#i feel like a broken excuse of a person sometimes it's a hard pill to swallow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

be-gay-do-heists · 3 years

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OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV. this is the version with the third person POV, otherwise nothing is different from the other version !

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Contrary to what the four crazy people he spent his time risking his life for nowadays thought, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to his jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made Eliot’s ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. He was an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-Eliot, or perhaps the Eliot-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard he had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of his mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, Eliot didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, he could get out of bed. His head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in his best interests to swing his twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push himself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to Eliot’s best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let him forget it and the scar on his hip that put a falter in his giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those he sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today his hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to his mid-forearm, settled into him all familiar-like and made its home in him.

In the bathroom, Eliot used his wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck his mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. His morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for his post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took Eliot longer to shimmy on the sweats he knew he wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made him appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until he was face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, he put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing his grip. A light flex had Eliot drawing it back like the metal had burned him, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. He took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge his hand between the handle and the door so he could open the fridge with his elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind his collarbone faded quickly as the hitter scanned its contents and realized there was nothing he wanted to eat, or at least nothing he wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to his throat, and he slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw himself down, cradling his hands in his lap.

Eliot knew the drill: in an hour, he would grit his teeth and get to up to try and fumble open his bottle of painkillers, and if he succeeded, he would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so he could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone he had left on the nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as his ringtone and Eliot hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so he ignored it. His ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from his clenched teeth as he levered himself up to get to it as fast as he could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between his shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

He rubbed his eyes with his wrist, frustrated that he had forgotten he was supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in his mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

Eliot snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before he could open his mouth, his doorbell rang, drawing a groan from him. If he was correct about who the “we” was, it seemed silly to even ring it. His suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. Eliot had already moved back to the couch, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” he growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” Eliot muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through his snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. Eliot made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When he next opened his eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on his coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in the hitter’s lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Eliot’s first instinct was to deflect. He trusted his team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that he had these days. That he wasn’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before Eliot could tell him just what he thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of his face, the thief reaching down to poke one of his hands faster than he could stop her.

By the time Eliot was able to refocus and pull himself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at him with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. Eliot thought he might have howled; he wasn’t sure. Both his hands were clenched tightly to his chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. He felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on him. He summoned the anger from his throat, the only weapon at his disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at him, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” Eliot turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

Eliot looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on him and let him wallow by himself. The hitter wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den he had accidentally put his foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning him an earful of hissing that scared the shit out of him. He wondered if he seemed as belligerent as that now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in Eliot’s space to let him feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

He didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of him. It was his to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at his hands. He hummed at Eliot’s slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” Eliot mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at Eliot’s growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

Eliot looked him in the eye for the sincerity he already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of his favorite traits of Hardison’s. Hesitantly, he extended his hands, rolling his eyes at the hacker scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, Eliot took the medication from her fingers with his teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to his lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” Eliot managed, once he had his breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while he was distracted trying to find the right response to that, that they wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted him to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to his forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. The hitter froze, and Hardison did too, meeting his eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At his tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on his arm, rubbing circles so lightly that Eliot almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down his forearm. When he got to his wrist, Eliot couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through his nose, high and strained. Hardison moved away from there immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” Eliot grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before he could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of his forearm. Eliot breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” Hardison said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Eliot’s thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that he didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of him that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over his head until his pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. He didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of him murmured. Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he had been offered something like this, let alone the last time he had taken the person up. If there was anyone he trusted to do it, if there was anyone he wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could he refuse them even he wasn’t fully on board with what they were suggesting?

“Sure, just…” Eliot said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on him. He licked his lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under Eliot’s hands, resting on his knees. Eliot tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above his head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in his hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to the hitter’s forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through his hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. Eliot winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” he grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed his scalp. His breath stuttered again as Hardison’s hands started working towards the sore meat of his wrist. Eliot’s hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. Eliot cracked open an eye to see him looking between his hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” he gritted out, doing a poor job of masking his genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

The hacker tapped his index finger against Eliot’s arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through Eliot’s hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts he had, mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, he insistently pushed his head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in his chest, leaving him longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left his throat as Hardison probed the bottom of Eliot’s palm, the ache drawing him back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry. You still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to Eliot’s again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in his hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching his scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on Eliot’s hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. He don’t know how long he sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched him, fixated on the single task of caring for him. The thought made the tender space behind his breastbone twinge. When he surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. Eliot grunted, lifting his head from the couch to look at the two of them sitting beside him, grinning at his movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in his, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

Eliot looked down to his hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other he tightened his fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving his thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” Eliot simply said back, a real smile rising to his lips.

#leverage #miko speaks #fic #my fic #ot3 #check og post for more notes

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seita · 4 years

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— you love too easy | hitoshi shinsou (m.)

pairing: hitoshi shinsou/f!reader

genre: angst, fluff, smut

wordcount: 𝟾𝟹𝟾𝟶

cw: childhood friends!au, roommate!au

tags: unrequited love, pining, toxic relationship (oc x shinsou), brief kaminari x reader, cunnilignus, dirty talk, pet names, praise kink, fingering, size kink, loss of virginity, light virgin kink, creampie, squirting, angst with a happy ending

note: sorry if u like kaminari. i made him a huge douchebag in this. i swear i like him i just needed a character to be,,,,well, a douchebag.

— all your life you'd been by his side. you've loved him since you could remember. you've always been by his side so why did he give his heart away to everyone but you; the one who would treat it right?

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He fell in love too easily. You knew that your entire life. He’d give his heart away to anyone and everyone, fully and with everything he had. He loved with every fiber of his being. And it always ended in disaster.

You couldn’t count how many nights you’d spent by his side rubbing his back as he cried because his girlfriend lied to him, comforting him as he hunched over a toilet after crying himself sick because his girlfriend cheated on him, or forcing him to eat because he got so depressed after she ignored him.

It was an endless cycle.

Yet you were always there to build him back up -- to pick up the pieces.

Ever since the first girlfriend he had in Kindergarten that lasted for 2 days and ended in his tears up to the girl he dated in senior year of highschool who cheated on him with her ex...you were the one to fix him.

Yes, Hitoshi Shinsou fell in love far too easily and way too hard.

The thought that kept you awake every night, however, was why couldn’t it be you? You were the one who took the best care of his heart -- being the one to piece it back together every time it was broken. He didn’t need to love anyone else. If he just loved you, he would never have to worry if he just gave his heart to you.

But he never would.

Because he didn’t love you like you loved him.

You’d known him since you were babies -- your parents were friends in highschool and it went on well into adulthood.

Naturally, the two of you grew close -- it was inevitable. Your crush on him developed in childhood -- you two got lost in the mall after you strayed away and he kept you safe and calm until you found your parents, his hand clasped tightly around yours as he let you cling to him. That was the first time you realized he made your cheeks feel warm and your tummy fluttery.

Your parents always joked that the two of you would fall in love and get married. It was nearly impossible for that idea not to be imprinted in your mind.

Except, it was never an idea he entertained.

Part of you felt foolish. You were a grown adult with a crush that you’d harbored since childhood -- pathetic, one-sided crush at that.

The thing was, unlike Shinsou, you’d never dated before. It was never something you desired. Sure, you had confessions and love letters but you’d never once accepted them. You just couldn’t see yourself being with anyone but him.

Upon graduating, the two of you realized how terrible it was to be 18 trying to make it in the adult world. After a few years of fumbling and nearly getting kicked out by not making your rent payments on time, you decided that rooming together would be the best idea.

It was a foolproof plan; you’d known each other for your whole lives so it wasn’t like you’d suddenly hate each other, you knew he was responsible with his money and you were too, and he was a quiet, chill guy so there wouldn’t be any obnoxious ruckus.

What you didn’t think about, however, was him bringing girls home.

“This is Aoi,” he introduced, motioning to the smiling girl beside him, “Aoi, this is _____...she’s my best friend.”

“And his roommate,” you added, holding your hand out politely.

“Oh you...live together?” you didn’t miss the distaste in her tone as she reached out to give you a weak handshake, pulling away as quickly as she could. She immediately wrapped her arms around his and he leaned how to press a kiss to the top of her head.

Ouch. That made your heart hurt.

Of course, it was nothing new. This was something you’d been through time and time again.

What you hadn’t accounted for, was her dislike of you. Naturally, his past girlfriends hadn’t always been fond of you -- after all, you were a big part of their boyfriend’s life. And jealousy was a fickle disease.

But Aoi’s dislike bordered on hatred and disgust over you. Every chance she got, she was pulling Shinsou away from you with some thinly veiled excuse. It seemed your best friend was none the wiser as well.

You couldn’t blame him -- he was in love. Unfortunately.

Aoi’s glares were ice cold, often sending shivers down your spine when she set it upon you. It was uncomfortable to say the least. She was at your place often enough for you to take up the art of avoiding her.

That is until one day when things seemed to come to a head for her. You weren’t sure what you did but you found yourself cornered in the kitchen one evening while Shinsou was taking a shower -- leaving just the two of you alone.

“Listen to me,” Aoi spat, arms crossed over her chest, making her look petulant, “You need to back off of Toshi.”

“Uhh...what?” you grunted, looking up from the glass of chocolate milk you were pouring.

“Stay away from him!” she spat.

“We literally live together,” you rolled your eyes, capping the pint of milk, “I can’t stay away from him.”

“You know what I mean,” she hissed, clearly pissed off by your sarcasm. She marched up to you, grabbing your upper arm in a vice grip, her acrylic nails pinching your skin, “I see the way you look at him. I know that look in your eye. You love him.”

Your mind blanked, mouth opening but failing to produce any words. She smirked smugly, stepping back and crossing her arms again.

“I…” your brows came together as you shook your head, finally putting the milk away.

“I knew it,” she huffed, “You can’t take him from me. Toshi is mine so you better remember that. You have no idea what I can do to you.”

With that parting threat, she stormed out of the kitchen back to Shinsou’s bedroom. You felt tears sting your eyes, feeling utterly humiliated by her.

Another thing about Hitoshi Shinsou is he’s terribly dense sometimes. You had no idea how he managed to miss the horrifying tension between you and Aoi. But he somehow did.

The three of you sat in the living room -- the two of them cuddled on the couch while you curled up under a throw blanket with your phone open to Twitter on the loveseat. They were watching some movie Aoi picked out that you knew Shinsou hated, but he watched it anyway. The thought made you bitter.

You’d never make him watch movies he hated. That’s just selfish.

You let out a sigh, catching your best friend’s attention immediately.

“What is it, darlin’?” he asked, the usual pet name he used for you making your stomach flutter. Aoi’s eyes narrowed in distaste at it but he paid her no mind.

“Oh, I’ve just got a bit of a headache,” you mumbled, locking your phone to look over at him.

He frowned, concerned, pulling his arm from around his girlfriend’s shoulders. She whined at the loss, attempting to pull him back but he paid her no mind.

He disappeared from the living room to the kitchen. You could hear the refrigerator open before he began shuffling around the cabinets.

“You’re not slick,” Aoi hissed, keeping her voice low, “Why don’t you just go away. Don’t you think he’d prefer to be alone with his girlfriend? You’re just a third wheel.”

You didn’t get to reply before Shinsou returned, holding a glass of your chocolate milk and a couple pills. He smiled, handing everything to you before taking a seat with Aoi again. She immediately clung to him with a whine.

“Thank you Toshi,” you smiled, popping the pills in your mouth before taking a quick gulp of the milk.

“Anytime, darlin’” he smiled, turning his attention back to the movie he hated.

Part of you felt prideful that he was willing to pull himself away from his girlfriend to take care of you. She clearly saw you as competition and you couldn’t deny the giddy feeling it gave you when you proved to her that you meant something to Shinsou.

You noticed very quickly when Shinsou stopped calling you by his nickname. It baffled you and you didn’t hesitate to bring it up to him.

“Ah, Aoi mentioned she doesn’t like it when I call other girls pet names,” he rubbed the back of his neck in that familiarly anxious way of him. He was avoiding your gaze, further ticking you off.

“I’m not other girls, Hitoshi,” he visibly cringed at hearing his full name, “I’m your best friend. You’ve always called me that.”

He sighed, biting his lip, clearly torn, “Sorry _____,” you frowned at the sound of your name. It seemed so foreign hearing it where he’d usually call you ‘darlin’’, “She is my girlfriend and it’d be shitty of me to neglect her wishes. I want this to work, you know?”

You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest, “This is stupid Hitoshi.”

He sighed, clearly growing annoyed as well, “Look, you’re just my friend, alright? So back off.”

Your jaw fell open at those words, tears already starting to sting at your eyes, “Just your friend? That’s low, Hitoshi. I am not just your friend and you know it.”

He groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair, “You’re starting to sound jealous and clingy, _____. It’s not a good look.”

Feeling that the tears were going to spill any moment, you shook your head and stormed past him, “Screw you Shinsou.”

You slammed your bedroom door, missing the sight of him burying his face in his hands. Hearing you address him by his last name was even worse than hearing his first.

Things remained tense between the two of you for a week. You had really been hurt by his words. You always thought you meant a lot to him -- that you’d never be the person who was pushed aside for a relationship. You never thought Shinsou would do that.

As a result, you made no effort to even speak to him. Sometimes you’d pass him while he sat on the couch, Aoi snuggled up to him. Whenever you made eye contact with you, she held this smug, superior look that made you want to clock her.

You’d never hated a girlfriend of his more.

Finally, Shinsou gave in. He couldn’t stand not having you to talk to. There was this heavy feeling lingering on his shoulders every time he thought about the cold way you called him by his last name. He never wanted to be addressed like that by you.

There were a series of knocks on your door and you paused, debating on ignoring him. He knocked again when you took too long to answer.

“Come in,” you groaned, putting your laptop aside to give him your attention.

“Hey,” he smiled half-heartedly as he slipped into your room, closing the door behind him.

“What do you want?” you asked, no bite in your voice.

He sighed, taking a seat beside you on the bed, “I want to apologize for what I said. I know that hurt your feelings so I’m sorry.”

You were quiet for a moment before you sat up straighter, “Hitoshi...I don’t want you to become a different person because of a girl.”

“What do you mean?” he frowned.

You sighed, “I think she’s a bad influence on you, Toshi.”

He softened briefly at your use of his nickname but it was quickly replaced by a cold stare that sent shivers down your spine, “A-A bad influence? I’m not a kid, _____.”

You frowned, “You don’t have to be a kid to be negatively influenced by another person's toxicity, Hitoshi.”

“You think she’s toxic?” he scoffed, standing up, “You don’t even know her. You’ve barely even spoken to her.”

“Well the bit that I have spoken to her was not pleasant,” you spat, moving to sit at the edge of the bed with your feet on the floor, “I don’t think she’s good for you.”

“What are you, my mother now?” he growled, spinning around to glare at you, “Maybe I was wrong...maybe you are just jealous.”

“How am I acting jealous?” you cried, growing frustrated, “Caring about your wellbeing is jealousy now?”

“Oh get off it,” he groaned, “What’s she done then, huh? Tell me.”

You paused, remembering her threat. But you were so pissed off you couldn’t keep it in anymore, “She’s threatened me to stay away from you. She’s so insecure about our friendship she threatened me over it! Said you were hers and I better remember that. She’s crazy!”

“She didn’t say that,” he argued, eyes narrowed maliciously, “You’re just making shit up to make her look bad now. That’s really low, _____.”

“You asked me to tell you what she did and then you just don’t believe me?!” you screeched, tossing your hands up in exasperation.

“I thought you’d tell me the truth, not make up some pathetic lie!” he shouted, making you flinch.

“Pathetic?” you breathed, shoulders sagging, “Is that what you think of me?”

He was quiet for a moment, jaw set. He seemed to be thinking his words carefully, which made his next even more painful, “Yeah. I do. This jealousy and lying of yours is pathetic. I get if you don’t like her but don’t make up shit about her,” he made way for the door, yanking it open, “Grow the fuck up, ______.”

You didn’t get a chance to reply before he was slamming your door shut. All at once, your emotions came crashing down and you buried your face in your pillow to silence your sobs.

Your eyes fluttered open and you groaned, feeling your head pound. A glance out the window showed that it was nighttime. You had fallen asleep.

You climbed out of bed to your desk to find your packet of headache pills. You let out a sigh of relief as you swallowed them down with the bottle of water sat on your nightstand. Flopping back into bed, you closed your eyes and attempted to relax your body.

Just as it seemed that you were going to fall back asleep, there was a loud noise from past your door. You frowned, your eyes fluttering open in confusion.

It came again and it took you a moment to realize what it was. A woman’s moan.

“Toshi!” you heard her squeal, making you flinch.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you hissed, feeling those tears come burning their way back.

“That feel good, baby? Let me hear you,” he growled and your hands flew up to cover your ears to muffle the sounds of her pleasure.

This was low for Shinsou. Sure, he’d had sex with girlfriends before but he always made sure to keep it down for your sake. Now he was just doing it to dig at you.

He wasn’t wrong about your jealousy but you knew he thought you were jealous over his attention being taken away. But that wasn’t the case at all. It was because you were in love with him.

Now he was forcing you to listen to him fuck the girlfriend you literally had a fight over. This wasn’t like Shinsou at all.

She really was just a terrible influence on him but he was too in love to see it. She was making him into a different person and you hated it. It was happening so quickly.

As you laid in bed, tears wetting your bed as you hid your head under your pillow, you couldn’t help but think.

The stupid fool really fell in love way too easily.

Things went from bad to worse astonishingly fast. Aoi was over more often than she had been before. The snotty comments and humiliating words from her every time you saw her and the cold, deadly glare Shinsou set on you whenever you came anywhere near his girlfriend was wearing on you.

You were unhappy. It was an emotion you rarely ever felt around him -- Shinsou was always the one to pick you up, not put you down. It got to the point where he wouldn’t even respond to your greetings or questions, giving you the complete silent treatment.

It hurt.

To escape the suffocating negativity of your apartment, you picked up even more shifts at work. The video game shop became a place you found solace in.

If Shinsou noticed your absence, he didn’t make it known to you.

“Will that be all for you today?” you asked, plastering on a fake, customer service smile onto your face.

“Yeah, I guess,” he mumbled, slapping down a few bills to cover the charge, “But I think I’d like to add your number to my receipt.”

You took a moment to look at him. He had blonde hair with a lightning bolt of black through it. He was dressed in black jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket. He was cute, you’d give him that.

“Is that the best you could come up with?” you asked, opening the register with a brow raised.

He giggled, making you smile despite yourself, “I was on a time crunch I didn’t want to miss my chance.”

“Who said you had a chance to begin with?” you asked, passing him his change, “3.14 is your change.”

“Well, I was hoping you’d give one to me,” he shrugged, stuffing the change into his pocket before grabbing the bagged video game he’d purchased.

You gazed at him for a moment. He was charismatic and cute. He liked video games just like you. And he’d be a great distraction.

“Sure, why not?” you mused, watching his eyes go wide.

“Wait really?” he gasped, a grin stretching across his face.

“Did you think I’d say no?” you asked.

“U-Usually I get rejected so…” he shrugged, scratching the back of his head with a cute blush reaching his ears, “Anyway, when’s your shift end?”

“Um...closing time, so about 8:30,” you replied, glancing at the clock. 5 hours left.

“Sweet, I’ll pick you up!” he grinned.

“I-I’ll have to change though!” you complained, making him pause and shake his head.

“Don’t worry about it!” with those parting words, he bolted out the door, the bell chiming to signal his departure.

As he disappeared from view, you realized you didn’t even know his name.

You would come to find he was Denki Kaminari; a college student majoring in graphic design. He had a friend named Katsuki Bakugou who was as loud as he was angry. Eijirou Kirishima was a kind, chill guy who mellowed out the explosive Bakugou well. Mina and Sato, two friends-turned-lovers, were a common source of laughter for the group.

You were together for a little over a month and a half when he finally asked to meet your friends. Truth be told, the only person you could consider a friend would be Shinsou. You had acquaintances and those you hung real casually with but Shinsou was the only person you’d consider a friend.

Well, you weren’t sure if he could even be called that anymore.

Eventually, you gave in and decided to bring Kaminari to your apartment.

“Whoa, nice place,” he mumbled, looking around.

“You think so? Thanks,” you smiled, leading him towards the living room, “Like I said...things are...tense between me and Hitoshi so…”

“Who’re you?” a familiar voice came from the entry of the hallway.

Shinsou stood there, messy hair and tired eyed wearing basketball shorts and an oversized t-shirt. His eyes burned holes into Kaminari, who visibly shrunk beneath the heated glare. You took note of how Shinsou didn’t even look at you.

That still hurt.

“I’m Denki Kaminari,” the blonde replied, approaching Shinsou to shake his hand, “I’m _____’s boyfriend!”

You didn’t miss the shift in Shinsou’s look, his eyebrows perking up ever so slightly. His gaze finally shifted to you before he scoffed from his nose, making you wince.

“Alright,” Shinsou mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets before turning his back to the both of you, stalking back to his room with a slam of the door.

Kaminari winced, “Boy, you weren’t kidding.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, motioning him to follow you, “Let’s head to my room. I don’t know if Aoi is here or not and I don’t care to find out.”

“I kinda wanna meet her too,” your boyfriend whispered, lowering his voice so it didn’t carry to Shinsou.

“No you don’t,” you chuckled, shutting your bedroom door once the two of you were safely inside.

You sat beside him on the bed, reaching for your remote to click the TV on for background noise. He cuddled in beside you, commenting on how soft your bed was.

“You smell really good,” he suddenly whispered, nosing at your neck.

You blinked in surprise, moving your head so he could get a better angle, “Th-Thanks…”

He hummed as you shivered once he pressed a few soft kisses against your neck. It tickled a bit but also sent a strange tingle down your spine the more he kissed. Your heart hammered in your chest and you briefly wondered if Denki could hear it.

He cupped your jaw, pulling you into a deep kiss. His tongue met your bottom lip, making you sigh against his lips.

You barely noticed his hand crawling up your shirt until it snuck beneath the band of your bra. The unfamiliar feeling of someone cupping your breast had you pulled away, tugging on Kaminari’s hand to pull him away.

“W-We shouldn’t…” you whispered, unsure of how to reject him, “W-With Shinsou the way he is…”

Kaminari looked skeptical for a second before nodding his head, “Got it.”

And that was that.

At least you thought until he began trying more and more. It became common for you to find his hand up your shirt. The feeling made you uneasy, making you realize you really weren’t ready to have sex. Kaminari was your first boyfriend and you weren’t willing to give everything up to him like that.

“Why do you always stop me?” Kaminari asked one day, voice soft and reassuring.

“I just…” you cleared your throat, biting your lip, “I don’t want to go that far yet.”

He was quiet for a moment before smiling and nodding his head, pulling you closer to him with a kiss to your forehead. Your body relaxed, thankful that he wasn’t angry with you like you had feared he would be.

He began following your wishes, no longer attempting to go past kissing. You were thankful.

Unfortunately, your bliss didn’t last long because next thing you knew, he was dumping you. Over text.

You had just got home from work, your feet aching and dread pooling in your stomach at the idea of being home. You were so tired of being scared to come home, it was exhausting. Shinsou was sitting on the couch, eating something he’d made himself for dinner with his back to you. He didn’t even show any signs that he knew you were home.

Lingering by the door, you pulled your phone out to check your notifications.

One from Denki made your heart stop -- the preview text already displaying what you feared. Your fingers were trembling as you unlocked your phone to look at the message.

As you read it, the words grew blurrier until tears began to drip onto your screen -- further obscuring the words there.

A small whimper escaped your throat, despite the way you tried to choke down any sounds. You quickly scurried to get to your bedroom when a strong hand snagged your wrist. Wide eyed, you were spun around to find Shinsou wearing a frown and furrowed brows.

“Why are you crying?” he asked, voice stern with concern.

You shook your head, feeling pathetic. You didn’t like Kaminari that much. Truthfully, you were mostly dating him to get away from Shinsou. But the idea that you were dumped because you wouldn’t have sex was utterly humiliating. Your first real boyfriend dumped you because you wouldn’t put out.

“You were right,” you sniffled, unable to hold back the sob that tore through your chest, “I am pathetic.”

He didn’t have the chance to even think of a reply before you were escaping his hold to hide away in your bedroom. You haphazardly stripped and changed into your softest set of clothes, deciding you were going to wallow in your own self pity for the night.

Your humiliation overshadowed the fact Shinsou had shown you the first sign of care in weeks. He had reacted to your crying just as he always had and instinctively moved to comfort you.

You could hear muffled voices from the hallway, one male and one female. The fact he brought her over after you just had a near meltdown in front of him irked you and only brought more tears forth.

A sense of anger rushed over you -- you didn’t want her there. This was your house and you didn’t want her there while you were going through it. You had half a mind to go out there and kick her out, maybe Shinsou would let it slide since you were clearly having a tough time.

What you didn’t expect were the shouts coming from them. You frowned and walked towards your door, cracking it open to listen to their shouting from the living room.

“You’re kicking me out?!” Aoi cried.

“I’m not kicking you out,” Shinsou sighed, “You don’t live here. I’m just asking you to go home for the night, Aoi.”

“Why should I?” Aoi argued, “Because she’s upset? Who cares!”

“I care!” Shinsou snapped.

Aoi scoffed, “Oh yeah, since when? Last I checked you picked me over her!”

“I didn’t pick anyone over anyone,” Shinsou huffed.

“Really?” Aoi’s tone was dripping in sarcasm, “You haven’t paid her a second of attention since your little fight. I doubt you even noticed how she’s been working full-time instead of part-time. Why do you think that is? To get away from you! Not that I give a shit, but you have been treating her like dirt. So don’t even try and pretend you give a shit, I know you don’t. You only feel bad because she’s crying. Once she gets over it you’ll just come back to me in the end. So just let her sulk by herself, she’s a big girl.”

Shinsou was quiet after that. You were sure he wasn’t even going to respond but you continued to stand there and listen. The apartment was silent, you could even hear the ticking of the decorative clock Shinsou’s mother had given you both.

“She was right, huh?” he finally whispered.

“Huh?” Aoi replied, clearly annoyed.

“I really did let you turn me into someone else,” he sighed, “God, I’m so stupid.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Hitoshi?” she snapped, growing impatient over the argument.

“You should leave,” Shinsou said, voice strong once again, “You and I are done.”

“What?!” Aoi shrieked, stomping her foot, “You can’t dump me! Not for her!”

“Get out, Aoi,” Shinsou growled, yanking the front door open.

She scoffed, “Don’t come crawling back to me when you learn she isn’t worth it.”

The slam of the door signalled the end. Silence ensued and you slipped back into your room, letting your door shut silently.

Just as you expected, there were a few soft knocks on your door. You didn’t reply but he opened up anyway, peeking in to find you sitting on the bed with your head hung.

“I assume you heard all that,” he said, cupping the back of his neck nervously.

“Yeah, kind of hard to miss,” you mumbled, feeling awkward about sharing this moment with him.

You didn’t look up when he sat down beside you. With a sudden tug, you found yourself wrapped up in a sweet embrace.

“Why were you crying? Did something happen with that Kaminari dude? Did he hurt you?” his concern brought forth a new flood of tears that you let go.

“He dumped me,” you whined, clinging to the front of his shirt.

“Why?” he asked, petting your hair softly.

You scoffed, shame building up inside you, “Because I didn’t want to have sex with him.”

Immediately he pushed you back by your shoulders to look at your face, “He dumped you ‘cause you wouldn’t fuck him?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze, “He said he had needs and he wasn’t willing to wait for me to put out.”

“Jesus,” Shinsou scoffed, shaking his head, “What a prick,” he pulled you into his chest again with a sigh, “It’s good you didn’t sleep with him then. He wouldn’t have been worth it.”

“Yeah, I would have regretted it,” you nodded, “I’m not even sad he broke up with me. I just feel like shit that it was over sex. He was my first boyfriend and I got dumped because I wasn’t ready...that sort of feels shitty, you know?”

Shinsou nodded, resting his cheek atop your head, “I understand. It’s like a blow to your self-esteem, yeah?”

“Exactly,” you sniffled, your tears finally coming to a stop as he held you and let you talk, “I didn’t like him enough to sleep with him anyway. Even if I was ready.”

Shinsou chuckled, “Well, I’m glad you’re not heartbroken over it.”

You were quiet for a long moment before you pulled away from him, “How are you? I know you liked Aoi.”

Shinsou frowned, looking at his hands in his lap before shrugging, “I actually don’t really feel anything.”

“Really?” you asked, surprised. Usually he would be in tears by now. But he was right, there wasn’t even an ounce of sadness in his eyes.

He nodded, “All I really cared about was you. I guess realizing what she really was wiped out anything I felt for her. Truthfully, it was probably going to be over soon anyway.”

“Why do you say that?” you asked.

“We just didn’t have good chemistry, I suppose. The sex was great but beyond that we didn’t really share any common interests,” he explained, leaning back on his hands with a sigh.

You cringed at the mention of sex -- remembering the night you sobbed as you were forced to listen to them go at it. Shinsou seemed to notice your discomfort, leaning up straight once more to take your hands in his.

“I’m sorry, ______,” he breathed, making you look up at him, “I was such a fuckin’ asshole to you. You didn’t deserve that and if you chose to never forgive me I would understand. But I promise I will never let a girl come first again. You’re my best friend, you’re the entire world to me and you will always be here when all the girls leave, I know that. No one can ever replace you.”

His words caused a flood of tears to flood down your cheeks again. You threw your arms around his shoulders, tugging him into a desperate hug. He wrapped his arms around your waist, fisting the back of your shirt with his face buried in your neck.

“I will always be here, Toshi,” you hiccuped, “I really will. It doesn’t matter if you choose the next 50 girls over me, I would never let you go. I would rather live with you ignoring me and making me cry over not having you at all.”

He sighed, tears of his own falling from his eyes and wetting your skin but you didn’t mind, “I would never ask that of you.”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, voice trembling. You couldn’t stop the next words from coming, you didn’t even try, “That’s how strong my love is for you, Toshi. I would do anything for your happiness. I’ll let you cry on my shoulder when girl after girl breaks your heart, even though it hurts so damn much because I know I would never, ever let you down like that. I’ll sit with you in the living room while another girl is wrapped in your arms, desperately wishing it was me, because you want me and her to be friends. You don’t even know it but you have every bit of me,” your voice broke as you let out a sob, taking a stuttering breath before continuing, “I never dated because I only ever loved you. You’re the only one I ever want to love. I don’t even care if you don’t feel the same, Toshi, I just needed you to know...I have loved you since we were kids. Whenever your mom joked that we would get married, I used to go to sleep hoping it would come true one day. You’re it for me, you know?”

Shinsou was still, every muscle in his body tense against you. You remained relaxed, relishing in being held in his arms even though it very well may be the last time you would ever experience it. His tears had stopped and you could feel his hands trembling against your back from where he was still holding your shirt in tight fists.

Finally, slowly, he pulled away. You avoided his gaze, scared of what you may find there. With trembling fingers, he lifted your chin until you were finally forced to meet his gaze.

“______…” he whispered, your voice like honey on his lips, “Is that true? Since we were kids?”

You chuckled through your still falling tears, “Remember that time at the summer festival when I wandered off and you had to chase me? And I got scared because I couldn’t find our parents? When you let me hold onto you and you kept reassuring me that everything was okay…” you shrugged, your voice cracking as you uttered, “I knew I loved you then. And I love you to this day.”

His wide eyes were glassy as he stared at you, mouth agape in his shock. It was so much for him to take in.

Before you knew what was happening, he was leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. Your vision went white for a second in shock at the feeling.

His lips were soft and as you began to kiss back, you tasted coffee on his lips. Typical of Shinsou, it was late at night and he was still drinking coffee. The thought made you smile and you wrapped your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss. He cupped the back of your head, a soft sigh escaping him as he moved his lips expertly until you were breathless.

After a long moment, he pulled away. The both of you were panting, eyes lidded as you processed what just happened.

“Toshi…” you whispered, feeling euphoric after kissing him, “I don’t understand.”

He shook his head, cupping your cheek, “All you need to know...is that I love you too.”

You gaped at those words coming from his lips. Surging forward, you pressed your lips against his again. He smiled into the kiss, leaning further against you until you were forced to lay back against the mattress. His body was hovering above yours, held up by his elbows on either side of your head.

He wasted no time in touching your body, years of desperation finally culminating into this one moment. His hand slid beneath your shirt, pushing the hem up to expose the soft skin of your belly. He paused at your ribs, unsure if you were okay with him going any further. But when you gripped his wrist and urged his hand up to cup your breast, he threw away those inhibitions.

Thumbing your sensitive nipple, you keened as they hardened beneath his touch. He leaned down a bit more to press his lips against yours.

You lost yourself against his lips, whimpering and grinding against nothing. Just the fact the man you’d loved for so long was there touching you after years of craving it had your panties soaked.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, breaking from the kiss to kiss down your body.

You trembled beneath him, watching him with rapt attention as he kissed the exposed skin of your stomach and ribs. Sighing, you let him push your shirt over your head to discard off the side of the bed. He leaned forward, enveloping one of the pert buds in his hot mouth, tonguing at it until you were whining and begging him to give attention to the other one. He did so eagerly, providing a stimulating suck before finally pulling away. His lips were swollen and his cheeks were flushed, the very fact you made him that way was dizzying.

“Wanna taste that perfect cunt too, baby,” he growled, voice losing the soft, sweetness it once held.

“O-Okay,” you agreed easily, raising your hips so he could tug the last remaining articles off of your body.

The second you were bare, his hands were pinning your thighs open. His eyes examined every inch of your pussy -- taking in the juices dripping from your clenching hole.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groaned, using his thumbs to spread your folds apart, “so pretty too, god. Look at you...you’re perfect. Bet you’re so sweet…”

“Please Toshi…” you whimper, reaching down to tangle your fingers into his hair.

His eyes fluttered at the feeling, allowing you to pull him to your pussy where he eagerly ran his tongue flat between your spread folds. You gasped, eyes slamming shut as he paused to wrap his lips around your clit for just a split second. The teasing touch was addictive and you suddenly wanted more.

Shinsou understood what it is you wanted and quickly dove back in for more. Circling his tongue around your clit, your back arched. You wanted to close your thighs against the stimulation but his strong hands kept your legs pinned open.

He swirled his tongue quickly, moaning before enveloping the bud in his hot mouth. You tugged his hair, crying out his name as you felt a high approaching rapidly. He looked so good between your thighs, eating your cunt like you’d dreamed of for ages.

Suddenly, he pulled away, licking his lips before sitting up.

“Fuck, tell me babygirl,” he breathed, “You gonna let me fuck this pretty cunt?” you nodded, reaching to push his shit up but he stopped you, looking you in the eyes, “Use your words. Tell me.”

“Yes, please fuck me Shinsou!” you begged.

He grinned, pressing a kiss against your lips before stripping himself of his clothes.

You almost gasped at the sight of his cock. He was big; long and thick. Subconsciously, you clenched your thighs together in anticipation.

“You ready?” he asked, scooting to sit between your spread legs.

You tensed up as he prodded your entrance with the fat head of his cock. He realized how tense you were and ran his hand along your thigh to soothe you, “You good? You can back out anytime, darlin’.”

You swallowed thickly, feeling your cheeks heat up as you looked at him through your lashes, “I-It’s just...go slow?”

He frowned, brows drawn together before he backed away from you a bit, “Is this your first time, sweetheart?”

Licking your lips, you hesitated before nodding. Shinsou sighed, hanging his head to rest against your collarbone. You frowned, “I-Is that bad?” you asked.

Truth was, you never wanted anyone but him. You never had a desire to have sex with anyone but him. You knew he was the one person you’d never regret being with.

“No!” he sat up, eyes wide before wrapping his hand around the nape of his neck nervously, “I just wish you would have told me sooner...that was almost bad.”

“Why?” you asked,making him chuckle. He shook his head and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Well…” clearing his throat, he looked off to the side bashfully, “My dick’s not exactly the smallest around and since you’re a virgin you could do with...a lot more preparation, you know?”

Your cheeks were ablaze from the bluntness of his words. He didn’t waste another second in bringing his hand to your still wet pussy.

He sighed, a smile lingering on his lips as he worked his middle finger into your tight hole. Humming, he bit his lip as he slipped his ring finger alongside it. You sighed, eyes fluttering at the mild stretch that came along with it.

“Feel okay?” he asked softly, working the two fingers in and out of your hole.

You nodded, “Feels good,” you breathed.

Your eyes fell closed as he crooked his fingers upwards to touch that sweet spot on top. Your hips jumped at the sensation, ripping a moan from your swollen lips. He smirked, burying the digits deep, licking his lips at the way your juices gushed out from around them.

With his other hand, he found your clit, circling the bud with his thumb as he worked his index finger into the mix. The added stimulation to your clit made your wall clench tightly and he grunted, imagining what it would feel like around his cock.

“Please Toshi,” you begged, “I want you already.”

“Thank you’re ready?” he asked, although he already knew the answer.

And he was right when you whimpered out a pathetic little, “Yes!”

He resumed the position from earlier, his tip pressed against your entrance. It was opened a bit from his three fingers but he knew it was still going to be a tight fit.

He took your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as he began to sink into your cunt. You whimpered as your walls stretched around him, squeezing his hand. He bottomed out quickly, stilling to let you adjust to being stuffed so full of his thick cock.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“N-No…” you mumbled, “Just...feels weird.”

He chuckled, kissing your lips again. He could feel you squeezing around him, your cunt unused to having such a big cock inside. The fact he was your first, the one taking your virginity -- tainting your pure body was turning him on more than he ever thought it would.

He couldn’t even lie and say he’d never taken a cherry before but with you it was different. He felt a sense of pride and possessiveness wash over him; you were his completely. You had given him your heart and your body.

Burying his face in your neck, he pressed kisses against the sweet spot he easily found there. Grinding his hips against yours, he stirred your insides with his thick length until you were arching your hips to get more of the addictive pleasure only he could bring you.

He pulled out halfway, slowly sinking his cock back inside with a groan.

“That’s a good girl,” he praised, eyes glued to where your cunt was stretched around him, “Taking me so well, look at that.”

“Feels so good,” you whimpered, clutching the sheets beneath you in your fists.

“Yeah?” he grinned, pulling out so the tip remained only to surge forward and sink his cock into you in one long thrust. Immediately, your back arched and you let out an erotic moan that had his cock throbbing against your walls, “Fuck, my cocks almost too much for you but you’re bein’ such a good girl for me, aren’t you? Taking what I give you...fuck…”

His praise and dirty words went straight to your core. He set a steady pace, making sure to angle his hips up so he could hit your g-spot. The pleasure had your eyes rolling back and you cried out his name every so often, making his heart race.

“Sound so pretty sayin’ my name…” he groaned, cupping your breasts in his hands as he fucked you, “Pussy’s so tight and wet...I can feel you dripping, you know that? Who would have thought such a pretty cunt could get so messy. But you only get this messy for me, right darlin’?”

“Only you!” you babbled, wrapping your arms around his neck to press your lips against his. He moaned into your mouth, reaching between your bodies to circle your clit, “Fuck! Toshi, y-you’re gonna make me cum!”

“Fuck,” he groaned, “Do it then, sweetheart. Go on, cum on my fucking cock.”

A few more thrusts and circles over your swollen bud had you falling over the edge. Your body trembled and arched beneath him, cunt spasming around him as he worked you dutifully through your orgasm.

Once you came down, he pulled his hand from your clit and pulled out. You were panting, body limp and relaxed as you let him move you onto your hands and knees. Keeping your face buried in the pillow, you allowed him to maneuver you into the proper position.

He pressed his hand down on the small of your back, “Arch your back for me, good girl.”

“Th-This is embarrassing, Toshi…” you whispered into the pillow.

He hummed, gripping his cock to direct himself back into the sweet vice of your cunt, “No reason to be embarrassed, kitten. It’s just me...you can trust me.”

“I-I know...but still…” you whimpered, eyes fluttering as he sunk his cock deep inside. The position allowed him to reach a new depth.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked softly, running his hand along your spin.

You hesitated for a second, focusing on the pleasurable sensation of being filled so completely before shaking your head. He grinned, leaning down to kiss your shoulder blade, “Good girl.”

The praise went to your head and you suddenly had a desire to receive more. You wanted to be good for him -- be his good girl.

You lifted your head from the pillow and cried out his name, fucking yourself back against his cock. He grinned, slapping your ass lighter than he usually would do it -- he wasn’t sure how you would take to it. When he felt you clench around him in response, he grinned. That was something worth looking into it seemed.

“Toshi…” you whined, reaching back to grip at his hip.

He hummed, slowing ever so slightly, “What is it, kitten?”

“Please…” you whined, feeling your cheeks flush with embarrassment over what you desperately wanted to ask him.

“Please what?” he whispered, kissing your shoulder blade again, “Tell me what you need, baby.”

“C-Call me...y-your goog girl again…” you whispered, immediately burying your face in your pillow.

He paused, eyes wide before another grin grew across his face. Wrapping his arm around your waist, he pulled you up until your back was pressed against his chest. You cried out, his cock stilling inside you as he pressed his lips against your ear.

“You like being praised huh?” he asked, chuckling when you nodded, leaning your head back to rest on his shoulder. He enjoyed the fucked out look on your face, “Like being my good girl, hm? Such a pretty, sweet girl for me…”

You whimpered, walls clenching around his still cock, “I-I love you Toshi…”

He hummed, reaching down to find your clit. Circling over the bud, you keened, eyes fluttering as your cunt clenched tight around him, “I know you do, sweetheart.”

Suddenly, your walls squeezed, clamping down tight. He groaned, cursing under his breath as he felt your body seize up in your orgasm, trembling and gushing around his cock. He pressed his lips against your shoulder, looking down to where his length was buried completely inside.

You began to rock yourself along his cock, your orgasm flying to new heights as he never stopped playing with your sensitive bud.

Suddenly, he watched with wide eyes as your cum squirted out, soaking the bed and your thighs.

“Shit,” he growled, providing a few quick slaps against your clit, making you squirt just a few more times, “What a good fucking girl you are. Look at the mess you made. You’re so perfect, I love you so much.”

Those words had you clenching once again. That finally sent him over the edge himself. He rocked into you, holding you tight against him. His cock throbbed, spitting hot cum into your sensitive cunt.

He cupped your breasts, groaning in the throes of his orgasm as he pressed kisses against your shoulder, neck, and cheek.

When he finally came down, he gently laid you on the bed, pulling his cock out. His cum gushed from your hole without his length to stop it. You cringed, the feeling unpleasant to say the least.

He got out of bed to go to the bathroom intending to get a cloth to clean you with.

When he was gone, you found yourself thinking about what just happened. One particular thought was on your mind and when he returned, you didn’t hesitate to voice it.

“W-We didn’t use a condom…” you mumbled.

He hummed, “Were we supposed to? I thought you were on birth control.”

“I am...it’s just…” you frowned, clearing your throat as you watched him wiped your thighs and sensitive folds free of your mixed cum.

“What?” he sat beside you, fixing you with a steady gaze, urging you to confess your thoughts to him.

“You were just...dating, you know...Aoi and…” you sighed, averting your gaze from him, “Other girls before.”

He chuckled, laying beside you, “What, you’re concerned I have something?”

“Well no...not necessarily…” you frowned as he cupped your cheek, making you look at him.

“If you must know…” he shrugged before continuing, “I always used a condom with them.”

“Really?” he nodded at your question, “Then...why with me?”

“Because you’re you,” he smiled, kissing your lips, pulling you to lay against his chest, “You’re the one for me, kitten. That’s all you need to worry about.”

Yes, Hitoshi Shinsou fell in love easily. But he never gave those girls his heart. He cried because he thought he could never have you. The truth was, you had always owned his heart. It had always been in your hands.

#bnha x reader #shinsou x reader #bnha smut #shinsou smut #hitoshi shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi x reader #mha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #mha smut #afton.writes

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bucky-hues · 3 years

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sambucky fic recs

hellooo!! i've been wanting to do a sambucky fic rec, so i thought i'd do one for @fuckyeahsambucky ‘s fic yeah friday! here are some sambucky fics i love <3 do read the warnings on each fic!

one-shots

when i'm in a room with you (that missing piece is found) | @omg-just-peachy

sam x bucky

Three times Bucky falls asleep on Sam, and one time Sam asks why.

double dare | @omg-just-peachy

sam x bucky

Bucky follows his therapist’s advice to cultivate friendship, Sam makes him work for it, and by the time he’s sure they’re friends, Bucky has an entirely new problem on his hands.

press conference | @sammy-souffle

sam x bucky

Sam watches from a distance a journalist from Denver, Summer, puts her hand on Bucky’s arm and laughs at something he says. Her hand trails further up and squeezes his bicep which Bucky doesn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, he laughs along with her and leans in closer to her to say something. Sam closes his eyes briefly and swallows back his anger.

accidentally | @sammy-souffle

sam x bucky

x | @sammy-souffle

sam x bucky

request: during the time when sam is tracking bucky in romania, after sam and bucky get caught up in a fight against some hydra agents who were also tracking bucky

sam gets hurt and bucky feels guilty so he carries him inside to patch him up, they talk some stuff out, its all very intimate and both start to fall for each other a little

acquiring alpine | @sammy-souffle

sam x bucky

prompt: alpine being cute

x | @sammy-souffle (18+)

sam x bartender!bucky (modern au)

regrets | @sammy-souffle

sam x bucky

x | @jeffersonshattricks

sam x bucky

Bucky being completely oblivious that him and Sam have been dating for like 6 months and Bucky finally understands why Sam has been kissing him, sleeping in the bed with him, and being an all around sap with him.

reckless idiots tend to fall | @jeffersonshattricks

sam x bucky

Bucky and Sam are arguing cause Sam did something reckless on a mission and Bucky freaks out but oblivious Sam genuinely has no idea why. And then Bucky accidentally yells ‘because I love you’

tell me a secret | @jeffersonshattricks

sam x bucky

Every time Sam gets drunk he finds Bucky and asks him for a secret. Bucky always gives him one.

fucking ridiculous | @jeffersonshattricks

sam x bucky

Sam is pining and a bitter grumpy grump, Bucky is mostly oblivious but also pining. misunderstandings happen, feelings get hurt, people get hurt (like physically), and then confessions happen and all is well. yay! also the other avengers are just their nerdy selves for the most part!

come to the ocean, even when you're broken | @liminalmess

sam x bucky

“Bucky, hey, man, fancy meeting you here!” he said with an exaggerated enthusiasm that he probably knew would get under Bucky’s skin, clapping him on the shoulder as he sat down.

“I thought we were taking separate vacations,” Bucky grumbled back.

Or, in which Sam and Bucky go an accidentally not separate vacation to the Bahamas.

feelings | @yaksomins

sam x bucky (modern au)

sam crossed his arms and inspected the lobby. they were indeed the only people there, not including the few staff members seated at a table near a magenta-tinted arcade area with their noses buried in their phones.

"i think i can help with that," a voice said from behind sam.

sam turned and found himself face to face with the clerk they'd bought their tickets from earlier, the scruffy-looking man that seemed a little out of place amongst the younger staff. sam gave him a quick scan, his eyes catching the name plastered to his chest via a paper name tag, scribbled by hand using a marker.

"and what exactly can you do for us...bucky?" sam frowned. what kind of name was ‘bucky’?

"i can be your extra," he said, removing a hairband from his wrist and swiftly tying up his hair into a tidy bun. with more of him now visible, sam could get a better view of his face, all hard lines and soft eyes. "and it's a nickname," bucky added, smirking and moving past a puzzled sam towards the game room. "c'mon, let's suit up."

x | @yaksomins

sam x bucky

prompt: leaving each other notes

x | @yaksomins

sam x bucky

bucky takes sam for a ride on his motorcycle

i'll make this feel like home | @buckywilsonbarnes

sam x bucky

sambucky domestic fluff

x | @transjoaquintorres

sam x bucky

sam loves bucky's handwriting

just let me adore you | dharmainitiative (AO3)

sam x bucky

“Alright, what gives?” Sam demands. “Why do you turn down every single person I try to set you up with?”

He expects Bucky to avoid the question, come up with all sorts of excuses. What he doesn’t expect is for Bucky to start laughing.

“C’mon, Sam. Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“Sam,” Bucky finally says, slow and deliberate. “I’m not interested in anyone you’ve tried to set me up with because I’ve been gone on you for ages.”

watch your words | dancer_in_the_rain (AO3)

sam x bucky

sam insults bucky and then loses his shit when someone agrees with him

love, punch | @clintbartonswife

sam x bucky

Bucky can get protective, but Sam reminds him he doesn’t need to be defended - a confession is made

exchange rate | @joycesully

sam x bucky

Bucky's older memories are coming back, sometimes at the cost of more recent ones. What he cannot forget is tearing the wings off Sam Wilson. Too bad Bucky just let Steve talk him into staying with him and Sam. Consumed by guilt, the only thing Bucky knows to do by way of apology is to let Sam hurt him back. Fortunately, Sam has better ideas.

stubborn wounds | @constantwriter85

sam x bucky

When Bucky’s badly injured after trying to protect his partner, Sam realizes that he needs Bucky more than he’d care to admit.

nurturing | the_buzz (AO3)

sam x bucky (pre-slash)

Bucky isn't the only one who feels alone after coming back from the Blip.

keep the ashes from my heart (and walk away) | @coffeeinallcaps

sam x bucky

In which Sam starts dating someone who is not Bucky, and Bucky pines, gets seriously injured, and proves himself wrong.

you're blowin' my mind (with the things you say to me) | @jemgirl86

sam x bucky

After getting an earful from Bucky at the cookout, Sarah suggests Sam and Bucky have a chat... and they do.

(sometimes) all i think about is you | @softhauntedwinds

sam x bucky

Bucky discovers Sam Wilson's pre-blip media content and things escalate.

when the wheels come off (i'll be your spare) | @returnsandreturns

sam x bucky

“What, the government doesn’t pay you enough to buy some art?” Bucky asks, a minute after Sam lets him into his apartment, gesturing at the blank walls. “It still looks like you just moved in.”

“Uhm, I’ve been busy being a national treasure,” Sam says. “The government doesn’t pay you enough to buy a shirt that fits?”

Bucky glances down at his long sleeve t-shirt for a second before he looks back up with a grin.

“I’m just a part-timer,” he says, shrugging.

forever and a day | @returnsandreturns

sam x bucky

When he sets the needle, Ella Fitzgerald croons and he glances over to see Sam sitting up, looking interested as she sings it’s very clear. . .our love is here to stay.

Bucky can flirt and he can really tell that he’s still got it by the way Sam’s mouth drops open for a moment when he saunters up and offers a hand, smiling with all the potential of where this could lead and asking, “Care for a dance, doll?”

Sam stares up at him before he sighs and mutters, “Fuck, that’s really working for me somehow,” and lets Bucky pull him onto his feet and into his arm.

world's greatest uncle | @novembermurray

sam x bucky

Rhodes arrives in Delacroix to bring Sam up to speed on their newest mission and deliver the bad news: Bucky Barnes has gone AWOL. He's in for a few surprising discoveries.

panic | alienspronkles (AO3)

sam x bucky

When Sam and Bucky go to Sarah's place for a get together, Bucky's anxiety starts kicking in. And he's trying to hide it from everyone there.

series

sam and bucky first date 2: electric boogaloo | ObsessiveExplosion (AO3)

sam x bucky

Sam is gearing up to ask Bucky on their first date, but he is interrupted by a bullet wound to the shoulder.

sam and bucky go to a fourth of july party | ObsessiveExplosion (AO3)

sam x bucky

Sam and Bucky, recently engaged, make an appearance at the annual Delacroix Fourth of July Block Party, and Sam ends up partying a little too hard.

the gang navigates and airport | ObsessiveExplosion (AO3)

sam x bucky

Sam and Bucky have to navigate an unexpected layover on their way home from a mission, made more difficult by the fact that Bucky has just taken a sleeping pill designed for Super Soldiers.

he followed me home one day | AshaCrone (AO3)

sam x bucky (au)

He was supposed to be starting fresh.

Sam Wilson was moving from New York to Washington and picked the worst possible Friday to finish his move. But he does what he does best- stops to help.

And asks a passing stranger for a little muscle to get some trapped people out of a car. Feeds the stranger a protein bar.

Now a lost cyborg has followed him home. And he isn't quite sure what to do about it.

#sambucky fic #sam x bucky #sam wilson x bucky barnes #sambucky #fysbfriday #fysambuckyweek

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bluestarscribbler · 3 years

Text

Writing Characters With Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD)

Hi everyone! :) How are you doing? 🥰💕 Today I'll be outlining the main do's and don't's of writing characters with SAD, as well the definition and the main symptoms of SAD.

DISCLAIMER: I am not diagnosed with SAD myself; however, all of the following information had been obtained from different posts and sites of people that have first-hand experience with SAD. I will be linking those at the end of today's post, please feel free to check them out.

What I learned from the intense research I did is that nobody has social anxiety the same. Some people feel like they can't breath. Others tend to laugh in awkward moments. Nobody is the same. No character is exactly alike. You can't get it "right," because it's not an exact science. So don't feel too pressured while writing a character with SAD, there's no "one" way to write them. A helpful approach is to think what about how the SAD fits into the story you want to tell because the topic is really as complicated as any other and you can view it from many different angles and go as deep as you want - depending on what this story you're trying to tell calls for. So rather than trying to get an objective view of this complicated topic, focus on the aspects that are relevant to the story.

What is Social Anxiety Disorder?

AKA Social Phobia, SAD describes an intense fear and avoidance of negative public scrutiny, public embarrassment, humiliation or social interaction. This fear can be specified to particular social situations; such as public speaking, or more typically, is experienced in most/all social interactions. Those suffering from SAD will often attempt to avoid the source of their anxiety; this is particularly problematic and in severe cases can lead to complete social isolation.

Symptoms of SAD:

person paces a lot

very fidgety

stops talking mid sentence...a lot

wrings hands

angered by slightest infractions of others

finds fault in others a lot

hard to breathe when focus/attention is shifted to them

sweating profusely

mumbling

shrinking to hide

lack of eye contact/wandering eyes

painfully shy and withdrawn

picking the nails, picking the skin

always the person in the back of the room or in a corner

gravitating toward the first person they recognise and following them everywhere

headaches

finding ways to avoid certain situations

crying before or after social events

feel dizzy and the entire world becomes very far away

feeling like chest was caving in

assuming that everyone is focusing on them

assuming that people are laughing about them

grind their teeth a lot

bite their knuckles

tap out drum patterns with their feet or fingers

nausea and vomiting

muscle weakness

migraines

heart arrhythmia

increasing nervous tics

Keep in mind that social anxiety exists on a spectrum. Not everyone is paralysed at the smallest conversation, but some are. Others feel mild discomfort at certain types of socialising. It’s all relative.

DO'S:

DO write in a lot of internal dialogue. People with SAD say that most of their anxiety is created by their own internal rumination. So, add a lot of overly self-critical internal dialogue and have them think about trivial things that they may or may not have gotten wrong for hours after the fact. People with SAD also tend to avoid initiating with anyone, instead preferring for them (the other person) to initiate — because then they know they're not inconveniencing them (the other person). If a person with SAD does have to interact with people then they tend to plan and rehearse what they're going to say to them. However, once the social interaction has begun, there will be very little internal monologue. In those situations, the character is very much relying on instinct. After the interaction, if the character feels that they messed up (which is likely; be sure to pick up on even the slightest fumbles or awkward pauses), they should keep thinking about how they're an idiot and they want to never have to talk to another person again, because they know it'll end the same way. If they feel like they did a good job, they should express surprise at how well it went, congratulate themselves, and say that they should maybe do this more often — although they probably won't.

DO let them have observational skills. Part of the anxiety stems from not always knowing how to/being good at socialising. Thus an anxious person will watch others closely for clues to their performance and acceptance. While it doesn’t always tell the person how they are doing, it does teach them a lot about the people around them and how they feel about each other. The person in a group with SAD may actually have a better idea of who in the group are friends, enemies, annoyed with the others, think they are better, have crushes, and so on. Having SAD doesn’t mean that a person doesn’t know social cues, it means that they underestimate their ability to use them. Don’t confuse SAD with autism.

DO make it influence all decisions. This is one you can do as the writer and not include every bit of internal dialogue. Just keep in mind that Every decision an anxious person makes is put through the anxiety filter first. Even if they are doing things by themselves, they have to evaluate the chances of meeting people, meeting people they know, having to talk to people when they are done. Keep that in mind when writing these characters in order to keep their personality consistent. That said, in general you can think of someone with SAD feeling physically, mentally and emotionally uncomfortable and "out of place" in ordinary social situations - they want out of it, looking for the door, excuse to leave, cut the interaction short. There could be a sense of shame, guilt and self-loathing about not being "good enough", or that there is something broken and wrong with them (or society).

DO give them other traits. Make sure you give them other traits that influence their decisions and drive their motivations. Someone can have anxiety and also love adventure, want to save all the stray dogs, want to help orphans, want to be a basketball hero, etc. One of the big problems with SAD is that it interferes with a person’s desires to do and be other things. It doesn’t always win though. And sometimes a person may decide that an awkward encounter or two is worth taking part in some other activity they love. Just remember to keep your characters balanced.

DO let them find each other. SAD is probably more common than you’d think. Not everyone has a crippling case. You can have characters share their anxiety with each other and comfort each other and help each other through tough times. SAD can make a person feel isolated but they don’t have to be, and often aren’t as isolated as they think. That observational skill can also help them find the right people to share their feelings with. Not all socialising is terrifying, it can often be cathartic.

DON'T'S:

DON'T make them hate people. Social anxiety does not mean that the person afflicted doesn’t like people or always craves solitude. One of the harshest aspects of SAD is that a person may want companionship and friends but still have uncontrollable discomfort when faced with making friends or spending time with the friends they already have. This constant tug-of-war between wanting friends and feeling the anxiety around people can cause a lot of internal pain and lead to other emotions and conditions such as depression. Someone with SAD can have friends. Even a lot of friends. But certain factors may influence how a person with SAD chooses friends more than they influence others. The level of contact is different for everyone and there will be some friends who can take up more time while not taking up more energy on the part of the anxious person. However, SAD can get so bad that the person with it is unable to leave the house for days at a time, ghosting on all social engagements, not answering their phone and ignoring all texts; but that still doesn't mean they hate people.

DON'T always make them succeed. If you are writing about a person with SAD and they are forced again and again to go outside their comfort zone, make them fail. Have them go to a meeting and then duck down a side corridor at the last minute and disappear. Have them talk to a person and then freeze up in the middle of a conversation, at a loss for words. The longer they go without knowing what to say the stronger the anxiety gets and the harder it is to think. Or have them execute the socialising brilliantly but then go into the bathroom and cry from the overwhelming sense of effort it took to look normal. And just because they have had a few successes doesn’t mean that they will start succeeding every time. Sometimes, the energy it takes, even when the interaction was a success, means that next time they are reluctant or too exhausted to do it again.

DON'T always give them "tells". Anxious people can be very good at hiding it. In the example above of the person who socialises brilliantly and then cries in the bathroom, no one knows how hard it was. They only saw the brilliant “performance.” Keep that in mind. Not all people uncomfortable with socialising are bumbling awkward goofballs. Sometimes they actually appear very cool and collected.

DON'T suddenly make their anxiety disappear when they're at the end of their character arc. This pisses me off, anxiety is a life-long condition. It cannot be "overcome" easily. However, the person with it can learn to live with it. They can visit a psychiatrist, get pills prescribed or change their lifestyle completely to fit around their SAD. A person with anxiety always thinks about their anxiety. Even when they are happily at home reading a book, sometimes they will think about an upcoming engagement, or wish they made friends like the characters in their book. Every time a person with SAD makes plans they have to run through a list of criteria before nailing anything down. Will they have time before and after to prep for and cool down from the experience? Is it something they have done before and feel comfortable doing? Can they back out at the last minute if they feel too overwhelmed that day? These are just a fraction of the things that go through an anxious person’s mind before committing to plans. Again, this isn’t an absolute, but for many people with SAD it is a defining characteristic of who they are. They don’t talk to a single person, even a spouse sometimes, or make a doctor’s appointment without the anxiety affecting how they feel, think, and behave. It is always there. Always.

That's it for today folks! I hope everyone has an absolutely fantastic day! 😊❤

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#social anxiety #mental health #social anxiety disorder #writing tips #writing advice #writing #writblr #my writing #anxiety awareness #anxiety disorder #mental illness

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spencerreidscoffeecup · 3 years

Text

Chapter 5 | Beautifully Broken

TW: Self-harm, mentions of parental death, mentions of ab*se (from father), suicidal, depression, anxiety attack, (almost) an overdose on antidepressants, emetophobia (fear of v*miting if you don't know the technical term), cutting, s*icidal phone call

If you think any of this will bother you, I will write a short summary on the next chapter of this chapter so you can skip over this one!

Y/N's POV

"Thanks for the party, Spencer. I'm sorry."

I close his car door, taking a deep breath, the early morning air causing the hairs on the back of my neck to spike up. I feel terrible for how I acted to Spencer. He was just trying to help- but I couldn't bring him into my mess. I loved him too much to do that.

I walked inside, too emotionally exhausted to cry. I felt alone again, and that somewhat inexplicable feeling of wanting to control something in my life, besides what I consumed resurfaced. I set my things down, and walked to the bathroom. It was weird. I felt like I was in this dreamy state, like this wasn't happening--like I was numbed in the mind and being controlled by a greater force than me as if I was a marionette. I felt calm. Weirdly calm. As I entered my bathroom, I took the sharp, lustrous silver blade out of my bottom drawer.. Inserting it deep into my skin until I felt small relief. I looked in the mirror, the pain searing through my arm, my face stoic. I didn't even recognize myself.

I wished I could talk to someone, anyone. It wasn't that I didn't have people to talk to-because I did. I knew Spencer would listen to me if I wanted to talk to him.. But it wasn't about people listening or not listening to me. It was about me using this blade to cope with my problems instead of me growing a pair and talking to someone.

All the same, I never did anything about it, instead letting my problems eat me away. When I was younger and harming myself without exactly knowing what I was doing, my mom used euphemism to explain to me that what I was doing was unhealthy, so I wouldn't feel like I was a lunatic for scratching myself on purpose at seven years old because I thought I deserved it.

My mother was the only thing that kept me from taking my own life. I was not only dealing with depression and anxiety by the time I was in second grade; but was also dealing with physical and mental abuse from my father. I honestly had no idea how someone as kind and caring as my mother could be with someone so monstrous as my father. She was too sick to do anything about it, so I just took whatever my father gave me.

After my mother died and my father was made to look after me, he began hitting me more. One day, I decided I had had enough and left in the middle of the night. I took his money, and bought myself an apartment three hours from where we lived. I was only eighteen at the time and so I immediately was stressed out with how I was going to pay my bills and taxes, as well. So I then got six part-time jobs. I did online school, and graduated college at twenty. School was my only escape from my life, so I finished the courses quickly, as I was not only passionate about being in the BAU (it was always my dream-job), but I also loved the feeling of accomplishing things. I graduated early and top of my class. I joined the BAU three years later.

As you could probably tell, I was extremely busy. This was a good excuse for me to 'forget' to eat. I had always dealt with body dysmorphic issues, but my father made it worse, calling me ugly and obese all the time. I was nowhere near obese. I was 5'3 and 105 pounds. But because I was so insecure, I began to stop eating on purpose. I went on two-hour runs everyday and only drank water and ate ice-cubes and celery.

I try talking to people about it, but they either feel sympathy then leave, or instantly shut me down, telling me I am stupid for thinking that way. That's why it's so hard to talk to someone, even someone so close to me like Spencer. I knew he cared, and deep down I knew that he wouldn't leave, but my anxiety fogged away any chances I had at being reasonable. Therefore leading me to believe I would have to bottle up these feelings alone. I lie in my bed, closing my eyes so I can drift into a slumber to forget about everything for a few hours. I am alone.

Spencer's POV

8:00 a.m., Monday (2 days after the party)

The shriek of my alarm wakes me up, the sound setting off every nerve in my body. I quickly get ready, then head to the office. Memories of Friday night start to flood my brain, as guilt and anxiety create a hazy fog over the images. Had I done something wrong by trying to help Y/n? No, I couldn't have... she needs help and sometimes people have a hard time with confrontation, I knew that- I knew that from personal experiences.

I texted and called her about five times each, trying to make sure she was okay, but she had never returned my texts or calls, she only read my texts. I had been debating going over to her apartment and seeing her, but I decided against it. I had to talk to her today.

I get ready then drive to the BAU, nervously tapping my hand on the steering wheel. I arrive a few minutes early, and walk inside. The bullpen is quiet but busy. I look around, no Y/n to be seen.. Just Derek and a fresh stack of paperwork sitting on my desk, awaiting my arrival. "It's fine," I think, "she's probably just late. I also arrived two minutes earlier than usual so she is going to probably be here any minute." I try to convince myself but I just have this twisting sensation in my gut, as if something is wrong. I brush it off to be a guilty conscious or anxiety, and continue on with my paperwork.

Y/N's POV

2 days after the party, 8:00 am

I woke up this morning, from my alarm chiming in my ears. I can't go to work today. I can't. So I text Hotch:

From Y/n to Boss-Man:

Hey Hotch. I unfortunately cannot come into work today as there is a family emergency.

I know he knows that I have no family members left, but maybe he'll think it's a friend that's almost like my family,- emergency.

From Boss-Man to Y/n:

Okay, don't worry about it. There isn't much paperwork to be done today so you can just get it done tomorrow or Wednesday... Whenever you get to it. Take care, and let me know if you need anything

From Y/n to Boss-Man:

Will do. Thank you so much. :)

Hotch sends a thumbs-up back and I set my phone down, fidgeting with my fingers. I think of Spencer.. How he has called and texted me but I haven't replied back. I feel like shit. I just couldn't bring him into this mess with me. I walk to my kitchen, grabbing some water, and my medications. I take them, then look back down at the bottle. If I wanted to end it all I could. I walk away and sit on my couch. I can't do this anymore.

I lie down, and fall asleep for a few hours.

Spencer's POV

The day is almost over and there is no sign of the beautifully broken angel. My heart sinks a bit and I just can't get rid of that nervous feeling in my stomach. I finish my paperwork, turning it into Hotch before I ask him,

"Do you know where Y/n is?"

"She said she needed time off for a 'family emergency'." he says honestly.

She told me that she doesn't have any family members around, a few months ago. She never explained why, but she seemed touchy about the subject so I never pushed it any further.

I gather my things and leave to go to my apartment.

In the middle of driving home, I hear my phone buzz. I ignore it, not wanting to be distracted from driving. But the buzzing is consistent, distracting me already from driving. So, I cautiously pick my phone up to see Y/n's number flash across my screen. I almost crash my car into the other car in front of me, my heart skipping nervously. I answer.

"Spencer," I hear sobs breaking from her throat, tearing my heart apart. "I-I did something really stupid."

Y/N's POV

I woke from my slumber, the purple skies filling my vision as the night air from my open windows seeps into my apartment. I hear a buzz from my phone.

Boss-Man to Y/n:

Hello, I hope all is well. I tried to call you, but you didn't answer. I have some bad news. We believe your father is trying to track you down to find you. Try not to worry too much, we have you secured and locked down. Call me as soon as you can so I can give you more info.

I feel my throat close up, bile rising in my throat. I thought I was safe. I moved two cities down from where I used to live. My panic sets in as I begin to hyperventilate.

"No no no.. this cannot be happening right now." I whisper to myself, tears pouring out of my eyes. I hear my phone buzz some more, but I am too distracted to read any of it. I want to go away and never come back.

I rush to the bathroom, grabbing that metal blade and dragging it slowly across my skin. It didn't work. I didn't feel relief. I scream angrily, rushing to the kitchen. I want this to be over. I don't want to die. I just want the pain to stop.

With shaky hands I grasp my antidepressant prescription bottle. Taking a handful of them and washing them down with water as I wince, some scraping the back of my dry throat. I feel like I'm watching myself from a third-person point of view. I can't stop thinking of one thing-one person, as I fully swallow those pills. Spencer. I need him. I need to call him. So without thinking, I grab my phone, ignoring the missed calls and texts from Hotch. I quickly dial Spencer's number, as wrecking sobs break from my voice.

Spencer's POV:

"Spencer," I hear sobs breaking from her throat, tearing my heart apart. "I-I did something really stupid."

"What did you do?" I ask, keeping my voice soft.

"I can't do this anymore- I couldn't do this anymore. I'm sorry. I tried to cope with it but I can't anymore. I wanna go away. He's back." she chokes through her sobs, breathing heavily.

I try to compose myself, to not freak her out. Truth be told, I'm completely and utterly terrified.

"W-Who's back?" I stutter, "what happened, Angel?" I ask, trying to hold back my own sobs as tears fall down my cheeks. Who is she talking about?

"I was trying to get better, I'm sorry. I-I love you. I always have." she cries, gasping for air.

My heart hurts but swells at the admittance. I want to say that I love her too, but I can't. All that comes out of my mouth is,

"I'm coming over there." I turn my car around to head to her direction.

I try to talk to her, to ask her what's wrong, but she never answers my questions, only saying that she's sorry. She hangs up, and I panic more. I arrive at her place, running up to her apartment, as I open the door with the spare key she gave me.

Running in, I see her on the floor, lying there like a broken angel, unconscious. I see the pill bottles and my heart drops down to my stomach. It felt like a blur; me running over to her, and putting her in a bathtub with water, letting her lay on me as we both get soaked under her shower head. I take my two fingers and plunge them deeply into her throat, cringing slightly. A few moments go by and I hear coughing and gagging, throwing up the pills and bile that was left in her throat. She gasps for air, clutching on to my hand as I continue to comfort her, by rubbing her back and brushing her hair out of her face. She turns to me and cries.

"I-I'm sorry," she says through sobs.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," I softly say to her as she wraps me in one of her hugs. "You're going to be okay... I'm gonna help you- we'll get through this together." I use my free hand to turn off the water and we just lie there, cuddling. I kiss the top of her head, as she sniffles into my shirt. Tears sting my eyes, but I need to be strong.

"I'm proud of you," I whisper to her.

"Why?" she whispers back, grasping my body to pull me closer to her.

"Because you called me." I say.

After about ten more minutes of us sitting in her tub, I gently help her out of the water, giving her a towel, and some warm clothes. She keeps the bathroom door cracked open slightly as she changes. I then change and walk to her bedroom where she is.

"C-can you stay the night? Like sleep in the bed with me, please. I want someone here with me." she stutters nervously.

"Of course," I reply softly.

I get into the bed with her as she pulls me closer to her body. I kiss her forehead and she lies down on my chest.

"Thank you, Spencer." she whispers before falling into her own quiet slumber.

"I would do anything for you." I whisper back, not really meaning for her to hear it, but she looks up at me and smiles softly, that beautiful smile of hers. I take my thumb and gently caress her cheek with it. My cheeks burn a light pink but I am sure she can't see it as it is dark in her room, besides the white glowing moon casting a shiny glow on to her, making her look like a fairy.

As I drift off to sleep, I am reminded of what she said earlier... about her loving me.

'I love you too, Y/n', I think to myself. 'I always will.'

___________________________________________________________________________

AN: SAD. SAD. SAD. this chapter is very sad, I know, but I promise that it will get happier (there is a happy ending!!! i love happy endings!)

love you all!

Suicide Prevention Hotline: 800-273-8255

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whump-me-baby-one-more-time · 3 years

Text

They deserve better than this. Both of them. But this is all Caretaker can give Whumpee. (Cut because of length, TWs for forced pill taking, psychotic behaviour, mild violence, pinning down, implied waterboarding/drowning)

Whumpee is back on their knees again. Their eyes are wide and unfocused and they're shivering with the kind of fear that makes them nauseous. A twisted kind of sickness churns in their empty stomach. Caretaker is crouched before them. In their hand is a little pill and they placed the glass of water on a nearby dresser when Whumpee started thrashing.

Their face is lined with exhaustion.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee," they say. They've given up on trying to soothe Whumpee when they get into this state. No assurances of safety or care ever seem to penetrate these panic induced fits. It's like talking to a frightened rabbit. It doesn't understand your language and the closer you try to get the more likely it is to die of a heartattack.

Caretaker never liked rabbits.

But they like Whumpee. Or they used to, anyway. They still care for them, and if anyone were to ask they'd vehemently deny any feelings of ill-will towards them.

But Caretaker is tired. And Whumpee... Whumpee isn't who they used to love. Not anymore. Occasionally the person they once were will peek through on good days, but it's a cheap reward for all the rest. All the breakdowns and the night terrors and the screaming and, somehow even worse, the silences that can last for days - after a while that old familiar smile just isn't enough to compensate Caretaker anymore.

They don't get paid to do this, either. Every time Whumpee throws up food or spits out their meds it comes out of Caretaker's own pocket.

"This is going to help you calm down," Caretaker says, offering the pill to Whumpee. "Come on, just take it. Open up."

And Whumpee flinches away, shoulders pressed into the walls of the corner they backed themselves into. Their jaw works as they press it together. Stubborn tears glisten in their eyes but they refuse to make a sound.

Caretaker grinds their teeth.

"We've been through this a dozen times, Whumpee. I don't want to hurt you, I'm trying to help you, so please, please don't make this so hard on us both. Be good, just for once."

Whumpee's breath stutters. They always try to be good, don't they? They always try. But Whumper is never satisfied, never satisfied, never, and the only thing Whumpee can expect is pain. Every time Whumper chirps at them to "be good" it's almost immediately followed by agony.

Whumpee curls up on themselves a little more.

"Okay," Caretaker says in a way that gives that word every meaning apart from "okay." They pick the pill from their palm and hunch their shoulders.

"Last chance, Whumpee. Just level with me, yeah?"

But they're not even sure the words filtered through to Whumpee.

"It's alright," they say as they approach the jittery creature. "You'll feel better in a moment. This'll help you come back down to reality."

They're in Whumpee's space now but they don't let themselves be deterred by Whumpee struggling when they touch them.

They hold the pill up to Whumpee's dry lips. Whumpee flinches violently but Caretaker expected it. Their hand is firm but not unkind as they grip Whumpee's jaw, shushing their hoarse whimpers of terror.

"It's alright, Whumpee. I won't hurt you. Just open your mouth."

Whumpee lashes out, once, hitting Caretaker in the chest, but it's weak and useless and they start shivering even worse from the anticipated punishment.

The tears are spilling freely now, but their lips are still pressed together tightly.

Caretaker closes their eyes for a moment.

They're so tired. Physically and mentally and emotionally, it all just seems to drain out of them a little more with each day. And Whumpee doesn't seem to be getting better. At first it was fine, but then they started having these fits and Caretaker doesn't know how to deal with that. The doctors say it'll pass with time. Maybe. Eventually.

Just give them the meds, that'll calm them down. Oh, and drive them to therapy, too. Can't get Whumpee into a car without alerting the whole neighbourhood to the shrieking and sobbing person you're apparently trying to kidnap? Don't worry, we have drugs for that, too! They'll make therapy impossible, but hey, maybe go for a picnic in the park instead, fresh air and good food can also aid in recovery. Whumpee keeps throwing up from the meds you gave them? We have a pill for that. Whumpee is barely capable of walking back to the car now? Who cares, as long as they're not screaming! You should be glad we've been able to help you out at all. Don't be so impatient. Just be happy you have them back, who cares that they can't feed themselves? Who cares that you haven't slept through a single night in two weeks? Who cares that you haven't had any time of your own lately? Who cares? Don't be so ungrateful. You love them, don't you?

Sometimes Caretaker wants to scream, but they don't. Sometimes they want to push a pillow down on Whumpee's face until they finally go to sleep for good and save themselves the pain of watching someone they used to know thrash and sob from a pain that Caretaker can't do anything to fix. But they don't. Because they do love them. And somehow that makes everything worse.

Because sometimes Caretaker will remember how it used to be. Sometimes Whumpee will wrap their arms around them in a hug or grin at them or look up from a puzzle with their head cocked the same way as it was before. Sometimes Caretaker watches Whumpee sleep, too worried to sleep themselves, and recognizes the face they used to love so much back when it was free of the strain of anxiety and pain.

They love Whumpee and that is so much worse than indifference because it hurts every time Whumpee lashes out at them or flinches away from them or looks at them like they're no better than Whumper at all.

And sometimes, some evenings, deflated on the couch with the Whiskey on the table and the bad thoughts in their head, they're not even sure if they're any better than Whumper themselves.

Maybe Whumpee is right.

But worst of all is how angry it makes them. Indifference would be a gift, because indifference has never bred hatred. Love on the other hand... Sometimes Caretaker isn't even sure who they're angry at. Whumper, they told themselves in the beginning. And that particular rage has never faded, that's true, but it's amassed companions over the months. Anger at Whumpee for being so uncooperative. For being so difficult. For being unreasonable. For being ungrateful. Annoyance at their antics. Their fits. Their night terrors. Their nervous habits. Their broken language. Disgust at the skin they scratch bloody. At the imbecilic way they can stare off into space for hours at a time. At the teeth starting to dissolve at the back of their mouth from all the acid they throw up. Disgust born out of frustration. Frustration, anger, sadness, despair, pain, rage, bargaining, annoyance; Caretaker goes through fifteen stages of grief every day and it's slowly wearing them thin.

Especially because all of these feelings are also directed towards themselves. Even when Whumpee has gone to sleep and the world should be okay, it isn't, because Caretaker and that bottle of Whiskey will stay up for hours trying to justify the thoughts and feelings they had that day and why it didn't make them a bad person, and fail miserably. Somehow the excuses will make them feel even worse and they'll go to bed drunk and wishing to be a better person. To be the one Whumpee deserves.

But in the morning they're still the same.

"Please," they whisper, looking at Whumpee's unsteady, fear-stricken eyes. "Please don't make me hate you."

Please, don't make me hate myself.

But Whumpee only whimpers. Caretaker exhales tiredly.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee. I won't ask again."

Whumpee scrunches up their nose as they try to wriggle out of Caretaker's grip, and Caretaker twitches in a spot deep inside. They're done asking.

With a decisive hand they grab Whumpee's head, thumb digging into the back of their jaw, forcing it open at the hinge. Whumpee yells and thrashes and tries to push Caretaker off.

Caretaker grabs their arm, their skinny, concerningly pale arm, and shoves their body roughly into the wall. Their fingers are leaving red welts on Whumpee's skin

"Stop fighting me, Whumpee," they say, voice coiled tight with suppressed anger and frustration and annoyance and-

Whumpee whimpers. Caretaker bares their teeth in a snarl.

"You need to take this and you will. Don't make me hurt you. You're out of your mind and you need. to. just. stop. fighting. me."

Their last words are punctuated by Caretaker smacking Whumpee into the wall by the shoulder repeatedly. Not violently, but harshly enough to make Whumpee dizzy enough to submit. Whumpee's chest is heaving with stifled sobs.

Caretaker forces their mouth open and drops the pill on their tongue. Whumpee's nails dig into their own arm.

"Good Whumpee," Caretaker says, relief blossoming in their stomach. They reach for the glass of water and hold it against Whumpee's lips. They're bleeding again, Caretaker notices with a worried sting.

"Drink. It'll help you swallow."

Whumpee struggles weakly, but eventually takes a sip. Caretaker watches them until they gulp it down, throat bobbing with effort.

They sit back on their heels with a sigh. Soon the drug will kick in and Whumpee will either space out or regain some coherence, depending on their state of mind. Either way is better than this. Last time they let this go on for too long Whumpee broke two ribs and a nightstand.

"You did good," they say, lying to themselves and Whumpee in a desperate attempt at making Whumpee feel better. Whumpee has always responded well to praise.

They look at Whumpee's face, streaked with tears, lips quivering, and their body sags. Whumpee never meant any harm.

"It's okay. You'll feel better in a minute. I promise." Their hand is soft when they caress Whumpee's cheek, pushing a damp strand of hair out of their eyes. Whumpee flinches but their head is already pressed against the wall on one side and they can't pull away any more, as hard as they may try. Caretaker tries their best to fight down the irrational bitterness of being rejected over and over.

"We're gonna figure this out, Whumpee," they say gently. "I just- I need you to stop fighting me, okay? We used to be a team, sweetheart. Remember that? I need you to work with me to beat this together."

I can't do this on my own.

Whumpee's head moves in what could be interpreted as a nod and Caretaker takes what they get. Whumpee always used to be the strong one, the one tempering Caretaker's storms and easing the weight of the world off their shoulders. It would make sense for them to at least try to be helpful now, no?

They smile weakly. "That's the spirit. We'll get you cleaned up in a minute, okay? Once you've calmed down."

Caretaker pulls away, leaving Whumpee to collect themselves. They don't even wince when Caretaker squeezes their arm reassuringly.

Maybe they're making progress.

They're about to stand up when Whumpee spits. The pill hits them in the face, sticky and partially dissolved and holding on to their cheek with sheer spite. Whumpee's mouth is set in a stubborn, suicidal, quivering line.

Caretaker blinks.

It takes a moment for them to react. When they do, it's with a deadly calmness.

"You don't like the pill," they say, words as dull as a razor blade. "You don't like the meds." They pull the pill from their skin. "I get that. I don't like it either. But you don't have a choice."

I don't have a choice.

"This isn't going to change anything, Whumpee. You are going to swallow this and if I have to push it down your throat for you to finally take a break I will."

Their eyes are glinting with sharp, bubbling anger badly kept at bay by unravelling patience.

When was the last time they slept for six hours straight? Or had been out with friends? Or done anything relaxing that didn't involve getting drunk?

The pill is gluey between their fingertips, its green outside coming off in smears. They just want a break.

"Open your mouth, Whumpee."

Whumpee spits again as Caretaker reaches for their face. It's a gesture born out of fear and the incapability to put their feelings into words, but it enrages Caretaker more than it ever did Whumper. Whumper liked Whumpee fighting back. It kept the game from becoming boring. And spitting was always such a childish thing to do that it heartened Whumper to see that they had reduced the once proud Whumpee to such base, helpless acts. You see, Whumper didn't love Whumpee.

But Caretaker does. And their anger burns all the brighter for it.

"Open your fucking mouth."

They're yelling now. Their voice is raised and cutting the air with inevitable self-contempt, but for now Caretaker is drowning in the rush of anger, hanging on to the couple of minutes before they consume themselves with regret.

Whumpee yells back when they grab their jaw, half of it slurred words telling Caretaker to back off, and the other half unintelligible gibberish whipping back and forth between begging and cursing. They flail, fists striking Caretaker's chest and arms, trying to push them off. The spittle that flies from their lips is red and leaves spots on Caretaker's shirt.

"Stop fighting me!" Caretaker roars, using their free hand to catch one of Whumpee's fists before it strikes their face.

They force Whumpee's jaw open again, but lose their grip as Whumpee bucks. They shove them back down into the ground and wrap their fingers around Whumpee's biceps so tightly that Whumpee yelps.

"I'm helping you," they grind out, trying to push the pill past Whumpee's lips. "Just take it!"

The tips of their fingers force themselves in through the cracked flesh, pill butting against Whumpee's teeth before Whumpee's jaw opens up a fraction and they bite down hard. Caretaker screams.

Whumpee lets go almost immediately, face white in shock, and Caretaker pulls their hands back. Both of them, one clutched against their chest and the other one flinging itself outwards for a moment.

It comes back down with a crack across Whumpee's cheek.

It's a hard, angry strike that sends Whumpee toppling onto the carpet, splitting their lips even further in the process. Bloody drops of saliva trickle down onto the fabric.

Whumpee sobs out loud. They're sorry, they're so sorry, they'll be better, they'll be good, please-

Caretaker flips them onto their back. Their fingers are bleeding as they pick up the pill from where they dropped it. They don't waste time asking Whumpee to open their mouth.

"Please don't," Whumpee hiccups, nails scraping at Caretaker's wrist. They squirm but Caretaker has them pinned down between their legs now, weight coming down heavy on their hips, and their mind floods with memories of Whumper.

"This is for your own good, Whumpee," Caretaker snarls, trying to fend off Whumpee's frantic scratching long enough to get a thumb into their jaw.

"Please don't," Whumpee whimpers, shaking their head in an attempt at fighting off Caretaker's grip. "Please, Caretaker, please don't."

Caretaker freezes. When was the last time Whumpee called them by their name? It happened so rarely that every instance burned itself into Caretaker's soul, like little lights of flickering hope. Little signs that maybe Whumpee could come back after all.

But this?

It was always "Master" or "Whumper" or "Sir/M'am" when Whumpee had fits like this or woke up from nightmares or was otherwise detached from reality and couldn't understand that they had no master now. Caretaker hated hearing that name on Whumpee's tongue like a prayer, those syllables whispered in pained pleas as if their tormentor was still with them.

Caretaker never once imagined how much worse it would be to hear their own name from Whumpee's cracking voice.

"You need to take this," they say, looking down at Whumpee in helpless despair. Their cheek is blossoming a violent red from where Caretaker struck them and somehow that makes Caretaker even angrier. If they're coherent enough to recognize Caretaker, then why are they fighting them so much?

"The doctor said- Stop scratching me, Whumpee." They push Whumpee's hand aside, then think better of it and push it down until they can pin it beneath their leg. Whumpee thrashes in response but Caretaker doesn't budge.

"The doctor said you need to take this when you get worse. It helps, okay?"

"No," Whumpee says, word barely audible between their sobs. "I don't want it, Whumper. I don't like it. Please, Caretaker, please don't. Please, I'll be good, Whumper, I'll be good, I don't want it, I don't need it, I'll do anything, please, please, Caretaker."

Caretaker watches as Whumpee dissolves into tears and their own heart breaks a little more.

"You're sick," they whisper, cradling Whumpee's throbbing cheek in their palm. "Whumper isn't even here, Whumpee. It's just me. Just me. And I don't want to hurt you, but you're out of your mind. Please, sweetheart, open your mouth."

Whumpee bucks their hips as Caretaker holds the pill against their lips. Their one free hand is scrambling to keep Caretaker away, fingers leaving angry streaks on their arm and tearing at their shirt.

"Get off of me," they say, nay, scream, and Caretaker cracks. If Whumpee thinks that they're the villain, then what's the point in playing nice?

Their hand is brutally rough as they force Whumpee's jaw open for good this time, pushing the sensitive spot until Whumpee's muscles give in to the pain; Caretaker is quick and the pill lands in Whumpee's mouth.

They don't get a chance to spit it out again. They try, tongue flicking in protest, but Caretaker snaps their jaw shut, hand over their mouth. They reach for the water glass, but Whumpee's fingers dig into their skin.

"Don't make this worse than it already is," Caretaker growls. They grab their wrist, trying to push it beneath their other leg, but Whumpee fights like an animal and it's all Caretaker can do to make sure their pinned arm doesn't slip free.

At last, out of options, they smack Whumpee's head against the floorboards. Once is enough. Whumpee stills, eyes glazed over with pain, and their arm drops down. Their fingers curl into the carpet as if trying to find support.

Caretaker's hand is slick with blood and tears.

The water glass is cool to the touch and they move quickly before Whumpee regains their bearings. They let go of their mouth, instead grabbing the back of their head and pushing it up, taking a hold of their hair when Whumpee tries to pull away. Their mouth opens, pill protruding slowly, but Caretaker quickly holds the glass against their lips.

Whumpee whines. The liquid pours down their chin as they clench their mouth shut.

"Drink," Caretaker says, tugging at Whumpee's hair in the last throes of patience.

Whumpee flares their nostrils. Their eyes are wide and panicked.

"Okay. You wanted it this way."

They release Whumpee's head and let it fall back down onto the floor, then wrap their hand around their jaw once more, keeping them in place.

Whumpee struggles sluggishly. Their thumb swiftly pushes inside Whumpee's teeth, bearing the risk of being bitten again, and they pour the water through the small gap created. Before Whumpee has a chance to react, Caretaker has already clamped their palm over their mouth.

Whumpee chokes. The water's running down their throat, burning in their nose as the pressure of their struggling pushes it out through any available orifice, and all they can think of is how smug Whumper always looked when Whumpee begged for mercy when coming up for air.

They flail, body convulsing in anguish and panic, but Caretaker keeps them down, mouth set into a grim line.

"Swallow it, Whumpee. Swallow."

Whumpee does, eventually, their throat flushing it all down involuntarily, including the pill.

They fight to breathe through a runny nose, whistling in the process, and Caretaker finally lets go of their mouth.

Whumpee gasps and coughs and turns their face away.

"Show me your mouth. Whumpee, show me- Show me your goddamn mouth."

Caretaker's hand is harsh as they yank Whumpee's head up. Whumpee lets them pry their mouth open, defeated and aching, and Caretaker swipes a finger beneath their tongue and inside their cheeks before finally being satisfied.

They sit back up and release Whumpee's arm.

"Was that so fucking hard?"

Caretaker doesn't know who they're talking to. Whumpee's crying quietly and seems too incoherent and beaten to still be paying attention to anything said around them.

Caretaker wants to hit Whumpee. They want to pick them up and kiss them well. They want to crack their face into the wall. They want to apologize and comfort them. They want to kick them until they're screaming.

They love them. They hate them. They love them. They hate them. They- They ha-

And Caretaker's hand shakes as they try to decide who they want to be. Who they can be after all this.

At last, they get up. They leave Whumpee on the floor, bleeding from swollen lips as they curl up into a sobbing ball of misery.

Pathetic. Lovable. Disgusting. Innocent.

Caretaker's hand clenches into a fist and they walk away.

The door slams shut behind them. Whumpee's soft, pathetic noises can still be heard as they pour themselves a drink in the kitchen and try to calm their shaking hand.

They should go back in.

Maybe they'll pick Whumpee up. Maybe they'll be strong enough to overcome the festering rage in their chest. Maybe they'll clean them, caress them, rock them until Whumpee stops crying and falls asleep.

Maybe. Maybe not. They don't want to take the risk of finding out what kind of person they really are when the threads are severed.

Instead they take a sip. It burns and they let it sit in their mouth for a moment, relishing the pain. They deserve it. Whumpee deserved it. ...no, they didn't. They did. They didn't.

Caretaker closes their eyes and tries to breathe against the turmoil in their head. In their chest. Their hand.

They all want different things and Caretaker isn't sure which one will win, just that all of them will suffer if they make a decision.

So they won't. Not until the Whiskey has dulled the edge enough to make Caretaker less afraid of themselves.

Maybe by then the drugs will have kicked in and Whumpee will have stopped crying. Maybe by then Caretaker's compassion will have surfaced from the vat of ugliness they feel twisting inside them. Maybe it will even be strong enough to overshadow their self-contempt. Maybe.

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justapoet · 3 years

Text

in the mirror, what do you see?

TK had a bad day, and somewhere among broken glass and tears, Carlos, Grace Ryder and a pie were there to pick the pieces up.

2.7k

Some days would go by easier if they never really existed, and it intensifies if your life choices led you to be a first responder. Having to deal daily with human ignorance, despair and selfishness can take you out of your mind more often than anything else can in the world, but there’s nothing else to drive you insane faster than dealing with other people’s loss.

It was bad as a firefighter, and TK found it even worse as a paramedic. While people understand easily that they couldn’t pull someone out of a building on fire or an incredibly ugly car accident, they tend to always look at paramedics as if the loss was their fault and their fault only, as if fate or whatever made them be needed in the first place.

You should’ve done more.

The old woman’s voice still echoed on TK’s mind when he stepped into Carlos’ house and shut the door behind him. He felt drained, completely exhausted, and didn’t even bother about saying goodbye to anyone at the station ― he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold his feeling in if he looked at anyone’s eyes. They’d all seen every loss, that day.

Why aren’t you trying harder?!

Another voice echoed in his ears, and he dropped his bag by the door, not bothering about getting his shoes or coat off. His hands were trembling, his breathing was short and faster than it should be, but he didn’t care about trying to calm himself down.

You’re letting her die?! Which kind of paramedic are you?!

He couldn’t avoid the first tear to fall, and then the other’s just ignored his feeling of ridiculousness as they fell copiously. Although Tommy had said that they couldn’t save everyone, trying to reassure him that he did not fault all of that, he couldn’t help but thinking that not being able to save everyone is something, but not saving anyone is something else.

That’s not enough! What you did it’s not enough!

That was probably the loudest voice in his head since the last call when they couldn’t save a seventeen-year-old girl who’d taken pills to die sleeping. Their parents had found her in her bed, the room was a mess and that orange bottle on the floor had only one pill left. TK understood it all easily, and so did his team and his dad’s team as well. They tried to keep him out of the scene, but the girl’s parents were screaming and crying and they had to take care of them while TK got closer to the bed and the dead body.

They couldn’t save her.

He couldn’t save her.

And he wished so bad he could forget about what he’d seen in that purple wall bedroom just as much as he could let himself give up on those feelings without disappointing anyone. But he can’t do any of that, so he drags his feet to the living room and stops himself before making it to the couch. There was someone in the mirror hanging on the wall, and he could only stare at the figure.

In the reflex, the skin seemed even paler than he could remember, and his body was even thinner. Shoulders bent down as if there was too much weight on it for him to carry, and for a second he was thankful the mirror was in circle shape, so he didn’t have to see the rest of the miserable image. The tired face, exhausted and empty, didn’t seem to be recognizable, but he knew it perfectly; the purple spots under the opaque green eyes, the way too apparent cheekbones, the complete image of failure.

He hated that person so much, for a second.

And that was enough for, in a moment of rage, his arms to go forward and his fists to hit the mirror with all he’d been holding up, bottling up for maybe more than just a day. He felt his skin ripping, the cuts being a good amount at his knuckles, fingers, and even his wrist, and then the tears fell as if he’d finally found an acceptable excuse to cry his soul out.

He also hated himself for crying like an idiot kid who couldn’t convince their mother to buy their favorite candy, and it made him cry even more. He didn’t think much when he punched the mirror again and then fell to his knees, the glass under him showing more images of that pathetic person on the ground.

“Idiot,” he said to the lots of faces in the fractions of the mirror, punching it again and feeling the pain grow even more on his hands. “Idiot! Stop it” he said, more like a plea. “Stop crying, stop-” and a sob made his sentence get lost within the dark walls.

“Make it stop,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Please” his voice broke, and he sat to the ground, his feet making noise when stepping on the broken glass, his shoes protecting him from more pain. He brought his knees to his chest, holding tight and feeling his hands ache even more, the sting making him conscious of the blood too.

TK doesn’t know how much time he spent there, and even less when he started to say “sorry” repeatedly. What he does know, though, is that he couldn’t help but try to let go of the sudden touch on his shoulder, his head being lifted quickly enough to get him dizzy. The worried look on Carlos’ face made him feel small and oh, so, so stupid. He looked around as if expecting someone else to be there, and, then, realized.

He’d broken Carlos’ mirror and made a mess at his house because of a bad day. Oh, boy, how he hated every single thing about himself, at that moment.

“Ty?” Carlos called, seeing how desperate and scared TK seemed to be. His name on the cop’s lips was sweet, so different from the way it sounded in his head.

“Sorry, oh, God,” he said. “I-I’m so sorry, sorry I” he tried to say, moving his hands so he could try to get up, and then Carlos saw his hands, immediately understanding what could’ve happened. “I’ll clean it up, I’ll buy you a new mirror, I-”

“TK” Carlos said, his voice serious and, yet, sweet. “It’s a mirror. Just a mirror and glass on the floor. What happened to your hands?”

TK didn’t seem to get what his words meant.

“No, no, I’ll buy you a new one. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have come, I” he tried again, tripping when he managed to get up and looking around as if searching for a way out. Carlos analyzed him, and then reached for his arms. TK stopped moving when Carlos touched his pale skin, and the latino noticed he seemed to be about to fall.

“Ty” he called again, just as sweet as before. He didn’t say anything else, but his sweet gaze didn’t leave TK’s face for minutes, and it was enough to make him break all over again. His legs gave in, and Carlos was fast when holding him close by his waist and slowly passing his fingers through the paramedic’s hair.

Slow steps towards the couch and TK curled himself on Carlos’ side, crying even harder and sobbing unstoppably. His bloody knuckles were white underneath the cuts, so much was the strength he was using to hold to his shirt. His eyes were closed, and Carlos didn’t even try to say anything; he didn’t have to, anyway.

“I’m not enough” he heard TK whispering, and his heart shattered to pieces to his tone and the chosen words. “Why am I never enough?”

“Why are you saying that?” Carlos asked just as quietly as TK’s voice itself. TK tried to breathe deep, but his shaky breath made clear he was still trying to hide his tears.

“We lost everyone,” he said, then. “It wasn’t enough, I wasn’t enough” another sob. “I’m never enough”.

Carlos could almost hear his heart breaking in his chest, and he held TK a little bit tighter than before, trying to find what to say. TK cried silently for a little while, and Carlos took a breath before opening his mouth and start speaking quietly.

"People are what they are, TK. No one's ever enough if they're trying to fit in other's expectations," he said. "To be enough, in the dictionary definition, always has the word "required", as a pronoun, an adverb, or a determiner. And to be required is to fit someone else's ideas and expectations. That's not what we're here for"

"We lost them all, Carlos," he said again, and the cop could feel him shaking. "All of them. No one survived"

"Death happens, Ty, as much as life does. You did all you could and their bodies needed more, but you couldn't provide that, could you?" he shook his head. "That's not on you, TK"

"That's why I'm there for, Carlos, I'm a paramedic," he said and Carlos cut him before he could continue.

"A paramedic, not a god or an angel. Although I disagree, sometimes" he said, a tiny smile on his lips while his hand carefully caressed his boyfriend's back and arm. "That's not on you".

"Why did they blame me then?" his voice could barely be heard. Carlos pressed a kiss to his head, whispering against his messy hair.

"Death is only painful for those who stay, babe. And the way we try to cope with pain is by putting it on someone" his fingers slowly reached to TK's. "Or giving another reason for the tears to fall".

TK swallowed hard, hiding his head on Carlos' side.

"I'm sorry" he chocked.

"Don't be. It's just a mirror, just glass" the cop said, and TK shook his head. "And if you're, somehow, apologizing for "not being enough" or for being who you are, then we're having an argument over what you think of my boyfriend."

TK didn't say a thing, but he nodded. There was a knock on the door, and he seemed to hide even more. Carlos pressed another kiss to his hair and squeezed his arm briefly, before getting up and smiling at the silhouette through the glass.

TK didn't know who he should expect, but that definitely wasn't Grace Ryder with a kind smile and a pie in her hands.

She stepped into the house and hugged Carlos, joking over something while he closed the door behind him. Then, she looked around the room, her eyes stopping when she saw TK trying to disappear inside the couch. Carlos took the pie from her hands, slowly making his way to the kitchen and placing it at the counter, and Grace made a similar way, stopping in front of TK, though.

"Hey there, kid," she said, her voice just as kind as her smile. TK seemed to be scared, and then Carlos came closer.

"No one's here to judge you, Ty"

"Neither to make questions," Grace said. "But I do gotta say that we need to take care of this, uh?" she pointed to his hands, his fingers closed in a fist. "Just so we can take care of this, after," she said again, her thumb gently touching his cheek over a trail of tears.

"I'm sorry," he said again, seeming to be ashamed. Grace's smile softened even more, and Carlos mirrored her.

"What for?" she asked. "For being human? We can take it" she said. "If you let us, of course. Your boy here was really worried when he asked me if there was a way for our pie on Wednesday to be rescheduled to a Saturday night" she pointed to Carlos with her head, and he smiled. TK couldn't help but do the same. "See? That's what we were looking for. C'mon, let's clean these cuts"

She held his elbow, helping him to get up. Carlos kissed his temple briefly, before walking back to the kitchen to get a broom to clean the mess on the living room floor. Grace walked TK to the bathroom, sitting him on the toilet and remembering where Carlos said the first aid kit was, taking it to clean TK's hand.

They stood in silence while she carefully passed a wet gauze through the cuts, knowing that it would sting and TK wouldn't say a thing about it anyway. He drifted away for a few moments, so confused to put any thought in place, but was brought back by her low and gentle voice.

"Some days we're so focused on helping people that we leave ourselves helpless," she said. "and when we lose someone? Feels like we let ourselves be carried away by someone else's pain. Then, we feel lost, too".

"Did Carlos call you?" TK asked, not knowing how to answer what she said. Grace smiled softly, turning his hand so she could see his wrists.

"Judd said y'all had a hell of a day. He was worried about you, mainly, though. Something about you leaving without a word and almost running out of the station" she explained. "So, I messaged Carlos and he replied half an hour ago, saying that maybe you could use some pie".

TK felt his chest being filled with a warm feeling.

"Judd wanted to come, but he thought that, maybe, you'd be better without so many people around, even if they were people who cared," she said again, getting a few bandages from the box. "But, now, I gotta say that you're invited to lunch tomorrow, and Judd doesn't take "no" as an answer".

TK smiled briefly, chuckling.

"I'm sorry about worrying you guys," he said, though. "I didn't mean to... God, it was so stupid-"

"Feeling what you feel, whatever it is, is not stupid, TK" Grace said, then, her voice serious. "Not at all. And we worry because we care. We love you, kid. All of us" she continued, and TK couldn't find something to tell her otherwise.

"Thank you," he said instead, quietly. Grace smiled, finishing her work and putting her hand on his shoulder.

"You're not hateable as you think you are, honey. The 126? They love you. Tommy and Nancy? You stole their hearts easily. Me? I admired you before even knowing you, just because Judd started to say how stubborn you were" she chuckled, and TK could see the love shining in her eyes just to mention her husband. "That man out there?" he pointed to the door, referring to Carlos. "The look on his face every time he looks at you or thinks about you? Oh, kid, he loves you more than life itself, I bet. And you do, too, because the look on your face right now it's the same I see on myself when I think about Judd"

"I don't deserve him," he said, even if his heart was about to burst with love for the cop. Grace chuckled, helping TK to get up.

"You deserve everything good, Strand," she said. "And I'm pretty sure that Officer Reyes is the summary of all of it"

TK smiled fondly.

"Yeah. I think so" he said, getting lost in the thought of Carlos for a second. "But can I have the pie, too?" he asked, and Grace laughed loudly while walking out of the bathroom.

Getting back to the living room, TK couldn't stop his feet from going straight to Carlos, wrapping his arms around the man's waist and placing his head on his shoulder, sighing happily. Carlos smiled, putting the bag with the broken glass on the ground and hugging him back, placing a kiss at the top of his head. Grace smiled at them, nodding happily when Carlos found her eyes.

When they sat on the couch, each with a slice of pie on a plate and the pie on the coffee table, laughing over any random things and some stories Grace had to tell after being a dispatcher for so many years, TK rested his head on Carlos' shoulder and closed his eyes for a second. While listening about some guy who got trapped in his ex-wife's closet, he looked up and stared at his boyfriend's smile, then at the smile on Grace's face.

Right there, he was enough. And if two people just as good and Carlos and Grace could love him, maybe his reflection wouldn't be so painful anymore.

#tarlos #tarlos fic #carlos reyes #tk strand #carlos x tk #tk x carlos #carlos reyes x tk strand #tk strand x carlos reyes #grace ryder #911 lone star fic #911 lone star #my fic #my writing #paramedic tk #paramedic tk strand #i wrote it for no reason #after a sleepless night

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akielonsummer · 3 years

Text

Mortal Errors

This is only loosely based on the Blade Runner universe and can be treated as a generic sci-fi AU. If you’re not familiar with Blade Runner, you only need to know that: Replicants = Bioengineered androids that look exactly like humans, but sometimes certain qualities can be enhanced to serve different purposes. Blade runners = Bounty hunters whose job is to track down and kill (retire) rogue replicants. Technically belong to the police department.

Give this a chance please? :* (I’ve also posted it on AO3 if you prefer to read it there)

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By 9pm, Damen was positive he got stood up by his informer who was supposed to rendezvous with him in this night club an hour ago. It was pouring outside, and he was overworked and exhausted, stuck in this raucous and filthy place without a lead or an umbrella.

If he would be completely honest with himself, like he usually was, he would acknowledge that there was another reason for still sitting here other than reluctance to get soaked in the rain on the way back.

The blond man sitting across from him at the large oval-shaped bar had just politely refused the second drink a bulky male stranger was trying to buy him. From afar he could see that the blond wore a high-neck black top that was possibly an effort to keep a low profile, but only served to highlight the slim lines of his shoulders and chest even more. Damen could see why the other man was willing to try so hard. The moment Damen had noticed him, he had been sure he’d been looking at the prettiest face in the entire club tonight.

The big guy was persistent, shameless enough to linger around, still trying to chat up his target. Damen unselfconsciously began studying the blond man’s demeanor, the way he eluded the other person’s gaze and carefully positioned his body. All of Damen’s detective instincts were telling him that the blond was utterly annoyed by the other man’s presence, but would prefer to keep things civil. He was waiting for a specific person in that spot, and therefore could not easily retreat to a less noticeable corner to escape all the attention he was attracting. You would have to be very unobservant not to notice that several other pairs of eyes nearby were preying on him likewise, impatiently waiting for the next chance.

Damen made himself look away, drank some of his beer, and reminded himself of his purpose of coming here.

“Sorry, I’m late,” Damen heard himself say casually as he appeared on the vacant side of the blond man. Inwardly, he cursed himself for giving in to his own curiosity.

And vanity. This had always been his favorite part on a night out.

Getting the beautiful, but difficult ones, while others watch.

“Hey,” the blond looked up, and quietly eyed him once before he continued, “I was beginning to worry that you might have been blown away by the thunderstorm.”

“Looks like you took the underground streets,” he raised a hand to feel Damen’s curls, which were dry. If he was surprised by Damen’s sudden approach, he didn’t let his reactions give away any of it.

Up close, Damen saw that he wore a small dangling earring in a starburst shape, the gold just a shade deeper than his hair. This place had an awful diffused pale purple lighting that made almost everyone at least a bit sickly, and he looked absolutely gorgeous.

He turned his face to the other side to send off the big guy with a final “Excuse us”, then turned back to stare at Damen. The corners of his mouth lifted to form a conspiratorial smile that disappeared too quickly, but at least he didn’t look like he wanted Damen to be gone immediately.

“That was smooth,” he waited until the man was out of earshot to say, “I’m Laurent.”

“Damen,” Damen replied as he felt the deep blue gaze from those almond-shaped eyes do funny things to his stomach. Something deep inside him whispered danger. He promptly dismissed the alert, and went on, “Why didn’t you just tell him to get lost?”

“I didn’t want to start anything. I’m waiting for somebody,” said Laurent, then after a brief pause, “—was waiting.”

Laurent shrugged and gave a wry smile. Damen was pleased with this answer because it both validated his earlier theory and broadened the range of possible things that could happen tonight.

“That makes two of us,” and so he advanced.

“Let me guess,” said Laurent, humming as he sucked on the olive of his martini, then licked the drops of alcohol trickling down his fingers, “it’s a woman.”

“Someone who was supposed to bring me good news tonight.”

“That’s frustrating. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Apparently I’ve found something better to do here,” said Damen. He started to wave the bartender over to buy both of them drinks as a man in a terrible, flashy silver jacket got close to Laurent from behind. It was hard to tell at that moment whether he was too drunk to see Damen or simply audacious—it could be both, because he was bold enough to place his hand on the side of Laurent’s waist and was beginning to lean in to mumble some drunken nonsense in his ear.

It was happening fast, but Damen’s reaction was faster. He slapped off the stranger’s hand and as the man tardily became aware of the situation and glowered at him, warned with a low but clear “No”. The man took two seconds to evaluate the physical difference between himself and Damen, and wandered off grudgingly.

Laurent considered him briefly and let out a poorly stifled snicker.

“What,” Damen snapped, not entirely in an unamused fashion. He was aware that his hand had replaced the other man’s to linger around the smalls of Laurent’s back, and decided to keep it there.

“When I first saw you over there earlier, I thought there’s no way you’d be into men,” Laurent said with a slightly bashful expression, lowering his gaze on the bar table. Damen felt a surge of satisfaction upon hearing his honest confession. He was ready to respond with something nice and clever until Laurent looked up again and finished, “or you should at least prefer real boys.”

Laurent kept his meek, picture-perfect smile as he waited for the meaning of his words to sink in.

“You’re a replicant,” attempted Damen, a part of him still reluctantly trying to make sense of the now-conspicuous truth.

“And you, a blade runner,” Laurent enunciated each syllable as he held Damen’s gaze unwaveringly. In that instant, Damen could see from an angle a flash of a curious reflection at the center of his blue eyes. A sharp, contrasting color. Of warning, and of blood. Laurent blinked once, and it was gone.

“How—” Damen began, and was immediately interrupted by the huge noise of a brawl that had just broken out behind them at one of the VIP tables.

“Just before you came over, I was telling big guy that the people I knew at that table had some extra pills they’d gotten as samples from a supplier, and that they were happy to share,” said Laurent matter-of-factly as he got up from the bar stool and began putting on his black leather jacket.

Damen turned to look, and saw that the first man he had warded off from Laurent was now deep in a fist fight with two of the men in black suits from that table.

“You don’t know any of those guys,” said Damen, a bit awestruck by now.

“No,” answered Laurent. He popped one last piece of peanut in his mouth and started for the exit. “We should go now.”

Thirty minutes later, they were both sitting in the couch in Damen’s living room, sipping whisky from heavy-bottomed glasses with a rain-drenched towel draped around the neck.

“You’ve been laughing for the past fifteen minutes. Get over it,” Damen said sourly when he saw that Laurent was still smirking around the rim of his glass.

Their escape had not been completely free of obstacles. They had intended to sneak out through the less noticeable side exit of the club, until they had realized there’d been simply no way not to get noticed when you were moving with someone of Damen’s stature. With the brawling in the VIP area escalating in the background, the bouncers had become more vigilant with people getting in and out of the place.

It’d appeared that Laurent had gotten through the control at the exit without a hint of effort but just by being himself—a seemingly harmless young man with the face of an angel—while Damen was inevitably stopped, by not one, but two of the most intimidating-looking bouncers guarding the exit. They had padded him down scrupulously and proceeded to ask questions to make sure he’d had nothing to do with the rows in the club. Perhaps more out of curiosity than necessity, before they had let him go, one of them had asked what he’d been doing for a living.

“‘Same as you. I work at a club uptown.’” Laurent repeated his response in a way that was more a derisive reenactment than an honest impression, then added for accuracy, “‘a small one.’”

Damen rolled his eyes in disapproval and sought to detach himself from this conversation by refilling his glass with the bronze-colored liquid.

“And now, to answer the question you’ve been waiting to ask,” said Laurent, gradually dropping the amusement in his tone and replacing it with his default placid composure, “I knew you’re a blade runner because I know someone who wears a device like that too.”

He pointed at the black wristband on Damen’s left wrist.

It was a location tracker that would have been concealed more carefully with clothing when he was on an active assignment. Anybody who shared his job title would get one on the first day they reported for duty so that their superiors could track their locations real-time, to make rescue or body retrieval easier. Unsurprisingly, hunting down rogue androids meant putting yourself on a knife edge too, quite literally.

“You’ve chosen a tough job,” Laurent continued when Damen said nothing. “Someone’s got to do it, I guess.”

He sounded like he was talking about the work of a butcher or an undertaker, which was not that far from the truth.

Despite their dramatic encounter with each other, Laurent didn’t seem like he had anything against Damen’s kind. In fact, he had just mentioned that he personally knew another blade runner. He must be a registered new model if he was able to roam the city freely, perhaps the vocational type, even. It was not uncommon to see new generation replicants that were indifferent to the nature of a blade runner’s job. After all, they only retired the obsolete rogue models who posed potential threats to society, and most of these fugitive replicants lived in underground communities that were completely segregated from the legal models.

“I didn’t,” said Damen, at last.

Laurent gave an inquisitive glance.

“I didn’t choose it.”

And that was all he was willing to say about why he had fallen to the current point of his career. Realizing he had brought the conversation to a cul-de-sac, he tried for a different direction of the topic, “it’s neither pleasant nor glorious, indeed. But I try my best to make it quick, at least.”

“Quick and painless. They won’t even feel a thing,” Laurent mused. There was a subtle edge in his voice that disturbed the relative ease of Damen.

“We use a special type of taser,” said Damen, because he felt that the word “gun” might just sound a little too strong. “It takes less than a second.” If you aimed at the right place, and if your target didn’t struggle.

“Has it ever crossed your mind that,” said Laurent, leaning back into his corner of the couch so that he could look right into Damen’s eyes, “you could be one of us, you just didn’t know all along?”

“They run tests on us every day, at work,” answered Damen, finding the question a bit absurd. “I know what I am. I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, so do we,” Laurent huffed, staring at the remaining content in his glass as he whirled it. Damen didn’t miss his choice of pronoun and that familiar edge in his voice that came and went.

“For better or worse, your job is certainly much more exciting than mine,” Laurent began again as he adjusted his position, crossing his legs. For two seconds Damen’s attention was stuck on the smooth fair skin showing through the ripped parts of his grey jeans so he didn’t registered that Laurent had shifted closer in his direction. “I work in a biotech lab.”

“As a technician,” he then added, probably for fear of confusion.

The lack of immediate response betrayed Damen as much as his briefly widened eyes did.

“I… had different assumptions about your occupation,” admitted Damen.

“You thought I was a pleasure model,” said Laurent, surprisingly seeming more amused than offended by Damen’s presumption. His eyes were the color of fine blue topaz in this lighting, his dampened hair ready to drip liquid gold.

“You’re way too attractive to be anything else,” Damen tried his best to make it sound like a compliment but not derogation, as it was supposed to be.

Laurent hummed as if plotting something in his head. He lowered his gaze to look at his own hands, which long and delicate fingers he was now slowly flexing. When he blinked, his dense lashes brushed against the highest points of his cheekbones, flapping and trembling like wings of birds.

“They say I’m a customized model,” he lifted his wrists slightly to examine the inner side of them, like they were some novel objects instead of parts of his own body. Blue veins ran under the finest skin there—replicants were bioengineered to look exactly the same as humans, but it still shocked Damen sometimes how much they resembled the real thing.

“Who knows where they had gathered the parts to build me?” said Laurent, it came out like a question that was not demanding an answer.

“Where, I don’t know. I just know the person who commissioned them to make you must be filthy rich.”

To that, Laurent didn’t answer. He picked up his glass from the coffee table, tilted his head back and downed all the alcohol in it.

“I might just have too much to drink,” he said, leaning his upper body forward to put the glass back on the table, suddenly looking like he might topple over. The towel fell from Laurent’s shoulders. Damen grabbed on his arms in time and pulled him back in place.

“I thought alcohol didn’t affect you,” Damen said as he still kept both hands wrapped around Laurent’s arms from behind, but they went from just supporting them to a soothing, sweeping motion against the now half-dried black fabric. He felt the lean muscles underneath tense and relax in his palms.

“The effect, like most other things in us, is also customizable,” Laurent pointed out as he briefly luxuriated in Damen’s massaging hands like he was genuinely enjoying it. Then, in their awkward position of Damen half-embracing Laurent from behind, he tilted his head to one side so that he could turn his face to look at Damen, “I’m only doing this so that you could take me to bed.”

Damen’s hands stopped abruptly. But then Laurent began to snuggle up to Damen’s chest, fitting himself perfectly in the space there, looking up at him with his marble glass eyes with intent.

Damen knew his own weakness, knew that once he was caught in a situation like this he would have no means to back away from it if he ever found out it was a trap, as it had happened once in the past.

“We don’t have to,” he tried to resist, and it sounded too much like pleading.

“I think we both know why I’m here,” Laurent cooed as he gently pressed the side of his face onto Damen’s shoulder, then, in a voice that was not completely free of self-disdain, “a stray android, clinging to the arms of its executioner.”

The sudden realization of how this was a much more precarious situation for Laurent than for himself, coupled with the intense urge to feel the fine strands of gold now rubbing on his sweater, was all it took to dismantle Damen’s feeble defense.

“Only if you want,” Damen yielded, lifting one hand to smooth the soft hair around Laurent’s face.

“To let you take me apart and examine me everywhere?”

There was a change in the quality of Laurent’s voice that Damen couldn’t exactly fathom. He looked down, and saw that the smile on Laurent’s face was devious, saccharine and sad, at once.

Simulated fire crackling from the atmosphere panel in Damen’s bedroom masked the distant sounds of incessant rain and thunder outside. The advanced thermostatic system kept his living unit at an optimal temperature at all times, but it was Laurent’s human-like body heat that was keeping him warm tonight.

Damen slid his hands over Laurent’s still-clothed thighs, which were now aptly straddling his own atop his queen size bed, delighting in the soft sounds Laurent made between deep kisses as his thumbs drew small circles on his inner thighs. Laurent smelled like rain mixed with expensive perfume, and tasted like honeyed wine. It kept Damen wanting more, how Laurent’s kisses were alternately hesitant and unrelenting, a liquor that was sweet on the tongue but burned the back of his throat.

“Have you ever,” Laurent managed, in a charmingly breathy voice, as they broke off once.

“With a replicant?” Damen took over seamlessly, Laurent’s question communicated in means other than words somehow. “Not knowingly.”

Flashbacks filled his mind momentarily against his will, as the ambiguity of his answer hung in the air. He mentally shook himself out of it. Turning back at Laurent’s pale hair and blue eyes, he suddenly saw the irony in it, plain as day. Then, when Laurent didn’t push further but accepted his partial truth with only a raised brow and curious eyes, he corrected himself. Laurent possessed beauty that was comparable to that of hers, but they were evidently two entirely different things.

“And you, have you ever?” Damen whispered as he leaned back in to kiss the spot behind Laurent’s ear, nuzzling the silky golden hair there. His hands had since taken on an exploration of Laurent’s body, albeit still hindered by a layer of fabric, around his taut waistline, up his back, down the flanks and then up again. He surveyed Laurent’s reactions to his different touch, logged them, and imagined doing it all over again. Later, on bare skin.

“He thinks he’s the first,” said Laurent as he visibly fought back the gasps elicited by Damen’s nibbling along the underside of his jaw. The sentence uttered with summoned scorn, complemented with the reddening at the tips of his ears and the glint in his dark eyes, had a heady effect on Damen. He could feel himself rousing—in more ways than one—but more than anything his body ached with a deep, growling desire uncaged.

“He just thinks,” Damen cooed, soft and low, “that he’s very, very lucky.”

He dragged a trail of kisses across Laurent’s left cheek. He paused when he reached the corner of his lips, waited for the first sign of hesitation from Laurent, then took over his mouth as his hand found its way to Laurent’s nape to pull him in. This time, he kissed him like he hoped to deliver all the praises that would sound excessive in words, in the form of long, hot and deep exploitation of Laurent’s mouth.

When he finally pulled away, it was to check if he could find a hint of annoyance on Laurent’s face at the interruption. Convinced that he did, he tugged at the hem of the top Laurent was wearing to signify that the break would only be brief but was necessary. He pecked on his cheek in compensation, and asked softly, “Can I see more?”

He would have spent more time to consider the momentary disbelief on Laurent’s face upon hearing that, if he hadn’t been so stunned by what he saw when Laurent swiftly lost his top.

It was at that particular moment that Damen had the strange epiphany that Laurent, despite everything, was indeed man-made. If God existed, he did not make this. He thought as his eyes savored the fine alabaster skin now fully on display, a stark contrast to the dark veil that had covered it and was now discarded on the floor. He tried to recall art terminology he had heard of: golden ratio, perfect balance; but none of these could even begin to describe the way lines were placed on Laurent’s body. The hollows and protrusions around the shoulders and collarbones were shaped like grips of luxurious handcrafted bows, elegant to look at and perfect to touch. When he breathed, the lines that cut in all the right places over his chest and abs deepened and faded. God made men the way he liked them to be, and men did the same with things. Damen continued to muse as his admiration went on. God did not make this. A man did. This was made according to men’s liking, not God’s.

“I bet it turns you on to know you could do virtually anything you want to a body like this without any real consequences,” said Laurent, in a tone that could be either seductive or provocative, or both. There was a cruel degree of truth to what he just said. Yes, there were laws which prohibit abuse of replicants, but according to them, anything that could be fixed with money and some tweaking of programs was never considered to be out of line.

“When I see a body like yours,” Damen began to disagree. The prettiest, finest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, he added only mentally. “I only want to do everything you want.”

At that, Laurent again gave a subtle scowl with distrust, but was quick to turn his face away as Damen finally smoothed his hands on his bare waist, where the skin was soft as cream. Damen was not sure why Laurent should get offended by his saying a thing like this or asking for permission, but he was currently too fascinated by the way Laurent was responding to his hands gliding all over his body to be truly concerned.

“It suits you,” Damen praised as he passed an index finger over the navel piercing on Laurent. It was small and simple, adorned with a tiny blue gem. “Are there more?”

“You’re insatiable, you know?” The look Laurent gave him as he said this was supposed to be chastising, but only served to send a thumping pulse down Damen’s lower abdomen.

“I once heard,” Damen said, as his hands went up to Laurent’s chest to roll his nipples between his fingers. They were small and hard like summer berries; Damen’s mouth thirsted for a taste of them. Laurent’s body gave a jerk that was frankly overreaction to such a minor stimulation, which he tried to conceal with a quick kiss on Damen’s lips as Damen leaned closer. He finished his sentence against Laurent’s lips, “That certain parts of the pleasure models’ bodies were specifically designed.”

He adjusted his tone so that it fit the topic he was discussing. His tone was lewd. One of his hands left Laurent’s front and traveled to his back to cup his buttock, still clad in jeans but soft and full all the same, as if he feared he had not made his meaning clear. Damen was aware he was taking liberties both with his words and his body, but he couldn’t wait any longer to show Laurent what he wanted Laurent to see and feel, what no one else could give him. He wanted, to see his sophisticatedly engineered mind to be able to process nothing else, and to hear his wonderful mouth sigh only his name.

A wicked smile appeared on Laurent’s innocent face, informing Damen in his own unique way that his invitation to this night-long venture had been accepted. He rolled his hips once, twice against the burning core of Damen, which was hard as rock, then began to walk his palms onto Damen’s chest to push him down onto the bed. Damen’s head landed on the pillows as he heard Laurent’s clever mouth say one last thing,

“I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

Laurent got back to his neighborhood by his motorbike when the sky was a ghostly white. “Neighborhood” was a nice way to put it, while it really was just the gutter where everything that fell through the brighter parts of the city gathered. Drizzle wetted his outfit which hadn’t been fully dry since he had left that night club last night. He took off his helmet and habitually shook his head twice once he reached close enough to the building. A homeless man lay at the open entrance of the building, next to which black letters “SKINJOB RIGHTS” were sprayed on the cement wall. There was not enough information to tell whether the man was just asleep or dead.

Over the past two years, Laurent realized that there were a lot of similarities between the life here and playing a new game. There were a lot of rules to learn. Many things that were forbidden in other parts of the city were allowed here, such as off limits drugs, contract killing, trafficking and prostitution involving underaged replicants; and vice versa, like how you should never fly a hovercar around here although they were everywhere in other areas, because they would attract too much attention from the cops. Then, like in games, there were things you could practice to get better at. Like getting yourself out of trouble, or looking for it intentionally then getting out of it. Good thing Laurent was a fast learner, because the biggest difference between his life now and a game was that if he slipped up, what awaited him could be worse than death.

Laurent opened the door to his unit and was relieved to see no one in the living room. He proceeded to his own room with footfalls as light as a cat.

As the familiar smell of the air of his own space filled him, he realized suddenly he needed a moment to collect himself. He lay down on his bed and started breathing deeply in a rhythm, imagining the fatigue from the escapade at the club fading with each exhalation. To his frustration, the more he tried, the more he felt a different kind of soreness take shape instead. Soreness resulted from other uses of his body last night. He allowed himself to stay like this for two minutes.

The monitor on his desk, switched on automatically when he entered the room, was showing widgets of information such as sightings of police in the area and job requests from the black market repair shop Laurent worked at. At the top left corner was a gallery displaying photos, taken from times when wanting to remember specific moments of his life was still a normal thing to Laurent.

On the screen was a photo of Laurent in polo uniform, posing next to a stocky white pony. He had been eleven years old. That same year, he had been given the truth about what being a son to Aleron and Hennike Arles of the Arles Corporation had really meant. He learnt that his resemblance to his mother was not a result of the wonder of inheritance, only state-of-the-art engineering. He also learnt that human boys didn’t receive a new body and have their memory and operating system transferred to it each year. It was shocking to him, because between homeschooling and only playing with a carefully selected group of girls and boys of his own kind growing up, he had never once doubted his realness.

For countless times, they reassured Laurent that not a thing in his life was ever going to change due to his nature, that the very reason he had been created was because there had been love and wealth with no place to go. Yet, in the end, what really brought him peace was knowing that Auguste, his golden shining star of an elder brother, was also a replicant. At eleven, Laurent had thought, how could that possibly be bad, if it meant being just like Auguste?

Another photo popped up. In the picture, Laurent’s ski goggles were pushed up to show his cold-pinked cheeks; Auguste was next to him, laughing and wearing a beanie covered in chunks of snow which had been Laurent’s doing. Laurent looked at himself on the screen—he was smiling just like an ordinary teenager having the time of his life—and felt an urge to look away.

Everything had changed after that trip. They had come home to the news of their parents’ fatal private jet accident, and the subsequent board decision for their uncle to take over the Arles Corporation. Several months later, the company had announced a list of older replicant model numbers manufactured by the Corp that had been found to be seriously fault-prone, together with Auguste’s removal from the board. Auguste had been one of the original models pioneered by the Corp.

Laurent lifted both hands to cover his eyes with his palms. He remembered that night like yesterday. Auguste had appeared in the doorway of Laurent’s room, still in his business suit and carrying a duffel bag. He’d wrapped his arms tightly around Laurent’s shoulders and kissed the top of his head wordlessly. He had only come to say goodbye, but Laurent had been taught to make his own decisions his whole life. A life without Auguste or a lifetime of side-stepping, dodging and running away. It had been the easiest decision he had ever had to make.

Hot water from the shower warmed Laurent’s body, washing away the rain that had soaked every inch of him last night.

The only tricky part had been building the connections he’d needed to get the name of the blade runner assigned to hunt his brother. That had taken time, money and effort. Everything after that had been easy.

Damianos had been easy.

Most of the information Laurent had successfully obtained about Damianos turned out to be accurate. The excessively powerful physique. The imprudent, egotistic demeanor. The lack of discretion and self-preservation. The strong tendency to give in to physical attraction—it was almost ludicrous, how simple it had been to seduce this man. Perhaps even the unverified rumors he had come across about Damianos were indeed true. How he had slumped from deputy chief to a bottom-ranked, scavenging blade runner, all just for covering up some data breach committed by the mistress of his chief of police half-brother. It sounded like cheap soap TV, but after meeting Damianos in person, Laurent’s doubt about the authenticity of this story had now shrunk significantly.

The only discrepancy Laurent hadn’t expected was how Damianos had behaved in bed. Laurent examined the marks scattered all over his body in the mirror as he toweled himself down. They looked like crimson scars of various sizes, burned there by Damianos’ mouth. Laurent’s mind wandered off as he discovered more and more of them, in places he didn’t remember had been touched.

Tell me how you like it. Damianos had whispered near his face, as his palms had slid down Laurent’s thighs, spreading them. Rough. Eyes closed, Laurent had responded, because that way it would be over sooner and more tolerable than this. Then you don’t know what you like. Damianos had said with an infuriating smile in his voice before he had begun to put Laurent through rounds of slow, torturous, dragged-out pleasure.

It had been nothing like Laurent had rehearsed mentally with the theoretical knowledge he’d possessed, especially with Damianos. He recalled the sounds he had made when Damianos had pushed him to the edge, repeatedly, and felt heat creep up his cheeks.

None of that mattered anymore. He demanded himself to shut last night out of his mind as he pulled on a sweatshirt he’d borrowed from Auguste and returned to his room. This had been planned to be a one-off, and his plan had worked out.

He keyed in the pin to the lock on his drawer and picked up the mobile device stowed in there. A few taps and swipes and a map of the city was pulled up on the screen. There used to be only one moving dot on it, but now there were two, thanks to the codes Laurent had loaded onto Damianos’ tracker wristband while he had gone in the shower after they’d been done. Laurent had been extremely lucky he hadn’t even had to consider using any of his backup plans.

He watched the dot that was Damianos hovering around the downtown police station as his other hand reached deeper into the corner of his drawer. He knew it was there, but he needed to feel it. His fingers slipped along the cold metallic barrel, then to the curve of the back of the grip. He lifted it slightly, sensing the grounded weight and the finality it carried.

Withdrawing his hand, he took one last look at the screen and saw the other dot approaching his own current location. He put the device back, shut the drawer and heard the lock click.

Outside, there was the sound of the main door opening.

“Laurent, I’m home,” said his brother, coming home from a night of strenuous, exploitative labor, the only type of work he was able to sustain without proper documentation.

His brother should not have to live like this, but even living itself was quickly becoming a thing he had to fight for. Fury was a hissing snake perched in Laurent’s artificial heart.

His plan was simple, and only one more step remained: One day, the dot on the map that was Damianos would finally get too close to the one that was Auguste, and that would be the day when Laurent would pull the trigger on Damianos.

There was nothing Laurent would not do to save Auguste’s life. And he knew Auguste felt the same way for him, too.

So he ran his fingers through his damp hair once, pretending he had just freshened himself up with a morning shower after a good, undisturbed night’s sleep, and opened his bedroom’s door.

“Morning, Auguste.”

-------------------------------------------------------- This is a completely self-indulgent fic and I enjoyed writing every word of it so that was noice. That being said, writing in a second language will never not be nerve-wracking and there were times I simply had no idea what I was doing. Please pretend you don’t see bad grammar and weird phrases because I know they must exist. I apologize if Damen sounds like a complete douchebag at times. It’s entirely intentional. I tried to downplay the potential Auguste/Laurent in this but no matter what I did it’s just kind of there LOL they’re also not REAL brothers when you think of it so

#captive prince #lamen #laurent of vere #damianos of akielos #my fic #auguste of vere

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be-gay-do-heists · 3 years

Text

OKAY finally finished with eliot hand pain hurt/comfort fic, and i couldn’t actually decide whether i preferred it in second or third person POV, so i’m going to put the second person POV under the cut here, and make a separate post with the other version so folks can read which they prefer. nothing is different between the two besides the POV !

------

Contrary to what the four crazy people you spent your time risking your life for nowadays thought, you didn’t like the pain.

There was nothing cleansing about it, nothing satisfactory. A ringing hit to your jaw didn’t feel like penance. The actual protection aspect was a different story. Standing like a wall between your people and danger, there was nothing that made your ribs ache with pleasure like that; a wall didn’t feel, didn’t think, it was just an immutable fact. You were an immutable fact. The problem was that the wall-as-you, or perhaps the you-as-wall, had to become human again sometime after the last man went down and the last dollar bill was stuffed into a duffel. To hurt was human, and not just to hurt but to remember the wound long, long after, for it to live in your knees and wrists and between the vertebrae in your spine. Some days— and this was a product of how long after a job it had been, how hard you had pushed—some days were worse than others. The fact that some days the first sound out of your mouth wasn’t even a groan, but a whine, or worse the half-awake pleading for please please make it stop i’ll do anything just make it stop—

No, you didn’t like the pain.

Comparatively, today was a good day. Today, you could get out of bed. Your head and body were blessedly in agreement that it was in your best interests to swing your twinging knees to the side of the mattress, push yourself up onto legs that were sore but stable, with arms that shook only slightly. But compared to your best days, the ones where except for the old shoulder injury which would never let you forget it and the scar on your hip that put a hitch in your giddy-up in all kinds of weather, the days on which except for those you sometimes even forgot the pain, this didn’t hold a candle. Today your hands were so beat and weak that the ache radiated up to your mid-forearm, settled into you all familiar-like and made its home in you.

In the bathroom, you used your wrist to turn on the faucet and stuck your mouth under the water to drink. Holding a cup was off the agenda. Your morning routine was interspersed with winces, not unusual for your post-job bathroom adventures, and if it took you longer to shimmy on the sweats you knew you wouldn’t be getting out of today, it made you appreciate the comfort of wearing them a little more.

Going handless was fine until you were face to face with the fridge, and resisting the urge to growl at it, like that would solve anything. Taking a deep breath, you put a hand on the stainless steel handle, testing your grip. A light flex had you drawing it back like the metal had burned you, like someone had snapped a tight clothespin onto each ligament. You took a moment to pace a couple steps, let out a loud but cathartic expletive, and then wedge your hand between the handle and the door so you could open the fridge with your elbow strength. The feeling of triumph behind your collarbone faded quickly as you scanned its contents and realized there was nothing you wanted to eat, or at least nothing you wanted to hold and eat. The thought of grasping a fork brought another growl to your throat, and you slammed the fridge door to stomp to the couch and throw yourself down, cradling your hands in your lap.

You knew the drill: in an hour, you would grit your teeth and get to up to try and fumble open your bottle of painkillers, and if you succeeded, you would wait another hour for them to truly kick in so you could handle the tv remote, put on whatever game was on, and vegetate on the couch until further notice. The phone you had left on your nightstand rang loudly, fully audible from the other room, blaring out the chorus to “Macho Man” that Hardison had put as your ringtone and you hadn’t figured out how to get rid of yet. If it was important, whoever it was would call again, so you ignored it. Your ire rose when the same noise sang out from the bedroom a couple minutes later, a bit-off groan escaping from your clenched teeth as you levered yourself up to get to it as fast as you could, awkwardly accepting the call and maneuvering the phone between your shoulder and ear. “What?”

“Man, we haven’t heard from you since we split yesterday, I thought we were gonna get a beer downstairs last night?”

You rubbed your eyes with your wrist, frustrated that you had forgotten you were supposed to get together with Hardison the night before. Getting home, washing the sweat and blood off, and falling into bed had seemed like the only goal in your mind. “Look, sorry, I’ve been busy. And if this ain’t important, you—“

“Bullshit. Absolute bullshit, you’re using your tough-guy, bullshit voice. And you actually apologized, so something is double wrong.”

You snarled. “I don’t have— Hardison, I don’t know what you’re talking about, just leave me alone.”

“Too late, we’re already at your place.”

Before you could open your mouth, your doorbell rang, drawing a groan from you. If you were correct about who the “we” was, it seemed stupid to even ring it. Your suspicions were confirmed thirty seconds later as the door clicked open anyways and Parker and Hardison came in, having the decency to at least look slightly sheepish. You had already moved back to the couch, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” you growled.

“Excuse us for being worried about your wellbeing, Mr. Suffer-In-Silence,” Hardison scoffed.

Parker leapt onto the couch cushion next to him. “We thought you might have been captured by ninjas.”

“You would know if I had been captured by ninjas,” you muttered. “It’s a very dis— look, you’ve seen that I’m not kidnapped, it’s our day off, can you please leave and let me rest.”

“You still owe us a hangout from last night!” Parker chirped. “Don’t worry, we won’t stay long.” She vaulted back over the couch to go rummage through your snack cabinets, getting into the granola bin by the sound of it. You made a note to restock it before she came back next.

When you next opened your eyes, Hardison was lightly sitting on your coffee table, looking at the hands still resting in your lap. “What’s up with your hands, Eliot?”

Your first instinct was to deflect. You trusted your team, sure, but this was different. They weren’t supposed to know that you had these days. That you weren’t invulnerable. “Nothing’s wrong with them, stop sitting on my coffee table.”

“Mhm mhm, sure,” Hardison said. “Go like this for me?” He wiggled his fingers in a “hey sailor” kind of fashion. Before you could tell him just what you thought about that, Parker’s ponytail swung into the side of your face, the thief reaching down to poke one of your hands faster than you could stop her.

By the time you were able to refocus and pull yourself back from the whiteout of pain, Parker and Hardison were looking at you with open concern, the hacker leaning back slightly, a little pale. You think you may have howled; you weren’t sure. Both your hands were clenched tightly to your chest, wrists together, arms outward, wishbone shaped. You felt just as brittle as one, with their stares on you. You summoned the anger from your throat, the only weapon at your disposal (only half-expecting that it would work, always defenseless when it came to their prodding).

“Can you leave me the hell alone now?”

Hardison looked at you, taking his time formulating his thoughts, but it was Parker who spoke. “Nope.” You turned to her where she was perched on the couch. “You get hurt taking care of us. Now you let us take care of you.”

You looked at Hardison pleadingly, hoping he at least would take pity on you and let you wallow by yourself. You wanted to hide like the trap-escaped, half-dead badger whose den you had accidentally put your foot into half a lifetime ago in the Italian Alps, earning you an earful of hissing that scared the hell out of you. You wonder if you seemed as belligerent now.

Hardison just shrugged and smiled gently. “Hey, you heard the woman.” He leaned forward slightly, just enough in your space to let you feel his warm presence without crowding. “Couldn’t get rid of us if you tried.”

You didn’t want to try, was the thing. It was only that it wasn’t their job to take care of you. It was yours to take care of them. They just seemed to be wholly unaware of this.

“You taken anything for those yet?” Hardison asked, pointing at your hands. He hummed at your slight head shake. “Thought so. Which ones?”

“White bottle, red pills. Only need a half,” you mumbled, slouching. Parker was already up and heading to the bathroom.

“We need to get something you can actually open when this happens, some kind of spring-loaded catch maybe,” Hardison mused. “Alright, let me see them.” He patted his legs, frowning at your growl. “C’mon, none of that. I know they hurt, I’ll be really, really gentle. I won’t even touch without asking.”

You looked him in the eye for the sincerity you already knew would be there, the eagerness to help that (damn him) was one of your favorite traits of his. Hesitantly, you extended your hands, rolling your eyes at him scooting forward to offer his knees to rest them on.

“I assume you got antiseptic and ointment on these knuckles already, so totally disregarding those, even though it sucks. Nothing broken?”

“No, just. Aches. Like a son of a bitch. Can’t make a damn fist. Happens sometimes.”

Parker bounded back in, armed with a glass of water and half a pill in her open hand. “So no jobs for a while. Easy, I’ll tell Nate. Open up.” With a scowl, you took the medication from her fingers with your teeth (gently, gently), and let her raise the glass to your lips, nearly choking as she tipped it a little eagerly, and choking for real when Hardison said, “Whoa, woman, let him swallow.”

“It’s not just the last job, Park, it’s jobs two years ago, or five, or ten,” you managed, once you had your breath back. “Part of the package that comes with the lifestyle. It just happens sometimes, don’t matter what schedule we’re on.”

She frowned. “Still. We shouldn’t be doing jobs if you’re hurt. Nate should know that.”

Hardison leaned forward a little more while you were distracted trying to find the right response to that, that you wouldn’t be doing any jobs at all if that were the case, that Nate trusted you to get the job done no matter what, reaching out to your forearm and stopping just a hair’s breadth shy of touching. You froze, and he did too, meeting your eyes. “It’s ok. I’m just trying something out. Is it alright if I touch you here?” At your tiniest of nods, the hacker placed his fingertips on your arm, rubbing circles so lightly that you almost couldn’t feel it. “Let me know where it starts to hurt, okay?” Hardison applied the slightest pressure as he added his other hand and lightly started rubbing down your forearm. When he got to your wrist, you couldn’t help the strangled noise that partly escaped through your nose, high and strained. He moved away from it immediately, going back to tracing soothing, gentle patterns. “You’re ok, you’re ok. I can work with this, no problem. Where do you keep your hot pads, man?”

“Bathroom, lower right drawer,” you grit out. Parker was zipping off to get it and warm it up before you could even process. Hardison applied a little more pressure with his fingertips, rubbing the meat of your forearm. You breathed out long and slow at how good it felt once the initial ache had ebbed.

“I want to try giving you a hand massage, but I don’t wanna hurt you more than it would help,” he said, pausing slightly. “You up for it? I’m not gonna pressure you either way.”

Your thoughts stuttered, and then bolted in different directions. The feeling that you didn’t deserve this, that this was too much to ask, which had been simmering this whole time leapt to life again. It joined with the wounded, snarling animal part of you that still wanted to hide, burrow down with the covers over your head until your pain faded into the muted background noise of the world. You didn’t even know if a hand massage would work, it might make the pain worse.

But it might be nice, a small, hopeful part of you murmured. You couldn’t remember the last time you had been offered something like this, let alone the last time you had taken the person up. If there was anyone you trusted to do it, if there was anyone you wanted to receive it from, it was these two. How could you refuse them even when your heart hoped so badly for what they were offering?

“Sure, just…” you said as Parker returned with the hot pad, pausing from tossing it hand to hand like a hot potato to fix her stare on you. You licked your lips, swallowed around a dry throat. “Just be gentle.”

“I will be,” Hardison said earnestly, taking the hot pad from Parker to gently maneuver it under your hands, resting on his knees. You tensed slightly as the thief leapt up onto the back of the couch, perching above your head, but otherwise relaxed as the warmth of the hot pad started to loosen the ache in your hands. Hardison started where he had before, applying the slightest pressure to your forearm. Parker ran her fingertips lightly through your hair, humming.

“Your hair is kinda wonky,” she said, fingers catching on a tangle. You winced.

“That’s what happens when you go to bed without brushing it properly, you know that,” you grumbled, breath hitching as her fingertips grazed your scalp. Your breath stuttered again as Hardison hands started working towards the sore meat of your wrist. Your hand began to shake.

“It’s ok baby, I got you,” Hardison murmured under his breath, more soothing sound than words. You cracked open an eye to see him looking between your hands and his phone, playing a video where it was propped on his thigh.

“Man, are you watching hand massage tutorials right now?” you gritted out, doing a poor job of masking your genuine amusement with frustrated disbelief.

He tapped his index finger against your arm lightly. “I’ve been watching videos dude; think you’re so slick, tryna hide your hand pain from me. I just wanna make sure I get it right in real time.”

Parker’s fingers running through your hair more boldly silenced any follow-up thoughts you had, your mind going fuzzy with how good it felt. Without thinking, you insistently pushed your head up further into her touch, making her laugh. The sound reverberated in your chest, leaving you longing to hear it again. Instead a half-whine left your throat as Hardison probed the bottom of your palm, the ache drawing you back to full awareness.

The hacker backed off for a moment. “Sorry, sorry, you still cool to keep going?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you breathed shakily.

“Just tell me if there’s anyplace else that needs to be handled more delicately, or you don’t want me going at all,” Hardison said, putting his clever hands to yours again and taking up his gentle, slow pace. Parker’s fingers had paused in your hair a second, but went back to running through it again, scratching your scalp on every other pass.

Slowly, slowly, the vice of pain on your hands started to dissipate, bone by bone, finger by finger. You don’t know how long you sat there in a haze, as Hardison and Parker patiently touched you, fixated on the single task of caring for you. The thought made the tender space behind your breastbone twinge. When you surfaced from the half-asleep contentment of their efforts, the television was on, Star Trek playing at the lowest volume. You grunted, lifting your head from the couch to look at them sitting beside you, grinning at your movements. Hardison’s warm hand was still in yours, but instead of massaging he was just holding it softly.

“Hey sleepy,” teased Parker, throwing herself over Hardison to get closer and forcing an “Oof!” out of him.

You looked down to your hands, flexing one experimentally, in disbelief at how the ache had faded to an almost imperceptible hum. With the other you tightened your fingers around Hardison’s hand, moving your thumb lightly over his.

“Hey,” you simply said back, a real smile rising to your lips.

#this is one of those times where i am like WHY cannot i write like [insert fandom greats here]#but. its good enough to post i think #plus this frees me up to write the next part of megverse which is SO vivid in my mind #stay tuned #miko speaks #parker leverage #fic #my fic #ot3

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scary-lasagna · 4 years

Text

Trust || Part VI

" Finally meeting the eyes of your soon-to-be murderer, you realized he was crying again. Fuck him, he deserves to cry, wail, scream, after what he's done to you.

You can't rip a flower out of the ground and expect it to grow in acid.

With a final reassuring squeeze, Hoodie let go."

Yandere!Hoodie/Brian x Reader

* * *

A month later and things haven't gotten any better than when you first arrived. Hoodie just keeps growing more violent and possessive my the minute. You really don't know how much longer you'll survive here from either dying from Hoodie's leather-gloved hand or by your own.

Hoodie leaves on most nights, which would be delightful in planning a route of escape. But it's hard to do so when you're locked in the windowless bedroom.

All you're left to do for the night is look at your picture of your previous life, contemplate your situation, plan his murder, and scan over a few books Hoodie found for you.

This could all change if you only said, "I love you." To him.

Which you weren't, but you were thankful to know that's an option in case you were nearing death by his hand.

It was late night, and thunder rumbled over the depths of the cellar. It must be going to rain soon. Hoodie was still gone, he didn't know when he'd be back. But you know he'll get caught in the rain if he doesn't get home before morning.

And you'll be charged with the task of drying his hair.

You rolled your eyes, tossing the magazine down and pushing yourself off of the bed. Hoodie got you a more qualified mattress to sleep on, along with a bedspread and blankets that kept the damp air off of you. But sometimes you just needed an open window or a fan.

Neither of which Hoodie has provided. A window means a chance of escape, not that he could just give you one anyways, it was a brick-lined basement. And a fan deems a possible weapon to hit him over the head with.

Oh, how you longed to do that. Even if he killed you, it would be so satisfying to watch him stumble with a yelp, clutching the back of his dirty blonde locks.

You shuffled around your room, sifting through drawers and pulling out wrapped clothing. You've been working on making a shank out of a shard of tile you found in the kitchen, and literally anything else you could find. You've only got a rubber band and a few pieces of tape to hold the fabric around the ceramic. It's not much, but it's your only form of protection.

But your plan to craft was cut short by the cellar door rattling. You stuffed the tile inside a few socks before shoving the drawer closed.

"Hoodie?" You called out, pushing yourself off of the ground to stand in front of your door.

"What? You hungry? You're supposed to be sleeping." Footsteps gradually made their way towards the other side of the door, followed by a series of mechanical clicks.

"I'm not tired." You looked up at the mask when the door open, which you cautiously took off. He was sweaty, and very gross in general. "Can't you find a new mask that doesn't suffocate your pores?"

"Yeah, but I like this one though." He gently took it out of our grasp, using the same sense of caution as you used with him.

Hoodie couldn't hold it in anymore. Everytime he left, he was never guaranteed in seeing your face when he returned. You were smart, too smart. You were bound to find the key he hidden in one of the loose bricks of your room. Just in case one day he doesn't return. He wouldn't want you to be left here and starved, even if the masked man did know about the situation.

He struggled to hold back to tears prickling his bottom lid, and he pulled you towards him into the colder hallway. But your skin was soothed by his warm chest.

"I'm so sorry for what I've done. You know I'd never want to hurt you." His muscles twitched along your back when he squeezed tighter.

You couldn't do anything but hug back, running your hand up and down the rough fabric of his hoodie. Even without the view of his face, his jerking chest was proof enough that he was holding back sobs and tears. "Prove it, then." You weren't even sure if he heard your voice through the muffle of his clothes.

"How can I prove my love to you?" He separates your bodies, but kept his large hands on your waist. Tear streaks were travelling down his dirty cheeks.

"Free me." You stared up at him, clutching his forearms. "Please, Hoodie."

He glanced back at the entrance, and for a moment, you had a spark of hope.

"Not now, darling. I'm sorry, really I am." His tone sounded sincere enough, and his eyes were tilted with sadness.

Your face fell and your tense shoulders slumped, "Why?"

He shook his head, his fingers flexing into your skin, "There's too much going on right now. Tim left Jay, and Jay's on his own. And Alex is a good hunter, he'll find you. He's already come around here a few times, actually."

All you heard was a pathetic attempt at an excuse. But in reality, it did make some sense.

"You pinky swear you're not lying?" Your eyebrows twitched as you looked up at him.

He managed a smirk, leaving the cool air to nip at a warm spot on your hip as he held his hand up, "I'd never lie to you."

You linked your pinky with his and it caught you off guard as Hoodie sealed it with a soft kiss on your knuckle.

Trust.

You craved for his lips sometimes, and it was often hard to remind yourself that this is a different person. Would it be cheating on Brian if it's the same body?

What the hell were you talking about? This dude kidnapped you and you're thinking about whether his lips would feel good against yours.

But you were satisfied as he kisses you on the cheek, "Get back to bed, now." He started to coax you back into your room.

"Can't I stay up with you for a bit?"

He squinted, and you could tell he was growing suspicious but nonetheless, he obliged with a, "Sure." Taking you by the hand, he lead you to the kitchen. "I gotta take a shower first, I'm sure you can make something for yourself while I'm gone."

The bathroom door was closed before you could even answer, "I literally just said that I wasn't hungry earlier." You mumbled, glancing around the cute kitchen.

Out of curiosity, you picked up one of the medicine bottles to see what he was taking and if that somehow made him more aggressive.

Tim Wright.

He had Tim's pills. How and why? Did he steal them or did Tim give them to him? Was it the same way he got the picture?

You set the plastic down and walked over to the humming fridge. There wasn't much in it, just a few packs of meat, two jugs of water, miscellaneous in the drawers, and a bag of chips. And that godforsaken tuna.

Why the hell does he keep chips in the fridge?

You took the box of ham and started making two sandwiches with cheese, lettuce, and mayo. You glanced in the direction of the hissing water in the bathroom before chucking the tuna in the trash, tossing some paper towels on top of it to hide the glint of the metal.

The hiss of the shower stopped, and you listened as Hoodie rustled around with some towels.

Oh fuck, he's gonna try and seduce you.

You turned away from the door, busing your self with slowly pouring juice into the glass. Wet footsteps pass the kitchen, and you couldn't help but glance though the window as he made his way to his room.

A guilty part of you wishes that Brian had those type of muscles when you were dating. This dude was really strong just from the look of his back.

He paused at the padlocks glancing over them, and then quickly locked with your eyes. You turned away, spilling the half-full glass all over the counter with a hissed curse.

You tried to look again, but the door was already closed.

You soaked up the juice, piling all of the towels in the trash until the counter was grape-free. Hoodie walked in, hair still wet and in (thankfully) clean clothes.

You accepted his advancements as he wrapped a pair of strong arms around your waist, nuzzling into your hair.

"You smell better than I do, and I've just taken a shower."

"I smell like damp basement and cheap Irish Sring soap, don't lie to me." You picked up a plate and held it out to your left, letting Hoodie take a hold of it as you grabbed your plate and the two drinks.

You could tell how exhausted Hoodie was by the way he flopped down on the couch, almost looing his dinner in the process.

You set your plate and drink on the coffee table, knowing he's going to want half of your sandwich anyways.

The air was calm, and rain had started to tap on the floor above you in the broken building. Hoodie was just chilling, watching the late night news and eating the sandwich you made for him.

It felt nice.

It felt normal.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, hugging his elbow as you cuddled up to him. You were touched starved, you craved affection and contact, and Hoodie was the only one around capable of giving it to you.

He set the plate down on the armrest and wrapped an arm around you, allowing the warmth of his chest to engulf you.

You closed your eyes and even dozed off a little bit until you were stirred by Hoodie running his hands through your tangled hair. You whined, aggravated that you were disturbed from your slumber.

"I love you."

You rolled your closed eyes. You didn't respond, it was obvious you're faking sleep now, but there was really no other option that would end well.

"[Y/N]."

"Hoodie, I don't love you. Not now."

He stood up, quite abruptly, actually, and you almost fell on the floor.

"Then why are you doing this to me?" His muscles flexed under the black t-shirt he was wearing as he scowled down at you. "Don't you realize this is torture?!"

The man sounded desperate, and his elbows were tucked to his waist insecurely. His eyes...they were truly filled with the pain of the truth.

But as he turned to leave, you managed an apology. "Hoodie, I'm sorry." You clasped your hands together, straightening up on the couch.

"You're not sorry." He hissed, twisting back towards you. "You know what you're doing." The blonde squinted at you, searching your body for something, anything, that looked like remorse.

In his blind state of betrayal, he didn't see any.

"I am sorry!" You stood up defensively, clenching your fists by your side. "How dare you say what I don't feel! I was sorry, but now I'm not! You're just an asshole who expects me to fall in love at first sight of you!"

"You did fall in love with me at first sight o-!"

"No, I didn't! I feel in love with Brian Thomas, your ass had to ruin a perfect fucking relationship for your own selfish needs!"

Hoodie stayed silent, he was holding back. His fists were clenched so tight, his knuckles were turning white, and his eyes were full of burning hatred.

"I'm never going to love you, Hoodie. Not truly. Not if you always act like an entitled brat."

"Don't fucking lead me on then." His shoulders slumped and his fingers loosened. "Don't give false hope."

You blinked, watching as he calmed down into sadness, "Hoodie, I didn't want to do that...I want to make you happy, I want you to feel comfortable instead of tense and awkward which gets you on edge. Maybe even a little dangerous.."

He looked up from the ground and into your sympathetic eyes. He stepped forward and grabbed your waist, pulling you towards him.

"Then you will not get rid of me until you love me."

"That wasn't our deal you sai-"

"Said that I'd free you in due time, yes,” He finished for you, “I keep my promises. Just like how I promised to make your life a living hell if you didn't learn to love me. It's a shared deal, sweetheart." His voice was eerily calm.

You didn't reply, you couldn't. You knew if you opened your mouth you would start sobbing for mercy, for freedom. But you knew that wouldn't happen on his account.

"Now, go to your room." He jerked his head into the direction behind him, staring through your eyes instead of into them.

"This will not make me love you." You whispered, looking closer into his eyes. You wished he could see the hurt in your eyes, the hatred.

But he kept his eyes trained on the plate sitting on the coffee table.

You sniffed, shoving past him towards your damp and dark room.

As you jumped into bed, you heard the sound of a plate crashing. Then another one. Right into the television.

You didn't care. You turned over and stared at the wall until sleep consumed your tense nerves.

___

The door to [Y/N]'s room clicked and creaked quietly open. Hoodie stared at them, hoping the metallic sound of the gun didn't wake them.

You could only see the shadow on the wall, and the clicking disturbance of the gun being handled. You couldn't quite see his position, but he might be aiming at you. You don't where else he'd point the gun at.

You dared not to move. Even if you wanted to, you couldn't. You were frozen in fear of the idea of being shot.

The rustling of fabric and shrinking shadow signaled that he put the gun away but was advancing towards you. What if he decided on a knife instead?

Instead, a rough hand brushed your hair out of your face, and placed a soft kiss on your temple.

You know he's not going to let up. You have to plan an escape.

#Trust #hoodie #yandere!Hoodie #yandere #story #creepypasta #creepypasta imagines #Marble hornets #marble hornets x reader #hoody marble hornets #it get spicy next chapter #brian thomas #ok i fixed it #masky #tim WRIGHT #NOT sutton #cmon kitty

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trudy-shams · 3 years

Text

What we become - Part 8

Time is a difficult concept to understand.

Sometimes a night or a day may feel too long and at the same time, years pass you by in a blink.

Making your way through the baggage claim, looking for Nat, it felt like it was just yesterday when you were picking her up, seconds away from that dreadful moment when everything shattered. Your heart bled out right at the airport. Like always, your mind wandered to the sweeter memory you had of the airport, the kiss - a pair of lips you could still feel on yours. Sometimes, when you couldn't sleep at night, you revisited that memory, strangely able to detach it from the harsh truth. It felt like yesterday when those soft lips pressed against yours and at the same time, you felt like you were that girl eons ago. Maybe if your past self walked next to you, you wouldn't even recognize her. You had changed so much, you had grown so much.

Time is indeed a difficult concept to understand.

But looking at the girl, who was barreling towards you at full speed, you knew it had been a really long time.

She smashed into you and crushed you in a bear hug and all you could manage was a muffled 'oof'.

"I missed you peanut" Nat's voice held so much emotion you had a hard time keeping your tears at bay.

"Not as much as I missed you" You leaned back after a deep breath and beamed at her.

Nat was wearing a muted grey sweatshirt and sweats with large sunglasses and a really stupid looking that covering most of her face. Nobody was paying any attention to her and you were really glad about that.

"It's my favourite disguise, works like a charm every time" She said as she hauled your bags up and handed it to a man who appeared out of nowhere and disappeared in the crowd again with your bags.

"This is so weird, you have people picking bags for you" you shook your head and spotted Nat's face in a huge billboard as you existed the airport "Seriously, this is why I have missed you more, your face was plastered everywhere!"

You both got into a waiting SUV and spent the entire ride falling back into the easy rhythm you two shared. Nat and you spoke very frequently on the phone but you both were busy. She was one of the most successful models in the country now and you had made great advancements in your career. She filled you in on the lastest news and gossip about your family and friends.

You were lounging by the pool in your suite, when Nat came back after speaking to her manager who had dropped by.

"You remember Sam Wilson?" Nat asked and you nodded, of course you remembered, he was Steve's friend "I have to attend a launch party for one of his product lines today since I am their brand ambassador and all, we need your dress size"

You quirked an eyebrow " Why do you need my size? I am not wasting my precious vacation hours making small talk with complete strangers"

"Well, you have to come because this has been planned for ages and well... I want you to meet someone"

That got your attention "Natasha..do you mean I finally get to meet your super secret boyfriend mr."pea" that I had to pretend doesn't exist?"

"Yes tha... what?" Nat was surprised. No one knew about it, no one even suspected anything. The paparazzi had nothing on her.

"You can't hide stuff from me babe, we are sisters and well...I still remember your personal email and social media password, you really need to change those '' You squealed as Nat ran after you.

"You little shit, come here"

You spent the rest of the afternoon laughing and drinking expensive liquor.

Both of you were dressed to the nines in glamorous dresses, perfect hair and makeup - thanks to Nat's team of professionals, you didn't even have to lift a finger.

When you looked into the mirror after they were done, you couldn't even recognize yourself. Was that really you? This momentarily distracted you from the bigger worry festering in your heart since Nat announced you were going to the launch party. You knew Sam was friends with James and Steve. There was a high probability you would run into them tonight.

You were sure you had it under control, it had been 5 years since that fateful day, You were not that person anymore. Nat was not that person anymore - she appeared to be unbothered but you knew something had her worried. You didn't bring it up but you felt like it was probably the prospect of seeing James again but being in the same city, you didn't know if Nat had run into him before today. You tried to tamp down your nerves and give yourself some internal pep talk.

You were not a young girl working at the bar anymore, you were so much more.

Steve probably didn't even remember you.

Both statements were proven wrong the moment your eyes met a pair of cerulean blues that you had never truly forgotten.

Steve definitely remembered you if his wide eyes and open mouth were anything to go by.

And you were still that girl, who couldn't look away from the prison of his eyes.

You broke out of your trance when a loud voice greeted Nat.

"There is my sweet pea" the masculine accented voice sounded vaguely familiar.

"Here I am Mr. pea"

PETRO!

MAXIMOFF!

What the hell? Peitro Maximoff is Mr. Pea - or Mr. P now that you think of it.

"Well he is" Peitro was sheepishly smiling at you now and you realized you said the last statement out loud. "Although,your sister has plenty of other names for me but those are usually reserved for a more private setting" he added with an exaggerated wink while Nat smacked him on the chest with a roll of her eyes.

You didn't know how to react to THIS? How could she not tell you? This guy was a douche. He always was. He was only with Nat for publicity. You wanted to drag Nat to a room to scream at her for hours.

But at that very moment, a smiling Wanda along with a happy Sam Wilson and a grumpy James Barnes made their appearance.

"There is my beautiful future sister in law" Wanda was smiling a toothy fake grin at Nat. "Not again Wanda" Pietro and Nat said at the same time and laughed. You eyed her fingers there was no ring. You would have murdered her if she got engaged without telling you. Was this your life? Your sister going from one douche to another?

You looked at James's grumpy face.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

Nat could not have found a better man for herself. What better way to rub it into James face then date his own brother in law? This was epic! You never thought Nat could come up with such a scheme.

You were surprised but also kinda proud.

You tried your best to hide your smirk at James's scowl and glanced at Nat. God! She was playing the part so well, even you were surprised by her skills, she was gazing so lovingly at Peitro who now had his hands in the small of her back and talking animatedly with Wanda.

Nat introduced you to everyone and Pietro gushed about how much your sister loved you and mentioned you all the time.

You smiled politely and kept up the small talk.

Just then, you got a whiff of a cologne which spiked your heartbeat and a second later a throat cleared and the deep voice you were longing to hear rang out.

"Hey guys"

Followed by another voice which your nightmares were made of.

"You looked so beautiful up there Nat" Sharon, still attached to Steve's hip.

"It's Natasha actually" Nat spoke airily. She did not like Sharon, you wondered why.

"Oh my sweetpea really likes her name" Petro was whipped. This was going to be so good.

You were never the bitter kind but being around these people,with all the memories,it just..changed you.

You didn't know if it was a natural pull or your instinct but you made the mistake of looking at Steve again.

You willed your heart to quiet down. He was looking at you as if you were a ghost. He barely blinked and you could hear his broken breaths as his eyes captivated you.

Why was he doing this? He was with Sharon still and he was looking at you like.. that.

A nudge on your elbow from Nat gave you the push you needed. You excused yourself and rushed to find the ladies room.

You needed to get your heartbeat and breathing under control. What was wrong with you? This guy straight up lied to you, on your face, for so long, led you on and here you were falling apart just because he looked at you a certain way.

You really needed to talk to someone. Keeping this all in was definitely driving you nuts.

You decide to come clean to Nat. Maybe it will give you the closure you needed, letting it all out.

You patted your cheeks a few times and turned to open the door of the ladies to go back out when you bumped into Nat.

"You ok?" Nat put a hand on your shoulder and ducked her head a little, forcing you to meet her eyes.

Nope! You couldn't tell her anything. This wasn't important. She and you both had better things to discuss.

"Yea, I just needed to use the ladies for a bit" you tried to sound extra cheery but one look from Nat was enough to tell you that it wasn't working.

"You can tell me if something is bothering you you know" you wanted to squirm under Nat's gaze.

"Pfft.. me? Why would anything bother me? I am great. You know what we should have drinks, I think I saw an open bar" You clasped her hand and dragged her behind you. --------------------------- "Ugh..I think I am dead" you opened your eyes with a groan "Did you let a car drive over me Nat?"

"You know, on several occasions last night, I almost wanted to do exactly that but... well Pietro stopped me" Nat pulled you into a sitting position and pressed 2 pills in your palm and a bottle of water "I didn't know you were such a lightweight"

"Well I usually don't drink so much" you ingested the pills and gulped down the water.

"So why last night? Something is bothering you?" Nat was eying you like THAT again.

You squinted at her and shook your head getting up to go to the bathroom. Did she know anything? Why did she keep saying that?

Nat opened her mouth to say something when her phone went off. She smiled looking at the screen and you slinked away to the bathroom quietly.

Nat was slumped on the bed when you came out of the bathroom

"Pietro has invited us for dinner at his place tonight. Are you ok with that?"

You nodded your head "But no alcohol for me. I have had enough for a week"

Nat hummed "It will be just a small circle of us. I would like for you and Pietro to get to know each other better"

"yeah yeah sure since you will be the future Mrs Maximoff '' you said mockingly and laughed at your own joke and tried to get some more sleep.

In your hungover state, you missed to notice the lack of matching laughter and quizzical expression on Nat's face.

#steve x reader #steve reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers angst #au!steve x reader

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wondersofdreaming · 4 years

Text

It was always you

Characters: Chris Evans x female reader

Word count: 2.839

Warnings: Fluff, jealousy, alcohol intake, angst.

Author’s note: Anonymous request:

“Reader befriending Evans at an industry party, forming a friendship then watching him date around while being madly in love with him but being too afraid of ruining their friendship to admit her feelings. One night while hanging at her place reader breaks down in tears after Chris casually talks about why him and his last chick didn’t work out and how he’s ready to give up on love. He’s in shock when reader admits her feelings &then realizes how stupid he’s been not to realize she’s the ONE!💍”

I hope I did your request justice!

I do not own any of the characters in this short story besides the reader, who is a figment of my imagination.

MASTERLIST

Feedback is appreciated.

Day 1:

The party was in full swing when you entered through the front entrance. Famous actors and actresses were dancing the night away. Everyone had a glass of champagne; they were celebrating the ending of another great movie premiere that had blasted the audience away. You walked towards the bar, in need of a drink as fast as possible, if you were ever to survive the night. Your friend had bailed you at the door, having found a hook-up for the night with a tall-dark-and-handsome.

“Whisky, double, no ice.” You told the bartender, who raised his brow but poured the whisky anyways. You downed it like a shot and motioned for him to pour you another.

“You’ll keel over, if you aren’t careful with those.” A deep voice said next to you. You looked over and saw Captain America himself. He was wearing a dark blue suit, his tie already having been loosened, well you had been three hours late to the party because of the traffic, and the fact that your friend couldn’t decide on what to wear took some time as well. He was nursing a bottle of beer, watching you closely as you devoured the second glass of whisky.

“My grandfather was Scottish. He will haunt me for the rest of my life if I pass out from drinking too much whisky.” You laughed.

“Then no complaints here. Which department are you from?” Chris asked as he inched closer. He was intrigued by you. His blue eyes watching you consumed the third glass of whisky. The golden liquid burned through your throat down to your stomach, but it felt good.

“Costumes, I sewed all the extras’ clothes. Nothing important, nothing like your job.” You motioned to the big poster hanging at the back wall, showcasing Chris’ face along with all his castmates.

“I wouldn’t say your job isn’t important. I think it’s even more so than mine. If you didn’t get the extras in the right clothing that fit the period, then the movie wouldn’t be believable. It could quickly make a scene look weird.” Chris chimed in, acknowledging your work.

“True, but anyone could do my job, no one can play Captain America the way you do.” You retorted, inhaling the fourth glass of whisky. Whisky was your liquid luck, just what you needed to talk to the Chris Evans.

You and Chris spent the rest of the evening talking about everything between heaven and earth. By the time it was 3AM you had consumed a whole bottle of whisky, Chris had drunk more than five beers, and who knew how many before you had shown up. You had gotten to know each other, and it felt like you had known him for a lot longer than the four hours you had been at the party.

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Day 98:

You and Chris had been friends for over three months. You had been texting and calling at least once a week, sometimes more than that. A month into the friendship you had started visiting each other’s houses, watching movies, cooking dinner together, well you were the one cooking, while Chris was opening the wine. You had learned the hard way that Chris wasn’t a gourmet chef in the kitchen after he had served you an inedible dish, you didn’t dare guess what was in that dish, nor did you want to know. From then on it was either takeout or you cooked, you opted for cooking the food yourself.

The evenings would usually start with you cooking something exotic, something that Chris hadn’t tried before. He would keep the wine flowing, while you were finishing the dish. Then you would watch a movie or play either a video game or a board game. Hanging out with Chris was the easiest and most calming time you had ever experienced.

On day 98th of your friendship, something changed. He had cancelled on you an hour before he was supposed to arrive. Something important had come up and he was sorry, but you took a rain check. You opted for some Italian takeout that evening since you were going to eat alone. While waiting at the front door of the restaurant for your food, you heard his voice, Chris’ laughter filled the hall. You moved a few steps to the right and peaked into the restaurant, where he was sitting with a beautiful woman. He leaned over and kissed her.

You felt something stabbing in your heart. Until that moment you hadn’t known that you had been slowly, but steadily, falling in love with Chris Evans. A waiter came with your takeout, you quickly paid and ran all the way home. The takeout having been forgotten. All you wanted was to get the image of Chris kissing that woman out of your head.

Chris called the next day to apologize for bailing on you, but you dismissed it. He asked if you were free that evening, you were but you told him you had a date. His voice was disappointed but understanding as he told you, he would be out of the country for a few months, while promoting a new movie.

You hung up on him after saying goodbye. Your heart slowly breaking, but it was for the better.

Day 134:

It had been over a month since you had cancelled on Chris. He had been texting you almost every day, wanting to see you, but you were avoiding him like the plague. You came up with all kinds of excuses to not see him. It would just break your heart all over again. His relationship with the woman you had seen had ended, at least according to all the gossip magazines. But a week after the supposed breakup, he was seen with another woman.

As you were getting ready to eat your Chinese takeout on the sofa, the doorbell rang. Outside the door was a very drunk Chris, he slurred his excuse as to why he was at your front door. You heard something about his new girlfriend having cheated and now it was over. He started to slump down, you caught him, before he hit the floor, helping him to lie down on the sofa.

Day 135:

“Good morning, sleepy-head.” You told Chris as you entered the living room with two mugs of coffee. He groaned irritated but accepted the coffee, letting out a soft moan as he drank the hot liquid.

“Thanks for letting me crash. I’m really sorry if it was any inconvenience.” He said and leaned back. He closed his eyes. His head was throbbing, everything in his body was hurting. Maybe he had drunk a little bit too much the night before.

“No problem. Are you going to tell me what happened?” You asked. He groaned again, not wanting to tell you the embarrassing story.

“Okay, don’t tell me. Let me get you some aspirin for that headache you’re obviously having.”

“Wait…” He started saying, but you had already left the living room, opening a cabinet in the bathroom where you kept your medicine.

He was still sitting in the same spot, rubbing his temples. He swallowed the pills with a glass of water you’ve poured in the kitchen. He told you everything afterwards, feeling guilty for not wanting to talk about his situation. He told you that the night a month earlier, he had met with his girlfriend, who had broken up with him that same night. She hadn’t liked his travelling lifestyle. Then he had met a new woman at a bar, and they had started dating pretty quickly, but she wasn’t into monogamy. He had ended the relationship the evening before when he found her kissing with another guy at a bar.

“So that’s the story. Two women in under a month.” He sighed and downed the last of the cold coffee.

“You’ll find someone who’ll love you for you, Chris. You just need to open your eyes.” You told him and walked away with the mugs. Secretly hoping he would love you back.

Day 169:

Another month passed. Chris had dated a new woman each week, but you had started your weekly movie nights again. It was better to have him in your life than not at all, even though it hurt you to see him kissing another woman on the covers of every magazine and gossip webpage there exist.

So, you did what every sane person would do. You dated. None of the men you dated were Chris or anywhere like him. They didn’t make you laugh, feel safe, feel giddy nor did you feel anything for them except pity.

You even started pitying yourself for dating these men.

Day 252:

Chris was overseas filming another movie. You were on a skype call with him.

“I think I’ve finally found the one.” He told you. Your heart sank as a gorgeous woman came into the frame and introduced herself as Chris’ new girlfriend. You had to admit, she was very sweet and kind to talk to, she even made you laugh at a few womanly inside jokes.

“She seems amazing, Chris, congrats.” You said as the woman left the room.

“I’d like to introduce the two of you officially, when I get back home.” He said with a big goofy smile. He was head over heels in love, and it just hurt you even more, but you plastered on your biggest sincere smile and carried on.

Day 286:

You got back home from work, tired, exhausted was more the word for how you felt. You had been working almost non-stop for a month, every day of the week to get the costumes for a new movie ready. The grocery bags in your hands were heavy, so when you looked up from your garden gate and saw Chris sitting on your porch swing with his head in his hands, you let out a gasp. He looked up. Your eyes locking, his were red and teary. You dropped the bags and ran to hug him, as he walked towards you with his head down. You slumped to the ground with Chris sobbing in your arms.

“Shh, Chris. It’s okay.” You hushed, trying to comfort him.

An hour later you were sitting in your kitchen. He had a cup of tea with a little whisky in it, while you were cooking dinner. His new girlfriend wasn’t the one either. Some jazz music playing quietly from the radio.

“You know what? I should stop.” He said after downing the tea.

“Stop with what?” You asked, looking up from chopping onions.

“Stop dating. I can’t find the right woman. I’ve looked everywhere. There’s no one out there for me. I’m doomed to die alone.”

“You aren’t going to die alone, Chris.”

“Enough about me, what about you? Why haven’t you found a guy yet?”

“I’m waiting for the right partner.” You whispered; you were feeling a bit cheeky having used one of his lines in Captain America.

“Tell me about him, your right partner.”

You thought about it. Maybe you should just tell him about your feelings, and end up ruining your friendship, but on the other hand, you were tired of hiding your feelings.

“He is tall, has dark hair, blue eyes, preferably a cute dog. He is an outdoor kind of guy, comes from the New England area. He is intelligent and compassionate, he is kind and stubborn, he is funny and determined. He loves movies…” Your voice trailed off as Chris stood from the stool, his thoughts going a million miles an hour. He was slowly realizing what you were saying. You were describing him. He looked at you. Seeing you for the first time. How could he have been so stupid? His dancing partner had been right in front of him the whole time. You listened to him when he had problems. You always had a hug ready for him, when he got home from filming. You always had his favourite beer in the fridge. You knew him in and out.

You were kind to his dog. Dodger would always sleep next to you and completely ignore him when Chris brought the adorable dog with him to visit you. You were a caring woman, who had sown Halloween costumes for his nieces and nephews.

He finally started to understand the weird feeling he had felt when you had told him that you were dating. The feeling of jealousy. The green monster. He wanted to turn back time and ask you out on that very first night you met when you drank an entire bottle of whisky.

“… and he definitely needs to have a respectable job.” You ended your rant. Chris was standing next to you. He caressed your cheek with the tip of his fingers.

“Chris? What are you doing?” You asked, stuttering the words.

“I just had an epiphany.” He whispered. His hands cupped your cheeks, forcing your gaze to look into his blue eyes.

“What kind of epiphany?”

“The kind that kicks you in the gut and tells you that you have been the biggest idiot on the planet.”

“Why is that?”

“I realized that I found my partner a long time ago.”

“Really? Who is she or he?” You teased nervously.

“You. You are my perfect dance partner.”

Without having noticed you had been led away from the kitchen island towards the more open area of the kitchen. You were moving to the music.

“Chris…”

“I’m slow, I know. Give me a chance to make it up to you. Please?”

A single tear escaped your eye. You nodded. He moved closer, his lips mere centimetres away from yours, making you take the choice of kissing him. Your lips crashed together, your arms folding behind his neck, pulling him closer. The world disappeared behind you. Nothing existed but the two of you. You had imagined kissing Chris for months, and your imagination didn’t do the real thing justice. He had soft lips, a strong stubborn tongue that probed around in your mouth, fighting yours for dominance. You kissed for what felt like an eternity, but it was only a short moment as you had to get up for air. He put his forehead to yours, breathing in each other’s breaths. His eyes were closed. A sense of euphoria washed through your body.

“Go on a date with me.” Chris said, his eyes still closed, afraid that you wouldn’t be real if he opened them. “Friday. I’ll pick you up at six. Please?”

“Chris, look at me.” You whispered. He slowly opened his eyes and looked into yours with uncertainty. “Don’t be late.”

Day 327:

You and Chris had been dating for 38 days. He had wooed you for all 38 days. He sent you new flowers once a week, brought takeout from your favourite places when he knew you were working late. He would drive you to work and pick you up again, no matter the hour. He just wanted to be with you, and you wanted to be with him. You had never seen him so happy, and it made you giddy every time because you were the one making him happy.

That evening Chris had invited you out to a romantic dinner. At the end of the meal, he ordered you a double whisky, no ice, while he himself went with a dark’n’stormy. The restaurant thinning out as the evening proceeded. Not long after, you were the only two guests left.

“Chris, maybe we should start thinking about going home, so they can close down for the evening.” You said and drank the last of your whisky.

“Sure. I just need to order one more thing.” He said and waved the waiter down. You watched as the waiter came towards you with something under a cloche. The waited lifted it and there was a small square box. You looked confused at Chris. He smiled took the box and opened it. Inside was the most beautiful diamond ring you had ever seen. Chris bent down on one knee in front of you. The waiter slowly backed away, giving you privacy.

“I love you, my sweet angel. You make my day brighter. You make me laugh, even during the inappropriate times. You pull me out of the house, even when I just want to stay tucked away from the outside world. Your smile alone brightens my world. Your laughter brings peace to my mind. I fell in love with you the moment you downed that double whisky when we met. I was just too blind to see it. I love you, and I want to keep exploring our love. It was always you that I was looking for. So, even though we have only been dating for a month, I still want to ask you. Will you marry me?”

You had tears in your eyes. You covered your mouth and nodded.

“Yes! YES! Yes, I’ll marry you.”

#Chris Evans #Oh man #My story #Fanfiction #Fluff #My fic #Chris Evans x reader #Chris Evans x female reader #Request #Anon request #Anonymous request #It was always you #I need a drink #Short Story #chris evans fanfic

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