t supposed to do that.”

“No,” Harry breathes, trying to subdue his anger. He is furious. Only with Amelie’s luck would Jack be there the one night that she decided to go out without him. Jack was the reason Amelie only went out with Jenny or Harry, to begin with. Harry should’ve been there, with her, protecting her. Guilt rises into his chest, his throat, and he thinks he might be sick. “He isn’t supposed to do that. That’s wrong. This isn’t your fault, you know that, right?”

Amelie nods her head, oblivious to the fact that Harry can’t outright see her.

His chest heaves with a staggered breath as his tires roll to the nearest parking space, the sight of her making him want to collapse. Her eyes are hooded, and her cheeks are puffy. He could only imagine how hard she’s been crying. He can imagine that she’s nearly gone unconscious, by now. “Can see you, baby. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” Amelie mutters, ending their call and turning slightly to where the slamming sound was coming from, Harry’s body coming into view as his feet pound against the pavement running towards her.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, immediately wrapping his arms around her head and pulling her into his arms, his lips touching her hair, his hands holding her tightly into him. “Are you alright?” Amelie grips onto his sweatshirt, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to only think about his breathing and his scent and his heartbeat that is beating in her hears with her head against his chest.

“Harry, we didn’t even know it was him,” Mylie rushes over, her hands tucked into her pockets, her heart breaking at the sight. Amelie always appeared so beyond the thing with Jack – not that they really knew what happened other than a messy breakup – but this put everything in an entirely new perspective. “Thought it was someone just watching us because of you two, honestly.”

Harry doesn’t want to blame Amelie’s friends. His frustration, his anger, his guilt, is begging him to blame someone other than himself. “Not your fault.” His hands gently brushing through Amelie’s curls and trying to soothe her. “Have they kicked him out?”

“Think so.”

“I’m going to go in there and talk to someone,” Harry says, his hands gently dropping from around Amelie’s torso and causing her to panic.

“Harry,” Amelie whispers dryly, barely lifting her head from his chest and squeezing his hips, “Harry, no.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry sighs, returning his hands to her hair and kissing her hairline, “you’re okay.” His cheek rests on her head, his eyes meeting the worried eyes of her friends, “Don’t worry, I’ve got her.” He kisses her hair, squeezing her shoulders and whispering, “Can I take you home? Can we go home?”

Amelie nods against his chest, grabbing his hand and interlocking her fingers with his, her body walking one step ahead to make the distance between where she once was. Harry opens the car door for her, kissing her temple and wiping the tears on her cheeks before moving back.

“Can you kiss me?”

“Course,” Harry smiles softly, disheartened by the trepidation in her voice. Her cheek turns to him, a tear wiped by her thumb as he whispers, “On your cheek?”

“Mhm.”

Harry’s heart sinks to his stomach. His lips gently touch her cheek, kissing away a tear that betrays her and falls against his mouth. He kisses her jaw, her cheek, her temple, making his way to her mouth to kiss her deeply, longingly. Her hand grabs his as he’s about to walk around and get into the car, her eyes flicking between his lips and his eyes. He kisses her, giving her reign, allowing her to mould her lips in whichever way she wants against his.

Harry has to take a breath, guilt washing over him in the worst way. He could’ve been there. He knows that she hates going out without him or Jenny. He knows that she doesn’t feel safe that way, that her anxiety is too overwhelming and makes her feel that way. Harry knows that Amelie wanted to prove that she was making progress more so to herself than anyone else, and she would have been so excited to tell him that she went to the bar all by herself and the night went great.

Until it didn’t.

“Have about twenty minutes until we get home,” Harry says, easing onto the street and beginning their journey home. “Glad you called me. Thank you for calling.”

“Had no idea what to do,” Amelie whispers dumbfounded, the alcohol still swirling in her brain. “Kept trying to press on your contact but m’hand was shaking and I couldn’t get it.”

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, kissing her knuckles and squeezing her hand, the volume on the music silent. “Everything’s alright now. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“Did I wake you?” she wonders, wet eyelashes pressed on her cheeks, her lips pursing together as the red tint of her lipstick begins to fade away. “Didn’t mean to.” Her hand reaches for the water settled in the console for her, taking a heavy sip and letting the cool liquid smooth down her throat.

Harry snorts, shaking his head and pressing a hard kiss to her hand. “Didn’t wake me, angel.”

“Oh no.”

His chuckle vibrates his chest, his heart warm as a smile tugs longingly at the corners of her lips. “Don’t think you want to know what I was doing.”

“Well, I mean, now yeah, since you’ve teased it, I want to know. Especially, since now, we’re together at a bright,” Amelie says, staring at the time on her phone and waiting a few seconds for the digits to process in her brain, “two in the morning.”

“Look, sometimes, things get a little, hard, and you have to do some things,” Harry begins, his lips curved in the cheesiest smile, a hard laugh bellowing from his chest as Amelie slips beneath the seatbelt and further into the seat, her hand covering her eyes. “You asked!”

“Oh my god.”

“Thinking of you, if that helps any.”

“No,” she says, biting her bottom lip to suppress a laugh itching at her throat, her cheeks flushed with his confession. “No, Harry, it really doesn’t.” Harry turns to stare at her, quirking his eyebrow suggestively and nodding his head. “Okay, a teensy bit.”

Harry and Amelie talk quietly about nonsense the rest of the way home, trying to distract from the sexual tension and the lingering conversation waiting to be had eventually. Her thighs were held tightly together, her hand and her phone between her legs, his hand holding hers on his thigh and away from the tent in his jeans.

Harry’s hand lingers on Amelie’s lower back as they walk inside, his hands gently holding her hips to make sure that she wouldn’t stumble going to their bedroom upstairs, her knees slightly shaky and her words drawn together as the alcohol begins to wear through her system.

Amelie’s eyes flicker to the alarm on the wall near their bedroom door. Harry nods towards the ensuite, his lips pursed together as her fingertips begin to take her clothes and toss everything into the laundry bin, taking her favourite robe from behind the door and wrapping it tightly around her torso. Harry waits for the three beeps before following her, frowning as she harshly takes a washcloth and begins rubbing at her cheek.

And Harry knows why.

“Baby,” Harry whispers, making eye contact in the mirror before setting his hands on her shoulders, gently rubbing her muscles and kissing her hair. “Gentle with yourself.”

“Can feel it on my skin,” Amelie whispers, her eyes welling with tears at the thought. “Want it to go away.”

“Can I do it? I’ll take it all off.” Harry waits for Amelie to nod, his hands holding her hips and lifting her onto the bathroom counter, her thighs spread slightly for him to stand between. “Love the way you do your makeup, you know. Always makes your eyes so bright.”

His hands gently wipe away the tears and the foundation and the running mascara, revealing her bare cheeks and supple lips and soft eyes, begging to be peppered with kisses. He kisses her cheek, his breathing choking in his throat as he waits to see how her reaction will go. Her cheek leans into his hand, her lips turning to meet his and her hands holding his shoulders, the kisses languid and sloppy and sweet.

“Come on,” Harry breathes, circling his hands around her waist and gently setting her on the ground, walking around her and turning on the water. “Know you better than anyone and the only way for you to avoid a hangover is a shower and a good night’s rest.”

Amelie wonders, hooking the robe near the shower door and stepping under the warm water, her hair wet and clinging to her skin beneath the pour. Her eyes meet his through the glass wall, her arms folding in front of her chest. “Coming in?”

“Don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Harry sighs, scratching the back of his head. He wanted nothing more than to be in the shower with her, to be touching her – even innocently – and telling her that he loves her. He wants to tell her now more than ever.

“Harry, ‘s just a shower.”

His fingers tuck between his teeth, biting at the skin nervously. He shrugs, nodding and pushing his jeans down his legs and slipping his shirt over his head. “Alright, alright.”

“Not even briefs?” she giggles, her fingertips gently massaging her shampoo into her hair, all of her movements drawn out with the lingering alcohol in her veins.

“Go on,” he laughs, stepping inside the shower, squeezing her shoulders and nudging her to turn under the water, his body slightly stepped to the side, “turn around and let me rinse out your hair. Gon’a got soap in your eyes if you keep opening them to talk to me.”

“Takin’ care ‘f me,” Amelie smirks, wrapping her arms around his torso and pulling him into her, puckering her lips and tilting her head back to inch her lips towards his.

“Always will,” Harry says assuredly, kissing the corner of her lips and gently squeezing out the water in her curls. “Could literally ask me to give you the clothes on my back and you’d have them.” His hands reach for her sponge, gently running the soap and water on the material and coasting it along her skin, kissing her neck and she leans into his touch.

Her voice is quiet, the water running over her skin as his hands gently rub into her shoulders, the muscles that tightened with the anxiety and the panic slowly loosening enough to allow her to have a night’s rest and to reconvene in the morning. His touched her hairline, allowing her to lay against his chest and have the water wash over their connected skin. “Have you seen anyone since we went on, you know.”

“On a break.”

Amelie nods, “That.”

“Haven’t seen anyone but your beautiful face every day,” Harry smiles softly, his thumb dragging along her cheek and his lips pecking her temple, his hands reaching to turn off the water and grab a towel from the rack nearest to them. “You’re it. Always.”

Amelie walks onto the rug first, holding onto Harry’s hand and wrapping the towel tightly around her torso her feet pressing into the fibres to dry and avoid slipping on the damp tile. Her hands reach for his warm sweatshirt on the counter, her hands rummaging around the drawer in their wardrobe for her favourite pair of silk shorts and pulling the material up her thighs.

Her voice is quiet as Harry gets dressed behind her, the cotton briefs clinging to his hips, his hair dried in a towel as she tucks the sweatshirt sleeves over her hands and walks to the bedframe, sorting her side of the bed and opening up the duvet for him to climb into.

“Cosy in that?” Harry asks, turning off the bathroom light and shutting the door, all of the lamps slowly beginning to turn over and the room becoming bright only by the moonlight shining through the thin curtains.

Harry’s fingers are about to shut his light when Amelie whispers, “Dumbest thing I’ve ever done was talk about that break.”

“Didn’t really give you much of a choice,” Harry sighs, turning to look at Amelie and sitting his back against the headboard.

“Have a choice, now,” she says, swinging her thigh over his waist, and straddling him, her fingertips coasting along his chest, her lips peppering kisses from his jaw to his neck.

“Hey,” he whispers, his head tilting slightly to allow her lips to make suckling marks on his neck. Harry was Amelie’s, undoubtedly and unabashedly. “Doll, we shouldn’t.”

“Baby.”

“Don’t want the first time we make love to be when you’re drunk, Ames. Don’t want you to regret that,” Harry gulps, his hands holding her thighs, gripping onto her lightly and feeling her skin under his fingertips.

“Could never regret you,” Amelie confesses, gently bringing her lips to hover over his, hot breaths panted over his mouth. “Kiss me, then. Not a fake kiss. Kiss me like you love me.” Her words are interrupted by hiccups, and Harry couldn’t find her more attractive – freshly showered, holding onto him, kissing him, wanting to profess how she feels; that’s more than he’s gotten in nearly a month. Her eyes meet his with all sincerity. “’ve been, dreamin’ about this.”

Harry’s thumb lightly pulls her bottom lip, “Have you? Missed these lips.”

Amelie kisses his fingertip, “Mhm.”

His fingers brush her hair away from her face, his hands cupping her jaw sweetly and kissing her cheek. “Are you sure?”

Her hands wrap around his wrists, having his hands firm on her face and unable to move. “Mhm.”

“Ames.” His voice is barely above a whisper, mouth inching towards her wet lips, the slight flush of pink on the flesh making his stomach flip with butterflies. His mouth is longing to be on hers.

“Je t’aime,” Amelie says, a smile tugging at her lips as Harry’s eyes move away from her lips and meet her stare, surprise and love overwhelming his emotions and features, “and I want you to kiss me.”

“Je t’aime,” Harry grins, brushing his nose against hers and lightly pressing a kiss to her lips. “Could listen to you say that for the rest of m’life.”

“And you will.”

Harry’s lips crash onto Amelie’s, their mouths messily colliding, their rhythm slowly building from sloppy to sweet, perfect alignment and steady intake of breaths as their tongue taste the lingering mint and tequila that is between their lips. Harry moans into her mouth, soaking in the way her fingers slowly inch into his hair and scratch at the nape of his neck, his hands holding her thighs and her back, their arms tightly around each other, barely giving space for their lungs to intake any oxygen.

Amelie’s kiss is begging for something more, desperate for Harry to take away whatever is lingering in her brain. Maybe it’s the anxiety. Maybe it’s the underlying doubt that they won’t work out a second time around. Maybe it’s the memory of someone else’s lips on her skin that she never wants to feel again. Harry answers it all with his lips on hers, kissing her cheeks and her mouth and her jaw and her cupid’s bow, leaving a bright red mark on the cut of her jaw below her ear and whispering his love for her.

Harry’s kiss is longing, aching for more of Amelie. His hair longed to be tugged by her, his neck marked by her teeth, his skin scratched by her nails, his sensed overwhelmed by her scent. He wanted all of her immersed in him, to be in her skin and knowing her. He wanted to erase the memories of anyone that’s ever hurt that, that’s ever made her feel like she deserves less than every star in the sky. His lips are slightly harder against hers when a tear slips down her cheek, needing her to feel his love deeper than the surface.

Her hand trails down his chest, lingering over where their thighs meet. “Have to give you a cut on tequila, Amelie Fay,” Harry chuckles dryly, gently moving her hand and bringing her fingers back to his hair. “Can’t resist you when you come home when you’re like this.”

“That’s what I love,” Amelie smiles, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. Her lips touch right below his ear, gently marking his skin.

“Fuck,” Harry breathes, gently sliding further into the duvet and bringing the covers over Amelie’s back, tucking their bodies together and his hands settling over the curves of her bum and trailing up her spine.

“Knowing that you have that control shows that you really love me,” she whispers against his skin, gently kissing over his jawline and making her way to the corner of his lips. “That’s good, you know, because, I love you.”

His eyes well with tears. Harry needed Amelie to say that more than he thought. “I love you. God, I love you. Don’t leave me, ever again,” he croaks, his fingers tangling in her hair and gently coaxing her to meet his glossy stare. “Need you, angel.”

“Need you,” Amelie murmurs, her thumbs gently wiping the tears from beneath his eyes. Her heart is thumping so loudly in her chest that it can be heard in her eardrums, a bass drum kicking a new beat. All that she wants is to have Harry’s lips on hers. “I love you. Je t’aime.”

“I love you. I’ll love you to the ends of the Earth. Do you hear me?” Harry breathes, his lips realigning with hers and making a home on the mouth that knows his so perfectly.

Her voice is hushed against his lips, barely breaking apart their kiss and the moonlight fanning over their bodies in the middle of the mattress. His hands are planted on her hips, firm and steady. “Don’t let me go.”

“Never, Ames. I never will.”

Harry can only pray that Amelie will feel the same in the morning.

“Oh mon Dieu. Oh mon Dieu. Oh mon Dieu.”

Harry could hear the panic in her voice. He’s only heard the stress and anxiety in her voice like this a few times, namely when they’re arguing, and there is a twisting in his stomach that is telling him that whatever is going to happen isn’t going to be good. He stirs, slowly prying his eyes open and blinking to focus his vision, the clock on his phone reading 06:28.

They’ve only been asleep for four hours, and Harry knows that Amelie’s had a nightmare that she didn’t wake up from.

Amelie’s hands were covering her face, her hair slightly matted from sweat and his fingers and the way he was tangled in her hair as they kissed. And the way the whole scene is panning out, it’s as if there is no recollection of the night before, her hands running over her body, ensuring that there are clothes covering her skin and the stickiness is only from the closeness of their bodies throughout the night. Amelie reaches to take Harry’s hand away from her hips, her knees pulling to her chest and her fingertips pushing against her temples.

And the panic attack is in action, full force, without a sign of hesitation or hindrance. Harry can see it happening.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Amelie mumbles under her breath, her heart pounding so hard against her chest that she swears Harry could hear it from beside her. “Harry, I need you to let go of me.”

“’ey,” Harry murmurs, the rasp in his voice coating every word with exhaustion, “tell me why you’re panicking. Can tell me, I’m right here. ‘s only a nightmare, you’re safe.”

“I, I.” Like that, every word in Amelie’s vocabulary is beginning to disappear. All she can see is the balcony and the promise of fresh air and the slight possibility of her heart to quit beating against her ribs in a way that would make it implode and rupture. “Let go, please.”

Harry immediately loosens his grip. He can see her making a mental path to the balcony and his heart falls to the pit of his stomach. He reaches for a pair sweatpants that are strewn on the chair near the vanity, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and yanking them onto his hips. “Jus’ le’ me turn the alarm off. One minute.” Harry walks to the bedroom door, clicking the buttons to turn the alarm to the setting that wouldn’t blare a horn when she opens the door. “Doll.”

Harry’s eyes follow Amelie as she rushes outside, satin shorts on her hips, her knuckles turning white as she holds onto the railing for dear life, as if moving would make the entire world turn upside down and she would be the first to fall. On the corner of the horizon, the sunrise is beginning to show promise of the new day, the dew clinging to her skin and slight breeze of the morning chill hitting her cheeks. Her thighs are covered in goosebumps, but there is nothing she can feel besides the heat of her blood pressure in her cheeks. He rubs his eyes, trying to gather all of his words and thoughts and wake himself enough to at least know why she’s panicking.

“Oh mon Dieu, je t'ai appelé. Je n'aurais pas dû appeler,” she murmurs, her words slurring together in a string of sound. “Qu'est-ce que je fais, bordel?” Heaving breaths, her chest is tight, the overwhelming weight on her lungs suffocating her.

Oh my god, I called you. I shouldn’t have called. What the fuck am I doing?

Harry takes a second to try and grasp what she’s saying. He can’t comprehend what she’s saying that quickly and that jumbled. “Say it again. Slower, please.”

“This is,” she says quietly, pausing to think but every word and thought is scrambled and making her head hurt. “Can’t breathe.”

“Ames,” Harry says calmly, taking a breath and standing beside her against the railing. He is well aware that she doesn’t like to be touched during a panic attack, that’ll it’ll cause her to hide away and never speak, but she has to see him, “slow down. Talk to me. Called me at the bar, last night, remember? Came home with you. Only us, here.”

“Can see everything,” Amelie whimpers, her fingertips curling around her hair, her nails scratching her scalp, her eyes squeezing shut. “Had a nightmare and it wasn’t you touching me. Can’t make it stop.” Harry’s eyes are fixated on her, his body seeming too close even though he is far away. “Don’t want to see it, again.” Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Harry is sure that she’ll pass out at any moment if she doesn’t take a breath. He sighs as she turns away, laying her palms flat against the bench that decorated the space beneath the lingering window – the bench that she chose nearly a week after she moved in.

“Know that, baby,” Harry breathes, leaning his back against the balcony and watching her every movement, careful to not overwhelm or scare her. His voice is soft and soothing, all of his words chosen very carefully and particularly. “Want to take it all away from you.”

“But you can’t, Harry,” Amelie says desperately, taking a seat on the bench, her fingertips digging into her knees, her eyes set on the flowers beneath the balcony and in the garden. All of her hope is drained from her voice. “He’s never going to go away.”

“Amelie, that’s not true. Don’t start thinking backwards, now.”

“Do you think I did something to want to be this way? Is that why you said the things you did? Do you think that?” Her voice cracks between sobs, her chest shaking beneath the tears and the unsteady breathing. Her eyes can barely open with how heavy the tears are. “Harry, I don’t know why I’m like this. This wasn’t my choice.”

“Mon ange, écoutez-moi,” Harry whispers, his stomach twisted into knots and a sob lodged in his throat. He should’ve never said the things he did. Never. “Know that this wasn’t your fault, none of it. Have nothing to say for m’self other than ‘m a proper arsehole.” He takes a step forward, their feet barely touching. “Have had a lot of time for reflection and learning over the last month, you know. Understand a lot more, now. Don’t have to forgive me, but I am sorry, Amelie. I’m so sorry.”

Her fingernails scratch at her bare skin, leaving crescent marks in her flesh. “Jack told me I was going to be alone. He told me and I didn’t believe him,” Amelie sniffles, her teeth biting at her bottom lip and tearing at the skin. Her tongue swipes over the flesh, taking the blood that trickles from the cut. “You’re going to hate me like everyone else. You are. Only a matter of time.”

“You think that I’m going hate you,” he sighs, taking a seat from the corner of the balcony and bringing it towards the bench, his knees knocking with hers and his fingers set on his thighs, nervous to take her hands. “You think that I could hate the love of my life.” Harry’s eyes meet Amelie’s when she lifts her head – he knew that would bring her attention to him. His heart falls into his stomach, taking in the tears staining her cheeks and the bright red circling her eyes. “I’ll never hate you.”

“Can’t believe you,” she mumbles, taking the sleeve of her sweatshirt and wiping her skin roughly, scratching at her cheeks and heaving a staggered breath into the fabric. “Anxiety, it ruins everything. Depression, it ruins everything. Me, I ruin everything.”

“No, you don’t ruin everything.”

“Our holiday was ruined by me.”

Harry’s lungs collapse in his chest. “Our holiday was not ruined by your anxiety. Us staying inside an extra day or two and leaving two days early didn’t affect our holiday in the slightest.” His hands hesitantly reach for hers, his throat swallowing a cry when her hands retract further into her sleeves. “Could have gone home the very next day with you and it wouldn’t have mattered to me.”

Having a spiral on holiday effectively ruins it, Harry.

“Can you listen to me fo’ a second? One minute, that’s all.” Amelie nods silently. “Haven’t felt this much guilt in a long time, and I am sorry. There were so many opportunities to make the conversations and the behaviours that were triggering to you stop, and I didn’t take them. Overstepped a boundary that you had and that was wrong.” Harry’s thumbs gently wipe the tears falling down her cheeks. “Had every sign that you needed me, that you were having anxiety, that your depression was there, and I did nothing. That’s all my fault. Not yours. Have every right to be mad at me, to not forgive me.” His heart squeezes so tight in his chest at the thought of her never forgiving him that he thinks he might break into sobs. “Don’t have to forgive me, that’s okay. Need you to know that I know what I did, I’m sorry, and I’ll never do it, again.”

I forgive you. I forgive you and I love you. That’s what Amelie wants to say. “Je n'aurais pas dû te laisser tomber amoureux de moi. I’m sorry I don’t communicate, and I tend to react on my emotions. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. Je suis désolé de ne pas suffire. Tu mérites mieux.”

“Don’t say that, Ames,” Harry whispers, aggressively wiping away the tears that fall down his cheeks and itch his skin. “Couldn’t have stopped me from falling in love with you if you tried and you are more than enough to me. All I want is you, you and me. Don’t you dare say that.” His eyes are welling over with tears, desperately wishing that they could go back to last night, where they were smiling and kissing and promising to be together, that they love each other and always will.

“Harry, you’re going to fall out of love with me. One day you’re not going to want me,” Amelie says, her jaw clenched as she wipes her eyes and stands on her feet, avoiding Harry’s reach for her hand and stepping towards the balcony railing, her eyes meeting the bare colours of the flowers in the garden.

“That’s not true, angel. I swear on my life. I swear to God. I love you,” Harry cries, pushing his body from the chair and sliding it away, disheartened by the way her shoulders tense at the words and her jaw tenses. “I love you.”

And despite the way Amelie refuses to turn around and utter the three words that Harry so desperately wants to hear, Harry knows that Amelie loves him, that she’s in love with him. He has to believe that, otherwise, all of his defences and will to let the words her anxiety is spewing from her lips pass without regard will disappear and he will break. But she needs him, right now, and he refuses to abandon her. Harry refuses to let Amelie slip through his fingers, again.

“But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our–”

Harry knows that Amelie’s anxiety can make her second guess everything, to make her overthink and believe in the falsities that have been told to her time and time again. Her thoughts make a façade making her believe that she is undeserving of the love in her life, and all the kindness that encompasses her. Her heart wrenches and twists and squeezes against her ribs, hiding away from saying the three words that she desperately wanted to, making an exterior that would guard anyone against ever touching her soul and her emotions and love, that would protect her in the least convincing way. All that Amelie’s gone through to be where she is, to make the art she creates, to love the way she loves, to treat others way she does, is played into the thoughts that make her question all of behaviours and reactions and relationships.

Anxiety makes her mistake the love in her life with hate for herself, and Harry refuses to let that happen again.

“Finish the quote, baby,” Harry says, standing behind Amelie and sucking in a deep breath. “But our hatred is almost indistinguishable from our–”

“From our love,” Amelie whispers, releasing her grasp on the railing and taking a step backwards, returning to her seat on the bench. Her head is pounding and there is a heat creeping onto her cheeks, her blood pressure raising under the sporadic breaths leaving her chest.

“Tell me you love me, angel. Need you to tell me that you love me, baby. You have to remember that feeling,” Harry says slightly louder, slightly more abrasive, taking another step away from her to allow her to move without touching him, “and unless you say that you don’t love me, you’re not moving, you’re not leaving me.”

“Don’t shout at me.” Harry wasn’t shouting. Not yet, at least. He can feel himself getting ready to yell, though. He is ready to yell at the thoughts in Amelie’s brain that make her second guess everything she does, that make her feel like she’s not worthy to be loved by him, that make her feel like she isn’t enough.

“Fine,” Harry’s voice is bitter as he resumes sitting in the chair set in the middle of the balcony, his arms folded in front of his chest. “That’s fine.” He stares at her blankly, his emotions unable to be portrayed on his face. “Guess we’ll stay here all fucking day.”

This is where it ends, her anxiety says. This is where he falls out of love with you. This is where he kicks you out onto the streets and makes you go to your parents’ house, where you have to move out in a week and find a place to live and somehow pretend that you aren’t in love with him and have to settle for someone and marry them just because they like you enough. This is why you ended up with Jack. This is why bad things happen. This is why. This is.

“Um,” Amelie chokes out, tears beginning run along her cheeks, her skin burning with the heat of her blood pressure, “you know, I can go. I’ll leave. I’m sorry. I should go. I’m so fucking sorry. I ruin everything. I didn’t mean to do this. I don’t want you to hate me. I’m sorry.” Her head is pounding so deeply in her temples that she has to squeeze her eyes shut, the tears falling onto her bare thighs, and she swears that if she makes one sudden movement, her mind will go unconscious.

Harry leans forward in the chair, sliding slightly forwards and leaning over his knees, their legs barely touching. “Did I not just tell you that you’re not leaving until you say you don’t love me.” He heaves a sigh, standing on his feet and walking to the railing, defeat etched into his features and sadness echoed in his words. “Tú devez arrêter de faire cela. Tú dois arrêter de me faire ça. ’m begging you to stop running away. You’re saying all of these things and insisting that you have to leave. Arrête de parler de partir et parle moi!” Harry shouts, slamming his hand into the metal bannister, his knuckles white as he clutches onto the rail, his body turned away from hers as she clings to the edge of the bench overlooking the garden, every muscle in her body frozen and unable to move. “Arrête de nous faire ça et dis moi ce qui ne va pas.”

You have to stop doing this. You have to stop doing this to me. Quit talking about leaving and talk to me! Stop doing this to us and tell me what’s wrong.

Say something, her brain screams. Say something before he hates you.

And quiet washes over them.

Harry swallows a sob, turning around and walking to Amelie, his feet carrying him over to the bench, his body uncomfortably kneeling against the concrete, his hands holding her thighs, making her feel his touch, making her know that he is there. “Je sais que tu m'aimes.”

Amelie’s eyes barely meet his, tears streaming and the light eyes that Harry knows are washed out, blurred, dim. Her hands shake against his, her chest rising and falling much too rapidly. All of this, every tear and shaky breath and unsteady hand is a make of anxiety and a nightmare and a toxic relationship. Harry wants to take it all away.

That’s the thing that Harry doesn’t understand. All of Amelie’s boundaries have disappeared with him. All of the guards to protect her heart and her brain and her soul. All of the measures to ensure that she never fell in love, that she never gave herself the opportunity to broken.

Harry has made all of that disappear, and that is what is so terrifying.

He has made her fall so in love that she would impulsively make any decision to see him, to touch him, to kiss him, to be with him because he said the three words that she needs to hear. He makes her feel so sure of herself, that she doesn’t think twice about it. He makes her feel like she is everything and anything, that she can do everything and anything.

That is the scariest thing; there is someone that makes you feel so loved, that you feel like you can do anything. Love is that powerful.

“Tú ne savez pas que,” Amelie whispers, desperately trying to break the intensity that is building between them. Telling Harry that she’s in love with him would prove her point, that the love that they have has broken every boundary she has ever set for herself, that she has ever set to protect herself. “Je vais tout foutre en l'air. Je vais te faire me détester.”

“Listen to me, baby, please,” Harry pleads, grabbing her hands and interlocking her fingers with his, squeezing and kissing her skin. “There’s nothing you could do to mess with you and me, that could fuck us over. Could never hate you, Amelie, ever. Have to believe me on that.”

One day you’re going to hate me. One day it’s going to happen. I am so afraid of that day. I don’t want you to hate me.

“Regarde-moi dans les yeux et dis-moi que tu ne m'aimes pas,” Harry retorts, secure in his judgement and every word that is rolling of his lips.

Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t love me.

Harry is angry with Amelie – angry that the anxiety is winning and that all those thoughts are going to change the way she sees herself, the way she sees him, the way she sees their relationship. Harry is angry with himself – angry that he hasn’t done enough to make sure that all those thoughts are gone, that they are deep enough in her worries that they’re never a second glance, that they’ve almost disappeared from the atmosphere. Harry is just fucking angry. “Have to say that, because that’s the only thing that could ever screw this up, fuck this up. That’s the only thing that could ever make me hate you.”

“Can’t do that,” Amelie mutters, sucking in a heavy breath and willing her eyes to meet his. Harry’s features portray his exhaustion, now, and her heart aches knowing that she’s caused this. She loves him. Amelie never wants him to feel this way. Harry moves only slightly, his arms gently coaxing around her waist and slowly encouraging her to stand. He wraps his arms around her, only tight enough to ensure that her knees wouldn’t give out, his face leaning away to stare at her. He can feel the sobs being held in her chest, the tightness in her breath, the shakiness as she clutches onto his back. “You know I can’t say that.”

“Pour une fois, s'il te plaît, arrête de te battre contre mon amour pour toi.”

For once, please, stop fighting against my love for you.

Harry’s voice is barely above a whisper compared to her rasped tone, thick with tears and regret and anxiety. “’s not that simple, Harry.” Harry releases her when she takes hold on the railing, his hands holding the metal beside her body, uneasy with how shaky she is against and frightened that she might fall. “Don’t deserve for you to love me, like this.”

“Tell me why. Tell me why you aren’t allowed to be in love. Tell me why I can’t love you.”

“Can’t,” Amelie murmurs, sucking in a heavy breath and turning around, tucking her arms in front of her chest and facing Harry, his eyes meeting hers and his arms tightening closer by her sides, holding her between him and the metal railing. “Can’t have a love like this.”

Harry is frustrated, his breathing heavy, his body adjusting the weight in his legs and making his eyes meet level with hers. “’m asking, no, begging, you, do not shut me out. One of your rules is to never leave someone that needs you. Guess what? I need you. Anxiety makes you think that no one needs you. Depression makes you think that no one needs you. I need you, Amelie. I fucking need you.”

“Harry.”

His cheeks stained with tears, his eyes glossed over and etched with pain. “Have all of me with you, and you promised that you wouldn’t leave me, that you need me.” Harry is desperate for Amelie, now. “On that day you scared me nearly to death because you wouldn’t answer m’calls or m’texts, remember, you told me you would never leave me. On the phone last night, when you were plastered and petrified to come home, our home, alone, you said you needed me. On our bed, last night, when we were kissing and touching, when you were clinging to me and squeezed me and kissed me, you said you always wanted us together. Can’t have you say goodbye to me this way, not when you promised.” Harry’s eyes are etched with pain and fear. He is afraid of what she is going to tell him, more so, what her anxiety is telling her to say. “Tell me this isn’t goodbye, fo’ fuck’s sake. I’m begging you, now, Ames.”

“This isn’t goodbye. This isn’t it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Amelie says quietly, her heart breaking watching the emotions move through his body. “I need you; I do. I need you, Harry. I’m not fighting you anymore. I’m sorry. I’m scared, I’m really scared. I’m sorry. Je t’aime. I’m sorry for everything. Je t’aime.”

Harry wraps his arms around her waist, his face tucked into her neck, tears wetting her skin, his hands squeezing her hips, gripping her sweatshirt in his fists. His grip is telling her that he’s there, telling him that she’s there. “Don’t fucking scare me like that ever again. Makin’ me think you can’t love me anymore.”

“Okay,” Amelie agrees quietly, untangling her arms from her chest, circling around his shoulders, her fingertips finding the baby curls at his neck, her face falling to his neck and her lips breathing out a sob. “’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. Don’t,” Harry says flatly, his hands squeezing her torso, her chest tucked tightly against his, physically melting into his touch.

“Harry, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she cries, shaking her head against him, holding him tighter. “’m sorry.” Harry waits to say anything, knowing that she isn’t quite finished. “Gotta get better. Give me time.”

“J'attendrai avec tu,” he whispers, gently ghosting his fingers along her skin, reaching to take her cheeks in his hands and slowly bringing her to face him. “I love you. You’re not doing this alone.”

I’ll wait with you.

Harry takes a breath, gathering his emotions and steadying his breathing, his thumbs tracing over her cheekbones and drying the stray tears that stained her skin. “Je suis désolé, je n'ai pas pu le voir. Couldn’t see that things were getting bad.” His chest is so tight, his lungs could implode. He could apologise. He could make things right. He could fix this. “Wasn’t there for you like I should have been. I’m sorry. Going to be different, now, I promise.”

I’m sorry I couldn’t see it.

“Je ne voulais pas être un fardeau, that’s why I didn’t tell you,” she mutters, gently kissing his palm, her eyes glossy as she stares at him. “Going to talk to you from now on, I promise.”

I didn’t want to be a burden.

“’ey, you are never a burden,” Harry assures her, his lips touching her forehead, her nose, her chin comfortingly. “Could do nothing to make me not love you or be in love with you. Quite literally, you are everything to me.” All of Harry’s love pours through his words. “Only thing I need in this fucking life is you. Only you.”

“I,” Amelie breathes, squeezing her eyes and blinking away her tears, having a moment to gather her courage, the three words she has to say stuck in her throat. “I love you.”

Harry chastely touches his lips to hers, his heart breaking as he feels the tears stain his cheeks. He savours in the way she tastes, the way she kisses him with so much passion he knows her heart is his without having to say a word. His thumbs brush her cheeks, his lips repeatedly kissing hers for comfort, for love, for reassurance.

Harry doesn’t know what’s going to happen when his mouth leaves hers. He doesn’t know what she’s going to say and how she’s going to react. He doesn’t know anything other than his love for her, and the love that she has for him.

Harry remembers the quote that Amelie marked from their favourite novel, the one that reminded her of him, the reminded her of how she felt about loving him. All of it, every ounce of love that he has for her, all of the thoughts and dreams and feelings for her, everything makes sense.

They were meant to love each other.

Kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, Harry lets his lips linger on her hairline, his arms around her shoulders, bringing her into his chest and holding her tightly. Her hands are squeezing his torso, her face tucked into his neck and sucking in deep breaths, steadying her shaking and trying to process all the thoughts in her head.

“Can feel you thinking,” Harry whispers, his mouth on her hair, his eyes taking in the way the sun is beginning to rise over the mountains far off in the distance and the birds are beginning to sing their morning song.

“Thinking about Finch and Violet, and the Jovian-Plutonian Effect and the Moon,” Amelie tells, her fingertips drawing on his skin and her lips parting with the heavy breaths reaching her lungs. Her cheeks are starting to feel cooler, her blood pressure slowly lessening and her head beginning to feel less achy. “Think we were made to love each other, somehow. Don’t know how that happened, but I’d like to think we were.”

Harry grins, his arms loosening around her shoulders and his hands cupping her cheeks, his mouth tilting into a kiss and soaking in the way her lips so perfectly mould to his. “I love you. I love you so fucking much.” His words are rushed over, needing to have her kiss, the sensation intoxicating and enticing. All that Harry wants is to share his love with her so intimately. “Je t’aime.”

“Je t’aime,” Amelie breathes, squeezing his hips and gently sponging kisses along his jaw, making a light path to his ear. “Fais-moi l'amour.”

His head tilts to meet her lips, his hands gently coasting along her figure and wrapping under her thighs, encouraging her to settle on his hips, her legs tightly circled around his waist and her arms squeezing his shoulders, the balcony door quietly shutting as they messily walk towards the bed, as their breathing hitched together as their mouths entangle in longing and loving kisses. His heart is thumping against his ribs, nearly extending through his lungs and radiating through his fingertips. Her skin is glowing beneath the rising sun, his fingertips trailing over her cheeks and tucking beneath the hem of her sweatshirt, pulling the material over her head and tossing it onto the ground. Her fingers shove the waistband of his sweats down his legs, their movements wanting and hurried.

“Missed this,” Harry breathes, light kisses feathering across her chest, suckling over the moon tattooed on her sternum, his hands dragging her silk shorts down her legs and laying a kiss on her calves as he slinks over her naked body. “Missed you.”

“Missed you,” Amelie whimpers, a moan echoing around their bedroom as Harry’s fingertips gently taste her arousal, his thumb rubbing circles over the bundle of nerves between her spread thighs, her fingers wrapped in his hair as their kiss becomes more passionate and heavy with the wetness on their skin. “Entrez en moi.”

Harry nearly groans at the thought, “Might not take me that long since all ‘ve been using only m’hand for nearly a month.” His weight is supported on his forearms, his hand tugging at his cock, heavy in his hands, his thumb dragging her arousal over his throbbing tip and teasing her heat. “God, ‘ve missed being this close to you. J'ai manqué de faire l'amour avec toi.”

Harry and Amelie gasp in unison as his cock gently eases into her core, her warmth swallowing him, her velvet walls taking all of him inch by inch, her thighs around his waist and her muscles soft under his touch. His hips are flush against her pelvis, thrusting and grinding into her, his thumb drawing patterns on her nerves as her fingernails scratch at his back, dragging along his spine and breathing as his cock reaches her hilt, sponging against the sweetest spot inside of her. “Harry.”

“Love you,” Harry moans, his lips suckling on her throat and marking her skin with a bright magenta bruise. His pelvis grinds with the arch of her hips, her heels digging into his bum and bringing his cock as intimately inside her warmth as physically possible. Her arousal sounds around the bedroom as he thrusts into her, the wetness on their thighs and their sheets and their moans encouraging the sweet love. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I love you,” Amelie whispers, a tear falling down her cheek with the pleasure and the orgasm growing so deliciously in her stomach, squeezing his cock tightly inside and feeling as though the emotions and the love and pleasure is bringing her face to face with heaven. Harry was heaven. “Want you always.”

“Have me,” Harry grunts, his thumb pressing to her bundle of nerves and groaning into her neck as her orgasm spills around him, milking his orgasm inside her warmth and squeezing him deeper, her thighs shaking around his hips. His mouth presses kisses into her cheeks as their orgasms wash over their bodies, her glossy eyes meeting his as he whispers, “you fucking have me.”

All of Harry’s thoughts are jumbled and in disarray as the café comes into view. Amelie’s mural is painted on the concrete wall opposite of where his car is parked, and his forehead rests against the steering wheel for a moment, trying to centre his thoughts and not make any unreasonable decisions. He isn’t quite sure what made him turn down the wrong street and go in the opposite direction of the café that he and his girlfriend – that feels so good to think and say – get their coffee and breakfast from.

Maybe it’s the anger. Maybe it’s the hurt for Amelie.

Harry was lying beside Amelie in their bed, brushing his fingers through her curls, his lips touching her hairline as she sleeps soundly in his warmth. His skin was sticky, sweat covering his forehead and his hair slightly damp, his chest slowly rising and falling with his breathing. He finally was where he wanted to be, with his favourite person, speckled purple bruises appearing across her skin. He was taking in the sight, the way her skin shone brightly under the sun and the quiet hum of her breathing was making his heart beat faster.

And then before Harry could fully process what he was thinking, anger was the only emotion speaking to him, overwhelming his thoughts, thinking about the beautiful woman tucked in his arms. He kissed her forehead, tucked the comforter tighter around her naked body, his fingers tightened the string of the loose-fitting shorts around his waist and shoved his feet into the trainers near their bedroom door, walking quietly out of their house. Harry didn’t want to worry Amelie. He wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

Until Harry was doing something stupid.

“Harry! How are you, mate? Saw Amelie the other day,” Jack smiles devilishly, and Harry’s fists clench together. Amelie described that smile, the one that is a stroke of mischievous and malicious, and Harry could see why his features would make her nervous on sight. “Lookin’ better than ever, isn’t she?”

“You and I need to talk outside,” Harry says through gritted teeth, his keys tucked in his back pocket, his wallet and phone abandoned in his car. “Now.”

“Don’t think we do, Harry.”

“Jack, I swear to God,” Harry grunts, rolling his eyes and folding his arms in front of his chest. He’s taller than Jack, a bit more built muscularly, but there is a tone behind every word that comes out of his mouth that is threatening.

“Be right back,” Jack mentions, two or three younger workers staring awkwardly and shockingly at the interaction happening. Harry walks outside first, barely holding the door for Jack to follow suit.

Harry walks around to the mural, standing a few feet away from Jack and creating their distance. Jack takes one wrong move and Harry is ready to knock him straight in the jaw and never look back. One for Amelie. One for Harry. “Alright,” Harry spits, pursing his lips together as his jaw tightens, the intensity lingering in the foggy January air swelling over. “Firstly, I’m not your mate, I will never be your mate. Secondly, how the fuck did you know Amelie would be at that bar, last night? Do you fucking follow her or summat?” Jack opens his mouth with a smirk, Harry’s hand immediately waving his answer off. “Don’t fucking answer that.”

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Jack shrugs, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, moving to stand against the mural and setting the nicotine between his teeth. “That was just a coincidence. Good coincidence for me, but a coincidence nonetheless.”

“Wipe that fucking smirk off your face,” Harry growls, his bottom lip pinched painfully between his fingertips, his eyes a deep shade of green that would be unrecognisable to anyone that stared at him. “I swear to God, Jack, if you ever say anything to Amelie, again, if you go to see her, if you blink towards her, if you even breathe near her, I will not hesitate to break your fuckin’ jaw.”

Jack chuckles, flicking the ash and taking a drag, blowing the smoke directly outside of Harry’s vision. “Do you ever stop to ask yourself why she always comes here? Out of all the bakeries and cafés and coffee shops, Amelie keeps coming back here. Why is that?”

“Hasn’t come here in six months,” Harry retorts, laughing at his insinuation. Amelie’s gone to The Beachwood nearly every day since they moved in together in August. His mind is well aware that his words are meant to get a rise, and it’s scary how much it’s working on Harry’s temper. “Don’t feel fucking flattered. She liked the coffee and your mother, you fuckin’ prick.”

“Did you ever think it could be because Amy misses me?” Jack teases, pursing his lips and shrugging his shoulders, the cigarette burning with a sizzle under his fingertips. “Maybe, I treated her better.”

Harry is seething, his cheeks puffed out with panted breaths and tears pricking his eyes with how angry he is. “Don’t fucking call her that. After all you did to her,” Harry scoffs, shaking his head and twisting his heel in the pavement. “Left me, her boyfriend, to be the one to change everything. You’ve got to be fucking joking.”

“Could think of a few things we did together.”

“Jack, you’re fuckin’ treading on the thinnest ice.” Harry walks closer to Jack, laughing as the cigarette falls to the ground and smashes under his trainer, their chests barely missing each other, his breathing erratic as the anger builds inside of him. His fists are clenched, and his knuckles are white, and there is sudden gratitude for putting all his rings on his hand before leaving their house. Harry wanted it to hurt if anything were to happen. “One more thing is said, and it’s a promise that you’re done.”

“Harry, tell me, do you think it’s because I gave it to Amy better than you?” Jack taunts, his arms crossed in front of his chest as Harry’s fist begin to slink further up his body. His words make Harry want to vomit. “Bet Amelie thinks of me.”

And everything goes into darkness.

Harry swings, punching him swiftly in the jaw and the nose, shaking out his knuckles, his rings twisted on his fingers, the taunting boy planted on the tarmac, his back pressed against the mural on the wall as his mother comes barrelling outside. Jack struggles to stand, his nose bleeding heavily and an imprint of Harry’s rose ring on his cheek.

“Harry,” his mother gasps, her eyes wide and her hand covering her mouth at the sight of her son stumbling to stand on his feet, “what’s happened? I don’t like the look of this.”

Harry doesn’t know when he began crying, but there are tears on his cheeks and his breathing is erratic and there is a heaviness in his chest that could only be relieved by the girl sleeping beneath their duvet. His throat gulps a cry as he gathers his voice, the dark smile on Jack’s lips making his anger worsen. “Tell her what you did to Amelie. God knows you’ll live your life pretending it never happened, but you hurt her.” His voice is barely above a shout, the humming traffic and busy streets barely drawing attention to the two men fighting behind a café and an older woman trying to understand the reason. Harry refused to tell what happened – that wasn’t his story to tell – but he would make sure that someone told the truth. “Fuckin’ broke her down to bits.” Harry’s cheeks stained with tears, thinking about how broken his girlfriend was telling him what happened for the very first time. He’ll never erase the images of her face and the fear in her eyes when she told him what happened. “Amelie made me promise that I’d never tell anyone, but you should know that he did unspeakable things. He isn’t allowed near her, ever again.”

Harry looks at Sarah with a despaired expression on his features, a worried line written in his forehead, his lips pulled into a tight line and a nod acknowledging the end of their conversation. Her eyes travel between the two boys, fighting over malicious behaviours and abuse. “What have you done, Jack?” Her heart aches for the boy staring at her son, hatred in his eyes and a tear falling down his cheek.

Harry stalks away before their conversation can meet his ears, his fist clenching and unclenching to bring the feeling back. He angrily climbs into his car, locking the doors and taking in the sight in the mirror. His hair is falling out of the knot on his head, his knuckles red and bruised and bleeding, his rings scratching at the cuts made there.

Go home. Go home to your girl. Go home and love her.

Harry reaches for his phone, eyeing the five missed calls on his screen. His fingertip goes to click on Amelie’s contact, another call breaking through. He answers, bringing his phone to his ear as the engine in his car turns over and his head lays back against the headrest, his mind fully blank and his eyes seeing flashing colours.

“Harry,” Amelie sighs, “baby, I know where you are. Come home to me.”

Harry is sure that she’s only woken up a few minutes ago, the slight distance and rasp in her tone telling him so. “He deserved to have someone smack his face in,” Harry grits, hissing at the feeling of his thumb rubbing over his cut knuckle. “Fucking cunt.”

“Did you do something?”

“Yeah.” Harry can hear Amelie sigh disappointingly through the speaker. “Don’t know what he was saying to me, though, Ames. He deserved it.”

“You’re right,” Amelie agrees, breathing into the speaker and pausing to collect her thoughts, “and he does deserve that. But I’m here and I don’t want you getting hurt or in trouble.” Her silence is deafening to Harry. “Come home.”

“Don’t even know how I got here,” Harry breathes, looking at the café and the way the street is suddenly silent. “Honestly, I going to get us breakfast, and I looked up.”

“It’s okay,” Amelie breathes, her tone softening with her words, sensing the anxiety that is overwhelming Harry and trying to calm him. “You’re okay.”

Harry settles into his seat, shifting the gear and beginning to drive, his hand wiping away a tear and trying to gain composure of his emotions. “Coming home, now.”

“Good.”

Harry is seemingly mindless the entirety of the twenty-minute drive. All of his movements are done without intention, the directions and the attention and the calculated motions all felt without emotion and thought in his brain. His heart is heavy, aware that his actions might have caused harm to the only person that he cares about. He should’ve thought his actions through. He should’ve been more aware. Harry was just angry.

Going over all of the apologies in his head as he walks inside, Harry chokes out a breath as Amelie wraps her arms around his shoulders, bringing her into his chest and holding him tightly, his hand barely able to reach and shut the door behind them as he melts into her embrace. “Hey, baby.” His lips touch her neck as she hugs him tighter. “God, it feels good to have you in m’arms, again.”

“I love you,” Amelie says, gently coaxing Harry’s face out of her neck.

“Feels better to hear you say that,” Harry sighs, kissing her sweetly and squeezing his arms tighter around her waist. “I love you more.”

“Come on,” she smiles, kissing his cheek and interlocking their fingers, squeezing his hand, her eyes trying to avoid the cuts and scrapes covering his knuckles. “I’ll make you a coffee.”

“Are you sure? That’s a lot to handle in the kitchen,” he teases, tossing his phone and wallet and keys onto the side table and following her into the kitchen, his heart swelling as he takes in her minimal appearance – the vintage shirt that she wore on their first date and a simple pair of cotton panties on her hips – and the comfortability that she has with him. That’s all Harry wants.

“Considering I’m making lunch, right now, I don’t think it’s all too much to handle,” Amelie giggles, wiggling her eyebrows and rolling her eyes as Harry tucks his arm around her waist, clinging to her as she pours him a mug and walks towards the toasty press that his mother bought for the holidays.

“Lunch, hm? How fancy of you,” Harry hums, releasing her and moving to sit on the freshly painted stool near the island, amused at the way there was always a sense of fear whenever Amelie was in the kitchen.

Amelie turns over her shoulder with a pointed stare, her eyes squinting at Harry as his lips tug into a smirk and hide a laugh. “Don’t just stand there if you know I’m going to ruin it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, love.” Harry sets the mug on the counter and uses the tongs to pull the toasty out of the press. “How do you burn everything?”

“Good question,” she says, sipping quietly from her straw and staring at her boyfriend as he walks around her to clean the mess she’s made of their lunch. “Have to have you cook for a reason.”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Harry says, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her into his chest, his hand over her tummy, frustratedly unplugging the machine and bringing out the menu for delivery. “Fuck it, I’m ordering pizza. This is hopeless.”

“Have to clean your hand, Harry,” Amelie whispers, her fingertips running over the bruised and distressed skin, dried blood accumulated across his knuckles.

Harry shakes his head, kissing her hair and taking Amelie’s phone to ring the restaurant. His eyes widen as she takes the phone from his hands, setting it on the opposite side of the counter. “’s fine, angel.”

“Baby.”

Harry and Amelie stare at each other for a minute or two, silently arguing over who would win this argument. Her arms wrap around his waist, her cheek lying against his chest, her fingers gripping his waist in a tight hug, silently hoping that he’ll give in to her. She doesn’t want to know what was said to him, but she has to. Harry needs to hear that it isn’t true, that whatever thoughts were put in his head aren’t real. There wasn’t anyone to say that to her, and she refuses to let him ruin their relationship. Harry is everything to Amelie, and there isn’t anyone that’s going to get in the way of that.

He silently kisses her hair, squeezing her hip and telling her that she can lead the way. Hand in hand, they walk into their bedroom and to the bathroom, Harry sitting on the toilet and leaving his hand over the counter for Amelie to clean and bandage the right way. Her silence is overwhelming, and Harry wonders if she’s angry with him.

“Tell me what Jack said to you.”

His chin lifts from his chest, “Doesn’t matter,”

“Harry,” Amelie sighs, tears pricking her eyes as Harry winces with the sting of the peroxide, “tell me. That’s the only way I can tell you that he is wrong.”

He thinks for a moment and tears well in his eyes as he thinks about all that was said to him. “Coughed up saying you miss him and miss being with him,” Harry whispers, a tear falling down his cheek in betrayal. “Fuck.”

“Harry, baby,” she says, her thumb gently wiping his cheeks, her fingertips ghosting over his bruised knuckles.

“Can’t stop seeing you, fucking sixteen and abused by this prick, and he has the audacity to say those things to me,” he whimpers, stealing his hand away and covering his face, his elbows on his knees, his mouth covered by the heels of his hands. “Can’t stop seeing it. Need it to stop.”

Amelie’s cheeks flush with a heat of anger. “Bébé, bisous, s’il vous plait. Je t'aime. Putain, je t'aime. J'ai besoin qu'on oublie toutes ces choses qu'il a dites. Je veux l'oublier.” Her gentle voice is hurried and melodic, her hands prying away his from his face and bringing his eyes to meet hers. “Bisous. S'il vous plaît.”

Baby, kiss me. I love you. I fucking love you. I need us to forget all those things he said. I want to forget it. Kiss me. Please.

Harry’s hands grasp Amelie’s cheeks, their lips melting to each other and their tongues tasting the salty tears falling onto their skin. Her fingers grip onto his shirt, her thighs straddling his waist and her eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands roam across her figure. “Je ne te ferais jamais de mal, tu le sais, n'est-ce pas? J'ai besoin de savoir que tu le sais.” Harry stands, holding his arms under her and walking into their bedroom, their lips melted into a rhythm as they kiss and share their unspoken love, taking away all that was ever said against them. All that there is in this moment is Harry and Amelie.

I would never hurt you, you know that, right? I need to know that you know that.

“Oui, je sais.”

Harry lays Amelie gently on their unmade mattress, gently kissing along her jaw and neck, his hands lifting her shirt to kiss the pudge at her hips. “Need to kiss where he hurt,” he whispers against her skin, his mouth trailing wet kisses on her inner thighs and the tattoos that cover her legs. “Need to erase all that hurt from you.”

“Can’t you realise that you have? Made me see that I’m so much more than what happened,” Amelie whimpers, her thumbs running over his lips as his chest lays against her, her legs wrapped around his waist and his forearms beside her head to carry his weight. Kissing over his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, she says, “I love you. I do.”

“Love you,” Harry murmurs against her lips, soaking in the way her warmth encompasses him, “Love you to the planets that haven’t even discovered yet and wherever the hell you are. Would go to the ends of the Earth for you.”

“Know you would,” Amelie smiles, gently nudging their bodies forward and her fingertips prying her shirt away from her torso, leaving her skin naked and bare to Harry’s eyes. “Don’t you think I’d meet you halfway?”

“Know you would.” Harry smiles, kissing Amelie’s belly as his fingertips tug the cotton down her thighs and her fingers pull his shirt over his head messily. All of their kisses are messy, and their teeth are gnashing, and lips are being bitten in the sweetest way, the way that means they love each other so deeply and unconditionally that there is nothing else in the world that matters except their way their hands are touching each other.

And then Amelie’s phone starts vibrating.

Harry groans, his hands squeezing Amelie’s hips and pressing a chaste kiss to her lips to try and persuade her. “Don’t want to answer it.” His breath is hot against her mouth, intoxicating and making her want to ignore the call. “Ignore it.”

“Harry,” Amelie whines, “Could be Jenny in labour.”

“Fine.” Harry reaches for Amelie’s phone, swinging his leg over her thighs and settling on the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to make her wait as she goes to grab her shirt. “Don’t get dressed, yet.”

His fingertip slides on the bottom of the screen, their best friend’s voice echoing through the speaker and making a smile come to Amelie’s features. Her arms wrap around his shoulders, her cheek lying against his bare back as she snuggles into him. “Don’t care if you two are in the middle of doing it,” Jenny says, breathing heavily and groaning as a contraction begins to wash over her. “Have to get to the hospital because I’m in labour.”

Harry’s eyes roll at the way Amelie smirks at him, her fingertips tickling his tummy as he squeezes her hands. “Ha.”

“Holy shit,” Harry breathes, “Alright. We’ll be there soon.”

“Told you,” Amelie giggles as Harry hangs up the phone, laying on her back and tugging at his hand as his head turns over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers. “Better make this fast.”

Harry cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows rising and his eyes blinking rapidly to ensure that he really heard her correctly. “Doll.”

“Baby.”

Harry stares at Amelie in awe. Her smile is spread across her lips and her eyes are narrow as she desperately tries to persuade him to bury beneath the comforter with her, to have his skin melting into hers, to kiss her and pretend that they are the only thing in the universe that matters. His heart is pounding so heavily in his chest because she is the only thing in the universe that matters to him. Amelie is everything – all the colours, the stars, the sun and the moon, the songs and lyrics and melodies, the art and literature and the good and the bad. Amelie is all of that and more.

“I love you.”

Amelie grins, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing him sweetly. “I love you. Always.”

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toboredtoanything · 4 years

Text

Aladdin

Hey guys! This ask is for @princeasimdiya12. I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Stan (Gravity Falls) during his time alone gets into some trouble, getting him tossed into water while bound and gagged.

Warnings: Dark themes, pg-14 level violence descriptions, descriptions of drowning

Might be heavy for some peeps.

Aladdin

Stan grins widely as he takes in his appearance in the mirror.

His hair, which has been styled in a mullet since his high school days, is pulled back into a low ponytail.

His white and gold costume accentuates his form, which while isn’t in peak condition, is still strong and sturdy.

He places an over the top hat onto his head and beams at his reflection.

“Aladdin is sure to pick up the ladies,” he says to himself. “It’s also ironic, since I will be pick pocketing from them the whole night!”

He laughs to himself, grabbing his wallet and keys.

He quickly makes his way to the venue of the Halloween party he’d barely been invited to.

He only got the invite because the host’s sister was guilty she’d hit him with her car.

In reality, Stan had staged the event, in hopes of getting her number. He thought he could get her with his latest scam. She looked wealthy, as it were.

Then again, for him, practically everyone looked wealthy in California.

He parks and quickly gets out of the beat up car, practically strutting into the lounge house, located right on the beach, closest to a privately owned pier.

He enters and immediately gathers attention. The Halloween party was full of monsters and animals, a mix of disgustingly realistic ones, as well as the outfits that barely concealed any of a persons skin. Just horny adults playing dress up as an excuse to dress slutty.

Stan has to admit he prefers them over the zombies and skinwalkers, however.

Girls flock over each other at the handsome stranger in an Aladdin costume.

Stan winks at a group of girls wearing fishnet tights and shorts, only a small patch of grey fabric containing their upper bodies as they flaunt white poofs they’d attached to the exposed skin of their lower backs.

‘Bunnies,’ Stan laughs to himself. ‘Hardly original.’

He quickly finds a target. A young brunette who already looks close to the tipping point of an alcoholic meltdown.

She sways slowly along with a fast paced rock song- hardly a song for swaying.

He approaches her and takes note of every valuable on her person.

She’s dressed like a genie, her hair in a high ponytail, scantily clad body in loose fitting pants and a cropped shirt that barely reaches the bottom of her rib cage.

She grins up at him through her lashes and he has to bite back surprise as she slowly falls into him.

He glances around, but no one takes notice.

He quickly pulls her closer to himself and starts to run his hands up her arms.

She sighs happily as she continues to sway to the song.

“What’s your wish?” She slurs.

Stan only then pauses and thinks about the irony of finding this girl to target.

Their costumes go well together.

He smirks. “How about you and I find a quiet spot, and I’ll tell you all of them?”

She leans back and nods at him eagerly.

She takes his hand and leads him to a corner of the room with couches and a singular table.

The remnants of an unfinished game of beer pong crowds the table, so Stan leads her to one of the couches.

On his way, he grabs another cup of something obviously high in alcohol content.

He hands her the cup and she shakes her head slightly.

“No. I.” She pauses, frowning. She shakes her head and then smiles. “I’m good.”

“How about this then,” Stan starts. “My first wish is for you to drink this and then we can talk about my other wishes.”

Their conversation goes on like this until she’s passed out on the couch. In a few quick motions, Stan is leaving her on the couch, covered in a blanket.

He pockets a bracelet and a necklace.

Now Stan is a man of art, cons, and talent. He isn’t one to resort to thieving unless truly desperate.

He thinks he’s gotten away with it to, until a hand is on his shoulder, turning him abruptly. He lets out a brief noise of protest before a fist is driven into his nose.

“Saw that!” A male voice says. Another fist collides with his face.

His eyes are scrunched up from the pain, but he blinks it away as much as possible.

Opening his eyes he jolts back, narrowly missing another punch.

He bites back a comment as he makes a quick decision.

Within a second, he’s on the ground rolling around with the tall blond who’d punched him.

Another pair of hands grab him and yank him off.

“What the hell, man?”

The blond stands up quickly, spitting blood onto the ground in front of Stan.

“This guy was stealing from Kate!”

The man who’d pulled Stan off then rounded on him. His dark eyes narrow, glaring at Stan.

“What the fu-“

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. I saw that girl over there and put a blanket over her so she’d be more comfortable. Nothing more.” Stan jabs a thumb towards the blond, anger evident in his body language. “He just started hitting me.”

“Empty your pockets then.”

The dark skinned man shoots his friend a look. “Pete, calm down. How many have you had?”

The man- Pete -looks to his friend with disbelief in his eyes. “Are you saying you believe this guy?”

“I’m saying you’re drunk and could have misinterpreted what you saw. Move along.”

The blond spits at Stan once more, before stalking off in anger.

Stan looks to the guy that saved his neck.

“Thanks.”

The man hums, walking away.

Several hours later, Stan thinks to take his leave, pockets full of more than enough goods to get him out of the state and away from view of the cops - for now.

He exits the lounge, heading towards his car.

Pain suddenly erupts in his skull as he drops to his knees, his vision darkening.

The blond man, Pete, grins at Stan.

“I know what you did. You wanna be a thief? Then I’ll treat you like one, Aladdin.” Pete says the name with disgust and anger, sarcasm dripping from his lips like honey.

A sickening crunch sounds as the man punches Stan once again in the nose.

Darkness blooms around Stan and he loses consciousness.

***

Stan comes to, cold.

His Aladdin costume had been ripped open, probably caused from being drug along the ground.

His hat had been lost ages ago, in the midst of the first brawl.

Now his jacket lay heaped in a pile, spots of it red and brown from blood- both old and new.

Stan lets out a groan as a foot is placed on his chest.

Only then does Stan realize a few things.

One, his hands and legs are bound tightly; each movement causes his body to scream in protest as it felt as though his limbs would snap in half.

Two, his breathing and talking is muffled due to a gag wrapped around his mouth.

Three, he’s on a wooden dock, the lounge a few lights in the distance, music still blaring.

He shivers in his undershirt.

His pockets had also been emptied.

The foot moves.

“It’s guys like you that make me sick,” Pete says, coming into view. “You’re pathetic!”

Stan struggles to speak with the gag in his mouth.

“You’re the pathetic one!” He tries to say, but it sounds more like “Oar ta pa-etic un.”

This causes Pete to grin.

“Right,” he says. “And you just found all of this jewelry on the floor.”

Stan stays silent.

“Come on! You seem like a tough guy! What’s the matter? Can’t think of anything to say?”

Pete kicks Stan in the stomach, causing Stan to curl up on his side, his arms still painfully pinned behind his back.

Stan groans, getting to his knees. Pain shoots from his neck to his lower back, a bruise forming.

The man, obviously drunk, slurs and stumbles around a second before his eyes lock onto Stan once more.

“I’m going to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Stan rolls his eyes right before everything seems to speed up and Stan is submerged underwater.

The first thing he feels is the cold. The water freezes him to the core, shutting out any ability to feel warm. His bones begin to hurt as he feels them grow stiff.

Struggling to keep the salt water out of his mouth, which is practically impossible with the gag he’s wearing, he recalls what just happened.

Pete had used an unsteady foot to kick into Stan’s back, kicking him over the side of the dock face first.

The next thing he feels is panic. His eyes burn but he keeps them open, trying to see into the murky water for the surface.

Once he realizes which way is up, his head dizzy from the disorientation, he tries to swim that way, thrashing around desperately.

His thrashing does no good however, only making him tired, his movements sluggish.

Stan sinks like a stone, his heavy pants acting like a weight. The rope around his arms strangle and prevent him from moving them; he simply feels the strain of trying, pain as he almost tears his arm out of the socket from the sheer force he’s using.

He kicks his legs, but they stay roped together. Drunk as he might have been, Pete knew how to tie a knot.

His gag doesn’t help the situation, now thoroughly soaked through, allowing cups of water to force its way down his throat, despite his attempts to keep it out, holding his breath.

The salt coats it, causing a burning feeling like liquid fire to consume him. He gags on instinct, heaping more water into his lungs.

The final thing he feels is dread. The certainty of death. The slow creep of fingers clawing at his mind, scratching and tearing until everything is a mess, memories and thoughts blurring together as he struggles to keep his wits about him.

Darkness presses against him from all sides as he sinks, his head swimming with the lack of oxygen.

Just when Stan feels he can’t hold on any more, his vision fades once again.

He feels weightless, vision darkened, but consciousness still present.

The water caresses his body and he feels acceptance. He’d only ever been a burden to his family anyway.

It’s not like they’d miss him.

He hadn’t talked to any of them in years.

A slow regret washes over him at this thought.

‘I wish I could at least say goodbye.’

His last conscious thought is of his twin brother, Ford.

‘I’m sorry.’

***

Stan coughs violently, jerking upright on a sandy beach. Water falls from his mouth, as he rolls over on to his stomach, leaning heavily on his hands and knees.

His wrists are sore and dry blood encases where the rope had burned him, chafing his skin.

His pants had prevented severe injuries to his ankles, but they still felt on fire.

The salt from the water lapping at his body doesn’t help.

He coughs again, fire searing his throat which had been rubbed dry by the saltwater. He splutters, the water exiting his lungs finally done draining.

He gasps a few times, drawing in oxygen greedily, his lungs burning for air.

His entire body feels raw and aching. His head pounds with a vengeance, as if angry at Stan himself for the lack of oxygen it’d been receiving.

Stan finally calms himself, his breath regulating in slow pants.

He looks around and sees no evidence of what had gotten him out of the water, let alone what could have released him from his bonds.

He rubs his face, where the gag had forcefully held his mouth open at an awkward angle, his jaw aching with each movement.

Stan lays back down, understanding that he’d only fall if he tried to stand.

Closing his eyes, he relishes the feeling of the sun on his body, warmth seeping into the cold of his bones.

Whatever had just happened, Stan feels grateful that he is still alive.

He still has a chance.

‘I’m going to get my life together and I’m going to make you proud, Ford. I just wanna make you proud.’

#gravity falls #Stan pines #gravity falls fanfiction #Stan pines fanfiction

9 notes · View notes

sidespromptblog · 5 years

Text

We Don’t Need You: Part 2

One, Three

Summary: “This isn’t some kind of logic problem that we can think away Logan!” Virgil snapped at him, “For once just let us deal with this, you don’t need to butt in when you think that we’re too stupid to handle something. We’re FINE,” Virgil growled, his voice growing more and more distorted with each syllable. “We don’t need you right now.”

Word Count: 2346

Cold.

That was the first thing that keyed Logan’s waking mind to the fact that what he had been trying to do, hadn’t succeeded in the way that he quite would have liked for it too.

It was cold, colder than anything Logan had ever felt before. The kind of cold that would turn his lips blue and make his fingertips fall off from the sharp bitter bite of frostbite, the kind of cold that could slowly make them numb before killing someone in the slow way that it did. His own breathing felt warm across his face, and…That was the only thing he could feel in that moment.

Everything else was entirely numb.

“What’s he doing here?! He’s the last person I would have expected to see here!” A sharp but equally curious voice asked, as he felt something nudging at his side. He was being poked, not roughly, but not soft enough to allow him to sink back into the unconscious state he had once been in.

Within seconds the offending appendage was swatted away from Logan’s side, as warm… blisteringly warm fingers brushed his wayward hair out of his face. It was the only warm thing in this otherwise freezing environment. “Oh hush now, he’s waking up. Be nice.” The warm hand that had been touching his cheek gingerly pulled away, and for a second Logan felt a strike of embarrassment running through him at the whine that almost bubbled up past his lips. He didn’t want that warmth to go away, it was the one and only thing that he could feel right now, and honestly… that meant a lot to him.

“I could kick him… that’d make him wake up faster.”

The three of the voices all slurred together with the sound of a scuffle and a sharp mild-tempered hiss that Logan had long since grown used to hearing from Virgil. Cracking his eyes open with a lot more strength than he would have figured that it took, he saw them… or rather he saw through them. They looked exactly like him, not in the appearance department, but in the way that not only could he see through his own hands as well, but the fact that they were rather ghostly as well. One of them was holding the more ragged member of their little group in a headlock, preventing him from what Logan could assume, from kicking him. He was a little thankful for that, although he wasn’t too certain if it would even hurt in this case.

Nevertheless, a long beat of silence passed between them all as Logan blankly looked back at all of them, and they stared awkwardly right back at him.

“Hi!” One of the three, dressed in a pair of lime green and black stockings, a butterfly sweater, and a headband eagerly bounced forward from the other two’s side. “You were asleep for a really long time, so I’m really glad that you’re not dead Logic!” He eagerly beamed with a smile that could only be described as pure unfiltered sunlight. “I’m Optimism, but you can just call me Winifred! Everyone else did before I came here.” A pang of something hit Logan square in the chest as Optimism’s smile dulled to a sad quirk of his lips, he.. he couldn’t help but to feel responsible in some way, as Logic he would have been responsible for Optimism slowly being replaced by cold and calculated pessimism. “I’m so sorry that this has happened to you Logic.”

And just like that, Logan felt himself snapping out of his negative feelings, as Optimism tugged him up to his feet.

The grip on his hand burned… but also warmed him at the same time. Much like a warm cup of tea that had just been poured right off of the stove, it was comforting and yet too much all at the same time.

The other side jerked himself free of the headlock he had been trapped in, before openly scoffing at Optimism. “He doesn’t know what you’re talking about Oppie, you’re not exactly talking clearly for him.” With an odd twist of his lips, he straightened the torn… no the absolutely shredded clothing that he wore before stalking over to Logan and crossing his arms. “I’m Instinct, I didn’t exist long enough to get a name before I was replaced by Anxiety. But Winifred calls me Yayhne, or just Yarnie depending on whether you want to keep your kneecaps or not.” Instincts lips twitched into a rather familiar expression that he had seen on Virgil’s face multiple times, a sneer as his drummed his sharp almost claw-like fingernails against the side of his arm. “That idiot over there,” Instinct jerked his head over to the only side who hadn’t come to greet Logan, in fact, his entire body was facing away from the logical side… as if he wanted to get as far away as physically possible. “Is Reason, you replaced him.”

A feeling of something akin to a softball smacking him right in the stomach connected with Logan in that very second.

Of course… the bow tie, the iron pressed shirt that looked a little wrinkly, the perfectly circular glasses… it all looked so familiar. It left a sour taste along Logan’s tongue, the kind of taste that one normally got when almost throwing up, but somehow managing to swallow it back down. What was he supposed to say? He hadn’t even known that these sides existed up until now, he couldn’t remember them from when they had been there among them before, he couldn’t… couldn’t…

For the third time since waking up, he felt another softball of pain lodging itself right in his stomach.

“The..the...” His mouth felt as dry as sandpaper and his throat just as rough, “The others are going to forget about me… aren’t they?” He finally asked, the horror that had been mounting and mounting in small doses finally settling like the weight of the world on top of his shoulders. “They’ll never know that I existed… won’t they?”

Within an instant Optimism’s expression crumpled as soon as Logan’s eyes filled with tears and his lungs burned with the need for oxygen.

“Oh honey,” The other side immediately darted forward, ordinarily Logan would have objected to any kind of hug. Whether it came to Patton, Roman, or just anyone else he just… didn’t do hugs. But right now… he collapsed into Optimism’s hug, burying his face into the semi-see through sweatered shoulder as his entire body started quaking with emotions and tears that didn’t really feel like they belonged to him. “It takes a while for the forgetting to happen, it’s been many years since we’ve existed as a person to the others. So, of course, you don’t remember us, and…” Those warm hands cupped Logan’s cheeks, prying his head up from the other side’s shoulder. “You’re only half faded dear, we stayed behind to help anyone who might find there place here. You’re not fully absorbed yet.”

“Can I be?”

If it was possible, Optimism’s expression crumbled even more with those few words.

“Why do you want to?” For the first time, Reason spoke his voice rough and most certainly to the point. “Why have you faded?” He sharply asked, stepping forward as his fists clenched and unclenched. It certainly wasn’t easy seeing the person who had replaced him here, but he had made a promise when he had stayed behind with Optimism and Instinct, and that was to help whoever came here and whoever needed it. Logan needed it, that much was obvious enough to him.

Logan’s eyes darted back towards the ground, or as much of the ground that this void of this place had given where he happened to be standing. And for a moment, he remained nothing more than silent, his fingertips fiddling with the end of his faded tie. Did he really want to tell them? Being replaced by another side was one thing, but being told by someone who was your closest friend that they didn’t need you… well, that was an entirely different thing. He might as well have failed them all, he might as well just go right now.

“He said that they didn’t need me,” The truth came out in a big rush, but even then he wasn’t done then. “And when I looked to the others for help, or just for them to back me up… they didn’t. They agreed with Virgil, they agreed that they didn’t need Logic anymore. So I… left. Once it all started I didn’t know how to stop it, I.. I didn’t want to stop it. I didn’t...” See a point.

Really what was the point if the others didn’t want him around? Ducking out would just be a half-hearted cry for attention at this point, and he knew that they’d go back to treating them just as they always did once he promised not to do it again. Thomas was already wasting so much mental space on keeping his projection around, so… why not just go back to being an instinct? Why not just go back to being what he had been in the beginning?

An action, nothing more.

An uncomfortable looked spasmed on Instinct’s face as his sharp nails flexed into the torn fabric of his clothing, “He… That punk told you what?!” His voice distorted the last word, as his breathing grew rougher and rougher. He was shaking, to an alarming degree. “I told you!” He snapped as soon as Reason attempted to console him by putting a hand on his shoulder. “I told you he was too rough to take my place! That he wouldn’t know how to stop! Look at what he’s done now! He’s driven out someone who was supposed to be his friend… his family… his loves!” A sound that was somewhere in between a sob and a broken snarl fell from Instinct’s lips as his fingernails tore into his clothes ripping and shredding them more than they already were. “I..’m… I’m s..sorry…” The other side hugged himself tight as black inky tears stained his face and dripped onto his clothes. “I’m sorry he hurt you, he wasn’t supposed to. He’s supposed to be a protector, someone to help make things better, someone to.. to... He.. He’s not meant to hurt. I’m..s..so sorry.”

Before Logan even knew what he was doing, he had moved out of Optimism’s warm embrace and right towards Instinct. He had no idea what he was doing, or even if he wanted to go through with his plans of just going back to the way that things were in the beginning. But what he did know, was that in times of high stress, Patton’s method of giving a good hug seemed to even out the odds when things weren’t exactly in his favor.

So that’s what he did.

He hugged Instinct as tightly as the other side would allow him to, and he didn’t let him go. He didn’t even loosen his hold in the slightest when the other’s sharp fingernails rested against his back, and he didn’t let him go when he felt those black tears staining his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” Instinct whispered again, “I never wanted my replacement to hurt anyone, that’s why I.. that’s why I left in the first place…”

Logan’s head rested atop Instinct’s matted, messy, and greasy hair as he continued to hold the other close. “That’s not your fault, Virgil’s actions are his own. It’s high time that he figured out that his actions do indeed have consequences, what he says does hurt people as much as he would like to brush it off. His words hurt me, just as his words have undoubtedly hurt others before me too. He can no longer run from that.” Logan found a kind of solace in running his fingers through Instinct’s hair, calming the both of them down as he gingerly swayed them both back and forth.

“Then don’t go,” Came the mumbling reply as Optimism slung his arms around the both of them, “If you go someone else will just take your place and… at least give him the chance to apologize. If he says that he honestly doesn’t need you, and the others don’t take your side, we’ll be here to hold you until you’re fully apart of Thomas again.” For just a split second, Instinct’s grip tightened on him, as if letting him go back, or even making him go back to the place he had just fled from was a pain that was too unimaginable for the other side. Even Reason himself looked downright pained at the entire prospect being offered to Logan.

But…

“This sounds like a reasonable request,” Logan practically sighed the words out in one heavy breath, he didn’t want to go back, honestly he really didn’t. He didn’t want to feel the pain of having his heart broken all over again, he didn’t want to have to deal with biting words, or from the looks of no one standing up for him when he needed it. He didn’t want to deal with any of it, but… that was what life was he supposed. Dealing with things you might not want to. “I apologize if I have to come back sooner than anyone of you would like.”

Already he could feel it, as he went limp around all of them, his knees quaking before eventually crumbling like a stack of cards under him. Just to gingerly be caught in Optimism’s warm arms, steadily guiding him towards the ground, while securely holding him against the other side’s chest. Optimism’s chest vibrated with the soft hum of a lullaby that Logan couldn’t remember the words to, all while his eyelids got heavier and heavier. Instinct held his hand as Reason gingerly brushed his hair out of his face, they were all there, their promise remaining strong in his mind even as he eventually drifted off.

“It’ll be okay, I promise.”

#logan sanders #ts logan #ts logan sanders #oc sanders sides #optimism sanders #instinct sanders #reason sanders #ts sanders sides #ts sides #sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction

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trashforeverythingdotcom · 4 years

Text

Wanderlust

A/n: wow, two posts in one day? Who am I? Word Count: 3400

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Marisol cleared her throat and swallowed her spit, shuddering at the disgusting after-taste her vomit left behind and flashing a small smile when she delivered her next line, “I’m better than ever.”

Aurora scoffed, “yeah, whatever.” She crossed her arms, “don’t you have something to say to me?”

“To you? No, not really.” She shrugged as she bent down to pick up her bucket of sick from the floor.

If Aurora weren’t already enraged before, she was definitely furious now. She clenched her fist and spoke through her teeth, “no? Nothing at all?”

Marisol shook her head and repeated what she said moments before, “no, not really.” The moment she finished speaking, her stomach acid shot back up and out of her mouth and into the bucket her hands desperately clung to. She could tell her twin didn’t like her nonchalant response, but for some odd reason, she couldn’t bring herself to care at all; considering there were more pressing matters occurring right outside of her room that she couldn’t attend to, as well as her own issues occurring within herself at that very moment.

When she finished she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up to find that Aurora had moved from the doorway. Had moved from the doorway to stand right in front of her, towering over her sister. With one swift movement, her fist met the girl’s chin, knocking Marisol back and causing her to accidentally bite her tongue.

“Ow?! That hurt, athhole!” Mari yelled, she slurred her words as she waited for her tongue to heal itself while she rubbed her jaw.

All Rory said was, “good,” before she made an attempt to grab her by the hair. Marisol used her foot to trip her younger sister. As her sibling fell down, she grabbed a candlestick, got on top of her and landed some blows to the face with it. As a result of that, some of Aurora’s teeth were knocked out, “you bith,” she coughed, finding it a bit difficult to articulate her words.

“Yhanks.”

Aurora growled and sucked in a breath, the feeling of her teeth growing back into place hurt like hell. After she finished teething, she pushed her sister off and stood back up, kicking her while she was still down. Twice in the throat, once in the face. Then, she picked her up by the hair and threw her out the window, jumping out right after her. Marisol made attempts in grabbing something to hold onto and stop the fall out of habit, momentarily forgetting she was a vampire. Aurora pressed her arms to her sides and closed her legs to catch up. With one swift punch, Marisol was sent crashing down the forest, Rory flying in pursuit.

Once they landed, the younger dhampir started landing blows on her sister again, using her telekinetic powers to throw rocks and dirt at her while she did so. Marisol wasn’t willing to lie down and die now; she had long changed her mind about her plans.

“Mari,” Aurora called, her voice oddly soft considering the circumstances. “Stop fighting back,” her voice shook and cracked, “you’re making it harder for me to give you what you want.”

“And just want do you think I want?”

“You want to die, and you want to take me down with you.”

Marisol’s eyebrows knitted together, “no.”

Aurora sighed, and looked up at Marisol; who looked right back at her. The eldest twin hadn’t really noticed it until she looked, but Rory’s eyes were red, the surrounding skin was puffy and her lips were quivering. This was the first time that she’d seen the girl cry without having any clue how to cheer her up. “I can’t believe, even now, you’re denying it when there’s no need to.” Rory’s pale right hand clung onto something on the left side of her shorts’ waistband. Between the hand and the yellow crop top that covered it, Marisol couldn’t see what the damned thing was until her younger sister pulled it out and held it up in all its shaking glory, thanks to the girl’s nervous hand. “It’s okay, though… I made my peace with this months ago…” The object in her hand was a wooden stake. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening. “You’ve dug your grave, now it’s time to lie in it.”

“Ror–”

Aurora swung and missed; her stinging eyes and gathering tears didn’t let her see clearly. She tried again, and again, and again, and again; sometimes missing, other times managing to stab her in the shoulder, or her breast. Not quite reaching her heart. Marisol tried as hard as she could to get away but when she tried to make a run for it, she realised she was blocked in with a barrier spell. So when leaving didn’t work, she switched tactics and made attempts at stealing the stick. The woman tackled her attacker onto the ground. They scuffled, each of them fighting to get on top of the other. It was the younger one that ended up on top when Marisol begged for her life. “It’s either you or me. If I let you live, you’ll just kill me and everyone I love, and then you’ll kill yourself anyway. I’m okay with dying, but I won’t let you kill my friends.”

“I won’t.”

“Somehow, I still don’t believe you.”

“I– RORY!”

Aurora had made an attempt to plunge the stake into her heart but was stopped when Marisol’s hands caught hold of hers. They fought each other for the object. One gaining the upper hand on the other before falling back again. “Please don’t kill me.” Marisol begged, gaining no sympathy from her current attacker. Her little sister wasn’t going to double down. That was something she just couldn’t let herself do. Too bad Marisol wasn’t planning on backing off, either. The moment the stake landed back in her hands, she stabbed her sister in the chest.

Rory gasped, taking in a sharp breath before she collapsed on top of her sister. Her icy blue orbs and the white that surrounded them turned pink with tears flowed out of her eye sockets. Marisol’s eyes stung as tears escaped her own eyes. She sniffled, the tears coming out quicker and quicker as the seconds passed. “Rory?” She called, not bothering to move the girl’s body off her. When she didn’t get a response, she called again. And again. And again. And again.

And the sun rose. Marisol held her sister, the girl who wasn’t breathing, in her arms. The tears that fell down her face were now dried, she could still feel them there, the clear streaks that fell down her cheeks. She cleared her throat, “it’s time to head back,” she said to no one in particular. Carefully, she cradled Aurora’s body in her arms and stood up, carrying her sister back to the castle with her.

Having been stuck outside with her sister under unfortunate circumstances, there was no way for her to know for sure who one the war. But, given those unfortunate circumstances, she couldn’t care less what the results were, she just wanted to get back, bury her sister, and crawl into a hole and die. The walk back to the castle felt long and dreadful. And when she got to the castle, it was no better. She opened the gigantic doors to the building silently. No words were needed for everyone in the vicinity to understand what had happened. Aurora was dead. Sypha, Trevor, and Alucard were joking around before she arrived; the dhampir had been showing good face before he looked over and saw the love of his life, dead in his sister’s arms. It took all of his energy not to collapse onto the floor below him. He felt as if he were dying the most painful and slow death imaginable.

Sypha was the first to break the silence, “i-is she dead?”

Marisol choked up, that was enough of an answer for them.

Trevor sighed in defeat, “I can’t believe this shit.”

“You,” Alucard looked at his lover’s twin. “You did this. You killed her. This is all your fucking fault.” He made his way over to her and took Rory’s body out of her arms. “Why did you have to be the one to live?”

Marisol teared up, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, right, well. Saying sorry won’t bring her back, will it.”

Sypha reached out and touched his shoulder, “Alucard, she’s her sister.” “What does blood have to do with it? She’s the reason Aurora… Aurora’s gone.”

Marisol let out a pained scream, her hand immediately flew to her stomach. The stinging pain she felt was enough to distract her from keeping the cloaking spell on, revealing her giant belly. And the water that stained her pants made it very clear that this baby was coming out right then and there. “You’re having a baby?” Trevor questioned.

“No shit!” Marisol groaned, “I’m gonna go.” She said through clenched teeth, turning toward the main doors of the castle.

“No, the forest is no place to have a child, come with me. I happen to have some experience with childbirth.” Sypha said in her ‘matter-of-fact’ tone of voice. Under normal circumstances, Marisol would’ve rejected the help; however, she was in no position to so, therefore she didn’t bother arguing. As she walked away, she looked at her dead sister and her mourning boyfriend. Sypha called Trevor, asking for his assistance, leaving the poor dhampir by himself with a corpse. Or so he thought. Holding her tightly in his arms, he cried and cried and cried, and he continuously expressed just how sorry he was about her passing and how upset he was about it being her.

Aurora’s eyelids moved as her eyes shifted behind. Slowly, she opened her eyes and groaned, “it’s too damn bright in here. Can someone turn the lights down? Goddamn.”

Adrian’s eyes opened wide, he was in disbelief, and quite frightened. He was afraid he’d been going mad like his father. It was only when Trevor had stepped out momentarily to complain about how 'crazy shit was’ in the other room, that Alucard realised she was really alive and that he wasn’t hallucinating.

The male dhampir hugged Aurora tightly, “um… Al? Can you like, let go. I can’t breathe.”

“Right, sorry,” he quickly dropped his arms.

“Do we even need to breathe though, we’re half-dead? I mean, then again, we’re half-alive, so do we need to breathe half the amount of oxygen as normal humans do?”

“It’s nice to see you haven’t changed at all,” Trevor rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. But he was happy she was alive, very happy. She was like a younger sister to her.

“Dafuq do you mean by that?”

“Aurora, do you not realise you died?”

“I’m sure I didn’t die.”

“You died.” He repeated dryly.

“Then how am I still here? Don’t vampire bodies turn to ash once they die?”

“Well, for one, you’re not a full vampire. Secondly, you’re half-witch, meaning your family could’ve cooked up some of their special witchy woo to preserve your body should you die so you could wake up whenever and wreak havoc on humanity.”

“Okay, Treffy. Whatever you say,” Aurora said dismissively.

“'Treffy’?” Trevor repeated, taking a few seconds to process the fact that the girl had heard the conversation he had with Sypha long ago. “Oh you nosy bitch, you were listening in on our conversation?”

“No duh.”

“Under normal circumstances, I’d beat your ass. But given that you just came back from the dead through your satanic methods, I’ll let it slide.”

“If you see me leaving my room at three in the morning, be afraid. Be very afraid.”

“I’ll be long gone by then. Sypha and I are leaving today.”

Aurora smiled, “gonna go on more monster hunting adventures?”

“What else would we do?”

“What time are you guys planning on leaving?”

“When your sister’s done giving birth.”

Aurora’s hand found Adrian’s, her eyes widened, “when she what?” Her sister was pregnant? Her sister came here, knowing full well she was pregnant to end the world?

It was as if Adrian could hear her thoughts because right after those thoughts crossed her mind, he went on to explain that vampire pregnancies didn’t last as long as human pregnancies. While human pregnancies would last nine months, vampire pregnancies only took three. He also explained that those children grew at a faster rate than human children. Aurora scoffed and rolled her eyes, letting go of Alucard’s hand so she could place both on either side of her head. How the hell did she find the time to fuck someone and get pregnant when she was so hell bent on ending the world? She heard Trevor say. Except, she didn’t hear him say that, because he didn’t actually say that. He thought it, but he didn’t physically say it. Rory didn’t know if she should have laughed or if she should have been weirded out by that, so she stayed quiet.

Sypha came strutting out of the makeshift operation room, extremely proud of herself. “Okay, who wants to see the baby or should I say,” she stopped in her tracks. “Aurora?”

“The one and oh–” Sypha had pulled her into a tight hug, “hi, how are ya?”

“I thought you were dead.” She then turned to the males in the room and pointed at the only other female in the group of friends, “I thought she was dead!”

“Yes, so did we.” Trevor and Adrian answered simultaneously.

“So my sister’s done pushing the little shit monster out?”

“Er… yes, would you like to see?”

Aurora nodded and walked followed Sypha into the room. Marisol was asleep when they walked in, her hair was a mess, the sweat that escaped her skin when she expelled the baby from her body was still wet on her face. Aurora looked over at the crib. “She had twins?”

“Yes, I thought I mentioned that?”

“No, you were like, 'omg guys, check this shit– Rory, oh em geeeee!’”

“Erm… Yes. Right. Well, they’re twins.”

“I think I kind of gathered that much, Sy.”

“A boy and a girl.”

“I have eyes~”

Sypha gave a small smile, “she has yet to name them. Maybe she should name her daughter after me.”

Aurora snorted, “she should, you helped her give birth, after all.” They stayed quiet for a bit, admiring the babies. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Of course.”

“No, seriously, Sypha. Thank you. I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing but your undying friendship.” Aurora smiled and hugged Sypha, “you can’t say you didn’t expect me to help a woman in labour. What type of person would I be if I hadn’t? Granted, I didn’t really want to help her, she almost killed my best friend… but,” she sighed, “she happens to be my best friend’s sister… and babies. Babies are cute,” they giggled.

“I just hope whoever that whoever their dad is… isn’t ugly, cause I don’t want no ugly ass nieces and nephews. Got me fucked up, el em ay ohh.”

“El em ay oh?”

“Sorry, it’s a habit of mine to use text speech out loud. It started off as a joke and kind of stuck.”

“Okay?”

“Anyhoo~,” Aurora sang.

“Why are you so damn loud?” Marisol groaned, slowly sitting up on the bed. She turned on her side and watched the other two women from where she was.

“What’re you naming them?” Rory asked her.

“Not sure yet, Nina. I’m thinking of naming the boy Hector Luís Romero. The girl, I’m not so sure. I was thinking of Angelina Narcisa Romero. Or something like that. I dunno, what do you think?”

“I think those are nice names…” Aurora answered absentmindedly as she gazed at the sleeping newborns.

Sypha cleared her throat and made for the door, “well, I’m going to step out.”

The chubbier dhampir crossed her arms and leaned against the wall behind her, facing her sister. “So…” Marisol began.

“So…” Aurora repeated for no reason at all. “Who’s the dad?”

“His name is Hector.”

“Uh-huh…”

“He was my boyfriend– is my boyfriend,” she corrected herself. “If he isn’t dead.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, he wasn’t in the castle when y'all brought it here, so… I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh…”

“Do you think you can help me look for him later?”

“Okay…”

“Why… are you so quiet? You always have an opinion about everything, so why don’t you just get out what you really want to say?” Aurora bit her lip, tears were slipping out of her eyes like a pipe with a leak. “Oh my fucking God, why are you crying?”

“Why did you do it, Lan?” She sniffled, “why? What made you want to come here and fuck with fate? Why? Just why? What were you thinking?”

“I was just–”

“Just what? What reason did you have for doing this?”

“I didn’t want to live anymore. It hurt. Walking around everyday, pretending everything was okay, seeing that people didn’t care–”

“And you don’t think I go through that? That there are times where I don’t want to be here, there, anywhere? That I hate myself and everyone around me? That I get so angry I could rip the head off of the first person that talks to me? You don’t think I know how you feel?” Her voice shook, “and yet I don’t go around killing people, trying to end the world, trying to kill my sister. Because as much as you piss me off, I love you enough not to act on my impulses.”

“You don’t know how it feels, you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

“I don’t? You think I don’t know what Jonathon did to you when we were little?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play stupid,” she snarled. “And don’t tell me that I have no clue what you might be feeling or what you’ve been through. Because I do.”

“You wouldn’t though, you weren’t the one he–”

“He fucking did it to me too, you fucking bitch,” she sobbed. “You think that all those days he didn’t hurt you he wasn’t getting his fill? Trust me, that bastard was living in paradise while making both our lives hell. All those times he said he was taking me to the park and left you home alone, he–”

Marisol took a sharp breath and fiddled around with the pillow case, sniffling a few times before opening her mouth. She didn’t mean to interrupt her sister, "Why didn’t you tell me?“

"Because I didn’t want you to worry about me. I didn’t want you to hurt more than you were hurt already.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling that way?”

“It wasn’t important.”

Mari shook her head, “it is important.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. Look what holding it in did to me. It made me hate and it made me hurt and it made me push away people that had nothing to do with it. It made me push away and hurt the people I love and the people that loved me. You didn’t deserve to be treated the way I’ve treated you and I’m sorry. I want you to know that I’m genuinely sorry. There’s no amount of apologies I can give to make anything go away, to change the fact that I did what I did and take away the pain that it caused. But I can offer you change and help. Whatever you need from me, I’ll provide. I should’ve done that our whole lives, but I’ve been selfish and I see that now.

"I see that, Nina. And I want to change, I don’t want to be selfish anymore.”

Aurora wiped her eyes, hiccuping a few times, her heart was physically and figuratively in pain. Marisol had never seen her sister like that, so damaged. It was one of the things she was always jealous of, the fact that Rory 'was always happy’. That Rory had 'never faced any hardships’. It was then that she realised she never really knew her little sister at all. Marisol stood from her bed and pulled Aurora into her embrace.

The younger twin rested her head on her older sister’s shoulder, letting her tears fall onto the girl’s skin.

#Castlevania #alucard castlevania #hector castlevania #castlevania hector #dracula castlevania #trevor belmont #sypha belnades #castlevania netflix #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania fanfic #alucard x oc #castlevania alucard #hector x oc

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ashintheairlikesnow · 5 years

Text

Daniel Michaelson: Nate Vandrum’s Nightmare

(for the @whumptober2019 prompt Hallucination - and for @pinkcupboardwitch and @muffinworry who I’m sure are totally fine with this)

There’s a weight on him, and Nate can’t breathe.

He tries, but it’s caught somewhere in the pressure pushing slowly, inexorably, onto his chest. The exhale is easy and simple enough - it’s on the inhale that the weight is worse, and worse, and he can’t quite replace the oxygen he’s lost.

Each breath is a little more difficult than the one before.

There’s no real panic, only the sense that he should panic, he should be scared that he can’t quite breathe, but he’s not scared… not yet.

He’s dizzy but still mostly asleep, caught in a formless uneasy dream where he’s been given some task to do by Bram but he can’t quite manage it, and every time he fails he sees Danny’s wrists and remembers what will happen if he can’t pull it together before Bram’s cell phone timer goes off, before he starts taking pictures, before Danny starts to scream.

But he can’t remember what the task is, and he can’t possibly finish it in time.

Danny, what did he tell me to do? You have to tell me, please, I want to help you.

In his dreams he never stammers - every word comes out crisp and clear and smooth, just like when he was a professor, just like before. Sometimes he wonders how long it will be before he stammers in his sleep, too, before his mind stops remembering there was ever a time he didn’t.

Nate tries to shift, to roll over and pull the fuzzy soft blanket up higher, but the weight won’t let him, keeps him flat on his back.

“I don’t think so, Nate,” Ashley says, tsking softly, clicking her tongue against her teeth.

Cold fingertips with fingernails so long they scratch against his skin find his chin and turn his head towards the ceiling, hold him there with the most delicate touch. The cold pressure feels like someone has laid a block of ice against his chest, soaking into his skin, freezing around his heart.

He can feel the brush of her hair now, the slightly wavy white-blonde of it against his cheek.

Hitch in a breath; not quite enough air.

Exhale.

Again.

“Y-you’re dead,” Nate slurs, without much worry or concern, not yet. He’s still half-lost in himself, in his attempt to remember what chore Bram gave him to do, what task he must finish. He can still see Danny’s pleading eyes, begging him to save him from the next cruelty, and the next, and the next. “Kill… K-K-Killed y-you m’self.”

Breath in - never enough, not enough.

Exhale.

Again.

The cold weight on his chest shifts a little, and he can see now that she’s sitting on him, settled right over his breastbone, wearing the blue jeans and hooded sweatshirt she’d had on when he killed her,.

The great big bloodstain is still spread across the front where he had stabbed her, just kept stabbing until he couldn’t do it any longer, until all his rage at his agony and his misery had been spent. He could still see the tears in the fabric - how many stab wounds, he doesn’t even remember any longer. The bloodstains are brownish and dried and cracking off in flakes that flutter down to his collarbone and neck. Through the rips in the cloth the knife had made, he can see a flash of her skin - no wounds there, just pale white and unmarked.

The ripple of the shadows of her ribs, pale stomach, a suggestion of a curve.

He manages a single deep breath, fighting against the weight, forcing in all the oxygen his starving brain needs, and then exhales in a rush.

Should’ve held onto that air.

Oh well; he’d just have to fight harder.

Her eyes, when he looks up at her, are still the same focused, cold ice-blue, but her cheekbones are more pronounced. Her teeth, when she smiles, are pointed and the gums have pulled back from them, turning every tooth into a fang. Her skin is grayish-blue, not white, and he can see the thin blue veins underneath skin so thin it’s gone not-quite-transparent.

She smells like soil, and blood, and death.

And ice.

“So you did,” She admits, shifting a little bit, her right knee along the left side of his ribcage, left knee along his right. Her hands move up his chest, palms pressing slowly, inexorably, until she’s holding him down by his shoulders, curling over so she’s bent nearly in half, so close they could kiss, brushing the end of her nose against his. “I did not appreciate that, by the way.”

“I d-d-didn’t ap-appreciate the c-crowbar,” Nate manages, his voice thin as he strains to get enough breath to speak at all. “Or th-the needles under m-my fingernails. Or th-the collar. Or the wh-wh-whip. Or, or the-”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” She says smoothly, putting a finger on his lips to stop the flow of words. “You called us psychopaths.”

“C-Call you w-w-worse than th, that,” Nate says, and bites down on the ice-cold finger as hard as he can.

It’s like biting onto a sculpture made entirely of bone, as if there isn’t any skin to give under his teeth at all, and she tastes like nothing.

She jerks her hand back with a hiss and Nate feels a spike of triumph at causing even this slight bit of pain, even though she is dead - has been dead for years, and the dead don’t come back. If the dead came back, Bram would never be able to stop running from the cascade of corpses he and Ashley left everywhere they went.

“You little shit,” She snaps, shaking out her hand, eyes narrowed to angry slits as she stares down at him.

Nate swallows hard, forces another long breath, his fingers clawing into the sheets beneath the covers, trying to remind himself that this has to be a dream, too. She’s dead.

Inhale - just enough air this time.

Exhale - as carefully and slowly as he can.

Again.

He remembers each and every time the knife went into and came out of her skin, every moment he buried it nearly to the handle and then yanked it back out, the way she had looked so genuinely, truly surprised, her eyes open wide right through her death and beyond it.

Now those eyes are narrowed and thoughtful, and she is so, so cold.

“You’ve lost all your manners since you left us,” She growls, sucking on the finger he bit like a little kid, sitting back, one hand still pushing his shoulder down and trapping him where he is. “It’s because of that puppy you killed my brother over, isn’t it?”

“T-T-Tried to k-kill,” Nate says - even now, years after her death, he can’t let Ashley be wrong. He gives her a smile that is nearly a snarl. He is fiercely proud of himself - and Bram is proud of him, too, he’d said as much in the courtroom. The last words they’d exchanged as they led Bram away the final time after the sentencing was finished.

Bram had been led past the prosecution’s table and he’d paused looked right into Nate’s eyes, and said simply, I love you, baby, and I’m so fuckin’ proud of you.

Nate hadn’t said anything - but the part of him that had never left Bram had shivered in helpless joy at the words.

It doesn’t matter if Bram is proud of him or not.

It doesn’t matter.

He tells himself that, and sometimes he even believes it for a while. Right now, though, he knows that isn’t fully true. Stronger than the urge to please Bram, to earn his love and his pride, though, is his desire to protect and defend and care for…

“Danny,” Nate breathes out, turning his head to the side, catching only a glimpse of mussed-up red hair and his wrists pressed together up in front of his frightened sleeping face before Ashley grabs his chin again and turns his face back to her, shaking her head. Now he can hear Danny’s breathing, hitched and stutter-skipping. “D-Don’t-”

“Don’t what?” Ashley murmurs. “Don’t get into his head? Don’t give him pretty dreams? Too late for that. Oh, Nate, you broke so many rules when you took him away from my Brammie.” She rolls her hips over his chest, the feeling of paralyzing ice making its way up into his shoulders and down his arms.

As she pushes herself slowly down, moving down his stomach grinding a little into his pelvis, finally coming to a stop with her hips on the tops of his thighs, she lays herself along him until her chest rests on his.

Her hipbones jut hard into his legs until he thinks he will bruise.

It’s all so very, very cold.

“Do you want to know what your darling dreams about, baby?” Ashley asks idly, gnawing on one fingernail with her pointed teeth.

“No,” He answers, but he can’t look away from her eyes - the way he could never look away from Bram’s, either. They hold you - they mesmerize you - you’re spellbound with them. He had managed to escape Bram only because he fell so hard for Danny that he could break the spell again.

For all that he keeps his voice calm, his heart pounds in his chest, and she’s dead, he knows she’s dead but part of him is wailing inside his mind don’t let her take you away again, they will never stop, you will never escape.

“He loves you so, so much,” Ashley says, leaning down to press a kiss to Nate’s cheek. Where her lips brush, he freezes over. She kisses him, cold lips to his, and when he breathes out next he sees a cloud of air in front of his face.

He can’t move his mouth.

“He was made for you,” Ashley says, gentle and soothing and syrupy-sweet. “My Brammie took a pretty young man and broke him, shattered him like a coffee mug on the floor, ground little Red’s face into it until there was no face left and then glued him back together… but there are some pieces missing, aren’t there? Everything he is, everything he has, everything he will ever be is because Brammie made him for you. There is no Daniel Michaelson left. There is only your little Red, your sweet little whore, who loves you so, so much.”

Nate swallows, trying to shake his head, to protest - Danny is his own person, he doesn’t belong to me, he isn’t mine, more of him comes back every single day, yesterday he dropped something and just cursed at it instead of asking me to forgive him - but he can’t move his mouth and no sound comes out, only a shaking exhale, a fight to inhale again, through a mouth he can’t quite open.

“He dreams,” Ashley murmurs, kissing his forehead, and he feels the ice traveling up to his hairline and along his scalp. A nip to one earlobe and his ears feel like he’s been standing out in the winter in the woods for hours. The end of his nose is next, frozen after her lips have left it. “He dreams of the woods. He dreams of the ways in which he was broken for you. He dreams of barbed wire cutting into his wrists and that beautiful wire grid over his mouth, the blood at his jaw, at his nose, in his mouth. He tastes blood in his sleep.” She smiles, flashing her pointed monster teeth at him. “He dreams of everything my Brammie did to make him perfect, just for you. Just for you, Nate. You’re just like us. You want him all to yourself.”

Nate tries to shake his head, desperately fighting her words, the way she echoes his deepest fears, his worst thoughts - that they kept him too long, that within him is the potential to become like them, that maybe he already is becoming like them.

That maybe every time he takes Danny’s hand, holds him in his sleep, kisses him, it’s something he only does because Bram would want him to. That he wants to be here to protect him not because Danny needs protecting but because Nate doesn’t want to let him go.

Because over seven years, maybe they infected him.

Maybe it’s only a matter of time.

She leans in to whisper in his ear. “In his best dreams, Nate, he dreams that he belongs to you. That’s how fucking broken my brother made him. That’s how perfect he is for you. That’s your perfect little Red.”

Through gritted teeth and an immobile mouth, Nate spits out, “D-D-D-Dan-ny.”

She pulls back, frowning down at him, momentarily confused. “What?”

“N-Name… is… D-D-Dan-ny.”

I tried to kill for him once and I can do it again.

I could kill you again.

Nate takes the deepest breath he can manage, closes his eyes, and jerks himself upright with every ounce of strength he has, hands out to grab her by the throat.

His fingers close around thin air.

Nate sits up in bed, and it’s just him and Danny in the room, in the bed. He can hear Danny’s little brother’s low breathing from down the hall through the door cracked open (hadn’t he closed it before they went to sleep? He’s almost certain he did), but no one is here.

He turns to look down at Danny, who sleeps peacefully, and his arms are splayed apart, not forced together like before. His face is peaceful, serene and young in sleep, and he shifts around, rolling over to face Nate without opening his eyes, mumbling something soft and loving in his sleep.

Had that just been a dream? Some kind of hallucination?

Nate slowly turns back to stare around the dark room.

He slowly lays back down in the bed covers himself up to the chin with the blankets, and slides his arms around Danny as tightly as he can, pulling the redhead closer to him, Danny’s head tucked under his chin like they slept sometimes at the cabin, when they needed each other more than they feared Bram’s wrath when he found them like that.

Just a dream.

Just seeing things.

But when he exhales, Nate can see his breath - and his ears and the end of his nose still feel frozen solid.

As he tries to slow his breathing, he can still feel a pressure on his chest, still hear her low voice whispering, you’re just like us.

Or you will be.

#whump #whumptober2019 #no. 22 #caretaker whump #hallucination #caretaker whumpee #broken whumpee #tw: references to past torture and violence #haunted #ashley denner #Nathaniel vandrum #Daniel Michaelson's story #nightmare #whump drabble #prompt: Hallucination #Nate is my favorite #whumpee #whumper #dead whumper

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rawmeanderson · 5 years

Text

everything is bright now.

ft. jakub vrana warnings: drinking, swearing, all sorts of sex. y’all know what to expect from me by now, i’d hope. nothing too crazy. word count: 7.0k this piece works while listening to religion by lana del rey. y’all know what’s coming up next 👏

After hearing the knock at the door, you close your computer before getting to your feet. Your phone buzzes on the table and you glance at it to see a text from Jakub, telling you to let him in.

“Oh, come on,” you mutter, glancing at the time a second later. It’s just like him to show up at your door unannounced at 10:30 on a Wednesday night. You’d seen on his Snapchat that he was out with some friends and teammates, and you were willing to bet money that he was at least tipsy.

It’s not until you’re halfway to the door that you remember that you’re in your pjs already, and you wish you’d thought to grab a sweatshirt or something to pull on. Too late now, you tell yourself as you glance through the peephole as you unlock the door. By the time you’ve swung it open, a grin has spread across Jakub’s face, and you bite your lip as you meet his eye.

“Hey,” he says, already slipping past you easily to step into your apartment. With a quiet laugh, you let him slip past you, using that as a chance to look him over. He looks incredible, more so than usual, in grey jeans and a dark v-neck, the look completed by a backwards hat.

“Hey yourself,” you murmur as you close the door behind him. As you turn to face him, you can feel his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush as you cross your arms over your chest. The shirt you’re wearing is old and stretched across your breasts, making it very obvious that you weren’t wearing a bra.

“How’ve you been?” he asks, exhaling a sigh. The words are slightly slurred, and it makes you exhale a breath of laughter because he just seems so casual about it, as if he hadn’t just showed up unannounced.

“How have I been? You mean, since Sunday when we saw each other last?” you tease, grinning at him and he shrugs. “What are you doing here?” He’s watching you closely then and you can feel your cheeks flushing.

“I just wanted to see you,” he tells you, trying to sound nonchalant as he moves he moves further into your apartment. You follow him, still trying to figure out what was going on in his mind.

“What, you couldn’t wait until this Sunday?” you question, bringing a hand up to tuck your hair behind your ear. He’s used to making himself at home at your place, and now is no exception as he drops onto the sofa before looking up at you. A second later and he shakes his head, motioning for you to come closer.

You must have a skeptical look on your face, because he starts pouting until you start walking toward him. A smirk settles on his face and you roll your eyes as he holds his hand out to you. Knowing he’d just keep pouting otherwise, you take his hand, and yelp softly when he pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him.

“I missed you,” Jakub tells you, voice soft as his hands come up to rest on your hips. He’s grinning now, a soft flush coloring his cheeks as he looks up at you. That look is grinding away at your confusion and annoyance that he’d showed up so late, her hands moving up your hips. “Didn’t you miss me?” It’s then that his head tilts up so he can kiss your jaw once.

You can’t help but shiver as you nod, a hum leaving you as you’re suddenly aware of how short your pj shorts are, how thin your shirt is. For a while now, the two of you have had a standing Sunday reservation for one another. Some weeks you saw each other more than that, other times, when he’s on the road, you don’t get to see him at all. It’s easy and non-complicated, but having him show up now had thrown you off a bit.

Jakub’s hands move up your hips to toy with the hem of your shirt, and as his mouth moves along your jaw slowly, you can smell the alcohol on his breath. His hand moves up your waist, warm through the material of your shirt and you body immediately arches toward him eagerly.

“There we go,” he murmurs, now that you’ve finally reacted to him. Leaning back slightly, he meets your eye before he kisses you, a quick, open mouthed peck that makes you press down against his lap.

His hand moves higher until he lets his knuckles brush over the curve of your breast lightly enough that you gasp. He says something under his breath that you can’t quite hear, and you’re about to as what he’d said, but instead his mouth is on yours again and you forget about words all together. The kiss is hot and hungry, his tongue already sweeping over yours so lightly that it sends a jolt of arousal down your spine.

He tastes like beer, and somehow, you just can’t get close enough to him. There’s a dull pulsing between your thighs, and he’s taking his time kissing you, leaving your body practically buzzing. When his thumb sweeps over the hardened peak of your nipple, the friction created by his thumb and the fabric of your shirt has you whimpering into his mouth. Your body is all but glued to his, resting into him like the contact is the only thing keeping you alive.

Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion and despite the obvious hunger behind it, you find yourself relaxing into his kiss as your hand finds the back of his neck. That move always gets a low groan from him, and you love the way it vibrates through every inch of your body, making your toes curl. His hand moves enough that he’s cupping your breast and his thumb drags over your nipple again, harder this time, with intent, and you arch toward him as your lungs burn from lack of oxygen.

You force yourself to pull away a second later, taking a deep breath as your head lolls forward into him and he leans into you, kissing below your ear lightly. Jakub lets you breathe, his other hand sweeping over your back soothingly. As good as it feels to have him holding you like that, the ache between your thighs is becoming harder to ignore. You shift in his lap slightly, seeking whatever friction you can get and finding it in the thick muscles of his thighs.

“Can I take you to bed, baby?” he asks, accent thick as he coaxes you into another kiss the second you nod in response to his question. There’s a bit more urgency this time, a firmness that hadn’t been there before, and his hand slips down to hold under your thigh before he stands easily, taking you with him.

Your arms are quick to tighten around his neck securely, and it never fails to amaze you how he lifts you like it’s nothing. He pulls back to look at the ground quickly, making sure not to trip, and when his eyes return to yours, they’re dark, and you’re immediately leaning in for another kiss. He dodges it though, grinning at you as his nose bumps yours lightly, and you hate how good he looks with his hat on backwards. His mouth is swollen already and you honestly feel like you’re drunk on him.

By the time you make it to your room, he’s given into your desire for another kiss. It’s hot and hungry, and one of his hands slides from your waist down to your ass has he approaches your bed. Leaning into you, he sets you on your feet gently, never letting the kiss break as his hand moves back up your body to slip under your shirt to rest in the small of your back. The touch makes you shiver, and when he pulls away a second later, it’s to tug your shirt off over your head before letting it drop to the floor.

He’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling as his eyes drop to your newly exposed skin, and the way he curses at the sight of your breasts is enough to make your knees go weak. Jakub’s patience seems to run out before yours, because it only takes a moment before he’s leaning toward you again, getting you to tilt your head to one side for him as he kisses down your neck. His mouth continues it’s trail as he drops to his knees in front of you, his hands coming to your waist as he nips at your collarbone hard enough to make you gasp.

The attention of his mouth moving over your chest has you arching into him, and he takes the hint, dragging his tongue over your nipple firmly before sucking it into his mouth. You each let out a sound, yours high and needy while his is deep and satisfied as his hand comes up to cup your other breast. Jakub was the first person you’d been with who had really figured out how to bring you so close to the edge just from playing with your breasts, and you’re already feeling dizzy as he rolls your nipple between his fingers.

You can feel his breath hot against your skin as he releases your nipple from his mouth and he pauses to drag the blunt edge of his teeth over the curve of your breast before sucking a mark into your soft skin. A chill shoots down your spine, making your nipples tighten in the cool air of your room, and you’re already starting to feel impatient.

“Jakub, baby,” you breathe, already sounding wrecked as you push at his shoulder, urging him to keep moving lower. You force your eyes open, and you look down at him to see a smirk on his face that can’t be described as anything other than sleazy. The look is completed by the backwards hat, and you can’t bring yourself to make him take it off yet. You shift slightly on your feet, and when you do, you can feel how soaked you are as he watches you.

His hands drag down your ribs to your waist, resting just above your hips as he kisses your stomach softly, and it’s just plain distracting that he’s looking up at you the whole time. There’s a cockiness to him that’s electrifying, and your clit is throbbing as he kisses lower, letting his tongue drag over the waist of your shorts lightly enough that it makes your knees shake.

With a single, easy tug, Jakub pulls your shorts and panties down the curve of your hips and ass slowly, guiding the fabric down your thighs. “Lay back for me, sweetheart, let me see you,” he tells you, leaning into you to kiss your hip, your stomach, whatever bit of skin he can find before you do as he requests.

You sit on the edge for a short second as he gets your shorts and panties off completely to leave you bare in front of him. He’s still fully dressed which does nothing to help with how exposed you feel, and his eyes are moving over you slowly as he moves between your thighs easily. Looking down at him, he’s smirking, and when you whine his name quietly, he surges forward to press you down into the mattress with his weight.

He kisses you hard and hungry, and you can feel the hard length of his cock pressing against your hip through the fabric of his jeans. You’re desperate for skin to skin contact by then, but when you start to tug at the fabric of his shirt, his response is to take hold of your wrists, raising them above your head.

“Keep them there,” he tells you softly, the words spoken against your mouth. The kiss is filthy and deep, leaving you to grind up against the length of his cock as hard as you can, but nonetheless, your hands grip the fabric of the comforter above your head. “Good girl.” The words make you groan, already twisting at the blankets as he pulls back to settle on his knees again.

On his knees again, Jakub seems to be growing impatient as he throws his arm over your hips after guiding your leg over his shoulder. Humming, Jakub leans into you, turning his head to drag his mouth over the inside of your thigh.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, so fucking beautiful,” he breathes, his breath ghosting over your folds before he surges forward, burying his face in your cunt.

Immediately, he licks a firm stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, already humming at the taste of you. He sucks your clit into your mouth, making your hips press toward him as you sigh, feeling his tongue sweep over you again. When he pulls back, it’s to suck at your folds teasingly, before pressing his face into you again firmly. His mouth is hot and wet against you, his tongue silky as it laps at your wetness.

You let out a breathy sigh, squirming against the mattress slightly as his hand comes up to nudge at your thigh, pushing it up towards you chest to open you up for him more. With the slight change in position, he pulls back just slightly to look at you, and you glance down at him in time to see him lick his lips. You can feel his breath against you and you shiver, feeling your cunt throb as you once again admire just how good he looks with his hat on backwards like that. His eyes drift up your body then to meet yours and he smirks at you before leaning in again to slide his tongue through your folds, ignoring your clit entirely.

“Jake,” you say his name with a sharp, needy edge to it, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the deep groan bubbles in your throat as he laps at your entrance. Your toes curl when his tongue just barely slips inside you, before licking all the way up to your clit again. The way he sucks the swollen bundle of nerves into his mouth before pulling back with a wet pop is enough to make you whimper as your hands twist at the sheets.

“What is it, sweetheart?” he asks, the words muffled against you as he’s already leaning into you again. His nose nudges at your clit as he licks up the wetness pooling at your entrance, and you hate that he’s feeling this cocky tonight when he’s got you so needy for him.

“Feels good,” you breathe out, back arching off the mattress slightly when his hand moves to rest over your mound. You think he’s trying to hold you in place, but a second later, he’s using his thumb to spread you open for him before he teases at your clit with his tongue.

He practically nods against you with a groan, and your breathing hitches, and you’re suddenly very close to an orgasm. His hand squeezes the back of your thigh and he drags his tongue over your clit again slowly. Your breathing has picked up as you try your best to rock against him, and just as you’re starting to squeeze your eyes shut, he pulls back.

A frustrated whine leaves you when his head turns to mouth at the inside of your thigh, and you don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s smirking. Jakub makes himself busy, sucking a mark into the inside of your thigh despite the impatient sounds that are leaving you. He shushes you before leaning forward to press a kiss to your stomach, and you can feel that his mouth is slick with your wetness.

“You taste so fucking good, Y/N, fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he tells you, looking up at you then to meet your eye. His words made your cheeks flush, a warmth flooding your body that somehow made you shiver. You hate that you can tell from the look in his eye that he’s not going to let you cum just yet, and that makes you squirm against the sheets.

When he shifts so he’s eye to eye with you, he looks at you for a short as you both take a moment to catch your breath. There’s a new look in his eye that you haven’t seen before, and you don’t have time to think about it before he’s leaning into you, pressing a firm kiss to your mouth. The taste of your cunt floods your senses as his tongue slides along yours and all you can do is exhale a breathy moan against his lips.

That’s when you break, when you truly feel like you’ll die if you don’t touch him, and you release the comforter to instead move to push the hat off his head finally. Your fingers push through his blonde hair, immediately gripping the strands tightly in an effort to keep him close. That tug at his hair makes his body all but relax into you, and the sound he makes against your mouth, something between a whine and a groan, vibrates through you all the way to your fingertips.

“Thought I told you to keep your hands up there,” he murmurs, and you can feel the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Shut up,” you grumble back, tugging at his hair again to get another groan out of him.

He’s resting his weight against you, and the contact is nearly overwhelming. It only takes a second before you’re clawing at the fabric of his shirt, desperate to get it off, to feel his skin against yours. Jakub pulls back just enough to get rid of his shirt, tossing it aside blindly before he’s leaning into you again. You’re not sure which of you groans first at the feeling of skin on skin, but when he shifts enough to grind his cloth covered cock into your center, his name leaves you as a low growl.

Jakub slides a hand up your side and all you can do is try to arch up against him, desperate for whatever contact you can get. When he pulls away a second later, leaning back on his knees to start unfastening his jeans, you take the opportunity to look at him. The first time you’d seen him shirtless, you hadn’t been able to believe he was real. You’d spent forever exploring the lines of his stomach with your fingers, your mouth, until he was making needy little sounds for you, and even now, his body amazes you.

When he gets to his feet to kick off his jeans, your eyes move over him, taking in the impressive sight of him standing there in just his black boxers, his hard cock straining against the fabric. Shooting you a wink, he grins as he pauses to grab a condom from your nightstand for later, dropping it onto the mattress. Feeling impatient as you murmur his name, you try to pull him back to you, but he makes a soft sound as he shakes his head.

“Not yet, baby, I’m not done,” he tells you, a smirk settling on his face as his eyes drag over your body slowly. He steps closer to you, sliding a hand up the inside of your thigh lightly enough to make you whimper. As the sound leaves you, his eyes practically light up as he moves his fingers a bit higher on your leg, and the grin on his face lets you know that he’s onto you and what you want.

He doesn’t give you the chance to whine for him again, instead his hand moves higher still, this time sinking two fingers deep inside you. Even over the loud curse that leaves you, you can hear a soft hum of appreciation from him as he leans into you to press his face into your stomach. His fingers scissor inside you before they curl to hit your g-spot, and your mouth falls open. No sound leaves you as your eyes squeeze shut, and you rock your hips against his hand as hard as you can.

“Shit, you feel so good, can’t wait to feel you around me cock, sweetheart,” he says, glancing up at you before sucking a mark below your navel. A huff leaves you, the sound fading into a moan as he starts to pump his fingers into you, slow and deep enough to make your eyes roll back slightly.

You can feel that Jakub is watching you, and your cheeks are burning as you feel your cunt clench around his fingers. He makes a satisfied sound, his mouth trailing to your hip as his hand starts to rock into your harder. You had never expected the sex with him to be this good, and he had quickly figured out how to give you the best orgasms of your life.

Already so far gone, you know you’re still close, and a soft whine leaves you as his eyes move up your body to meet yours. The pace of his fingers speeds up, and a soft cry leaves you as your hands scrambling for purchase at his shoulders. As your nails drag over his skin, he hums against you before pulling back. You see his eyes drop to watch as his fingers sink into you, and when you groan his name, he looks up at you, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Jakub, please,” you murmur, feeling dizzy as you shift impatiently against the mattress.

“I know, baby, I know,” he responds, licking his lips before leaning up to kiss you firmly on the mouth. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him down against you as his hand continues to move between your thighs. His kiss is almost lazy this time around, leaving you to pant into his mouth as you try to get as much contact as you can. “Are you gonna cum for me, y/n?”

His tone is dark and you nod quickly, tilting your mouth up toward his to kiss him again hungrily. Your orgasm is so close, you can feel the heat bubbling in your stomach, and when you tug at his hair again, he hums against your mouth.

What you don’t expect is for him to pull his fingers from you, leaving you empty and whining for him. You’re sure the expression on your face conveys your irritation, and he only grins as you as he lifts his hand to your mouth. It’s obvious what he wants, and you open your lips obediently as he slips his fingers into your mouth.

Tasting yourself on his fingers, you whine, sucking hard at his digits to earn an appreciative hum out of him. Your tongue slides between his fingers and it must take him by surprise because he groans your name, the sound making a chill run down your spine. He’s clearly enjoying the sight of you bobbing your head along the length of his fingers, cursing under his breath as his other hand moves to nudge his boxers down.

“Will you suck my cock for a bit, beautiful, hm? Then you can cum as many times as you want, yeah?” he questions, leaving you to nod quickly as he pulls his fingers from your mouth. A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth, and he nods back at you as he kicks his boxers off to the side. It’s impossible not to grin at him as you push at his shoulder gently to get him to move onto his back.

As you sit up, he watches you closely, licking his lips when your eyes drop to his cock. You’re still so turned on and keyed up that just the sight of his cock is enough to make your cunt throb, eager to have him inside you again. He lays back against your sheets and exhales a sigh, already tucking one hand behind his head as you shift to rest on your knees between his parted thighs.

“I oughta tease you just as much,” you murmur, grinning as your hand moves to stroke his length from base to tip slowly.

“Mm, please don’t,” he says with a quick breath of laughter that makes your smile widen. For the most part, his expression doesn’t change, just giving you that cocky smile of his and watching you as your hand tightens around his length.

Your other hand slides up the thick muscle of his thigh slowly, letting your nails drag over his skin before you lean over him more to take the head of his cock between your lips. A soft sigh leaves him, and he murmurs something under his breath that you can’t quite hear as you take him further into your mouth. His hand moves to your hair pretty quickly, and when he tugs, you’re quick to moan around him.

That’s what gets him to curse, and you can feel his hips press up toward your mouth just slightly. By then, you’ve taken as much of his length in your mouth as you can, feeling him start to slip down your throat. When you pull off a second later, he makes a sound of frustration, and your eyes lift to meet his as a smirk settles on your face.

“I know, baby, I know,” you tell him softly, just as he’d said to you minutes earlier. You see him roll his eyes and you laugh quickly, hand moving to stroke him again. “So needy and impatient.” You do your best to sound like you’re chastising him, adding a soft tsk to the end as your smirk fails to fade.

He groans your name, his fingers tightening in your hair as you lean in to drag your tongue up the underside of his cock slowly. You take your time, letting your tongue slide along the vein that runs along his length before closing your lips around the head of his cock again to suck teasingly. It surprises you when his hand leaves your hair to let his fingers brush over your cheek, and your response is to take him further into your mouth, your nails dragging over his thigh again.

You relax your jaw and slowly start to bob your head, taking him a little deeper in your mouth with each motion. Jakub sounds appreciative to say the least, his hand moving back to your hair as his head falls back to rest against the mattress. Your eyes move up his frame slowly, enjoying the way his abs are tensing as he breathes, clearly trying to resist the urge to fuck up into your mouth.

Mostly to see his reaction, you take him deeper, letting the head of his cock slide down your throat just enough to make you gag slightly, but the sound he lets out is more than worth it. His hand tenses in your hair and you moan around him again, only to hear him curse again. When you suck at his length, letting your cheeks hollow out as you pull back slowly, and your pussy aches at the taste of his precum at the back of your tongue.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans, the words slurring as his fingers tug hard enough at your hair that you whine around his cock. Your hand slides up over his hip to his abs, exploring the lines of his body with light fingertips and enjoying the way he reacts to your touch. His patience is clearly wearing thin as he groans in Czech under his breath, sending a jolt of arousal down your spine. “That’s enough, fuck.”

Jakub is tugging at your hair urgently, trying to get you to pull off and you lean back a second later. Breathing heavily, you grin at him, and it takes no time at all for him to tug you up to him with ease. You swing a leg over his hips so you’re straddling him, your slick cunt hovering over the length of his cock.

Looking down at him with a hand on either side of his head, he leans up to kiss you eagerly, and your hips cant down toward his. Each of you groan when your drenched folds slide along the underside of his dick, giving you just enough friction to make you shiver. While one of his hands squeezes your hip to encourage you to repeat the motion, the other is moving blindly along the sheets, searching for the condom he’d set out earlier.

Your mouth continues to move against his hungrily, still trying to press your hips down to his to get whatever friction you can. It surprises you when to flips you onto your back a second later, and you hit the mattress with a soft gasp. You pull back, eyes opening to see him smirking down at you before he presses a quick, firm kiss to your mouth before leaning back on his knees. As he tears open the wrapper, your eyes slide along his body slowly, watching him roll the condom onto his length.

It’s like he catches you checking him out, because a second later, he’s smirking at you as he reaches for you to pull you closer to him. He tugs you down the bed, getting a surprised laugh out of you before he drops to lean over you again. His mouth finds yours easily, kissing you slowly as he lets a bit of his weight rest into you. When his cock slides against your folds lightly, you whine his name into his mouth, making him smirk.

“What is it, baby?” he asks quietly in that knowing tone that makes you squirm beneath him. Your cheeks heat up as your eyes drop to his swollen mouth before your sling an arm around his neck to pull him down to you more.

“I want you, Jakub, I want you inside me,” you tell him, kissing him lazily. His smirk widens, and instead of giving you what you want, he grinds against you and you gasp before pulling him closer. “Please, baby.” Your tone is weak then, needy after he’s spent so long edging you.

His response is to kiss you again as he moves a hand between your bodies. Expecting him to push into you finally, you settle a leg over his hip as your fingers brush through his hair. He’s clearly not done teasing you though, and you realize this when his hand is instead guiding his cock to slide along your clit when he rocks toward you again. It feels incredible, leaving your cunt throbbing as his mouth moves down to your neck.

It’s clear to you by then that he has no intention of fucking you just yet and you’re so frustrated by then that all you can do is let out a pleading whine as the head of his cock continues to tease at your folds. His breathing is just as rough as yours by then, and a second later he’s pulling back to kiss you hard enough on the mouth to leave you seeing stars. Your arm tightens around his neck, trying to pull him closer as he grinds against you, making your back arch off the mattress.

Part of you hates when he gets like this, drunk and cocky, wanting to drag things out, and when you let your nails drag over his shoulder, he practically growls against your mouth. He pulls back a second later, making eye contact with you for a short second before his mouth drops to your nipple, sucking it into his mouth greedily. Your orgasm builds quickly from constant friction of his dick sliding over your clit with such precision that it has your gasping with each motion and you’re powerless to stop it.

When you cum, your whole body shakes as your hips rock aimlessly toward him, needy sounds leaving you from the fact that he’s still being such a tease. He’s rolling your nipple between his teeth gently, looking up at you as you writhe beneath him. It’s a good orgasm, leaving your body slick with sweat as your heart thunders in your chest. Jakub keeps grinding against you, the head of his cock teasing at your entrance as he presses kissing across your chest.

You’re finally able to take an easy breath as your orgasm starts to fade, but that’s when Jakub decides to fuck into you in a single motion. The sudden fullness paired with the way the head of his cock hits your g-spot is enough to make you scream weakly, your nails raking down his back as you feel him bottom out inside you. He doesn’t stop moving either, fucking into you in shallow motions that normally wouldn’t do much for you, but right now, it’s enough to throw you right into another orgasm.

“Fuck, Jake, holy shit, right there,” you ramble out, the words slurring together as he nods, sucking a mark into your collarbone. You’re panting, struggling to keep your eyes open as you feel your cunt tighten around his cock. Shaking, you’re holding onto him however you can, needing as much contact as possible He groans into your skin, his thrusts slowing to an almost lazy pace as he brings you down gently from the high.

You’re still trying to catch your breath as his motions are reduced to him grinding into you, making you gasp as his pelvis hits your clit. Glad that he’s slowed, you feel your body practically melting into the mattress as he shifts just enough to be resting an elbow on either side of your head. Your eyes are still closed and your heart is racing as you feel him brush hair off your forehead gently. His movements have all but stopped, but he’s still fully seated inside you, and you’re so glad that he’s giving you a little bit of a breather.

“You okay?” Jakub asks after a moment, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek as you open your eyes. You grin up at him and nod with a breathless laugh while your arm settles around his neck again.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you respond, still sounding like you’d just run a marathon. Your legs tighten around his hips, expecting him to start moving again, but instead, he’s just enjoying the closeness, the way his body is pressed against every inch of yours. Bringing your hand up, you smooth his hair back gently, taking your own chance to soak up a bit of intimacy.

“I couldn’t wait to see you tonight,” he says, and you’re a little surprised by his words. He must sense that, because he continues a second later. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day, and I literally felt like I’d die if I didn’t see you tonight.”

His words make you snort softly as you grin, your arm tightening around his shoulders as he presses a kiss to your hairline. “Well, I’m really glad you’re here then,” you tease, feeling him shiver under your touch as your fingers move over his skin lightly. He grins, exhaling a breath of laughter as he nods.

“So am I,” Jakub responds, shifting enough that he grinds against you. The friction makes you inhale sharply and he actually smirks at you, and that look just drives you insane.

He must notice the way you’ve reacted to his expression, because his smirk only widens as he rocks into you slowly. His eyes are darker than they’d been a moment ago, and when they meet yours, he’s quick to kiss you again firmly. You hum against his mouth, the sound becoming more desperate when he repeats the earlier motion, fucking into you just right so the head of his cock drags over your g-spot.

“Fuck, that’s good,” he murmurs softly and you nod eagerly in encouragement, your fingers gripping his bicep as he builds a slow rhythm.

The drag of his cock inside you has you arching off the bed, trying to get closer to him. You can see the flush creeping up his neck, his breathing picking up as he presses his face into your shoulder. He kisses you there, his mouth hot and wet as he sucks a mark into your skin, humming as your legs tighten around his hips.

“Harder, fuck, you feel so good, Jake,” you breathe, the words rushed as your hand moves to tangle in his blonde hair. There’s just enough space between your bodies now that you can feel your breasts bounce with every thrust, and a needy sound leaves you when he shifts enough to change the angle.

He’s moving faster now, and you can hear the filthy sound of his cock disappearing into you as his hips slam into yours. His mouth has moved along your collarbone, up to your neck when he’s nuzzling you, his breath hot and damp against your skin. You’re still so sensitive for the prolonged teasing that you can already feel another orgasm building.

All you want is to feel his weight resting into you, but instead he pulls back slightly, bringing a hand down to guide your leg higher on his waist before that same hand is slipping between your bodies. A rough whine leaves you when his thumb starts rubbing firm circles against your clit, his lips moving up to kiss along your jaw, up to your mouth. The rhythm of his hips grows a little rougher and he pulls back to look at you, only to kiss you again immediately in a hungry, slow motion.

“Mm, you close, baby?” he asks, the words muffled against your mouth as he continues to toy with your clit. You nod quickly, licking into his mouth eagerly as your legs start to shake as they’re locked around his hips. His thrusts seem to be a bit more labored, like he’s holding back to keep his orgasm at bay to wait for you.

Your mouths are still pressed together, and you’d hardly call it kissing, both of you just trying to breathe but unwilling to pull away. The intimacy of it is almost a little overwhelming, but with both of you clearly teetering on the edge, you feel like his touch is the only thing keeping you alive. Curses are falling from his mouth, some in English, some not, and you’ve been sleeping with him long enough to know that the flush coloring his cheeks is a sign of his impending orgasm.

“Jake, c’mon,” you whine impatiently, letting your nails drag over his shoulder. Your body arches up toward his, trying greedily to meet his thrusts as he makes a sound of approval. He takes the chance to glance at you with a smirk, his thumb rubbing over your clit with just the right amount of pressure to make your toes curl.

You’re right there, so fucking close, when he curses, his hips slamming into yours with obscene force with a throaty groan. You feel him finish, but he doesn’t stop moving, still fucking into you as he practically whines your name. Really, you’re not sure if it’s the friction or the sheer desperation in his voice that makes you cum, but either way you hit your peak with a shout, clinging to him desperately by then.

Your orgasm has you rocking up to meet his increasingly lazy thrusts as he breathes heavily against your neck. He’s practically throbbing inside you, you can feel it as your cunt tightens around him, his thumb still circling over your clit. As your orgasm tapers off, he slows to a stop, hips still pressed firmly into yours as he brings his other hand up to smooth your hair back gently.

The room is a lot quieter now without the sound of skin on skin, and as the two of you catch your breath, his mouth moves lazily over your shoulder. You’re warm all over, hips aching from holding one position for so long, but the idea of moving seems like it’d kill you. When he starts to pull back, just barely moving inside you, you curse softly, your body so sensitive still, and your arms tighten around his shoulders to keep him from pulling away again.

His eyes lift to yours after a moment, and you smile sleepily at him, nice and dazed as he leans to press a gentle kiss to your mouth. “That was good,” he says with a wide grin once he pulls back, and you’re quick to scoff despite the smile on your face.

“Yeah, it was,” you agree a second later, finally shifting to untangle your legs from around his hips. He looks pleased with himself, and you can’t help but roll your eyes at him as he kisses you again.

When he leans back to meet your eye again, his softening cock still buried inside you, his cheeks are flushing all over again, something you’re not used to seeing after sex. You’re about to ask what he’s thinking, but he speaks before you’ve got the chance.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, the words rushed to the point that he’d practically blurted the statement out. That takes you by surprise, eyebrows raising as his cheeks go even more pink and he’s starting to avoid your eye. This bashful side of him always took you by surprise. He’d gotten like this the first time he asked if he could stay over, but now it was a far more intense version of it.

“I think I’m okay with that,” you respond after a moment, and you can tell that he’s relieved by your words. Gently, your hand finds his cheek as you guide his mouth toward yours to kiss him. You take it slow and your arms are still tight around him like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. When he kisses you back, he hums against your mouth quietly in a way that makes you shiver.

“Good,” he tells you, practically beaming at you before kissing you again.

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