#yes his hoodie does say wife.
KITTYBOY!GOJO X FEMALE!READER/ A LITTLE BIT OF KITTY!SUGURU
Pairings: Female!Reader x Kittyboy!Gojo
Notes: Hi this is just a idea I had in my mind, I’ll expand on suguru do not worry!
Tags: Smut, Fluff, Blowjob, Handjob,
Kitty Gojo with a nice wife who basically does everything he says with a smile on your face, whether that includes ironing his clothes for him or something as small as rubbing his ears. Oh he loves you a tenthfold, not afraid to display his affection towards you a lot when you’re both alone, he’s tried to be touchy in public but you quickly shut that down when a hand tried to paw it’s way to grope your bottom: the rest of the day was him pouting like a kid at the table when you were making dinner.
Kitty Satoru whos so clingy even you get concerned.
“Satoru please” he tightens his hold around your waist, pushing his face deeper into your breasts, not letting you get up off his lap to start your errands, you’re dressed in a simple leggings and long sleeved shirt, ready to go before he heard you leave in his sleepy state and immediately dragged you to the couch.
“Five more minutes” his whines are muffled by your shirt. “You said that fifteen minutes ago Toru” you huff and attempt to softly undo his hands
“Can’t you at least change before you go?” Striking blue eyes look up into yours, he can be a little cute when he tries, especially when his ears are twitching in annoyance. Your clothes he mentions are a tad too tight for his liking, they really squeeze your ass to look so good.
“How about I just put on a hoodie?” You plead, just trying to get the big man child to let you go, even if it means appeasing to him.
Finally he relents in letting you go but not without a firm squeeze of your boobs. Just before you leave out of the door, he gives you a big kiss on the lips.
Kitty Satoru who loves your hands, he feels the need to have them all over him at any time of the day, especially during movie night. It doesn’t take even an hour into the movie before he’s guiding your hands to his middle section, not long before he’s using your hand to rub his growing erection, you never deny him of it either. Lithe fingers rub him on top of his underwear, he relaxes instantly: small huffs of hot hair leaving his mouth.
His cute fluffy tail wraps itself around your upper arm, moving slowly in a motion to calm himself.
He lets you take him out of his boxers, thick cock laying against his abdomen, wasting no time you begin to jerk him off, along with that you make sure to squeeze him in your palm every so often.
“Sh-shit..- wait..” he groans in between clenched teeth, his hips are already chasing after you: when your hand lifts up to his tip. Satoru grips the bottom of his shirt and lifts it up to his lips: biting down hard. Your pretty lips already know what to do, leaning in you press your lips to his nipple and suck, you feel him twitch and jump just a little in your hand, his delicious sweet moans fill the room.
You’re not nice with the way you suck on his chest, pinning the bud in between your teeth and pulling gently.
“Fuc..k, oh..” he’s full on humping your hand, a loud whimper fills the room and he’s cumming in large spurts all over your hand: “Oh- oh god… yes…” you love the facial expressions he makes, his lips tucked in between his teeth, and eyes closed as hard as possible. your mouth nor hand doesn’t stop: it’s to drag out his orgasm for as long as possible.
Kitty Satoru who loves your pussy just as much as your hands. When he has had a long day, tired and just ready to relax in your hold, what he isn’t expecting his to hear small, distant moans coming from the living room when he pushes the door open. He’s quick to close it and walk upon you bent over, fingering your cunt just for him: he knows it’s for him. Soft moans leaving your throat, you know he’s there but make no move to acknowledge him.
He’s watching with lust gazed eyes behind you, so deep In his trance that he when moves to kneel behind you it feels automatic, like the poor man isn’t even in control, he wants to be buried inside you right now.
His fast deft hands undo his belt, and pull his pants along with his underwear down around his thighs. You move your fingers out of your dripping cunt and allow him to do as he pleases.
Satoru pushes all his body weight on top of your back, giving you no time to adjust before pushing himself balls deep into your wet hole, after a while he’s found himself a rough pace, all that can be heard is the slick downright disgusting sounds of his cock entering and exiting your pussy, you can hear him howling like a mutt atop you, his poor cock feeling so good, and your fluttering walls clenching and unclenching around him like a mantra,.
“Nhg…. Feels so good… nh..” he whines again in between thrusts. “Toru… you’re doing so good”
He pulls out and slams back into you one last time before you both convulse, a mixture of his cum and yours slowly forming around the base of his cock.
Kitty Satoru who purrs while you do his hair. You make sure to be super gentle and avoid his ears in case it sparks something within him. After grooming his head you move to his sensitive tail, being even more gentler because he says that his tail should always be prim and proper.
Kitty Satoru who’s bestfriend is Suguru, another Hybrid who prefers to roam the streets, you’ve offered him a nice room in the house but he always declines.
Kitty Suguru is super super sweet, when he does stay the night he always makes sure to have good manners and is quick to help you with chores unlike someone.
Kitty Satoru and Suguru love each other so much, you catch them cuddling on the couch and sometimes you even see satoru whispering things to suguru which in turn makes him chuckle.
Kitty Suguru who also loves when you offer to de-stress him. He’s obsessed with the way you look when sucking him off, so pretty on your knees while you allow him to fuck your throat, his cock resting on your cheek before you slip the tip between your lips and suckle lightly. You angle your fingers towards his tail and grip down on it hard, so hard that he’s cumming in your mouth immediately, it has him breathing hard and so in shock, a stunned cute expression decorates his fade.
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omg so i’m new here but i currently have brainrot for 2 things
1) being a famous celebrity (sortaaaa like the famous streamer one but more famous) where ur like, an actress or model, things like that. and having a semi-public relationship with schlatt where you’ll be spotted holding hands on occasion, or on a red carpet but not really publicly discussing your relationship (even though everyone knows you’re together), and everyone is either super happy and ships the ever loving shit out of you, or they clown on you a bit and make “who’s punching up” videos and odd comments, and just not giving a fuck and being happy together but kinda wanting to be viewed like any other couple and not just another famous couple to be analyzed. (also similar to mutual break up but you don’t care about hate and stay together)
AND
2) schlatt made a joke about having his cock out in the latest chuckle sandwich episode and….. giving him head under his desk when he films….. for some things, like recordings where he’s not showing his face, it’s easy, but when he has his face out, it’s a bit more challenging. he has to restrain the urge to watch you and moan SOOO bad…. that’s all.
LMAO NONNIE THE FIRST ONE, I HAD TOO
okay, let’s say you’re a celebrity that is agreed by men, women, etc. to be absolutely stunning
so many people that love you, call you their wife, etc.
you are an absolute style icon, wearing pieces made for you to exclusive red carpet events
even people who hate you have to agree you’ve got a great style in clothes and makeup and yes, you’re iconic, at least a little
then somehow you make your way to the youtube community
people assume from you being so open and sweet and social is how you find yourself starring in a project directed by Ted Nivison
you’re so excited for it, interacting with other creators, etc.
Jschlatt knows of you, but thinks you’re probably like all those LA stuck up influencers that managed to make enough connections to get what you wanted
but when he has his first interaction with you on twitter??
he’s taking the chance to flirt with you publicly
in any way shape or form
and is so public about his crush on you to the point everyone is convinced he runs a stan account for you
you both do get closer behind the scenes but don’t tell much people about it
especially considering his jokes that people love taking seriously and out of context
you both are pretty secretive about it, super down low about it until the day he decides to pay for your nails
a small j is on the underside of your ring finger as to not show it off too much
it can’t even be seen unless it’s up close
then someone points it out on twitter in a selfie
you say it was dirt, but they know what they saw
then the paparazzi comes in and takes a photo that goes viral of you in sweats and a suspiciously familiar wilson hoodie
you say it a coincidence over and over again but the evidence is undeniable when you post multiple selfies in familiar hoodies that look just a little too large for you
small scratches and bite marks on your arms but you never mentioned getting a cat
then you appear in a chuckle sandwich interview
but the vibe is different in that video compared to the rest with guests
schlatt is polite??? and listening to you??
he looks at you with so much affection
yeah, your team does damage control and quickly
claiming that you’re currently single and focused on your career
then you fuck up on your own
a misclick on a story made for your close friends of you kissing your boyfriend’s cheek as he has the biggest smile ever plastered on his face
oh well, too late to deny anymore
so you don’t say anything until your next red carpet event where he’s essentially your accessory
like arm candy and dressed to match you
then everyone definitely knows
and let me tell you, some stans are sobbing
lots of “i waited 3 1/2 years, white man did it in one week” from fans and other celebrities
punching the air too
lots of crying and audios after they realize you’re dating him fr fr and not them
people definitely make memes out of it
goddess s/o and bf they probably found digging around in the trash and probably has rabies
yk that one meme of shining armor and princess cadence?
yeah, that + other attractive partner and their silly bf
so so so many of those “do you think we’re…in another universe?” slides
they clip any time he talks about you and use it for edits
editing characters you play with c! schlatt (it’s giving jack frost x elsa)
they love the two of you and seriously cannot get enough
but they really are punching the air when he marries you and when he gets you pregnant (if applicable)
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Beyond — s.h. x f!reader
Chapter Eight: You’re the Best Part
summary: you head to vail for thanksgiving and things maybe don’t quite go as planned.
warnings: sick mention, r and steve; reminder that r does have a family for the sake of the fake marriage plot; mother has passed, parent loss talk.
modern day! rich! fake husband! steve harrington x afab! reader.
masterlist
——
Your plans to happily return the favor for Steve when he gets home don’t quite pan out the way you want them to.
Why?
Well, it seems the world has its own plans. And those plans apparently don’t involve getting your mouth on the man and learning what your name sounds like coming from his lips while he’s falling apart for you.
What’s the saying again? You make plans, and the big guy upstairs laughs? Yeah—that one.
It’s around three when Steve appears at the entryway to the penthouse. Pale in the face, coughing up a storm, sweat lining his brow. He’s out of it; a simple, cursory glance tells you that much. That and the fact when Charlie rushes over to greet him, Steve barely brushes his hand over the puppy’s head, and instead seeks out the comfort of you.
His hulking form stops at the edge of the couch, shoes kicked haphazardly onto the floor as he lowers himself down. Rests his head in your lap and groans his defeat, ringed hand curling around the span of your thigh, hugging you closer. Were this any other day in the exciting newness of your relationship, you would sigh and dreamily run your fingers through his hair. But as your fingers brush along his brow, you find he’s hot there.
Burning hot. Feverish in a way that has you tugging at his shoulder until he can look up at you. Dark circles shadow his under eyes. His skin seems paler than usual, too. Exhaling, you reach over and cup his cheek, thumb trailing over the curve of his jaw. Smile down at him as he leans into the touch, eyes closing. The same hand then turns over and presses against his forehead and confirms that, yes, Steve is definitely sick. Unfortunately enough, right before the holiday, too.
“I’m calling your doctor—”
“No, no, no,” Steve groans, turning his head into your stomach, where he ends up coughing into your hoodie, apologizing for doing so. “I just want to sleep.”
“After I call the doctor,” you tell him, fingers carding through his hair. “You’re burning up, Steve. I knew you felt warm this morning.”
“Please,” he mumbles, “no doctor.”
——
Dr. Murray Bauman is an…interesting man, to say the least. When you call, after effectively getting Steve to lay down in bed, he sounds like he’s in the middle of a war zone. And you wonder briefly if you can hear angry voices in the distance.
He asks you a multitude of questions, the first being who the hell you are calling for Steve Harrington, but when you tell him you’re his wife, he only awkwardly laughs, stating he didn’t know Steve had finally settled down, before regaling you a story about Steve from when he’d been a younger boy.
“He’ll be here in a half hour, he said,” you tell Steve, before reaching for his phone and holding it in front of his face. It unlocks and you immediately search for Hailey’s number in his contacts. You hadn’t met her yet. Well, except for the brief greeting at your wedding. But you’d heard enough to know she’s kind and your husband couldn’t do half of what he does without her. She picks up on the first ring and greets you. “Hello, Hailey?”
“This is her,” she says. A hint of uncertainty creeps down the line. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Mrs. Harrington—”
Steve, who suddenly realizes what you’re doing, reaches out to grab at your hand dangling limply at your side. Tries to tug you closer, but you raise a hand in warning. “Wait, wait, wait—”
“Mrs. Harrington! It’s been a while. Is everything okay?”
“Actually,” you say, rubbing at Steve’s shoulder, grinning to yourself as he huffs a bit but otherwise leans into your affection, “I’m calling because Steve’s going to need to cancel the rest of his meetings for today. Maybe the next couple of days, actually.”
“I told him he sounded like shit.” She pauses, chuckling nervously. “Sorry—didn’t mean to say that. He just sounded terrible, so I suggested he go home early. Thank you for letting me know.”
“No problem.” You wait a moment and then, “Thanks for the flowers, by the way. Steve mentioned you had them sent.”
“Oh, no. That was all Mr. Harrington,” she says, and your chest flutters with the notion of her words. “I just helped pick them out. Okay—so I’ve gone ahead and canceled all his meetings through the holiday and the week after.”
“You’re wonderful, Hailey. Thank you! And I hope you enjoy the holiday,” you say truthfully, settling down onto the bed beside Steve, rubbing his back through another lovely coughing fit. “We’ll talk soon.”
The line goes dead. You place the phone down onto the bedside table beside your husband and help slide his glasses off of his face for good measure. As his eyes meet yours, you want to lean down and wrap your arms around him. He looks younger than his years, more boyish somehow, the tiredness in his eyes alluding to just how sick he actually is. You hope Dr. Bauman hurries, if only so he can get some much needed rest.
“Canceled my meetings, huh?” He asks between the rumbly heaves of his chest.
“Think of it as an extended vacation.”
“Forced,” Steve emphasizes, rolling over so you can allow him into the circle of your arms. His head rests on your chest, the blankets you draped over him high up on his shoulders. “You shouldn’t even be in here; you’re going to get sick.”
“Pretty sure what we did earlier will get me sick anyway. That and the fact I’ve shared a bed with you for a bit now.” Your fingers card through his hair, your other palm rubbing up and down the achy muscles of his back. “Plus, what better way to test our vows? In sickness and in health, right?”
You step out of the room when Dr. Bauman arrives and immediately starts taking your husband’s vitals, wanting to give him a little privacy. Charlie bounds over to you in the kitchen as you search for something to throw together for dinner. You hadn’t really planned on eating home with Thanksgiving being so close, and the two of you about to spend a few days at Mrs. Harrington’s home. But now that you stare at an empty fridge, you realize maybe a little forethought might have saved you from the bare shelves you’re greeted with upon opening.
Pushing it shut, you pluck your phone from your pocket, scrolling through a list of nearby restaurants when you hear your name being called from down the hall. Dr. Bauman is tossing his stethoscope and other equipment into a black bag as you knock on the doorframe, his eyes tipping up to greet yours.
“It’s the flu,” he says, tapping away at an iPad resting on his forearm. “I already sent his prescription out to be filled. Lots of rest. No work. Lots of fluids. Limited shenanigans…of the, uh, newlywed kind. Maybe a warm shower to clear up some of the shit that’s rattling around in your chest.”
Steve rolls his eyes and Murray claps him on the shoulder. You definitely don’t understand their relationship. “I also ordered you a script for a preemptive antiviral,” Murray says to you, hoisting his bag up and over his shoulder. “You know my number, obviously. I’ll be around should you need me.”
“But you highly suggest I don’t,” Steve grouses from the bed.
“You get it, kid,” the older man says, petting Charlie as he bounces into the bedroom, wanting to see what all the fuss is about. “You’ll get a text when your prescriptions are ready. But other than that, I think you’re all good to go. Take care.”
Just as quickly as the man arrives, he’s gone, leaving you alone with your husband once more. “Told you that you needed to slow down,” you tell him, climbing back into bed and resuming your prior position. Steve’s head against your chest, his arms looped around your waist, wanting to simply be close to another person when every inch of him aches with fever. “Want me to make you anything? Tea? Soup. Well…we don’t really have food. I didn’t get groceries because of Thanksgiving.”
“Just wanna lay here,” he grumbles against your sweater, “…but I wouldn’t mind soup later.”
“Then I’ll order you some, handsome.” You chuckle, fingers running through his hair, listening to his sighing breath as he edges closer and closer to sleep. “Definitely not how I pictured our afternoon.”
“Rain check?” he asks, and you know then he’s really sick, as he spent the earlier half of the afternoon texting you about how he couldn’t wait to get home and resume what you both started in your kitchen.
“I’m holding you to it, Harrington,” you laugh, rubbing at the right muscles at the base of his spine. Hot breath spills from his lips, warming you through the material of your shirt. “Get some rest. I’ll be right here.”
He doesn’t even argue.
An hour later, you’re in the middle of watching some silly dating show on Netflix when your little sister, Caroline, tries to FaceTime. Steve’s still sprawling out against your chest, but rises up onto his elbows and tells you to pick it up. To which you question if he’s sure. A moment later, he shifts so his back is against the headboard of the bed and hits the answer call button, watching the younger girl’s face light up on the other line.
“Hey, sissy,” she says brightly, then peers further at the screen and sees Steve there. “And brother-in-law.”
“Hey!” You smile warmly.
“Are you two sleeping?”
“No, no,” you reassure her. “Steve’s got the flu, so we’re laying low for the day. What are you up to?”
“Just sitting around,” she says, nearly dropping her phone as she maneuvers around Gram’s kitchen. “Dad’s with Gram. You know how it is.”
“How’s he doing?” You frown, biting at your bottom lip. Doesn’t matter how long Mom has been gone, the holidays are always hard on him. “Do you need me to come home?”
“No. No.” She tugs her hair over her shoulder, strings of her hoodie curled around her fingertips. She’s so cute and you miss her so much that you wish you could smack kisses to both her cheeks. “We’re okay. Eddie stopped by yesterday with Uncle Wayne. And then I just realized how much I missed you.”
“I miss you too, sweetie,” you sigh, breaking off into a watery laugh. Steve reaches over across your lap and curls your palm in his. “But I’ll see you next month, right? Gonna bring this guy with me too. Hope that’s okay?”
“Mmmm,” she considers, head tilting to the side. “Not sure about him yet.”
Steve points a thumb at himself, earning a laugh from your little sister. “Guess I’ll have to return the gifts I got for my little sister.”
“You got me gifts?”
He shrugs. “Depends. Am I invited?”
“Fine. Fine,” she giggles airily, beaming so bright your own cheeks hurt. “How’s Charlie?”
Charlie, at the mere mention of his name, hops up onto the bed. Despite the fact he knows he’s not supposed to. You both haven’t really made it a habit of letting him sleep with you two; especially not when you’re still getting used to using your own bedroom as storage space for your clothes and things, and sharing his.
Referring to it as yours.
As of late, you’ve started placing your things in Steve’s bathroom. In one of his drawers. A robe in his closet. Slippers near his bedside. Your books on his bedside table. Neither of you had said anything about it. It just felt like the natural progression of things.
“Hi, Charlie!” Caroline enthuses, earning a loud yip from the puppy. Steve’s hand rubs over his floppy head, drawing your gaze to his sleep-addled features. “Hey, sissy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I come visit soon?”
You glance at Steve in question, who merely says, “It’s your home.”
At that, you want so badly to lean over and kiss him. To thank him silently, to reveal those feelings that keep growing stronger for him every day through touch. In the only tangible way you know how exactly to express the inner workings of your heart.
“Any time, sweetie. Tell me when and I’ll book you a flight to come visit, okay?”
Her smile grows wider, and you can’t help but think about how she looks just like your mother. How your little sister is growing so fast. Things are changing. In your life, your career, your marriage, your family.
“Are you okay?” Caroline asks, brows furrowing high on her forehead.
“You’re just so beautiful,” you tell her honestly, sniffling, “you look just like Mom.”
“Nooo don’t do the water works. I’m going to vom—”
“You’re just—”
“I love you,” she says, shifting onto her elbows at the kitchen table she’s sitting at.
And she never says that. Always so buried in her phone. Making her TikTok videos. Texting her friends. Scrolling social media sites. Your heart soars with her words. Chest aches and burns with the feelings that rise up because of them.
“I love you too.”
The three of you spend a good chunk of the afternoon simply talking. Asking Caroline questions about school, you and Steve about work and your studies. Caroline even goes so far as to ask Steve ice breaker questions and riddles, and he’s terrible at them, feigning that it’s his sickness making it hard for him to answer any correctly.
After a while, your father’s tired face appears in the phone camera, alerting you he’s just spent the better part of the afternoon tending to cooking dinner. Gram is overjoyed not only to see you, but gawks over the fact that, even while sick, your husband is handsome as ever.
Steve leans into you bashfully at that, and you tousle the strands of his hair, and Gram thinks because she’s older she can casually blurt out, “The look he’s giving you right now is the same look your grandfather gave me the night we ended up—”
“You know what? I need to go pick up Steve’s medicine from the pharmacy and probably go and grab us some dinner,” you tell them, shoulder bumping into Steve’s, “I love you all so much. We’ll see you soon!”
It’s a chorus of goodbyes. A barrage of I love yous. A plethora of see you soons. Steve glows with the onslaught of affection. Tops of his cheeks stain bright under their well wishes, his lips tugging into a broad smile. The phone screen goes black and you toss it onto the bedside table, shifting onto your side beside Steve.
“They’re pretty great.”
“They’re…” A lot. Overbearing. Ridiculous (Gram mostly). But you catch the hopefulness on his face. Picture your husband, younger in age, alone in a crowded room wanting, searching, vying for someone to notice him. “They’re your family too now, you know?”
He opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is an endless coughing fit. His mouth presses into his elbow, your fingers running soothing lines up and down his bicep, waiting until it passes to clamber out of the bed and snatch your phone from the bedside table.
“I’m going to run to the pharmacy. You should try and get in the shower like Dr. Murray suggested.”
“I might need your help for that.”
Heat curls low in your belly. “I’m going to blame the mucus in your head for that one, lover boy. Get in the shower, I’ll run out quickly, and then we can spend the rest of the afternoon relaxing. Because those were the doctor’s orders. No work.”
“My whole body hurts,” he grumbles, leaning into your frame as you rush around to his side of the bed and help him along the way to the master bathroom. “I couldn’t work even if I wanted to.”
Steve watches from the edge of the bathtub as you shuffle about, gathering things as you go. A towel on the outside of the shower cubicle. New soap. His fluffiest robe. He’s about to open his mouth to speak, but you’re tucking a thermometer in his mouth, watching his mouth downturn into a pout.
A moment later, it beeps.
“One hundred and one,” you murmur, placing the device back in its proper holder. He groans, leaning into your abdomen, your arm curling around his shoulders to keep him close. “Bet you’re feeling all kinds of achy right now. I’ll be right back, okay? And then I’m here for whatever you need.”
——
When you return, Steve’s already propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows. The box of tissues beside him looks freshly opened, his nose a bright red that has your stomach dipping for him. He’s foregone his usual sleeping routine of wearing no shirt. Instead, he wears a hoodie with some sports logo you're unfamiliar with on, hips covered in the bedspread.
On one hand, you have his soup. In the other, the medicine he’s meant to take for the next few days. He accepts both greedily. As greedily as one who looks very much ghostly at this point can, normally tan skin pale, eyes heavy lidded.
“What are you watching there, handsome?” you ask, remaining near his hip, taking the garbage from him once he’s taken out his things.
“Some show where these people bake and you have to guess if the items are cake or not.” He’s so stuffy now, and you can’t help but giggle at the change in his voice. “You can’t make fun of your husband when he’s sick.”
“Is that a rule?”
“It was one of our vows, actually,” he says, glancing about the bedside table momentarily.
“Must have forgotten that one. Need something?” you ask, combing your fingers through his hair.
He leans into the touch. “Some water, please?”
You make your way over to the bedroom door, fingers curling around the frame, just as he speaks again, “Oh, and some more tissues?”
The box felt mostly full, but you toss him a smile over your shoulder all the same, fondness welling in your chest for the man.
“Can you fluff my pillows, baby?”
At that, you whirl back around, brows arching. “Yeah?”
He grins as you lean over him, chest nearly brushing his face, smacking both sides of said pillows. “Maybe tuck me in while you’re at it?”
Now you’re snorting, but reaching down around his waist to start pushing fabric into place near his hips, drawing back when he stops you in your movements. “Is that not good?”
“I’m just messing with you, honey.”
You shove him. Hard.
“Hey! I’m sick.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass, Mr. Harrington.”
“But you love it, Mrs. Harrington.”
And you’re speechless.
Because he’s right, and there’s nothing you can say to refute that fact at this point.
A fact that becomes more and more clear every day.
——
All in all, you really do both get the opportunity to work out those in sickness and in health vows. Because about twenty four hours into Steve being sick, you start to feel run down, and about twelve hours after that, the two of you spend the better part of five days sleeping and holding one another in bed, watching mindless reality television shows, and coaxing Charlie to join you both so he can curl up near your feet and keep a watchful eye on you both.
Eddie calls on the first day you’re both down for the count. Checks in to see if you need anything, offers to drop off food, and pick up anything you might need from the grocery store. Hopper ends up sending food up to the penthouse, cooked by Joyce herself, and joined by some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies for dessert.
On day two, Robin and Nancy stop in, keeping a far distance, but end up cleaning around the house since you hadn’t really had a chance to before your own fever and body aches kicked in.
After that, your friends and family alternate until you’re both back on the mend. And it’s not long before Steve has a healthy glow back in his face and you can breathe through your nose once more.
The day before Thanksgiving, you both pack up your things in suitcases and send off Charlie to go stay with Joyce and Hopper for the duration of your trip. The kids, El and Will, are overjoyed at the prospect of spending time with the puppy and promise to keep him safe and feed him all the treats if he’s well behaved.
Sighing a hum of relief, you slam your passenger side door shut, wincing as Steve slams the trunk closed before joining you within. He thumps against the headrest, left hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over the center console you lace his fingers through yours. You beam up at him, heat crawling along flesh, and give his hand a gentle squeeze.
“Ready to go, Harrington?”
He puts the car into gear, and you’re off.
——
Mrs. Harrington’s second home is beautiful. More than you could ever imagine. After a five hour flight and a short drive from the airport to the front gates, you’re greeted by a worker who allows Steve to pass in the rental car, weaving up cobblestone roads through an endless sea of trees in what feels like the middle of nowhere Vail, Colorado.
The home is gorgeous. Nestled in the middle of lush greenery is a luxurious mansion adorned with endless rustic charm. Glowing lights spill from the giant windows, illuminating the wrap-around stone patio that compliments the blend of timeless stone and timber exterior of the pale walls boasting of the multiple floors within the home. From where you’re standing you can see the garden off to the right side of the home and the pond trickling amidst her blooms.
“This is how all the good scary movies start…” you say, leaning your head back to take in the towering home standing before you. “Giant home in the middle of nowhere.”
“Is that so?” He’s laughing, sides shaking with it as he grips your suitcase and tugs it after him. “Come on, honey. No one is about to hop out of the woods.”
“How do you know?” Your brow arches high on your forehead, breaking off into a snort he rolls his eyes at.
“Come on.” He tugs you along beside him, your shoulders bumping at the proximity. “My mom can hardly wait another minute to see us if her dozens of texts were any indication.”
He’s not wrong.
She’s there in a flurry of movement to greet you, patting you both on the backs of your heads, overjoyed that you’re both feeling better.
The inside is just as magnificent. Vaulted ceilings, white walls with wooden decor. A burning fireplace in the middle of one of the largest living rooms you’ve ever seen, attached to a kitchen that looks the size of your old apartment. She walks you through the rest of the home, revealing room after room of generational wealth. Old money that runs in Steve’s blood—a fact you often forget, because he’s never been one for the lavish or lofty.
It dawns on you that this is what he’s used to. Holidays in the Hamptons, vacation homes in Vail and on tropical islands, cars that cost a salary.
Noting your stupor, Steve curls an arm around your shoulder, back of his hand on your forehead. “Still feeling okay?”
“I’m okay,” you reassure him with a smile, jolting as Mrs. Harrington whirls on you both and catches the two of you in the middle of a private moment.
“Well aren’t you two just lovely. I’m really so happy you could make it.” She claps her hands excitedly. “You’re the first ones here. I’ll show you to your room. I’m sorry it’s across from mine, I just figured with Cami, Theo and the kids, you two would want a little peace and quiet.”
And absolutely no privacy, you think, taking in the short distance between your bedroom and Mrs. Harrington’s. And it’s not like you’d anticipated anything happening, but you couldn’t help but to wonder if something might have. The room is lovely. A king sized bed with cream colored sheets. Various sandy colored decorations. Plants hanging in the bedroom window. A dresser that you easily slide your things into, and the adjoining bathroom just next to the room. Up above a sparking chandelier dangles, shards that look like mirrors cutting yours and Steve’s forms into dozens of miniature versions of yourselves that you stare back at.
She gives you a moment to unpack and destress, and you’re barely aware of the bedroom door clicking shut before Steve’s crawling over your form on the bed. You hum into his lips as they claim yours, days of doing nothing but sleeping, making your insides burn, craving more. Always more of him these days. A sigh falls from your parted lips as he pastes endless kisses to your neck. Until you’re writhing beneath him, cheeks burning up, fingers clutching at his biceps.
“Not in your mother’s home,” you giggle, breathless and giddy from his attention. “I’m serious, Steve. I'm still trying to make a good impression.”
He flops over onto his side, hair freshly cut and beard freshly shaven. He’s perfect. The slope of his nose, the curve of those cheekbones, the cut of his jaw. Your forehead leans into his, fingers trailing over the thin sweater covering his abdomen, before trailing beneath, roaming over sinewy muscle. The divots and indentations from hours spent in the gym, the patch of hair that slips down past his belt, always teasing—tempting.
“We’re in my mother’s house,” he reminds you as your fingers trail lower, toying with the too expensive buckle on his belt, eyes following the path of your touch, “isn’t that what you said? Plus, if I remember correctly, you’re not one to keep quiet.”
“I changed my mind. I can be so quiet,” you argue frostily, earning a chuckle from the man. “Like a little church mouse.”
“As much as I would love to test that theory, I think that’s the doorbell.”
Theobald and Cami.
You groan, burying your face into his shoulder.
——
You’ve decided on a silky burgundy dress for Thanksgiving dinner. Long sleeves glide over your arms, the deep neckline drawing Steve’s gaze from where he sits on the edge of the bed fastening his cufflinks with his diamond encrusted initial in the center.
He looks handsome as ever. A pair of dark pants, his suit jacket, a pop of burgundy on his necktie that matches what you’ve worn. He’s gotten a haircut, his hair no longer falling around his jaw. Instead it’s a bit shorter, coiffed perfectly on his head, and that hair along his jawline has been shaved once more, leaving him fresh faced and glowy after his shower.
Exhaling deeply, you run your fingers over the fabric, turning to and fro, taking in your image in the mirror, making sure the fit is immaculate, before turning to face him.
“Good?”
“Perfect,” he whispers a little breathlessly, crossing the room to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. He holds out a hand and you clasp it, allowing him to lead you to the bedroom door. “Shall we?”
Your nose wrinkles. “We shall.”
Despite the face dinner is taking place at Mrs. Harrington’s home, she hired a full wait staff for the evening, along with a private chef. The dining room—though you thought it more akin to a dining hall—is decked to the nines with all the finest offerings. She’s gone for the vintage plates and freshly polished silverware. Wine glasses sparkle all around the table, illuminated by the candles down the center of the velvet runner.
Cami’s familiar head of curls lifts first as you enter, her hands that were moving to fix the lapels of her son’s suit jacket moving to draw you in for a hug as she rushes over to greet you and Steve in the entryway.
“Oh we are so happy to hear you two are doing better,” she gushes, patting Steve affectionately on the cheek. Like he’s a puppy like Charlie—like a child. You catch the wince as she pinches the skin there and gives it a wiggle, and then moves to grab your hand like this isn’t only the third time you’ve seen her in the five months you’ve been married to her family member. “Let me introduce you to my two little babies. They’d been with the au pair the night of your wedding. This right here is Harriet, and here is Holden.”
Twins. Harriet and Holden Harrington are twins, and they look absolutely nothing like their father and that fact alone has your lips twitching up in laughter. Because the sweet little ones sitting across from you with eyes that remind you so much of Steve’s are red headed and just as freckly as their mom is. Adorable, in a way that has your insides melting, reaching out to Steve to grasp onto something as you bend down and finally greet them both.
“Hi,” you whisper, telling them your name. “I’m your cousin Steve’s wife. It’s so nice to meet you! How old are you two?”
“We’re seven,” Harriet says demurely, her little nose turning upward just the slightest as she adds, “almost eight.”
Cami giggles brightly. “And nearly ripped my a—”
“Cami, dear,” Theobald interjects, appearing in the doorway with a bottle of wine that looks older than you are. He’s swaying a bit on his feet, the glass of whiskey in his free hand alerting to what he’s gotten up to before you came down for dinner. “Well, hello there. We were wondering when you two would come out to join us.”
“It’s been a long week,” Steve reminds him, curling an arm around your waist. “My wife and I were sick.”
“That’s right,” his cousin says, glancing down at the label on the bottle, uninterested. “What a misfortune that was. Canceled all your meetings that week, but don’t worry—I took care of things.”
“Thank you,” Steve says, leading you to your chair, and the tautness in his muscles alerts you this is not a good thing Theo has done. He slides forward as you sit down and presses a kiss to the side of your head before joining on your right. “Sweetheart, would you mind passing me that bottle?”
“Why don’t we open the vintage?” Theobald suggests, holding aloft his latest discovery from the wine cellar you’d passed on your short tour around the premises of the Mrs. Harrington’s home.
The room settles into an uncomfortable silence. Minus that of the children’s chatter and their father’s requests for them to behave like ‘civilized human beings and not like wild animals at the dinner table.’ At which you sink further into your chair, grateful for the weight of Steve’s left hand on your thigh.
Mrs. Harrington has already made herself comfortable at the head of the table by the time the wait staff comes around to declare the menu offerings for the evening. A four course meal, with ample options to choose from. Everyone orders and the salads are brought out for the first course, when the room starts to shift.
Or rather, Theobald starts to shift. “So, I’m really glad to see the two of you thriving. So happily in love, aren’t they?”
“They’re just lovely,” Mrs. Harrington agrees from where she sits beside her son, cupping his jaw lovingly. “She loves my son so well.”
Your heart aches at her words, at the honesty behind them. She truly, undoubtedly believes that you love her son. And maybe you’re starting to. You’re not sure. In the past, you’ve never really thought much on the topic of love. Had never had time for relationships, always buried in schoolwork, trying to stay afloat, get ahead. Love had always been a maybe. A someday. Not a necessity. Not something you’d ever base your happiness off of. But all around you you’d seen people giddy with it. Your own parents, Robin and Nancy, Eddie and the way he felt about Chrissy.
You knew you were fond of Steve. Knew you loved him like you did Robin. Like you did Eddie. The way you loved Charlie. And yet—and yet there’s a whisper in the back of your mind. A tendril or something new growing. Unnamed still, but with the humble beginnings of something special. Something waiting to be tended to, lured into the light, encouraged.
“How is everything going with school, dear?” Mrs. Harrington asks you, and Theobald’s face twitches from where he sits beside you.
“Oh—it’s great,” you tell her, swallowing your sip of wine. “Clinicals are going well. I’m on my fall break right now. Just a few more months and I’ll be a veterinarian.”
“Doctor Harrington,” Steve says, bringing your hand up to his lips to press a kiss against the back of your knuckles. “So proud of you, honey. She works harder than anyone I know. Runs a business, takes care of Charlie and me.”
“You know, it’s a wonder how you’re affording it,” Theo mutters, drawing the gaze of everyone at the dinner table. At the curious stares, he adds, “Well, the typical cost of veterinary school is somewhere in the hundreds of thousands. And that’s not including what you may have incurred from your undergraduate studies.”
“I’ve worked very hard to stay ahead on my payments,” you splutter out, the lettuce you’d just placed on your tongue turning to acid.
“I’m sure you have,” he says, sounding a little smug. “I, for one, would like to say how happy we are that you’re here. I know the holidays must be hard for you.”
“I—uh, yes.” At Steve’s confusion, you murmur, “We lost my mother this time of year. She’d been sick for a long time.”
He knows that much. Knows she passed, doesn’t know what from. Doesn’t know that your father struggled for years after. That he became a shadow of the person he was for a time—choked off by the grief. That you had to step in and grow up far before you ever should have had to to help raise your little sister. That you watched as the man you loved lost everything he had, and nearly lost the home he loved his wife in for so many years, the home he’d raised his children in, the home he’d wanted to one day have his grandchildren run through the halls of, grow old in, make memories to last a lifetime in.
“I’m also happy to hear your father’s home is no longer in foreclosure.”
Your fork clangs onto the plate at that. “What are you—”
“Seems your father was able to make up for all his missed payments, late fees, and those pesky attorney’s fees. Where might he have gotten all of that money?”
“Theobald,” Cami hisses, leaning over her wine glass to look at you with a pitying stare. “I’m sorry, sweetie. My husband must have over served himself. Isn’t that right, darling?”
“It just seems…interesting, you know?” Theo continues against her wishes, eying you curiously.
Steve opens his mouth to argue, but you jump in before he can. “And what might be so interesting, Mr. Harrington?”
“Initially, I’m going to be honest in saying that I thought you married because you were pregnant. I figured my dear cousin had tried to cover up his mistakes with a shotgun wedding and raise his littlest Harrington as his fortunate heir. But seeing as you are not, I may have hired a private investigator to look into who Steve married.”
“You what?” Steve and his mother balk, anger lining their gazes.
There’s an awkward silence that descends over the room. It’s made more uncomfortable when the wait staff comes in to clear the salad plates and sets down entrees in front of those sitting at the table. Harriet and Holden are chatting amongst themselves, Cami there to help tuck napkins in their collars. Your eyes wander their way, nose sniffling sharply to keep your unshed tears at bay.
Because Theobald Harrington will not see you cry today.
So you’ll beat him to it. You’ll play along with his vicious game.
“Yes, when my mother died my father struggled. I have a little sister, and she was so young at the time. We’ve never been particularly wealthy, so you imagine going from two incomes to one was hard,” you begin, carving at your food hastily. Steve’s hand brushes along the back of your wrist, but you continue, “Bills started piling up. Medical bills are expensive, and it’s not like we had money just laying around by the bucketful like you might. So, yes, he struggled to stay afloat. And I helped him, but a waitress salary at the time could only go so far. Should I continue?”
Theobald leans his chin onto his hand, elbow on the table despite his aunt’s protests. “Humor me.”
“I started my business and have sent him money to pay down what he owes. And yes, the home came out of foreclosure.” You slam your fork down onto the plate below. “No, I’m not pregnant. And if you want me to admit I married Steve for money or something, because that’s what it sounds like you’re insinuating, you’re wrong; I married him because I love him. A word I’m not quite sure you know the meaning of, because you haven’t been a good family member to Steve, and certainly haven’t been one to me either.”
You turn your head to Mrs. Harrington, hot embarrassment burning behind your eyes. “May I be excused for a moment, please? I’m suddenly not feeling very well.”
She nods, eyes a little misty, voice hoarse. “Yes, my dearie.”
The chair beneath you groans, sweaty palm slipping out of Steve’s hand, before your napkin is thrown onto your empty plate. Cami mutters a silent apology, the children stare, Steve stares ahead, jaw tense, and Theo only grins into his wine glass. Smug as ever.
And it’s then, and only then, as you slip into your bedroom that you allow the tears to fall. Because for months you’ve been trying to fit a mold, to be that woman for Steve, to walk in this world as seamlessly as he does.
But you don’t belong, and Theo’s only made that clearer.
——
Steve knows you. Knows beneath that stubborn exterior, the way you’re always flippant and easy to brush things off with a joke, you have a soft heart. He knows you would prefer to divert to humor before accepting an uncomfortability of conflict. Knows you default to protect yourself, because you’ve been doing so for so long. That you’ve built walls around yourself, even if you don’t realize; walls he can see dismantling every day he’s gotten to know you.
Sure, you’ve been romantic for only a short while now, but five months of marriage — of being your friend first — has lent to a deeper understanding. A love that he’s not felt before, growing deeper every day.
So as he watches as you excuse yourself in a blur of tears and choked words, he knows to wait a minute before slamming his napkin down on the table and following you. He knocks first as he approaches your shared bedroom door. Speaks your name into the open space when you don’t answer at first, only to find you curled on your side in bed, holding a pillow flush against your chest.
His first thought is how much he wants to wrap you up in his arms and kiss your sullen face until it lights up with his favorite smile once more. That same smile he thinks is his kryptonite, always brightening your features and effectively robbing him of air. And you don’t even know the power you hold. But he halts near your hip, backside hitting the plus mattress, palm around the dip of your waist. He feels the shake of your sides, the effort of your tears you’re trying to smother in the pillow.
It cleaves his heart right down the middle. Two halves slowly flutter to the bottom of his stomach, lungs tight in his chest like a vice. The last time he saw you cry, it had been just as terrible. You hurt over his actions, eyes red, lids puffy. To think seeing you like this now would be any less heartbreaking is a mistake on his part. Because his heart breaks for what yours does, body slowly sidling up behind yours, your back against his chest, his fingers gradually walking up and down your arm, quiet as your tears start to subside, your breathing evening out.
“Thank you, Steve,” you sniffle after some time has passed with you in his arms.
He exhales deeply as you shift on the bed, turning to face him, wiping at your mascara smudged cheeks. You’re still the prettiest girl in the world, he thinks, without a doubt. Thumbs the corner of your eye where a little dark smudge has started to form, collecting the tear that spills out the corner of your eye.
“Cami started yelling at him when I left, if that makes you feel better,” he says, chest aching when you shake with laughter, burrowing your head into the curve of his shoulder where it meets his chest. Where you’ve always been meant to fit, he realizes. “Said he’s sleeping in the guest bedroom down the hall, and that she’ll stay with the kids. She loves you, you know? She’s a little…intense but she loves you.”
“I’m glad someone does.”
“Hey…” He pushes back a bit to tilt your head up, eyes locking on yours. “My mother loves you too. And I…you’re my wife. You're just as much a Harrington as anyone else at that dinner table, okay?”
“Steve, I don’t belong, and you know that.”
The sound that escapes you is a pitiful thing. A mix between a sob and a moan, more tears spilling down your cheeks when he leans down and presses his lips to yours. Softly, at first, but it quickly grows deeper, his desire to keep you there with him pounding in his blood. Screaming into the space that you belong, you belong, you belong.
“You do belong,” he says, his breath a mere pant against your trembling lips, “you belong with me, okay? That’s all that matters. He’s jealous. He’s jealous because of years of hatred that have started long before I married you and will continue because he’s unhappy. And because he’s unhappy he’s made it his goal to make everyone around him unhappy too.”
He brushes the tears beneath your eyes. Kisses the tracks with the lightest of touches against your face. Nudges your nose until all that remains is that bright, beaming smile. “You’re a Harrington. We’re a team, okay? It’s not a conventional marriage, sure, but you have me. Okay? I’m here for you; it’s okay to let me be here for you.”
He exhales deeply as you sink further into him. Bodies tangling like they’ve done so for years as opposed to weeks. A hand comes up to brush along the back of your head, your fingers splaying in the bunched fabric of his shirt.
“Thank you, Stevie.”
The name is a jolt to his heart. Saccharine sweet and liquid hot in his bloodstream. The arm wound around your waist draws you closer, tighter to him. He wishes he could be closer, wants to memorize every detail of your form, the depths of your eyes, wants to memorize the sounds you make when you fall asleep, the way his name sounds on your lips in utter bliss like that afternoon in the kitchen. He wants it all. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he knows.
“He’s not wrong though,” you say after some time. Softly, so softly.
“About?”
“I did marry you for money.”
At that, his lip twitches. “Well, I married you for a company and a title.”
Unconventional. Irresponsible. But as the months slip on by, he knows he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would take thousands of moments like these over and over again. You, in his arms. You, chest to chest, nose to nose, forehead to forehead. Two people wound together and tied together by a contract, now lost in the unfamiliar something more growing.
“I think it ended up being a good business deal, though,” you tell him, eyes boring into his. Like this, he feels raw. Exposed like a nerve. But he’s unafraid. Welcomes it. “Don’t you?”
“I do,” he wholeheartedly agrees, sliding a palm along the contours of your cheek. Relishes in the feeling of you sinking further into the mattress, sleep starting to peek in at the corner or your eyes. “And another thing, you know you could have come to me about your family, right? I didn’t realize that’s what you were doing with your dog walking business.”
“Steve, you’ve already done too much. I’m not asking you for more. Plus, things are okay now. He’s doing well, Caroline is well—I’ve got it handled.”
And, in a way, he knows you have for a long time now. Wonders if you’ve ever just allowed yourself a moment of respite. Of not worrying how the next bill would get paid, wondering if your family would be okay, all while grieving the loss of someone so important. It pains him to think of it, chest heaving with a weight so great it’s nearly suffocating.
But it’s almost like you know, fingers slipping along his chest, pausing at the space against his sternum where his heart pounds loudly in his ears. “Just let me have this and I’m happy. This—you, us, whatever this is.”
“You just…you never should have had to grow up so fast,” he says sadly, wishing he could have been there, would have met you sooner—he’s not even sure. He just knows he grieves for the young girl who felt like she had the world resting on her shoulders. “You’re…probably one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. But you have me now, for what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth a lot,” you tell him sincerely.
He swallows the knot forming in his throat and smiles to himself as you lift his left hand and trace your thumb over the wedding band there idly. A silence settles over the room, comfort found in roaming hands, in gentle brushes of lips, of soft sighs as either pulls away to catch a breath.
And later, as the moon rises high over an inky sky, and he’s holding you close in his arms, both of you in pajamas and ready for bed, he brushes an open kiss to your shoulder blade. Whispers, “Tell me about her, will you? She’s important to you, so she’s important to me.”
The two of you lay for hours. Talking amongst your sheets and pillows. Wound together tight. Interlocking fingers and legs. You begin to paint a picture in his mind of the woman who meant the world to you and more. A woman with joy and love in her heart, a lyrical laugh, a bright smile he can only imagine mirrors yours. Someone he knows had a part in growing you into the woman laying beside him. A person he’s proud of, is fond of, finds himself…falling for.
Love, maybe?
An abstract to him for so. A lofty ideal he thought always meant for others, never him. His own family had been lacking it, his parent’s marriage scarred and soiled by years of lies and infidelity. But he wonders if it’s there. If the capacity of love exists within him, and maybe it only has been seeking the right person.
“She would have really liked you, you know?” you tell him after some time, fingers crawling along the divots of his abdomen, his skin breaking out into gooseflesh.
He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” you say reassuringly, peeking up through your lashes to gaze up at him. “It’s hard not to.”
Those eyes—your eyes—will never not render him a little speechless.
He’ll get lost in them over and over again and never tire. But there’s comfort in it.
Even now, as you lean over and shut the bedside lamp. As you crawl over his chest and tug his glasses free from his face and press your lips to his. As you slump down into his chest, head over his sternum, arms around his waist.
Something like love blooms behind his ribcage.
It should be scary, but as he watches your back rise and fall in your sleep, he realizes it isn’t.
——
please like/ reblog/ interact if you enjoyed! i love hearing from and talking to you all. next chapter is…one you’ve probably all been waiting for. 😏
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Hormones
Our Story Masterlist
Summary: YN gets emotional listening to Louis’ interview.
34 weeks and 5 days pregnant
YN was watching Louis’ recent interview with Foquinha, where he was discussing music, tour, writing and his One Direction days. It was her favourite pass time, watching the boys old and recent interviews. She loved reminiscing on the One Direction days that seem like a lifetime ago.
She was smiling happily to herself as Louis discussed his relationship with the boys, comparing it to brothership. YN couldn’t help but think back to her wedding day, where all the boys had come together to celebrate YN and Harry’s big day. No matter what happened in the past, it was soon forgotten about when they stood together and shared a drink.
Louis was asked about his thoughts on a One Direction reunion and if he thought they would get back together one day. This question always got YN excited because she was one of their biggest fans and always tried to encourage a reunion.
"I hope so. Do I think it's likely? I don't know. Honestly I have no idea. I think the tough thing is that as time goes on it kinda feels harder to foresee. If I had a gun to my head right now I would say yes. I do think we are gonna get back together. But you never know. There's a million different things that could happen. And also at the moment we're all making such different music so how does that collect back together? It'd be interesting, it'd be interesting."
Tears started to run down YN’s cheeks, wet streaks being left behind in their memory. “The answer is yes, Lou! It’s always yes”. She mumbled to herself.
Harry entered the room, his smile soon disappeared when he could see YN crying as she looked intently at her phone. “Babe? What’s wrong?”. It wasn’t unusual lately for YN to be an upset. Her pregnancy hormones were definitely heightened.
Last week she cried because Harry wore a grey hoodie instead of his black one. The following day YN cried because of the way Teddy was looking at her, she was adamant the little pug didn’t like her anymore. Two ago, her tears erupted because Harry tried to walk over the freshly mopped floor.
“Lou-Louis said…sa-id One Direction…I-is not get-ting back together!” YN managed to sniffle out in between her tears.
Harry sighed knowing Louis probably tried to scoot around the question being asked without giving a yes or no answer. “Babe…you know how interviews are…sometimes we just have to give an answer in a way without giving an answer”.
YN shook her head, wiping away her tears. “No…even the baby is sad about this…I can feel her sadness”.
Harry tried to hold back his laughter at how dramatic his wife was being, but he had learnt the hard way when it came to YN, pregnancy hormones and laughter. But right now he was glad he wasn’t Louis.
Tag List:
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THE SUS BOY NEXT DOOR
《 PART 1/3 // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》
After coming back from a terrible blind date your asshole neighbor is the last person you want to see right now. He doesn’t have his signature scowl for you tonight, however. Tonight he seems terrified.
《WORDS》 2,809 《CHAPTERS》 1 2 3
《PAIRING》 Arkhamverse Jason Todd x Female Reader
《TROPES》 Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Neighbors, Pre-Relationship
《WARNINGS》 Aftermath of Torture/Violence (canon typical), Panic Attacks, Scars, Blood and Injury, Swearing
《NOTES》
This takes place immediately after Jason leaves his failed Batman confrontation and run-in with the Joker from Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 6.
Reader is a true crime addict who enjoys red wine 🍷
This is my first attempt at a reader-insert fic 🙃
Yes this is a repost. My blog is still new so Tumblr didn't allow my original post to appear in the tags. (Shout out to the 10 of you who still managed to find & like the original 🥰)
《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)
You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.
Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).
You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.
A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.
Nutjobs like this guy…
You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…
This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.
You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.
He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.
“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.
“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.
Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”
You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”
“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.
“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?
He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.
You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.
Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.
“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands.
A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…
“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.
“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.
“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…
Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…
“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.
You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.
Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight.
You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.
You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.
You open your phone’s browser and type: how to treat strangulation injuries, then quickly skim over the top result. Ice. That seems simple enough, you tell yourself, noting that you can clean his J cuts with soap and water, at least until he wakes up. And if he doesn’t wake up soon? Well, then you’ll call the cops. After all, he’s probably a law abiding citizen who’s licensed to carry that gun; a guy that you just pinned as another one of the nutjobs because you always get paranoid about every stranger you see after your true crime binges. In your defense, this is Gotham-fucking-City and you’re a young single lady who lives alone. You’d be a fool not to be paranoid.
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Melancholia
Miguel O'Hara X Cheated on!Reader
Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4; Part 5; Part 6;
Warnings: 18+, heavy themes as su1c1de, depress1on , anx1ety, parano1a and intrusive thoughts, heavy angst , fluff , light smut.
Summary: After saving you from drowning, Miguel, on your own request, brings you away to your disastrous wedding. Concerned about your health, he brings you to his home, where you share intimate moment.
Author's note at the end
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"Oh! Congratulations!".
Miguel turns his head over his shoulder: he sees his neighbour smiling and making gestures as to say 'you lucky bastard'. Miguel clearly bothered replie-
"Thank you! See how pretty my wife is?" You reply to him sarcastically with a smirk. Miguel looks at you with wide eyes,surprised and annoyed. He carries you to his door before you could continue this shitshow of discussion.
He closes the door behind him with a foot and places you on the couch. He goes straight to another room and then comes back with a long sleeve hoodie and short pants.
"take them , change yourself , wait here and call me when you have finished... Do you like black tea?"
you nod to him and he leaves again. You change yourself with struggle , still feeling exhausted from everything. You stare at the walls and the ceiling: his house is pretty minimalistic; only a few decorations adorned the walls , photos of unknown people , smiling with him... Smiling? Someone could make him smile? God you wanted so badly to know them,like their relationships are fake or just yours are messed up... One in particular catches your attention: him and a child... He is a father?! They were so adorable together to the point you felt your heart melting. You take the picture in your hands and watch it carefully: they were both smiling; Miguel had a little stain of vanilla on his nose , clearly made by his daughter who held a cupcake; she was so cute, she looked like him, curly hairs and brown eyes... So he IS a father... He has a daughter...He has a fiancee... Your heart becomes heavy at this thoughts.
You start searching frenetically with your eyesight for a photo in which there could be a woman of his age
Who is she? God I bet she is so beautiful and charming. Do they get along? Maybe it's not his daughter it's his nephew?
Scanning in the room you see a lot of photos of a boy who you recognise as his brother since there are a lot of photos since childhood.
Even his brother looks wonderful. They are so happy. He has such a lovely family. Why did I meet his friend instead of him? Maybe I could have been the one in these photos! Maybe he would have loved me and cared. Why is it not me? Now he can only hate me: I left my wedding, left all the people in my life without saying anything to them, I am no more good than my husband.
I want him all for my self. It's just because he did something morally resonate? It's just because I felt important? This is so stupid! I AM SO STUPID! Why I'm think about this stuff! Calm down!!! Are those even my thoughts?! I hate mysel-
"Hey! Y/N are you okay?"
you snap out of your thoughts " yes a moment" you quickly change yourself and put the picture back to its place.
God... You can smell his scent : it's a mixture of wet wood and husky whiskey.
You called him and he comes back to you handling you a cup of tea. You thank him as you take the cup in your hands and start sipping it. He sits near you on the couch, leaning his back , stretching, a sighs leaves his mouth, he passes an hand in his disheveled hair , closing his eyes in pleasure. You scan him stunned.
" enjoying ?" He looks at you with the end of his eyes. You blush finally regaining color and warmth.
"the tea"
Oh...
You nod taking another sip. Your eyes still looked at each other
"How do you feel muñeca? Why did you do this?"
You break the stare. Your emotions are pooling again in your chest. "what...what does muNEca mean?"
Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs in frustration , then his face comes to watch you becoming more tendern
"I understand you don't wanna talk about it , but you see , you are at MY home and tomorrow you will have to face the consequences of your actions, if you talk to me about why all of this happened , I can help you to figure out a solution".
" you don't have to do any of this" your warmth leaving your face. "You could have left me there... dyi-
"drowning?!" He sighs . " Why do you treat yourself like this?! Have some respect for you , also for me I helped you and I am happy to have done this , but you should help me too , no?"
"you didn't help me , you only did for yourself to feel better and meet your moral standards"
Miguel eyes widened. He couldn't believe what you just said.
"oh I see...this how things are"
"this is how it is! Don't fake the opposite"
" you think everything you think is the reality, only your version of the world exists , you know the truth you know everything about everybody and how things work?!"
"it's not me , it's the truth! You can't mask it with fake values"
Miguel doesn't reply.
Finally he has understood. You think.
He gets up from the couch and starts leaving.
"wait! What are you doing!?"
You realise you have insulted him , you have offended him , again your stupid self did this
but it's the truth, but you hurt him, now he really dislikes you , as you did say all this kind of thing on purpose as you self filled your catastrophic thoughts .
Tears gather in the corner of your eyes
"w-wait!" You grab his wrist. He turns and sees you crying.
Coño...
He turns fully to you and he gives you your hand.
"Tomorrow we will talk about this , now you have to rest"
You grab his hand and he pulls you against his chest, smoothing your tears with his other hand and leads you to his bedroom.
"I didn't save you only because I thought was the right thing to do..."
Maybe I did it due to guilt?
he thought to himself, but as much as he tried to understand what led him to do it , he couldn't figure out the right answer.
You lay down on the mattress. He is covering you with a quilt. He leans at your face... Your noses are almost brushing together... His scent is making your head spinning and heart racing at a such speed.
"you can think in this way... I don't care... The only thing I care about is that I did it and you are here, muñeca" he whispers to you.
You open your mouth...also his is slightly open... Miguel stares at your lips... You lean in... Slowl-
"what does muNecA mean?" Miguel's expression in surprised.
"muñeca"
"muNEca"
"m-u-ñ-e-c-a"
"m-u-n-e-c-a"
"Still a start" he softly smile
"okay , keep your secrets". Your attention gets caught to the phone on the drawer beside the bed.
You swiftly catch it.
"don't you dare!" Miguel jumps on you from behind, trying to snatch away the phone from you. You giggle. "Why don't you want me to know! "
You are struggling and squinting under his weight and strength. Clearly he is holding back, he could manhandle you without problems.
" Chica mala" he says joking
When you thought you were having the best on him, he clench your wrists in his hands and opens your legs with his hips.
You can feel his pubes against yours.A strange feeling start gathering in your low stomach.
He is panting over you. A string of hair falling from his forehead.
"tu y yo tenemos un trato y tu no pudiste mantener tu palabra... Mereces un castigo".
He smirks
"Since you want it so bad I will teach you Spanish"
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Author's note: so first of all thank you for reading! Second I have to put my hands in front of me, I don't know Spanish , so if there are mistakes ,let me know.Also English is not my first language so there may be a lot of syntax errors. Third I want to share my plans for this fic: as you can see the reader suffers major mental health, I will try my best to not create a relationship where Miguel is gonna be the solution to all her problems. Also Miguel will have a deeper characterisation and his own issues. This story WON'T FETISHIZE MENTAL ILLNESS , but rather give an insight on how relationships work where one of them or both suffers from it, a character study. I won't spoil anymore so enjoy the ride and let me know your opinions .
Thanks!
Part 4 has been released!!!
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Tuesday Tidbit?
tagged by / tagging my beloveds @spotsandsocks @rogerzsteven @exhuastedpigeon @eddiebabygirldiaz @gayedmundodiaz @daffi-990 @giddyupbuck @tizniz @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @wikiangela @disasterbuckdiaz @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @monsterrae1 @texasbama @wildlife4life @hoodie-buck @eddiescowboy @theotherbuckley @aquamarineglitter @adarkermiserablecrow @ronordmann 💕
more of the superangst since some of you were wondering about some things. this is the very beginning of the fic. 🫣 major character death warning? it is ~20 years in the future. so...
Eddie is beside him when it happens. He’d never be anywhere else. He clutches a cold hand to his own chest though he’s mindful of the non-flowing IV lines, the wires from the monitors, the tubes running oxygen. That were running oxygen.
He promises love forever. He promises it’s okay to let go. They’ve fought long enough, hard enough.
He’s been in pain for so long. He shouldn’t suffer anymore.
His wife cradles his other cold hand in both of hers, like she’s trying to keep it warm as long as possible. When he breathes for the last time, she rests her head on his delicate chest and cries silently. Endlessly.
Eddie would cry. He’s been crying the same way. Nonstop rivers that trickle and pour regardless of what he does. Some things you can’t stop or cut off. But at this point, Eddie doesn’t have anything left. It’s all been bled out of him.
Carefully, carefully, he sets down the hand that won’t be anything but cold now. He told him it was okay to let go. Eddie has to let go, too. They’ve known this was going to happen. It’s been happening every minute, every second for years now. He won’t be sick or weak or in pain any longer. That’s all they can hold onto.
He leans over the hospital bed and leaves one last kiss on his forehead, like he’s done so many times. Then he rests a light hand on her upper back and kisses the top of her head the same way he’s always done for Chris. “I’ll go let his doctors know. Take your time. I’ll make sure you have as long as you want.”
She lifts her head up off his chest but doesn’t let go of her husband. “Dad?”
Eddie swallows. It’s not often she calls him that. But she’s the only one who might from now on. She lost her own father maybe ten years ago. He’s not sure he’s a sufficient substitute, but they’re both out of replacement options. No way to be a father any longer. Not after this. “Yes,” he says, voice breaking. Everything breaking. Isn’t everything already broken? “Lily?”
She stretches her arm out and reaches toward him.
Eddie walks around the bed and wraps her in the hug she needs. It’s not enough. How can it ever be enough? Losing the man you love, the one you want to spend your whole life and beyond with… how is it anything but obliterating? How is there anything left of you?
There’s nothing left of who you were. It’s only scattered, shattered pieces you have to glue and sew back together while praying that somehow time will be merciful enough to heal you. At least enough for you to keep going. Keep living. Surviving.
But the scars never fade. They’re always there. They can always be ripped open. And then you have to stitch and glue and pray and wait all over again.
When she pulls away, she wipes at her face. None of her tears stop so it doesn’t make a difference.
Does anything now?
Eddie leaves the room, leaves her to have her last moment with her husband who should have had so much more time to be her husband, and he goes to tell everyone as promised.
It’s over. He’s at peace. As much as anyone can be when they die before they even turn thirty-five.
Eddie’s pretty sure he died around that age, too.
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𓇼 3:45 am
pairing . juyeon x gn!reader
about . 718 words, fluff + angst
warnings . none!
↳ dedicated to my beautiful sexy hot wife @juyeonszn
it's cold, too cold outside.
you shiver as you sit on the bench, the sound of rain reverberating around the covered bus stop. your drenched raincoat sits next to you along with your purse, embellished with water droplets on the metal engraving.
you laugh bitterly, seeing your warped face in the shiny hooks of your bag. juyeon gifted you it many years ago, and it still looks the same as it did on your birthday.
you sense juyeon in everything you own. from the cat clip with whiskers in your hair down to your worn-out shoes he'd decorated with a sharpie, he echoes wherever you go. you see his face in the rain splashing down next to you, on the lock screen of your buzzing phone, and in the reflection of the chapped nail polish on your fingertips.
too bad you're pissed at him right now, though. everything that reminds you of him is like a curse.
"y/n!" you hear, and you look up from watching the droplets plink against the ground to register the sound corrrectly.
you blink once, twice, to ensure that yes indeed, juyeon is the one that's running toward you. he's masked by the pouring shower around him, fading in through the reflections of clear water until he's close enough to see visibly. the beloved gray hoodie he always wears is drenched by the water, and the only sign of protection he has is the hood covering his forehead that he's holding up with his shivering hands.
"juyeon," you say, standing up, "why are you here? it's pouring outside!"
"i couldn't- i couldn't leave you like that. i can't let you leave like this."
you watch as he walks to the bench, picking up your purse and swinging over his shoulder. he makes his way over to you, draping the bright yellow raincoat around your frame, tucking your hands into the sleeves. you make no move to stop him.
"let's go home," he whispers, sniffling. "please."
this close to him, you now realize that the droplets on his cheeks aren't those of the rain, that the runny nose he sports is not because of the temperature, and the redness of his eyes is definitely not a result of running here. your heart drops when you realize he's been crying, and it takes everything in your power to not bring him close and give him a hug like it's your last.
"i'm still mad at you, you know?"
"you can be mad at home, where it's nice and warm."
he stares at you so expectantly that your resolve shatters.
"juyeon," you sigh, watching him slide the strap of your bag up his shoulder.
"i'm sorry," he whispers, so silently that you almost can't hear it. "i'm sorry that work got in the way of our anniversary. you were right, you know, about me never being there for you. but i couldn't let you leave like this. you're all that i have."
your mind drifts back to the argument that took place a couple of hours ago, one that resulted in you storming out and slamming the door behind you. he'd gotten worked up over your anger at him not coming home early enough like he'd promised, and you'd retaliated by reminding him how often he does this to you.
they were words of the moment that you'd never meant to say. looking at his face now, you realize exactly how much you'd hurt him.
"oh, juyeon," you murmur, pulling him into your embrace, "i'm sorry too. none of those words were true, at all, and i wish i'd never said them. of all people, i know how your work affects our relationship. it wasn't right of me to get mad at you for it."
"but it was right of you. you can get angry at me a million times for being late and not showing up because it just means you love me. just don't leave home when i don't show up, okay? my heart can't take it. i'm too selfish to let you go."
selfishly, you'd never let him go either.
"i hate you," you whisper, furrowing into his chest.
"i love you too, baby. happy anniversary, my love."
and as the rain sprinkles around you, you know that you love him too.
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39 with trevor please :)
“you’re obsessed with me”
trevor zegras x fem reader
39. “my clothes look better on you anyways”
word count: 0.7k
today the anaheim ducks are playing the chicago blackhawks, and you’re very conflicted on what to do. your boyfriend plays for the ducks, but you’re originally from chicago. of course you own multiple blackhawks jerseys, but you always wear your ‘zegras’ jersey to every ducks home game. “babe, you’re wearing my jersey tonight right?” trevor asks you, as he enters the kitchen where you’re standing cooking breakfast “unfortunately. i hate going against my roots” you say sarcastically . “unfortunately?! oh you’re dead meat missy!” trevor says as he lifts you from behind and throws you over his shoulder. “trevor put me down i need to finish cooking!” “nope! not until you take it back!” he says as he spins you around. you flail your arms around hitting his back as he spins you. “okay okay i take it back! i’m getting dizzy put me down!” you beg. he places you on the ground again and you dizzily walk back over to the stove finishing the food.
as you and trevor are sat at the kitchen island eating breakfast he notices you’re wearing not only his hoodie but also his sweatpants. “are you wearing my clothes?” he asks, despite knowing the answer. “maybe” you smirk, as you eat a bite of food. “you look cute” he smiles, causing a blush to take over your cheeks. after breakfast you go and get ready for the day, and trevor heads to the rink for morning skate.
once trevor gets home to take his pregame nap, you decide to clean the house and run some errands before getting ready for the game. as trevor is leaving for the arena, he stops you. “wear my extra jersey tonight.” “why can’t i wear mine? mine fits me perfectly, yours is like a million sizes too big!” you cry out. “pleaseeee? it’s cute how big it is on you” he whines, grabbing it from the closet. “fine, only cause it smells somewhat like you” you roll your eyes playfully. he smiles and leans down to kiss you before heading outside to his car.
you finish getting ready and slide on trevor’s jersey over your head, adjusting it at the bottom slightly. you get to the rink and meet up with some of the other wives and girlfriends and you all head to your seats down by the ice. trevor instantly skates over to you, and blows you a kiss through the glass before skating away to give some fans a puck. you’re sitting next to troy terrys wife dani, and on your other side is john gibsons wife alexa. “is that trevor’s actual jersey?” dani asks you. “yes, for some reason he wanted me to wear it” dani laughs, “i think it’s cute! oh look the game is starting!” she says turning her attention to the ice.
the game is close in numbers until the last period when trevor randomly gets on his grind and makes one goal and assist. the game finishes at 2-1, ducks taking the win. you and the other wags head straight to the locker room and per usual, trevor is the last one to leave. god does that man love to talk. as he walks out, a big smile takes over. “you wore it!” he smiles as he rushes over to hug you. “i told you i would!” you smile up at him. “cmon let’s go home i’m exhausted” he says wrapping an arm around you, leading you to the parking lot.
back at home, you get into one of trevor’s hoodies and sweats, and crawl next to him in your guys’ shared bed. trevor puts his phone down on the nightstand and looks at you with soft eyes. “you’re wearing my clothes again” he smirks. “what is your deal with me wearing your clothes! it’s like you’re obsessed with it!” “no actually, you’re obsessed with me. but it’s okay, my clothes look better on you anyways” “since when is that something we didn’t know” you mumble, causing trevor to laugh. “yeah and i love it” “yeah you better, cause this hoodie is so comfortable. i think i’m stealing it” you exclaim, curling up closer to him. “yeah whatever you think sweetheart.”
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Three Questions
Ruby: Jaune, remember we only have three questions to ask the lamp.
Jaune: Yep.
Ruby: And, those three questions are?
Jaune: What is, Ozpin hiding from us, here are the other maidens, and a spare question in case we need to ask about something else.
Ruby: Good, now ask the magic lamp the questions!
Jaune: Okay!
Jaune: …
Jaune: How do I ask her?
Ruby: Oh! First you have to say its name. Then you ask it the questions.
Jaune: And, it’s name is…?
Ruby: Oh! It’s, Pyrrha!
Jaune: Pyrrha? Hmm… That’s a pretty name. Okay… Come on out, Pyrrha!
Jaune: …
Jaune: Sounds like I’m calling my dog out; are you sure this is… WHAT THE HELL?!!
Pyrrha: Hello~! My name is, Pyrrha. I am the Relic of Wisdom. I know everything that has ever happened in this world, even to the most minute of details. You may only ask me three questions. After you have asked these three questions, you cannot ask me another question for on hundred years. So… What is your first question~?
Jaune: …
Ruby: Whoa, she’s pretty…
Jaune: …
Ruby: Jaune?
Jaune: …
Ruby: Jaune, the questions?
Jaune: …
Ruby: Jaune! The…?!
Jaune: Willyoumarryme!
Ruby: WHAT?!
Pyrrha: Oh my~!
Ruby: Jaune, why did you ask that?!
Jaune: I don’t know it was the first thing that came to mind! I saw her, I looked into her eyes, and I just thought, ‘I need this woman in my life.’ Okay?!
Ruby: You literally just met her! You don’t know anything about her, she doesn’t know anything about you!
Pyrrha: That’s not true.
Ruby: What?
Pyrrha: I am the, Relic of Knowledge; I know everything about, Luna Jaune Arc~!
Ruby: Wait, your first name is, Luna?!
Jaune: I… I never liked being called, Luna. I prefer, Jaune.
Pyrrha: He lost his first tooth when his sister hir him with a bat. Ahh~! He freaked out so much, he thought his sister knocked out a part of his skull.
Jaune: Technically true; teeth grow out from your skull!
Pyrrha: His favourite memory was winning his prized, Pumpkin Pete’s hoodie. Which I’m totally going to steal from him~!
Jaune: I knew it! She wants to marry me for my hoodie!
Pyrrha: But, won’t you give your darling wife your hoodie to keep me warm while you’re away~?
Jaune: …
Jaune: Fine you may have my hoodie…
Pyrrha: Yay~!
Ruby: Wait! You’re agreeing to his proposal?!
Pyrrha: Why not?
Ruby: Because you’re a mystical relic lady thing, and, Jaune’s… Jaune…?
Jaune: Hey!
Pyrrha: I know, but I already know everything about him, and I love everything about him. He caring, courageous, kind, and is willing to put his life on the line for others. Most important of all, he can surprise me. I knew based upon his preferences that he would probably be attracted to me, but to suddenly ask me to marry him… Well, A woman such as I couldn’t possibly say no to such a heartfelt request~!
Jaune: Wait… If you know what my preferences are, does that mean you also know what I’m in to…?
Pyrrha: Yes, and I’m looking forward to experiencing those fantasies of yours~!
Jaune: …
Jaune: Awesome…
Ruby: Ahh! Jaune! You just asked her another question! We needed that!
Pyrrha: No he didn’t.
Jaune: I didn’t?
Ruby: But, he asked if you knew what he was into; That’s asking a question.
Pyrrha: But, I’m his wife, he can ask me anything he wants, and I will tell him. There will be no secrets between us, we are husband, and wife after all~!
Jaune: Just how I want it to be!
Ruby: So… Jaune asking you to marry him doesn’t count as part of the three questions rule thing?
Pyrrha: Mmm… No.
Ruby: Oh… Okay…? So, uhh… Can you answer our questions then?
Pyrrha: Of course.
Ruby: Great! First question: Wha…?!
Pyrrha: Ahh-ah-ah! Not so fast now.
Ruby: What’s wrong?
Pyrrha: Before I answer any of your questions, Jaune, and I first need to do something…
Jaune: And, that is?
Pyrrha: Consummate our marriage~!
Ruby: WHAT?!
Jaune: Oh… So uhh… H-How do you want to do it then, my genie~?
Pyrrha: Oh, I have a few ideas~! But, first, Ms. Rose. I’ll let you know when you can ask your questions. Till then… Bye~!
Ruby: No wait!
Yang: Ruby, you’re back!
Blake: What did it say?
Weiss: Wait… Where’s, Jaune?
Nora: Yeah! Where’s, Jaune?! Tell me, or, I’ll break your legs!
Ren: Nora, calm down, I’m sure he’s okay, he’s still in the relic?
Ruby: Yeah…
Oscar: Why would he still be in there?
Ruby: I’m gonna be blunt with you guys… Jaune said, Pyrrha’s name, and she appeared before us!
Weiss: She?
Ruby: The spirit of the relic is female, and her name is, Pyrrha.
Weiss: Oh, I thought it was some sort of password.
Ren: Me too.
Ruby: Anyway, Pyrrha appeared before us, and, Jaune… Jaune asked her to marry her… And, she said, yes…
WBYNPR: …
WBYNPR: HE DID WHAT?!
Ruby: They kicked me out so they could… consummate the marriage…
WBYPR: They’re doing what?!
Nora: Whoo! Get some fearless leader!
Ruby: Yeah… I… I have no idea what’s going on anymore…
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SxF Light Novel: Family Portrait Translation Mission 4: Portrait of the Forger Family!? (Part 2)
<<PART 1 . . . PART 3>>. DO NOT REPOST
A few minutes later, Yor returned with a voice saying,
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
The sound of her voice was completely her usual tone. Relieved, Loid said,
“That was quick, Yor..Yoooor?”
He was supposed to greet Yor with a gentle smile…but he unintentionally let out a loud yelp.
This is all because Yor’s glossy black hair had all turned into bangs and was covering her face. Not only that, her hair from the chin down was wrapped around her neck like a scarf.
“I-Is there something wrong, Loid?”
Perhaps because her vision was blocked, Yor leaned forward with her hands outstretched in front of her and she slowly approached him.
“AHHHH!! A GHOST!!”
“B-B-B-BORF!”
Anya cried out in fear, and Bond curled up his tails and shivered. The ghost herself was worried about the girl’s and the animal’s situation.
“Eh? Th-There’s a ghost? A-Are you two okay, Anya, Bond?”
How about you, Yor? Are you okay!?
Loid, who was holding back the feeling of wanting to say that, calmly asked Yor,
“Um, Yor. What did you do with your hair?”
“Eh? No, um..th-this is a recently trendy hairstyle that Camilla told me about. Since we’re here, I thought I’d give it a try.”
“That's a trendy hairstyle?”
“Y-Yes!”
Although it was slightly stumped, Yor responded firmly.
“I was thinking that if I’m gonna be drawn, why not with the latest hairstyle, but um, does it look weird?”
“.....Uh….I won’t exactly say I didn’t like it..”
Loid was loss for words.
Needless to say, it was weird. However, if Yor truly thinks this hairstyle is good, even though it’s really improbable, it might hurt her feelings if he says otherwise.
Just as I thought, using the toilet was just an excuse to avoid having your face painted, right? Or, did you really think that hairstyle was trendy?
Loid stared at his wife, who had turned into a ghost with bangs, in an attempt to discern her true intentions.
Ugh….I don’t know which is which.
Amidst the indescribable tension running through the peaceful corner of the park, Felix said in a flat voice,
“Um, I think that hairstyle is innovative and good, but the overall color will make it look darker, so I think the old hairstyle is better.”
After telling her so, and without worrying Loid any further, Yor restored her hair to its original state.
---------------
“That was a pity, wasn’t it, Yor?”
“.....Y-Yes.”
Yor, who had returned to her normal hairstyle at the painter’s request, was clearly dejected. She was still as pale as ever.
As instructed by Felix, the three of them sat on the picnic sheet, and Bond was sleeping comfortably on the lawn beside them.
“I want it to have a natural look, so you guys should talk and do things normally. It’s perfectly fine to move around a little.”
Saying that, Felix ran his pencil across the canvas.
“I’m hungry.”
At that, Anya picked up a sandwich and began to eat it.
Isn’t that a bit too liberal?
Loid thought, but the fact that Felix didn’t say anything, he guessed it must be fine.
Yor sneezed again from the completely cold wind. Looking at her shivering, it must have been cold in her thin sleeveless shirt.
“I think you should really put on a jacket, Yor. It’s getting very cold after all.”
Loid handed over the front-button knitted hoodie that he had taken off earlier to Yor.
“You don’t want to catch a cold, do you?”
“Ah, yes…..thank you.”
Yor took it and suddenly squinted her eyes. Immediately after that, she put the hoodie on backwards and covered her entire face with the hood.
Eh….?
Loid flinched at Yor, who was sitting there, unperturbed.
“Y-Yor?”
“Yes, Loid? It’s very warm here.”
Every time Yor spoke, the knitted fabric around the mouth part wriggled.
“The wind is certainly getting colder.”
“........”
Anya, who had stopped eating her sandwich, stared at the bizarre figure in silence as she swallowed hard. Felix didn’t say anything, perhaps because he was too focused on his drawing that he didn’t notice Yor’s eccentricities.
Reluctantly, Loid hid his inner turmoil and pointed out, “The front and back are reversed, you know,” to which Yor replied, “.......I’m sorry, I carelessly put it on.”.
Yor regretfully took off the hoodie, and after putting it back normally, her head drooped again.
At that moment, a strong wind blew. The edge of the sheet flew in the air and made a flapping sound. At that, Anya yelped.
“A dust went to my eyes!”
“Don’t rub it, Anya. It’ll only hurt your eyes.”
Yor hastily stopped Anya from rubbing her eyelids with her fingers.
“Gently open your eyes, look up and try to blink them away.”
Anya, who had been blinking repeatedly as Yor told her to do so, burst into a smile.
“It’s gone!”
“That’s good to hear.”
Yor turned away, relieved. Then, as if suddenly realizing something, she fell silent.
She then thought, “.......come to think of it, in the magazine that featured make-up on it which Millie showed me before also said that the eyes make the biggest impression…” she mumbled something in a whisper.
Her face was extremely serious and there was even a devilish force to it.
“Papa, Mama looks weird.”
Anya quietly whispered.
“She even became a park ghost earlier.”
As Loid tried to turn away, Yor suddenly exclaimed,
“AH! The strong wind! I got dust in my eyes too!”
When she said that with a terribly stiff delivery, she squeezed her eyes tightly. And if you're wondering, the wind wasn’t blowing as if it were.
“This is bad….I can’t seem to open my eyes until around the time we get back home.”
“...........”
Anya’s face became like that of a Noh mask. Loid’s face was starting to look the same too, but he couldn’t leave it as it is.
“Erm….are you okay, Yor?”
He said this softly as he leaned towards Yor, who was sitting across from him.
“Let me see it please.”
When he touched her slender chin and looked into her face, Yor, who shivered, opened her eyes in surprise.
“Ah…waaah”
“Does it hurt?”
“Ah, i-i-it’s not hurt….ing.”
“Please stay still.”
Loid whispered, and when he brought her face closer to him, Yor screamed,
“EEEEEEEEEK!!!”
“Eh!?”
She pushed Loid’s upper body away with all her might. Loid landed on the lawn a few meters away from the picnic sheet, and was greeted with applause by the people nearby, while Felix gently chided in saying,
“I think that was a little bit too much of a movement there.”
--------------
(Note: It's kind of the same as what happened in chapter 35, the difference is that she pushed him and Loid was genuinely worried about her weird behavior 😄)
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🪷
Hi! I cannot see this emoji because apparently I need to update several of my devices but I am going to ASSUME it is a flower. <3
Your snippet is about Laura (aka the fan who drove Simon to Bjarstad at the end of a very strange day)
Laura is pretty sure she’s dreaming. The entire night has had this air of unreality and now there’s this boy sitting in her passenger seat staring out the window in a white hoodie several sizes too big.
“What was your name?” he asks.
They’ve been driving for twenty minutes. This is the first thing he’s said since he offered to have sex with her and she said, “Um, no thank you?” like the most awkward person in history.
Google maps says it’s still nearly two hours to Bjarstad. And she can’t put on music because the car only has a CD player and the only CDs she has are Simme albums and Simme is sitting in her passenger seat. “Laura. Laura Andersson.”
He nods. “Hi.”
So fucking surreal. “Hi.”
“Were you looking for me?”
“What?”
“Looking for me,” he repeats. “Like, did Twitter say where I was so you went to find me?”
For a second she’s insulted at the implication, but when she glances over he doesn’t look angry, just tired. Resigned. Like he expects her to say yes.
And she’s seen all the news footage of crowds around the Grand hotel. She was looking on Twitter after the show for other fans talking about the new song but instead it was all people asking where the crew had moved to, rumours about different hotels. “No,” she says. “I was -” she pauses, trying to plan the sentence and tripping up on several words. Funnily enough high school language classes never covered ‘adulterous asshole’. Or maybe they did, she wasn’t great at paying attention. “I don’t know how to say it in English.”
“Oh,” he sounds surprised, like he’d forgotten where he was in between playing the show and now, and switches. “Swedish is fine. Sorry.” His Swedish accent is a bit rough, just like on stage, but he speaks it easily enough. Of course he does, he grew up here.
“I know you don’t like it,” she says.
He laughs softly, at a joke he doesn’t bother to share, letting his head thud against the passenger window. “Did I say that?”
He’s still speaking Swedish, so she switches because translating everything at 3am while her ears are still ringing and she’s driving an unfamiliar route into the middle of nowhere is going to give her a headache. “You gave an interview once where you said you wish you could forget Swedish so that you could forget everything that happened in Sweden.”
“Oh.” He touches his hoodie pocket, like he needs to reassure himself that it’s still there. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“Is it true?”
He glances sideways at her, possibly looking at her properly for the first time. “Sometimes,” he says. Whatever that means. “So where were you headed, before?”
“I was looking for a hostel. I was supposed to be staying with my boyfriend - I’m from Gothenburg and he’s from Stockholm but he comes over a lot for work. Then he texts me after the show started like ‘actually my wife has decided not to take the kids to her mother’s so you’ll have to get a hotel.’ And obviously I called him and he goes ‘I thought you knew I was married’ like obviously I did not. And the wife doesn’t know about me so all this time I’ve been a fucking homewrecker or something. Anyway all the hotels were booked out from the concert so I was looking for this hostel I saw online in the hope they might have a bed free and then I saw you.”
And she pulled over to check if he was alright and to ask if she could drive him somewhere - half wondering if she could maybe negotiate a room at his hotel, or at least a couch to crash on and somewhere to park overnight - and he’d climbed in and asked if she knew a town called Bjarstad.
It’s kind of on her way home, only adds an hour or so to the overall drive time. And when she’d unsubtly mentioned that she’d need to sleep at some point, he’d dropped that he owned a house there. In some middle-of-nowhere town in Sweden, a country he supposedly hasn’t been back to in nearly 3 years.
Then he’d offered her money, a photograph, and sex, in that order.
“Fuck,” Simme says, his voice is flat but she appreciates the sentiment. “Well. Sorry I fucked up the show for you as well.”
She glances sideways, but she can’t look long enough to get a good sense of his expression without taking her attention off the road. “It was fine. I mean who else can say they got to hear a Simme original song, live.” God, that makes it sound like she hated it. “I mean I loved the song, the song was great.” Or maybe that’s too much enthusiasm for a song he sang like his heart was fucking breaking. “I mean, it was sad. But really pretty.”
She takes her eyes off the road again, to see his mouth quirk into a tiny half smile. “You should send that to my PR team,” he says. “Sad But Pretty. There’s an album title right there.”
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A Little Life - Harold Pinter Theatre
For anyone who does wish to attend this production, please don’t take the content warnings lightly - the self-harm is graphic and two characters have full-frontal nudity.
I (Freddie) attended the matinee production at the Harold Pinter Theatre in London on Sunday 7th May
THIS REVIEW/ANALYSIS DOES CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR BOTH THE NOVEL AND STAGE PRODUCTION, SO PLEASE BE AWARE!
Trigger Warnings: talks of self harm, child abuse, sexual assault, domestic abuse and more
There’s no discernible reaction from the audience when Luke Thompson as Willem makes his entrance onto the stage. He’s wearing a dark blue hoodie, the hood pulled up over his hair - perfectly innocuous, nothing spectacular or grand as he walks about the stage. The lights are still bright, the audience is still chatting, laughter is filling the room. And Luke Thompson as Willem is onstage frying himself some bacon and eggs.
What has struck me again and again whenever I reread A Little Life - because, yes, I get a masochistic kind of joy from putting myself through that pain repeatedly - is the intimacy of it. Naturally with any book, the reader is granted the chance to feel close to the characters, to garner a look at their lives behind the veil. But if you were to ask me, I would say that there are very few - if any - novels that create this illusion as Hanya Yanagihara’s does. For 813 pages you are allowed to experience this life as they are, to experience snapshots of their lives - the good, the bad and the unimaginably horrifying - even as the rest of New York, the rest of the world, goes on as normal, with no thought spared to what is occurring within the walls of Lispenard Street and their subsequent homes.
The awareness that despite what Jude is revealing to the readers about his past, the beyond nightmarish history he has, the world is continuing to go on as normal was perhaps the aspect of the novel I adore so much that I was most scared about losing in adapting it for other mediums.
But from the moment Luke Thompson stepped onto stage, transformed into Willem and beginning to go about his daily life, with the moving images of New York streets surrounding him in his apartment, I knew that my worries had been unfounded. Ivo Van Hove with his unbelievable direction paired with Jan Versweyveld’s set design had found a way to maintain that understanding.
Throughout almost all of the performance, there is no moment of stasis. Be it JB and Malcom painting and working at desks on the right side of the stage, or Andy reading his book in his clinic, or the ever-present Willem and Harold.
The former is always in the same spot on a sofa at the back of the stage, flipping through scripts, determined to make it big as an actor, pouring all of his attention and focus onto learning the lines, dedicated to making his dream a reality, and yet always there ready to support Jude. In the second act, Luke Thompson takes the exact same pose when listening to Jude revealing the details of his childhood, desperate to understand his best friend, and at this stage his lover, in the same way he had been desperate to make it as an actor.
Harold, however, spends much of his time on stage left, stationed at the kitchen set up. Constantly in movement, cooking several dishes throughout the course of the play. A reference, perhaps, to the number of Thanksgivings Jude is reported to have spent with him and his wife, Julia (absent from this adaptation).
Despite the eternal loneliness that James Norton as Jude exudes with just his presence, he is only truly alone for a few moments - the harrowing whisper of “x equals x” that he gasps out after Elliot Cowan as Caleb leaves him naked in the street. It is then that he is alone onstage, laying in his blood, until he is retrieved by his loved ones and taken to rest on Andy’s hospital bed.
It is this detail of James Norton’s performance as Jude that I found the most powerful - which is saying something, considering that I am considering suing him for emotional damages, hasn’t anyone ever told him to think about using his acting powers for good, rather than evil? He captures a side of Jude that I had not previously considered - Jude views himself as a side character in his own life. He doesn’t feel worthy of attention, of his friendships, he is lonely in spite of being surrounded by those he loves the most and as a result feels unable to call out and ask for the help he desperately craves but does not believe that he deserves.
The contrast between this and the fact that Jude is always centre stage is immense and almost disconcerting to watch and caused me to spend the entire performance practically begging him in my head to just turn around, they’re right there!
But this desire to be helped and to be heard is brought to life by the presence of Nathalie Armin as Ana. The first person in Jude’s life to truly care about him, and the only female in this adaptation of the novel. Armin has a commanding presence on the stage, even as she is a mere figment of Jude’s imagination. Dressed in all black, a stark difference to the bright set, allowing her to melt into the darkness when the spotlight focuses on Norton.
In many ways, Ana vocalises the audience’s own thoughts - pleading with Jude to confide in his friends, desperate to stop him from harming himself further, and the relief in Armin’s expression as Jude finally tells Willem his story.
The choice to keep the cast small causes a heavy weight to be put on Elliot Cowan’s shoulders, as he is tasked with portraying three different, truly heinous characters. Even without the costume changes, however, I truly believe it would be possible to tell which of the three he was in each scene.
Cowan gives truly fantastic portrayals of each of the villains of Jude’s life, as Brother Luke he shows the softer touch which allowed for him to manipulate Jude in his innocence, he never handles Norton roughly when playing the part of Brother Luke. Carefully pulling him along, coaxing Jude to trust him to the point that the child does not realise just how wrong it is what Brother Luke asks of him.
This acting from Cowan makes Jude’s words all the more heartbreaking in Act 2 when talking to Willem, as the audience is able to see why Jude insists that Brother Luke was different, that he did love him.
When taking up the role of Caleb, however, he becomes the manifestation of everything Jude believes about himself. He has none of Brother Luke’s gentleness, but all of his intensity and possessiveness. The last that we see of Caleb, is when he lifts Jude up by the arm, Norton’s body used to reflect the words he says - “x equals x”. Being with Caleb has brought to life Jude’s darkest thoughts of himself, and Jude views this as proof that no matter what he will always be the same. Damaged and unlovable, to be blamed for everything he had been subjected to in his youth.
As Dr Traylor, Cowan’s words are clipped and straightforward. He is the most detached of Jude’s abusers, not caring for his name and only referring to him as “a prostitute” and reinforcing what Jude already believes about himself. It is not until Jude’s “release” that we see any true kind of emotion from Dr Traylor. Cowan shows Dr Traylor with a manic kind of joy upon forcing Jude to run from him, all the while on the tail in his car. The chase scene is long, and dramatic with the incredible musicians rising in volume and intensity with their instruments. The length of the scene forces thoughts back to Jude’s earlier response when JB asked about his legs - “I used to run cross country”.
In all of his roles, Cowan has the same commanding presence onstage as Armin. The moment he leaves the wings, regardless of who he is in that moment, the audience’s attention is drawn to him. As though by sheer glares and willpower we will be able to change Jude’s story, that we as mere observers will be able to push against Cowan’s slow, purposeful steps and keep him away from Norton.
Zubin Varla and Emilio Doorgasingh gave masterful portrayals as Harold and Andy, respectively. They are markedly different to the presence of Willem, Malcom and JB - in what proves to be a very physical play, Harold rarely touches his son, while Andy only does so as necessary in his medical examinations of Jude.
This respect for Jude’s boundaries when it comes to physical contact is what truly sets Harold and Andy apart from the other older figures in Jude’s life (those villains played by Cowan). Varla’s portrayal of Harold is always evaluating his own movements, always second guessing himself before moving towards Jude - he does not seek out the easy, casual contact shown by the other three young adults. But when Jude comes to him for comfort, Harold is always eager to provide it.
The final scene of Harold and Jude embracing - Jude in his wheelchair, Harold knelt on the ground in front of him, with the rejected trays of food scattered on the floor around him - when Norton practically falls into Varla’s arms, sobbing into his shoulder, as a screen slowly comes down to hide them, JB on the outside, is one that I believe will stay with me for years to come.
There is an emotion in Varla’s voice when he confides in the audience the story of Jacob, his first son. And in that closing scene we are forced back to that monologue, when he confesses to anyone listening that when Jacob died, there was a little part of him relieved, as that meant it was over. And although it is heartbreaking, it is this statement that makes it no real surprise that when the screen lifts again, Harold is alone in front of that wheelchair to report Jude’s suicide.
Where Armin’s Ana shows the sympathetic side of the audience, the aching desire to hug Jude and promise him it will be okay, to protect him both from the world and himself, Doorgasingh’s Andy exhibits the rougher side of it. His frustration at Jude’s abject refusal to accept help, his anger at watching someone he loves destroy themselves. The hopelessness he feels when his advice goes unnoticed, and his frequent calls to Harold and Willem - often screaming at the two people Jude is closest to, desperate for them to be there for him more.
Andy does not have the same stage presence as many of the other characters do, instead he - and the same can be said for Malcom - almost fades into the background at times. But they are there, ready to pick up the pieces. Both Doorgasingh and Wyatt are spectacular in their characterisations. In the novel, Andy and Malcom show an awareness that they are not the most important people to Jude, that they cannot help him in the ways others can, and in this adaptation, the actors bring that feeling to life.
They are there, working in their own lives, on their own projects. Malcom quietly sees what Jude refuses to acknowledge about his worsening condition and accommodating for it even despite the push back of his best friend. And Andy who can be seen pacing at the side of the stage, calling Jude when he can sense everything is getting too much for him - they are both there for him in their own quiet ways, and their loyalty and love for Jude is never questioned by the audience. It is also important to note that in this adaptation of the novel, neither of these characters address the audience directly - the only two whose focuses are solely within the story with no fourth-wall breaks.
Omari Douglas as JB, on the other hand, stands out more than anyone. First as a result of his costumes - often more brighter than those of his castmates - and then just as how he presents himself. Anyone who watched his performance in It’s a Sin will recall how Douglas’ presence demands to be noticed, and this is carried forth onto the Harold Pinter Stage. He captures the heart of JB’s character - desperate to be heard, to be needed by his friends. Charming in his own way, despite how his messy character causes him to betray his friends at several points in the story.
Douglas transitions well from how JB is around his friends - brash, loud, confident - to how he truly feels when talking to the audience. His voice is softer, he somehow seems a little smaller as he talks about watching Jude, how he feels Willem doesn’t value his friendship as highly as the others, how he feels they don’t need him anymore.
While JB’s drug addiction is rather rushed in this adaptation - it’s discussed at length in the novel - Douglas eloquently displays his anguish to the audience, his desperation to quit. A previously difficult to like character, after having seen him mock Jude’s disability, and betray his trust, the audience is able to empathise and understand him better. And when it is just him and Jude left at the end of the show, Douglas doesn’t say anything, but takes up the same space as had previously been filled by Willem and Malcom. He quietly watches Jude - just as he had before with his painting, only this time, it’s out of concern for his friend, rather than concern for his career and viewing him as a muse.
I have already mentioned how this production brought me to tears on several occasions, however none made me sob more so than Luke Thompson’s monologue at the end before his car crash. Having already read the book several times, I had known that this was coming and yet it didn’t stop me from hoping that somehow I’d misunderstood the plot point and that Willem did actually survive. So when Thompson took centre-stage and I knew what was next, my sister took my hand as the two of us prepared ourselves.
Beyond the tear-jerker of a monologue, when I later considered the adaptation as a whole I wondered over the choice to mention Hemming at that point. Perhaps this mention worked some some of the audience, however for me I felt it should have been mentioned earlier, as it is in the novel. With Willem only mentioning Hemming before he dies and only in reference to Jude, it caused me to reflect somewhat poorly on their relationship. It’s a minor point about the adaptation, however I do wonder if mentioning his older brother earlier, before Jude himself begins to use a wheelchair, it would have been more impactful.
I could sing praises about the chemistry between Norton and Thompson onstage - however considering I have the voice of a dying seal, it’s probably best that I don’t. Instead, I’ll simply say that their interactions in the second act, as Willem confesses his attraction to Jude, and he struggles to understand it caused my heart to skip a beat.
Norton captures Jude’s innocence throughout the play perfectly - from the moments that he slips into his childhood self in flashbacks, to when he’s so unsure in his relationship with Willem, unused to being with someone who does genuinely love and care for him.
All in all, I enjoyed this stage adaptation of A Little Life - if “enjoy” can be the correct word for a production that brought me to tears and caused me to question the meaning of life. It was hauntingly beautiful, heartbreakingly sad and utterly harrowing. I don’t believe I’ve ever been quite so moved by a whole troupe of actors and the way that they characterise their roles. While I certainly have some criticisms and hang-ups about this show and the story in general, I shall save those for another post, hopefully less long and wordy.
Would I return to the Harold Pinter Theatre to watch it again given the choice? Truthfully, I’m not sure. While I fell in love with these actors, the direction, set design and music, I’m unsure if I could watch it again and feel the same level of intensity as I did on this watch. Also, I cried enough to give myself a headache by the end - so if I were to watch again, I’d have to remember to bring a water bottle to ensure I stayed hydrated.
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between the lines | chapter 05
rúben dias x original female character [+18]
synopsis: isabella is a sports journalist covering the premier league. she has sworn to never get involved with a football player. that is, until she meets a handsome portuguese defender.
warnings: incorrect journalism references; timeline of events are not faithful to real life; i have never been to england; mutual pining; romantic comedy; minors dni.
previous chapter | masterlist | next chapter
Chapter 05 - Like a last minute own goal
It’s Tuesday and I’m in a bar in Athens watching the penalty shootout between Panathinaikos and Olympique de Marseille. Sitting next to me there’s a man with an AEK jersey and two wearing the Olympiacos uniform.
Across the street, away from this curious scene, standing tall and shiny, there’s a hotel. The hotel I’ll be staying at for the next 30 hours or so. And so is the entirety of the Manchester City squad.
So for the time being, for the sake of my own sanity, I’ll be sitting here at this charming Greek bar sipping one of the few non-alcoholic beverages on the menu.
Eventually the color of the sky warns me it’s my cue to leave, a bright and vibrant orange. I already spent too much time and too much money on this bar. And I wasn’t even supposed to be in this country.
I’m only in Greece to cover for a colleague that allegedly got sick – internally the talk at the office is that he was caught cheating on his wife and had to bail work for a couple days, and somehow I’m the one being punished.
I already know the odds of running into him. They’re high, okay, they always seem to be pretty high.
Still, I cross the street. I take my time doing it, too. Look at both sides multiple times. at the front of the hotel I even took a few pics of the previously mentioned beautiful orange sky.
And yet,
“It’s been a while…” My voice is soft, as I’m trying to be polite. I go as far as nodding when I enter the elevator at the exact time as he does.
Of course the timing would be perfect. If I haven't taken the pictures. Or if I drank less. But I’m starting to believe it wouldn’t have mattered. If not today we were bound to meet again.
“I wonder whose fault is that.” He uses a humorous tone, even raises an eyebrow, smirking, but I can see right through him, he’s not joking. It is my fault. He’s wearing Manchester City’s travel hoodie and joggers, looking so out of place since he’s by himself. I decided against making a joke about that. Maybe another time. Something about asking him if he’s lost from the herd. Or something. Instead, I’m even funnier:
“I miss you too!” I answer with the same tone, maybe a notch higher, trying to actually tell a joke. I consider nudging him with my elbow, to get the bit going, but as soon as I say that the smirk fades off his face and he looks serious at me.
And then his face turns to the elevator door. I watch as he sighs. When our eyes meet again the soft smile is back on his face.
It’s my floor and as I walk out he says:
“Have a good night, Isa.”
I nod. There’s words stuck on my throat and it’s only when the elevator’s door closes again that I manage to say back:
“You too, Rúben.”
A week later, back in Manchester, laying in my own bed, I can’t sleep. I’m still thinking about that encounter, having been thinking about it everyday for the past week. I have to fix this, clear the air. We’re going to meet again and again.
So, against my better judgment, (and to be fair, so long after what I thought I could hold) I text him.
Me:
you too
That's good, right? He’ll get it…
Do not text him, girl!!:
que?
He texts back immediately. Wasn't expecting that but okay.
Me:
hae a good night!
have
i forgot to say it
last time we met
Do not text him, girl!!:
isa
are you drunk?
I hesitate. Man, that only happened one time! Is it better or worse if I tell him I’m drunk? I mean, I’m kind of sleepy. Maybe I should say yes and go all out ‘I miss kissing you, Rúben’ and shit like that.
No. No, that’s not what I texted him. I only look like I’m drunk texting because he makes me nervous, and the idea is to stop being nervous around him.
Me:
what? no! i really just wanted to say have a good night
so you know that we’re cool
Rúben:
right
Me:
we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, and i feel like we didn’t discuss this part
the part that
you know
we’re cool
He takes a while to answer, I’m biting my nails staring directly at the bright white light of the phone. The memory of my brother telling me I’ll be single forever rings in my mind, to be fair he was 14 at the time I had just gotten my first bra. But it is true, and that’s why. I ruin it every time I try.
More minutes pass and he still doesn't answer. My mind goes somewhere else. The actual last conversations we had.
With me saying “I don’t think we can be friends.”, and he saying “Well, that’s not what I’m trying to be.”
“Okay, well, that's worse, Rúben. You get that, right?” I had my hands covering my face as I tried to find the right words. “I just got here, I can't be the reporter that sleeps with the football players.”
“But you…” He held himself back, but I heard it in my mind, ‘but you are’. “Don’t you think is too late for that? You’re really having second thoughts now?!” His hands replaced mine, holding my cheeks. He looked deep into my eyes, like he was trying to read my mind.
I cried more that day than I’m proud to admit. I’m crying right now, still looking at the phone. I don’t expect us to go back to how we were, but I can’t deal with panicking every week just at the idea of seeing him. I can’t avoid him, I can't be with him. So I just want us to be cool, you know? I don’t know how to write a text saying that, though.
Rúben:
right
we’re cool
join the taglist
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WIP Wednesday
tagged by @wikiangela @giddyupbuck @disasterbuckdiaz @bonheur-cafe @wildlife4life @alyxmastershipper @forthewolves
written some more fae!carlos yesterday, so here's some Carlos and Iris set during the beginning of s4!
“Wife,” he says. Their old joke feels as comfortable as an old hoodie.
She turns around, her face splitting into a grin as she sees him. “Carlos!” Running towards him, she wraps her arms around him. Instantly he wonders why he hasn’t visited her earlier. He’s missed her so much. He could slap his younger self for not doing this sooner.
Apparently, Iris thinks the same. The slap registers a few seconds after it happens. The sting of it only shocks Carlos momentarily as he stares at Iris as she says, “You should have come here sooner.” She looks down at the present in his hands and opens up her palms. “Is this gift for me?” Carlos hands it to her without ceremony. Iris opens it up and examines the scarf Carlos knitted for her. “It’s acceptable. Now, tell me why you’re really here.”
Carlos' eyes go soft as she stalks toward one of the lunch tables to sit down. “Missed you, too.”
She sits primly at table, waiting for him to make his way to her. “I can’t just come here to visit you? See how you’re doing?”
“Carlos, you gave me a gift. You’re trying to butter me up. Just tell me.” Despite her ridiculing the scarf he made for her, she puts it around her neck. He made it with burnt orange yarn. It looks good on her.
“I’m with someone. TK.” He thinks it might be better if he tells his love story to Iris slowly rather than the rush to the finish line. Plus, he wants to tell the full story to Iris.
“TK? Is he human? Does he want to give you his name?” Her perceptiveness hasn’t changed.
“Uhh. Yes. And, no. But I don’t need it. I don’t.” He says to her raised eyebrow. “We’re getting married.”
Iris nods. “And you need a divorce. Hmm.” She cocks her head to the side. “If this TK doesn’t want to give you his name, what about the naming bond? What did he say about that when you started wedding planning?”
Carlos swallows. The fact that TK somehow hasn’t learned about the naming bond is a miracle. His mom and dad have been in contact with him wanting to know updates and letting him know which family relative is available on which dates. And, oh, Carlitos, is a human ceremony longer than a faerie’s? How long will it be? There will be children and changelings there, so don’t forget to put them in mind!
“You two will have a naming bond, right? Wait, does TK not want to give you his name? Do you not want to give him yours?” The questions are rapid fire, so fast Carlos can’t get a word in between them.
tagging @rmd-writes @decafdino @hippolotamus @apothecarose @mammameesh @actual-sleeping-beauty @monsterrae1 @userdisaster @loserdiaz @rosedavid @wandering-night19 @thebumblecee @ramonaflow @thewolvesof1998 @housewifebuck @liminalmemories21 @mallpretzles @alrightbuckaroo @folk-fae
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i don't know if you're still doing requests, but would you consider doing something like "Her Boys" but with sexism, like the lions shutting down sexist reporters? please and thank you and totally fine if you don't to
Sure can! The first fic is linked here, SW credit goes to @lumosinlove <3
TW for sexism
#1: Pascal Dumais
“Dumo, how do you feel about the recent influx of female reporters in the NHL?” a young man asked, holding his recording device closer to the table.
Pascal raised a brow. “I am extremely pleased to see it, though I am surprised by the idea that hiring five women is considered an ‘influx’.”
“Will you miss their male counterparts?”
“Not particularly.”
Muttering piqued in a few pockets of the room before it was quickly hushed; Pascal appeared unfazed, and nodded for a new question from an older commentator. “Mr. Dumais, it sounds like you have an issue with the organization’s hiring practices,” he said. “Is that true?”
Pascal folded his hands on the table, leaning forward slightly. His expression remained mild, his voice calm. “I have an issue with the organization doing the bare minimum and expecting applause, and I would like to take this moment to remind you that my wife is an incredibly capable journalist in her own right. In case that would affect your further questions.”
#2: Logan Tremblay
“Ouais, you in the front?”
“Mr. Tremblay, there has been some discussion among team owners about the wage gap between the men’s and women’s hockey leagues lately. Do you have a comment?”
“The women’s team has always and will always have my full support,” Logan answered without hesitation. “They work just as hard as we do and get less than half the recognition.”
“Well, the WNHL historically has lower views than—”
“Perhaps you should bring that up with the television providers.” His eyes were like flint, deadly and ready to spark as he held eye contact with the reporter. Logan’s brow twitched; the man’s half-smile slipped for a moment before he cleared his throat and attempted to scrape together some dignity.
“Would you be willing to take a pay cut to make up for the disparity between organizations?”
A soft laugh was amplified by Logan’s microphone. To his right, Finn bit the inside of his cheek to hide a grin. “I’ve seen my sister put an opponent through the boards for a dirty play,” he said after a moment of thought. “Together, I think the three of them have racked up more points than half this team. So yes, I would take a cut if it meant they were paid fairly for their work and I didn’t end up getting wedgied for being a sexist pig. You should consider the same.”
#3: James Potter
“Can you say ‘thank you’?”
“Thank you!”
James winced a little as Harry’s greeting echoed through the room, but the baby’s chirping voice brought a smile to each face in spite of the microphone’s squeal. “Sorry about that,” he laughed, easing Harry back on his thigh. “We’re working on volume control. Any final questions before I head out? Yes, you?”
“Just an easy one,” the older man chuckled with a wave to Harry. “And then I’ll let you go back to babysitting. What—”
“I’m sorry, hold on.” James held his hands up in a ‘timeout’ motion as he leaned in. “Did you say ‘babysitting’?”
“I…yes?”
He tilted his head to the side in confusion, though there was a tense set to his shoulders. Harry continued to gum at the frayed cuff of his Lions hoodie, unbothered. “This is my son,” James clarified. “Do you have kids you babysit?”
“Well, only when their mother is out with her friends,” the other man joked. A few laughs rippled over the rest of the press, but the majority remained quiet. Tense. Cameras sat poised in two dozen pairs of hands.
James bit his lower lip, smoothing Harry’s chick-fluff hair off his forehead. “I’m not sure I understand. Can you explain? Does she pay you?”
“Um. No.” Several heads swiveled toward the middle seat. “When my wife is out, I watch the kids. It was—it was a joke.”
“So you watch the kids while your wife is having fun with her friends,” James repeated with a nod. “Yeah, in my house, we just call that parenting.”
#4: Leo Knut
From the look on his face, Gryffindor’s rising star would rather be dragged across the rink by his toes than sit in the tiny folding chair for another moment. His saving grace was a half-full iced coffee, delivered by Finn O’Hara with a gentle shoulder squeeze 30 minutes prior, and he clutched it in one hand like a lifeline while his chin slowly slid down the other with each passing second.
“—and really, it’s a serious issue in the NHL today,” Malcolm Henessey of Hockey Daily magazine continued. “The rise of the WNHL and their push for excess funding is taking away from the necessities of the major league. The women’s teams are not nearly as established as the central men’s teams, and yet they are asking for perks that come with seniority they have not earned yet—”
“Dude.” Malcolm’s mouth snapped shut at the sudden interruption after several minutes of listening to his own voice. Leo ran a hand down his face, straightened, and glanced down at his watch. Exhaustion stamped every feature. “Mr. Henessey. It is 10:57 pm on a Wednesday, I just played a full game of professional hockey, and you’re going to sit there and be a misogynist? Really? Right in front of my iced coffee?”
“I—”
“Does anyone here have questions that actually pertain to the game tonight instead of being fucking rude about other hockey players? Cause if you don’t, I’m going to bed.”
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