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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

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a little jealous

A/N: this was requested by anon, I hope you enjoy, let me know what you think!

request: Could you write a fic post it chapter 2 where Richie and Eddie start dating, but then Richie starts to feel jealous of Eddie with an attractive coworker?

warnings: a few curse words, a very brief mention of homophobia, a bit of self doubt

They’ve been officially dating for two months when Eddie invites Richie to join him on a work related business party. It’s not the first one Eddie has had to go to, but up until now he had always made up an excuse so that he only had to stay for about an hour, not nearly long enough for Richie to tag along to.

The difference between this one and the others he has already been too, is that this time he needs to stay to the end. Eddie might be up for a promotion if his boss takes a liken too him, which is why he is determined to make a good impression. If Eddie gets turned down, he’ll probably leave his job and search for another one, Richie thinks, since Eddie had been going on none stop about quitting.

Richie has been to his office before, on more than one occasion, when Eddie was so stressed he forgot his lunch, so it’s not his first Rodeo. He knows a few people that will attend, like Anisa who is the secretary on the bottom floor, Emmet who is Eddie’s coworker and works in the office adjacent to his, and Karen who is about as much a pain in the ass as Eddie’s mom, but Richie loves to fuck with her.

Anisa is his best friend in the office, well of course besides Eds, but whenever he stops by, he always leaves some form of candy on her disk, a references to the first time the two met, when Richie accidentally dropped all the candy he was planning to surprise Eddie with. It had been Halloween, and even though Eddie didn’t celebrate it, none of the losers actually, Richie still felt the need to do something. They hit it off straight after, especially when Anisa confided in him that she had never seen Eddie smile as much as when he got together with him.

Emmet is a bit of a hardass, work till he drops, party till he drops kind off guy. Full-on in everything he does, which sometime is a little of putting, but it can also cause hilarious comedy gold moments, which Richie has used multiple times in his sketches.

He’s pretty sure his winning Karen over aswell, since he has even managed to get a small smile out of her, which is a hell of a lot more than he ever got from Sonia.

The others he knows only vaguely by the nicknames he gave them, ranging from boss man to toilet man, the latter spending all his time on the toilet if Eddie is anything to go by.

Still, Richie is very excited when he gets permission from Eddie to go with him, so much so that he’s practically bouncing on his foot whilst he gets ready. Eddie is less keen on going tonight, but that has nothing to do with the fact that Richie is going.

Ever since returning from Derry, the two of them don’t go out much. They meet up with the losers, but apart from that they usually spend their time inside of the confinements of their home, either fighting over he gets the remote, cooking, working or annoying the shit out of each other.

Neither of them want to either, they enjoy each other’s company, and those of the other members of the losers club. When they do go out, they always seem to run into someone they know giving them shit about being gay. ‘Oh Eddie, I thought you were still married to your wife?’ or ‘If it isn’t the trashmount with a boy. What happened couldn’t get enough girl anymore?’

Most of them don’t mean bad, and Eddie nor Richie are ashamed of their love, they’re just tired of having to explain over and over again, so they stay in.

Work parties are the worst for Eddie, who doesn’t even like most of his coworkers to begin with, but sometimes they are mandatory, and he has no choice but to drag his ass over there.

So Eddie grumbles his way through getting ready, shaving and brushing his teeth with a stern look on his face, picking out his and Richie’s cloths. ‘There’s no way I’m letting you dress yourself, you’ll look like a walking Christmas tree.’

They lose some time while they get ready because Richie tries to cheer Eddie up a bit, by threatening to dose him in cold water, welcoming the snappy warning Eddie sends his way.

By the time they make it to Eddie’s workplace, where the party is going to be held, it’s a quarter past nine, while they were supposed to be there at nine.

This does not do any wonders for Eddie’s mood, who’s scowl turns impossibly bigger. He almost trips over his own two feet in his haste to make it inside, but before they do, he tugs Richie aside by the hem of his sleeve.

‘Please act normal, I need this job alright?’

‘My Eds, you wound me. You think I would throw away your honor just for a few laughs from a couple of lads, I could never.’ Richie’s British voice thick his words with an accent, having the intended effect. A smile tugs up the sides of Eddie’s mouth, even when he desperately tries to hide it, rolling his eyes extravagantly.

‘See that’s what I mean dickhead, don’t do the fucking British guy or I’m dumping you.’

He’s clearly joking, so Richie doesn’t dignify it with a response, though he does snort a little in amusement. ‘Sir, yes sir.’ He calls out long after Eddie has turned his back, cackling when Eddie flips him the bird behind his back. Fondly, Richie follows him through the long corridors, first turning right, then left, left again to eventually enter a massive open space, not to far from the bathroom Richie always uses when he comes to visit.

‘Hey, if you want to get out of here, just use the word salmon for whatever, than we’ll skoot on right out of here, Eddie Spaghetti’, Richie whispers inconspicuously to Eddie, trying to avoid being heard by somebody else. He hopes he succeeded, but by the looks of it, he did.

Eddie shakes his head fondly, his hand interlocking with Richie’s with a warning squeeze.

‘Shut up you idiot’, he mumbles fondly, the look in his eyes radiating nothing but love for the man in next to him.

They spot Anisa first, the sour look on her face melting away when she sees the two of them entering. She grabs two more drinks, balancing a total of three drinks in two hands, and offers it gracefully to them.

‘What took you guys so long?’ The voice of Bon Jovi booms through the room, originating from a djs-table in the left corner, making it hard to understand what she’s saying.

‘Mister clean over here had to be completely dosed up for this occasion, I think he changed cloths like three times, isn’t that right Eds?’ to be fair though, Eddie looks horrendously handsome, it’s almost criminal. His suit accentuates all the good features of his body, which is everything, his dress shoes make a squeaking noise every time they walk over the floor, and his hair is neatly combed back, making him look even more attractive than he already is daily.

A huff is forced out of him when he feels Eddie’s elbow dig slightly into his side. Eddie glare is turned up to a hundred.

‘Do you know how unsanitary it is to not wash every day? Do you know how many germs are transferred onto your hand by just touching a doorknob? If I didn’t wash up you know statistically speaking I have a 40% change of catching a disease? You know this asshole, why would you need to-‘

He’s intercepted by Anisa; ‘you two are so cute together’, and Richie couldn’t agree more. He takes a sip of his drink; which is champagne apparently, and is seconds away from asking Eddie who his boss is supposed to be, when a man Richie has never seen around the office makes an appearance, sliding in front Eddie’s left to give him a tight hug. By doing so, he breaks the link that Richie and Eddie hands still had, rudely shoving Richie slightly back.

He frowns, but does nothing as he waits for Eddie to introduce them. Anisa, who is still standing with them, looks to be as flabbergasted as he is.

‘Eddie, look at you. Handsome as always’, the man compliments while pulling back, his eyes shamelessly raking over Eddie’s form.

Eddie laughs politely, thanking him while reaching for Richie’s hand again. ‘Yeah, good to see you to Seth, this is my boyfriend Richie Tozier’, Eddie explains when the guy, Seth, makes no move to introduce himself.

Seth forces a curt nod towards Richie, not so much as a hello. It irks Richie to no end, but this might the one Eddie’s trying to impress, and Richie is not enough of an asshole to ruin Eddie’s chances because he’s annoyed.

‘I’m going to find Emmet, I’ll see you guys later’, Anisa tells them, as she turns around and walks off, something Richie would love to be doing now too.

He stays rooted to his spot though, trying to make himself as big as possible. It must look a bit ridiculous, but he can’t help it, there’s something about this guy.

‘So, have you managed to talk to the boss man yet? The guy really likes fresh workers.’ He tries to joke, but it falls flat, and Richie can’t help but feel smug and a little sympathetic towards the guy, so he laughs a bit awkwardly. It’s better than not responding at all, he argues, but then Seth levels him with such an annoyed look that Richie can’t help but feel a little intimidated by.

He hasn’t seen that sort of look since Sonya, and for all his joking about her, he really was terrified that she would manage to convince Eddie to stay away from for good. Uneasiness sweeps it’s way through Richie’s body, the only thing keeping him slightly calm and stable, is the hand he��s holding.

Richie tries to change the subject, to distract himself from how weird he finds the guy, by asking how he and Eddie know each other.

‘We collaborate on projects from time to time, Seth works for one of our client companies.’

‘Yeah, and we wouldn’t be coming back to the same firm if it wasn’t for Eddie over here,’ he gestures to Eddie as if Richie didn’t know who the fuck that was, ‘I’ve never had a more dedicated, ambitious, articulated, clever –‘

While he continues to dish out compliments, Richie reaches his arm over Eddie’s shoulders, pulling him flush to his side. Obviously it’s wonderful to hear compliments, and god knows Eddie deserves nothing but that, but it’s quite off putting that the same guy keeps praising him at every turn, and not even acknowledges his boyfriends presence instead being rude.

Eddie response by pressing a kiss to Richie’s cheek, which is a lot of PDA for him, maybe to sooth Richie, maybe because it was an automatic reflex, either way, Richie takes a deep breath and manages to hold his tongue till the guy is finished talking.

‘Yep, that’s my Eds, nothing but the best. I’m lucky to have him.’

He looks up from Eddie’s face to smile brightly in Seth’s vicinity, not even trying to compete with him, just being brutally honest.

‘He’s just as ambitious at home by the way, you should see the poses he can bend into when we’re-‘

‘Beep beep, Richie’, Eddie’s voice, sharp as the edge of a knife cuts in. ‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence you prick. And don’t call me that.’

Richie cackles, gripping his stomach with the one hand that isn’t occupied to stop himself from doubling over, Eddie’s angry face only making it worse.

‘Why do you call him Eds? He told you he doesn’t like that.’

Richie’s head snaps back up again, and this time, he feels actual anger. It’s one thing to flirt with Eddie in front of him, or be rude to him, Richie can deal with that, at least on the outside. But insulting their nicknames? He knows for a fact Eddie only tells him to stop calling him that out of habit, Eddie having admit to that himself, but this guy had no right commenting on it.

Eddie himself seems agitated now, in a truly fashion, one that he has never used to talk to Richie, but before he can say anything, another man steps their way, extending his hand and waiting for Eddie to shake it.

‘Mister Duke, how are you sir?’ Eddie asks a little nervously, and Richie lets his arm drop down. He refuses to let Eddie be denied this opportunity by homophobia, even if he isn’t sure that the man is homophobic, he’s not ready to take any changes.

With a gesture over his shoulder, Eddie follows who Richie presumes is his boss over to a table with man who looked like they stepped right out of the TV show suits, but Richie declines to walk with him.

Eddie needs a chance to prove himself, and Richie was just going to support him from where he was standing.

For a minute, he forgets Seth is still standing with him, until he opens his mouth again.

‘You know you’re only dragging him down right?’ He asks cruelly.

Richie frowns at him, his hands closed in fists, trying to lure himself away from his breaking point.

‘He would do much better with me. What do you have to offer? Money? I’ve got plenty of that, and at least I have status. Some small town comedian who flunked at his show that one time, and still hasn’t made a comeback yet. You look about as disheveled as a homeless men, and I can’t say I see much love between the two of you. You annoy him, and you might find it funny, respectable people don’t. Leave him before you ruin him like you ruined yourself. I could take better care of him than you ever could.’

After his monologue, he stares Richie down with a cocky expression, seemingly daring Richie to respond. When he doesn’t get one in ten seconds, he trudges on, probably to on to the next person to bother.

Richie feels like all the bones in his body have turned to liquid as he struggles to stay upright. For a moment he gazes around the room in shame, because it seems like a scene from a movie where everyone looks on to the bully annihilating some nerd, as that is the exact same emotion Richie comprehends, before he realizes that everyone is caught up in their own conversation, and he too walks off, going to the bathroom.

He knows Eddie will search for him when he’s done with his conversation, but for a moment that thought is put on the back-burner as he starts to get a little faint. It takes longer than it usually does to reach the toilet door, in the meanwhile he’s had to shrug Emmet of and ignore Anisa’s callout, but none of that matters when he finally gets there.

As soon as the door closes behind him, a loud sob leaves his throat. Only one sob is allowed to leave his lips, he argues with himself, so he resumes to silent tears only after that.

Overreactor, his traitorous mind hisses at him, and he knows it’s right, but he can’t help how he feels. He survived a fucking clown alien attacking him, and even that didn’t make him cry until he thought Eddie might have died.

However, he knows that Seth had a point, Richie is really not good enough for Eddie. And maybe Seth could be, at the very least, he did have a stable job, and he thinks highly of Eddie, maybe he was right, and he should leave Eddie so he can grow to his full potential.

Some times goes by while he’s thinking it over, and in the meanwhile he has moved to wash his face by the washing bins, scrubbing the area around his eyes to make it appear like he wasn’t crying. As he’s doing this, he hears Eddie call out to him. ‘Hey dickhead, you in here?’

The door whips open, clashing against the wall with a loud bang so hard that Richie flinches for a moment. A worried looking Eddie is standing in the door opening, his tie undone atop his blazer, and his frantic eyes searching the door, calming down slightly when he sees Richie.

‘Hey, why are you taking so long, you fall in the toilet or something?’ Eddie tries, a futile attempt at ignorance, Richie can clearly see how perturbed he is, but he’s kind enough to let Richie come to him.

Instead of telling Eddie the things that are on his mind, Richie tries to force a way around the topic, by using humor and creating a joke. ‘Well Eds, I was just about to call your mom, to declare my love for her.’

‘Richie’, Eddie sighs, running a hand over his face like he’s trying to mentally prepare himself? By the tone of his voice, Richie understands that Eddie is asking him to tell the truth, to speak what’s on his mind, but that can be so hard sometimes, so in lieu of having a conversation with Eddie, Richie starts to cry.

A hand pushes it’s way up to his mouth, trying to desperately to muffle the cries of despair, shame was again white hot present in his mind. Eddie looks shocked for about a second flat, before rushing over to Richie, grabbing his neck and pushing his head against the crook of his shoulder, rubbing his own hand up and down Richie’s back, and the other one through his hair.

‘Rich, it’s okay. You can talk to me dumbass, that’s what boyfriends are supposed to do.’

There’s nothing but silence for a few minutes, which Eddie grants Richie, just trying to get him to calm down.

‘do you ever doubt our relationship?’ Richie finally asks, feeling the way Eddie’s entire body freezes up as if he was told Pennywise was back.

Richie hurries to continue. ‘I mean, if I’d had to choose between me and Seth, I’d pick Seth too. He has a good job and I might be out of one after waiting so long to go on stage again, and I look ridicules, and I push your buttons,’ Richie takes a break to gulp in a large gush of air. ’I’m just saying, I’d get if you would want to break up with me.’

Yet, when Eddie pulls back slightly, Richie panics before letting him get too far. Eddie laughs again, still close enough that their noses are pressed together with Richie bend down the way he is.

‘Hey Rich, you’re really fucking stupid you know that?’ Eddie says with a voice so incredibly soft and fond, Richie nearly melts to a puddle. He’s still stroking curl after curl on Richie’s head, comforting him best he can when they’re in a public bathroom.

‘You’ll have a job. You’re so good at being funny Richie. Even if I don’t say that enough. Besides, let’s say you don’t, you will but just hypothetically, I don’t care about that. I only want to spend time with you. You dress like a toddler, but I like that, it makes you look goofy, just like your personality.’

With a smile that’s showing his teeth, Eddie presses a quick kiss on Richie’s mouth, pulling back fast and firing two more in rapid succession.

‘I love you Rich. Not fucking Seth, Fuck that guy. I could never want to be with him, ever. I mean it when I say I love you dickwad, despite my questionable decision, I choose you.’

Richie giggles, hearty when Eddie stands on his tippy toes to kiss his forehead, and for a moment he feels like he’s five years old. He’s glad to have Eddie, and he’s even more satisfied that Eddie wants him back. Not amnesia could stand in their way, he’s so idiotic to believe a guy from Eddie’s fucking job could.

‘Now, come on. First I have to kick Seth’s ass for making my boyfriend cry. I have to set an example here. Then we’ll go home and cuddle okay? We'll clean the salmon or whatever the fuck sentence I'm supposed to make with that and skoot on home’

Richie shakes his head negatively, ‘what about your job promotion?’

As if suddenly remembering so, Eddie grins like a cat that go the cream.

‘Don’t worry about that, I got the job.’

When they cuddle at night in their bad, after a heavy make out session, and a small skype party with the losers in honor of Eddie’s promotion, Richie falls asleep, safely knowing that Eddie was with him, and he no matter what, he wasn’t leaving.

#reddie #reddie fluff #some jealousy #eddie kaspbrack #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak imagine #richie tozier imagine #My writing #it chapter two imagine #I wrote this way too late

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years

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Goodnight, Aaron (Aaron Hotchner x OC) Chapter 4

Summary: With Hotch’s blessing, Sebastian begins to assimilate into the Hotchner household.

Tagging: @sunlight-moonrise, @clean-bands-dirty-stories, @genevievedarcygranger, and @davidrossi-ismydad

Chapter 3 // Masterlist // AO3 Link // Chapter 5

Dropping Jack off at school proved to be the easiest thing in Sebastian’s day, despite not waking up past ten o’clock for the past few weeks.

Packing his possessions only took two hours in comparison to the literal hellscape that was the cleaning up. His tiny bedsit hid plenty of nooks and crannies that hoarded dust and grime. On his hands and knees, Sebastian scrubbed away with anti-bac spray and wipes in hopes that he would get his deposit back.

He really fucking hated cleaning. It always took him way too long. Probably because he got putting on a video for background noise – it had to be something he found interesting to help pass the time but not so interesting that he would be pulled into watching it. A fine wire to walk and Sebastian had terrible balance to match his attitude. There was also the fact that he would often put off cleaning with the excuse of doing it all in one big go.

Past Sebastian was a bitch and Present Sebastian was suffering because of it

After a quick lunch of his leftovers, he lay back on the floor and dialled for his best friend. She picked up after three rings and he whined loudly to her.

“Bellamy, help me. I’m drowning in used wipes in my shitty shitty bedsit.”

“Hmm, delicious,” and Bellamy hung up.

Sebastian didn’t bother ringing up to see if she’d appear in the room. He decided that he would find out if she was on her way or not in the next hour.

Turns out it only took twenty minutes for Bellamy to push the front door open with the tip of her wedges.

“Why’d you call me to help you clean? Sexist pig,” and she swung her leg over his head.

Sebastian didn’t bother trying to dodge, letting the air shoot past his ear, a few stray hairs fluttering in Bellamy’s wake, “Because Klaus would make more mess, and I love your scintillating company – did you bring anything?”

“I got me coffee and you Haribo’s.”

Just another reminder as to how all that kerfuffle with his work visa was worth it.

He clasped his hands together as if in prayer, “I adore you; I owe you my life.”

With a grin, Bellamy tossed the packet his way, “Give me a cloth and tell me about your new boss then.”

Another thing Bellamy brought was the tunes. She was mumbling lyrics as she scrubbed away at the skirting board, Sebastian harmonising in terrible ways. The tasks didn’t get completed much quicker, but it was much more entertaining for Sebastian. Who knew what Bellamy was up to before this, she didn’t tell him.

Bellamy tossed a bag into the garbage can and peered in despite the smell, “Somehow still better than my flat.”

“When are you moving out by the way?”

“Who knows, maybe I’ll move into your bedsit.”

“Don’t, landlord’s a prick.” And Sebastian looked over his shoulder, a belated measure

“Still better than mine.”

Bellamy stayed right up until all the belongings were crushed into Sebastian’s car and the door was locked by them for the final time. It was a very unemotional time when Sebastian tossed the keys through the letterbox, and they left down the murky stairwell together.

To say Jack enjoyed the sight of all Sebastian’s bags pilled together in the backseats was an understatement. The drive back, he was more elated by the tracks leaking from Sebastian’s stereo. His chatter on the drive back about the games in the playground filled the time, and Sebastian was drawn into the world of spies Jack had created.

The energy dipped when Jack and Sebastian had to carry all of Sebastian’s belongings inside. The lift worked, thank God, but Sebastian was still weighed down with his bags for life. Plus Jack could only carry so much. He was only somewhat eager to drag Sebastian’s wheelie suitcase down the corridors. And even less so was Jack to get on with his homework once the car was clear of baggage.

Sebastian sneaked a sly glance at Hotch’s list of Jack’s preferred snacks before he made up some apple slices with peanut butter. Gotta trick the kids into eating their five-a-day.

Somehow, after that snack break, Jack transformed his mood into “very understanding” about doing his science work - especially for an eleven-year-old. He listened to Sebastian’s reason, one he wished he’d thought about and listened to when he was Jack’s age, was heard.

The Lego break was greatly appreciated too. Especially since it was coupled with the front door opening at quarter to seven to reveal Hotch.

“Hi, Daddy!” Jack trotted over and hugged his middle.

“You’re home early,” Sebastian cheered from the kitchen counter.

“On time for once,” Hotch set his stuff on the side, and his gun into the drawer swiftly after. “Don’t expect it to happen often.” Then, as Jack went back to the dinner table, Hotch knelt down and removed a second gun from an ankle holster. Sebastian didn’t comment. He must have just missed that last time.

“What you doing, buddy?” Hotch joined Jack at the table, subbing in where Sebastian left off. He brought his own pile of paperwork with him. But it stayed in his briefcase.

“Math.”

“Let’s have a look.”

Sebastian’s cooking playlist continued with its lyricless songs. But it was turned it way down and Sebastian felt more self-consciousness about each song still coming up. Towards the final seconds, he would hover over the skip button before deciding that it wouldn’t be so bad if it continued.

One of Sebastian’s favourite songs came on, but he had very little time to enjoy it.

When Jack heard that it was playing, he bounced on his little butt with excitement, “Sebastian wants to get married to this song!”

Looking between Jack and Hotch, who was looking expectantly for an answer with a little grin, Sebastian noticed his jaw was slack and promptly shut it.

“I would like to have my first dance to this song,” He explained, a little slower than Jack who continued:

“We listened to it in the car! But he doesn’t like a bit in the middle so he’s going to change it.”

Sebastian bit his cheek and got back to stirring the cabbage around in the saucepan in a triangle.

“Is this it?” Hotch tapped his pen against the homework, “The part you don’t like?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian replied, “There’s a change from three to four beats per bar in a sec first.”

And, as if he wanted to make things even worse for himself, Sebastian began to wave out the time signature with the fork he’d been using in the saucepan. Hotch and Jack watched the movement the movement change from a triangle to a lightning bolt as the song shifted into its denouement.

“So maybe I’d have to get it edited,” Sebastian finished, his voice fading out the more he spoke.

He didn’t point it out when they reached the moment of upbeat, just before the closing bars that didn’t fit with the traditional wedding idea. Who knows? Maybe he’d be unconventional if he got married, jam out with his significant other on the dance floor.

But he wasn’t about to discuss that with Hotch - or continue it with Jack for that matter. And he didn’t look up from his cooking until it was done and ready to be served.

Hotch ate with them, sat beside Jack while Sebastian was opposite. Jack gave an enthused rehashing of this spy game’s narrative beats. His fork was his baton as he orchestrated a rich tapestry of how he and his friends crept about the playground together. Interjecting appropriately, Hotch offered him tips of the trade, like some hand signals to use while sneaking underneath the windows of the classroom.

“Did you move in alright?” He suddenly addressed Sebastian.

Prayed none of his food was stuck in his teeth, Sebastian replied, “Yeah thanks, I’ll probably be unpacking for some of tomorrow though.”

Jack helped Sebastian load the dishwasher after dinner while Hotch disappeared into his office. It didn’t go unmissed, the way Jack’s behaviour slumped as soon as his father turned to walk away from him.

However, when Hotch reappeared sans suit jacket and tie, Sebastian bit back his laughter. Not because he thought the sight was funny, but he was just so pleased for Jack as the two began setting up a film. It was such a beautiful event to watch unfold from the kitchen table, where Sebastian was flying his Minecraft avatar about the server in search of something to do. He wanted to ring his mum, but by the power of time-zones, he was rendered incapable. So instead he punched a tree until it fell.

“Sebastian! Are you going to watch with us?” Jack said, his neck craning as far as he could go to look at his nanny while he pulled the puppy eyes on him.

“Um,” Sebastian threw a glance at the horrendous clock tower besides Bellamy’s mansion, “I’m gonna work for a bit, sorry Jack.”

The puppy dog eyes grew wider – how that was possible, Sebastian didn’t know – but Jack accepted the answer with relative grace and settled with Hotch on the couch, his legs buried beneath a blanket.

Sebastian decided to start building, something productive. But the further he got into his project, the further he wanted to jump into the ocean because of how ugly everything he made turned out to be. The booming opening titles of a Star Wars film brought him back to the apartment, where Hotch was retrieving something from the fridge, barely giving Sebastian just enough time to switch tabs to his email before he walked behind him.

But then he stopped beside him and spoke under his breath, “You live here too now. You don’t have to worry about bothering us.”

“Ah, I don’t wanna encroach on your time with Jack. And I was just gonna go to the shops. You want owt?” It all came tumbling out of Sebastian’s mouth pretty quick.

“‘Out’?” Hotch repeated.

“Owt, anything, it’s slang for anything.”

“Oh, no thank you. We’re all set,” and he held up the chocolate bar in his hand with a little smile. Sebastian’s stomach tensed but he returned the smile and closed his laptop lid, off to his room to get his rucksack.

Hotch’s arm rested around Jack on the back of sofa. They took turns breaking a square off the chocolate bar, Jack occasionally going for another between

“It makes sense that ‘owt’ is ‘anything’, if ‘nowt’ is ‘nothing’,” Hotch remarked, his head falling back on the couch to look at Sebastian. He shot him back a single finger gun.

“Now you’re getting it.”

“You don’t have to keep your shoes by the door either.”

“Oh, your poor carpets,” Sebastian let out a laugh at his oh-so-very-lame comment, making eye contact with the dress shoes that rested beside Hotch’s feet in pewter grey socks on the floor.

The shop was only a ten-minute walk away and he knew what he wanted. Sebastian still looped around the aisles as if he did not know where his next minute would be spent on this mortal coil. Eventually he settled on a slice of banoffee pie from the bakery. He answered the phone at the till, not so subtly bringing up the subject of their Minecraft time to Bellamy on the other end:

“Have you been on the server yet?”

“No, I’m marking some homework. Why? You wanna hop on tonight?”

“Ah, I’m gonna wait until Jack is off to bed first.”

“I’ll keep you posted on how the little buggers do with their homework.” And there was a clink of a glass in the background, “But I’m telling you, if I read one more ‘Curly’s wife’s nails are red because red means danger’.”

“Make it a drinking game! Don’t, don’t do that.”

Sebastian just missed the rain on his walk back. Thankfully so because his hoodie wouldn’t provide much protection for himself or for his pie. Upon re-entering the apartment, he was greeted by Jack and Jack alone.

“You alright, bud? Where’s ya Dad?”

“He had to get the phone.”

Speak of the devil, Hotch returned to the sitting room with his tie neat in place and suit jacket returned on his back. As he collected his belongings from his safe, he caught sight of Sebastian, “I gotta go to the office, shouldn’t be more than a few hours.”

He kissed the top of Jack’s head and nodded goodbye at Sebastian before leaving. It was then Sebastian saw that the movie was paused and Jack was eating the last square of chocolate.

“Do you want to finish the film, or wait until your dad comes back?”

“Finish it, please,” Jack drooled a little and Sebastian grabbed a tissue to mop it up.

He poked away at the pie before eating it. The pair watched in quietude before Sebastian remembered the last of his snacks at the bottom of his bag.

“You want a Haribo?”

They went through the usual routine: the Millennium Falcon speeding away with the gang barely intact before the credits rolled, teeth brushing, Sebastian reading Where The Wild Things Are until Jack was dozing off and not fighting his nanny easing him lower into his pillows.

The ugly-as-hell clock tower was demolished in favour of making a little paddock for the cows. Bellamy joined the server and insisted on an extension to their little home.

When he realised how dark his room had gotten, Sebastian checked the time.

11:03.

He closed the lid of his laptop. Then he lay down on his bed with his eyes open and listened. Just his breathing and the beating of his heart were heard, slow and steady for Lord knows how long.

Then the front door creaked.

Footsteps padded across the floor, and the hall light snapped on. A shadow beneath the door passed by. He heard Hotch go into Jack’s room. Then the light went out again and a bedroom door closed.

Sebastian turned over and closed his eyes, now that he was ready to sleep.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #my writing #wc: 2k+#r: male #series #goodnight aaron

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achillmango · 4 years

Text

Flowers that Hide the Heart

Hey there! So i’ve never posted my writing on Tumblr before so here goes. I’ve doubted myself a low writing this because it’s the first thing i’ve written in a long time. Creative/constructive feedback would be much appreciated.

This was inspired by a comic Myetie did where Jumin sees MC and V in front of fireworks and he hides a bouquet of flowers when he sees them laughing together. I’ve looked, but haven't been able to find it, otherwise i would post the link here.

Genre: Fluff

Pairing: JuminxMC

Word count: 2369

Jumin saw V and MC from afar. A small smile played on his lips as he approached them. MC and V were laughing heartily together. Jumin stopped. They looked good together. He looked at the flowers in his hands. He was going to dispose of them before MC spotted him.He swiftly maneuvered the flowers behind his back. If he were lucky, she didn’t see them.

A smile spread wide across MC’s face when she saw him.

“Jumin!” She waved and started walking toward him.

He resumed walking as she trotted forward, urging his feet to move forward.

“I was afraid you would miss the fireworks, they just started.”

“Traffic was horrendous on the way here, but I’d do everything in my power to be here tonight after all you’ve gone through planning this. Everything looks amazing. You did a fantastic job with this fundraiser, MC.”

“Oh.” MC almost blushed and looked sheepish. “Jaehee and Yoosung took on a lot of work in the end, which helped so much.”

“Still, you’ve gone through a lot these past few days and still managed to take care the party in the midst of everything.”

MC had been planning the Christmas fundraiser for months. She fell sick over the last three weeks. Work didn’t help the situation as deadlines got tighter when the holiday season neared. Jaehee and Yoosung opted to take on some work organizing last minute details, which MC was grateful for.

“Thank you, Jumin. It’s rewarding to hear you say that.” She smiled up at him sincerely. “Make sure you say thank you to Yoosung and Jaehee too, they’ve kept me sane these past few weeks.”

He nodded. “I will.”

“Jumin, are you hiding something?” She tilted her head to the side trying to see what was behind his back.

“Oh um, it’s a bouquet, from the company congratulating the organizers on a job well done.” He took the flowers out from behind him, realizing there wasn’t much he could do now that MC had seen it.

“Oh!” Jumin held out a dozen red roses in front of MC. “Thank you! They’re beautiful.” Roses seemed excessive for a congratulatory bouquet, but MC decided not to question it. It’s not like he’d give her flowers with any other intent, as much as she might want him to.

She looked him in the eyes. “Thank you again, really.” He smiled and nodded.

“C’mon let’s go watch the fireworks.” He nodded and followed her.

V waved with a smiled as they approached.

“Ooh, what pretty flowers.” V cooed.

“Aren’t they? Jumin gave them as a congratulations to the organizers.” MC said.

“Really?” V looked with slightly raised eyebrows. “There are 3 organizers and only 1 bouquet.” V pointed out in an almost teasing tone.

“It’s appropriate to gift the leader when thanking a team.” Jumin hoped that half-baked explanation would ward off further questions from V.

“MC come stand by me.” Jaehee waved to MC. She walked away from Jumin and V toward Zen and Jaehee.

“Ooh somebody got a gift.” Zen cooed as he saw the flowers.

“They’re beautiful.” Jaehee said in amazement.

“They’re a gift from Jumin to all the organizers.” MC smiled.

“3 organizers and 1 bouquet? He’s pretty cheap for a rich guy.” Zen snorted

“Oh c’mon don’t be like that Zen, its’ Christmas.” MC said.

“Guys look!” Seven shouted as golden sparks lit up the sky in the shape of reindeer. “Wooooow!!” Yoosung gazed in child-like awe at the sky.

MC was holding the flowers close to her when something sharp poked her stomach. Funny, she thought the roses shouldn’t have any thorns. She looked down and saw what looked like a small card. She opened it.

To my dearest MC, you’ve made my world brighter with your warm kindness and radiant smile. I hope you’ll accept these flowers and my heart.

-JH

MC’s heart dropped to her stomach and heat rush to her cheeks in the frigid winter air. She looked to Jumin. A small smile was on his lips and his eyes reflected the lights dancing across the sky.

“Jumin.” MC’s voice was inaudible and her breath left smoke in the air.

MC had a flurry of questions that drowned out the booms of the fireworks.

Was this real?

How could she not have seen it?

Why did he lie about the flowers?

Did he really mean what the card said?

Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe she misunderstood.

The Jumin mere feet away from her was so calm and collected. He emitted a regal air that was untouchable. But in the chatroom, he was just another person. In the chatroom it felt like they lived in the same world, only separated by a phone screen.

She knew that wasn’t true. In reality he was the next in line CEO. The future of the company rested on his shoulders. He proved every day that he was a valuable asset by negotiating tough deals and picking up slack when his father’s attention was diverted.

Everyone in the RFA thought that Jumin had everything he could ever want because of his wealth. MC felt sympathy for him. He must have made so many sacrifices to come this far in his career at his age. In the chatroom she felt comfortable talking to him as if he was right there with her, but in the real world it was like they lived on different planets. Could he really like her?

MC was pulled back to reality after she heard thunderous applause. The fireworks had ended. MC had to talk to Jumin. She needed to know that what the note said was real.

Zen’s voice shattered MC’s racetrack of thoughts. “MC, weren’t the fireworks lovely?” Zen asked. Right now, she needed to be the host everyone wanted.

“They were, Jaehee you did such a good job putting it together.”

“Oh, it was nothing.” She was being modest. Like always.

Zen started to say something else, but MC tuned him out.

“If you both will excuse me, there’s something I need to do.” Zen started to protest, but MC’s eyes were locked on Jumin.

MC turned to make her way to Jumin. He was surrounded by businessmen and their wives. He smiled and laughed while shaking hands. He has no idea the pain he was causing her. People had been asking for him since the start of the event, but he was nowhere to be found till now.

MC wanted to run and scream on the inside, she wanted to cry her eyes out. It took every ounce of control she could muster to keep from screaming his name out in the middle of the party. “MC!” She heard Seven’s voice above the crowd. He was waving her over. Talking to Jumin would have to wait. Right now, she had to be the host everyone needed her to be. She took a breath and speed-walked to Seven as fast as her heels would let her.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” MC smiled and bowed in greeting. She had to put her feelings aside for now, like Jumin had to do so many times in his own life. But as sure as Seven liked Honey Butter Chips, MC wasn’t going to let tonight pass without talking to Jumin.

The last guest didn’t leave the party hall until hours later. MC felt like she was going to fall over. The past couple days hadn’t been the easiest as one detail after another seemed to come undone and she had to put out fires as they came. She had considered once or twice throwing a shoe guests who didn’t leave. Of course, that wouldn’t leave a good impression of the RFA.

“MC you did such a great job.” V said as the last guest left.

“Jaehee and Yoosung did so much to help, really I couldn’t have done this without them.”

“Oh, we only did what we could.” Yoosung said.

“Yes, you’re really the one who did much of the work, MC.” Jaehee said.

MC laughed. “You 2 really helped me out, I don’t know what I would have done without you guys.” She said as she wrapped her arms around both of them. “Thank you both, so much.”

“You all did a great job.” V said and put her hand on MC’s shoulder. “A round of applause for our talented organizers.” The room filled with applause and laughter. “Seeing that it’s pretty late, I think we should all go home since we’ve cleaned up.”

“Merry Christmas, everyone.” V waved on his way out.

“Merry Christmas!” They all chimed back.

“MC, do you need a ride?” Seven asked. “Yoosung and Jaehee are coming with me, but there’s still room.”

“No I’m alright, thanks Seven.” MC smiled.

“In that case, see you in the new year!” Seven called as he walked out with Jaehee and Yoosung.

MC waved. “Happy New Year.”

MC took a deep breath.

“Jumin, can we talk for a second?

“Sure, but let’s talk quickly. Elizabeth the 3rd is waiting. Is something wrong?”

“In that case, I’ll cut to the chase.” MC steeled herself and straightened her back to stand taller. “I read the card attached to the flowers.”

Jumin’s face fell into a mix of embarrassment and realization. “I forgot about the card.”

“I’ll be frank, Jumin-“ MC staggered. Jumin caught her by her shoulders and steadied her.

“MC, are you alright?”

“I-I think I need to sit down.” She said.

Jumin led her to a cloth bench. “I’ll get you some water.” MC’s head was throbbing as she sat alone at the table. She hadn’t fully recovered from being sick and the lack of sleep was finally getting to her.

“Here. Drink up.”

“Thank you.” MC drank and the throbbing calmed slightly.

“MC, you should go home. We can talk later. You’re not well.”

“No.” Mc said resolutely. “I’ve waited all night to talk to you and that’s what we’re going to do.”

Jumin had a look of slight surprise in his eyes. “Okay. Did you want to discuss the card?”

“Yes.” MC put the bottle of water on the floor next to her and turned herself to face him. “What did the card mean, Jumin?”

“It meant what it said.”

“No.” She her tone was sharp. “If you like me romantically, I need to hear it from your mouth. I don’t want my feelings toyed with.” With all the thoughts that swirled in her head over the past few hours, she needed to hear him say it.

He looked surprised. “I like you.” Her heart dropped and swelled at the same time. Those words brought to the surface feelings she tried hard to bury. It terrified her that this was real.

She was quiet for a moment too long. “MC?” Jumin’s tone was laced with concern. Was she going to faint?

“I pushed my feelings aside because I never thought you would like me.”

“Why would you think that?” He was dumbfounded. Did she just say she liked him?

“Because I thought you wouldn’t notice or care. You’re surrounded by beautiful women and constantly reject them. You’re surrounded by luxury every day. I don’t have anything to do with that, so why would you want me?” MC looked stared at the floor as she talked. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

Jumin angled her chin at him and took her hands in his. “Why wouldn’t I want you? You’re kind, hardworking, responsible, and committed. Even after everything you’ve been through lately, the party and the reputation of the RFA was your priority. I admire you work ethic.” He paused, looking down at their hands in his lap. “I pushed my feelings away at first. Over time I found myself looking at my phone hoping your name would appear in the chatroom, or that every time my phone rang your face would show on the caller ID and I decided I couldn’t ignore my feelings. I didn’t want to.”

It was MC’s turn to ask. “Why?”

“Thinking about you made me happy. You laughing at my jokes made me smile. You understood me even no one else did, even when I didn’t understand myself. When we talked, we saw things on the same level, even if others thought differently. Talking with you made my world brighter.” He was smiling at her. She wanted to capture that smile forever. She helped someone she liked feel better, someone she thought could never like her. She felt tears well up in her eyes and the corners of her lips turned upwards. Jumin looked surprised again.

“MC why are you crying? Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” She gave a small laugh and reached to wipe away the tears pooling at her eyes. “Hearing you say that makes me happy. Thinking about you makes me happy too. I started to looked for your name in the chatroom too. I missed you while you were away. Hearing your voice after a long day made me feel better. And for the first time I could share my views with someone.” MC felt hot tears roll down her cheeks. “Ah, I’m sorry, I can’t stop crying.”

Jumin’s right hand reached up to wipe the tears on her cheeks. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

After a few minutes the tears stopped. “There, there’s the beautiful MC I know.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” She asked with surprised, wide eyes.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, inside and out.” MC looked down as the space between them as she She laughed again.

“MC do you like me? Now I want to hear you say it.”

MC looked him square in the eyes. “Jumin Han, I like you. I like you more than I know how to handle and it scares me, but I won’t push my feelings aside anymore. I sincerely like you, Jumin Han.”

He put his forehead on hers. “You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.” MC laughed and more tears came. She threw her arms around his neck and held him close. He held her tight in response and buried his head on her shoulder.

#mystic messenger jumin MC RFA christmas juminxmc fluff

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dragonfics · 5 years

Text

What’s in a name?

Chapter 3: No need for paperwork

Ship: Spicyhoney

Tags: Doctor Rus, patient Edge, LV issues, discrimination, dehumanisation, asylum-style setting, institutional captivity, forced institutionalisation, needles, minor medical procedures, unethical medical practice, angst, hurt/comfort

Summary: If you'd asked Rus a week ago what he expected to be doing next Friday night... it most certainly would not be this.

Notes: Emphasis on the ‘dehumanisation’ tag this chapter, just a warning.

Read on AO3

Below the cut

Rus ate alone during lunch. He’d always been the sociable type, but here, he’d been having a little difficulty making ‘friends’. The break room was usually quiet anyway. Breaks were short and few during the day, and people seldom spoke to each other. Or to Rus, at least.

Today, the doctor on the table next to Rus was having a very loud conversation with his colleagues. Rus eyed him; thick mane and golden fur, his canines glistened as if they’d been whitened. His tail swished animatedly behind him as he spoke, his rumbling voice carrying through the room. Rus was about to stuff his earbuds in when he caught something.

“... oh and have you heard about all the security stuff they’re planning for ward D? I’m good mates with the head of security—good mates—he told me they’re gonna be changing policies there to make it more… well, you know what the patients are like in there.” He cut a chunk off the steak on his plate and shovelled it into his mouth.

“What kind of changesss?” asked the nurse sitting next to him, her forked tongue flicking.

“Hm, well—” The lion held up a claw and finished chewing. “More tranquiliser, chaining ‘em up when they’re giving them their meds. Apparently there’ve been a few too many incidents.”

Rus swallowed, stirring his yoghurt around its tub. “um—” He cleared his throat, leaning over. “excuse me, did you say ward d?”

The lion twisted around in his seat, his green eyes widening when he saw Rus. “That’s right.” He tilted his head. “You new around here?”

“i was transferred from training a few weeks ago—i work in ward d.”

He lifted a brow. “Really?” He glanced at his colleagues before scooting his chair closer to Rus and leaning in. “You know, I’m pretty close with the head of admin. I could probably get you transferred to a different ward, if you like. Gotta be rough for a trainee starting in ward D.” Rus opened his mouth to remark that he was not a trainee, thank you, and he did not need to be transferred—but the lion kept speaking. “I work in research. It’s pretty comfy. No one above five LV, and we mostly just handle samples.” He held out his paw, flashing a grin. “Boris, by the way.”

Rus slowly shook his hand. “rus… and uh, that’s okay, thanks. but—what do you know about the changes?”

Boris glanced over his shoulder, then dipped his head, moving closer. His eyes were gleaming, thrilled to share the information only he was privy to. “Well, I’m not really meant to say, but I’ve heard it’s ‘cause they wanna increase experimentation. You know, looking for cures and stuff—that’s my area.”

Rus’s mana ran cold. “experimentation… don’t you mean research?”

Boris tilted his hand, shrugging. “Eh, same thing. They gotta get more samples from the ones with high LV. Problem is, most of ‘em don’t like it. React badly to needles and shit—you’d know, working in ward D. So they wanna keep ‘em more sedated.” Boris grinned and Rus’s soul churned. He was tempted to remark that none of his patients had ever resisted giving samples. Not much, anyway. “We’re getting more pressure from the city council to find a cure. Means more work for me but I don’t mind. Makes it all a bit more exciting, don’t you think?”

“not really the word i’d use,” Rus muttered, but Boris didn’t seem to hear him.

“Yeah, I reckon it’s gonna help us out a lot. You done much research since starting here?”

Rus nodded. Part of his job was analysing the samples he took from patients; scanning the mana for traces of LV, trying to see what effect the suppressants had. But once the mana was out of their bodies, it was all but indistinguishable from the mana of monsters with no LV. Which meant that LV was linked to the soul, making it inseparable from the monsters themselves. Rus had always taken it as a dead end, but clearly they were taking their… ‘research’ to the next level.

“so, this… experimentation…” Rus swallowed. “how will it even get through? i don’t think the patients will be very willing to sign consent forms—”

Boris’s laughter was booming. “Consent forms?” He clapped Rus on the shoulder. “You’re cute, new guy.” He glanced at the others. “Isn’t he cute?” He leaned in again. “Sweetheart, we’re doing them a favour here. Do you know how much money is being put into this? How many resources? The least they could give us in return is a little gratitude. Once we’ve figured it all out, they might even be rehabilitated. If any of them have any issues with this—” He chuckled. “Well, I know what I’d do with them if I was running this place.” He gave Rus a long look, as if expecting him to ask. When Rus said nothing, he stretched and stood up. “Keep an eye on your email. You’ll probably be hearing all about it soon.”

Sure enough, within the week, the whole place was buzzing with talk of the new changes. There seemed to be mixed opinions on it—though the responses from the staff were largely positive, from the talk Rus had overheard.

“I know it’s not exactly gonna be comfortable,” Jackie had said when Rus had asked her about it. “But once we’re past the transition stage I reckon it’s going to make things run a lot smoother around here. Don’t you think?”

Rus had mumbled his disagreement. He was the minority, it seemed, but not entirely alone. He’d overheard snatches of conversations from some of the other nurses and doctors.

“—not exactly right, is it?”

“—don’t think I’m going to be sticking around here if this is the way things are going—”

“I mean, it’s awful, kind of cruel, but I guess it’s just the way things are with these creatures.”

Most seemed willing to accept it, if grudgingly.

More than a few patients were displeased about the changes. There were far more incidences of violent outbursts in the ward that week. When passing a group of nurses leaving a patient’s room one evening, Rus caught sight of a full tray of used tranquiliser needles on their med cart. “And they wonder why we’re putting these new policies in place,” one of them muttered, wiping his hands off on his pants.

The job of informing the patients of the changes was left to their respective doctors, though by the end of the week, most had already received the news through gossip. None of Rus’s patients took the information with grace, not that he expected any less.

For some reason, he left twenty-two for last. He didn’t try to justify the decision to himself, but something inside him squirmed with dread every time he thought about doing it. Thursday was the deadline, and when evening came, he couldn’t put it off any longer. He added the jelly cup from his lunch box to twenty-two’s dinner tray, ignoring Jackie’s raised eyebrow. “can you wait outside?” he asked when they reached twenty-two’s door.

“Uh… I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, doc.” Jackie eyed the door dubiously. “You know this probably isn’t going to go well, right?”

“it’s okay.” Rus tapped his collar with his fingertip. “i have my panic button. if i’m not out in five, come and get me. but—i don’t think he’ll hurt me.”

Jackie sighed, shrugging. “Alright. Just don’t die, please. The paperwork for that is horrendous.”

On a normal day, Rus might have humoured her with an eye roll. But today, he lacked the energy. He opened the door and walked in with lead feet. Twenty-two was sitting at the windowsill. The book in his lap was closed, his gaze trained on the streaks of blood in the sky. “hey,” Rus said, wheeling in his cart. “i brought you something extra for dinner.” He placed the tray next to the bed, but twenty-two didn’t look up. “i don’t know if you like raspberry, but i figured anything would be better than the usual.”

Twenty-two turned to look at him and Rus had to refrain from shrinking away. His red eye-lights were pinpricks, almost consumed by the black depths of his sockets. On the arms of his chair, his hands were fists. “Just tell me, doctor,” he said. “Read the new policies to me. I know that’s why you’re here. You’ve put it off long enough so let’s just get it over with.”

Rus swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. He took the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it for what felt like the hundredth time that week. “well, the first change is—”

“No, no.” Twenty-two was shaking his head. “Read it as is. Read the exact words it says on the page.”

Rus took a shaky breath. “i don’t know if…”

“Read it.”

His tone left no room for argument. Closing his eyes briefly, Rus looked down at the page. “dear patient, as of the fourteenth of this month, several new policies will be put into place. these are to ensure the safety of both staff and—and patients.”

Twenty-two waved his hand. “Go on.”

“cuffs will be installed in all rooms for patients above ten lv. when medication is administered or samples taken, patients will be cuffed and—and if necessary… muzzled.” Rus broke off sharply, barely getting the last word out.

Twenty-two was looking out the window again, resting his chin on his palm. His gaze was distant. “Keep reading.”

“patients with lv above twelve will have their suppressant dosage increased to the maximum, no exceptions. all patients will be issued an ankle tag which they must wear at all times. this will monitor their magic use. those who exceed a set threshold will lose their meal p-privileges for the rest of the day. those who break this boundary twice will lose meal privileges for two days, and so on.” Rus stopped at the next one, his words choking off suddenly.

“I believe there’s more, doctor,” twenty-two said, his voice deceptively soft. Rus’s hands trembled around the sheet of paper. His sockets burned.

“in order to assist with furthering the research of this facility, patients may be required to give additional samples, as well as undergo certain—e-experiments.” Rus pressed a hand over his mouth, sucking in a sharp breath.

Twenty-two nodded, his mouth twisted into a grimace. “That should be interesting, shouldn’t it?” he said in a raspy voice.

“i’m sorry,” Rus whispered, for all the good an apology would do. He folded the sheet again, stepping towards twenty-two.

“Don’t put that away just yet, I believe there’s more. Am I wrong?”

Grimacing, Rus unfolded it again, and read the last paragraph. “all policies will be strictly enforced. breaking them will result in consequences for both patient and carer. these changes are in the best interest of everyone, and cooperation is crucial to the smooth and safe running of this facility.” Rus shut his eyes, a sick burning in his soul. “patients are advised that these changes are for their benefit, and—” He grit his teeth. “i can’t—i can’t read this—”

“You’re my doctor. I believe you have a responsibility to inform me of any policy changes the facility will be making.” Twenty-two leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Well?”

Rus closed his eyes, stewing in hatred. Not directed at twenty-two, but right now, he was the most immediate target. His jaw clenched, he read the final line of the letter. “patients are advised that these changes are for their benefit, and that not adhering to them would be—” He swallowed, breathing out. “would be an act of both disrespect and ingratitude.” His voice broke off and he stuffed the letter back into his pocket. There was a burning in his soul. His fists were shaking at his sides.

Twenty-two had turned back to the window, his face hidden. “Thank you, doctor. Is that all?”

Rus reached for his shoulder. “please don’t—”

“I’d like to be alone, if that’s still permitted.”

Rus shut his eyes and exhaled. “i’m sorry,” he said in a brittle voice, pushing the med cart back out. Jackie was waiting for him in the hallway. Her long ears sagged when she saw his face, and she sighed.

“Hey.” She patted his arm. “I told you, you shouldn’t get attached.”

“he’s—” Rus caught his breath, closing his eyes. “they’re my patients. it’s my job to care about their wellbeing.”

“It’s for the best.”

“it’s barbaric,” Rus hissed.

“You knew what this job was when you came here, didn’t you?” She leaned in, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know it’s our instinct to care, but these guys aren’t actually our patients. They’re our subjects.” She frowned, meeting Rus’s eye. “Why did you come here?”

Rus looked down at his shaking hands. Two nurses passed them, one laughing loudly at something the other one had said. Rus squeezed his hands into fists, staring after them with his teeth gritted. “i wanted to help them.”

“And you will,” Jackie said firmly. “When we find a cure for their affliction, we’ll know it was because of our work.”

Rus shook his head, whispering, “what if we’re making a mistake?”

***

The policies wouldn’t be effective for another week, but the following day, signs of their arrival were already starting to pop up all over the ward. Sonya told him they were getting in an extra large shipment of tranquiliser that afternoon. They had already started strapping muzzles to the med carts. And in almost every room Rus walked past, they were installing chains and cuffs to the walls. Half-sedated patients were being escorted between rooms throughout the ward. Rus did his best not to look at their muzzled faces.

He’d been putting off twenty-two’s evening checkup. He was meant to be informing him that he would be transferred to a different room later tonight so that cuffs could be installed in his room over the weekend. Sonya had given him the transfer papers this morning, and they’d been burning a hole in his pocket all day.

It was growing dark by the time he and Jackie started finishing up. “shit… twenty-two,” Rus said, glancing at his schedule. “go home,” he told Jackie. “i’ll take care of it. i just need to give him his dinner and prep him for the transfer. i can handle it.” She seemed relieved at the early dismissal. The day had been spent transferring patients between rooms. A lot of tranquiliser had been involved and Rus didn’t care to linger on the details.

He scanned his card at room twenty-two and pushed the med cart through the door. “dinner,” he announced, kicking the door shut behind him. “i put it in the microwave so it should be warm.” He picked up the tray and glanced around, but twenty-two wasn’t in his armchair, or his bed…

Rus gasped, dropping the tray with a loud clatter as something cold and sharp touched his throat. He could feel the press of twenty-two’s body behind him, and his arm was tight across Rus’s throat. Before Rus could react, he ripped the panic button off his collar and tossed it across the room. “Don’t even think about screaming.”

Rus’s head pounded, a million thoughts rushing through his mind, at least half of them involving the needle pressed to his throat. “if—” he broke off, straining to keep his voice level. “if this is another one of your games—”

“It’s not a fucking game!” No. No, it definitely wasn’t. The needle pressed harder and Rus shut his eyes, breathing a silent prayer. “I can’t stay here anymore. I’m sorry, doc, but this is my only way out.”

“just—just think about what you’re doing,” Rus whispered, his air almost choked off by twenty-two’s hold. “this isn’t who you are—”

“Don’t try, doctor. I’ve been in this place since before you started practicing medicine. I know your tricks. I’m a killer. It’s why I’m here.”

“you don’t want to do this…”

“Shut up!” Twenty-two squeezed harder and Rus whimpered, fighting for air. “It’s—it’s just tranquiliser. It’ll knock you out for a few hours, then I’ll be long gone.” He slipped Rus’s ID card out of his pocket. “I—I just need this. I just need this and I can get out.”

Rus squirmed under his tight grip. “th—that tranquiliser is meant for monsters with at least ten lv,” he rasped. “my hp is too low—it’ll kill me.” Twenty-two exhaled hard, shifting his grip. Rus could hear the needle shaking in his hand, so close to his neck.

“You’re lying.”

“you know i’m not.” LV crackled in the air and Rus blinked away tears. “you told me before that you didn’t want to hurt me,” he whispered.

“I don’t.” Twenty-two inhaled deeply. “But I will if I have to.”

Rus fought back the overwhelming urge to panic. The electricity tingling up his spine, the impulse to writhe and scream; he fought them back. “you don’t want to. think about what you’re doing—even if you get me out of the way, what will you do next? you think they’re just going to ignore you? a patient walking unaccompanied through the ward?”

“I’ll think of something,” twenty-two hissed. “I’ll—I’ll fight if I have to.”

“i know you’re strong, you are. but you’re on suppressants. even on your best day, you couldn’t take five nurses with tranquiliser—and security will be down in minutes.” Twenty-two’s grip grew tighter and Rus felt the warmth of building tears in his sockets. “please,” he whispered. “you don’t want to do this.” Outside, the sky was turning purple. Rus idly wondered if it would be the last time he saw it.

“I can’t stay here,” twenty-two choked. “I’ll die. I’ll die before I spend another day in these walls.”

Rus shut his eyes, taking a deep breath before whispering, “i can help you.”

“No you can’t!” twenty-two snapped, and Rus choked as he jolted. “You can’t help me! Don’t give me that. Don’t give me that bullshit.”

“no,” Rus gasped, struggling in twenty-two’s grip. “i—i can help you get out.” Twenty-two went quiet, his breathing loud against Rus’s ear. Cautiously, Rus went on. “if you let me take the lead, we can pretend i’m taking you to a different room. i have your transfer papers. we can—”

Twenty-two’s grip shifted threateningly and Rus broke off. “No. No, I don’t trust you for a second.”

“you have to.”

“And what’s to stop you from marching me straight to the tranquilising room when I’m not holding this to your throat anymore?” He pressed the tip of the needle to Rus’s vertebrae as if to emphasise his point, and Rus winced.

“i want to help you. i don’t want to see you die. i—”

“I don’t believe you.”

“i can only offer you my word. please. please let me help you.”

Twenty-two’s silence weighed on the room, and with each passing second, Rus became acutely aware of the cold tip of the needle against his throat. He could feel the unsteady rise and fall of twenty-two’s chest behind him, his breath hot on Rus’s neck.

Then slowly, he released Rus. For several long seconds, Rus stood frozen. He gradually lifted his hands up in a defensive gesture, careful not to make any quick movements. He kept his eyes trained on twenty-two. It was unsettling seeing him without his composure. His complacent smirk and steady, burning eyes. His hand shook around the needle, and his eye-lights were flicking unsteadily between Rus and the door.

Without breaking eye contact, Rus crouched and reached for the set of cuffs on the med cart. Twenty-two took a step back, bearing the needle like a knife. “What are you doing?”

Rus froze, focusing on keeping his voice steady. “patients have to be cuffed when they’re moved between rooms… a-and muzzled.”

Twenty-two’s eyes went wide and his jaw tightened. “No. No! You’re not putting those things on me. I won’t let you.”

Rus took a deep breath. “an uncuffed patient walking the halls would raise too many alarms. we have to make it believable or this won’t work.”

Twenty-two wiped a hand over his face, inhaling sharply, then pointed the needle at Rus’s throat. “If you double cross me, I’ll kill you for every pathetic bit of EXP you’re worth. I’ll fucking kill you.”

Rus nodded, whispering, “okay. okay… i understand...”

Twenty-two put his hands together and Rus cuffed them. Under his fierce red eyes, Rus shook so much he struggled to get the muzzle on. He could hear twenty-two’s ragged breathing behind the mask. “it’s going to be okay. it’ll be okay,” he breathed, more for his own sake. He scanned his keycard and guided twenty-two out into the hall with a hand on his shoulder.

He heard twenty-two’s breath catch. “left,” he said quietly, avoiding the gazes of a passing group of nurses. Thankfully, due to the ‘refurbishments’, twenty-two wasn’t the only patient being moved around, so they didn’t attract many second glances. The closest exit to this wing of the hospital was the back exit through storage, but they’d still have to go through security to get there. Rus desperately wished he’d had more time to plan this. But almost every word out of his mouth these past five minutes had been based on survival instinct and pure adrenaline.

When they reached the reached the large vault doors, Rus showed the security guard twenty-two’s transfer papers. He hoped to the King that the guard wouldn’t notice how much his hands were shaking. She eyed the sheet of paper over. “From room twenty-two?” she asked.

“that’s right,” Rus said in a stiff voice. The guard looked back at the sheet of paper, glancing between the photo stamped on it, and twenty-two. Rus could feel sweat building on the back of his neck, and he was certain it couldn’t all be attributed to the humidity. Twenty-two was silent, but his shoulder was stiff under Rus’s hand.

Finally, the guard nodded, typing in the passcode and scanning her card to let them through. “All good, go on through.” Rus offered her a faint smile, and fought against the urge to hurry through the door.

This section of the hospital was quieter, and mostly home to research labs and spare rooms. A few of the ward D monsters had been moved here temporarily for the renovations—including twenty-two, by some miracle Rus wasn’t going to painstake over.

Each step down the corridor felt like walking through quicksand. It took every ounce of Rus’s will not to run. Whenever they passed someone, Rus feared—they know, they know, they know.

“Hey! Rus!”

Rus jumped, squeezing twenty-two’s shoulder so hard he grunted. He turned around slowly, his soul already plummeting into an abyss of dread. The doctor from the break room—Boris—was hurrying towards him, his thick golden mane flowing about his face. He grinned his sparkling white grin and put a hand on Rus’s shoulder. “Fancy running into you in this neck of the woods. Come to join me in research for the evening?”

Rus swallowed. They hadn’t been caught. Not yet. Breathe. “no, uh… just delivering a patient actually—transferring. i’m transferring him. while his room is renovated.” He spoke too quickly. Calm down!

Boris looked at twenty-two the same way one might look at a container of forgotten leftovers at the back of the fridge. “Ah. Well, if you ever want a break from… all this—you’re more than welcome to join me in research sometime.” He gave Rus’s arm a soft squeeze, beaming. “I could put a word in for you with the head of admin. She and I are close, you know! I’m sure she could arrange something.”

Down the corridor to the left, Rus could see the glowing sign for an emergency exit. “uh… sure. yeah, sounds great.”

“Yeah?”

“yeah.” Rus cleared his throat, fidgeting impatiently. “do you mind excusing me? i—i should really get this patient to his room.”

“Of course, of course! By all means. I look forward to working with you, Rus. Oh! Before you go—” He slipped a paper card into Rus’s breast pocket and Rus stared at him, bewildered. “My number. You can contact me any time, sweetheart.” Winking, he walked away.

“o-okay...” Rus tried to push the thought from his mind, and hurried twenty-two on. They walked passed all the patient rooms and stopped outside the emergency exit. Rus hesitated to check if anyone was watching them, as deep as the temptation was to bolt through without looking back. No one was looking their way. He pushed the door open and hurried twenty-two through. Their footsteps echoed through the stairwell, and if they both jogged more than walked, Rus wasn’t complaining.

At the bottom of the stairwell, Rus had to scan his ID card again. They emerged into a long grey corridor lined with shelves and cupboards. Rus could hear the rumble of machinery through the concrete walls, and feel the outside heat creeping in. So close.

The sound of someone whistling echoed down the corridor and Rus froze. Without thinking, he opened one of the storage cupboards and pushed twenty-two towards it. “hide!” he hissed when twenty-two resisted. “you can’t be seen here, you need to hide.” Through the mask of his muzzle, twenty-two’s eyes were narrowed, but he quickly complied. Rus closed the door behind him just as the janitor rounded the corner. He stopped for a second and adjusted his glasses, as if surprised to see Rus. Rus greeted him with a wave and a weak smile.

“You looking for something, love?” the janitor asked.

“no, no, i’m alright,” Rus said. “just uh—getting more tranquiliser.”

The janitor lifted a thick brow. “Don’t you have a stock cupboard in your ward?”

Rus swallowed, nodding slowly. “yes… they just sent me to restock.” He could hear the mana pounding in his skull, his soul so loud it might have been echoing off the walls.

“Ah, alright then. Thought they normally got the aides to do that, but what do I know. Guess the doctors aren’t busy enough these days!” He chuckled to himself, and Rus forced a smile. “Need any help finding it?”

Rus shook his head. “nope! don’t bother yourself. thank you.”

“I’ll leave you be then. Come visit again, no one else bothers.” The janitor ambled on, resuming his whistling. Rus waited until he’d turned the corner before opening the cupboard. Twenty-two gave him a disgruntled look and Rus grimaced.

“you can look at me like that when you get caught,” he muttered.

At the end of the corridor they came to a fork. Far to their left, down a stretch of empty passageway, was a frame of light—and a door. Daylight. Rus guided Edge down the corridor, their feet scuffling loudly against the concrete. When they reached the end, he scanned his card and the door clicked open.

They were hit with a wave of heat. The open desert stretched ahead of them, barred only by the perimeter fence. Sand kicked up around their feet, and Rus had never been so relieved for it.

He fumbled the key into the lock of twenty-two’s cuffs, stumbling back when twenty-two sank to his knees in the sand. He tore off the muzzle and tossed it aside, grasping at handfuls of dirt. His sockets were wide and glazed as he let the sand trickle between his fingers. His mouth hung open and his breathing was heavy.

Rus glanced around anxiously, half-expecting a team of security to leap out from behind a bush. “i don’t know how to get past the fence,” he said, “this is where my clearance ends, i’m sorry.”

Twenty-two didn’t look at him, his eyes fixed on the stretching desert ahead. “How far to the city?”

“about thirty miles.”

He nodded and stood up, walking towards the fence. “Good. I can walk.”

“but you—” Rus stared in a mingle of awe and horror as he climbed the full height of the fence with startling agility, hooking his bony fingers and bare feet between the mesh. When he reached the barbed wire, he paused for only a moment before gripping it with both hands and pushing it aside. A startled gasp bubbled from Rus’s throat. Even from this distance, he could see the bloody scrapes on twenty-two’s hands as he scrambled over the wire. He landed on the other side with little more than a grunt. His jumpsuit was torn and his bones cut and bloody. It was almost comedically horrific.

Rus shrunk back as twenty-two turned around to look at him. “Don’t follow me.” Without another word, he ran off and disappeared into the desert.

#spicyhoney #papcest #us papyrus #uf papyrus #my writing #doctor rus #patient edge #hospital setting #asylum #forced institutionalisation #dehumanisation

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newyorktheater · 4 years

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This month’s roundup of some of the latest posts from the few still active theater bloggers offers varying reactions and responses to COVID-19, from practical (Broadway & Me, JK Theater Scene) to newsworthy (Broadway Journal) to star-studded (The Producer’s Perspective) to curmudgeonly (George Hunka) And a couple of bloggers goes on with their work, almost asl usual (Terry Teachout and Szymkowicz) though there are clear signs even in their work that nothing is usual at the moment. We start with Bitter Gertrude, who has one of the most original responses.

In the post “You’re Not Ok? Glad to Hear It,” on Bitter Gertrude, Melissa Hillman explains why she hasn’t blogged for eight months, detailing a truly horrendous pile-up of personal catastrophes. “That’s not even everything, and this was all before the virus. Today is Day 11 of shelter-in-place with no real end in sight.“ She uses her experience to make a point about how the culture is “awash in “Never Stop,” “No Excuses” propaganda, and I am clearly as susceptible to that as anyone else…Even in the midst of this horrific pandemic, there’s pressure to ACHIEVE….When we refuse to accept our limitations, we prop up an ableist culture that sees any physical, mental, or emotional limitation as a moral failing. …What we need is cultural acceptance of limitations.” So happy to have her back blogging

In Created Unequal, on About Last Night, Terry Teachout excerpts his Wall Street Journalreview of a webcast of the Syracuse Stage’s revival of Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus.

He also writes a thank you note. Over the last few weeks, his blog has been chronicling the health issues, surgery and recovery of his wife, whom he calls Mrs. T’

Adam Szymkowicz interviews his 1084th playwright, David Hanson

Q: Tell me about your short play project.

A: The Short Play Project is a social distance art experiment, in which people are invited to make videos from my short play scripts which I then post on social media.

In “Theater Life in These Uncertain Times” on Broadway & Me, Janice Simpson details some of the many ways theater continues, mostly online, and theater people persist. One big comfort in these uncertain times is knowing that we’re all in this together and that there’s no finer company with whom to see the tough times through than the people who make and love theater

In Broadway Journal, Philip Boroff has been covering the effects on the theater community of COVID-19 with a series of breaking news post. His latest: Broadway League Creates Financial Relief Info Sites He also reports on his Zoom interview with another avid blogger, Ken Davenport: A Broadway Maverick Contemplates a Post-Covid Future

Is this the end of the Broadway boom? Oh yeah, it’s going to take a massive bite out of the business. I think the boom is definitely over. The question is, is how quickly it bangs back. And it will, and then some. One day we’ll look back at this like we look back at the dark period of the ’80s, or post-9/11, or the financial crisis in 2008, and say, ‘Can you believe where we are now compared to where we were then?’ And I’m doing everything I can, including getting producers like Kevin McCollum [on April 5] and writers like Jeanine Tesori [April 4] and actors like Jason Alexander [April 13] on my live stream, to make sure they say to every theater maker out there, ‘don’t give up the fight.’

George Hunka offers A Toast to Self Isolating

“Self-quarantine and self-isolation are not new to me; I’ve been self-isolating since 1962, but instead of prudent caution I do it more because I hate people.” He recommends some authors of black humor. This was posted on March 13 before the stay-at-home orders. He followed post-shutin with A Toast to Misanthropy

JK Theatre Scene offers 5 Broadway Things We’ve Done to Pass The Time : 1. Reliving fond memories of Broadway through my Playbill Collection. 2. Dusting off original cast recordings. 3. Seeing Broadway stars in their homes! (online) 4. Recreating the theater experience through video. 5. Theater books!

Ken Davenport is using his Producer’s Perspective blog to promote his https://www.theproducersperspective.com/LIVE Producer’s Perspective Live page (which links to his Facebook page) – nightly interviews with celebrated Broadway composers, producers, performers, publicists (no playwrights yet; I guess Adam Szymkowicz is on top of that.)

NewYorkTheater.me, my contribution: Where To Get Your Theater Fix Online, Old Favorites and New Experiments, which I’m trying to keep updated — an impossible task.

NY Theater Blog Roundup: Responding to COVID-19 in unexpected ways This month's roundup of some of the latest posts from the few still active theater bloggers offers varying reactions and responses to COVID-19, from practical (Broadway & Me, JK Theater Scene) to newsworthy (Broadway Journal) to star-studded (The Producer's Perspective) to curmudgeonly (George Hunka) And a couple of bloggers goes on with their work, almost asl usual (Terry Teachout and Szymkowicz) though there are clear signs even in their work that nothing is usual at the moment.

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swishandflickwit · 5 years

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Deckerstar — come over now (and talk me down) 1/1

Summary: In which Trixie prays to Lucifer and try as he might, he just can’t ignore her—maybe he doesn’t even want to?

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 10.1k

Warnings: Post 3x24. Spoilers for S3 finale.

AN: Title from the song TALK ME DOWN by the lovely Troye Sivan.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

It starts as a tingle.

A tickle at his nape, light as a zephyr and just as fleeting. It is hardly noticeable, surrounded as he is in a constant sea of people—bodies brushing him as they pulse and grind in time with whatever electric tune is blaring through the speakers of Lux, and exclamations of disparate ranges humming their squalid secrets into his ears or hissing their darkest desires into his mouth. He is no stranger to the chaos of noise brought on by sin, the cacophony of achieved pleasures only to be followed by the turbulent guilt at having indulged at all.

Yes, the prickle that stings the back of his head is inconsequential. Not unlike the buzz of a fly, one that—in hindsight, he might have ingenuously assumed—may be banished with a mere flick of a wrist.

Easy to ignore.

Until, that is, the fly comes back and it’s not so easy anymore—in fact, it’s the exact opposite.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

Not since his literal Fall from grace. But the pressure behind his eyelids and the weight that blossoms throughout his muscles and cartilage—somewhat familiar, vaguely irritating and entirely unexpected, if not a tad alarming—is one that can no longer be denied. Never mind the eras that have risen and long since passed without so much as a glimmer or a hint of it.

Impossible, he tries again. Even as the proof lays before him in all its her lanky limbs and sprawled out, drooling glory. Even as the hum becomes an insistent beacon of urgency, redolent to a boom of thunder as it drowns every other sound. Still, he is hard-pressed to believe the reality of the situation—because it has been eons upon eons since the manifestation of this ability, because no one should have remembered or known, much more needed to do so.

Because who the hell would pray to the Devil?

Beatrice sighs, her svelte frame twisting in her sheets to face him, seated as he is on the chair by her bed. The roaring in his head surges till the vein on his forehead pounds with it.

“Hello?”

He contemplates keeping his stealth and ignoring her.

“Lucifer?”

But children always do have a way of seeing.

He exhales a sharp breath through his nose, and with it, drops his cloaking glamor.

“I’m here.”

She sits up then, bleary orbs blinking dust from its corners. A stillness blankets his mind when their dark gazes clash.

“Took you long enough,” she whispers through a yawn. He barely represses one himself. Instead, he pinches either sides of his forehead at the impatience in her tone and endeavors to call on a little of the virtue for his own.

“You were quite…” he rummages for a relatively PG term before finally settling on, “tenacious.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It—”

“I don’t care.”

He glares at her. But her glower is just as caustic, if not more so. He cannot help but shrink from her—the darkness burrowing into the chinks of his crumbling walls and liberating the despair that he has, till now, refrained from capitulating to since…

(“It’s all true.”

The waver in her tone… the scent of her sweat... the strain in her eyes—how they all betrayed her fear.

“It’s all true.”)

Well, best not to think about that.

“You look tired,” Beatrice softens, reading far too much and too well, the shadows haunting the cutting lines of his face and painting his figure in gaunt relief.

“I am,” he accedes, head tilting back as he sinks lower into the surprisingly plush armchair—or is he so exhausted that even a concrete floor would have felt like a thousand-dollar orthopedic mattress to him there and then? Did he care?

His lids are heavy.

(No. No, he did not)

“Okay,” she replies, something knowing and all-too grown up in her articulation. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

That rouses him enough to prop his head back up towards her.

“Tomorrow?”

“This was good,” she decides, settling back beneath her covers.

“Beatrice?” he addresses the lump she has made of herself.

“Yeah?”

“Why did you,” the term is a plumbeous tumor in his throat, the taste of it foreign on his tongue. But the Devil is no coward and so will not be felled by word or ten-year olds, no matter how charming or sly. “Why did you pray to me?”

He pokes it. The lump groans.

“Tomorrow.”

“Beatrice,” he barks. “I will not be toyed with—”

“I was worried about you. And now I’m even more worried because I don’t think you slept in forever.”

I haven’t, he answers privately but she seems to hear him all the same.

“Go home. Rest. We can talk tomorrow. Try not to come too late,” she pauses, deliberating. “But not too early too. Okay?”

“And if I don’t?”

But the little hellion succumbs to slumber, or at least makes a valiant attempt at it. He goes to shake her awake but retracts his hand when it is a hairsbreadth from her shoulder. Oh, but the blissful silence that engulfs him is almost a—dare he say it—heavenly reprieve from the monstrous anchor of her prayers, not realizing how they encumbered him till he is stood in his penthouse with nothing but the thud of his heart, the wisp of his breath and the briny, L.A. current as his soundtrack.

As he settles onto his bed, he decides to abstain from visiting the detective’s daughter the following night, convinced nothing good could come of it.

But her voice, a baffling juxtaposition of lethargic and jaunty—Good night, Lucifer!—rattles in his brain.

He thumps his head against his pillow.

Though… presumably, nothing bad could come of a quick visit either.

He is asleep before he finishes the thought.

“You really ought not to pray to me, you know.”

She is draped over her bed with an immobility he would classify as preternatural, if he didn’t know any better.

It is unnerving, and so is her observation. He sits straighter, then aborts the movement—for what could he have to prove to this miniature human? Nothing, that’s what. She is but a nuisance to him, after all. One whose antics he has humored thus far, if only to put an end to them.

Enough of this, he promises himself as he squares his shoulders—for the good of his posture, of course. How horrendously unattractive would it be, to have a hunchback for a Devil now? Perish the thought!

“I won’t come back even if you do,” he insists, haughtily. “Do you understand?”

Her eyes narrow into disbelieving slits.

“Right,” she drawls.

“No, really,” he stresses. “Your mother will put me to the grave if she finds out.”

“She won’t find out!”

“Be that as it may,” he says dubiously, “this ends tonight.”

Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

In fact it goes on for quite some time.

Though he adamantly refuses to admit how he anticipates each twilight.

The quiet is jarring without her voice in his head.

The previous night had her bemoaning about a performance of some sort that would require her full attention and so he has the day to himself.

It is odd.

He was looking forward to the private time, prepared to relish in the lack of invocatory disturbance after so long without. After all, there was never a dull moment in Hell and the periods that weren’t wrought with the agonized screams of the damned were far and few in between. Then there were the innocuous annotations she peppered him with throughout his daytime routines, they were utterly distracting. He didn’t need to hear about the complexities of her Math assignment while extracting favors nor did he want to know about the, quite frankly, grotesque offerings of an elementary school cafeteria while he was at a distributor’s meeting.

So he relishes the peace, wherever he may find it.

Or so he thinks.

Prayers are no small matter. They are, more often than not, afflicted with the Herculean effort of sustaining humanity’s last dregs of hope. They are massive, suffocating burdens—the kind God’s legions of angels were not apt (or mandated, more like) to aid.

But not Beatrice’s prayers.

It is all too easy to forget that amidst the torment of adulthood, therein too, lay all the insouciance of youth. Perhaps in the beginning, they had felt like chains. But now, without her supplication, he feels depthless and unimportant. Like if he were to float away in a cloud of dust, no one would so much as blink. She is his final tie to Chloe, a tie he is growing more accustomed to (not that he would tell her this on pain of death) with every passing chance they are isolated from the rest of the world. A tie that no longer just links her to Chloe—but links her to him despite Chloe.

It scares him, this reliance.

When she calls for him the next night, he does not come.

He hates himself for it.

Lucifer?

“Stop,” he scolds the glass in his hand.

Why won’t you visit?

He downs the drink then leaves it on top of his piano. He paces to his bar. He spreads his hands on the glassy surface and puts all his heft there so that the marble countertop wails its dissent.

Did I do something wrong?

He shakes his head, and he isn’t sure whether it’s to clear it or it’s in answer to her question.

Please.

That’s it. That’s what does it—the insecurity threaded into her pronunciation, the heartbreak woven into every letter of the bargain. It strikes keenly within him, the tinge of her sadness all too familiar as it monochromes into one that matches his soul. With a roar, he throws out his wings and in the lull between two heartbeats, he is by her side.

“It isn’t you,” is his version of a greeting. She doesn’t even startle.

“Where have you been?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, alright?”

There’s a mist in her eyes that he inhibits acknowledging with painstaking exertion.

“Then why’d you stay away?”

“Why do you keep praying to me?” he demands through gritted teeth.

He braces for something profound, something that will bring him to his knees, begging for her absolution.

“I don’t know,” she looks downtrodden at her inability to provide him a thoughtful answer. “I just do.”

He is bereft of it, anyway.

“But I’m not a good person. Surely you know that?” He dumps himself unceremoniously onto the single armchair in the room. “I’m not even a person.”

There isn’t much to say following that, for what is there to say that wouldn’t be a falsity?

He should leave. But Beatrice doesn’t ask him to, and the regret at not showing up the previous night is a hot iron that brands him to his seat. So he lingers—till enough time passes that he thinks she’s fallen asleep. It is a rare evening that she doesn’t deafen him with talk. He doesn’t mind. But when she does speak, her utterance small even in the tranquility of the eventide, he mentally kicks himself at not having bolted when he had the chance.

“Where were you?”

“What do you mean?” He delays, something brittle in his rebuke despite clearing his throat. He is not drunk enough for the depth of this conversation. “Does it matter? I’m here now, aren’t I?”

She shakes her head.

“You were gone,” she whispers. “You are gone. And so is daddy, and Maze and even mommy.”

He chokes on a breath, panic clawing at his lungs when he spits, “The detective? Has something—” the dread escalates, “happened to her?”

The springs in the foam whinge at the tightening of his hold.

She shakes her head. “She’s not in any danger, if that’s what you think.”

The vise around his heart lessens and for a fraction, he loosens his grip on the seat.

“I sense a ‘but’,” he wheedles.

“The week you stopped showing up, the same day Maze left,” she sniffs and there’s a stagger to her narration that attests to a pent-up sob, most likely for his benefit. He reaches out and rubs her back in a couple of awkward circles like it might erase his guilt.

It doesn’t, but she calms enough to resume talking. He, thankfully, withdraws.

“Mommy’s been different—sadder. The couple times I snuck on her door, I don’t hear her cry, but she wakes up in the morning and her eyes are red. When I eat breakfast and she doesn’t think I’m paying attention, she stares at the door with a frown, like she’s waiting for someone but at the same time, she doesn’t want that someone to show.”

The foreboding mass of guilt in his gut intensifies. She doesn’t speculate as to this person’s identity and he won’t insult her intelligence nor malign his own by asking who.

They both know the answer.

“Where did everyone go?” she laments.

“Your mother will never leave you,” he admonishes. “You know better than that.”

“Maybe,” she concedes with a weary exhale, “but everyone leaves, eventually. Whether they want to or not.”

There is a wisdom to her speech that no child her age should possess, and yet the bluntness of her delivery—infused with such jaded finality—arrests him of his ability to succor her with his special brand of omissions and half-truths.

The Devil does not lie.

“You can protect her, right? You’ll always be there—”

He shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he implores sibilantly, shame coloring his truth. “I can’t save anyone.”

I couldn’t even save myself.

He wills her to understand, but how could she? For as much as she has matured, she has so much living yet to do.

“You don’t need to save anyone,” she urges gently as she slumps over and grows heavy on her pillows. “You just need to stay.”

He startles at that.

“You ask too much of me.”

There’s an itch at the base of his throat and a strain in his lids that seems suspect of tears, but the Devil burns too hot for such displays—at least this is what he tells himself through the rasp of his declaration.

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “I don’t know how to.”

All he’s ever known and seen is what it is to walk away. Lucifer’s path is littered with the devastation of all those he leaves behind—from Heaven and Hell, then his parents and his siblings and even Mazikeen, as well.

The detective is just another name on his ledger, written more than once in bold, block letters and angry, bloodied ink.

Is Beatrice to be a part of this, too?

So he keeps confessing, even as she skims the boundary between waking and slumber, if only to warn her of the inevitable, if only to provide a shield—however flimsy it may be—from the pain of him.

Lucifer is nothing, if not a ticking time bomb and the detective and her daughter deserve far better than to be left in shrapnels at his imminent destruction.

Still, it doesn’t stop his fingers from poising over the detonator.

“Though I suppose... I wouldn't mind,” he professes to the gloom with all the austerity of a remorseful sinner in church learning to redeem himself.

(He always did fly too close to the sun)

“Why do you still pray to me?”

She is plastered to his side tonight, and burrows even deeper so that he’s convinced she’s done it purely to vex him, legs draped across his lap as if he was her personal footrest. He grimaces but doesn’t deny her her petty grievances, not when she is still a tad sore over his curtailed abdication.

“Why do you keep saying you’re the Devil?” she counters, rearranging herself to sit crisscross on top of his thighs so that they are facing each other. He feigns a grunt to tease her then rolls his eyes, unwilling to divulge the cunningness of her subterfuge.

He does so adore talking about himself.

“Because I am.”

The duh, though unspoken, rings loud between them.

“But your brother’s an angel.”

He splutters at the mention of Amenadiel. Weren’t they talking abouthis deviant self? How did his oaf of a brother enter their conversation?

“So?”

“Doesn’t that make you one, too?”

Before he can deign to refute with all the drama and indignance of an affronted sovereign, she barrels on in that careless, excitable way children (and Ms. Lopez) often do.

“I mean, I know you fought your Dad. And that you have these super cool light powers!”

“Well, look who’s been brushing up on their theology!” Despite himself, he is impressed. “Been going to Sunday school just for this Old Scratch, have you?” He preens with a charismatic quirk of his brow and his signature, entrancing smile.

She huffs her frustration before rolling her own eyes, impartial to his charms. The rebuff is so achingly distinct it sends a twinge through his heart, even as he whines a protest.

“Did my Father send you too,” he starts, with shades of genuine bafflement in his inquiry, “or is this immunity a by-product of being the offspring of a Miracle?”

“You talk funny, but I guess that makes sense. Like in the old days,” she pauses, her forehead puckered in reflection as she continues, “or those people in Game of Thrones!”

He tilts his head in amusement at her intimate knowledge of the show, no doubt in thanks to a certain demon. His smile is nostalgic, before he remembers the shambles of his relationship with Mazikeen.

(Best shove that in a box to be studied at never)

“Anyway,” Beatrice redirects when he doesn’t retort. “I don’t go to church, but daddy’s parents have a Bible.”

He snorts, rather inelegantly. “You—you read the Bible?”

“I’m ten, you know. I can read.”

He raises a brow.

She yields, but not without a pout.

“Okay, so the writing is really small and like, have you seen the thing? It’s—” She lifts a hand to approximate the thickness, her thumb and pointer stretched as far apart as they can,“ this thick. And there are so many big words!”

He snickers. Her scowl is a scorching thing, and he is certain he would blaze from it if he wasn’t all ready a gnarly mosaic of burn wounds.

“So I just Googled you.”

“And what else have you discovered?” he smirks. “All bad things, I hope.”

“I didn’t really understand much,” she readily admits with a shrug. “But I got that God sent you to Hell as punishment, kinda like a time-out for not following Him—” Lucifer grouses at the comparison to a petulant child, though he couldn’t exactly deny it.

They would work on her phrasing another time.

(Not that there is another time, he defends unconvincingly. He really mustn't do this again)

“—You had to watch over all the bad souls that went there forever, which I guess is how you became the Devil. But even if you’re the king of Hell and the,” she air quotes, “‘Prince of Darkness and Lies’ and all these other nicknames, which are so mean, by the way!”

He smiles at that.

“—You’re still an angel. You just fell.”

“Oh, is that all?” he snarks, the grin wiped from his lips and a bad taste in his mouth. The simplicity with which she conveys the sentiment—as if it weren’t a cosmic, body and mind and soul altering experience—smarts, though he’d never tell anyone, least of all this child.

She bites her lip, a prominent conflict brewing storms upon her expression.

“Out with it.”

She purses her lips.

“Can I see?”

He sighs. Though he expects it, he cannot control the sliver of dejection that conquers him at Beatrice’s… mundaneness.

“If you must.”

He sets her to her feet then rolls his shoulders, slowly. An exercise in control and restraint as he is cognizant to the limitations of her space.

(And definitely unwilling to wake the lady of the house whom he is not quite ready to face just yet)

He expands his wings as far as he is able to in her little box of a room, one at a time, before folding them closely to his back. It’s a tight fit and he must lean forward to accommodate the blasted things, but he manages to find a modicum of comfort. Father they were gaudy, he notes upon a prompt review of the pair. Lucifer is as ostentatious as they come, but he has class, thank you very much—an inherent taste for opulence that skirts the border between sophistication and grandeur. He coils one wing in front of him to better examine it.

He despises how they glint in the darkness.

He abhors the reminder of them, of everything he has lost. What has once signified power and his connection to the universe and Creation has mutated into shimmering, feathered shackles. He hates and hates and hates, because a sick part of him still yearns for the grace with which accompanies them, longs for the music in the sunset and the serenity in the sunrise and the scraps of His effulgence with every poor soul he used to bequeath with care.

He hates Him for it—for invoking this secret, ugly whim he long thought had been extinguished. For once again taking his agency by slapping it onto his back despite how he bends and breaks and bleeds to cleave them from his flesh.

But most of all, he hates himself. For how he stands in the eye of his carnage—plumage torn and carelessly strewn, and gore puddling the obsidian floor till his sanguine fluid is indiscernible from the Italian marble—and is flooded with a deep-seated relief at their every winking return.

And if he is just as taken by its divinity, whose to stop the young one from spiraling into that insane, obsessive trance?

So he braces for the frenzied groveling. For the disgusting simpering or overwhelming exultation. Maybe even an overenthusiastic hug, as she is so avid in dispensing him.

However, a perusal of her mien has his mouth hanging open in shock. After all his speculation he certainly does not expect what he finds there.

Disappointment.

The cloud of struggle looms forcibly upon her still rounded and childish visage. He tucks the bothersome appendages away with a shrug, feeling woefully inadequate for some inexplicable reason.

“Is… is something the matter? Are they not—”

He withers and he wants, as he struggles to dispel the disenchantment from her eyes.

“Do you not like them?”

“No, I do,” she nods her approval. “They’re pretty. But…”

He cocks his head in encouragement.

“Maze has another face,” she expels in one swift yet hesitant breath, as though it is she who is loath to fail him. “I thought it was just make-up because we were out trick or treating, but I understand now,” she nods, voice growing steadier as she builds her surety. “It was her real face.”

And when she lays the final brick of her armor, she looks at him, fearless.

“Her demon face.”

He gasps, permitting that perhaps this time, it is he who dithers at her implication.

Or maybe she has lost her mind, after all.

“You truly don’t know what you’re asking this time,” he disguises his unease behind a growl.

Her own shoulders curl inwards, but the resolve in her gaze remains steadfast.

Another sound rips from his throat, a cross between another growl and a sob. He never thought to miss the mindless reverence, and yet here he is. He would take the inconsolable horror and repugnant pleas and even that wretched fear over the uncontrollable surge of hope that threatens to devour him.

“What an obstinate creature you are! You’re just like—like…” his snarl falters.

“Like your mother.”

He intends for it to be an insult.

“Yeah—no, I don’t know what that means.”

But the proud, if not slight, smile that crimps the corner of her mouth tells him she takes it otherwise.

“And I still don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t,” he relents before returning her grin with one of his own—albeit sad and just as paltry. “It means stubborn.”

She shakes her head in exasperation while he drops his in his hands, elbows bolstered on his knees.

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Beatrice,” he repeats into the skin of his palms, and so he does not sense her nearing presence until she is upon him with a delicate touch to his shoulder.

“Be not afraid.”

In that moment, he is stunned by the turn of phrase. Then the next, he’s smothering chortles, that are a touch too hysterical to be perpended humorous, into the crease of his arm.

“Isn’t that—” he wheezes as he struggles to catch his breath. “Isn’t that myline?”

Her grin spans the breadth of her cheeks, even in its sheepishness.

“Where did you even get that?”

“I told you,” she smirks. “I Googled. Alot.”

It takes more than a couple of heartbeats for their pseudo-mirth to subside, hushing gestures articulated only for wandering giggles to erupt just when they have themselves under control. But all too soon, the high of the instance comes bursting down, and the silence that follows is a sobering one.

“Are you sure my Father didn’t send you?” he recurs, feebly.

She shrugs. “How should I know?”

He shakes his head, his entire countenance adopting a grimness more suited to a prisoner on Death Row. His penumbra companions pool at his feet in a mimicry of worship so that his shape consumes the gloaming and the moonshine is blinding in its contrast.

“My… my Devil face is not for the faint of heart.”

A final warning.

But she is unfazed, merely stares at him with such openness and trust… he would applaud her for her fortitude, if it didn’t break his heart that he will be the one to wipe the innocence from her world.

“Stand back now.”

For once, she does not protest. But before she can move further, he grasps her hand.

“I will not hurt you,” he squeezes lightly. “Remember that.”

He lets her go and takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he knows the fires of Hell dance in his orbs—are reflected in hers too, as they meet each other’s gaze and she gasps.

“Remember,” he beseeches.

In short bursts of flame, he chars the remains of his human glamor till all that remains is his ruined flesh.

For once, it is he who awaits judgement.

“Lucifer,” she sniffs, voice trembling.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats.

She steps into the lone circle of moonlight. He searches her eyes and it confirms what he all ready knows—she is crying. Not the sniveling, bawl of a spoiled brat deprived of its playtime but a subdued sob, a torrent of tears noiselessly streaming the valley of her cheeks and the slant of her chin.

He doesn’t know which is worse.

He is ill-equipped to comfort her, not when he is paralyzed by her reaction or more appropriately, her lack of. But before he has to choose to have a go at it, with abominable results he is certain, she replies with, “I know.”

“But aren’t you afraid?” he goads, floundering for a semblance of a typical response, if only to disrupt the disequilibrium that flares within him at her unsettling ease.

“Did it hurt?”

He jerks at the question.

“Did what hurt?”

“When you Fell,” she blubbers. “I mean, you’re Lucifer. You’re my mom’s partner and you pretend you don’t like hugs even though I know you do!”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You don’t deserve this,” she whispers harshly, with a vehement shake of her head.

“I’m the Devil,” he sighs and for once, there is no hubris in the pronouncement. Only a debilitating resignation for his true nature. “This is the least of what I deserve.”

Her fingertips graze his cheek in a tender caress. Confounded by her boldness and deprived as he is from such guileless ministrations, he forgets to shirk her—leans to it instead, as if the roles are reversed and he is the child, pitiful and fragile and desperate for connection. Can this be true? How he wants it to be so—how he wants the vacancy of her terror and the solidity of her marvel. When was the last time he had been bestowed such candid affection in this form? Had he ever been comforted at all in the aftermath of his disgrace?

(No. Not once. Not ever)

How he wants and wants and wants.

“Maybe the Devil is what you are.”

This entire night is a dream, he concludes. It must be—for as blessed as he is at fulfilling others’ desires, he has always been a pariah to his own. How could she offer him salvation in the form of her acceptance, given her knowledge of the atrocities tattooed at the very heart of him?

“But like Maze is a demon, it doesn’t mean that’s who she is.”

Yet as established over and over.

“And I only know how you treat me and my mom, Lucifer. The Devil doesn’t have to be who you are. I knowit isn’t.”

Children always do have a way of seeing.

“And maybe you don’t believe me, but it’s okay.” She touches his opposite cheek so that both hands cradle his mauled face.

“Cause I believe in you. I can believe for both of us.”

So he holds her to him, his hands dwarfing hers—those artless, untainted hands filled with the scored reminder of his greatest failure, his greatest sin, and for the first time.

The Devil weeps.

“Will you show me your light powers now?”

“Absolutely not.” He shifts beside her in a sorry bid to be more comfortable, fingering the coverlet of her bed. He sniffs in disdain at the scratchy linen. “I must buy you new sheets.”

(He gives up all self-respect methods of avoidance when it comes to her, because she’s a leech which you can’t get rid of without incendiary assistance and he hardly thinks the detective would appreciate him burning her child. It’s not at all because he legitimately looks forward to their time together, nope—no—no sirree)

“Why not?” she gripes.

He inspects her chambers, then with an accompanying flourish of his arm, proclaims, “This room cannot hold me.”

“Then let’s go outside.”

“No.”

“Oh, I see.”

His hackles rise at the arrogant shift of her smirk. “See what?”

“Nothing,” she demurs.

His eyes narrow at her. “Speak, spawn,” he towers over her with affect menace. “Now.”

“Well,” she begins airily, unintimidated. “I’ve never seen you use your powers.”

“Not many mortals have the privilege,” he boasts.

“Then how do I know you have them?”

He gapes. “You have seen my wings, right?”

“Big deal,” she grumps. “You and a bunch of all your other siblings.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Mary Beth told us she had a boyfriend earlier this year,” Beatrice dismisses his ire. “She said his name is Ryan and that he’s older and goes to another school. We didn’t believe her. Then when we told her that, she showed us all these ‘texts’ he sent and during recess she would ditch us cause she says she had to ‘talk to him’ on the phone.”

“What the hell does Mary Beth’s abysmal love life have to do with my powers?”

“She never showed us any pictures of him.”

He raises a skeptical brow.

“She’s always on Snapchat and Instagram.”

“Your point? And in this century, please.”

She rolls her eyes.

“We found out we were right, and he wasn’t real. Mary Beth? Have a boyfriend and not post about it every five seconds on her accounts? As if. But it was the fake call that gave it away in the end. She ‘answered’ it only for a text to light up the screen. Anyway, everyone knows it’s pictures or it didn’t happen.”

He sneers.

“I don’t have to prove myself to you! I’m the De—”

“Yeah yeah, you’re the Devil, you don’t lie, blah blah blah. But how do I know you really made all the suns and the stars in the universe?” She turns to her side, away from him, and clamps her blankets snugly to her person. An apparent dismissal. “Guess I’ll just have to keep thinking you didn’t or you’re too chicken to show me.”

“I so do too have powers,” he fumes. “And excuse you! Like any other being besides myself could produce something as beauteous as the heavenly bodies you lot know of, with your paltry telescopes and your inadequate rocket ships. You humans have seen nothing compared to all that I’ve created.”

He wheels her to him.

“When God said, ‘Let there be light’ you're damn right I was the one who made it possible. You think Amenadiel could orchestrate the hypnotizing symphony of a million shooting stars? That Gabriel could choreograph the precision of an equinox? Or Cassiel or Raphael or Father forbid Michael, conjure the complexities of an Apollo, down to the infinitesimal shades that differentiate a sunrise from a sunset? Please. They’re about as creative as a rock, and mind you—that’s an insult to the rocks!”

He stands with a scoff before smoothing his jacket and fiddling with his cufflinks.

“And I am not chicken anything.”

He holds a hand out to her. She stares.

“Well?” he shakes the limb in a fit of pique. She places her hand in his, the one he always thought to be sticky but turns out to be quite clean with all the smoothness that comes with childhood.

“I’ll show you power.”

And before either of them can blink, his wings are out and they are whisked to the beach of his initial advent to Earth.

“Whoa,” she breathes. “We just totally apparated!”

“I believe the more appropriate term is, ‘flew’.”

He puffs his wings theatrically, basking in her giggles as he raises them as high as they can go while she jumps to catch the peaks, only for her to trip over her feet when he propels them enough to send her stumbling to the ground. She shrieks in delight.

“Still think I’m chicken?” he lashes, but without malice.

“You have the wings for it, that’s for sure.”

“You little rascal!” he places a hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I’m appalled at the lengths you’d go to manipulate me.”

Lies, his brain hisses. He couldn’t be more ebullient.

“I’m still not seeing any light powers, Lucifer.”

He chuckles. “Alright. Bossy thing, aren’t you?”

“Learned from the best.”

He loves how that could mean any person between the detective, Maze or him.

(Him. It’s got to be him)

Something overtakes him at her expectant scrutiny, and it hits him anew—he does not want to disappoint her, especially if it is his doing. He is so good at letting anyone close to him down, after all. And much as he claims to be repelled by her companionship, in truth he doesn’t want to be responsible for her disillusionment—not when it is so easy for everybody else to deem him insufficient.

So he tells her, “Joking aside, it’s been some time since I last… exercised my skills. It might not be—” he clears his throat. “Well, there was no sky in Hell, you know. And I have found little use for them here. My powers are not what they once were.”

I’m not what I once was, but this he doesn’t reveal.

“You just gotta do your best,” she shoots him a close-lipped smile that somehow manages to infuse him with confidence. “That’s good enough for me.”

Although, it might not be the smile so much as her words, her plenary belief rearing its reiteratively pertinacious head, that buoys him.

He laughs a tad nervously, his wings shuddering with skittish energy. It has been so long, indeed, since he called upon the reserves of his power, though he reassures himself it is as simple as riding a bike—you never forget it. What once was there can never be erased.

However, to his bountiful irritation (and embarrassment), he has more than a couple of false starts. He balls his fists to banish the jitters. He just gave a whole spiel about his Greatness, for fuck’s sake, keep it together.

“It’s okay, Lucifer,” Beatrice’s look is loaded with understanding, a bit of chagrin, too. He frowns, and recalls the who of it all—for this is just as much for him as it is for her.

For the light is his birthright, whether it is the coalescing heat of a nebula or the sweltering pyres of Hell, the brilliance of an aurora has always been his to wield.

The stars are not as visible as he would like them to be, but better here now than in the city. Still. It’s not enough, he tells himself, disapproving. He should do something about it.

He extends his forearms to either side of him and tilts his head to the sky.

Then with renewed vigor, he begins again.

It emanates from him, in gradual bursts of luminance. It manifests first in the tips of his fingers, no larger than a spark, that grows to an ember, that ribbons up and down the length of his arms. In enthralling susurrations, he flirts with the light, calling out to his oldest companions in a sultry, velvet croon.

Come, he beckons almost pruriently. How I’ve missed you.

And though they are helpless to his summons, it is he who surrenders. With eyes tightly shut, he submits to the flash of hundreds, thousands, millions of unsullied lights slamming onto him with all the elegance of a cresting wave. It stitches itself onto the fabric of his skin, rushes through his bloodstream and intermingles with his bones and sinew so all that he knows, all that he is, is refulgence.

Somewhere in front of him, Beatrice gasps then breaks into a sprint around him, laughing—that carefree, unforgiving chortle present only in the tongues of youth. That is, until it bubbles out of his own throat and mingles with hers in a harmony of astonishment. He forgets everything and himself then, till he is flushed and windswept and refreshed on what it is to be high on resplendence.

When he is positively brimming with it, he throws out his arms, his wings widespread in imitation, and commands, show her.

He opens his eyes to a deluge of stars, except in lieu of descending from their paradise of space, they are coalescing onto his hands and shooting from his flesh till their immediate atmosphere is fashioned into an atramentous dome dotted with glittering meteors.

A night sky of his own making.

“It’s not the sun,” he utters in the causatum of her reticence, her profile fixed upon one of his creations so that it is difficult for him to read her.

“Mommy and daddy used to take me camping, before they got divorced.”

“Yes, I heard.”

He ventures a step towards her.

“There were so many stars where we went, so much more than what I see at home. I wished so bad I could just reach out and touch it. Maybe wrap it around me like a blanket—it was so pretty.” She sighs, a hundred different gusts of contentment in that one miniscule breath. “The best thing I ever saw.”

He bends on one knee beside her.

“And now?”

She shakes her head, lips breaking out into a beatific smile as she cups both hands beneath one of his celestial lanterns.

“This is better.”

He joins his hand beneath hers. Together, they prod it to a gentle incline, pushing it upwards as high as her arms can go, pulsing lucently as it ascends and joins its brothers and sisters in the Earth’s sky.

“Way, waybetter!”

She squeals, chasing the stardust in its wake. He follows.

The stars twinkle that much more at their Master’s joy, the ghost of their own laughter trailing close behind.

The hours lose meaning as they weave new and mesmerizing constellations in the air, the sand, their skin.

And when she tires, she resumes her vigil on his lap—her back to his front and his wings gathered in a cocoon to ward off the vigorous chill of the sea breeze, having failed to grab her coat in his haste.

“I wish mom was here to see this.”

The tide is low enough that they don’t have to worry about getting wet, despite their proximity to the edge of the furthest swell. He buries his hands in the sand, reveling in the sensation of fine granules aloft his skin and for once, heedless of the dirt clinging to his clothes. The lambent debris sliding into the curves and crevices of his digits is one he finds, to his shock, a dulcifying motion after the electrifying exhibition of his powers.

“I don’t think she wants anything to do with me, much less my powers.”

Her head falls onto his chest.

“I don’t know how anyone can be mad at this.”

Lucifer traces a circle into the sand and the stars dance about them in a lazy carousel.

“It’s not this she’s upset about. It’s me.”

She tips her chin to face him.

“Why?”

“I… I did something.” He stiffens. “Something bad—an act forbidden to all angels, hence the reappearance of my Devil face and my, however inadvertent, unveiling to your mother.”

“Oh,” she considers him. “Are you sorry?”

“Not really.”

She makes a chastening noise.

“Mommy says that if you do something bad, you have to own it. Like that time I lied about eating a slice of my birthday cake because you told me I should do what I want. And I really wanted that chocolate cake.” He hums. “But I wasn’t supposed to do that, so I said sorry and tried not to do it again. You won’t do it again, right, Lucifer?”

He wishes, just this once, that he didn’t have such a convicted disposition against dishonesty. But what is a wish, if not the most foolish fantasy of all?

“The truth is if I had to, I would do it again. And if that means the detective wants nothing more to do with me, then it’s a small price to pay. Especially if it means you’ll still have your mum by your side in the morning, and for many more mornings to come.”

The thought of the detective is one he has tactfully avoided revisiting since the occurrence of their falling out. It is easy in the day, when he can immerse himself in drugs and booze and an app or three. The nights are even easier, when Lux is in full swing and he only has to worry about emptying his glass as fast as he can or if the conversation is interesting enough to carry on before he flits to the next warm body.

Then Beatrice’s voice fills his head, a bouncing reverberation to trounce the din of the rest of his life and he caves. These liminal pockets of time, in the hours between dawn and dusk that is spent with her, never ceases to impress upon him the extent of his transgressions when it comes to the detective. It barges into him like a riptide, pulling him closer to a nebulous reality in which he might have to endure the rest of his existence without ever seeing her, not even for a minute more, beyond what is quite conceivably their last memory together—of the evidence of her repulsion of him in her frightened expression.

So though he should disregard the child’s litanies, cut himself off from all things Decker with the precision of a seasoned surgeon, and stay away—he cannot, unfitted with the self-control or the valiance to deny himself that which he covets, no matter how incomplete.

“Do you… do you think your mother could ever forgive me?”

He would cringe at the vulnerability coating his inflection if he didn’t feel as if his survival hinges on her advice.

She curls onto her side and angles her head to better peer at him.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “I think if you told her what you just told me, she just might.”

“Maybe,” he sighs, scarcely stifling the impulse to knead his temples. “Though I imagine it will take more than an apology. This is no case of the missing slice of chocolate cake, after all. The situation is much more dire.”

He nudges her.

“Any suggestions?” he glibs, only half jokingly.

“Just try,” she shrugs. “If she doesn’t then you and I will always be friends,” her fingers tighten at his lapel in a way that is sure to leave wrinkles though he cares not. “Won’t we, Lucifer?”

“If… if that is what you desire, then yes.”

There is no toothy grin, only a solemn entreaty as she presents her pinky to him.

“You promise?”

A quivering breath escapes him at the poignancy of the ceremony—juvenile vowing methods notwithstanding—though he musters a smile for her benefit, one she returns with a dazzling rendition of her own. He is temporarily speechless at the sight, for he has never been more evinced of her likeness to Chloe till this very moment.

“My word is my bond, Beatrice.”

He interlopes his pinky over her proffered one.

“You may doubt any and all persons and things in this world and the other worlds beyond it but in this,” he brings their tangled digits to his chest, just above his heart, “you most certainly can trust.”

All the stars above them glow that much stronger but none hold a candle to her eyes, a gleaming pair of supernovas to rival even that of the shiniest astral formations in all of Creation.

The ebony oblivion of nightfall dwindles to the blossoming flush of an impending sunrise and only then do they head back.

His wings disappear to their alternate plane just as he deposits the sleeping ten-year old onto her bed. With a tenderness he didn’t perceive himself capable of, he folds her within the warmth of her sheets. He fusses for another minute—arranging stuffed toys, fluffing pillows, leveling her covers and brushing her wayward tendrils from her face.

“You’re the only one who answers.”

Curious, he sleeks the crinkle between her brows.

“What’s that, child?”

“You… ask…” (she yawns) “me… pray…”

She smacks her lips only to emit a near imperceptible snore. He snickers, retreating to the doorway.

You’re my answered prayer, Lucifer, she mumbles in soundless supplication. He glances back only to realize she is lost to the clutches of repose once more. He drops to a knee at her bedside.

“If I were a religious one,” he tells her dozing form, “I’d say you and your mum are mine, too.”

“Your what?”

He swirls towards the source of the disembodied voice, only to be met by the lurking silhouette of the detective leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed.

After the days-long exodus, the sight of her is a feast for his senses—all long lines of bared skin, outfitted as she is in sleep shorts and a tank top, and golden locks cascading in a waterfall over her shoulders and down the slope of her back.

He swallows, mouth going dry.

“Detective,” he greets uselessly, only now half mindful of Beatrice resting behind him. Then, aware of the hour, he raises his hands in submission. “You know me,” he reassures. He hopes.“I mean you no harm—you or your offspring.”

“I do know you,” she sighs. “And I know my daughter. If you’re here, she probably asked you to be.”

Stunned, he can only gawk.

“Am I wrong?”

There’s a gaiety to her demeanor that drains the tension from him. He hazards a tenuous smile.

“I’ve never known you to be, no.”

The reprieve is short-lived as a chilling quiet follows, both grappling for a foothold in this recondite dynamic. Though it is neither comfortable nor disagreeable, it is ill-fitting all the same—like a pair of jeans too long about the ankles or a suit two sizes too big, functional sure, but certainly not worth wearing more than once.

“So what were you talking about?”

He is grateful for the cloak of darkness as it conceals the terrible blush creeping beneath the surface of his cheeks. He flails a hand with the all the blitheness of a tornado, the noncommittal refute just as discordant.

“Okay,” she drawls. “You don’t wanna tell me. That’s fine. What’s new, right?”

There’s an undercurrent of frost to the criticism, and he can’t blame her. He deserves it.

She lists further onto the woodwork.

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.” She runs a hand over her face. “Listen, it’s late—early, or whatever…”

“Right,” he stands from his crouched position.

“Well, I should get going,” he announces, an inviting lilt at the end so it sounds more question than statement. He has no qualms departing with the use of his wings but brief as their exchange has been and conflicted as is he is about his decision to withdraw from her, he is greedy for her company. So he makes a show of leaving—combing his fingers through his hair so that the riotous curls dangle in an artful coif instead of a disheveled one (the product having long faded), dusting at his trousers (however futile, for sand is notoriously adhesive to fabric) and aligning his suit and cufflinks (more out of habit than necessity). When he loiters at a period just shy of overstaying, only then does he approach the door, prowling haltingly enough that his chest coddles her exposed shoulder as he crosses the threshold to her hallway.

In the confines of his strung-out mind, he rails at the futility of his machinations. His fingertips are a hair strand from the main entryway’s door knob, when she calls his name.

He stops, chin titled a notch at her direction to indicate his attention. He ignores how his heart celebrates to the tempo of a salsa at his name falling from her lips.

“We…” she releases a weary breath. “We have a lot to talk about.”

He nods. “I imagine you have questions.” He pivots on his heel to glimpse out the window, at the hint of red dawn oozing from the horizon. She closes the door to her daughter’s chambers.

“But did you want to do it now or…?”

“Honestly? I’m beat.” She follows his gaze, intent on her rendering on the glass. Even through the facsimile of her image, he recognizes her fatigue like it is an anvil strapped to her back. At her calculating gander, he frowns.

“I should let you rest.”

“Yeah,” she licks her lips then crosses her arms across her chest once more, her combined penchant for anxiety. “But you—you could sleep here, too.”

He scrambles for an innuendo or three, then falters. Surely he heard wrong?

“Pardon?” he croaks.

“Like, on my bed.”

He chokes on air.

“Pardon?”

She slaps a hand to her face so that her reply is muffled. “Just sleep, okay? You shouldn’t travel now, you’re just as drained as I am—no, don’t deny it.” She lifts her head so she can administer a reproach with a wag of her finger. The repudiation dies on his lips. The use of his powers was quite taxing on him, out of practice as he had been.

“You’re too tall for the couch and for obvious reasons, Trixie’s room is out of the question. Maze forbids anyone from entering hers, so that leaves mine.” She meets his perplexed stare. “It’s fine. It’s big enough that we won’t bump—”

“Uglies?”

“I was going to say heads, but yeah—that too.”

He pouts. “You take the fun out of everything.”

The glare she projects unto him is a withering yet welcoming one. His abashment ebbs with every flirtatious bon mot that deserts his mouth, paired with her corresponding eye rolls or derisive comebacks. Yes… this he can handle—he can provide the droll commentary or the salacious suggestions and the overall levity. If he can focus on that, he can almost forget the monumental significance of her actions and his subsequent participation, weak as he is at denying her anything despite what he may or may not deserve.

She is offering him, offering the Devil, to share her bed.

Not to engage in carnal deeds as most of his invitations with a bed as the destination end. Yet there’s something more intimate about just… beinghere with her, witticisms curdling in his throat as his heartbeat quickens restlessly with every step that brings them closer to her room. Not for the first time, he must ask himself if he is in a particularly vivid dream—but if so, he hopes never to wake up.

He hovers at the outset when they arrive, his hands in his pockets as he watches her fold the blankets then lower herself to the left side of the bed. She hugs her knees to her chest and rests her cheek on top of them, her arms loosely circling her ankles. The sun’s rays are yet to touch them here, but Chloe has never needed it to shine—not when all that’s essential to light up a room is for her to appear. And he cannot comprehend how someone as lovely as her can stand to be in the same bed as him, much less the same space, yet here she is—this creature of kindness, compassion and benevolence, a radiance in her eyes coaxing him to, come closer.

The door shuts with a resounding click.

He fidgets with the top button of his waistcoat. His clothes are grimy with sea salt and quartz and he reckons in for a penny, in for a pound. Still, he gives her a searching look, and when not so much as an objection or another incensed eye roll passes from her—just the constancy of her benign regard—he begins to undress.

In the absence of banter, the rustle of cashmere and the racket of his labored breathing is magnified. He feels both wound and untethered with every strip of clothing that piles itself onto one of her chairs, and he is vulnerable in more ways than the expanse of skin he leaves exposed implies.

For the sake of propriety, he keeps his boxers on then advances to the right side of the bed with all the caution of an explorer in the wild avoiding death in the claws of a beast. It certainly doesn’t help that Chloe’s stare is zeroed in on him like that of a predator homing in on its prey.

(He grants that he might like to embellish. Not much, just… somewhat)

He doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing till he’s situated on the bedspread and dragging one out.

Her expression dissolves into one he is too acquainted with—that of her exasperation.

“You good?” she questions with no small amount of sarcasm that he deliberately ignores.

“Quite.”

“Okay then.”

She mimics his position, lying prone on her back except she seems cozy upon the sheets while he maintains a ramrod physique. She twists onto the side facing him, a hand under her pillow and the other on the scant distance between them.

“You can relax, you know. I won’t bite.”

“Not even if I ask?”

“Lucifer,” she warns. “Behave.”

“Apologies,” he tells her sincerely. “I’m just confused as to why I’m here. Don’t get me wrong, you won’t hear me complaining. I mean, if I had known that all it took to get into your bed was—”

“Lucifer.”

“Alright, alright,” he ripostes. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman, Devil’s honor.”

He digs his nails into his palms hard enough to nearly draw blood. Why oh why did he ever have to open his mouth? And they were doing so well, too, avoiding the subject of their estrangement.

He turns away from her.

“Well,” he rasps. “Goodnight, detective. Or morning. Whichever you prefer.”

Though, he muses bitterly, how can anything be good where he’s concerned?

To his surprise, however, Chloe seems unperturbed and goes on to remark archly, “You’re like a space heater.”

He shelves his verbal self-flagellation and responds over his shoulder with only an intimation of admonition, “Occupational hazard I’m afraid, being the Lord of Hell and all.”

She doesn’t continue after that. But it is evident neither of them is going to catch a wink of sleep, so he gathers the courage to ask.

“Why did you really ask me to sleep here?”

She lets out a shaky breath.

“I know how you are, Lucifer,” she echoes brokenly. “No more avoiding me. We are going to talk about…” he imagines she gestures towards him. “And what that means for us, yeah? And this way I can keep an eye on you. I don’t want you running away again.”

A pang of guilt courses through him at that. He deflates. But then—

“And—”

His breath hitches.

“I guess… I missed you.”

He can feel the weight of her stare till it becomes the heat of her open palm hovering over his shoulder. The last time they were in this position, he almost broke her wrist with the effort to avoid her touch. Now though, with the scent of her consuming his senses and her warmness slinking beneath their shared quilt and mingling into the core of him, he craves it—so strongly he struggles to restrain himself and not take and take and take.

“No,” she murmurs. “I knowI did.”

But when has he ever been in the business of denying pleasures?

“I missed you, Lucifer.”

With deliberate measure, he leans back—till flesh meets flesh and warmth merges with warmth. She makes a pathway of his back, her fingers tracing lightly over the dip of his spine, then up again aloft the peak of his shoulder blade, her thumb making a hasty detour as it cossets the edge of where his scar had once resided. Every glide of her fingertips is an ethereal caress, as brief and as teasing as a rain shower in the middle of summer. Yet he feels it all deeply, each graze imprinting itself till his soul is carved to the shape of her. How he trembles because of it, amazed at how he doesn’t implode given the seismic proportion of his metamorphosis.

Her hand encompasses the hill of his bicep. At her behest, he moves onto his back and in thanks, her journey ends emphatically across his heart.

“I missed you.”

There is no mistaking the ocean of sincerity simmering in her eyes, even with all she now knows about him. It only serves to agitate his bewilderment, and with it, his fear that this has all been a wild concoction of his inebriated state.

“Detective… ChloeI don’t understand—why—”

She hushes him.

“Be at peace.”

Without his permission, he spews a strident yelp of incredulity.

“What?” she shrugs. “I’ve seen Trixie’s Google history.”

“Is that really why you weren’t surprised at my presence earlier?” he grumbles good-naturedly. “What is it with you Decker women and stealing my lines?”

She chuckles. He joins her a second later and forgets, however evanescent, his suspicion of the realness of the moment.

“Sleep,” she soothes. “We have time later.”

“Do we?” he mutters diffidently, his mind racing even as his lashes flutter with the amplitude of his fatigue. Her hand travels languidly from his chest and molds itself onto edge of his jaw. Tempted by her gravity, he falls, and their foreheads collide softly like satellites catching up to each other within the same orbit. He focuses on her halcyon embrace.

Everything inside him quiets.

“No more running,” she strokes his cheek, and he wonders if she means it for the both of them. “Deal?”

He could form galaxies when she looks at him and all he sees are the stars in her eyes—brighter than anything he had and can ever hope again to create, and magnificent with all the promise of a genesis—and this is how he learns.

The sun rises.

He stays.

AN: Cross posting to Tumblr after a week haha. This is my first Lucifer fic. There was no plot whatsoever lmao but I hope you guys enjoyed it anyway!

Come say hi to me!

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tenscupcake · 7 years

Text

electrostatic potential (32/?)

ten/rose. adult this ch. I FUCKIN DID IT! i got an update out! hope those of you that are still here enjoy this chap, and that it’s maybe somewhat worth the long wait. i like this chap. thanks oodles to @aroseofstone for the late night beta. summary: as the doctor and rose traverse time and space looking for adventure, they slowly fall victim to a mysterious energy that can manipulate their emotions. Though confused and unnerved by the cerebral affliction, neither of them understands its cause, or realizes that it could jeopardize their friendship. What will it take for them to discover the truth? this chapter on ao3 | back to chapter 1 on ao3

Staring up at the brilliant rainbow of explosions in the sky, his arm looped through Rose’s and weeks’ worth of professional sporting events waiting for them, the Doctor should be ecstatic. He was, in fact, until a few seconds ago, when the entertainment in the sky and the asphalt beneath his trainers and Rose’s presence next to him were all overridden by his merciless time sense.

One persistent timeline tugs hard on his mind, dulling all his senses of the real world until he has no choice but to direct his attention inward.

Without Rose here to shine a light to drive them away, the images hit him full force.

Fleets of Daleks race through a dark sky, slaughtering indiscriminately.

New holes are torn in the walls separating the universes, creating vacuums into the Void.

There’s a cold, dreary beach beneath a grey sky, wind whipping through his hair as if to warn of an approaching storm.

Somewhere amidst the chaos, Rose is screaming...

The details – locations and causes and outcomes – elude him, but these vague flickers are hauntingly familiar. Like the timeline they ignored the other night. And suddenly it’s all unambiguous in one respect: this is a potential future where they’re separated.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, through a thick fog that muffles the sound, the Doctor can tell fireworks are still booming through the sky. And that Rose is saying something over the ruckus.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the nasty images from his mind before they can get any clearer. Trying to pay attention to what Rose is saying.

“Don’t you reckon, Doctor?” she asks, nudging his arm. Waiting for a response to a question he hadn’t heard.

“There’s something in the air. Something’s coming,” he says, trying but failing to shake the fog from his mind, the leaching pessimism the visions have left behind.

“Where?” she asks, searching the display of explosions in the sky for what he’s referring to.

“A storm’s approaching.” He’s trying to explain why he hasn’t been paying attention, why his mood has suddenly plummeted and he can hardly think about anything but the dread settling in his stomach. Why else would anything she asked him go unnoticed, if it weren’t for something as horrendous as a premonition of such a distasteful timeline?

But his brain isn’t functioning properly yet, bogged down by the weight of what few glimpses he’d gotten, so he’s failing spectacularly. She’s not understanding.

“Sky looks clear to me,” Rose says in a light tone, nudging his arm again, trying to lift him out of his mood.

“No, not here. There’s something...” He’s quiet for a few moments, trying to decide just how much he wants to reveal right here in the middle of the street. Or whether he should tell her about any of this at all.

“What, Doctor?”

“I saw something,” he breathes, dropping his head and squeezing his thumb and index finger into his eyes, as though it will dispel the images and noises haunting him.

Instead of asking more vague questions, Rose squeezes his hand a little tighter, nudging at the edges of his mind with hers. Asking permission to shortcut this ineffectual conversation. It’s so easy for her now; when they started he had to tear down walls for them to unite mentally, but a delicate membrane seems to be all that separates their minds now, always ready to give way at the slightest poke from Rose’s mind.

He can’t believe they hardly made it a day before his newfound optimism about their relationship – which he thought was newly immortal – was called into question. He should’ve known better.

Truthfully, he doesn’t want to show her this at all, spoil the perfect evening they were having with this insufferable negativity.

Chances are he’ll slip up while they’re connected at some point later on and divulge everything to her, but even so, he doesn’t want that to happen right now. In the middle of a crowded street where dozens of strangers could recognize him from the torch lighting ceremony, or show concern over a crying woman accompanied by an older-looking man.

He fortifies that membrane, thickening his defences just a little bit, but Rose persists through his attempts to resist.

Impulsively, he lets go of her hand.

“It’s nothing,” he says, too harshly.

Rose’s features contort into a deep frown immediately.

“Can’t be nothin’, or you’d let me see it,” she accuses.

“Just not now,” he amends, trying to soften his voice but failing. “What did you ask me?” he asks.

“It’s nothin’,” she says, clearly just emulating the way he’d said it. Still, he doesn’t want to irritate her further; he deserves to be mocked right now. So he lets it drop.

“All right then,” he shrugs. “Say, where’d you get those cakes with the ball bearings? I could do with a couple more.” He looks around the street, as though there will be a vendor cart serving up the cakes like hot dogs, but of course, the search comes up empty.

“Was a shop,” she says, not looking at him and clearly frustrated. “Few blocks away. Limited edition Olympics thing.”

“Want to go back?” he asks.

“Think they’re out,” she mutters.

“How do you know?”

“I got the last one.”

The Doctor sighs. Somehow, he thinks she’s lying.

“Rose, what’s wrong?” It’s less a question, more a demand.

“Dunno why you won’t tell me what’s goin’ on,” she answers immediately. For that at least, he’s grateful: they’ve danced around their problems for hours on end before, reached record levels of communication failure.

And he figured as much.

“I just didn’t want to spoil the night.”

“Well you ‘ave now anyway, haven’t ya?”

The Doctor runs his hand down his face. She’s right. He should’ve just been better at masking his emotions. It just took him too long to get a handle on himself after something like that. It always does. He wonders what brought it on: a decision someone made? The events of today, settling a few puzzle pieces into place that makes that particular timeline feasible? Ugh, whatever it is, he’d like to undo it. But he can’t.

Them being here at the games could be the very thing that’s sending them careening into that very timeline, but he’d never know it. There’s nothing he can do to steer them into one over the other, and the very thought is enough to send him into a spiral of panic. Maybe it’s best to loop Rose into this, after all. She might be able to soothe him. She always finds a way to do that somehow.

“Want to head back to the TARDIS?” he asks during a lull in the ongoing explosions.

“To talk?” she asks.

He takes a few deep breaths, staring back at her while the fireworks pick up again. It’s jarring, hearing the bursts and fizzling in the sky and distant cheers but feeling so desolate inside. Like he doesn’t even belong in this dimension right now, but he’s trapped here against his will. Rose looks just as out of place amidst the celebration: worried, her eyes shining with unshed tears and that disappointment in him that makes his stomach turn because he knows he deserves it.

When they forged this bond between them stronger, when they made this unquestionable commitment, there hadn’t been a qualification that they’d only share the positives. He knew this was going to be the reality of their connection, having to share both the good and the bad. He just thought they’d get to enjoy a little while longer in their bubble of happiness over Rose’s acquired immortality before it was violently popped.

“Okay,” he agrees, too softly to be heard over the noise. But he nods, too, so she understands what he means anyway.

Without hesitation hesitation, she takes his hand in hers again and leads him back towards the TARDIS.

---

“You sure about this, Rose?” the Doctor asks when Rose insists on getting straight to it as soon as the TARDIS doors close behind them.

“Just come out with it, Doctor,” she says, exasperated. “Bloody hell,” she adds, under her breath. At this point she must know he can always hear her when she does that, but she doesn’t seem to care that he can.

Without vacillating anymore, he beckons her closer to him and touches his fingertips to her temple (it’s still the easiest place to form a link, even if it’s possible anywhere now).

He shows her everything he’s able to, all the flickers of doom he’d seen and heard and felt. Doesn’t bother censoring it, because she’s going to find out the lot of it eventually.

The Doctor can feel the fear seeping into her bones as she experiences it second-hand. The flipside of this connection: she can’t hide its effect on her, either. Once she’s seen it all, he pulls his hand back and stares down at her, watching her pained face and waiting for her eyes to open.

“What is that?” she asks, failing to mask her anxiety.

“The future,” he says morosely. “A future.” He shrugs. “I can’t know for certain.”

“But we’re not together,” Rose says, desperately, as though she’s asking him to fix it for her right now.

“You could feel that, too?” he asks. It hadn’t been explicitly shown, it was merely a sense that permeated the timeline: grief. A mind aching with loneliness.

She merely nods. It’s a moment before she speaks again, but when she does, it’s with a new, but familiar, determination.

“That’s not gonna happen,” she insists.

“Rose, you can’t know that,” he reprimands her gently.

“Yes, I can. We won’t let it.”

The Doctor bites his tongue, taking a deep breath instead of arguing again.

“It’s like we talked about last night. We’ve beaten everything else the universe has thrown at us. This storm approachin’, whatever it is? It can’t be worse than the one that nearly bloody killed me.”

The Doctor lets out a morbid chuckle, though he knows that can’t possibly be true. He has to take a moment to mull over a way to speak without hurting her.

“It’s just... clawing at my mind, Rose. Telling me we’re not safe yet. That we may never be.”

“How can we live our lives like that?” she asks.

“I can’t help it! That’s how I see the universe. Every waking second, I can see what is, what was, what could be, what must not. That's the burden of a Time Lord, Rose.”

“I know!” She clenches her fists by her face, trying to rein in her frustration. “It’s not the fact you can see it that’s upsetting, and you bloody well know that! It’s that you’re dwelling on it. What about all those nice futures we saw, those are all just as likely, aren’t they? Maybe this one’s a chance in a million.”

“Maybe,” he hedges. “But they tend to make themselves known once a timeline has branched off to make it possible.”

“Well...” He can tell she’s scrambling now, to find a way to cheer him up despite everything. “Maybe ‘s only possible now because I saved you. If you’d been trapped in that drawing forever...” she trails off, evidently pleased with her hypothesis. “Nothing would be possible.”

“Maybe,” he acknowledges again, but his own mind remains unconvinced.

“It’s all gonna work out,” she says, rubbing his arm.

“We just finished discussing the fact that you can’t regenerate,” the Doctor snaps, throwing up his arms so that Rose’s hand falls.

“I wasn’t dead,” she voices the thought out loud, getting it out in the open. “I was there, I could tell.”

“But that doesn’t mean –”

“Well, if I’m alive, I’m never gonna leave you, so. That’s that.”

“How can you be so cavalier about this?” he asks, genuinely baffled.

“’M not tryin’ to be cavalier. ‘M scared. Especially for you. Just trying to tell you that if I have any say in it, we’re not going to get split up. That’s what I was sayin’ earlier, actually. The universe keeps trying to split us up. But it never will.”

“Never say never,” he cautions.

“I’ll do what I like,” she counters.

He can’t help but smile. That’s his Rose. Her tenacious optimism is contagious. Even though he’s resisting it with ever fibre of his being, it’s starting to seep in. It’ll probably take ten conversations like this before he comes to terms with this fully, but the process has already started. After more than two years with Rose, he still doesn’t understand how she’s so positive all the time. How she’s so good at lifting him out of his lowest lows.

He opens his arms for her, and she clasps her hands in his before sinking against his chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck. He rubs his thumbs along her hands, and this time, when she offers to reignite their link again, he accepts.

It’s like his veins are suddenly flooded with a warm, liquid sedative. Her optimism and love for him instantly numb his anxiety. She reminds him of what they’d seen the previous night: the rings in his hand, the renovated TARDIS probably decades in the future. As long as she’s here in his mind, her sheer determination to not let this frightening future happen seems like enough to prevent it. Rose Tyler has single-handedly altered the course of history twice now; he really shouldn’t put it past her to do it again.

We’ve got more games to see, Rose reminds him. Maybe we can keep the TARDIS right here for a while. Harder for trouble to find us if we stay put, I reckon.

Fine with me.

He’s tempted to guide them into the Vortex and stay there indefinitely, letting whatever storm this is pass them by unnoticed.

Oh, rubbish, pipes Rose. You’d be bored in a week.

Oi, he retorts gracelessly, would not. Long as you’re there.

You’re sweet.

Well.

He pauses, letting her compliment wash over him. She always seems to like it when he says anything remotely romantic. He should really try to do it more.

Still, he adds. I’m all right with keeping things quiet for a bit.

Me, too.

Want to head to bed? he asks.

Mine or yours?

Mine. He shrugs. If you want.

I do.

They hold hands down the corridor, only parting ways when Rose tells him she needs to wash up and get her pyjamas. Luckily, the TARDIS has placed their rooms directly across from one another for their convenience.

The Doctor heads into his room, crumpling to the floor to wrestle off his shoes before peeling off his suit. Down to just his shirt and boxers, he heads into his en suite to brush his teeth, and wonders whether he shouldn’t just take a shower. Nice and fresh for Rose. Glancing into his spacious shower, his gaze catches on various items he doesn’t recognize. Approaching slowly, he sees 3 unfamiliar soaps, a shampoo and conditioner bottle on the shelf next to his products, and a pink razor that he definitely doesn’t own on the soap ledge.

Oh, blimey.

He turns around, scanning the sink area. Two toothbrushes are perched in his holder. He opens the drawer containing his toothpaste to find two different kinds inside.

Mentally berating the TARDIS, he calls for Rose as he heads back through the door to go and find her before she goes hunting for her missing things. This ship has never been subtle, and does have a tendency for audacity, but it never fails to shock him whenever she pulls these sort of stunts.

He nearly runs into Rose in the doorway to his room.

“Rose,” he repeats, quieter. “The TARDIS, she –”

“Moved my things?” she finishes.

He nods, and points his thumb back towards the loo attached to his room.

“If you’re not ready for that, I will absolutely have a talk with her and make sure –”

“Are you?” she asks.

“I...” he stumbles over his tongue, not expecting her to turn the question back on him. “I don’t mind it.” He shakes his head, cringing at how that must sound to her.

“I’ll probably just keep it, then, if that’s okay. I mean, you did invite me to stay the night, didn’t you?”

“I did,” he nods with enthusiasm, trying to recover. “Yes.”

“Good.” She pinches his bum as she walks past him towards the bathroom.

He walks in slowly after her. She squirts toothpaste onto her toothbrush without seeming like this arrangement is odd, and he watches her for a moment while he contemplates whether he should still take a shower.

“D’you nee’ the shink?” She gestures down to it, her mouth dripping with green froth.

“No, I, er... no.”

Well, if anything will show her he’s actually okay with this, this might.

He pulls off his shirt and pushes off his boxers, enjoying the way Rose’s mouth falls open when she sees him suddenly naked in the mirror.

She turns around, as though checking if the mirror had deceived her.

“What’re y’doin’?” she mumbles through her toothbrush.

“Quick shower.” He reaches around her to collect his own toothbrush, then for the toothpaste and squeezes some on it and quickly steps into the shower and closes the curtain behind himself. Aiming for efficiency, he starts brushing even as he turns the water on and adjusts the temperature for something comfortable. Then something occurs to him.

“Want to join?” he asks, poking his head around the curtain.

She shakes her head.

“Took one before we left.”

It feels a bit too soon for that, anyway. She’s probably not in a very sexy mood, after what just happened. He certainly isn’t. Hopefully someday, though.

He’s done in a short two minutes, and she’s still washing her face when he emerges. He wraps a towel around the good bits and replaces his toothbrush before heading back to his room to get some fresh clothes, not particularly caring if he drips all over the floor. He gets a fresh pair of underwear and a t-shirt for the night, and rubs his towel over his head aggressively to try to dry it as best as he can. Sleeping with wet hair will surely leave him with the worst bedhead imaginable in the morning, but he can always wet it again tomorrow to set it straight.

He hops up onto his bed, making sure to leave plenty of room to one side. He tends to sleep near the middle, but he’d generally slept on the left side of the bed at the hut, so he does the same tonight. He wonders if Rose likes the right naturally, or has a preference at all.

It’s quiet in his room as he waits for her to join him. Aside from the sound of the faucet and Rose tinkering about in there, a bit too quiet. He finds himself missing the constant push and pull of the tide, the gentle slap and spray of water against the wood beneath the hut. He suddenly wishes they were still back there now. He was starting to feel oddly safe there.

Rose has never slept in here before. Each time they’ve wound up in the same bed before, it was either someplace outside the TARDIS they’d accepted hospitality that couldn’t manage to secure them separate beds, or in Rose’s room when she’d asked him to stay after a harrowing day or another. It doesn’t feel wrong though, or premature, her staying here tonight. The thought of always having her getting ready for bed in the loo attached to his bedroom, always settling under his covers, never again having to say goodnight to her in the hallway or the console room and miss her until morning... it’s a brilliant thought.

Well, he supposes the problem of their mismatched sleep requirements remains. They’ll still be more or less apart while she’s sleeping three or four times more often than he is. But if he does start to miss her while he’s mucking about in the middle of the night, he can still climb into bed and be comforted by her presence. It’s no longer off-limits.

The rules for their relationship have changed so quickly it makes him dizzy when he thinks about it.

Rose emerges the loo and hurries over to the bed, hopping up next to him with what he thinks is some excitement.

The first thing she does is reach for his face, cradling his cheek in her hand as she leans down to press her lips to his. It only takes a moment for them to reconstruct the bridge between their minds, a second to wordlessly agree on where they’d like to relax.

When he opens his eyes, he’s greeted by warm sunlight and familiar foliage. Rose pulls back and drops her hand from his face, opting to take his hand in hers instead as they both breathe a little easier in this place.

The divine golden light that consumed the garden the previous night has faded, confirming his theory the effects of Bad Wolf on her psyche were only temporary.

While Rose is wearing the same thing she is in reality – a pair of pink pyjamas, when the Doctor glances down he finds himself fully outfitted in his brown suit, tie and everything.

“I don’t wear this all the time, you know,” he complains, gesturing to the clothes.

“You do, though,” she teases, grinning up at him. “Before this week, I think there’ve been, like, five times I’ve ever seen you not wearin’ it.”

“Well, it’s not what I’m wearing now, is it?”

“Suppose not,” she admits. “I reckon It’s just my brain’s default picture of you.” After a moment of thought, she closes her eyes, her forehead scrunching up in concentration.

By the time she opens them again, his suit has been swapped for the clothes he’d just put on: dark blue boxers and a plain, light blue t-shirt.

“I was only teasing,” he says.

“I know. Still good practice, though.” She shrugs.

A proud grin spreads across his face. She’s a natural at this.

“Nicely done.”

“C’mon,” she says, tugging his hand. “Haven’t been this way yet.”

She leads him down a colourful cobblestone path that extends for only a few dozen feet before it slowly winds up a hill. Though it zig-zags back and forth like switchbacks on a mountain trail, it’s neither steep nor strenuous. Flowers line the trail as it ascends, some stemming directly from the rich green grass, others popping out from tall bushes. They maintain a leisurely pace, savouring the opportunity to escape from reality and admire the scenery. Relax. As the elevation gently climbs, the flora slowly changes colours. Red nearest the bottom, shifting through species from orange to yellow to green... all the way to purple when they near the top.

A quaint slatted bench lined with wrought iron greets them when they reach the summit, an invitation to admire the view below. There’s a small, aged wooden sign, too, presumably there to inform visitors of the hill’s name. But there’s only nonsense written on it, an assortment of letters that don’t form words in any language carved and painted into the wood.

“How comes it doesn’t have the right name?” Rose asks, nodding to the sign.

“Well, you don’t remember it,” he explains softly. “I can only enhance memories that have faded. I can’t recall things you never saw. It looks real from a distance, but up close, things like books and signs are either empty or gibberish. I can insert something I think is appropriate, if you’d like.”

Rose doesn’t respond aloud, but seems agreeable to such a gesture.

Without being prompted further, he changes it to read ‘Rainbow Crest.’

“Fitting.” She smiles.

The Doctor holds out his arm, indicating she sit down. The view of the garden must be spectacular from up here; he can imagine why Rose wanted them to come this way.

But Rose shakes her head. “C’mere,” she tugs on his arm. “I wanna show you somethin’ first.”

She leads him toward couple of paths that lead off from the top of the hill, to a few special, fenced-off trees and bushes with their own signs and descriptions. But the scenery quickly starts to warp and fade away as it becomes clear Rose has something else to show him here. The path beneath them is replaced by familiar metal grating, the natural green of plants is replaced by the soft green glow of the time rotor.

They’re inside the TARDIS.

“The Doctor always said the TARDIS was telepathic,” a younger Rose explains to a sceptical Mickey. “This thing is alive,” she gestures emphatically to the console. “It can listen.”

“Well, it’s not listenin’ now, is it?” Mickey retorts, unconvinced.

When was this? The Doctor racks his brain for when this conversation might have taken place. Mickey did not travel with them for very long.

“We need to get inside it,” Rose insists. “Last time I saw you, with the Slitheen, this middle bit opened, and there was this light, and the Doctor said it was the heart of the TARDIS. If we can open it, I can make contact. I can tell it what to do.”

Yes. Rose.

Startled, the Doctor glances around the TARDIS to find the source of the encouragement, but quickly realizes no one had spoken. It was the TARDIS herself, quietly spurring Rose on.

Oh.

The Doctor’s hearts nearly come to a stop. The Doctor isn’t here. Or, he isn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t originally present in this memory. As this conversation was taking place, the Doctor was aboard Satellite Five, facing certain death by a fleet of Daleks 200,000 years in the future.

Rose isn’t reacting very strongly to having heard the TARDIS in her mind; she hadn’t heard it the same way he had. To her, it was merely a sense in her mind, calling her to connect, rather than the concrete words that he can interpret.

“Rose,” Mickey interrupts his and past-Rose’s thoughts.

“Mmm?” Rose answers.

She’s formulating a way to execute this plan already, staring down the console without paying Mickey much attention.

“If you go back, you're going to die.”

“That's a risk I've got to take, because there's nothing left for me here.”

“Nothing?” Mickey asks, as surprised as he is wounded.

“No.” Past-Rose is dead set on it.

“Okay,” Mickey concedes. “If that's what you think, let's get this thing open.”

Memories blur a bit from there, as she drags the Doctor forward through time to a point when Mickey is no longer with her in the TARDIS.

Instead, he’s behind the wheel of a hulking yellow truck just outside the doors. A thick chain connects its rear bumper to a panel of the console; its diesel engine roars from outside as Rose and Jackie shout for him to go faster. Tires squeal and metal creaks and groans under the magnificent force until...

The panel explodes from its place on the console, yanked outside the TARDIS along with the chain attached to it.

The blinding golden light emanating from the mutilated panel calls to her again... Rose...

She’s helpless to turn away from it, and after merely a few seconds of staring into the heart of the TARDIS, Rose is consumed by it. The TARDIS doors slam closed of their own accord as the Bad Wolf is born.

The Doctor doesn’t have any time to process what he’s just seen before another, entirely different vivid memory takes its place.

They’re back on Tarohanda, standing just outside Kalei and his family’s home as rain pours in buckets down on the sand, thunder rolling deafeningly around his ears.

A chill runs down his spine as the Doctor realizes precisely which moment in their timeline this is.

The Doctor is just about to realize the storm is moving too quickly, to turn to Rose and to try to tell her they need to go back inside.

But he’s viewing this memory from a different perspective now. Without context of his own, the Doctor would never know that he was present here with Rose at all. She’s not looking at him, staring instead straight into the storm, eyes fixated on the sea as the lightning strikes illuminate the dark sky just off the coast.

Rose... the storm itself seems to call her as the rain falls ever harder, the strikes come ever closer.

There’s a pull deep in her gut, a force she can’t overcome, an instinct as powerful as the one to flee from death.

And so she takes off running through the sand, without so much as bothering to glance over at the Doctor. In this moment, it’s as if he doesn’t exist, the only thing that matters is running in the direction of this call...

Rose...

As quickly as he’d been sucked into these memories, he’s spat back out of them, the stormy afternoon shrinking out of existence as the garden materializes in front of him again.

He buckles at the waist as he catches his breath, taking in everything he’d just seen and felt.

No matter how bad it’s gotten, Bad Wolf has always protected Rose. Kept the two of them together, even when time and space and Daleks have tried to rip them apart. Even when when Rose listening to Bad Wolf’s ethereal call has seemed too dangerous, directly put her in the path of death, even, it’s always been to preserve what they have now. The chance of a future together.

This storm he saw approaching earlier? They’ll stick that out together, too. That’s what Rose was trying to tell him by showing him all this. Bad Wolf was created to get Rose back to him. She wouldn’t have let them get separated. There’s been so much proof of that up until this point.

If she needs to, she will tear apart universes to keep them together.

It’s mythical. Totally against science and logic and everything he believes in. Well, everything except one thing. He believes in Rose Tyler. More than anything. And the Bad Wolf is an impossible concoction of Rose’s determination combined with the TARDIS’ immense power, and both of their concern for him. With that kind of potency, how could she leave any stone unturned? Why go through all that trouble and then, even with full knowledge of all potential futures, merely prolong the inevitable?

He believes in Rose Tyler. He trusts the TARDIS. And he’s suddenly overflowing with faith.

Rather than spoiling such an experience with words, he closes the short distance between them and kisses her soundly. A slow kiss filled with such emotion from them both that he struggles to hold back tears.

“Please don’t leave me.” He pleads between kisses. The downside of Rose and the TARDIS giving him this kind of hope is that it makes him ever more worried he’ll be crushed if he holds onto it.

“Won’t. Can’t.”

They hold one another like they’re about to lose one another forever, tightly and with an edge of possessiveness. But their lips brush together like they’re made of the most fragile materials in the universe, slow and gentle and savouring one another. Both terrified these promises will be broken, it takes a long while of kissing and reassurance before their passion calms and they break away.

“Thank you, Rose.” His forehead rests on hers.

“C’mon, let’s sit.”

Rose leads him to the bench, and they sit huddled closely together in the centre of it, his arm around her shoulders, her resting her head on his chest. They’re quiet for a few minutes, basking in the shared sense of peace their closeness brings as they admire the view.

It is indeed spectacular. They can see the whole garden from here. Some of it is familiar: the pagoda and cherry trees by the pond, the Roman staircase and courtyard of lavenders, the archway of roses leading to a red and pink garden. Other parts they have yet to explore. But they’ve got time to see it all. Centuries of it, he hopes.

But after enough time of staring out at the abundance of flowers in the garden, it reminds Rose of something.

“Those flowers Kalei kept givin’ you, what were they?” she asks, lifting her head.

The Doctor lets out a grumbling sigh.

“I told you I’d remember.”

“I know.” He doesn’t bother putting it off. “The Kaelondaians use them as aphrodisiacs,” he admits, bracing himself for whatever her reaction may be.

“Sounds harmless,” she says.

Huh.

“Not necessarily,” he says. If nothing else, trying to validate his hesitance to confess the truth. “There’s no way to be certain, but it’s safe to assume it’s not like the aphrodisiacs one might find on Earth.”

“How d’you mean?”

“The ones that exist on Earth are extremely mild. But chemicals in the universe exist that can bring about much more intense symptoms. And since the Kaelondians are neither human nor Gallifreyan, I have no idea how it may affect either of our biology. It might do nothing; or affect one or both of us strongly.”

“What do you mean ‘strongly’?”

“Well, some can affect the nervous system, heightening sensitivity. Others act on the brain, artificially elevating libido to supernatural levels. And it can take a long time to wear off. I’d have to run some tests, determine the active compounds to be certain.”

“D’you want to run tests?” she asks.

What?

“Do you want me to?” he asks, surprised.

She shrugs. “I dunno. ‘S long as it’s not dangerous, could be fun.”

“Well, I don’t think we need flowers to have fun.” He scoffs, a little indignant.

“True. We don’t.” Her tone is strangely playful. Almost flirtatious.

The Doctor gasps as Rose tries to communicate just how much she believes that. He turns to her, feeling his face heat up as desire sneaks up on them both in a rush.

While he’s still trying to catch up to her level, she lifts up to kiss him. After the stressful day they’ve had (especially one he’d intended to be fairly stress-free), it feels so good to be intimate again that it escalates quickly from there. Rose climbing onto his lap, hands wandering, hips rocking forward. Both of them finding the bright sunlight and wooden park bench less than ideal for what they have planned, they ease their way out of the garden and back to the Doctor’s bed. They both lose focus as they return to the real world and things get heated, their link focused on pure sensation.

Before he knows it, they’re both shirtless and Rose is lying on top of him, nibbling on neck as she grinds gently against him. It doesn’t matter much there’s still two layers of clothes between them, his physiology is screaming with impatience for release in a short matter of minutes. It helps that she knows the sensitive spots on his neck and that he can feel every little zing of friction that she can (this particular activity is undeniably more effective for her than it is for him). But even if she weren’t touching him at all, he thinks it might be just as effective. She’s become something of an expert at knowing how to turn him on from the inside out.

As much as he’d like to continue in the fashion they’re going now and watch Rose on top, his traitorous mind goes back to Rose’s offer from this morning. Curiosity-driven as he is, he can’t stop trying to imagine what it’d be like. His only frame of reference is being inside her, and his knowledge of how her mouth feels when it’s against his. Combining them could be something totally unique. He hasn’t thought much of it before today, but since Rose enjoys it, and she really did influence this incarnation so much…

Thought so, Rose’s voice suddenly cuts through his mind.

She doesn’t waste any time after that, her lips descending down from his neck to his chest as she lifts up onto her knees to move around more easily.

Oh, blimey she’s moving fast.

Fast enough that nerves start to set in.

“Rose, you really don’t have to right –”

He was going to say now, but with her hand firmly on his torso, she sends a very strong, wordless message for him to shut up.

I know I don’t have to, she says more clearly. I want to.

He swallows hard but doesn’t protest any further, trying to prepare himself for this. He’s glad he decided to take a shower, after all.

Rose is so eager to grant his request that when she slides his boxers down off his hips she doesn’t even bother to take them completely off – just bunches them around his thighs.

Rose takes his length lightly in her fist, and he takes a deep breath. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. He’s done it for her; there’s nothing embarrassing about it.

Lowering her head, she takes the tip of his length between her lips, running her tongue in a circle as she suckles gently. He breathes out a string of curses in Gallifreyan, the words getting squeakier and less intelligible as he goes. His eyes roll back so far it almost hurts.

He’s hesitant to say anything is better than being inside her properly. But even if it’s not better, it’s just as magnificent. He never thought he’d say it, but even though she’s barely started, he thinks it’s an instant tie.

It’s just different in all the right ways. Still warm, with enough wetness to make the friction all pleasure no pain. But the variety inherent in having Rose controlling every single aspect of it, the contrast of texture between her soft lips and rough tongue, the glorious unpredictability of how far she’ll take him in on each dip of her head...

Even if his eyes were open, he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t be able to see anything. it’s too much.

Rose lets out a moan that sends tiny vibrations through his length. She tries to mute it but it’s high and desperate for more. She can feel this too, and she’s enjoying it. Thoroughly.

He rushes out a few more high-pitched curses on a rough exhale. He’s not normally one for cursing but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“It’s too much Rose, it’s too much,” he pleads, but she knows he’s lying. She can feel everything. It’s only too much because he’s going to finish in about five seconds and embarrass himself.

She lowers her mouth a bit more, just barely grazing her teeth, sucking gently as she goes. He begs her and non-existent deities and every star he can think of that he’ll last a little bit longer. She starts to sink down a bit further, then pulls back, dragging the length of her tongue along his length as she does. Again and again in a slow rhythm that feels so good he never wants it to end, but that’s exactly why it will. And soon.

He might as well enjoy the five seconds he’s got. He wrenches open his eyes and sees her, hair falling around his hips, her eyes closed. Watching him disappear between her wet pink lips is too much. The coil can’t tighten any more. His fingers and toes curl in tandem as he groans, trying to stave off his own biology to a degree he’s never done before.

She senses he’s tensing up, and slows down even more, intent on dragging this out as long as she can. She moans again, clenching the fist at the base of his length. That’s all it takes, though. He feels every muscle in his body seize up, his eyes screw shut again, his hips thrusting up into her mouth as it cascades over him. He curses and gasps his way through it, all the while Rose whimpers with pleasure as she laps at every drop.

All he can do for a while is lie there, limp and in disbelief as he catches his breath. He senses Rose lying down beside him, equally breathless, but he can’t muster the stamina to open his eyes to greet her. You’d think he’d just run twenty miles with the way he’s gasping for breath.

And yet his times senses tell him that only lasted forty-two seconds. And suddenly he is absolutely mortified.

He eventually manages to open his eyes, but for a long minute he just stares up at the ceiling in horror rather than over at her, feeling like an absolute adolescent.

Rose touches a hand to his arm and effortlessly reopens their link.

Don’t be embarrassed, she says. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just that good.

“Good?” he says sarcastically, turning to her with a smirk. “No, Rose…” He covers his face with one hand, shaking his head. Good doesn’t cover it. He’s never experienced anything like that before.

“I’ll have to make a habit of it, then,” she grins, her tongue poking between her teeth.

The Doctor growls and rolls on top of her, claiming her mouth. He grinds against her out of habit and possessiveness, and he can already feel himself throbbing to life again against her thigh. Just thinking about what she’d just done… how it felt… her mouth, warm and wet and her tongue, coarse and curious…

He groans indecently into her mouth. Oops. Somehow he’s already hard again.

He can feel her pleasant surprise through the link, but she’s not ready to stop kissing him yet. She likes it when he gets a little rough, when their teeth click a little, she can nibble on his bottom lip, and she can hardly breathe between deep kisses.

“You know… I was serious. We could stay on the TARDIS forever,” he suggests when she finally pulls back for air. “Or at least… for a long time.”

Rose raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Where’s this comin’ from?”

“You know… safety. That’s all. You’re right. It’s dangerous out there.” He lowers his lips to her neck, grinding against her a little harder.

“Time for another round?” she asks, grinning as she pulls his head back to look at her.

“Rose, I can’t possibly… ask…”

“None of that.” She shakes her head. “It feels good for me too, remember?” She’s already making her way down his body, nipping at his skin and soothing it with her lips as she goes.

She’s taking his length in her gorgeous mouth again before he can stop her.

He clenches his fists in the sheets, trying to brace himself for another round of this. He doesn’t know what he’s ever done in his ten lives to deserve this.

“Just bein’ you’s enough,” she breathes against his length, glancing up to meet his eyes.

As she cradles his balls in her other hand and lowers her mouth once more, he realizes how much power she has over him. She could use this for leverage to get basically anything she wants, and he’s fairly sure she knows it.

But right now he can’t convince himself that’s a bad thing.

#ten x rose #ficandchips #to literally anyone who's still interested and hasn't given up on me #thank you and i hope this is an enjoyable chap #it's a long one at least!#my gift to you #only a few chaps left now #damn it's winding down #also this story is at 163k what the literal f #written by yours truly

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omfgtrump · 4 years

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The Tale of Two Viruses: Part 14

With the horrendous murder of George Floyd taking center stage in our country, this piece should probably be entitled “The Tale of Two Viruses and One Cancer”. But, first to the viruses.

To witness The Don this week is to beg the question: Is there still a pandemic going on? Has the great America tamed the virus? What’s all the fuss over 100,000 people dying? People die every day. Anyway, most of them are from nursing homes; you know, just a weigh station before the good Lord takes you away anyway. So what’s the fuss all about?

The delusional man with the little hands and devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

Many lost are black and brown people and because they are already a sickly bunch it’s actually their fault.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

America needs its meat, so sorry plant workers, we give so little shit about you that OSHA hasn’t bothered to set up federal safety guidelines for you.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart had to be convinced to fly the flag at the White House half- mast to honor the dead. Maybe for him, half-mast is wimpy, like a flaccid penis. Doesn’t project strength, like wearing a mask.

And guess what The Don was doing as we approached 100,000 dead? You guessed it: playing golf. Mr. Mulligan was tired of being cooped up and wanted to set an example to the country’s premature reopening by taking to the links. As he bragged about hitting his One Iron as far as Tiger Woods, moved his ball to better positions (called cheating!), took do overs of shots he didn’t like (mulligans) and then took whatever score he earned on a hole and lowered it by two (cheating again),ultimately declaring how extraordinary he was (bloviating grandiosity), the country was in mourning.

The Don was peeved that all this talk about mourning was going on as it was harshing his mellow, creating an unwanted hitch in his swing.

He turned to his caddie, and rumor has it, this is the conversation they had:

The Don: I thought Memorial Day was a celebration, a review of all the great things I have done as president. This whole virus thing is just so unfair to me, it’s trying to upstage me. Nobody upstages me. I just say move on, the virus is dead to me. Isn’t that hilarious, the virus is dead to me. I will kit it!”

Caddie: Amazing, but how will you do it, Mr. President?

The Don: Just watch. I will tweet it away. Bam!

Joe Scarborough, the MSNBC host, implying that he was under investigation for murdering a former staff member in 2001. “A blow to her head? Body found under his desk? Left Congress suddenly? Big topic of discussion in Florida. “Big topic of discussion in Florida…and, he’s a Nut Job (with bad ratings) Keep digging, use forensic geniuses!”

Caddie: That’s a real zinger Mr. President. Though from what I read Scarborough wasn’t in Florida at the time of the death.

The Don: So? Anyone who can be so nasty to me could be a murderer. Here’s a great retweet. Boom!

“The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat.” Can you hand me my 9 Iron? Shit. That shot doesn’t count. You know what I mean?

Caddie: “Absolutely, Mr. President. I never even saw you take that shot.

And look at these cool retweets I am making by John Stahl. Remind me to invite him to play golf with me. Pow Pow.

Kamala (Harris) “Willie’s Ho.” (This is a reference to Willie Brown, the powerful California State Assembly speaker who was her mentor and onetime boyfriend.0

(Laughing) Stahl called Stacey Abrams “Shamu,:

And Stahl said this about MSNBC’s fake news host Joy Reid: “When you’re born butt-ugly, changing your hairstyle every day is only going to make you look phonier than your nonsense, pathetic show.”

The Don: (Swings his club) Now that’s the 9 Iron shot I wanted. Remember, I got to the green in one shot.

Caddie: Absolutely.

The Don: Trying to focus on your shot while tweeting is tricky. Makes you more error prone. Putter please.

And look at Sleepy Joe in the black mask. Quite a look. I am going to destroy him in the election.

How about this retweet. Shazam! Isn’t it the coolest thing ever?

And his demise is going to begin at the in-person Republican convention in August. Can you believe the nerve of the Democratic Governor of North Carolina saying it might not be safe? The nerve. If he won’t do it other Republican governors will. And to show America how amazing we are no one who comes to the convention can wear a mask!

Shit. The wind messed up that putt.

Caddie: I know, sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Shit, the wind messed up my putt again.

Caddie: I know sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Now that I think of it the ball really should be much closer to the hole because the original shot was held up by the wind.

Caddie: Sure thing.

Shit. Let me move closer. Kerplunk. (The sound of ball in cup.) So satisfying a sound. Amazing how I one putted this from the edge of the green; I challenge any pro to do that.

And can you believe what Twitter did to my post about mail-in voting? That’s war! Do they know who they are dealing with?

Caddie: That was something. No one should ever start a war with you. But there is one thing. It seems what you are trying to change, you know, the law protecting folks who post on Twitter from being sued for spreading lies about people that might, as they say, come back and kick you in the butt.

The Don: That’s ridiculous. Why would I do something so stupid? What’s my score going in to the 10th hole?

Caddy: Um, let’s see. Do you want the real score or you know, the one you want it to be?

The Don: You know, the same way we deal with the virus.

Now to the cancer.

Let’s state some simple, but harsh, truths.

America’s very being is founded on violence through its genocide of its indigenous people.

America was built on the backs of slaves.

Our constitution refers to black people as three fifths of a person. That is the foundation of the White Supremacy that rules this country.

The majority of the people in prison are black and brown, though they make up a smaller percentage of the population.

Despite some progress in their civil rights, blacks on the whole, suffer from gross economic inequities, are still targets of voter suppression and disenfranchisement and are targets of egregious and unrelenting police brutality.

If you are black, you can be gunned down for going out for a jog.

If you are black, a police offer can enter your home without a warrant and shoot you while you are in your own bed.

If you are black you can be suffocated to death by a knee in your throat by a white police officer in plain sight, all the while yelling that you “can’t breathe.”

The day to day stress black people endure just because of the color of their skin is impossible for white people to comprehend. They live in a world that continues to see them as more dangerous and more expendable because of the color of their skin.

For blacks. The “Land of the Free,” is for white people. For blacks it is more the “A People Under Siege.”

Black people are tired (and so am I) of platitudes that promulgate American decency.

Black people are tired of hearing that “America is better than this,” when we see riots in the streets.

Let’s be real: The rage we see is real. The pain we see is real. The White Supremacy we see is real. The cancer of American racism is real. The fact that black and brown people are dying from the virus at much higher rates is real and reflects the underlying cancer of racism.

The trope of American exceptionalism is taking a beating. The bottom line is that unless we are honest with ourselves and truly acknowledge our original sin of enslaving an entire people and its impact and treat it like we would a stage 4 cancer, America will never be exceptional.

I would like to believe this country can change. I would like to believe that we have the courage to do so. To not have this courage is to perpetuate the lie that “All men are created Equal…

The Don did not create this but he has built his brand sowing division, promoting hate, excusing (and encouraging) White Supremacy and has made comments during his presidency that have stoked the fires for the moment we find ourselves.

The Don’s responses to tragic death of George Floyd and the protests that have ensued is to quote Walter E. Headley, Miami’s former police chief, who in 1967 said, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,

One of Trump’s most revealing tweets since the rioting began was a boast about the prowess of the Secret Service — and to threaten to sic “the most vicious dogs, and most ominous weapons” on the crowds outside the White House if things intensified.

We need to rid ourselves of this toxic White Supremacist before any healing can begin. We need a leader to bring us together, not further apart. I am not sure America is up to the task but as MLK said: We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.

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harry-writings · 7 years

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He Needs You

- Part 3 of th-e one where you’re in love with him but he likes your best friend

Part 1

Part 2

Masterlist linked in bio

“Out!”

It’s the first thing Y/n wakes up to, Savannah’s outraged voice echoing along the walls of Y/n’s bedroom.

Y/n groans, squinting her eyes open at the sudden movement of her bed shaking wildly.

Savannah’s pulling the stranger out of Y/n’s bed, her merciless hands continuously pushing him out the bedroom door. He’s half awake, his slumberous daze making him scramble as he attempts to throw his clothes back on.

“Fuckin’ Jesus” the unknown man grumbles, his eyes still half closed from the immense amount of alcohol he consumed the previous night.

Savannah remains relentless, despite his attempt to get fully dressed. He even falls at one point, when he hops on one foot to get his leg through his jeans, but she doesn’t stop for a second.

“You, get out of here!” she demands, her hand giving him one last shove out the door before she slams it shut.

Y/n groans again, her sensitivity to anything other than complete darkness and silence making her throw the duvets over her head and bury her face in her pillow. She’s well aware that she has to embrace the very few seconds she has of total peace and quiet before Savannah begins to lecture her for the irresponsibility she just walked into.

She’s only able to reunite with darkness for a split second before Savannah pulls the covers completely off of her, bringing her back into the horrifying sunlight.

Y/n falls off the bed, letting out a groan as her still slightly intoxicated body makes contact with the wooden floor. Her hungover state is making it nearly impossible to figure out the chaos unraveling in the room; all she can really understand is the pounding in her head and the burning in her eyes every time she exposes them from their lids.

She rolls over onto her back, huffing as her fingers dig into her eyelids. She coughs, her abrupt movements making her stomach flip with every turn she makes. She's given no time to recover before Savannah rips her arms away from her face, gripping onto her wrists as she pulls Y/n off of the floor.

“What the fuck is going on here, Y/n?!” Savannah yells, eyes glaring at Y/n’s very, very hungover stance.

Y/n nearly trips over her own two feet as she attempts to balance herself after Savannah harshly pulled her up from her collapsed figure. If she had the capability to answer back, she would have, but she’s still fucked up from last night and can barely stomach the sunlight seeping in from the curtains.

“Is this what you’ve been up to?!” Savannah spits, angry laughter tying into her words, “Is this the kind of shit you’ve been doing while cutting everyone off?! Sleeping with random guys?!”

The last thing Savannah expected to see was Y/n in bed with a half-naked man and empty bottles of alcohol scattered across her bedroom floor. It was extremely rare for Y/n to carelessly consume alcohol and have consistent one night stands. Savannah’s witnessed her go through these phases only a handful of times throughout their friendship, all of which stemmed from Y/n’s toxic intolerance of being alone.

She should have seen this coming, though. After finding out she’s been in a relationship with someone Y/n was in love with, the first thing she should have done was check up on her. But there was so much fear holding her back, so much guilt preventing her from confronting her about it.

She wouldn’t know exactly what to say, or how to say it, without making it sound like she was the shittiest friend in the world. She had a feeling Y/n had feelings for Harry, considering she had mentioned him a plethora of times once she met him.

And Savannah still took it upon herself to date Harry, for her own selfish reasons. She never thought that it was the potential reason Y/n was so distant. That thought was the last one in the back of her head, completely throwing her off guard when she found out.

She’s tried to reach out to her multiple times, only to be deliberately ignored and shut down. After a while, she figured all Y/n wanted was space, so she stopped trying for a couple days.

But nothing stopped Harry. He’d spend hours knocking on her front door, on his knees, begging for her to speak to him. He’d call her when he wasn’t near her, because he had driven himself crazy knowing he never told Y/n what he needed to tell her so urgently.

Y/n knew—she knew just how much effort he was putting into seeing her again. She heard him, every day, through her front door, but she never knew what to do. The constant fear that Harry didn’t feel the same way back was all the convincing she needed to never speak to him again.

There’s only so much her heart could break, and she didn’t know how many more times it could before she finally snapped.

Y/n grips her head as she squints her eyes shut, hissing at the throbbing in her head when Savannah’s voice booms throughout the room. The overwhelming migraine taking over Y/n’s head practically forces her to sit on the edge of her bed, the palm of her hands still digging into her eyes.

“Not cutting anyone off,” Y/n mumbles, grumbling when she opens her eyes properly to look at Savannah, “I’m just adjusting.”

It isn’t a lie. Her intention wasn’t to ignore them, not at all. But as time went on, the more her emotions started becoming fragile; one wrong sight would have made her break.

And as stupid as it sounds, having sex was the only time she felt wanted after Harry and Savannah started dating. Even if it was in a drunken state, even if it was just purely for physical pleasure, the hours spent with random men were the only moments she felt purpose.

It was also her biggest distraction. Having one night stands was her emotional outlet, her way of letting out all of her emotions without actually doing so. It sure as hell was better than being alone—anything was.

Savannah sighs, shaking her head softly as she kneels eye level to her. She’d never seen her like this before, so lost and broken. She would have lectured her further if she wanted to because she had every right to smack some sense into her. But after all this time, after all the pain she could only imagine Y/n going through, could she really do that to her? Could she really blame her for doing this to herself?

“Y/n,” she rubs her legs, “I have been the shittiest, most horrible friend to you. I was so selfish and so inconsiderate, and I don’t blame you for not speaking to me these past couple days. But, Y/n, this—” her hands gesture around the horrendous state of her bedroom, “this isn’t adjusting. Having drunk sex isn’t going to rid your feelings for Harry. You’re suppressing your emotions, you’re running away. That’s what you’re doing.”

Y/n’s lips begin to quiver as her eyes well with tears; the first time she’s truly cried since the night she saw Harry at Lexi’s. Savannah feels somewhat relieved when she sees the tears falling from Y/n’s eyes. It isn’t a familiar sight to see, but it shows her that she’s actually accepting what she’s been hiding all along.

“You have to talk to me. I don’t care if you yell at me, Y/n. I don’t care what you do to me, but you have to talk to me. You have to show me something. I can’t be hearing about your feelings from Harry, that’s not fair for anyone.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Y/n whispers, her words breaking beneath cries she so desperately wishes she could stop.

But there’s no going back now. The alcohol is still running in her system and she’s reacting instinctively. There is nothing holding her back, not now.

“How was I supposed to tell him that I was in love with him when I knew he didn’t feel the same way? And how was I supposed to tell you anything about him when I knew this would end up happening anyways?! And what was I supposed to say to the both of you when you both decided to take it upon yourselves to flirt in front of me?!”

By now, Y/n’s blood is starting to boil. The words coming out of her mouth are laced with venom, her sudden shift in mood making Savannah swallow thickly. But everything in her is operating a million miles an hour, her words coming out faster than her brain can register. She doesn’t even remember standing up from the bed while she paces around her bedroom, empty bottles rolling around the wooden floor.

“Because no matter what I would have done, it would have ended the same! The way it always does, Savannah! The way it always ends with you getting what I want, even if I want it more—“

“Y/n—"

“Even if I need it! You still get it!”

The harshness in her voice is replaced by violent cries, her words drowned in uncontrollable sobs.

The pain is all over. Everything she’s attempted to numb is now all hitting her at once. All the loneliness, all the anger, all the hurt she’s been burying is now reaching the surface. She can barely breathe, all of the emotions suffocating her, squeezing against her throat.

Savannah is quick to embrace her shaken body, shushing her as her hands rub up and down her back.

A part of her always knew she was the reason Y/n’s love life was barely existent. Although Y/n never admitted it, she drops hints at it every so often. She did notice how all of Y/n's high school crushes ended up liking her instead, and did notice how whenever Y/n tried to date, she would barely mention them to her. It was as if she was hiding them from her, completely intimidated that Savannah would take away her only chance at a relationship.

And Savannah can’t shake the horrible feeling she has when Y/n admits all of it to her.

Y/n buries her face in her shoulder, her tears soaking through her t-shirt. She wishes she could hold a grudge against Savannah, but she doesn’t have the heart to blame her for anything that’s happened. Everything is because of Y/n, everything happening is because of her fear of emotions and every bit of her has no one else to blame.

“I need him.” Y/n sobs into her shoulder, her hands tugging at the ends of her shirt for some sort of release.

“I need him so much. And I hate it—I hate that I do so m—much.”

“Oh, Y/n.” Savannah kisses her temple, holding her higher against her.

She knows how much Y/n needs him, and knows now more than ever. She was her happiest when she first met him, she was almost an entirely different person. But now, after everything that’s happened, Savannah has never seen her more of a wreck than she is in this moment.

“Let’s sit you down, you need to breathe.”

Y/n whimpers as she’s placed back on the bed, Savannah reminding her to breathe every couple of seconds. She looks at Y/n with sadness in her eyes, comforting her whenever she needs it most.

“He needs you, too, you know.” Savannah sighs, shaking her head as she takes Y/n’s fidgeting hands into hers.

“I never noticed it until you distanced yourself from us. He didn’t open up to me the way he should have, never talked to me the way he had with you. When I asked him about it—asked him why he wasn’t communicating with me properly, he always mentioned you.”

Y/n flutters her eyes shut, pursing her lips with the slight possibility that Harry may actually feel the same way towards her. There was always a part of her that fully believed the only reason he’s tried so hard to reach her was because he felt guilty for hurting her so much.

But knowing that there’s a chance in Harry reciprocating feelings gives Y/n an overwhelming sensation she’s ever experienced before. It’s the first time in a while there’s a particular type of warmth in her chest, and she swears she begins to tear up from the bit of happiness she’s been missing.

“He would tell me that you were the only one he truly felt comfortable around. Even confessed you were the only one he’d ever be able to talk to, even if we were in a relationship. He was going absolutely mental.”

Savannah sweeps the pad of her thumb under Y/n’s eye, catching the few extra tears that are overflowing. She smiles weakly at her in reassurance, raking her knotted hair between her fingers.

"No matter how much he claimed to like me, he loved you. He’ll always love you. And even when he was completely oblivious, I know now that, deep down, he was always yours. He was never really mine, no matter how much we all thought differently.”

Y/n nods slowly, a small smile tugging at her lips when she hears Savannah’s words. It’s the first sense of hope she’s felt in a while, and it almost completely rids the pain. Almost.

“I’m sorry for ruining your relationship, though. I kind of feel like this is all my fault.”

Savannah laughs softly, finding it almost completely unbelievable that Y/n always finds a way to apologize, even when things aren’t her fault.

“Are you serious, Y/n? Nobody, including me, can love that man half as much as you do. I ruined your relationship. You barely had anything to ruin.”

She runs her hands through Y/n’s hair one last time before patting her shoulder, a smirk growing on her face as she stands up from her kneeling position.

“Now, up you go. I believe you have to talk to someone who’s been dying to see you.”

It’s when Y/n is about to walk out of her door, freshly showered with a new change of clothes, ready to face Harry when she realizes she never, truly said it.

She never fully told Harry she loves him—not when he was conscious, at least. She had felt it for so long. It has taken over her for so long, yet she never told him how she felt. It almost makes her wonder if it’s the reason why he’s been trying so hard for her.

He needs to hear her say it.

“Y/n.” Harry breathes out, springing from his position on the ground up to his feet when he sees her step out to her front porch.

He twitches when he instinctively brings his hand up to reach for her, but he holds himself back. He isn’t quite sure how far she’ll allow him to go, but if it were up to him, every part of her would be against him.

Every single part.

She sucks in a breath, not expecting to see him waiting on her doorstep, and certainly not expecting him to seem so relieved to see her.

“H—Harry,” she whispers hesitantly, brows furrowed and a small frown on her lips “what are you—“

“I’m sorry!” He stutters, interrupting her before she has a chance to finish asking her question.

“I know how inappropriate it is of me to just sit on your doorstep so unexpectedly but I knew Savannah was coming and I thought—I thought that maybe this would be the only time I’d get to see you. I was going to come in but some guy came running out of here and I didn’t want to get in between your time with Savannah so I just figured I’d wait until you came back out but I wasn’t sure if you ever would so I just figured I'd—“

He stops rambling when he feels Y/n’s hand on his cheek, her eyes looking at him with so much tenderness he swears his heart melts.

“Catch your breath, Harry.” She mumbles, rubbing her thumb along his cheek, “Just take a breath.”

He inhales sharply as he closes his eyes, turning his head so that her hand is against his lips. He kisses her palm softly before she moves it to play with his unbrushed hair.

His eyes flutter shut at her touch, his body almost completely melting into her. He feels his weakest now more than ever, and he’s never been more relieved to be this close to her again.

“Who was he, Y/n?” He whispers.

“The guy, who ran out of here, who was he?"

As much of a coward as it makes him, the thought of her in bed with someone else physically and mentally pains him more so than he’s ever expected. His head swims with thoughts of her naked, trembling, crying as she devotes her love to some other man. And the more he thinks about it, the sicker his stomach feels.

“Have I been trying for nothing? Have I been wasting my time?”

How could you ever doubt my love for you? is the first thought that comes to her. How could you ever question how much I love you?

Instead of saying the words right at the tip of her tongue, her eyes crease inward, slightly shaking her head as she scrapes her fingertips delicately against his scalp.

“I don’t know, Harry.” she whispers honestly, “I don’t know who he is.”

He nods softly, but nothing in her answer reassures him. He knows there is no other explanation for a guy to run out of her house at nine in the morning without a shirt on.

“May I come in? Wanna talk.” He asks tentatively.

Instead of answering, Y/n grips his hand softly in hers as she opens the door wider—allowing him in and insisting he make himself at home.

Silence falls between them as they both claim spots on opposite sides of the room.

There’s a tension in the room they both can’t seem to shake, an unaddressed barrier between them making it nearly impossible to find an appropriate way to start a conversation.

Harry’s the first one to break the silence, however, after a few minutes past of each of them refusing to make any eye contact with each other.

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

The question caught Y/n’s attention quickly, her head that was once resting in the palm of her hand now up on its own, a small “hm?” parting past her lips.

She’s acting dumb even though she knows exactly what he’s talking about. She just isn’t prepared to answer him, not in the way he wants her to.

“That you’re in love with me. Were you ever going to tell me?”

She shrugs, her teeth biting her bottom lip as she tears her gaze away from his. She isn’t used to confrontation, especially when it involves her emotions. It’s one of her weaknesses, but there’s absolutely no way around this one. Even if there was, she wouldn’t have the audacity to take it. He deserves to know—everything this time.

“I told you before.”

Harry’s jaw clenches, eyes narrowing as he looks at her from across the room. No, he may have been oblivious about her feelings in the beginning, but he sure as hell would never have forgotten it if she told him how she felt.

“Bullshit!” He scoffs. “You didn’t tell me shit! We wouldn’t be here right now if you had told me!”

She sighs, her cheek laying right back down in the palm of her hand, almost as if shying away from him.

“Well, it’s just—you were sleeping.”

Harry stands from his place on the couch, face scrunching in aggravation as his hands rub up and down his face. Everything about this situation is knawing at his bones and he feels like it’s stranging him.

“You’re kidding me, right? You have to be fucking kidding me right now!”

His fingers harshly grip the roots of his hair before stomping his way towards her. If he doesn’t get any answers out of her, he swears he’ll lose his goddamn mind even more than he already has.

His hands grip the sides of her face, squeezing her jaw between his hands as he looks at her bewildered.

“I need answers, Y/n. I don’t think you understand how many fucking answers I need right now.”

He speaks through clenched teeth and a tightened jaw, frustration boiling in his blood as she gives him the outright most ambiguous and outrageous answers he’s ever heard in his life.

Y/n places her hands on top of his, her fingernails digging gently into his skin. Despite the harshness of his stare, this is the first time she’s seen him in weeks, and she still finds him to be the most beautiful sight she’s ever seen.

“It was the night after I drove you back from Lexi’s—when you and Savannah were kind of going through that rough patch.”

He falls to his knees in between her legs, an almost unnoticeable smile tugging at his lips from the memories of that night. Because although Savannah had left him by himself, he had a night with Y/n that changed him forever.

"You fell asleep on me after you told me you were still going to fight for her. That was probably one of the worst things you could have said to me, but you didn’t know, and I was angry at myself for not telling you sooner. I didn’t know how else to tell you unless you were—you were sleeping.”

His hand reaches up to her lips, his thumb tracing along the outlines of her mouth once she’s done speaking. No matter how much she confuses him, and no matter how fucking angry she makes him, he wouldn’t want to be staring at anybody else right now.

“I loved you then, too” he whispers, “I didn’t know it. I didn’t know anything until you left me. I knew you meant everything to me, I knew you were the only one I trusted so deeply. But the second I lost you, I felt empty.”

He presses his forehead against her collarbones, her heart beating quickly against his neck. She sighs, her fingers intertwining with his against her lap as her hips slide more towards the edge, her knees supporting the sides of his chest.

“Didn’t matter that I had Savannah. She was lovely, don’t get me wrong, but she wasn’t you. I tried so hard to make myself believe I was just missing you as a friend, but there was nothing that convinced me.”

His tearful eyes looked into hers, both chuckling slightly at their current state. They’re both crying, both their hearts racing in their chests. If someone were to tell them now that there's a feeling even remotely close to how beautiful they feel now, together, they wouldn’t have believed it for a second.

Y/n wipes away the loose tears on his cheeks while she sniffles, giggling softly at how stupid they probably look.

“I’ve always loved you, Harry,” she whispers, “there’ll never be a time that I stop. No matter how hard I try, my love for you is stronger.”

It’s when the words fall from her lips that Harry realizes all he needed was for her to hear her say it. Her voice is so sweet as she says it, too, and her eyes leave no trace of doubt when she looks into him.

He tries to hold back the irresistible urge to kiss her, but it’s completely impossible. His lips press softly against hers, both of them releasing moans at just how right it feels to be kissing one another.

And after a while, their kiss isn’t the slightest bit romantic. It’s harsh, it’s desperate, it’s messy but it’s just what they need.

Harry crawls on top of her, his hands on every part of her they can touch. He groans when he feels her nails scratch down his back, leaving her giggling underneath him.

“Nobody makes me feel the way you do, Y/n. Nobody."

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