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miekasa · 3 years

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mie.. i’m going into another eren phase.. so can you pls tell me your fav boyfie eren hcs…

Yeah, why not. I have so many random ones because he is my boyfriend <333 so here you gp

sfw

Eren doesn't actually work out all that often. He’s always been athletic, so his exercise comes in the form of playing sports, but he doesn’t really go to the gym outside of playing/practice.

Loves cake pops, more often than not “treats himself” to one after an exam or assignment, or whenever he feels like it lmfao. He basically eats it all in one bite, keeps the stick in his mouth to fidget with until he finds a trashcan.

Likes seeing you in his hoodies because, well, it’s his hoodie on you; but mostly because of the size of the actual hood on you. He thinks it’s so funny but also pretty cute how the hood alone swallows you up.

Grocery shopping with you is one of his favorite activities. He rarely goes by himself—if not with you, then with Mikasa or Armin—and all he really does is follow you around the store and occasionally put some stuff in the cart, but he still loves it. He likes running and then jumping on the cart like it’s a scooter.

No matter how many makeup tutorials he watches, or how many times he watches you do your own makeup, he doesn’t really understand how it works lmfao. He likes watching it, and he thinks you look pretty if wearing makeup is your thing, but he baffles him how a little tube of concealer brightens your under eye.

Speaking of which, he sits criss cross applesauce either on your bed or on the toilet if you’re in the bathroom, while he watches you do your makeup. Counts the steps in his head, always confuses the contour and bronzer. It’s okay, he’s learning.

He both likes and dislikes FaceTime. He likes the convenience of it (and will abuse it by calling you even tho you’ve just barely left his house), but he would much rather just go and see you; so he does. Unless there’s something keeping you apart, Eren will make the effort and the trip to go and see you, even if it’s late at night.

He gets warm very easily, but always has some sort of coat/outerwear on him, even if it’s just a light windbreaker. He usually ends up hanging it over your shoulders or telling you to wear it because you “look cold” when he wants to take it off.

He walks just like a half step behind you; technically still by your side, but trailing you by the tiniest amount. That way he gets to be with you and watch you, and also steer you away from anything/anyone else he sees ahead while you’re walking.

If he notices your shoelaces are untied, he gently pokes your shoulder to get you to stop, then bends down and ties them for you.

His phone case is brown leather, and has your initials engraved at the very bottom in a very tiny, dark green font.

Likes walking around with you at night so congrats on having your own personal guard dog for Safety lmfaoo. Sometimes you guys don’t even talk; he just wants to hold your hand and wander around, and just be with you for a little bit.

He is the one putting hair ties on YOUR gear shift and around YOUR wrist. Marking his territory lmfaooo

Learns to like coffee in college, and learns your Starbucks order pretty quickly. He’s got a very small addiction, but he always buys you a cup when he gets his own, so at least it’s beneficial for you. He doesn’t usually have much an extreme sweet tooth, but he takes his coffee with quite a few pumps of syrup and/or sweetener.

Eren loves hugs, and once he starts getting them, he refuses to go with out them. Back hugs are his favorite, whether it be you hugging him from behind, or him doing it to you; either works for him, both feel like heaven.

You know when it’s time to head home after a party/hanging with your friends because Eren will drape himself over you and gradually apply more of his body weight the more tired/drunk he gets. Regardless of whether or not he’s sloshed, he’ll still press very light and innocent kisses onto your neck and ears.

Turns out he really likes getting kisses on his cheeks. It always takes him by surprise; his eyes widen and his eyebrows raise just a bit, but he usually evens out his expression before you pull back, so you don’t see. What you do see is the sorta glazed over, happy look in his eyes, and if you look closely, you might see his pupils dilate, too.

He actually doesn’t mind reading, he just never thinks to read in his free time. When he does remember, and what he’s reading is interesting to him, he finishes the book pretty quickly—a few days, maybe a week at most—it’s kind of impressive. Then he goes on to not look at another book for a good five months lmfao.

Asked you what detergent and fabric softener you used on your sheets, then bought the exact same products to do his laundry with.

He picks you up pretty often. It’s not always tossing you over his shoulder, or carrying you bridal style, but if he needs to get to something behind you in the kitchen he’ll just. Just pick you up, turn, plop you down, get what he needs, pick you up, turn around again, and plop you right back into place. Like a doll.

Actually very good and very meticulous when it comes to cleaning. Not a single hard water stain in sight on your dishes. Sparkling countertops and tables, your oven has never looked shinier than when he’s done with it.

Doodles on his notes when he’s bored in class. Doodles on your notes if he’s bored in class and you’re there, too.

He claims to not get jealous easily, but he definitely does. His methods of dealing with it are either to (a) pout (usually only happens when he gets jealous of someone you’re telling him about), (b) find an excuse to pull you away from this other person, (c) be extremely cold to this other person, (d) pretend to be sick/tired/hungry as an excuse for you to be concerned about him/dote on him in front of this other person (this is his favorite method).

Will push your phone down/into your face if you’re laying down using it or just scrolling through your feeds. Thinks it’s peak comedy, always runs away with a little shit grin on his mouth.

He’s always tuned into you, and sometimes physically turned to you, even in a larger conversation with other people around. Finds a way to pull you into the convo if you’ve been on the quieter side, nudges at your side under the table to bother you when you’re distracted, frequently looks at you even if someone else is talking.

nsfw/suggestive

Eren really likes lazy sex, and it’s arguably one of his favorites; and for someone who’s not a morning person, he sure does like morning sex. He does this thing where he wakes up at like eight in the morning, starts feeling up on you, and eventually very lazily fucks you before you even have the chance to say good morning, then crashes and sleeps for another two hours. Sometimes he doesn’t pull out.

Always gets hard when you do try on hauls of the new clothes you’ve bought; whether it be via FaceTime or in person. You could be showing him your new sweatpants, and he’ll still find it sexy.

Can and will find time to grope you whenever possible. Getting water from the kitchen means you’re getting your ass smacked while you open the fridge. Putting on your shoes also means you’re getting your ass smacked when you bend over. Standing around debating on what to wear for the day means he’s coming up behind you to put his hands on your boobs. Doing your skincare routine in the bathroom means he’s got his hands on your hips squeezing at your skin.

Likes being bitten. Will tell you to bite him; he’ll lean down while he’s fucking you, smile wickedly when you grab and claw at his back, and you’re gasping against his shoulder, “Wanna hurt me? Go ahead, baby, do your worst.”

He loves making out with you, even if it doesn’t lead to sex; actually, sometimes, he prefers it that way. You make his head spin just by kissing him, and there’s a special kind of bliss of just rutting against each other without fucking that he loves.

Lovesssss taking mirror selfie’s with you on his lap and your back to the mirror, especially right after sex. Your head resting on his shoulder and he just barely murmurs, “Stay right there, don’t move.” Might start a collection of pics like that.

Tugging on his ear acts as encouragement, but somewhat surprisingly, that sole action doesn’t necessarily turn him on; it doesn’t turn him off, and he likes it, but it’s more... soothing? than sexual to him. What you should do instead is put your hand on the back of his neck/touch the hair near his nape.

He could have done all the work, but will still wrap you in his arms and kiss your head and tell you how good you are, how good you were to him. He really does think you fucked him 9/10 times and takes pride in it too lmaooo

Holds your jaw open with one hand, presses the index and middle fingers of his other hand against your tongue, and watches your spit pool around him. He exhales slowly at the sight, moving his fingers around to coat them evenly before pulling them out of your mouth and separating them; watches a thin line of spit connect them and groans.

Holds you jaw a lot, actually: when you’re kissing, when you’re blowing him, when he’s on top and fucking you, when he’s fucking you from behind, he’ll pull you up with one hand, use two fingers and turn your head to the side so he can kiss you.

It’s him that kinda loses it first most of the time; that gets that fucked out, hazy look in his eyes, that makes everything feel like too much so his head drops to your shoulder and he resorts to biting at your neck to further stimulate you.

Likes sucking on your tongue when you kiss. Falls in love with you all over again on the spot when you do it back to him.

You could just barely put your hands on him and Eren will groan, mutter about how you’re so sexy and how badly he wants to fuck you. Could just lay back with your chest heaving from kissing him and he’s got hearts in his eyes and his dick is hard.

#anonymous #sick and twisted and lovely and precious my boyfriend ladies and germs!!!!!#eren x reader #aot x reader #eren fluff #eren smut #eren jaeger x reader #eren.ask

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todourouki · 4 years

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↲ Back to my BNHA Masterlist

i crash, u crash.

SUMMARY: Being with Dabi wasn’t easy and it probably never will be, but he just wants to make sure you’ll stick around. Or in which Dabi tries his best to show you he cares about you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: based off i crash, u crash by lil peep! lol honestly idk about this one. but welcome back gift for me, from me, to you <3

PAIRING: Boyfriend!Dabi & Fem!Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,476

WARNINGS: Explicit Content, Dabi is toxic, Angst*, NSFW [18+] including spitting, slight daddy kink, squirting, slight overstimulation.

Sex with Dabi was always the same.

Routinely speaking, whenever he was back from a mission was the time you were expected to be on all fours waiting for his attention. It was always rough too, nothing short of angry and aggressive even if it was a form of “love-making.” He could call it what he wanted to though, he knew the universal term for his type of sex was simply fucking.

The positions and their timings were always on schedule. No more than 3 minutes in missionary— all the time in the world doing everything else. You never really got to touch him, and he’s never let you see his face when he came.

The relationship of hot and fiery sex mixed with an unrequited form of codependency grew to an actual romantic one somehow between the days and nights spent together, yet nothing of the dynamic ever changed. The only thing you could recall is that he groggily asked of you to “finally be his girlfriend since you already acted like it.”

Dabi was a complicated person. You never knew if he planned on waking up and deciding he wanted to be single, and honestly the day he decided to do such a thing wouldn’t be a surprise to you. He was an avid participator in the league of breaking hearts and even if you had more than enough knowledge on this, you allowed his sneaky smirk to seduce you into the sheets of his bed and hours of his days.

You eventually found yourself moving in, figuring out that he refused to sleep without the air conditioner on, never wore socks around the house, used way too much salt on his eggs, and never managed to close the curtains after he got out the shower. Above all that though, he never changed the way he fucked you.

Dabi loves you, of course you never had to question it or get reassurance. He showed you in minuscule ways such as stealing bringing you your favorite snacks after a long day without you, doing things such as buying double of what he gets from store runs because you’re in his mind all day, and telling you he’ll be safe for you once he walks out the door. He never says I love you, but he doesn’t need to.

It’s hard to get someone like him to change the way they are, so when you’re sitting on your shared bed flipping through a magazine and see a couples quiz linger across the page, you can’t help but try to feed yourself crumbs of his affection you know you’ll spend a lifetime searching for.

“How long did it take for you to realize you like me?” You broke the silence, squinting at the duo-skin toned man slouched across the wooden headboard.

You heard him chuckle, blinking longly at you with amusement glimmering within his cerulean irises. It wasn’t rare for Dabi to mock you for asking such a thing, but it was a rare moment for you to glare at him deadpanned and genuinely waiting for an answer. It fucking confused him.

“As long as it took you to make me cum the first time.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring his comment enough to make him furrow his eyebrows. It wasn’t like you to not retaliate back, you were always quick to snap back at him. Hearing nothing but his own breathing as you skipped through pages made him furrow his eyebrows. He wanted to ask if you were okay— he really did, but then you’d think he cared.

And Dabi would be a terrible person if he let you know he cared.

The silence was nearly overbearing, nearly deafening in his ears as he tried his hardest to focus on anything but your serious expression haunting him in the back of his mind. Things like this rarely bothered him. It goes to say that Dabi was rarely ever bothered.

Sure, you never asked for much reassurance and never even did as much as ask if he meant it when he asked you out mid-nap, but he really did. Sure, you lived off the whim of thinking it was, but at least the raven haired man knew it was. Right?

The sound of the magazine slamming shut and getting thrown somewhere onto the bed broke Dabi of his thoughts. “I’m gonna’ pee.” You announced, mostly to no one in particular because your soft eyes refused to meet his own. Another rare occurrence.

You lied to Dabi for the first time in your life. Did you really have to pee? Of course not. Did you have to cry in the bathroom for a quick 2 seconds to release the pent up frustration of utter confusion? Of course you did. It was annoying— living with someone and only getting treated as if you were anything in the slightest to him when his dick was inside of you. He only ever fucks you rough and never lets you see his face, and he expects you to believe he wants to be with you?

After cleaning your solemn face from dry tears, your body grudgingly made its way out the bathroom and to the bed. Your presence within the studio was clear, panties strewn across the open drawers mixed with Dabi’s briefs, shoes tucked neatly compared to Dabi’s boots tossed lazily near the door, and perfume bottles layering up against the old brown dresser. You took a quick glance at a picture of you hanging on the wall, a familiar raven-headed man’s arms wrapped around your head as he towered over your frame with his head resting across your head.

It was never worth the confusion.

“Why were you crying?” His dark voice rang out, making you slightly flinch as you dented the soft mattress with your frame.

A quick shake of the head will do, you thought to yourself as you followed your own orders. You knew Dabi wouldn’t push to find out what was wrong, he never does. And he doesn’t, lips shut as he takes a drag from some cigarette he’s smoking and giving you a longing look of aggravation. It’s even less of a surprise for him to do such a thing.

“If you have something to tell me, then I suggest you do it.” If you hadn’t known Dabi for as long as you do, you’d probably assume he was being condescending and outright rude. Because you do know him though, you know that’s exactly how he’s trying to come off to you.

You dreaded it. The eventual confrontation that was inevitable from the moment you accepted to be his girlfriend— it all led to this moment in space and time. You felt exactly how you predicted you’d feel, sick and intimidated. Not necessarily by Dabi because you know he’d never hurt you, but intimidated by the fact that it’s as easy as 1-2-3 for him to up and leave depending on your answer.

“What are we, Dabi?” And there it goes, 1-2-3.

It was like hearing a pin drop. Nobody moved, nobody spoke, nobody did anything for the first three seconds following the ultimatum. He knew he had two options: answer genuinely and reveal information he’d die before releasing, or leave you high and dry yet again for his own benefit when it comes to the mere idea of using words he doesn’t use in bed.

Staring into your eyes never scared him, he cremating people for a living, but knowing that lying behind them were tears falling for your reflection rather than on his shoulder caused a pang to hit his chest. It was unfamiliar and unusual, but looking at your body begin to leave its space in the bed in frustration with his quietness made him snap. You were serious for the first time.

“I’m not going to repeat myself.” Your words were harsh, harsher than usual and you yourself couldn’t even tell where this newfound energy came from.

You were okay. You were okay with whatever this complicated situationship was, and you probably would have still been okay with it if you hadn’t gotten too deep in over your head and let his words get to you. Him saying he realized he liked you coincidentally while you fucked should be above you, yet here you are.

“Jesus doll, relax.” He taunted, hands reaching out to grab your arm in a fit of confusion and annoyance, “just come back to bed Y/N.”

You felt it - the minute he touched your arm and released the tiniest bit of heat coming off his palm - just how tense he was becoming. He knew once you put your mind to something, it was difficult to get you to move away from it. He knew that there was no escaping this conversation.

It was inevitable really, the fact that one day (which was, unfortunately for him, today) you would question the legitimacy of his emotions for you. You were carefree just like him, that’s why he fell for you. But you were also blunt. If you felt a way, you were going to say it and that’s that.

Easily, the scarred hand gripping onto your arm slid over to your clenched jaw. You didn’t mean to give him a hard time for not looking his way—with the way his fingers squeezed deep into your skin and tilted your head towards him, you knew you did. It almost repulsed you with how obedient your body was to his touch, glancing at him with no shame other than the dried tears threatening to spill over.

“I’m gonna tell you the one time and I’ll never repeat myself,” he threatened, voice treading amongst angry waters as his blue eyes bored into yours, “I’m serious.”

You stood your ground, eyes taking away from your scowling expression as they swirled in curiosity. It didn’t take much to make you lower your frame onto the edge of the bed, a sigh escaping your lips as you pulled the t-shirt past your exposed panties.

“I don’t say much when it comes to you, or even to when it’s about you—but you’re all I am.” Your eyebrows furrowed, clear confusion written in your face.

“What does tha—” “I’m talking.” Dabi’s aggravated expression never left, not even with the joint hoisted between his lips in nothing but frustration.

“I got nothing to give you, nothing but collected calls from jail and maybe some jewelry I stole cause I got bored. I don’t have any money, anything to my name, and nothing but a spot on the police and hero department’s most wanted list.” His words made you frown, the clear self-depreciation outweighing the cocky and arrogant attitude you once knew to belong to the man infront of you.

“I can’t look you in the eye, show you my face when you milk my cock clean— can’t do shit like that,” Dabi’s smirk was quick to appear, your eyes rolling as you met his serious gaze yet again, “probably won’t be able to take you out the country either unless we run far, far away from here.”

“But nothing I say or do will ever express the way I feel about you.” And now it’s Dabi’s turn for the 1-2-3 process, because that statement in itself made your brain stop working.

Your brain couldn’t comprehend the fact that Dabi’s free hand was circling your bare thigh, moving closer and closer to where he most felt at home. His words never faltered though, only slightly pausing to smoothly slip his hands onto the soaked folds of pink lace.

His words were thrown against empty ears. You couldn’t focus on the words flowing within the room due to the ever-growing heartbeat pulsing between your thighs. Dabi’s hand sank into your leg, heat splitting between your skin enough to hiss and throw your head back.

“From this perfect pussy,” he applied pressure to the space between your legs, the wet patch inducing a smile from his once blank expesssion. The sudden contact caused a gasp to slip from your panting lips. Almost instinctively, Dabi pressed his thumb against your tongue, “to this smart ass mouth, it’s all I need to wake up in the morning.”

Your mind was now blank. All you could think about was the feelings of Dabi's heated fingertips dancing against the confining cotton of your panties. He always had the ability of doing this to you— dumbifying you with nothing but the pads of his fingertips and making you beg for his tongue.

Watching you pant under him nearly made the expressionless man shudder in pleasure. Dabi wasnt a liar, anything and everything he's ever said being some mangled up verbal example of his brain. He was far from the type to express his feelings, show anything other than smugness and oversuimulation, and dedicate his entire life to another person.

He was far from the type, yet managed to become a perfect example of a significant other who's life slowly but surely becomes solely to live for another person. The other person in this situation, was you.

You felt him begin to leave swollen burn bubbles on the outer layer of your skin, legs shaking in a way that brought the two of you out of your racing minds.

His motions stopped, yet hands showed no intention on moving from its current place. He was staring at you intensely - as intensely as he could - to assert his egotistical dominance but you knew the truth.

And as Dabi lowered your frame into the soft, plush white sheets, he realized he knew the truth as well. Your eyes were dazed, irises looking at all of him at the same time as your body swallowed in his touch and he knew. Dabi knows deep down no matter how much taller, bigger, or dominant he ever tried to be, he would worship the ground you walked on with the blink of an eye.

Your hands found his cold cheeks, tongue still stuck to your bottom lip with Dabi's harsh finger circling the pink muscle. Not a word was said, or per say, not a single word needed to be said. The energy surrounding the one-roomed apartment was enough for the two of them.

Before you, Dabi was known to be something of a martyr. He fooled women, toying with their souls the same way he toyed with their bodies and cried trauma when they threatened to leave. He kept a string on every one he ever fucked, being cautious enough to keep them at the heel of his feet for a fun time when he felt he had enough of you.

Then, he got addicted. He drowned in your drive, finding for the first time in his life some sort of comfort. Your natural warmth, your smile, your understanding— you were someone Dabi would find himself laughing at for thinking they actually existed.

"You're gonna get tired of me one day," he bitterly smiled, eyeing you deep into your skull with nothing but sadness laced in an angry distraction, "you're gonna find some hero and leave me here all on my own."

He wanted to think he wouldn't care. If the time where you decided to go back to the better things in life, leave a lowlife villain who wants to destruct the government, and live a rich healthy lifestyle, he knew you didn't do anything less but deserve it. You were too good for him, better than anyone he's ever known in his life for as long as he'd live.

With a soft whimper, your hands turned his head from his lowered expression over to your soft eyes. He hated how quick you got him to look at you, and he especially hated how quick you made his breath stop.

"Hey," you whispered, soft smile still glowing even though you realized he had intentionally lowered his voice as well as his lips from your sight. The vulnerable expression the raven-haired man was trying his hardest to not get you to see brought a rough pang to your chest.

"You crash, I crash. Always."

Your words hit him, and boy did they hit Dabi hard. The time it took for the word always to softly slip off your tongue was just enough time for Dabi to realize the depth of your words.

They were the same ones that fell between your lips when he thought he was dying, when you thought you were dying, and now. Dabi was complex - that was evident - but he was also the simplest man you knew. All he ever really needed was some reassurance.

It was long before his fingers found their way into your scalp, slipping over the crevices of your neck and gripping onto the back of your head as if his life depended on it. All you could do was gasp.

"Can I touch you?" The words were like a record scratch, repeating through the scarred man's brain all too much to keep anyone sane.

He couldn't tell if it was the slur of your words, or if it was your soft hands running across his thick shoulders as the words whispered into his ears— whatever it was made him take up the obligation of doing anything and everything you said.

It wasn't soon before you found yourself slamming your lips against his, the sensation causing you both to moan. You couldn't tell the difference between his hands and yours, tangled limbs falling deep into the plush comforter covering your shared bed. His weight above you did nothing but encourage you to wrap your bare limbs against his now shirtless one on, hands running through the raven locks above your head.

The minute you felt the heated pads of his fingertips lower themselves down your abdomen, your head shook underneath his and caused him to part his lips from its home on yours.

"Hmph," you groaned, pouting as your hands traveled down to his jeans and began to fiddle with the zipper, "I want to feel you in me now."

Dabi was used to being in control. He was used to ordering your body around, telling you what to do and how to do it. In the bedroom, Dabi made the orders. So when he parted his lips from yours and stood over your body with his scarred hands shoving his pants down his thighs, you couldn't do anything less than moan. Knowing he was taking what you said into consideration brought chills to your skin.

"You sure you're ready for this, sweetheart?" He smirked, legs coming out of the restricting jeans he wore and leaving his tall and lean frame in nothing but gray briefs.

Dabi had a lot to brag about, in the most respectful way possible.

Your hands clawed at his waistband, giggling as you pulled his body all the way back to its original position of resting above you and let the underwear go with a loud smack. Being eye to eye with someone like Dabi was scary, no point in denying that. Her there was something about it that just drove the two of you insane— and he couldn't tell if I was anything short of love.

He silenced himself, attaching his lips to yours and preoccupying a hand into pulling his briefs down just enough. And by just enough, it meant just enough to brush your clothed clit as his painfully hard cock stretched up to his stomach. You couldn’t do anything but flinch, hands reaching out to grip his thick girth and slap it across your clothed pussy.

“Let me do it.” You smiled, eyes boring into Dabi’s own blue ones. Your free hand slipped your panties to the side, his mushroom tip dancing against the rim of your wet hole and causing the two of you to release a soft groan into one another’s face.

If there was one thing Dabi would never get tired of, it would be the feeling of your velvet walls sucking his dick closer into you. Nothing short of sensation hit him the minute your hands shoved the head in, and his almost fell inlove with the view of you watching his large length disappear into your own heaven.

It was hard for you to not cum from his entrance. Even as he bottomed out, your teeth sealing a scream from leaving your throat by pressing into his shoulder, did you realize just how big Dabi was. No matter how skinny, lean, and weightless he seemed, the girth and length on Dabi’s third leg when he was stuffing himself into you never failed to surprise you. Even through the self-inflicted pain of going into this without foreplay, you knew there was nothing that would ever fill you up as amazing as Dabi does.

“Fuuuck,” you dragged out into his earlobe, tongue licking a strip of his patched skin from your bite-mark to the lobe of his pierced ears, “you’re so big.”

He couldn’t help but whimper (another thing on Dabi’s list or shit he doesn’t do but now does because of you), the feeling of your tongue circling his ear as your pussy gripped onto his fleeting cock nearly felt like too much. It didn’t help that you were moaning and whispering in his ear with nothing but pure sex laced in your words.

“You know,” he breathed out, beginning to create a routine with his hips bottoming harshly into your cervix and slowly dragging out in a timely fashion, “this is the best pussy I’ve ever had.”

He thinks it’s a compliment, but really it stirs awake the competitive bone in your body. You ignore it though like you always do, choosing to appreciate the fact that he considers you the best at atleast something.

His hand gripped onto your neck, bringing neon stars and dots of blackness to conceal your view of cerulean eyes. Nothing but the lewd sounds of Dabi pushing his dick into your wet hole filled the room, sprinkles of your whimpers and his groans mixing amongst the darkness of the apartment.

Dabi was trouble. He never felt in control of his feelings, never knew what he would want in life, and never bothered to consider living for someone other than himself. It’s moments like these with you though, that makes him realize the God he wakes up thinking about rests between the gap in the middle of your heavenly thighs. He’d killed people before, but the power you held over him was enough to make him consider killing everyone on earth if you’d ask.

You felt him begin to grow impatient, hips pounding into your frame and causing your body to jolt up and down harshly. Words couldn’t describe how amazing Dabi felt inside of you right now. His tip crushed your cervix within every thrust, and it was Dabi’s fingers that lifted your gaping face from the trance of watching him fuck into you to his own face.

“I-I cant.” You began to slip out, tears growing against your eyes as Dabi’s hot fingers began to flick your swollen clit. You swear it’s only been like ten minutes, or maybe Dabi’s huge dick pushing against your cervix was beginning to fuck you stupid. “You’re gonna’ make me cum— make me cum too fast daddy.” You cried out, fingers dragging against the stapled back as you felt Dabi purposely drag one of the piercings located on his tip across your pulsating velvet walls. It was almost too good to be true, and you couldn’t help yourself from kicking his waist over you and forcing his body underneath you. He didn’t even have the courtesy to wipe the smirk off his sweating face.

“Get to work, doll.”

You knew why he spoke to you with such condensation. You also knew exactly why his hands pressed into your ass cheeks as you found your home on top of his bare lap. His scarred torso leaned against the black bed frame, and you decided right then and there that Dabi deserved to get his brains fucked out. So you did exactly what he told you to do— you got to work.

You were wet enough to take him some more, knees straining as you finally pushed his length deep into your stomach. The silent scream that left your lips didn’t go unnoticed though, your fingers that now gripped his cheeks pressing between his lips to keep his teasing menstruations to himself. Dabi’s eyes couldn’t come off your body, and honestly he wished they never had to.

Keeping a grip on your stomach and your ass cheek, an enflamed slap brought a powerful burn across your ass cheek and caused you to jolt against his penis.

“Jesus Dabi, a-are you trying to kill me?” You weakly pleaded, and it didn’t take long for your fucked our expression to start slurring your words.

The sound of you dropping your frame onto his body filled the room, your hips rolling against your clothed clit and bringing sensation you weren’t sure if you could handle. You were trying to focus, but the feeling of Dabi heating a hand up across your ass and slowly beginning to meet your thrusts caused your brain to jumble into a mess of nothing but him.

“Fuck, baby you look so good when you start to get stupid.” He smirked, lips running against the cleavage of your bouncing breasts and lazily sucking on the moving nipple in front of him.

You wanted to fight back, and you wanted to defend yourself against him thinking you we’re starting to get stupid. You really wanted to— the only issue being that you couldn’t. You couldn’t the minute Dabi found a way to meet your thrusts and roughly tilt your neck back up towards the ceiling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Was all you could cry out as you began to grow impatient in your lower abdomen. It just felt too good. And as if to add injury to insult, your walls began to clamp up from the feeling you knew was coming soon. Dabi paid the price.

You’d never seen his eyes get this wide, eyebrows furrowed as his mouth gaped open in shock. His eyes found its way down, the sight of your pussy gripping and swallowing his dick back in and out being something he wishes he could see all day and that’s when Dabi realizes that he is inlove with everything about you.

“It’s like your perfect pussy was made for me, baby.” He whimpered out, smirking between hooded eyes as he struggled to regain some of his consciousness. You were way too good at bouncing on his dick, and he couldn’t help but begin to meet your thrusts with more precision as he felt himself near orgasm.

“A-all for you! Always all- always all for you daddy!” You cried out, voice struggling to come out as you threw your hands against Dabi’s chest and began to bounce as if your life depends on it.

You hate doing all the work, honestly you really do dislike it. But this has been the longest Dabi has allowed you to ride him and the feeling of you literally milking his cock at your own disposal was an offer too good to ruin.

“I know it’s all for me, princess.” He whimpered out, a hand gripping the back of your neck and pulling it low enough to slam your chapped lips against his own. “Wanna know something, baby?”

The words vibrating against your own moans got lost in the sound, your headboard forcibly slamming against the wall only louder as every other thrust from you gradually grew rougher with your urge to cum. Your brain couldn’t do anything less than feverishly nod, hands slipping back onto your body and allowing Dabi to drill into you from underneath. Gasps slipped out of your parted lips with a hand gripping his black hair and the other begging to rub your own clit.

“You crash, I crash forever, right baby?” He moaned out, the words entering your ears and making you cry out with tears finally spilling down your eyes from nothing but intense pleasure.

“Fuck yes daddy, forever!” You cried out, body beginning to hunch over as you felt the pressure in your stomach compared to the way Dabi slammed into you become too much.

“Good, doll,” he moaned, pushing you so far into him, the heartbeat in your pussy was sure to be vibrating onto the veins of his dick, “so do me a favor.”

Everything happened much too fast, your dizzy state only increasing as Dabi grabbed your body harshly and tossed you back underneath him. There you were again, tossed carelessly under him with your legs trembling and pussy stuffed with all of Dabi in his glory. His lips found our ear again, licking your lobe and sucking on it right after.

“Cream all over my cock so I can stuff you up with my kids, deal?” He smirked into you, jolting into you as soon as the last word resonated on all ears.

Soon enough, he found it in himself to thrust into you like never before. You could barely breath, gasping for air as you felt your vagina began to vibrate due to stage of pleasure you were in. And just like that, your body began to run from the overstimulation of Dabi’s hot finger rubbing roughly against your clit as he drills your frame into the crevices of your mattress.

“Da-daddy I’m gonna’....” The words just couldn’t come out— he was begging to fuck you dumb.

You couldn’t feel nothing but Dabi’s dick pound into you, and if this was all you felt before you fell into a sex-coma than fuck it. It will forever and always be worth it.

It was like you were starting to see white. The feeling of one of his hands now roughly gripping your drooling expression closer to his face made you scream in pleasure, Dabi’s smirk leaving only to release a trail of saliva from his throat into the back of yours. You swallowed it with no hesitation, some of the residue slipping through your lips in a mix with your own spit as you began to drool at the feeling of his tip hitting that one spot over and over again.

And that’s when you felt it. You felt the build up, the pressure of holding back becoming too much as you belted into a mess of tears and tried to push his body off your own.

“No baby,” he roughly said, milking his cock into you even harder and rubbing pressured circles into your clit until a strong snapped within you and you saw nothing but white.

You weren’t sure if it was a sub-space you had entered, or some fucked up version of heaven people who just for their brains fucked out go, but either option felt like fair-game the minute your pussy began to squirt a mess of cum and other liquids from the space Dabi still found himself intruding. If anything boosted his confidence, it was this right here.

“Fuck yes baby, squirt for daddy,” he smirked, rubbing you harder and harder as your felt your body stiffen at the overstimulation, “fuck, you’re so hot.”

As soon as you, Dabi found himself cumming harder than he ever had, lips only being able to cry out a mantra of your name. He knew sex with you was amazing— but this was a new high he doesn’t think he’d ever went to let go of. He didn’t even have the energy to lift himself out of you, small drips of cum able to slip out of your swollen pussy making you flinch in both overstimulation and pain. The cockwarming brought chills to your arm, body sprawled underneath Dabi’s panting frame in nothing but a fucked our expression.

You felt him lift his head up, eyes glancing over your puffy closed ones and being able to do nothing more than steal a kiss from your tongue-licked lips. He knows the difference between “fucked-out” you and “genuinely-knocked-out” you, and you knew he knew the difference too. But he acted as if he didn’t.

And before Dabi could pass out on top of your sweaty and sticky frame, words he mumbled into your shoulder nearly burned into your skin. At least, just enough to make your pussy and lips twitch in nothing but contentness.

I crash, you crash. Forever and always.

Sex with Dabi was always the same— sure. It was rough, messy, and painfully over-stimulating, but it was Dabi, and it was more than enough for you.

Your mind was now blank. All you could think about was the feelings of Dabi’s heated fingertips dancing against the confining cotton of your panties. He always had the ability of doing this to you— dumbifying you with nothing but the pads of his fingertips and making you beg for his tongue.

Watching you pant under him nearly made the expressionless man shudder in pleasure. Dabi wasnt a liar, anything and everything he’s ever said being some mangled up verbal example of his brain. He was far from the type to express his feelings, show anything other than smugness and oversuimulation, and dedicate his entire life to another person.

He was far from the type, yet managed to become a perfect example of a significant other who’s life slowly but surely becomes solely to live for another person. The other person in this situation, was you.

You felt him begin to leave swollen bubbles on the outer layer of your skin, legs shaking in a way that brought the two of you out of your racing minds.

Your hands found his cold cheeks, tongue still stuck to your bottom lip with Dabi’s harsh finger circling the pink muscle. Not a word was said, or per say, not a single word needed to be said. The energy surrounding the one-roomed apartment was enough for the two of them.

“You’re gonna get tired of me one day,” he bitterly smiled, eyeing you deep into your skull with nothing but sadness laced in an angry distraction, “you’re gonna find some hero and leave me here all on my own.”

He wanted to think he wouldn’t care. If the time where you decided to go back to the better things in life, leave a lowlife villain who wants to destruct the government, and live a rich healthy lifestyle, he knew you didn’t do anything less but deserve it. You were too good for him, better than anyone he’s ever known in his life for as long as he’d live.

“Hey,” you whispered, soft smile still glowing even though you realized he had intentionally lowered his voice as well as his lips from your sight. The vulnerable expression the raven-haired man was trying his hardest to not get you to see brought a rough pang to your chest.

“You crash, I crash. Always.”

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

Text

Partner

Ethan Winters (Resident Evil Biohazard) x Reader (Gender Neutral)

Warnings: Spoilers for Resident Evil 8:Village, Swearing, Mentions of injury

Genre: Angsty Fluff, Comfort

Summary: Following the final battle in the Dimitrescu Castle, Ethan is surprised to stumble upon a person who witnessed the whole debacle, offering him a safe place to patch up his wounds and rest for a little while.

Requested by Anon. Hi dear! Thank you so much for your request! So sorry you’ve had to wait so long but here it finally is! Hope you come across it and enjoy reading it! Love, Vy ❤

“That was...something else.“ Ethan Winters mutters to himself as he limps his way out of the Dimitrescu Castle which is now vacant in terms of residence - his doing. He killed Alcina Dimitrescu and her daughters, all arguably in self defense and with little guilt to follow. However, plenty of trauma’s definitely attached to him following the horrific events he had to go through and the things he had to see between the walls of those luxurious rooms hiding dark secrets of the vampires who took pleasure in torturing people, and wreaking havoc over the villagers who feared them.

“At least they won’t hurt anyone any longer.“ He tells himself, giving the monster of a structure one final look before he continues back towards the center of the village where he’s gonna rethink what he’s got to do next, gather his bearings, take a breath and keep going. He has no other option but to keep going, he won’t allow himself to quit no matter what danger he faces. In his mind, he’s convinced himself that he’s already seen the worst, it’s easier on him that way, it suppresses the fear he’d feel otherwise. The last thing he wants is to think what’s in store for him ahead, he’d rather focus on what’s up to him to do next.

“And we can’t thank you enough.“

The sudden presence of an unfamiliar voice startles him, causing him to whip out his gun and point it in the direction it came from. However, he quickly finds his deadly tight grip loosening ever so slightly because he realizes he’s pointing the barrel at a very human-looking and seemingly harmless person.

“Who are you? Who’s ‘we’?“ Ethan still refuses to let his guard down though, just cause it may not be a life or death situation, doesn’t mean this person won’t bring him trouble and Lord knows that’s the last thing he needs right now.

On instinct, the person takes a step back, “I speak on the behalf of all the remaining villagers. I mean, it was only a matter of time before we too became victims in the Dimitrescu Castle basement. I was next, actually, but the commotion you created allowed for me to escape. I owe you my life, foreigner.“ The speak hurriedly and in a hushed tone, as if the fear of their torturers overhearing them still lives within them despite the monsters being deceased.

“Glad I could help you.“ He nods curtly, remaining at the distance of seven feet between them, “My name’s Ethan Winters by the way.“

They give him the tiniest of smiles, “Y/N L/N, pleased to meet you.” Their gaze gives him a quick onceover, assessing the damage the horrors of the castle have inflicted on him. Their eyes widen in shock at the many bleeding wounds all over his body but what appears to rattle them most is the severe injury that’s causing his limp as well as the missing finger - a poorly wrapped would that has surprisingly not started getting infected yet. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, but I don’t trust you to take care of yourself either. I live in that windmill over there in the outskirts, come with me, I’ll help you with...well, with all that. You seem rather hopeless at medical care.”

While he could refuse their offer, he wouldn’t be able to deny the fact that they’re right - he knows the basics of first aid, but his injuries are far too gone for simple first aid, especially when taken into account that he doesn’t even have any supplies. How he’s not died from blood loss is a surprise to him as much as it is to them.

“What’s my guarantee you won’t turn on me?“ He finally asks after a decent amount of time contemplating it.

They shrug, “You have none. But, you have the guarantee that if I turn on you, you’ll be the one coming out of that altercation alive.” Their gaze sizes up the guns he’s got on him, emphasizing their point.

Suddenly, Ethan feels sorta ridiculous - after all, guns or no guns, he could probably take on them easily with just his knife. Regardless, no one can blame him for being cautious. “Fine.“ He mutters, “But please don’t turn on me, I’ve already had one hell of a day.“

Y/N nods, motioning for him to follow them, “I promise I won’t.”

* * *

“Wow, what a back-stabber! Some friends you have, Winters.“ Y/N comments as they set down a cup of tea on the small wooden table in front of the freshly patched up Ethan.

Turns out, he made the right move by trusting them - they used to be the village’s main nurse until it all went to hell and they went to hide in the shadows of their windmill where they, as evidenced, still are today. That being said, not only did they have all the necessary equipment to fix him up, but they also had the skills and knowledge needed to use that equipment.

“There are those friends who borrow money from you and never pay you back and there are those who shoot your wife randomly while you two are trying to have dinner. Two types of friends out there really.“ He sighs, his tired, a thousand yard stare following the path of the steam levitating from the cup that’s been placed in front of him. “I have no time to dwell on that right now though. My daughter is in grave danger and I have no idea where I should even start looking for her.“

Y/N sits down on a chair opposite his, “Well, you’ve already defeated one of the village Lords looking for Rose, process of elimination should reveal where she is - wherever she is, it has to be one of the Lords’ residence. Mother Miranda trusted Lady Dimitrescu most so it’s a wonder why she wasn’t there, but then again, Heisenberg’s factory is damn near impenetrable, one cannot enter unless he wants them to so she could have entrusted her precious cargo to him.”

“How do I get to that fucker?“ Ethan tightens his hand into a fist, squeezing so tightly his knuckles turn white. There’s so much within him, so much that’s happened to him, so much in such a short amount of time and he’s had no time to deal with any of it. He’s a volcano waiting to erupt, but he has to do so at the right time - in front of the right danger to show he’s not hopeless or weak as his opponent may think. “Where do I find him?“

“He’s in the outskirts too just on the other side of the village.“ They sigh, regretting every word they are saying since they know they are just feeding him information on how to get himself in the worst kind of danger he’s probably ever been in. “That key you have, it’s not complete to access his quarters yet. By the looks of it...“ they observe the key Ethan has placed on the table, “You can only get to Lord Donna Beneviento’s estate, and I wouldn’t suggest heading there before you heal at least a bit more. Her and her dolls are a real nightmare. Of course, I haven’t experienced it for myself, but the stories are enough to get an idea.“

“So you’re telling me I have to waste my time with the little fish before I can finally get to Rose? You know how long that’ll take? You know how long she’ll have to be at the mercy of a fucking lunatic until I can finally save her?!“ Ethan snaps, banging his fist against the table, bad idea considering his hand’s been just patched up. The impact sends a jolt of pain up his arm that makes him hiss.

“I get it, I understand, Ethan. But you are a lot less likely to get to your daughter if you’re dead, you know.“ Y/N cautiously explains, their eyes narrowing a bit as they wait for the pearl white bandages to soak crimson, sighing in relief when they don’t. “Speaking of how likely you may or may not be to get to her on time, I’d also have to mention your odds would be significantly higher if you were to receive help from someone else. You’d need someone to have your back throughout all the shit you’re about to go through, especially Heisenberg’s factory where two eyes are not enough to track each and every threat that might pounce at you.“

Calmer now, Ethan gives them a puzzled look, “What are you suggesting?“

“I’m suggesting - well, I’m offering you my partnership.“ They explain, watching his expression change to one of knowing and understanding. “Of course, you’d have to give up one of those guns and hand it down to me, but I think that’s a small price to pay in exchange for an extra pair of eyes and limbs to guard and help you.“

Ethan’s first instinct is to decline. He can’t afford to see another person dying around him or because of him, he wouldn’t be able to stand it. But then again, just like he had no guarantee they wouldn’t turn on him, he has none that they’ll die. Of course, he’ll do everything in his power to keep them and himself alive and they don’t seem like they are in it to half-ass it either. Quite the contrary, they seem perfectly determined and ready to face the same shit he’s about to.

“What do you get in return?“ He asks, his gaze suspiciously measuring each line on their face to gauge their true intentions. He’s a complete stranger to them, they’d have no reason to be this selfless for him, it’s obvious they are aiming at something bigger.

Y/N scoffs, leaning back in their chair with a small bitter smile on their face, their gaze resting on the tabletop and avoiding his, “You really wanna know? I want my revenge - revenge for what they did to this village, to me, to so many people I cared about and to those I didn’t even know. But...” they trail off, pausing to sigh out a heavy sigh before continuing, “But I also wanna redeem myself. I knew I should’ve done all in my power to stop them when their havoc was still on the rise, I knew I should’ve done more, but I didn’t. And now I’ll die trying.”

“You won’t die.“ He says sharply, barely a second after the last word left their lips, “I won’t allow it.“ He adds, taking a bit of the edge off his voice.

Their eyes come up to meet his, searching for what he means, “Does that mean...“

“It sure does, partner.“ Within the blink of an eye, his pistol is on the table, fully loaded and free for their taking, “You just give a green light and we’re off.“

Y/N lets out a sound between a laugh and a gasp as their hands quickly wrap around the gun, looking at it in disbelief before whispering a quick ‘thank you’. Ethan allows them to marvel at it for a bit longer but they don’t wait another second. “Get your ass up, Winters. We have monsters to kill.”

He needn’t be told twice

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cosmiclatte28 · 3 years

Text

Disorder (Yuta x reader)

a/n : contains sensitive topic about eating disorder, do not read if it’s triggering or uncomfortable for you :”)

I do not personally support this topic, but last time I worked on this and I don’t know why I post this.. just tell me to delete this if this is too controversial I’ll take it down.

don’t force yourself

The dark cloud loaming on the sky is terrifying enough to make you crouch under your blanket as you mutter prayers so the lights won’t go out and the thunder won't surprise you.

However the cold feeling creeping on your feet and hands should be the real deal to worry about. You shake under the blanket, hiding more under the fluffy linen if that is possible. Your lips tremble, chapped lips, and icy blue in color.

You know he won’t like what he sees. Yuta will never like this state you are in, but no matter how much you want to stop it, you can't.

Your body refuses the tiniest amount of food forced into your mouth. It happened three months into your marriage with Nakamoto Yuta. World's famous idol, actor, heart stealer. Life was perfect with Yuta before the marriage announcement. You love him, he loves you… his members are all supportive about his relationship. You're healthy and Yuta loves you for everything you do.

That was until Yuta got his first major role in a drama. The drama won a lot of awards, thanks to your husband's wonderful acting skill as a mafia and the perfect chemistry between the doll actress and him. You need to admit you're jealous of her, but the problem doesn’t come from the actress nor from Yuta.

Your husband is still loyal to you, he takes the marriage vow seriously… you actually do not have to worry about Yuta falling out of love, you clearly can see his love grows more and more each day to you. It's already your second anniversary!

It was the fandom, the talk of the town, the tweets of the bullies that broken you. You know you're not the perfect girl to marry the oh so perfect Nakamoto Yuta. No, you're not ugly or fat. You're fit, you’re healthy, you look fresh. You have a bright smile, cheerful personality, and kind heart. You have your own charm, the glowing smile that makes Yuta bears with the harsh schedule every day. Your hugs bring his broken pieces back, and your laugh it makes Yuta realizes no matter how hard life is, he will keep striving for you.

But the comments of the web, of the unknown faces caught you. Crept slowly into your mind and ate your heart bits by bits on lonely night when you have to fake a smile over calls and videocalls with Yuta.

“(Y/n), I'm coming home In two weeks! The world tour is tiring, but it's worthy!” Yuta one night greeted you over video call. He was unwinding from the tiring show and you were getting ready to work in your own company.

You always put a smile to him, no matter how harsh the comments of the world is whenever people brought up Yuta's marriage with you. The comments are always about how unsuitable you are to be Mrs.Nakamoto.

At first it just hurts, but as you try to ignore them, you just think and think more about it. What if they're true. What if the world really hates seeing you by his side. What if one day you're just going to ruin everything Yuta worked hard for?

With Yuta's tight schedule with comeback and more drama, you found yourself sleeping by yourself and eating by yourself. The lack of companion after coming back from a tiring day makes you skip dinner and directly go to bed.

You thought, skipping dinner will not trouble you, Yuta won’t know and you'll just ignore the pain. You skipped dinner not to lose weight, mainly because you don’t feel happy eating alone. And this happened for a while. You don’t drink anti-acids even when you feel like throwing up at nights, you don’t feed your grumbling stomach when they beg for solid foods. No, you lost your appetite. For weeks, the only thing you have in the morning is just water, one small apple if you really cannot help it and on lunch you try your best to only consume little to none food. Did you lose weight? Drastically! Not in a healthy way, you're not proud of your body. No, this lost of appetite doesn’t make you happy. You don’t feel like living.

“(Y/n)-chan, have u had dinner?” Yuta called on his last week of tour. It has been almost four months since he left for the world tour. He'll have another one month away to finish the closing tour.

You lied and nod your head “Yes, what about you?” Yuta couldn’t see your dining table, you just put your face there.

“I am having breakfast! Anyways, make sure you're eating enough… your cheeks are gone honey!” Yuta looks concern, but his smile is still there coz he is always treasuring the short time he has to call and see you.

“Well, it's the camera maybe. Good thing right?” you try to laugh it off although you know you really lose weight.

“No, I love your glowing cheeks! Don’t tell me you're skipping meals" he suddenly opens his eyes wide.

You chuckle “No. Don’t worry Yuta.”

He grins “Then what did you eat? Why you never show me?”

You are taken aback “Uh I've eaten it.”

Yuta doesn’t give up “Next time, send me a picture okay so it feels less lonely! Gomen, I have to go rehearsal! Byee love you!” he closes the call after you bid him goodbye, goodluck and a love you.

You walk to the mirror in your room. Grimacing at your skeletal body. You were fit and now you look sick. Your skin doesn’t glow, your lips are chapped, and your hair looks dull. No matter how hard you try to bring your glossy hair back, the lack of nutrients won’t allow you.

You hate your current state, you look horrible. Thin body but with a very dull skin, pale lips, unlovely eyes. You look like a walking zombie. Your nail and hair vitamins did not help, the polished healthy nails are now chipped and broken.

You tried, eating some foods, but your body throws them back out. Your friend suggested going to the specialist, but you're too stubborn and shy to go. What if someone caught you on camera, what will the world say about Yuta? About you?

Yes some people know about you. Your wedding picture was published online, you were pretty back then! Some fans supported you, but after they realize how regular you were they started comparing and regretting their idol's choice.

You go to work with your big clothes, trying to hide your sick appearance but everyone in the company realizes you're not doing good.

“Yuta will hate me,” that’s all you can think about when you close your eyes and force your light head to sleep by yourself in the big room while wishing you can still see the sunlight and greet Yuta.

What you fear the most, happened.

Yuta got home to you, shaking so bad from the lack of food. You're working too hard and forgot all the meals. You only drink water, and Yuta got home from his tiring tour to find you laying almost lifeless on his bed.

“(y/n)?! What joke is this?!” he lightly slap your cheek to wake you up, but your breathing is slow and your eyes are heavy.

Yuta rushed you to the hospital and all you remember was the worried look he has once you opened your eyes.

“The specialist said this is not something new. For you to reach this state of disorder, they said it has been at least two years. Why have you never told me? Why?” Yuta asked first thing first when you woke up.

You cried, feeling bad to see Yuta this worried “Gomen, I'm stupid Yuta. I skipped dinner… and it became a routine.”

Yuta shook his head “You were lying to me…”

You cried, unable to deny him. He stayed silence and a tear fell from his face “Why do you lie? Why are you killing yourself? Do you not love me?”

You shake your head furiously “I love you yuta! I love you so much! But it’s lonely without you.”

Yuta trembles upon your remark. Is he the reason you're like this?

Yuta feels bad about your condition, he wants you to return to your healthy self but the doctors all tell him it will take time and patience and a whole lots of determinations!

The medics have to give you fluid foods which sadly you cannot deny. For a week you live from the liquid nutrients injected to your body and for the next month you're forcing yourself to consume food at least a real food.

Yuta takes a break from his promotion, making sure he is with you throughout the process. You feel bad for him, feel pitiful about your condition yet at the same time you hate yourself.

“It's awful Yuta.” You sob as you sit on the toilet floor, after barfing away your dinner once again.

“I'm just wasting food.” You desperately cry and Yuta's there to lend you his shoulder.

“No. Come on, it's not everything! At least your stomach is learning to work and digest again. Come don’t cry my beautiful princess.” He brings back the name he used to call you back on the younger days. You asked him to stop calling you princess after you get older and feel shy about the nickname.

But hearing that from Yuta's own lips, with pure sincerity when he is standing by your side makes you determined to overcome this together with him. For you and for him. For many more memories to make with him and for your future.

“Thank you, Yuta" you whisper before closing your eyes and leaning to his chest because you feel weak.

Yuta kisses the temple of your head “Always and forever my princess.” He hugs you closer to his chest and picks you up to carry you to bed.

“We'll get over this together okay?” You nod “Promise?” he shows you his pinky

You hook your pinky to his “Promise.”

“I love you not for how you look but for who you are.” Yuta slowly say that when you're falling into sleep.

You smile knowing this silly storm in your head will slowly fade with Yuta’s sunshine in your life.

end

#yuta angst #yuta x reader #yuta x y/n #yuta x you #yuta oneshot #yuta fanfic #yuta scenarios #yuta imagines #nakamoto yuta x reader #nakamoto yuta angst #nakamoto yuta imagines #nakamoto yuta scenario #yuta soft hours #nct angst #nct oneshot

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sarahjkl82-blog · 3 years

Text

Artistic Instinct: Chapter 6

Header thanks to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty

Summary: Marcus Pike and OC Anushka Pierce have been selected to work on a 5 eyes (Australia, Canada, NZ, the UK and US) intelligence team to track down art forgeries as a part of taking down an international white terrorism cell. Marcus is trying to escape his broken heart, Anushka is just trying to escape what the world expects of her.

Word count: 6200 (yup, the words ran away from me!)

Warnings: Language, mention of death.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader (OC)

This comes with a MASSIVE THANK YOU to the lovely @yespolkadotkitty , who read, re-read, pointed out the constant flipping between tenses and gave me the confidence to try to write something!This is the first thing I have written since angsty poetry as a teenager. Apologies if it is shit!

To an untrained eye, need and love are as easily mistaken for each other as the real master's painting and a forgery.

Deb Caletti

Chapter 6

A low lit room- more fitting of an old jail than an art lock up- surrounds you with cool air that tickles the tiny hairs on the back of your bare neck, as you bend over double, digging through the equipment in the abyss of your bag. A gap forms between the waist of your jeans and t-shirt, revealing the tiniest bit of the lace edging from your bra band- a tantalising fact that catches Marcus’ breath, alerting you to his presence, “Hey, you ok?” you ask straightening up, “Did you find something?”

“Yeah, uh sorry. Think I just had a bit of dust in my throat,” Marcus stammers, utterly thrown by that glimpse of your underwear, as he tries to clear his throat and remember the reason he was standing in front of you, “So, uh, yeah, um- we found a couple of signatures from Paul Guillaume and Albert C Barnes- weren’t they the guys we had to look out for?”

Looking over the papers with your cotton gloves still on, you pour over the shaping of the letters that made up the signatures of the possible previous owners, “I dunno. I’m not convinced- the positioning of the letters seem odd- like a crude rendition of someone’s signature. Almost like someone’s faking their mum’s signature to get out of PE class. Only the thing is, you know the movement of your mum’s hand as she signs something because you’ve watched her do it a million times before. Those signatures do not seem real to me, personally.”

Marcus’ eyebrows raise as he crosses his arms, desperately trying to hide the smile that was creeping across his face. “You faked your mom’s signature a lot?”

“Poacher turned gamekeeper,” Élodie remarks as she crosses between the two of you, straightening your t-shirt up where it has caught upon the back of your jeans.

Marcus tries not to let his disappointment show. Calm down, Pike, you’re hardly a horny seventeen year old. But that was how you made him feel and certainly the uncomfortable pressure building in his jeans might prove otherwise.

“I don’t think we will necessarily manage to get this solved today,” you begin, “The section that Élodie looked at dates it reasonably within the time period but those signatures are now tingling my spidey senses. It’s probably going to need to be sent for further investigations at a proper lab. I’m about to look at it using the stereomicroscope- do you want to have a look with me?”

Marcus nods eagerly, earning a grin from you, and you start setting up the pieces you need- ensuring that the video camera is linked to your iPad so Marcus can see everything you are looking at in real time along with you.

Marcus drifts closer to the painting. You haven’t seemed to notice his closeness yet, and he half hopes you don't, as from where he’s standing the aromatically pleasing scent of your shampoo wafts dreamily from the dark shimmer of your hair.

“So tell me more about this piece. I love listening to you speaking about art. You make it seem like I’m looking over the artist’s shoulder as they’re painting it.” Marcus remarks, smiling when he notices the flush creeping over your cheeks that his words bring.

Impressed by your decision to play into his words rather than focus on how awkward you feel at the compliment, he loves how you fan yourself and flutter your eyelashes at him, “Monsieur, you flatter me! Well, looking at this piece it’s not difficult to imagine that Soutine may have had a longstanding beef with food. Though he was fascinated by food and frequently painted these edible arrangements, this stands as one of his most memorable and dare I say, raw interpretations.”

At these terrible puns, Marcus pretends to drum, “Ba da boom tish!”

“Do not encourage her!” Jacques shouts from the other side of the room where he is labeling the bags for the slide samples that Élodie had been collecting, “Once you acknowledge one pun, she’ll ensure that everything she says has one. Queen Nush of the dad jokes!”

“So at the meat of Soutine’s obsession,” Marcus half-snorts, half-groans, intending to encourage you as you add, “You find that a combination of not having anything to eat due to extreme poverty and using what food the family did have to practice Kosher traditions is largely to blame for his playing with his food rather than eating it.”

Marcus watches you flick through your phone so as not to interrupt the finally clear feed from the stereomicroscope focussing on how you bite your lip. You quickly google the Rembrandt that you want him to look at. “The remains of this omnivorous…”

“Oh you’re still gonna continue with that theme, yeah?” Marcus’ feels his lips curve at your humour, shaking his head at the ridiculous word play.

“Oh, I can keep this going all day,” you say with the cheekiest of winks, and Marcus hopes you will.

*****

“Omnivorous obsession,” you continue, “was based on his adoration of Rembrandt whose 1655 Flayed Ox was frequently salivated over by Soutine on his regular visits to the Louvre. Rembrandt’s carcass is noted for its vivid colors but when compared to Soutine’s, which was coated almost daily with fresh buckets of blood by his assistant, Rembrandt seems downright dull. The smell of rotting beef and fresh blood became so oppressive that neighbours called the police, who almost threw away the fermenting flesh before, what I can only assume was the Frankenstein-esque assistant, shooed them away like so many flies covering a carcass.”

“Always with the focus on the graphic elements of art,” Jacques calls out with a snort at your zombie-like impression before receiving a sharp nudge to his ribs to focus on the job Élodie has asked him to complete.

“Art is just a reflection of the things that humanity finds interesting and what can be more interesting to a temporal being than their own mortality or that of the creatures and objects that surround it?” At this statement, you tug Marcus’ coat sleeve away from the piece to come and look at the feed you have set up for him, “Come on you, we’d better focus or Élodie will have my guts for garters for not concentrating on what I should be doing!”

Marcus allows you to lead him over to a black metal folding chair to look at the feed, “So what are we looking for, Mademoiselle Pathologist?”

“Hah, did you just call her mademoiselle? She’s too old for that!” Élodie shouts in your direction.

Refusing to respond verbally to Élodie’s rudeness, you flick a finger up at her and turn back to Marcus, “Madame Pathologist will do- I am comfortable with my age. So what we are looking for are any bits of difficult to detect damage, fading, repairs and the ways paints and other coatings are distributed. Also if there are any strange fibres that we can spot using the double lens.”

Hovering the microscope over the bottom left hand corner, you start to scan the piece, “So what we’re looking for are any irregularities that we might not have picked up on a first scan that Élodie did to take the samples. The stereomicroscope helps us to understand the art in more 3D terms- so we can see something that generally looks flat becomes a landscape of hills and valleys.”

“Why’ve you chosen that corner to start?” Marcus probed inquisitively, wondering as to whether there’s method in your madness.

“Just felt like it!” You shrug and snort at his look of mock horror. “Nah, it’s where the signature is and ‘cos I’m not sure about the signatures on those documents you found, I want to take a closer look at Soutine’s over here. Kinda feels like a sensible place to start.” Your eyes squint as you drink in the images in front of you, snapping up when you hear a small grunt of consternation from your boss, “Have you found something, Marcus?”

“That’s weird. It kind of looks like the signature has been scratched into the art,” Marcus squints at the signature on the screen, reaching over to the table where the possible documents with Guillaume and Barnes’ scrawls lie, “Also, I am not an expert in graphology but the letter e looks consistent across the three names- they all arch at the same point.”

“Waouh- that’s a good catch,” Élodie agrees, pulling Jacques with her to look over Marcus’ shoulder at the finds upon the feed.

Jacques escapes Élodie’s clutch and starts to flit back and forth, checking between the painting and the feed with a mild look of confusion on his face, “This is preposterous. Why have they done the signature in a different medium to the one used to paint it? It’s almost like they want to be caught.”

“It looks like it has been lacerated by a needle,” Marcus scratches at his patchy beard in astonishment, “Spot on Jacques, it’s like they can’t even be bothered to hide their tracks.”

“Ok, I think we may have found one of our fakes,” a smile slowly creeps across your face, “Obviously, we can’t be definite -there are still so many tests that need to be done but I don’t think this is an original,” you shake your head with a half smile, “Élodie, I think we need to organise for this to be couriered back to the labs.”

An excited squeal from Élodie and a soft oof from Jacques puncture the cool air as she flies into his arms, squeezing him in sheer delight. As the pair embrace with joy, you and Marcus are left there- Marcus on the fold out chair, gripping the iPad tighter than necessary- I swear that man never quite knows what do with his hands- and you sitting cross legged on the floor with the stereomicroscope lying in your lap- grinning like idiots at each other.

✪✪✪✪✪

More coffee and cakes are devoured in the aftermath whilst you await a courier to come and pick up the likely forgery- you are not entirely sure that the blood in your body hasn’t entirely transformed into sugar and caffeine at this point. After checking alongside Élodie that the painting had been carefully loaded into a van, you sit next to her on the pavement outside the auction house.

“Do you know where Marcus and Jacques are?” you question as you sink onto the dusty ground next to her.

“Yeah, they’re inside taking an informal statement from the auction house owner before the local police quiz her properly,” Élodie rests her temple to your shoulder, “Today has been wonderful. I really like Marcus - from what I have seen of him. I think this will be a good move for you.”

“I do miss having you here though. Today feels like the first time I have had both of my arms. Since you returned to London, it has felt like a part of me has been missing.”

Hauling a deep breath into your lungs to try to quell that gnawing ache in your belly, you turn to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head, “I am sorry, El. To be honest, I don’t even know where to start explaining what happened or even truly understand how everything fell apart so badly.”

The mountain wind decides to blow an icy gust that cuts through your clothes to the bones of you, “It was a normal undercover job- we’d been watching the comings and goings of the gang from a inside a local greasy spoon for ages-just trying to get a clear idea of what their patterns of behaviour were and it just all went South so quickly.

“Being a tiny caff on an industrial estate by the Thames, it was open 24 hours and the day it happened, it was during the middle of a night shift when the gang decided to up the ante. They’d obviously clocked that we weren’t exactly who we said we were,” you snort softly at the memory, “I mean Jas’ accent was a bit sus for being a short order cook but still.

“The gang openly marched the illegal immigrants out of the container and made them kneel in front of the caff as a lure to us, trying to get us to drop our cover. These fucking innocents just trying to find a better life and the evil fuckers just started executing them- one after the other. Jas just ran out there straight away- dropping his cover without any proper back up, a flak jacket or anything. His stupid, kind self trying to save at least one of them without a backward glance.

“I said the code word so we could have armed back up within minutes but I knew it wouldn’t be there quickly enough,” your voice starts to falter as your throat tightens over the words.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, chouchou,” Élodie squeezes the thigh nearest to her.

“I know but I should tell someone, somewhen. You’re probably one of the few who would understand.”

You pause, squeezing your eyes tight shut as you allow that stagnant, putrid box of memories to reopen, flooding your senses with the foul gangrenous smell of the past.

Having called in backup, you make the decision to slip out of the back door of the caff and run for cover behind the large communal bins. The incessant rain was giving zero sign of stopping and the noise was deafening as it bounced off the metal sides and drummed upon the tarmacked surface. You could barely hear the desperate negotiations that Jasper was trying to make for the lives of these poor, exploited humans.

From here, hiding amongst the shadows, you could catch the eye of one of the kneeling men and signal to him as to when he should try to make a run over to you. He’d reached his little finger out to the person to his right to alert them to the plan. Achingly slowly, tiny gestures had passed down the line of five remaining fellows, from person to person, notifying them of your presence and how you were attempting to save them.

You counted them down and then screamed for them to run. Gunshots rang throughout the air as they made a break for the supposed safety of the bins by you as blue lights and sirens swirled, announcing their arrival between the shipping containers. You counted them as they ran for their lives past you.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

But the gunshots…

Jasper.

As you ran to your former partner’s lifeless form, three more shots rang through the air, taking out the associates who’d been ruthlessly gunning down their illegal chattel. Jasper lay there in the harsh headlight of the armed response unit car, his apron and chef’s jacket were no longer the starchy white that glowed under the strip lighting of the kitchen but his skin had taken on a similar pallid tone as his life force pooled around him, staining the oily surface with a bloody bloom. Knelt there with the grit from the floor biting into the skin of your knees, you held his head in your lap, stroking his cold cheek as a shadow cast across you both.

“He’s gone, Nush.”

Tears course down your face in tiny rivulets and spill into Élodie’s hair, “If I had said yes at Fourvière. If I had accepted the position St Vincent had offered me, he’d still be here. He would still be here.”

After putting a hand on each cheek, Élodie then taps you upon the nose making your red-rimmed, watery eyes look into hers, “You didn’t shoot the gun. You didn’t kill him,” she says so matter of fact that you almost feel an inclination to believe her, “You have to stop blaming yourself at some point.”

“He made the decision to go out there without back up or any protection. If I remember correctly, it was Jas’ decision to head back to London too, effectively ending the freedom you had out here,” she adds gravely, “Everyone has to make decisions, Nush. Ours just tend to have more life or death outcomes and remember, the choice you made- you saved five people.

“As for marrying him, you didn’t want to and I don’t know quite how to clearly say this but you don’t have to marry someone because they ask you. Or because you think it’s the right thing to do. You saying no to him, had zero implications in how his life ended,” Élodie smooths a tendril of hair that has escaped your plait behind your ear, “Your relationship didn’t have a true balance because you spent so long trying to hide it- everything feels so much more amplified if you are constantly watching your coattails.”

Rubbing the exhaustion from the onslaught of emotions from your eyes, you turn to face Élodie, “What if that’s it? What if that was my chance of happiness?”

“Okay so you’re now fully in the ridiculous territory, idiot! So bloody naive,” Élodie rolls her eyes and slaps your knee, “ There’s no one person out there- nobody is perfect for you. There are just people who enter your life at different times and there is a certain compatibility…”

“Like you might want to jump their bones,” you giggle through the snot.

“Yep, that definitely helps! But after a while, other stuff comes up and again, you have to make those decisions whether you want to move to the next one or work at the relationship you have,” Élodie says frankly, “ Your first proper grown up relationship wasn’t ever truly allowed to develop into something normal and healthy but please don’t ever think for a second that is all you deserve or will ever get.”

“More happened than just Jasper’s death,” you confide in your ally.

“I know sweetheart. You tell me when you are ready,” Élodie pats your leg, “You will always have Jacques and I here for you. And I reckon Pierre would take you back in a heartbeat if you ever need to escape Marcus, not that I think you will.” You feel a little confused by Élodie’s last statement but don’t have time to swell upon it as the door to the auction house swings open.

Noticing two figures- one wiry and talking rapidly with his hands, the other broad and showing great interest in what the other has to say- walking towards you, you offer Élodie a hand up from your pavement seat. You feel a gentle hand brushing over your bottom and crane your neck to see who it belongs to, “Well, I’d hate for you to make my car any dirtier,” Élodie winks at you.

✪✪✪✪✪

The trip back to Lyon didn’t allow for any more rest for tired eyes against cool car windows. Excited chatter filled the car as between the four of you, you were all busily beavering away from making shouted calls to the science laboratories in Interpol- calling in favours to get your samples tested first- to fingers tapping on screens, flinging emails back to offices trying to inform everyone who needed to know. Although the journey was far longer, it felt as though five minutes had passed from the moment you’d left the auction house- the exhaustion from your disclosure to Élodie giving way to the adrenaline pumping through your veins with the excitement of having found a piece of the puzzle.

Jacques quickly parks in the Interpol car park, where you all pile out of the car, heading back towards the offices. As you walk together, you hear Marcus answer the phone to Andy back in London, filling him in on the events of the day- thankfully leaving out the parts where he’d talked you through a panic attack or accidentally held hands with him.

You didn’t need anyone else in the London offices thinking you were unprofessional. There were enough of those already.

Marcus. So much of the fear has ebbed away about the new role, and in such little time, thanks to your new boss. This straight-speaking American, who makes you speak up and want to stand up a bit taller. For the first time in what felt like forever, work doesn’t feel like a chore to pay the bills for a small, damp flat in South London. It isn’t so much the work as you know that like the back of your hand- it was that feeling of appreciation.

That feeling that someone sees what you can offer and values your contributions- not just as some rookie in an established office but as an equal. You know you are lucky- you get to use all the knowledge from your art history degree (oh how your family had groaned in consternation- doctor or lawyer- those were the proper options. Y’know, a proper career path not something seen as being so wishy-washy) and use it to protect the beauty of art from the shadier underbelly. Not that you could ever explain that part to your mum or her sisters, who just thought you were in some IT job with ridiculous hours.

In fact, it was the first time. You’d worked your way up from being a rookie with Stephens and although you'd got to work in a field with which you had a borderline obsession, you were still always seen as the new kid, even though others came and went after you’d joined and that got a bit wearing, especially when you’d hit your thirties and as you edged ever closer to your forties, it had bordered on the ridiculous.

But Marcus. He didn’t just listen to what you had to say, he positively encouraged you to speak- never expecting you to hold your tongue or wait for the “grown ups” to stop talking.

“Hey, Earth to Anushka,” those ridiculously warm eyes try to call your attention into focus.

“Sorry, heard you on the phone to Andy and took the opportunity to disappear with my thoughts for a bit. It’s been a bit of a day, hasn’t it?” you mutter as the knuckles of your hands almost rub holes in your eye sockets.

“Yeah, I thought we’d find zip on our first check as a team but that was something else,” Marcus nods, pouting his lips in thought, “I honestly thought it was an authentic piece when I found those signatures- just shows how careful we have to be with these crooks.

“You look about ready to collapse- that sleep on the way over, not help? I was about to ask if you fancied grabbing some dinner together but you’re dead on your feet.”

“Didn’t really get much sleep last night. Was kind of dreading what today would bring but,” your hand extends to squeeze Marcus’ forearm, “But you’ve made today far less painful than it could have been.” You feel a warmth creep through you, blooming from the spot where Marcus has placed his hand on top of yours, his thumb unconsciously tracing small circles upon your skin.

“How about a slow walk back to the hotel, we grab some pizza on the way back and sit and watch Sharknado 4 this evening?” you suggest, still not removing your hand from his arm, ”I need to eat something other than breakfast pastries today.”

“Hmmm, I would say that dinner is the best time for breakfast food but yeah, probably best that we find something a bit more substantial,” Marcus relents reluctantly like a petulant child as Élodie and Jacques turn towards you both.

“Oh, why the sad eyes, Marcus? Has she been mean to you? ” Élodie teases, “We have contacts- we can make her disappear…”

Jacques shoots you a despairing look from under his arched eyebrow. The aching sadness returns in your tummy- you’ve missed them so much and missed out on so many special moments with them, “Oof, hey Nush! This isn’t goodbye- no matter the threats Élodie makes upon your life!”

Élodie leans in to sandwich you between the pair of them, “No, Marcus has given me your phone number and your email address- and he has promised me that even if you don’t respond to my communications, that he will send regular updates.” You look over at Marcus, who sends you a sheepish grin and a slight shrug of his shoulders, flashing that goddamn dimple in his right cheek.

“Élodie, are you going upstairs to get everything ready?” Jacques questions his wife, “ There’s only twenty minutes before I need to pick up Xavier from my parents so I’d probably better head off. Can you grab a taxi home afterwards? Nush, I love you and I will see you soon.

“Marcus, it has been a pleasure. I will ensure that all the details are shared with you in London. Let’s keep the lines of communication open between us, oui?” A firm handshake was not the only thing to pass between the men, as Jacques pats Marcus on the back and they wordlessly share a thought, Marcus’ eyes flickering back to you with a small smile.

“Come on, let’s find food and a film before we collapse,” Marcus beckons you towards him with a wave back to Élodie and Jacques before they head off in their respective directions, Élodie’s hand stroking yours as she walks away.

✪✪✪✪✪

Half an hour later, you find yourself standing barefoot outside Marcus’ hotel room door, oddly nervous about knocking. Your hair hangs in waves around your shoulders, still holding some of the twisted kinks that the plaits you wore it in had formed over the course of the day, face scrubbed but you are second guessing your choice of wearing pjs to your new boss’ room. Not that they were in any way indecent- just a good old pair of cotton jammies from M&S and you’d kept your bra on underneath, because not even the worst war criminal deserves to be tortured by the sight of you with your bra off. Just as you were about to head back for a hoodie to perhaps offer an ounce more decency, the door swung open and a slightly surprised look adorns Marcus’ face.

“Hey, I was just about to check where you were. Pizza’s getting cold and you should probably have something warm in your belly that isn’t coffee today!”

“Oh, I was just going to swing back to my room for a hoodie,” you awkwardly mutter in the direction of the deliciously soft looking man, wearing grey joggers and a white t-shirt in front of you.

A small pout crosses Marcus’ lips, “Come on, if you’re chilly, the pizza’ll warm you up but if you’re still cold after eating, you can grab one of mine- that is if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” he checks by lowering his eyes and gently lifting your chin.

Deciding not to keep the pizza waiting, you nod and shuffle past Marcus, the plush carpet deliciously soft underfoot, “I haven’t forgotten that we were halfway through a conversation this morning when El and Jacques arrived to pick us up. You want to tell me why you don’t feel like you are where you feel you should be?” you don’t look at Marcus as you ask him, picking the olives off the top of your pizza.

“I thought you said you like olives?” Marcus questions confusedly as he grabs a slice himself.

“Oh I do, but I’ll eat them afterwards as I like to savour them by themselves,” you giggle at your weird pizza eating habits, “Was that a wish to evade the question? Would you prefer to put on a film?”

“Hah, no! You’re full of quirks, y’know? It’s cute,” he mumbles through a mouthful of food.

“Cute?” you raise an eyebrow at this affectionate comment, “Eh, I dunno. I don’t think you can get to almost forty without embracing your quirks at some point.”

“I just hoped that by this point I’d be married with 2.4 kids, a dog and a nice house. Y’know, settled- never taking it for granted, obviously but comfortable with a family,” there’s a flicker of pain that passes through Marcus’ eyes as he speaks and it cuts through you like a knife.

“How on Earth are you not in a long term relationship with a lucky person? From what you’ve shown me over the past two days, you’re kind, considerate and thoughtful- although you should never tease a woman about her supposed snoring,” you pull an ugly face at him, sticking your tongue out and wrinkling your nose to diffuse the tension in his forehead, forcing him to laugh.

“Oh, I was married once and had long term relationships but neither worked out, sadly,” Marcus shrugs, focussing intently on his next pizza slice, “Can’t the same thing be said about you? You’re a beautiful, funny and intelligent woman and although you are a menace to yourself and those around you with a coffee cup in your hands, I don’t get why you haven’t been snapped up.”

Grabbing the pizza box and Marcus’ hand- pulling them both towards your room, you say, “Come with me.”

Thrusting the pizza box towards his hands, you put the keycard in the door and the light flickers to green. Guiding Marcus by the food container through the room to the balcony, you swing the French doors open to be greeted by a stiff Alpine air and the twinkling lights of Lyon spreading towards you.

“As you know from today, I was here in Lyon before. My partner and I were seconded here to work alongside Interpol on an art smuggling case- that’s how I knew El, Jacques, Pierre and everyone else from this morning’s meeting. We weren’t just work partners, we’d been hiding a romantic relationship for just over a decade in London as we knew that our supervisors wouldn’t allow us to continue to work together,” you clear your throat and see a flash of concern from Marcus seeing how much your hands were trembling.

He reaches for your hand with the lightest of touches grazing your ring and little fingers but not letting go.

Drawing a deep breath, you continue, “You see the beautiful cathedral up there- Fourviere?” you catch Marcus giving a gentle nod as he looks in the direction of your hand, the one he’s not holding, “Jasper asked me to marry him up there. And I, um… I said no.” Your eyes guiltily shift to the left after owning up to your shoddy track record.

“I mean, I did love him but I couldn’t offer him what he wanted or needed from life or from me. We’d hidden too long in the shadows and the thought of trying to explain everything to our families, to our friends, to our workplace was just too overwhelming. I had a lot more to lose than him.

“As you said earlier, our work is very much an old boys network and as a mixed race woman against a white man- who’d got his position due to a bit of nepotism as his uncle was our London boss- I stood to lose so much more. I have always had to work harder and to be a more impressive candidate to be taken as seriously as any white man in the room.”

“Had we returned to London as a married couple, there would have been so many unspoken questions about when we would think about having babies so there’d never be a chance of going any higher for me. And although seeing El and Jacques today- they have it so balanced. El was telling me that they split her maternity leave equally and that even now their baby is one, they have flexi working times so although they have such a little one and such intense jobs, they can still be there for bedtimes and neither of them be sidelined. But I know that’s not how it would have worked with us. Jas would have worked full time and I would have been a simmering pot of resentment.”

You notice that despite your confession that Marcus still hasn’t stopped holding your hand and regardless of the evening chill, warmth spreads through you at the thought that you haven’t entirely repulsed him with your actions.

“Where is he now? DId he ask for a transfer when you headed back?” Marcus gently questions.

“He took the ultimate transfer. We were working together undercover and he was shot multiple times trying to save some people from being murdered,” with a small shrug, you take your hand back from Marcus despite the comfort it is bringing you and cover your face. As you do so, he pulls you towards him, holding you tightly into his chest, resting his chin on top of your head.

With a gentle push back from his broad chest but without leaving his arms completely, you tilt your face up at him, “In fact, other than Jas’ death the bitterest pill was me being transferred out of the department. As you can probably imagine, a lot of shit went down after that night and a lot of the blame from it was laid at my door. Whilst it was all happening, I wasn’t allowed to have any contact with work colleagues and of course, your family can only know so much of what’s going on when you follow our line of work.

“So, I spent eight months in a stupid kind of limbo- being paid full whack whilst sitting at home, mourning a man who I’d been with for a quarter of my life but didn’t want to marry.” Shaking your head slowly, you continue, “That’s why I was a bit of a mess today- I kind of dreaded seeing everyone and how they might blame me for everything that happened with Jas.”

“Shit, I’m sorry sweetheart,” with that affectionate nickname confidently trickling from Marcus’ lips, you look up and smile broadly at him, “I am sorry that you went through all that. I have to be honest, as I am a terrible liar- there is a part of me that is glad that our paths have overlapped- I just wish it could be under happier circumstances.”

“No,” you pat him upon his chest, “You don’t get to our age without some kind of baggage and in our occupation, it’s hard for most people to understand our commitment to our job.”

“Hah, you can say that again- that’s what ended my marriage. That and her new partner,” you scrunch your face in consideration of Marcus’ pain, your thumbs rubbing back and forth, “And the failed engagement is what brought me to London- kept seeing her and the man she left me for around the DC offices.”

“Let’s go toast to those ghosts and our converging paths with what will be now a very warm bottle of white wine and cold pizza,” with eyes widening in amusement you smile at him, your hands still on his chest and his hands on your back, “But indoors as it is fucking freezing out here, no matter how pretty it is.”

“Agreed,” Marcus chuckles deeply, moving his hands to rub some warmth back into your arms.

“Just going to grab a hoodie,” you call over your shoulder as you go back into your bedroom. As you rummage through your bag, you miss the flicker of disappointment on Marcus’s face that he wouldn’t get to smell your perfume on his clothes.

✪✪✪✪✪

“Hey,” that beautifully soft baritone meltingly drifted up from the sofa in Marcus’ room, “Comfy now? I hope you don’t mind but I chose Casablanca instead of Sharknado 4.”

As you cross the floor in socked feet to try and thaw them out from your balcony adventure, you shake your head with a lopsided smile, “Not ok,” but to put Marcus’ raised eyebrow at ease, you add, “It’s my favourite - but you’d better have tissues at the ready as it will make me a snotty mess.”

“Already prepared,” he holds a tissue box aloft, “It does the same to me too.”

Instead of sitting at the other end of the sofa, you grab a glass of wine from the table and slide into Marcus’ side- half sitting up, half leaning against him. He reaches over, pulling your head onto his shoulder, stroking your hair away from your face and there you stay, comfortably curled into his side. Not for the hour and three quarters of the film, but until rays of spring sunshine filter through the blinds the following morning.

Tag list of glory: If you’d like to be added or dropped from the tag list or have any thoughts, thots or suggestions, please do get in touch! I don’t bite hard 🥰

@astroboots @silverwolf319 @lunaserenade @danniburgh @leonieb @mrsparknuts @sirowsky @yespolkadotkitty @agirllovespancakes @tardisfangurl @zukoyonce @absurdthirst @green-socks @pedropascalito @disgruntledspacedad @mouthymandalorian @the-ginger-hedge-witch @lv7867 @songsformonkeys

#josé pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal#ppascaledit #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfic #marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x oc reader

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starculler · 3 years

Text

Whumptober 2021: Day 6

Word Count: 2271 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Emotional Hurt

No violence. Only ✨emotions✨

Obi-Wan woke in a room not his own with the smell of blaster-fire and charred flesh in his nose, tasting it on his tongue so clearly that it nearly made him sick. He exhaled one long, slow breath that did nothing to purge the lingering traces of his nightmares, and opened his eyes to thick, black darkness. His brows furrowed, frowning as he struggled to clear the sleep-haze from his mind, a task that had grown considerably harder over the years. He spared a brief, token effort on remembering what he might have done, or where he’d gone, the day before to find himself in a stranger’s home, but only shrugged it off when nothing came to mind.

Perhaps, he mused with only a touch of sardonic humor, the suns’ heat had finally gotten to him and he’d broken into some poor farmer’s home. Whose, he hadn’t the faintest idea considering he only really visited one and this was, most certainly, not the Lars’ farmstead. He would know, he’d been inside once after all — a week spent in a guest room as he’d delivered little Luke to his aunt and uncle. Any subsequent visits had been … difficult.

Luke looked so much like his father sometimes.

He sighed, shoving the thought forcefully away, and focused once more on the room, straining see a little better. The walls, he noticed first, were bare except for a few occupied shelves whose contents he couldn’t even begin to guess at. A single window peered out into the world, tinted black by a light-blocking feature he remembered using … Before. The floor was much the same: spartan, with only a low table in one corner with a cushion to sit on and the bland bed roll he’d woken on. A bitter tang of nostalgia crawled up his throat, lodging there like a bottle’s stopper, and he struggled to swallow around it.

Shoving that away too, he clambered inelegantly to his feet — noticed he still wore the rattier robe and tunics he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eschew along with everything else — and made his way to the room’s singular exit. The door opened with barely a brush of his palm over the panel next to it. He made to move out into the home proper with a steadying hand laid on the frame’s cool metal. And froze.

“Anakin?”

His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost too soft to carry across the larger living space to the spitting image of the little boy he’d raised, failed, and left behind, burning on a bank of churning magma on Mustafar. He couldn’t breathe, lungs seizing and stuttering as they refused to work. He gripped the door’s frame harder, knuckles white and fingers little more than pricks of insignificant pain where they dug into the sharper edges. Anakin’s screaming roared in his ears, violent hatred and pain alike with faint echoes of the single plea he’d let slip from his lips somewhere in between before Obi-Wan had turned his back and waled away.

Anakin — oh Force it was Anakin — twisted around on his cushion, one hand braced on the long, low table in front oh him while the other lay flat on the floor, when he heard his name called. Obi-Wan’s gaze caught on his Padawan-braid, so short still that it barely brushed the boy’s — a boy. He was just a boy now, younger than twelve and a picture-perfect replica of the child who lived only in Obi-Wan’s memories and Luke’s shadow — shoulder.

“Master!” Anakin flashed him a bright grin, his blue eyes practically glittering with the strength of his joy. “You’re awake! Finally,” he said, excitement turning to a familiar teasing tone that tore Obi-Wan’s heart to shreds. “I almost thought you’d sleep for forever, and then who’d help with my lessons?”

The boy’s nose scrunched, his distaste for his lessons made clear in the way the word dropped from his mouth like a particularly foul piece of rotted food. Obi-Wan swayed where he stood, mouth suddenly drier than Tatooine’s desert as he stared. Then, faintly and feeling all too much like the very words he spoke had stolen free from him without permission, he said:

“Master Windu would, he’s told me so many times himself. He does so enjoy your company.”

It was a joke, one of several he’d indulged in often after having noticed Anakin’s distrust of the Council. A reassurance as much as something to make the boy laugh. Mace Windu had never told him he’d help with any of Anakin’s lessons, but Obi-Wan had never once seen the Master turn a youngling down when they asked him for help. Oh, he thought with a painful pang in his chest, Mace had loved the younglings, from the tiniest initiates in the Crèches all the way to the padawans, no matter what his severe countenance might have portrayed. He’d tried so hard to show that to Anakin, to teach him that Jedi — even and especially the Council — were, at their core, kind and compassionate. Had his Padawan ever truly known that, or was it another failure to be laid at Obi-Wan’s feet?

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, and I’m a heard of Bantha,” he said with a snicker. Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched despite how he wanted to be sick.

“You certainly smell like one,” Obi-Wan replied by rote, more of a murmur than the steady sarcasm he’d once thrown at his Padawan. Anakin squawked regardless, all faux-offense as he puffed himself up for a comeback, but deflated suddenly to squint at him instead.

“Are you feeling alright? You look…” Anakin floudered for a moment and settled on a bland, hesitant, “not good.”

“I,” Obi-Wan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “No,” He admitted, slow. Reluctant. “No, Padawan, I don’t think I am.”

The trembling in his hands hadn’t stopped and his chest still hurt and his stomach had managed to twist itself into nauseating knots as he stood there, still in the open doorway to the room, he realized, that had once been his at the Temple. Anakin’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet, anxiety flowing off him in sharp, erratic waves that only further soured the bitter, ashen taste in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“Do you need a healer? Are you hurt? Kriff, uh, should I— I mean— I’ll go grab someone, Master, I’ll be right back, okay? Real quick, I—”

“No!” Obi-Wan winced. He hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t meant to put that hurt, wide-eyed look on his Padawan’s face. He’d just —

Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s familiar, blue lightsaber cut through another Jedi, horror curdling in his stomach. It was all he could do not to be sick, but he forced himself to continue looking at the security feed Master Yoda had found. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t be blind to this any more than he could turn back time and undo it. So he watched, ill, as his former Padawan, his friend, his brother, cut down Jedi after Padawan after Initiate until none at all remained in the place they had both called home.

“No,” he croaked, softer, blinking back the stinging heat in his eyes. He lifted the hand not helping keep him upright, clammy and shaking much more obviously than before, and made as if to reach out but stopped short. “No,” he said again, so low he barely heard himself, pulling his hand back to clutch at the fabric over his chest and wondered if he’d suffocate on his feet.

“Master?”

Anakin sounded so scared even as he took a tentative step forward, his hands fisted into the hem of his tunic. Obi-Wan wanted to rush to his side, to comfort him as he’d once done so many years ago. He wanted to run, to flee from the face of this apparition — the ghost of a boy who’d chosen to become a monster because he’d failed as a Master. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep: for this boy, for himself, for the scores of Jedi massacred to mark the end of an unjust war. For the galaxy being crushed under a Sith’s oppressive thumb. For the children of his former student, who would be called upon one day. Who would lose friends and family alike as they worked to dismantle the bloody legacy left to them.

He almost didn’t notice when his legs gave out, choking on his own ragged, wet breaths as Anakin cried out, alarmed, and ran to his side. Obi-Wan flinched away from those small, calloused hands when they reached for him, curling into himself as he struggled to breathe, but his Padawan was nothing if not determined.

He gasped when Anakin’s fingers brushed his arm, searing his skin through three layers of worn fabric. Whined when they traveled up to his shoulder, and hissed, a pained and wounded sound torn from him when Anakin pressed the palm of his hand to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. Slowly, with a care he’d rarely seen in his Padawan, Anakin maneuvered himself in front of him, hunched and twisting as the hand on Obi-Wan’s neck pulled until he’d knocked their foreheads together.

How long had it been since he’d sat so near another sentient being he trusted? Since he’d been touched so familiarly? Kindly? Luke, perhaps. Little more than a toddler, freely affectionate with the man who’d carried him across the stars and sands to the home he’d remain in.

Obi-Wan didn’t settle. Didn’t calm. His breathing hitched and every inch of him shook so hard he thought his bones might rattle right out of his skin. The stinging bite of fresh tears lingered in his eyes and every limb was weighed down with the same deep exhaustion that had dogged him since he’d left Luke with the Lars’ and lost the only source of immediate responsibility he might have distracted himself with. He did, however, reach forward. Brushed his fingers over the front of Anakin’s tunic and felt the rough material, caustic and abrasive against the suddenly sensitive digits.

“Are you—” Obi-Wan swallowed painfully, his own saliva turning to grains of coarse sand. “Is this real?” he asked, whisper soft and broken. “Are you real, Anakin?” His padawan pressed harder against him in response, puffing out an incredulous breath.

Obi-Wan wondered if he’d melt from the heat of his brother-friend-Padawan’s touch, as skin-crawling as it was a burning, aching comfort for all it seemed to set him further on edge.

“I’m real,” Anakin said, voice strangled. Obi-Wan could taste his fear. Felt it soak into his skin and curl around his heart. “I’m real, Master, I promise. I’m here. I’m real.”

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice cracked on the name as a sudden desperation washed over him, urging him to reach out further. To pull and clutch and hold his Padawan as close as he could, breathing raggedly against his short, brown hair as Anakin hid his own face against his neck, letting a few tears soak into the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic. He rocked them both, letting Anakin hold on to him as to him as fiercely as he did his Padawan.

An eternity might have passed there between them as Anakin cried and Obi-Wan babbled — apologies and reassurance and a half dozen other words he’d meant to tell his Padawan over the years tumbling clumsily from his tongue — until the intensity eased, leaving them tired and tangled up together against the room’s cool wall. Obi-Wan let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment. Let himself soak in his brother’s presence, young and bright and much too old to be held like this, half asleep and slumped over him. But he didn’t let go.

He brushed his fingers over Anakin’s hair, short and bristly except for the bundle tied back into a short nerftail, and breathed in the citrus scent of the hair products his Padawan had favored those first few years in the Temple. Leaning his head back against the wall, he let himself drift into his thoughts. Into the Force. Out past the confines of the room, through the halls, and across the Temple, jaw clenching as he felt the bright, living presence of hundreds of Jedi. Thousands. So many his head spun.

His breathing hitched, and he wrapped his arms a fraction tighter around his Padawan. Strained to squeeze his eyes closed harder until he saw blurry, red shapes dance across the darkness behind his lids.

It felt so real.

This. His Padawan. The sights, smells, sounds, even the taste of the Temple’s chill air. Anakin had said he was real. Obi-Wan had squeezed him, had him currently in his arms safe and close and whole. He shuddered, exhaling a wavering, wet breath.

Perhaps, he let himself hope as he drew back to himself, it had been a vision. A warning from the Force — a life lived in the span of a few hours’ sleep. He let the thought comfort him, burying his nose in his Padawan’s hair as sleep slowly claimed him.

Obi-Wan woke in a room he recognized, the sweet, tangy scent of citrus thick in his nose, so vivid he could practically taste it. He exhaled one long, slow breath, letting himself savor it for a moment longer, and opened his eyes to bright light, sandy-colored walls, and the sweltering, suffocating heat of Tatooine’s long, dry days. His fingers curled into the rough, thin, ragged bedroll he’d all but tossed himself into the night before. Alone. Utterly and completely alone.

For the first time since his family were slaughtered at the hands of his student,

Obi-Wan wept.

#whumptober2021 #no.6 #touch starved #star wars #obi wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #fic #emotional distress #my fanfic

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farouchelyoptimistic · 4 years

Text

HyunJi: Rekindle

Part 2

It was too good to be true. To beautiful and free. It was too easy. It felt too perfect. But in a world as cruel as the one we live in, nothing comes too easy. Everything great has a price, everyone has a hurdle to face. It was bound to head to a turning point, they both knew that. They never brought it up to each other, but they were fully aware of it. They thought, that maybe if they just try to ignore the flashing red warning signs, everything would remain to be okay.

It's natural to turn a blind eye to things that threaten our happiness, it's human nature. When we get a taste of something that makes us immeasurably happy, we long to protect it, to guard it so it's not taken away from us. We end up being liars, fooling ourselves that everything will be fine when it clearly won't.

Yea Ji eyes the hand that reached out to rest over hers. She stares at it for a second, releasing a bitter smile before she looks up at the owner of the warmth that spread from it.

Soo Hyun lets out a short breath, inching closer beside her on the couch. They were at a private area in a cafe, away from the rest of the prying eyes, sharing a couch and a table filled with sweets and coffee.

It had always been like that. Lunches and dinners in secret, private lounges, and private rooms. They spent precious time together away from the public eye, enjoying the privacy and the freedom they seldom attain. They weren't considered dates, they never acknowledged their meetups as dates. They also never acknowledged what they exactly were.

They weren't lovers, and the deep attraction they had for each other definitely made them more than just friends. All they know is that they enjoy each other's company and that whenever they were with each other they feel this certain type of happiness that they can't explain. They weren't in a relationship, but a part of them---buried deep in an unspoken pile---wanted to be. But they knew it was a luxury they couldn't have.

The first time they saw each other in that pudding commercial, the attraction to each other was undeniable. Shy glances and nervous laughter we're shared all throughout the shoot. They were walking on eggshells around each other, sharing curious looks from the corner of their eyes, smiling to themselves like giddy school kids.

It was new to both of them. Feeling an attraction as strong as the winds of a sunny spring day. It was so strong that every glance felt like a stare, every brush of a finger felt like a warm caress. It was so strong that when he finally gathered all his confidence to ask her to have coffee together, she said yes without even the tiniest bit of hesitation.

They could barely look at each other in the eye, but as the smell of freshly brewed coffee in that small studio cafeteria calmed their nerves and the afternoon transgresses to night, their conversation flowed in a synced momentum. Then it advanced to more coffees in hidden cafes, then it became lunches and dinners to mundane conversations that would last a few hours until the wee hours of dawn when her voice was as deep as the sun buried under the darkness.

But just like pretty things that seem too good to be true, the universe sends you a reality check to bite you in the ass. Telling you that you've been too complacent. That all pretty things must always come from something painful and horrible. Like diamonds morphed under the extreme pressure and painful heat of the ground.

They've been running around the bush for so long, and now it's burning, and it's starting to hurt.

"Mianhae." He gently rubs smalls circles on the back of her palm. He did it gradually, steadily. He was aware of the weariness she felt about intimacy and the sudden touches, and he respected that greatly. He always made sure he was careful around her, not to spook of her of his sudden hand-holding and other forms of relief for his longing of more of her.

"Hmm." She only replies with a hum. She didn't need to ask why he was saying sorry. She knew. It had been a month since she last saw him, filming ads, shows, and whatnot. The longest he's ever had without contacting her. It used to be three days, then sometimes a week. The longest would have been two weeks. Now it was a month.

Time was also a luxury they didn't have. He was a top celebrity, his career rising to the stars. And she was a rookie, a newbie even. She still had to fight tooth and nail to make a name for herself. He would be gone for long, he would disappear, and then at the most unexpected moment, he reappears. That's why she knew they wouldn't work. And he knew it too. And he felt guilty about it every single time.

He couldn't give her one hundred percent of his time. Even if he wanted to, he also didn't know if he had the right. They were just two people who enjoyed spending time with each other, unlabeled. In denial of all the feelings, they refuse to acknowledge because they both knew that they couldn't.

It was a dangerous risk to take. A deadly ocean to jump into. The media will eat them alive, it will feed on every bit of their souls. And she knew, she knew for sure that it will destroy them. And she wasn't sure if what they had was something worth breaking for.

They continue to go in this rollercoaster of internal lies. That it was okay if they go to another dinner together. It was okay to hold her hand because he wanted to. It was okay to stare at his eyes because she thought they were beautiful. It was okay to call her in the middle of the night because he wanted to hear her voice. It was okay to keep pretending that they would work. It was okay, when in fact it wasn't.

She knew there was more to his apology. It was time to stop pretending. It was time to put an end to the charade they have been playing, it was time to put an end to the game that only had losers---no winners. Before it destroys them more than it already is, they have to come to a decision whether to dive into the ocean infested with sharks or stay housed in a boat.

With an unspoken conversation, a decision was made. For the sake of skyrocketing careers, privacy, peace of mind, and unbroken hearts, they had to make the safest decision. To stay housed on a boat. On different boats, destined to sail towards different directions, away from each other. It was safe to stay in one boat, together, but it was safest apart. They couldn't be together because they could never give each other what they deserved.

"I wish I could give you all my time. All my attention. My all. I can't continue disappearing on you, that would be unfair. Seeing you maybe once or twice a month would be enough, for me. But it won't be enough for us." His voice falters, looking at her hand inside his. He lets out a sigh, stroking her hand with utmost gentleness.

"I wish I could give you my all too. Without being terrified of the inevitable. Without the weariness that grows on me in your absence, without the uncertainty." She sighs, looking at her hand in his.

They couldn't bring themselves to look at each other, because if they do, they might just back out and succumb to the cowardice of the feelings that have been demanding to be felt.

"It's time to wake up." She whispers, silent, but loud enough for him to hear. He could only nod his head. What they shared was too perfect, it was a dream. Too perfect for the reality of the world. They've been dreaming together for too long and now they had to wake up.

"Kinchana." He says in a soft voice, gently putting his arm around her shoulder, gently pulling her towards him. She allows his warmth to radiate towards her. She allows him for the last time. She lets out a breath and rests her head against him.

He looks down at her, he lashes long as it brushed her soft skin. He tried to memorize every part of her before he can't see her anymore. He had a feeling this was going to be the last time, and it ached. His eyes land on her lips. He didn't even get to kiss her. He wanted to ask if he could, but he knew he shouldn't. He wanted to tell her they should remain friends, but he doesn't want to. Because he could never live with being just her friend.

He decided not to do anything. Not to say anything. When she slides out of his hold and walks away without looking back, they had both finally woken up from the dream they desperately wanted to stay in.

What happened between them was like fireworks. It sent a rush of sparks all over; it brought colorful luminous light in the dark sky. It provided serenity in the loudness of its existence. Beautiful and electrifying, perfect even. Free. Yet, it was short-lived.

A beautiful dream you have to wake up to.

° ° °

"Annyeong." Soo Hyun politely nods his head, smiling as he greets a familiar face from his new company. He immediately eyes the two cups of iced coffee in the tray he was holding, and he immediately knew who it was for. He grinned, snatching both cups before he enters the room.

Everyone inside greets him, making him smile as he returned the greeting with a courteous bow of the head. It was the very first script reading of his new drama, and a few of the cast members were already there. He politely greets everyone, approaching them with a warm shy smile. He would've shaken their hands, but he was holding two cups of coffee.

He scans around the room until his eyes land on the person he's been meaning to see. His smile only grows wider. His feet glides towards where she was sitting, locking his eyes with hers as she stared at him.

"Hi." He muses with a shy silent voice, gently placing the coffee in front of her. She stares at the cup for a few seconds, before looking up at him.

"It's from the company." He quickly retorts, scratching the back of his nape. When she smiles, a relieved breath escapes from him. He chuckles, taking his seat beside her.

"Komawo." She turns to him in confusion, lifting her brows.

"Boya?"

He chuckles to himself, suddenly shy of the burst of confidence he had. He could barely look at her under his cap, but he did.

"For accepting the role. I'm happy to be working with you." She couldn't help but smile, looking away. She clears her throat and nods her head.

"I'm happy to be working with you too." It was a role worth taking a risk for. It was challenging and difficult, but it was something she was determined to take on. She was always one who loved conquering a challenge. It felt so much better to accomplish something remotely hard compared to something basic.

Before anyone of them could say anything more, the room is immediately filled with the rest of the cast members along with the writer and the director. Greetings, laughter and inaudible chitchat resonate as everyone delves into getting to know each other. Old friends meet again and new friendships form.

The reading was remotely fun. It was one of the best scripts they both have ever read. It was comical and theatrical, yet emotionally deep and engaging. It was a masterpiece. They immediately dive into the dynamics of their characters, getting know their emotions, figuring out how to tell their stories.

Soo Hyun was initially engrossed with his character's selflessness and kindness. The ability to mask one's real emotions in order to protect another's was moving. Yea Ji on the other hand immediately felt the challenge coming her way. Her character was like no other, unique and unnatural. The persona was so strong, powerful, yet vulnerable in deeply boxed silence. Other than that, everyone was hysterical at the vulgar abundance of cursing and innuendos. This was definitely going to be a long ride, not only for the mains for everyone else.

"Thank you, everyone!" The director expresses his gratitude at the end of the reading, a round of applause following suit. He personally gives everyone a warm handshake until he reaches the last two main leads who politely smiled and bowed to him.

"You two, wow! You surprised me so much. You look so good together! It's like you were meant to be in this project with each other." He clasps his hands, admiring the two actors who could only showcase shy smiles and grateful nods.

"I look forward to start filming." He shakes their hands before he proceeds to talk with a few others.

After a few conversations and photo ops, the room had slowly emptied until there was barely a few people left. The director and the writer had left, so we're most if the cast and staff. Soo Hyun was still there in his seat, glancing over Yea Ji who had scanned her copy of the script a few times, marking a few lines that she had found striking.

When she unconsciously looks up, she was surprised to find out that the room was almost empty. The only ones left behind were just her, three of the cast members engulfed in a conversation, some staff and Soo Hyun. She had totally got carried away with reading the script, it was just too inviting.

She scrambles to gather her things, neatly shoving them inside her bag as she stands up. Soo Hyun for the same at the sight of her swift movements. He grabs his belongings in a hash, stumbling over a chair as he stands up.

"Yea Ji-ah." He immediately calls to her, surprised at his own impulse. When she turns to him, bag already in tow, he has a loss for words. He takes in a breath and swallows an invisible lump before he manifests all the confidence he has.

"Do y-you want to have dinner?" She stammers, surprised at his offer. She tries to think whether to decline or accept his offer when he chimes in again.

"You know, to talk about the script. Uhm, get comfortable with each other before we start filming. Uhm, to talk? Just like old times?" He bites his lip after the last sentence. Just like old times. Idiot. He should not have said that. His heart suddenly starts to beat faster, his foot tapping on the floor.

"Okay." Her answer surprises him. He almost stumbles in his footing, making her slightly chuckle.

"We're friends, aren't we? Talking and dinner. It's what friends do." She says. They were friends. Finally, after years, they have found themselves a suitable label. Friends.

She was looking straight at him while he struggles to hold her gaze. She chuckles at his uneasiness. He never changed.

Enclosed by the four walls of the private booth, they enjoy their dinner in peace, away from the public eye. It almost felt like it was just like the old times. But unlike the endless flow of conversations a few years back, this time, the only sound that filled their ears was of silence.

Soo Hyun breaks it first by clearing his throat, making her look up at him. He gulps some water, setting the glass down on the table as he releases a breath, looking straight at her.

"This is so awkward." He says nonchalantly. Eyes wide, and lips in a thin line.

There was a pregnant pause between them as they stared at each other. None of them blinked, or moved, statued in their seats as they looked at each other's equally enticing eyes. When he breaks eye contact, blinking at his painfully dried eyes, she bursts into light chuckles.

"You're good." He laughs, wiping his tears with a table napkin. They look at each other again and laugh, filling the empty booth with the melody of the inherent laughter. It had been so long since they shared a laugh just like this, something they used to share so often.

"It is pretty awkward." Yea Ji admits, chuckling as their laughter slowly dies down.

"It was better when you were flicking my forehead." He muses, suddenly remembering one of their first few encounters over dinner which involved him getting flicked in the forehead and curling up in pain. It was one of the most memorable nights in his life because it ended with him resting his head on her lap as she iced the red mark on his forehead.

They share another banter of laughter with the memory. Just like old times.

"I wonder if it still hurts as much." He coyly suggests, immediately regretting it when she suddenly leans over and flicks his forehead. He lets out a pained gasp, clutching his forehead as they laughed in unison. He tries to endure the pain, smiling as he tried sit straight and lean against the table just as he did the last time. His quivering lips morph into a smile as his tears start to pool in his eyes.

"Oppa, kinchana?" Yea Ji giggles, holding in her laughter. When he couldn't hold it in anymore, they both hilariously cackle. She grabs the table napkin and passes it to him to wipe his tears.

"Glad to know it still hurts the same." He laughs, rubbing his forehead. Locking eyes with each other again, they explode in another wave of loud laughter, shaking their heads.

"How are you?" He says in between pained laughter, finally toppling down the invisible wall that had been built between them. She chuckles, leaning against her seat as she starts talking. He smiles. Because just like old times, the conversations flowed so smoothly and naturally that if the restaurant staff didn't inform them about closing, they wouldn't have left.

#its okay to not be okay #psycho but its okay #kim soo hyun #seo yea ji #hyunji #hyunjicouple

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bisexualsforprompto · 4 years

Text

A Ladybug’s Revenge

This will most likely be a one shot.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If Marinette had the words to describe the intense hate she felt when he walked into the room she would.

She might say that everytime he spoke to her, the acid dripping from his vile words made her dig her nails into her skin and grit her teeth.

Maybe she’d say that when he blamed her for something, not being on his moral compass it made her pray for release.

Or she could say that the very way he held himself, the very way he stayed out of conversations made him look timid, but how could a timid coward of a pacifist make her feel like she wanted to throw up and shove him out of a window at the same time?

Everything she felt about Adrien Agreste made her feel so contradictory. She wanted him dead but at the same time she wished she was dead.

She wished she was dead so that she could show him that lies did hurt, that lies could kill.

She wished he was dead because everytime he stared at her and smiled she felt boiling hot rage course through her veins. Every single muscle tensed. Yet he didn’t care what he did to her, he only cared about his own selfish ideas.

Adrien might’ve preached taking the high road but he was a hypocrite, as low as they could get. He said he didn’t want Lila to be akumatized.

Marinette thought it admirable at first.

Then she found out.

As guardian Marinette had to know who Chat Noir was, so she asked Tikki for his identity. She couldn’t say she was surprised, but everything had truly clicked the moment she saw the blonde the next day.

He didn’t want Lila akumatized, he didn’t want her lies exposed, because he didn’t want to deal with the backlash.

Lila was a formidable foe, so by handing her every battle and all her enemies heads on a silver platter Adrien was able to keep himself from having to work too hard.

Because god forbid the model had to work for once in his life.

Marinette had seriously considered ending it all. One could say out of sheer spite. She wanted to see the look on his face when he found out she took her own life because of him. A beautiful revenge and it would ruin his life.

No more Ladybug to love, no more Marinette to be his friend, and a gigantic mess for him to solve...because Marinette would tell the class every single thing before she died.

She had written the letter outlining all the lies and giving all the evidence, she written every little thing her classmates did to her, she made sure Adrien had the longest section.

Harassing her when Marinette was Ladybug and standing idly by at her suffering when she was Marinette.

The letter had ended being almost five pages.

But Marinette burned it. She wasn’t taking her life.

For one, she wasn’t the problem and two, if she were dead she would never see the look on Adrien’s face or anyone’s for that matter when the truth came out.

She still had many who stood beside her.

She had her parents, she had Kagami, Alya and Luka, and she had the kwamis.

She had a duty to protect the people she loved, the city she loved, even if there were those in it who she didn’t.

But most of all she had a plan.

The night she decided to put her plan into action she told her parents everything. Ladybug, the Lila situation, everything that Adrien, Chat Noir, had done.

Tom was furious and Sabine was even more so. Marinette had called Kagami, Luka and Alya to her house. The six of them, plus the kwamis when Marinette introduced the miracle box were ready to work.

Marinette knew since Adrien was Chat Noir he couldn’t be Hawkmoth, but after consulting the kwamis Gabriel Agreste was back on the table.

Her parents, Luka, Kagami, Alya and she mapped out every akuma occurrence, besides the Collector incident he was nowhere to be found every single time. They scoured every single footage from attacks, no Gabriel.

Until they found traffic camera footage, apparently Kagami had picked up hacking as a hobby when she wasn’t busy with fencing. It was foolish for Gabriel Agreste to mutter to himself after the Animistro was defeated, they heard every word. And that was all the confirmation Marinette needed.

Kagami had wielded the mouse miraculous, Luka the snake, and Sabine the turtle. Kagami had hacked into the Agreste’s security feed so Tom was there lookout. Alya waited on a rooftop nearby the Agreste mansion waiting for her task, the most important one.

In the dead of night the four miraculous wielders snuck into the Agreste manor.

They found Gabriel Agreste sleeping, hunched over in his office. Luka activated his second chance and Kagami used her multitude.

The small Kagami mice had run over to Gabriel on his desk and took his brooch off him without alerting the man.

At the same time Marinette and Sabine had gone upstairs to Adrien’s room.

Ladybug pulled off his ring in his slumber and right after it was fully in her grasp Adrien woke up.

Sabrine used her shelter around the boy, creating a force field he couldn’t get out of.

“Adrien Agreste, I hereby relinquish you of the black cat miraculous, and deem you unfit to ever wield any miraculous again.” Marinette spoke steadily as Adrien banged against the protection around him.

Marinette grabbed her mother and swung her yo-yo out of Adrien’s window. She dropped in front of the manor in a Spider-Man like fashion. Kagami and Luka ran outside to her.

“It took a few second chances but-“

Kagami shoved Hawkmoth’s miraculous to Marinette.

“Good. Now one last thing…” Marinette leaped onto a nearby building, the others following her soon after. They began working on the most important part of the plan…

Adrien Agreste couldn’t believe his eyes. In huge bold print on the Ladyblog read “Ladybug reveals identity after Hawkmoth’s defeat, watch the whole video to help Ladybug get justice.”

Adrien shakily pressed play, his lady had taken away his miraculous but maybe he could still make her his, the first step would be finding her identity.

“Hello Paris,” Ladybug begun with a stone cold look gracing her face, “You know me best as Ladybug, but underneath the mask I am not as strong.” The bluenette sucked in a breath, “I have been harassed by my ex partner Chat Noir and his civilian identity as well. In addition I have been a victim of relentless bullying at my school, this involves a liar, Adrien Agreste, yes the model, and the rest of my class. I am not telling you this so that you take matters into your own hands,” Ladybug said as she stared at the camera dead on. “I am telling you this because I need my class to know lies do hurt, you all know and trust me as Ladybug, but my civilian identity is considered to be a bully. I’m here to disprove that.” Ladybug sighed before whispering, “Spots off.” A blinding pink light surrounded her.

Adrien’s bugaboo was there no longer, Marinette Dupain-Cheng was staring in front of him. “I, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, was Ladybug. Revealing my identity was the only way to get everything to end. Some of you will be happy to know,” Marinette growled, “That you made me want to kill myself.” Adrien winced. “I wanted to die because of the people in Paris. But that doesn’t matter anymore.” Marinette gave a shy smile, “I am here to tell you that because Hawkmoth is defeated I will no longer be Paris’s saviour.”

Adrien gasped. Marinette was abandoning Paris? Didn’t she remember what he said about the high road?

“I have experienced physical torment and emotional abuse from school. The old Chat Noir was sexually harassing me on the job and to top it all off one man knew all about this and did absolutely nothing. The man who used to be Chat Noir, Adrien Agreste.

“Adrien, if you’re watching this I need you to know: I am not your Lady. I am not anybody’s. I also want you to know that if you try to find me you will not succeed. I am leaving France and nobody will ever see me again. I won’t tell you where I’m going, but I will tell you why...Adrien Agreste, Lila Rossi, Gabriel Agreste, and Caline Bustier, you are the reason that Ladybug will no longer stay in Paris.” Adrien’s eyes widened, it couldn’t be true…

“This is Ladybug, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, signing off. Bug out.”

The feed stopped. Adrien threw his phone on the ground, leaving it shattered as he stomped out of his room. He refused to believe it.

Gabriel Agreste had to admit he was bested, but there were two things Ladybug or Miss Dupain-Cheng forgot. One was the peacock miraculous that he had just fixed and the second was the crucial fact that he always got what he wanted. No matter what the cost.

Marinette stared out the window feeling her shoulders relax as the cab passed a dismal grey sign. She sighed and smiled, feeling a new beam of hope shine into her life. She read the sign and began to dream of her class’s faces when they watched the video, she then pushed it away, ready to start her new life,

“Welcome to Gotham.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ngl, I have no idea what this was it was going somewhere and then my brain went FUCK IM TIRED, I am so sleep deprived and I wasn’t planning on writing anything this weekend but here we are posting this weird ass salt fic that I wrote in a night and am definitely going to regret tomorrow...YOLO.

(This wasn’t really Maribat but it was kind of I guess) Tag list:

@northernbluetongue

@queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm

@luciferge

@legendaryneckjudgestudent

@interobanginyourmom

@beaversuenightly

@worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry

@mochinek0

@shamefullove

@emjrabbitwolf

@actual-disaster-human

@littleredrobinhoodlum

@elijahcoser

@daminett4life

@18-fandoms-unite-08

@kawaiigiantjudgefish

#maribat kinda #salt salt salt salt salt

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talesofstyles · 5 years

Text

In Sickness And In Health

After the birth of their twin babies, Harry and YN’s marriage suffers.

Warning: Contains discussion of Postnatal Depression (PND) / PPD, breastfeeding and smut. Please read only if you’re comfortable.

P.S. This is a spin-off of Mess Is Mine. You don’t have to read it first, but in case you want to give it a go, here’s the link for the I, II and III part!

Having a newborn is hard, let alone two.

When that phase where everything seems magical and everything is just right in the world and you can hardly take your eyes off your precious little babies is over, you’ll begin to realise how much your life has changed overnight. You’ll realise how exhausted you are and that sleep is merely just a myth. You don’t sleep for longer than two hours at a time, and you struggle to find the time to fulfil your most basic human needs like eating and showering, and your social life has gone out of the window without even a wave goodbye.

Of course the excitement will never be truly over. There will always be moments where you look at your babies and pause and think “how did I get so lucky?!”. Maybe when they’re both smiling at you unconsciously in their sleep. Or when you just bathe them so they’re fresh and clean and smells like heaven and you feel like your heart is about to burst looking at two little babies just in their nappies all sprawled on your bed. It may not sound like a big deal, but sleep is one of the most fundamental human needs and if they’re deprived of that, it can potentially lead to a bigger problem.

YN is tired. So is Harry, but she is not only exhausted physically but also mentally, which is so much harder to deal with. Having twins really takes a toll on her body, and her hormones are all over the place. Now so much worse than when she was pregnant. She had a rather flawless pregnancy with the twins, everything was perfect. She carried them up until 37 weeks and five days, which was considered full term with twins, and even though the labour was long, it was all good in the end.

It all started well. The babies were both healthy and strong so they went home along with YN on the third day. Settling in with two newborns during the first few days were chaotic but it was all such a dream. The babies were such good sleepers and both YN and Harry had to wake them up throughout the night so YN could feed them. Neither of them was a fussy eater and both latched on so well right from the beginning, too, which was the thing that YN most worried about when she was still pregnant so she was relieved to know that their breastfeeding journey seemed to be easy right from the start.

But then the babies turned two weeks old, and they hit a growth spurt, which caused them to be fussier than ever. Harry and YN could barely function with the lack of sleep and both of them were frustrated because they couldn’t split their attention with the big kids as well. Everything was crazy and it went south from there.

The baby boy went back to his usual self after a couple of days, but the baby girl never did. Even now, four weeks later, she is still fussier than ever, and the worst thing is that she is refusing to eat most of the time which is really stressing YN out because she doesn’t know what to do. She never had any problems nursing Finn and Pippa back then.

It’s 2:45 am, and here’s YN, sitting on a nursery glider that calls one of the corners in their master bedroom as it’s temporary home before they move it to the nursery later along with the babies. Baby girl has been crying for at least ten minutes now, and her crying is getting stronger each minute. YN tries to nurse her while desperately trying to keep her eyes open, but the baby just clenches her fists and keeps crying, pulling her face away from her chest and refusing to latch.

“Oh, come on,” YN sighs in frustration at the wailing baby in her arms. “Come on, please. I know you’re hungry, my love.”

All the crying eventually wakes Harry up, but thankfully not the other baby just yet. At just four weeks old, the twins are still sleeping with Harry and YN in their room because not only it’s safer for the babies for the first six months, they also know that it’ll be easier for them to deal with the babies throughout the night.

“Should I make her a bottle?” Harry offers, sitting up to rub the sleep away from his eyes for a second before he walks towards where YN is sat with their baby girl. “I can feed her. You go to sleep, love.”

“No!” YN whisper-shouts. “I can feed her. I have to.”

“Alright, alright. Just let me try a little bit,” says Harry, shushing her as YN shifts the baby girl into his arms. He begins swaying his hips in place right away to rock her, knowing how much she loves it. She’s just like Anya when she was a baby, loving the little sway and rock in the middle of the night to soothe her back to sleep. However, the little sway and rock doesn’t do the trick for her twin brother who prefers being bounced a little whenever he’s being fussy. “Hi sweet girl,” Harry coos at her. “What’s this all about, huh? What’s the matter? Best tell daddy, yeah? I’ll sort it out.”

The tiny little baby girl in his arms lets out a couple of tiny choked up noises before she calms down and stops crying, showing him her green eyes for a second before closing it again as she lets out the tiniest yawn. She goes back to sleep within minutes in her daddy’s arms, and as much as Harry is glad that he manages to put the baby back to sleep, he is worried about YN.

YN has been struggling to bond with their baby girl ever since she has started to get fussy about nursing, so he knows the fact that he has just calmed her down and put her back to sleep just like that makes her feel even worse. She sighs dejectedly, completely ignoring Harry’s weak “darlin’,” as she stands up and walks away to the bed.

“Darlin’,” Harry tries again as he gets himself into the bed and under the duvet. But she ignores him still, choosing to turn around so her back is on his face instead.

Harry lets out a heavy sigh. Mumbling a short, sweet, “night, love,” as he turns off the nightlight on his bedside table. Expecting at least just a short “night” from her but all he hears is silence.

***

The sound of keys jingling in the door is no match to the chaos inside. Baby girl has been crying nearly all morning, leaving YN frustrated and exhausted beyond measure. Harry has just got home from doing the school run, and as he walks into their living room, he sees his wife with their baby girl in her arms. He can see how tired YN looks, truth be told he isn’t much better, but he knows that he needs to step in because both of them are frustrated.

“Come on, my love, please,” YN coos at the crying baby in her arms desperately, pushing her closer to her chest to try to get her to latch but she isn’t having any of it. She did nurse a little a few hours prior but YN knows it’s not enough and she needs more. “I know you’re hungry, darlin’, please, just a little bit.”

“Let me make a bottle for her, yeah?” says Harry softly, knowing well that YN isn’t going to take what he suggests happily but he knows they all need it. “I can feed her, you go take a shower or a little nap. Whichever sounds best to you, love.”

“No, Harry, I need to feed her,” YN insists, shaking her head. Her cheeks are getting wet from the tears of frustration mixed with exhaustion. “I have to. I have to be able to.”

Harry runs his fingers through his hair, a little harsher than he’d like, in frustration. Sighing heavily. “She’s hungry!” snaps Harry. “We need to feed our daughter!”

“I’m trying!” YN practically shrieks.

“But she doesn’t want to nurse!” Harry’s voice keeps increasing in volume, stopping to take a deep breath when he sees the look on YN’s face. Not once he has ever talked to her that way before. “Please, just let me try to make her a bottle. This isn’t the time for you to listen to your ego, she’s hungry!”

YN looks up at Harry in silence. He can’t tell what she’s feeling, but surely it mustn’t be good. She stands up slowly, kissing her baby girl’s forehead before shifting her into Harry’s arms and walks upstairs without saying another word.

Harry warms up a bottle for her from the milk in the freezer and she hesitates a little before she drinks it all up. She’s already asleep in his arms even before he has the chance to burp her, clearly exhausted from all the crying. He takes her upstairs to their room to put her in the bassinet next to her twin brother who has been napping for a little while now and should wake up anytime soon. Doesn’t matter how hard YN and Harry try to make them sleep at the same time, they just won’t.

When Harry walks into their room, YN is sitting on her side of the bed. She’s looking through the window, her back is facing the door. He can see her back tenses a little at his presence. Any other day, any other circumstances, Harry would have just sat next to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pull her close to him to cheer her up. They’re both a massive cuddler so although not always, more often than not, a little hug fixes everything. This is also why they can’t really complain about the fact that the twins are probably the clingiest babies on earth. Apples truly don’t fall far from the trees.

“M’sorry for raising my voice,” Harry says at last after he puts his baby girl in her bassinet, before sitting next to YN on the bed but still keeping a safe distance knowing that she is probably a little upset with him. “But I’m not sorry for feeding our daughter.”

Much to Harry’s surprise, YN doesn’t even respond. He gets it if she doesn’t want to talk to him, but she has stilled. Not much different than a statue. He thinks she’s at least going to pull her arm away from him or swats his when he tries to touch her but no, she’s not even blinking. Still looking far out through the window. Her body is right next to him, but she is going further away from Harry with each passing seconds.

***

Next thing Harry knows, she has become distant.

To him, first and foremost. And what breaks his heart the most, to his baby girl too. He didn’t want to believe himself at first but as the days went by, it was getting harder to ignore. He knows that she tries her best to act normal around the other kids, but he also knows that there’s something missing in her and whatever it is, he just hopes they can find it again.

YN is nursing Flynn in their room while Harry feeds Mila downstairs in the living room. After what happened the other day when Harry snapped at her, YN hasn’t tried to nurse her baby girl again, leaving Harry to do the job. As he feeds their littlest, he also gives some snacks for Finn, Pippa and Anya who just got home from school.

“How was school?” Harry asks the three of his big kids as he plops down on the couch with his baby girl on his lap and a warm bottle of milk in his hand. “Did you lot ‘ave a good day?”

“Mhm,” Anya hums and Finn and Pippa just nod, too busy chewing on some microwavable pastries that Harry heated for them.

“Good,” says Harry as he pulls the bottle away from his baby girl’s mouth for a second, giving her a little break. “Got any homework?”

“Anya and I have to write down everyone’s wishes,” says Pippa before she reaches for a cup of apple juice on the coffee table in front of her and takes a sip.

“Wishes?” Harry turns to her, his eyebrows snap together. “What kind of wishes?”

“It can be anythin’!” Anya chimes in.

“So,” Pippa begins, taking a paper and a pencil from her backpack. “What’s your wish papa?”

‘To know what the fuck is wrong with my wife and for her to talk to me again’ Harry says to himself inside his head, but carefully spelt out ‘clean ocean’ for the girls instead.

“Finny,” Anya turns to her big brother. “What’s yours?”

“For mummy to be happy,” he says nonchalantly.

Harry’s heart breaks at Finn’s wish. Trying to sound just as nonchalant, he turns at the seven year old and asks him. “You don’t think mummy’s happy?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “She cries a lot lately.”

“Ooh,” says Anya, tapping the end of her pencil against her head. “That’s a good wish.”

Finn is right, YN does cry a lot lately. Even more than when she was still pregnant with the twins. Harry has asked her ‘what’s wrong?’ countless times but he’s met with silence every time. So he stopped asking.

“Papa, why does mummy cry a lot lately?” Pippa asks him.

Harry knows that the kids think he has the answer, he always has. He wishes he has the answer for this one. He remembers when he was little, he could just ask anything to his mum or dad and they would always have the answers to everything and he intends to do the same for his children. They’ve got plenty of time later to find out how scary the world actually is and that sometimes, they have to be okay in the unknown. But not right now.

“Mummy’s just tired, my love,” Harry smiles at her. “Sometimes people cry when they’re tired. Just like you when you had too much fun at the park.”

“Mummy!” Pippa cheers in excitement when she sees YN coming down the stairs with Flynn in her arms. Harry’s head snaps right away towards her. “Mummy, what’s your wish?”

“Hi,” YN smiles weakly at her big kids. “My wish?”

“Mhm,” Anya hums. “What’s your wish, mummy?”

“It’s for their homework,” Harry adds, setting the empty bottle down on the coffee table before holding the drowsy baby girl upwards to burp her. “They have to write down everyone’s wishes.”

“Oh,” says YN as she plops down on the couch opposite Harry. That’s the most she has been talking to him. One word—he’s not even sure if ‘oh’ counts as a word but screw it—one syllable. A short, simple ‘oh’ yet it already makes his heart bursts. “I wish, um,” they’re all waiting patiently for YN to finish her sentence. “I wish I could sleep. For a long time.”

“How long, mummy?” Pippa asks her.

“Just long,” YN says absently. “Very long.”

***

“You want some?” Harry says, pouring YN a glass of wine before she can even answer. Not that she’s likely to answer.

Harry slides the glass across the kitchen island, where YN stands on the other end of the counter, staring into space blankly. Without saying a word she glances at him before taking the glass into her hand and begins to take a sip.

“Hey,” Harry says cautiously. “You alright?”

She takes a slug of wine instead of answering her husband. Still looking at one of the walls in their kitchen that is full of frames. A big family photo with all five of them, taken in Positano when they went there for holiday last summer just before YN finds out that she was pregnant with the twins. A few paintings of the kids. One medium-sized classic painting of a village.

Harry lets out a sigh as they lapse into silence again. The tension is so thick it’s suffocating. He gets some plates out of the cupboard, ladle chicken stew out of the slow cooker and sprinkle it with coriander before putting them down on the table and reaches for cutlery in the drawer.

“Come on, let’s eat,” says Harry as he brings his glass of wine to the table.

YN shakes her head. “I’m not hungry.”

Harry lets out another sigh, heavier this time. The food in front of him looks much less appealing than before. “You need to eat, even just a little bit.”

“I’ll eat later when I’m hungry,” YN gulps her wine.

“Why don’t you want to eat together with me?” Harry asks her desperately. “You’re the one who always insists that couples who eats together stay together, so-”

“I’m not hungry,” YN repeats herself absently, cutting him off before she drains the rest of her wine into the sink and putting the glass into the dishwasher. “Just wanna sleep.”

***

The sound of a crying baby wakes Harry and YN up, and after realising it comes from their baby girl, Harry stands up hastily and walks towards the bassinet to pick her up and begins to rock her.

“Hi darlin’,” Harry coos at her. “What’s this about, huh? Something bothering you? You hungry?”

The usual sway and rock doesn’t work so Harry is pretty convinced that she is hungry. Realising that YN is awake, Harry turns to her. “You wanna ‘ave a go? I think she’s hungry.”

“No, you have it all in hand,” YN says bitterly. “I’m just gonna make it worse.”

“YN, don’t be like that,” Harry says, annoyance clearly shown in his tone. “We’re a team. We’re supposed to be a team.”

“Like what?” YN challenges him, getting just annoyed at him as he is at her. “M’not being like anything!”

“You’re being so difficult!” Harry practically shrieks, making the crying even worse and they can hear a little whimper from the bassinet which means baby boy is going to wake up and cry any seconds now. “I don’t know what to do. We barely talk now and when we do it always ends with a fight. I hate fighting with you!”

He can see the tears making its way out of her eyes and down her cheeks and he feels guilty for snapping at her like that. Her hormones are out of whack and he should’ve been more patient with her. “YN, talk to me, please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’ll sleep with Flynn in the spare room,” YN says as she picks her baby boy out of his little bassinet.

“No!” Harry shakes his head frantically. “We’re sleeping here, in this room. I’ll take the couch. But we’re staying in this room.”

YN doesn’t say more, and Harry quickly goes downstairs to warm up a bottle for baby girl before he reappears in their bedroom. He feeds her on the nursery glider, and burp her, before he stands back up to cuddle her back to sleep.

“So, that’s it then?” Harry says bitterly as he sways his hips in place to rock his baby daughter when he realises that YN is still awake. “You won’t hold your daughter?”

YN looks at him and there’s something in her expression that makes Harry feels like someone has just stabbed him in the chest. She looks so sad. Her face missing the warmth and colour that are usually there. “I do hold her,” she responds weakly. “But you said it yourself that I’m too selfish to take proper care of her.”

“I never said that!” Harry whisper-shouts, covering the ear of the baby in his arm as he does so he wouldn’t wake her up again.

“Yes you did!” YN insists angrily. Fat, hot tears are coming back and rolling down her cheeks. “You said I was willing to starve my daughter just to listen to my ego.”

“Let’s talk outside,” says Harry as he puts baby girl down in her bassinet and roughly takes YN’s hand to follow him out of their bedroom.

“I have NEVER said that to you,” Harry’s loud voice booms in the kitchen, emphasizing ‘never’ as he stares deadly at her in the eyes. There’s a lump in the back of his throat but he ignores it, his annoyance at her for twisting his words gets the better of him.

“But you did!” YN’s voice is just as loud, but cracks in the end, and the sound of it makes Harry feels as if Chuck Norris himself just kicked him in the balls.

“I didn’t!” He feigns innocence. “I just told you the other day just to let me feed her because she’s hungry. That’s all. And…”

YN feels like the room is spinning. It’s going so fast that she has to grip on the edge of the counter to keep herself from falling. She still sees Harry’s mouth moving but she can’t hear a word. So she walks away from the kitchen. Hastily. Towards the stairs and climbs upstairs, ignoring Harry crying out, “Where are you going? Come back! We’re not finished yet!” not because she intends to but because she can’t hear anything.

***

It can be extremely frustrating to live with someone who’s distant and sad all the time. Especially when there are newborns involved, adjusting to life with a newborn is hard enough. With YN slipping further away from him every day, Harry feels like all the responsibility is weighed upon his shoulders. And he is tired.

The babies are six weeks old, it means it has been four weeks since the last time he had a proper conversation with YN. There, in that couch, the one that he’s sitting on right now. He should be sleeping right now. Sleep when the baby sleeps, they said. But it’s 1:45am. He knows that at least one of the babies are going to wake up any seconds for their next meal. He doesn’t have to worry about baby boy, he still nurses like a champ, it’s their baby girl that he’s worried about. And the fact that her own mother seems to resent her.

Maybe it’s all just in his head. Of course YN loves their baby girl. It’s her own daughter. It’s their daughter. If she can love Anya like her own, surely she’ll love her own baby, no?

Harry feels like their marriage is slipping away, especially now that they’re sleeping separately although still in the same room. They barely talk, and when they do, it always ends with a screaming match. He doesn’t know whether or not the big kids know about the fact that their parents are now basically strangers living in the same house, he hopes they don’t, but they’re smart and it wouldn’t surprise him if they do.

He still doesn’t understand how it all got this bad. Every night before he sleeps, he always makes time to recall the things that happened, thinking probably he has missed something crucial that ruined his marriage, but nothing comes out of it. They were still good, very good before the birth of the twins. And even for the first two weeks afterwards, it was still like a dream. But then the babies start to get fussy, and they begin to not get enough sleep. Was that the thing that ruined his marriage? It couldn’t be, right? They were just tired. They still are. But people don’t get a divorce because they’re tired.

Then he recalled that one time when he was frustrated, they were all frustrated, really. And he said something about the fact that YN shouldn’t listen to her ego. Okay, he admits, he was a little harsh, but in his defence he was frustrated. And in his mind, he wasn’t in the wrong in that situation. He just wanted to feed his daughter as soon as possible because he knew that she was hungry. Was that wrong?

This is hard. All of this. The babies, his suffering marriage, his three older children who still require a lot of his attention because they’re at that stage where they treasure conversation and playtime with their parents the most. The sleep deprivation. He’s lucky enough to be able to take a six months paternity leave; if he weren’t he would probably just explode.

After their marriage, or whatever left of it, becomes like this, the presence of YN is barely something that fills three of his senses; sight, hearing and smell. He knows that she’s there, with him, living in the same house. They wake up around the same time, they go to sleep around the same time. But it’s just that, nothing more. He knows that she’s there because he sees her pacing around their bedroom holding their baby boy. And that half of the laundry bin in their room filled with her dirty clothes as well as his. Her brown fuzzy slippers at the end of the bed when she sleeps. The delicious smell of coffee that she always makes fresh every morning. The mixed smell of roses and berries that is so uniquely her when she’s sitting or standing close enough to him. The sound of her when she’s talking to the kids, or coos at the babies. Even the soft sob that he hears sometimes in the bathroom in the middle of the night when she thinks that he’s asleep.

Harry misses his wife.

There’s a little routine of them that Harry can’t forget every time he sits on that couch in their living room. It’s one of Harry’s favourites. Usually, after they tuck the kids in bed, they would sit on the couch downstairs before they have their dinner. YN, still in her work outfits, would sit beside him, taking the remote from his hand and resting her head against his chest. The TV is always on, but they rarely actually watch it. After two to three minutes YN usually mumbles, “I’m knackered,” and he’d say “take a little nap, then” before he kisses the top of her head and she’d doze off not long after. It’s never long. Twenty, thirty minutes max, but it’s one of Harry’s favourite moments with her throughout the week. That time at the end of the day when he gets to hold his wife, who somehow still smells so good and looks so beautiful that sometimes still makes his heart skips a beat, even after a whole day of work and a couple hours of herding their small children through their night routines. All of the things that are bothering his mind always seems to disappear somehow. It’s just him, and her, and everything just seems right in the world.

Sometimes, when the frustration takes over, Harry can’t help but wonder if he could just confront her. ‘What do you want, really? Do you want to get a divorce? Just say it.’ Because he’s tired of feeling helpless. He’s tired of feeling like he may have a little hope one second yet having it crushed the next. But when he sees her, he doesn’t have the heart to.

She’s YN, his wife. He loves her and he can’t lose her.

***

It’s Thursday, which means it’s James’s turn to pick the kids up from school and takes them to the park afterwards. And since Anya goes to the same school as Finn and Pippa, he always takes her with them too. He knows how much Harry loves his children, and honestly he just likes children in general so he doesn’t have any problems with his ex-wife’s step-daughter.

James and the kids are already at Kensington Garden, and they’re just waiting for Harry who’s coming with the twins. Harry thought it might be good for YN to have some quiet time alone at home for a little before the madness begins again. Besides, it’s good for the twins to get some fresh air.

It’s not often you hear that someone’s ex-husband and current husband become friends, but somehow James and Harry do become friends. Surely it wasn’t easy at first, both of them had their pride at stake and neither of them was willing to let it go first, but they were both good men, they still are. And they knew that if they could put their ego aside, it would be better for everyone, so they did.

“Daddy, that’s papa and the babies!” Pippa says excitedly as she points at Harry who’s pushing the double pram into the gated playground area. “Papaaaa!”

“Where?” James looks around before he finds Harry and babies. “Ah! Here!” He immediately waves his hand so Harry sees him. “Hi!”

“Hi,” Harry greets him as he walks towards them. “Alright, mate?”

“Great! You?” James says as he looks down at the prams and coos at the babies. “God, these two already look so much bigger than last week. Hi! Hello!”

“M’good, thanks,” Harry smiles at him. “They grow like a weed.”

“You look rough mate,” James comments, chuckling lightly. They’ve clearly reached that level of friendship. And James is not wrong, Harry does look like he needs a wash and a good night’s sleep. “I can try to help more with the big kids if you’d like.”

“Thanks, mate,” Harry turns to him, waving at Finn who’s waving at him from the big pirate ship. “I appreciate it.”

“Hey, s’nothing,” James grins at him. “How’s YN? She alright?”

Harry lets out a heavy sigh. “Honestly? I’m not sure.”

“Hey, what’s wrong?” James turns to him, looking concerned. Harry isn’t the type to air his dirty laundry, but this is James. He is YN’s ex-husband. He has known her longer than he has, and they were married for years. If there’s any chance for James to help him, no matter how small, he’s taking it. “Is everything alright? You know that you can talk to me, right?”

“Was it this hard after you had Finn and Pippa?” Harry finally asks him.

“God,” James shakes his head. “Newborns are rough, mate. I remember being so exhausted all the time.”

“Did you and YN fight a lot?”

“We were both cranky from the lack of sleep,” James explains. “So yeah. Do you fight a lot now? By the way, you don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to of course.”

“No, s’fine,” Harry says. “Yeah we do. She’s just so sad and distant all the time and I don’t know what to do.”

“That explains, then,” James tells him. “Finn told me that she’s been crying a lot lately.”

“I swear I’ve tried everything, mate,” Harry sighs in defeat.

“Having a baby is hard, let alone two at once,” James begins. “So maybe she’s still trying to figure it out? I know you must’ve tried your best to cheer her up and all you need to do right now is just to be patient. I’m sure she’ll be alright once she gets the hang of it.”

“S’like,” Harry’s voice cracks and he hates it. “S’like there’s a really huge wall between us. I’ve tried to knock it down, tear it apart, but it just keeps getting stronger.”

“Look, mate,” James turns to him. “I know YN. She’s one of the kindest, most loving humans out there but I also know that she’s probably one of the most stubborn one too. You can’t tell her what to do. If she wants to open up to you, she will. Otherwise, she’ll just build that wall higher and stronger and if you insist to climb it there’s no way you’re getting out alive. Whatever it is that she’s feeling right now, or that she’s struggling with, you can’t make it go away. All that you need to do is just to be willing to wait this out with her.”

“Thanks, James,” Harry says. “Really, I appreciate this. Thank you.”

“Anytime, mate,” James smiles at him. “Remember, she’s just lost. She’s not gone. Just hang in there, yeah?”

***

“D’you wanna take a bath wi’me?” Harry looks at YN who’s putting Flynn in his bassinet. The big kids are asleep and the twins have just gone back to sleep with full bellies so it’s not likely for them to wake up anytime soon. “Might be nice, yeah? Been a while.”

YN shakes her head. “M’tired.”

“Please? I’ve missed you,” desperation evident in his voice. “S’gonna be nice. I’m gonna run it for us, yeah? We’ll use that soap, the one that we’re saving for the pope,” he chuckles lightly, hoping that the little Friends reference will make her laugh even just a little. Scratch that, just a smile from her will make him the happiest man alive.

“No!” YN exclaims, a little louder and harsher than she intends it to. “I’m tired Harry, just let me sleep.”

***

It’s 3am, and YN is surprised when she goes to the bathroom and finds Harry sitting on the floor, crying his heart out. His back is against the bathtub, and she immediately sits down next to him on the floor.

“H,” Harry shoots his head up to look at her as he hears his pet name rolls out of her lips. It has been weeks since the last time he hears that and God, does he miss it. H is one of the three pet names that YN has for him. The other two are darling and knobhead. She rotates those three pet names every day. To this day, Harry still has no idea where knobhead comes from and he’s not sure either about the rotation. What he knows is that every workday, at 7am, she’ll shake his shoulder gently, whispering softly in his ear: “Wake up, H.” Tomorrow it may be: “Knobhead, wake up.” He’ll never know for sure what he gets.

“H,” she repeats herself when she sees that Harry has stilled. “What’s the matter? I’ve never seen you cry like this before.”

For once, she’s met with silence. He doesn’t answer.

“Is this…” she trails off. “Are you crying about us? Our marriage? Or whatever left of that?” She chokes wetly.

Harry still doesn’t respond.

“Are you- are you crying because you want-” her breathing is getting harsher as if she’s choking. “You want to leave?”

“I wanted to,” Harry says weakly, admitting. Because he did. He had the thought. Divorce did cross his mind. It doesn’t matter for him whether he had been thinking about leaving for months or is it just five seconds of frustration before he snaps back to reality, he’s just as guilty.

“But I can’t,” he shakes his head. “You’re my wife. I’d chosen you. Can’t run away like a coward, s’my job to bring the smile back to your face.”

“You wanted to leave,” YN says at last, sitting motionless.

Harry just stares blankly at the cabinet under the sink.

“Harry,” YN says his name so low that it sounds more like a whisper. “Leave.”

Harry shakes his head frantically and YN continues. “This marriage sounds more like work on your part. I don’t know what happened with me,” she wipes away the tears that roll down her cheeks. “I hate to see you like this.”

“No,” says Harry firmly, still shaking his head.

“If it’s about the kids, don’t worry, you’ll-”

“It’s not about the kids!” Harry says quickly, cutting her off. “It’s about you. I can’t lose you.”

“Harry, I’ve changed,” YN whispers. “I don’t even recognise myself. You deserve better, just let me go.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head again. “I had chosen you, and you had chosen me. We’re gonna make this work, you and I.”

“But-”

Harry cuts her off with a kiss. A deep and passionate one, filled with desperate needs. Much to his surprise, she doesn’t pull away. It has been forever since the last time they kissed like that, and doesn’t matter their circumstances, neither of them wants it to end.

In one swift movement, he has her underneath him on their bathroom floor. His lips never leaving hers unless to take a breath, and even then it’s never long before he returns.

He leaves a trail of kisses down her neck, before pulling the tie on top of her nightdress to leave her chest bare before him. Within seconds he’s got her knees bent and her nightdress hitches up around her waist, his mouth feasting on her pulsing core. He has missed how she tastes.

She still doesn’t push him away when his tongue is buried deep inside her. He’s got both of his hands looped around her thighs before he thrusts one single digit into her. Slowly at first, but then he quickens the pace as it’s getting easier for his finger to pump into her. Not too fast yet not too slow; just a slow steady plunge deep into her heat.

She spreads her legs even more for him as his knee shoves between them. The better access makes him push his finger even deeper before he adds another. He puts pressure on her bundle of nerves with his thumb as his two thick digits make their way into her. It’s a stretch and she hisses as he buries them inside her to the knuckle.

With a gasp of his name, she falls into bliss. Closing her eyes as he pulls his fingers out of her. He climbs up and kisses her deeply as he takes out his member.

His hard cock curves up towards his belly, ruddy and dizzyingly thick. It has been a while and she forgot how intimidating his size is. He’s fully hard, the blunt tip is angry red and it’s leaking already. It looks threatening, and fuck, even the vein underneath is intimidatingly thick.

Too many moments later, he finally lets his cock dip down into her core, and she exhales the breath she’s been holding only to squeal when she feels him pressed against her folds. He really takes his time, coating his shaft with her slick before pushing into her again ever so slowly.

She winces as he thrusts inside her, but it feels amazing. The twinge of pain is easy to ignore with the way Harry feels inside of her and it’s literally just the tip. He lets out a groan, holding steady to give her time to adjust, knowing how much she needs it.

The second he’s fully in, she lets out a sigh, pulling him even closer to her body. He’s bare and hot inside her, the way he throbs is enough to force her eyes to close.

There’s a slowness to his movement that seems to translate into a deeper intimacy. There’s no rush, only a desperate need. He takes his time, not wanting it to be over anytime soon.

He’s sliding so deep, right into that pleasure-patch with every drive. She cries out, squirming underneath him as his cock hit painful depths. Her fingers hold onto his arms and she whimpers, unsure if it’s from discomfort or need.

It hurts, no doubt, it’s been a while after all. But his pace is steady and slow, and she knows that he’s taking every moment of her anguish and need. She moans into his mouth, practically panting as he kisses her over and over again, never leaving her lips for too long, nipping and sucking her bottom lip.

He feeds his cock into her again and again, coaxing her heat open with each stroke. The bump and drag of his member against her walls is nothing short of exquisite and dangerously intoxicating.

Everything goes white as she reaches her high. There’s no other sound except for the whir of pounding blood in her ears. She’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing. He kisses her again on the lips, then her forehead, before he reaches for something from the cabinet under the sink to clean her up. He carries her to their bed, kissing her once more before he climbs onto his side of the bed. Mumbling “night, love” as he turns off the light on his bedside table.

She waits until he’s fully asleep before she wiggles out of his embrace. Scooting as far away from him as she can without falling out of the bed. And then she cries.

***

It’s frustrating to look in the mirror and not being able to recognise your own reflection.

For the past four weeks, when YN sees her reflection in the mirror, all she sees is that unrecognised woman standing before her. She looks sad and tired. There are two giant bags under her eyes, and she looks so cold and colourless that she thinks that whoever it is in the reflection must be sick.

She has never felt anything like this before. She is so anxious all the time. Although she is no stranger to anxiety, it has never got this bad. She is tired yet she’s struggling to sleep. She feels tense and irritable, and she has the urge to cry a lot more lately.

She feels terrible for not being able to bond with her baby girl the way she bonds with her baby boy. She tried, desperately, but when her baby girl refused to nurse it made her feel like she’s a failure. She is still feeling that way, especially every time she sees Harry feeding her with a bottle. She has this horrible sense of impending doom, like her babies are slowly starving and it was because she was a terrible mother.

“Harry, I think your wife has postnatal depression,” says the health visitor to Harry after she checks on YN and the babies. Physically, the three of them are doing amazing.

“I had a feeling,” Harry turns to her. “What should I do, then? What can I do to help her? Does she need some prescriptions?”

“Not yet,” she shakes her head gently. “I don’t think it’s very severe. But what you do matters significantly. Her moods and emotional vulnerability will likely get in the way of your communication for now, but keep assure her that you are there for her. Tell her that you know she feels terrible. Tell her she’ll get better and that she is doing the best she can. Tell her that she can still be a good mother even if she feels terrible. Most importantly, tell her that you love her. Your babies love her, all your children. She might not believe you when you tell her that she’s a good mother but tell her anyway. I can schedule a counselling for her but for now, make sure that you make time just for her. Five minutes a day for a start is enough. No babies, no paperwork, no TV, nothing but the two of you. Talk to her. She’ll probably ignore you at first but she’ll talk soon enough. Then you can gradually increase the amount of time you spend together just the two of you.”

“Thank you so much,” Harry looks at her, feeling hopeful.

“M’just doing my job,” she smiles at Harry. “Call if you have a question about it. Remember, just be patient.”

***

Little things matter.

After Harry got the advice from the health visitor and James, he knows that what he does really matter to help his wife, and he is willing to do whatever it takes for him to get his wife back. Every Sunday morning, he makes a trip to the Farmer’s Market to get her some daisies because it’s her favourite flowers. They take five minutes each day just for each other after all five of the kids are asleep, and although the health visitor was right and YN didn’t even say a word at first, now they begin to talk again and even laugh together even just a little.

They also begin to do the school run together. Fortunately, it’s close enough for them to just walk. Most of the time they take the pushchairs for the babies so they can walk around in the park after they drop the kids at school, but sometimes they just put them in a sling and carry them. It’s also the perfect time for Harry and YN to talk because the babies are the happiest in the prams or in the slings and they always sleep through their morning walk.

Harry knows that it’s probably too soon to say, but Harry feels like YN is slowly but surely coming back to him. They eat together again, they talk, and although Harry isn’t back in bed just yet, he’s now able to kiss her goodnight, which already makes Harry the happiest.

It’s 2:30am, and the babies are up crying because they’re hungry. YN is feeding Flynn on the nursery glider and Harry is about to head downstairs to make a bottle for Mila when YN suddenly stops him. “Harry, wait-”

“Yeah?” He looks at her, thinking that she’ll probably just ask him to get her something from the kitchen.

“Can I try first?”

Harry can’t believe what he hears, grinning instantly. “You want to try to feed her?”

YN nods. “Can I?”

“Love, you don’t have to ask!” Harry says, walking back to the bassinet to take their baby girl out and put her in YN’s free arm so she can feed her as well. She brings the baby closer to her chest and neither of them can believe what they see. “Oh my God-”

“Harry!” YN exclaims excitedly. “She’s latching! Oh my God, she’s doing it!”

“I see it!” Harry looks at her proudly, before leaning down to kiss her head. “My best girl.”

“Harry,” YN sighs happily. Happy tears rolling down her cheeks and Harry quickly wipes it away.

“Told ya,” Harry grins at her although his cheeks aren’t technically dry either. “It’s gonna be alright, I knew it.”

“I’m so happy right now,” YN tells him, making his grin wider. “But I know that I’m not back to my old self just yet. It’ll take some time.”

Harry leans down to kiss the top of her head now. “Darlin’, just knowing that you’re happy for now is enough for me. I know it’ll take some time, but it’s gonna get better, yeah? Trust me.”

“What if it takes years?”

Harry smiles at her. “I’ll wait it out with you.”

“You say that now, but-”

“In sickness and in health,” Harry quickly cuts her off. “For better or for worse.”

“Harry-”

“I love you. Completely besotted, absolutely enamoured, hopelessly in love wi’you. I don’t care if you don’t believe me right now, I’m telling you anyway because it’s true. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to remind you how much I love you if that’s what it takes.”

“H,” YN says before they lapse into silence. The pause seems forever but hearing her calling him with that pet name again after a while, he might bursts in happy tears right there right now. “I love you.”

Harry grins at her. Fat, hot tears rolling down his cheeks now and those are certainly happy tears. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” YN smiles at him.

“Again,” he begs. “Please.”

“I love you, H,” she repeats herself. “I take back what I said the other day. Don’t let me go.”

Harry leans down again, trying not to squeeze their babies, and this time to press his lips against hers. “Never.”

#harry #harry styles #harry styles smut #harry styles angst #husband!harry #dad!harry #dad harry imagines #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles ff #harry styles blurbs #harry styles drabbles #harry styles concepts #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry talk

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ashintheairlikesnow · 4 years

Text

Get Real Angry: Interrogation, Final

CW: Institutional brutality, whump of a minor (in the form of a video Jake watches), beating, electric shock, very vaguely referenced past/potential noncon, violence in response to self-soothing stimming behavior, referenced familial abuse, sleep deprivation, creepy whumper behavior

The final part of Jake’s interrogation during his very bad week. Tomorrow I hope to get his reunion with Chris written, and then Jake’s first day back in class after that, and then we’ll return to your regularly scheduled comfort programming now that this little mini-narrative is out of my head!

To understand the frat guy reference (a reference to @deluxewhump‘s Alex), please read this piece here.

INTERROGATION: PART ONE PART TWO

Tagging @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @endless-whump, @whumpfigure, @stxck-fxck, @slaintetowhump

When Everly wheels the TV in - big and blocky, on a little metal wheelie cart with a squeaky wheel and rust spots along the frame - and settles it in front of the chair Jake has been encouraged to sit in, Jake is reminded, bizarrely, of a movie he saw a few years ago.

Weird arthouse movie about a guy that takes another guy captive and his boyfriend or whatever tries to hunt him down, they watched something on a TV in an old house… shit, what was it called… Jake’s head hurts, throbs with a kind of foggy ache, and he closes his eyes, head drooping just slightly.

He could drift off just like this, with his wrists still zip-tied, his shoulders screaming pain at him. Since waking up at the sound of the cops banging on the door, sleep has been a twenty-minute nap here and there, as long as they’ll let him drop off, slumped in his chair, forehead resting on the table in the interrogation room.

Everly left for a while, he assumes to get some fucking sleep. They’d set up some kind of weird blaring alarm system that went off while he was gone, going off every hour or so, waking Jake up. His head feels weighted down with the fucking need for sleep.

Once his eyes close, he can’t quite seem to force them open again. God, he could, he really could fall asleep now, with Everly staring right down at him. Rescues talk about it, about curling up on the floor, covering their eyes with their arms to try and find the tiniest bit of darkness in the unending white light, just… drifting away into some kind of doze and fuck, what he wouldn’t give for a real nap right about now-

There’s a slam, palm on metal table, rattling it, and Jake jerks his head back up, staring wide-eyed up at the handler, breathing in harsh pants. Everly’s not even wearing his stupid fake cop uniform anymore. He doesn’t even try to hold up the pretense.

That’s how Jake knows - for sure this time, not just a hunch - that that camera in the corner by the ceiling definitely isn’t turned on.

Wanted to contract you but I was overruled. Jake’s bloodshot exhausted eyes stare up into Everly’s calm, almost pleased flat gray, and he shudders. It’s a thin line between protecting people who need help and being turned into one.

He kind of wants to send a thank-you card to whoever decided he was too much trouble to abduct.

“Wake up, sunshine,” Everly says, pleased as can be, pleased as punch Jake’s nana would have said, when he was little. Tiny little old southern woman, genteel beachside accent, sweet tea on the table, Sunday dinner, what happens between you and your husband is your business, Maggie. Jake shudders, all over.

When you run from a man who won’t stop hurting you with your kid in tow, you have to run from all the people who just can’t give enough of a fuck to help you, too.

“Pretty-… pretty sure sleep deprivation is torture under th’ Geneva Conventions,” Jake mumbles, forcing his head to stay up, his spine as straight as he can make it. Leaning against the back of the chair helps, but shit, what he wouldn’t give-

That’s how it starts, Jake. You think you’d give something up just to sleep, and then they take that, and take more than that, and eventually there’s nothing left.

“Probably,” Everly acknowledges with a careless shrug. “But you’re gonna have one hell of a time proving you were here and not just the unfortunate recipient of a beating outside a bar or whatever the fuck you do in your free time.”

“In m’free time,” Jake slurs - weird how being this tired has made it harder to move his mouth, even, “I mostly feed homeless people. Not… ‘zactly a violent hobby.”

“Weird how that happened to you, then,” Everly says brightly. He picks up a remote on the cart and starts pressing buttons. The TV powers on with a sudden flash of colors and Jake winces as the light hurts his eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to focus.

It’s harder than it should be. Everything is harder than it should be. He’s not even sure he could stand up on his own any longer, his legs feel like noodles precariously balanced on top of concrete blocks.

“No… no folder t’day?” Jake asks, staring as the menu pops up. Smart TV, of course it is. He stifles a laugh at the sight of the little Netflix icon, Hulu, Amazon Prime. “Y’watch a lot of, of fuckin’ TV when you’re torturin’ innocent people?”

“Shut up, it belongs to the police station.” Everly chooses an app off to the corner, something called KINECTREMOT, the letters dancing and refusing to settle as Jake tries to read them. Does it start this way, with the rescues? Does it start with it just getting harder because you’re tired, and then one day the letters start to hurt?

Or is there something else, to that? Something to the training the rescues can’t explain, maybe don’t even remember?

No, Kauri remembers. Kauri’s head is a fucking mess but he remembers more of training than any of the others seem to be. Maybe that’s why his head is a mess. Jake groans, trying to focus, to think.

Everly’s humming to himself, a soft little tune on his lips, as he inputs a login username [email protected] and a password that just shows up as little circles. He fucks it up the first time, has to redo it. Jake holds back a snort.

“Y’tired, too, huh?” He asks, false sympathy dripping from his tone. “Real tired? Wanna schedule us a fuckin’ naptime, man?”

Everly glances back at him, then leans over and grabs Jake by the back of the head, casually slamming his forehead into the metal table, listening to Jake’s cry of pain with a faint grin on his face, then jerking his head back up, to look into exhausted, foggy light-colored eyes. “Have some fucking manners, Stanton.”

“Fair ‘nough,” Jake slurs, head pounding with pain, slumping to the side. “Can I please request a fuckin’ nap, sir-”

“No.” Everly goes back to humming, tries the username and password again. Wrong again. Jake wonders if he fucks it up again, if he’ll get locked out. Since this is clearly meant to be some kind of dramatic reveal, the idea strikes him as funny. Not just funny, fucking hilarious. Jake starts to giggle, unwillingly, almost helplessly. Big tough guy can’t figure out his fucking password for his Big Villain Moment. It’s funny, right? It’s really fucking funny, and shit, he’s so tired the glint of light off the table and the little spot of blood from his head, smeared across, seems funny because it’s like looking at clouds, what shape is this? and Chris on the grass bouncing up and down on his feet and saying it’s it’s it’s a kangaroo, Jake, it’s a kangaroo, in Australia they call them roos, they just say, say, say say say roo I saw a man on TV he said, said roo, he just said roo and that cloud looks like-

There’s a flash of pain, impact of palm across bruises that have already blossomed dark on his face, and Jake grunts, jerking to the side, somehow managing to stay in his seat.

“Stop laughing. Stay quiet.” Everly narrows his eyes, tries one more time to put the password in. This time it works and the screen flashes black with the KINECTREMOT logo across the front, a soft chime of sound.

What he’s looking at now, Jake doesn’t really understand. Some kind of inbox, but for pictures and videos. They’re all labeled with six-digit numbers, a long list of them, with the words PRIMARY, SECONDARY, TERTIARY next to each one. Not always the same word. Some of them say one thing, some say another. Some of them just say CALL IN or EMERGENCY.

Everly chooses a search bar option and starts painstakingly entering a number, and Jake stares, dumbly, wondering what the fuck he’s looking at, but with a sick certainty that he really, really does not want to know.

Everly’s still humming that stupid song, and Jake realizes why it’s sticking in his head, now. “Are y’… are y’humming Hotel California?”

Everly stops, blinks, looks over at him, genuinely baffled. Then he laughs, a rumbling sound. Jake hates that fucking smug piece of shit’s laughter. “I guess I am. Hadn’t noticed. It was playing on my way from the hotel this morning. You like that song?”

Jake stares at him, as evenly as he can, his eyelids trying to droop down, body desperate for sleep. “Used to.”

Everly chuckles again. “Yeah, it’s overplayed. Anyway… here we go.” He’s picked one number out - 223499, it doesn’t mean anything, and next to it he reads PRIMARY/SECONDARY and what the fuck does that mean? A long line of little thumbnail images pop up, with labels next to them. INTAKE, ISOLATION DAY 1, DAY 2, DAY 3.

The drop in Jake’s stomach gets worse. He feels almost nauseous with fear - not for himself, exactly, but for what he knows he’s about to see. “Wait, wait-… what are you-”

“Shut up, Stanton.”

“No. No, I, I can’t-… what are you goin’ t’do?” Jake looks up, bleary, frightened now. Everly just smiles back down at him, that smug fucking shit-eating grin, and Jake pulls hard on his restrained wrists, feels a flash of bright agonizing pain as the plastic, caked in two days of dried blood, reopens the raw wounds. He grunts at the ache, but everything from his shoulders down has hurt like hell since day one.

“You know, I requested authorization for injectables, too-”

“What th’fuck are those?”

“It’s pretty obvious from the name, I think. Got overruled on that one, too. Fuckin’ higher-ups worried about traceable compounds and shit. I mean, I get the concern. We can’t keep you long enough for that shit to get fully out of your system. But it would’ve made getting to watch this part a lot more fun.”

Everly selects a thumbnail, and the screen opens up - it’s like some bizarre fucked-up snuff-film take on a Netflix episode choice, with the thumbnail suddenly blown up to a larger size and a small description next to it. Someone made a computer program for this, Jake realizes with an even sicker drop in his stomach. Disgust ricochets around his body. Somewhere, at some point, someone built a computer program designed to let these assholes show him a video of… of what?

223499 - CONTRACT SIGNING he reads, just as Everly pushes play.

“Why show me this?” He asks, in nearly a whisper. “D’you… d’you think this is gonna make me not want to, to help?”

“No, I think you won’t break today, and today’s all I got. Give me a week and a white room and I’d have you taking food from my fingers, but sadly, our time together nears its end. Here’s what I can do, though. I can show you something you can’t ever prove. And I can watch your fuckin’ face the whole time. I can get you all riled up, all angry, and send you home with that bitterness just roiling around inside you.”

On the TV screen, Jake sees a small table in a blank room. No pictures on the walls, no decorations at all. Just a small table, two chairs, one on either side. Sitting in one chair is a woman in a suit - everything about her screams lawyer. Behind her, leaning against the wall, in a prim pantsuit, is a woman Jake has seen on TV before, that Renford bitch.

Antoni walked into the room when she was on TV once, turned around and walked out, and didn’t come out of his room for the rest of the day. Kauri flinched when Nat had to wear heels for a meeting and came walking down the stairs.

Jake knows pure soulless evil when he sees it, and there it is, looking bored.

There’s another person, too, mostly hidden by the shadows in the corner, but there’s something weirdly familiar about what Jake can see of him, something he can’t quite place. He’s wearing a pastel-colored polo and light slacks, weirdly fussy looking, like he’s dressed in case he ends up on TV.

Which, Jake guesses he kind of did.

They’re chatting - the sound of it too low for Jake’s tired brain to parse into words he can understand. Just easy, comfortable talk. Coworkers chit-chatting about their weekends, waiting for the day to start. Lawyer’s got a mug of coffee in front of her, takes a sip. It’s normal inane corporate chatter and these are people who do unimaginable damage to other peoples’ lives and they don’t feel a fucking thing about it.

“I won’t get what I want today. But I think I’ll see what I’m hoping to see on your face - and I think you’ll go home with something stuck in your head that you can’t get out.” Everly moves around behind him, stands with his hands on Jake’s shoulders, rubbing thumbs in like he’s giving him the world’s most painful backrub. Jake grinds his teeth together to keep from making a single sound. His eyes want to close, to look away, but there’s some sort of fascination that keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

He’s always wondered what the contract signings are like. The rescues never remember them.

There must be some sound - everyone kind of shifts around in their chairs, straightens up, and the lawyer pulls some papers out of a small folder in front of her, slides them across to the other side of the table in front of the other chair, sets a plastic pen down next to the paper. Fiddles with it, shifting it back and forth minutely, until it’s perfectly parallel.

A door behind the empty chair opens, and Jake stares in perfect horror as Chris is shoved into the room, a man Jake doesn’t recognize behind him, wearing the handler uniform and prodding Chris with a black stick.

He’s so… small, isn’t he?

Jake rarely thinks about how small Chris really is. In the video, he’s hunched over, his hair looks weirdly clumpy. He’s wearing a loose white V-neck T-shirt that’s way too big for him, like it’s oversized or they just couldn’t be bothered to get him one that fit. His knees stick out from under a pair of thin black shorts.

“Oh my God,” Jake whispers. His heart feels like ice in his chest, the cold is spreading through his veins, right to the tips of his toes in his sneakers, now bloodied like everything else he was wearing when they dragged him in here two… three? days ago.

Thumbs dig into his shoulder blades and he hisses, jerking forwards away from the pressure. “Recognize him, huh?”

Jake sets his jaw. “I recognize that you’re a fuckin’ monster piece of shit-”

Everly grabs his head and slams it down on the table again. Jake goes limp, groaning at the spark of white-hot pain, little spots in his vision even with closed eyes. Then his head is jerked back up. Motherfucker really likes walking the head injury line. “Watch. The. Video.”

“This… this won’t make me any less angry,” Jake manages to force out between numb lips. “None of it will.”

“Good. Then you’ll fuck up. The angry ones always do.” Everly grabs his chin from behind him and forces it forward.

On the screen, Chris is sitting in the previously empty chair now, the handler’s hand on one shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth across the back of his neck. He’s shivering so hard Jake can see it in the slightly blurry video, looking around at everyone. There are deep visible shadows under his eyes, and Jake watches the way he sits, with his hands sort of between his legs, can tell from the tension in his arms he’s gripping onto the chair. “Wh-why am, am, am, am-”

“Fuckin’ broken record,” The handler behind him says, a man Jake has never seen, and smacks Chris hard against the back of the head. He jerks forward, whimpering, and Jake would give anything to be able to crawl into the screen and save him.

There are tears in his eyes he has to blink away, but now that he sees him he doesn’t want to miss a second. He’s so little, even though he’s almost the same age he is now. Being in that place, with those people, makes him seem so small, so deeply in need of protection. He’s so fucking scared and none of them even care.

“No one mentioned a stammer,” The man in the corner says. His voice is familiar, too, it sounds like it’s tailor-made for TV. Smooth as silk, with something rotten hidden underneath. “I’m not interested in a fixer-upper, Karen.”

“I’m not selling you one, either,” Renford replies, and Jake’s hands curl into fists behind his back. “He hasn’t been trained yet. No one starts training until they sign.”

“What…” Chris - not Chris, not really, this is whoever he was before he became Chris - flinches and looks backwards up at the handler, as if checking for permission to speak. Jake swallows back bile when the handler nods, and Chris looks back forwards again, his gaze jumping all over the room. He doesn’t seem to see the man in the corner at all, and Jake squints as he realizes there’s some kind of one-way glass along that area, angled so the camera sees everyone, but he’s pretty sure Chris can’t see the man. “Who’s… talking?”

His words are slurred together and deliberately, carefully spaced.

He talked like this when he first arrived at the shelter, for days after. Flat, meaningless syllables dropped and run from, certain he’d be hurt if he made a single sound that wasn’t allowed.

“Not important, trainee,” The handler says. “Pay attention to what is important.”

“Yes, um… yes, yes, sir,” Chris says in a low, weak voice.

“Bet you’d like to commit murder right about now,” Everly says from behind him.

“You’d win that bet,” Jake growls.

“I always fuckin’ do.”

“What, um-… what’s happening?” Chris asks, softly, looking around the room.

“This is your consent form,” The lawyer says, tapping a fingernail on the paper between them. Chris winces, slightly, hunching back into the handler’s touch. “All your information is there as provided by your adult guardian-”

“Joanne? Aunt Jo?” Chris is looking around, confused, blinking. “But, but, but but she… she, I’m supposed to, to live with her now-”

“Not anymore, you’re not,” The handler says, with a laugh.

“What, what, what-what, what, what does that-”

The handler hits Chris hard across the back of the head again, and he bites down on his lower lip and goes silent.

“You’d have gotten her an even higher payout if you didn’t talk so fucking much,” The handler says, grumbling, like Chris is the problem here.

Chris’s expression collapses from a nervous, frightened curiosity to an awful well of pain and grief. “Gotten her, her, her a what?”

The lawyer ignores him and keeps speaking. “… and your legal identification, confirming that you’re overage-”

“But, but I’m not, I’m, I’m n-not, I just turned, uh-” Chris is struggling, and Jake wants to climb into that screen and hold him, calm him down, help him slow his mouth to find the words. Chris’s eyes are wide, and his fear can be read, oddly foggy and dazed, like he’s operating on a slight delay. “I just, just just just-”

The handler behind him grips the back of his neck, like a man grabbing the scruff of an unruly dog, and Chris’s voice cuts off like turning a radio dial.

There’s a moment of silence where Jake can hear his harsh, panting breaths.

“What did we talk about, ‘499? About lying?”

Chris’s hands come up onto the table, tapping on it, not loud enough for Jake to hear. “N-not, not, not to lie to you, but-but, um, but but but I’m, I’m not-”

“Stop that shit with your hands. Now.”

Nothing visibly changes but Chris goes quiet again, staring straight down. His hands stop moving. His shoulders are hiked nearly to his ears and Jake wonders if the handler holding him by the neck tightened his grip.

“How old are you, trainee?” The handler asks the question heavy with loaded double-meanings, obvious enough Jake can read them. Give the right answer or get hurt.

“Eighteen,” Chris whispers, with wide scared eyes. Everyone in the room seems satisfied with the blatant, obvious lie.

“Good. And is that the legal consenting age?”

“… yes.”

“Good boy.” The handler pets heavily through Chris’s hair, and the boy shudders in disgust - Jake has never seen him react to touch like that, not from anyone. Just one more sign of a person that’s been totally erased.

“Pl-please, please don’t, please don’t-don’t, don’t touch me-”

“That’s not an option available to you any longer,” The handler says, pulling the black stick from his belt - and Jake knows what those are, he knows exactly what those are, he’s had one raining down on his back and his ribs and his arms now, had one stuck against his knee to force electric shock into his nerves. He wants to push back, but he’s so, so tired. “Your options are to take the touch as it’s given and thank me for it, or…” He taps the black stick on the back of one of Chris’s hands. The boy’s hand jerks back, but when the handler tsks, clicking his tongue against his teeth, Chris lays the hand slowly back out on the table.

“Why would you ever tape this?” Jake asks, barely aware his mouth is moving.

“Lunchtime entertainment,” Everly replies, blithely. The two of them watch as Chris says something, but there’s a strange rushing sound in Jake’s head and for a second, he’s so… furious… that he can’t even hear. All he can do is stare, the rushing sound drowning him out, and then the black baton comes down on his fingers and Jake cries out, as Chris’s mouth opens in a painful wail, as he tries to pull his hands protectively back to himself only to have them forced back onto the table again.

And hit again.

And again.

Jake’s going to be sick all over the floor if it goes on any longer.

The man who has been watching, hidden in the corner, laughs at the sight. He laughs harder, louder, when the handler forces Chris to thank him for the pain.

It’s his laugh that Jake recognizes, finally. It’s the laugh that turns him from shadowy and familiar to a face that Jake’s seen on TV a dozen times or more. Jake has protested his speeches on the human pet industry, has written essays on the complicity of government in human atrocities with this very man in mind, but when he was thinking of complicity he was never, ever thinking of this.

“You sold him to the fucking Governor?”

No wonder he’s so fucking cozy with WRU. They sold him a goddamn teenager for a personal toy-

“Took you long enough.” Everly pats him on the head, good dog, and Jake jerks away from the touch, thinking of Chris doing the same - and how he pushes into every touch now, good or bad, can’t tell the difference. Has to be told, over and over again. How many days without letting me sleep would it take to get me to give in like that? “Watching you watch this… you know who that kid is. You’ve seen him before. Lie to me or don’t, your face gave it all away. Our informant told us you’ve been bringing a kid who fits the description to your classes.”

Oh, God. The raid was my fault.

On the screen, Chris is signing the contract, hands shaking, the handler’s palm still laying flat against the back of his neck, over the heavy black collar he has around his throat.

“Just a homeless kid,” Jake grinds out, staring at Chris’s terrified shadowed face. Watching as he’s dragged back out, stumbling, with the handler’s grip iron-tight on his thin arm. Chris was tapping in the video, Jake thinks. He tapped before, that’s part of him, not something he picked up. Did he hit his head, before, too? “Could’ve been him. Wouldn’t know. He left.”

“Different story than where we started when I brought you in,” Everly remarks. He puts a hand on the back of Jake’s neck. Rubs his thumb, back and forth, just at the nape where skin and soft, short hair meet.

Just like the handler in the video, with Chris.

“Who called?” Jake asks, holding himself very, very still under the touch. He’s seen Antoni go like this, he thinks - just holding himself like a statue, his eyes straight ahead, not looking. When he has a bad night and spends the day on edge, when any little thing sets him off. “Who told you it was us?”

If it was that fucking frat guy - he’s in one of Jake’s classes, he’s probably seen him with Chris, could even have seen him doing yoga over on the grass, could have seen them in the coffee shop or eating lunch in the big seating area, anywhere, really - Jake will hunt down which frat he’s in and personally set the whole goddamn house on fire, starting with that asshole’s bedroom-

“A Professor Gregory Barnham,” Everly says. The words mean nothing to Everly. They mean entirely too much to Jake.

“My fucking Ethics in Political Philosophy professor?” For a second, his brain just refuses to reconcile what he’s been told. He’s been careful in that class. He’s kept his head down, stayed quiet, and the professor never told him not to bring Chris and the professor has smiled at Chris. Said hello. Nice guy, if definitely not super into the pet lib thing, and Jake had been so careful, bringing Chris in the back, keeping him carefully separate from the other students.

Not careful enough.

That son of a bitch saw Jake with a kid who was slowly coming out of his shell and he thought, better call WRU on this one. Better have that kid all fucked up again.

He’s probably not going to go back to that class. He’s probably going to fail it. He’s probably going to spend the next week convincing himself not to light the professor’s house on fire, and feeling like he kind of owes Frat Guy an apology for assuming the worst.

Sorry, dude, you trusted my intentions enough to be fuckin’ vulnerable about your shitty fucking fraternity buying a fucking preson, I decided to repay the favor by assuming you’re the asshole who could have gotten my family killed-

Jake doesn’t think about calling them his family. The word doesn’t even register in his tired mind. It’s just there, the foundation of the thought.

“Why tell me who called in?” Jake asks. He can’t figure out this guy’s angle. He’s giving Jake too much information, isn’t he? Showing him Chris’s video, the contract signing of an underage kid, the fucking governor the one apparently buying him… telling him who called him in… why give him all of this? Why give him all this information?

He’s too exhausted to try and outthink him. He… just doesn’t get it. He needs three days of sleep and probably some serious medical attention at this point, and he can’t even begin to try and think through this until he gets at least one of those things.

“Already told you, numbnuts.” Everly lets go of him, and Jake breathes a sigh of relief as he steps away. “I’m making you nice and angry. Go on, Jakob Collins Stanton. Go be the face of the fuckin’ movement. I can’t wait to see your fuckin’ dumbshit expressions on TV. Go on, Stanton. Get real… fucking… angry.”

Jake sees the black baton unhooked from the guy’s belt in the corner of his eyes, and his muscles tense, but he doesn’t move.

“Why tell me it was the Governor?” He asks, but the baton is already swinging at his head. When it connects, Jake’s head smacks forward into the metal table, he drops to the ground, and everything goes black.

He wakes up and the metal table and chairs are gone. The TV and its little wheelie tray are gone. The zipties on his wrists are gone and his shoulders scream as he pulls his hands forwards, looking at how deeply the plastic dug in. His head is pounding, throbbing, and he feels even more exhausted than he did before.

He cries, for a while. There’s a cop in the room who doesn’t stop him or help, just kicks a box of Kleenex across the floor.

Eventually they tell him he’s been charged with resisting arrest, but that his bail’s been paid. No one tells him but he sees a calendar on his way out, limping heavily, walking in bloodstained jeans and T-shirt looking like he lost a fuck of a fight, and realizes he’s been here for three days.

Chris has been alone for three days.

Any hint of pain Jake is feeling is washed away by the panic that takes its place. Chris can’t handle being alone that long. He needs touch, needs it, the constant never-ending compulsion for human contact that all of the ones like him have. Who even knows what he’d do - go next door or let anyone who knocked in or, shit, just start testing people, like he does, and that could get him hurt or killed or taken advantage of or-

Unless Nat…

“Uh, um,” Jake stumbles over his words, and the cop glances at him, dismissive. “Natalie… Natalie Yoder. The woman with me. Is, is she… was she let go before me, or…?”

The cop gestures ahead of himself, and Jake raises his eyes to see Nat sitting on a bench with a vaguely familiar man that Jake has never actually spoken to before, although he’s seen him watering flowers outside his yard. He looks like some kind of cowboy.

Natalie looks like hell - rings around her eyes and a few bruises littered across her face - but he can tell he looks worse, because both she and the man who lives across the street from the shelter recoil when they see him.

Natalie jumps to her feet. “Jake, what the hell-”

Jake walks to her, as fast as the cop will let him, and nearly collapses against her, resting his head on her shoulder. She puts one hand up over his hair on the back of his head and the other around him, holding him tightly. “I resisted arrest,” Jake says. “Apparently.”

“Yeah,” Nat murmurs. “Me, too. Jefferson here’s our neighbor, he’s come to take us home.”

“Is… everyone safe, there?” Jake asks, low-voiced, just above a whisper.

“We’ll talk in the car. Come on, we’re all paid up, they’re ready to sign off on us going. I… didn’t know about your dad, Jake.”

Jake stiffens and pulls away from her, looking away. “Yeah, well. I didn’t know about your job history, did I? We both kept secrets.”

There’s a silence, long and uncomfortable, broken only by the sounds of the department around them - people working at computers, talking on phones, chatting over coffee. It makes Jake think of the lawyer in the video, sipping her coffee before they dragged a teenager in to sign his life away, watching with a passive, uncaring expression while they beat his hands with a baton.

“Guess we have some things to talk about in the car on the way home, huh?” Nat says, trying for cheer. When Jake responds with silence, she sighs. “Fair enough. I should have told you.”

“Yeah. You should have. I have some other stuff to tell you, too, about who called-”

“I know,” Nat says, heavily, rubbing at her eye with one fist, looking oddly like an exhausted toddler. “They told me. That landscaping company that works down the street.”

“Wait.” Jake frowns, looks around. No one’s really looking at them, now. “Wait. I got told it was one of my professors.”

“You did?” Nat hesitates. “Then they gave us two different stories, Jake. So… which one is true?”

“If you ask me,” Jefferson says, in a soft, unobtrusive voice, “probably neither of them. Come on, we can continue this little guessing game in my car, yeah? I’ve laid down some towels, I had a feeling you might still be, um… bleeding… like that.”

They leave the police station in silence, Jake sitting in the backseat of Jefferson’s ancient Subaru, beat half to hell but the thing’s still running, somehow. All he can think of is getting home to Chris, keeping his promise.

“Look,” Nat says, after they’ve sat in silence other than Jefferson’s quiet NPR playing from the car’s radio. “When I started the job-”

“Not yet.” Jake cuts her off, and his voice is harsher than he means it to be. His eyes have closed and he’s not sure how he’ll ever open them again. “Chris first.”

“You know, your, um… Chris is really doing fine-” Jefferson starts.

“Don’t care. I don’t want to think about anything else just yet.” Jake’s face throbs. His head feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton dipped in acid. His shoulders ache, his wrists look like they’ve been wrapped in razorwire, one of his ribs is probably bruised, he knows his torso is a fucking mess of black and blue, he’s exhausted and starving and pissed off and all he can think about is that fucking handler saying, go on, Stanton. Get real fucking angry.

What does it mean that they want him to be? And if they gave he and Nat two different stories about who turned them in, which one is true? What if neither of them is? What’s their plan? Or is there one? Maybe they just want him to get paranoid and freaked out, see if he stumbles, fucks it up. Maybe this is all just to get him wondering exactly who is out to get him.

Maybe Everly just thought it’d be fucking funny to get him all worked up.

He can’t think about this now. He’s too tired, he’ll only make the dumbest fucking decisions if he tries.

No, he just…

He just has to get home to Chris.

Keep his promises, first. Figure out everything else after that.

Told you I’d come back for you, man.

Jake thinks of the boy in the video, asking about his Aunt Jo, the look of crumbling sorrow in his face at their reply.

I made a promise to you, and I’m going to keep it.

But I am definitely real fuckin’ angry.

146 notes · View notes

thelittlesttimelord · 3 years

Text

The Littlest Timelord: The New Doctor Chapter 6

TITLE: The Littlest Timelord: The New Doctor Chapter 6 PAIRING: No Pairing RATING: T CHAPTER: 6/? SUMMARY: With the Doctor newly regenerated, he and Elise must now navigate their new relationship. The Doctor is an old man and Elise is a headstrong young woman. She is no longer the scared little girl the Doctor saved all those years ago. Will Clara be able to keep them from killing each other?

“That was weird,” Clara said as they walked down the eyestalk.

“You've seen nothing yet,” the Doctor told her.

“What are the lights?”

“Visual impulses travelling towards the brain.”

“Beautiful.”

“Welcome to the most dangerous place in the universe.”

“Entering the cranial ledge now,” Journey said.

They stepped out of the eyestalk.

“Oh, my God,” Clara breathed.

Below them was the body of the Dalek.

Elise had never seen the inside of a Dalek before, but it didn’t change her thoughts on them.

“Behold, the belly of the beast,” the Doctor said.

“It's amazing.”

“It's huge,” one of the soldiers said.

“No, Ross. We're tiny,” another corrected them.

“So how big is it, that living part, compared to me and you, right now?” Clara asked.

“You see all those cables?” the Doctor asked her.

“Yeah.”

“They're not all cables.” The Doctor made a gesture with his hands like tentacles shooting out, making Clara and Elise laugh. Maybe her father was still in there somewhere. Maybe.

“Does it know we're here?” Ross asked.

“It's what invited us in,” Journey said.

The Doctor started walking around explaining things. “Now, this is the cortex vault, a supplementary electronic brain. Memory banks, but more than that. This is what keeps the Dalek pure.”

“How are Daleks pure?” the female soldier asked.

“Dalek mutants are born hating. This is what stokes the fire, extinguishes even the tiniest glimmer of kindness or compassion. Imagine the worst possible thing in the universe, then don't bother, because you're looking at it right now. This is evil refined as engineering.”

“Doctor?” the Dalek asked.

“Oh, hello, Rusty. You don't mind if I call you Rusty? We're going to need to come down there with you. Medical examination, and all that.”

“What, with those tentacles and things?” the female soldier asked.

“How close do we have to get?” Journey asked.

“Well, you know, we're never going to insert a thermometer from up here,” the Doctor said.

Journey nodded and Ross fired a harpoon into the Dalek’s ledge.

There was a horrible screeching noise.

“No. No, no, no, no! Stop, stop, stop, you idiot!” the Doctor yelled.

Ross fired another harpoon.

The Doctor rushed at Ross, but Journey stopped him.

“We need a way down, the only way…” Journey told him.

“This is a Dalek, not a machine. It's a perfect analogue of a living being, and you just hurt it. So what's going to happen now?”

“Oh, God,” Clara said, grabbing onto Elise’s hand.

The redhead squeezed her hand.

“What? What is it?” the female soldier asked.

“Antibodies?”

“Dalek antibodies,” the Doctor confirmed.

Round objects floated towards them.

“Nobody move Any attempt to help him, or attack those things, will identify you as a secondary source of infection. Stay still!” the Doctor told them.

The antibodies opened up to reveal a big blue eye, exactly like a Dalek. They surrounded Ross.

“But the Dalek wants us in here,” Clara said, “Why is it attacking?”

“Can you control your antibodies?”

“Ross, stay calm. We're going to get you out of this,” Journey told him.

“Can you?” Clara asked the Doctor.

The Doctor pulled something from the wall and tossed it to Ross. “Ross, swallow that.”

“What is it?”

“Trust me.”

Ross swallowed it. “Now what?”

An antibody aimed a beam at him.

“Ross!” Journey yelled as Ross disintegrated.

“Oh, my God. What's it doing?!” Clara shrieked.

The antibody sucked up the remains. The blue eye turned red.

“The hoovering,” the Doctor said. The antibody flew off and the Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver. “Gotcha.”

“What did you give him?” Clara asked.

“Oh, just a spare power cell, but I can track the radiation signature. I need to know where they dump the bodies.”

“You sacrificed him? How could you do that! You were supposed to save him!” Elise yelled.

“He was dead already. I was saving us. Now shut-up. Follow me and run.”

Elise hit him on the chest, shoving him back a few steps. “You are such a heartless bastard! He…he would have never done that. He would have saved him.”

How could this be the same man who had joked around with her and Clara to make them feel better? How could he be this uncaring the next second? It was like a switch inside him was flipped.

“Elise! I am him!”

“No you’re not! You may call yourself the Doctor, but you will never be him!”

The Doctor didn’t let it show, but Elise’s words had wounded him. But why couldn’t she see that everything he did was to protect herself and Clara?

The Doctor turned away from her and started running.

Clara grabbed Elise’s hand and pulled her after the Doctor.

The anti-bodies were following them.

The Doctor stopped at a hole in the ledge. “They've dumped him in here. Organic refuse disposal. We need to get in there.”

“Why?” Clara asked.

The female soldier and Journey shot at the antibodies.

“Those antibodies won't give up until we're inside there. I'd rather go in alive than dead,” the Doctor told them.

“You don't know where it goes,” Journey said.

“Yes, I do. Away from here. Now in. In! In!”

Clara jumped into the hole.

“I can hold them off!” the female soldier yelled.

“No, you can't.” The Doctor tried sonicing the antibodies. “Pull back. Down. Jump, everyone, jump.”

Journey and the female soldier jumped, leaving the Doctor and Elise.

“Come on, Elise. You can do this.”

Elise nodded and took a deep breath before jumping.

The Doctor jumped in after her.

She could him laughing behind her as they slide down. Elise cracked a smile until they landed in some type of liquid.

Clara groaned. “What is this stuff?”

“People. The Daleks need protein. Occasionally, they harvest from their victims. This is a feeding tube,” the Doctor explained.

Elise tried her hardest not to be sick.

“Is Ross here?” Journey asked.

“Yeah. Top layer, if you want to say a few words.”

Journey shoved the Doctor against the wall.

Clara grabbed Elise’s arm to keep her from attacking the young woman.

“A man has just died. You will not talk like that.”

“A lot of people have died. Everything in here is dead, and do you know why that's good?”

“There is nothing good about that.”

“Nothing is alive in here, so logically this is the weakest spot in the Dalek's internal security. Nobody guards the dead. Mortuaries and larders, always the easiest to break out of. Oh, I've lived a life! Tell Uncle Stupid that we're in. Ah ha! A bolt hole.”

They climbed out of the gunk as the Doctor unscrewed a large bolt with his sonic screwdriver.

“Oh look. It’s actually doing what it was designed to do,” Elise quipped. She saw the Doctor’s lips twitch and she prided herself on almost getting a smile out of him.

“He'll get us out of here. The difficult part is not killing him before he can,” Clara told the others.

“Bolt hole. Actually, a hole for a bolt. Does nobody get that?” the Doctor asked.

“Also, there's the puns.”

“Watch it, decontamination tubes are hot.”

They climbed into the decontamination tube.

“Rescue One to Mission Control,” Journey said.

“This is Blue, Rescue One. Report,” her uncle said.

“The Dalek has an internal defense mechanism. We've lost Ross.”

“What kind of defense mechanism? That thing knows you're in there to help it.”

“Yeah, well, who knows? It's a Dalek. We're going to continue the mission.”

“Are you all right back there? It's a bit narrow, isn't it?” the Doctor asked.

“Any remarks about my hips will not be appreciated,” Clara said.

“Ach, your hips are fine. You're built like a man. Elise is the one we should worry about.”

“Thanks,” Clara muttered.

“Oi!” Elise snapped.

“We both know you’re built like your mother,” the Doctor said.

Elise’s hearts stopped at the mention of River. This was the first time she’d heard this body mention her.

They climbed out of the decontamination tube.

The Doctor helped Elise and Clara down.

“What's that noise? Are you wearing a Geiger counter?” the Doctor asked as the female soldier climbed out.

“Standard battle equipment. That's just low level radiation.”

“But stronger down here, for some reason. Give me it.”

The female soldier handed him the Geiger counter and he walked over to the large circuit boards. “I've got it. I know what's wrong with Rusty.”

“Okay, that's good. Is that good?” Clara asked.

“Well, you know how I said this was the most dangerous place in the universe? I was wrong. It's way more dangerous than that.”

“Colonel, we have radiation indicators red-lining in here. Could be that the Dalek is badly damaged than we thought,” Journey told her uncle.

“Copy that.”

“Old Rusty here is suffering a trionic radiation leak. It's poisoning the Dalek and us. Just as well we're here.”

“Really? Perhaps we should get out while we can. Why should we trust a Dalek? Why would it change?” Journey asked.

“Because there’s something serious wrong with it,” Elise said.

“Rusty? What changed you?” the Doctor asked.

“I saw beauty,” the Dalek answered.

“You saw what?”

“In the silence and the cold, I saw worlds burning.”

“That's not beauty, that's destruction,” Journey told the Dalek.

“I saw more.”

“What? What did you see?” the Doctor asked.

“The birth of a star.”

“Stars are born every day. You've seen a million stars born. So what?”

“Daleks have destroyed a million stars.”

“Oh, millions and millions. Trust me, I keep count.”

“And yet, new stars are born.”

“Every time.”

“Resistance is futile.”

“Resistance to what?”

“Life returns. Life prevails. Resistance is futile.”

“So you saw a star being born, and you learned something. Oh, Dalek, do not be lying to me. Come on.”

“Heading for the Trionic power cells, Colonel,” Journey said.

“Radiation approxing two hundred Rads. Danger levels.”

They stepped into the power cell.

“We're at the heart of the Dalek,” the Doctor said.

“It's incredible,” Clara said, looking around.

“Yeah, it’s great. Being inside your greatest enemy,” Elise said sarcastically.

Electricity crackled above them.

“Geiger counter's off the scale. Looks like it's about to blow,” Journey told them.

“Good,” the Doctor said.

“How is that good?”

“Well, Elise and I like a bit of pressure. Rusty, can you hear me?”

“Doctor?” the Dalek asked.

“Rusty, we've found the damage. I'm sealing up the breach in your power cell.” He welded the crack shut with his screwdriver. “No more radiation poisoning. Good as new. There. Job done.”

“That's it? Just like that?” Clara asked.

“An anti-climax once in a while is good for my hearts. Rusty? How do you feel?” The Dalek didn’t answer. Rusty? Rusty? Rusty.”

“The malfunction is corrected,” the Dalek said.

“What's happened?” Journey asked.

“Not entirely sure,” the Doctor said.

Lights came on.

“It's like it's waking up.”

“Rusty, come on, talk to me. What's going on?”

“The malfunction is corrected. All systems are functioning. Weapons charged.”

“Oh, no, no, no.”

Elise looked at the Doctor and glared. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

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