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queenimmadolla · 2 years

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𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐀 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ─ 𝐒𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝟖𝟕'

(young parents!Eddie Munson x fem!reader)

more dad!eddie and penny adventures can be found on my masterlist

summary: . . you leave eddie to watch your newborn with some ‘help’ (they don’t really do anything) from jonathan and argyle.

a/n: everyone lives in Hawkins because i said so. as always, no beta so mistakes will be fixed later. 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

* . *• + . * . * . *• + . * . * . *• + . * . * . *• + . * .

“Dude.” Argyle leaned in for a closer look, staring deeply into the unimpressed, brown eyes peering up at him from her place in her bouncer, tiny fists curled near her head, fuzzy with dark curls. “You had a baby.” Eddie snickered while Jonathan shook his head in amusement. “Yeah, I know that, man.” “No—you don’t get it, man! Like, you had a baby. You’re a dad. She is composed of half of your DNA. The fruit of your looms!” Jonathan choked on the cold pizza he’d been scarfing down at that bit of Argyle’s rant. “She’s—Oh, she got your eyes, too.” Argyle ended on a coo, a finger reaching down to run over her soft, chubby cheek. From the moment you and Eddie brought Penny home three weeks ago, you’d been attached to her. Utterly and completely obsessed with the perfect little being your body had spent months creating. While you’d been initially incredibly hesitant to meet her—coherently, at least, she’d been placed on your chest briefly when you’d been having a horrible out of body experience from the pain of having just pushed her out seconds before—it was hard for you to put her down now. You blamed that newborn baby smell. It was your weakness, if she was cradled against you, your head was angled down to sniff at her hair. You loved bonding with her in general, but your mother had made sure Eddie knew to not let you withdraw from society once Penny came, and then she’d told Eddie all about Postpartum Depression, effectively scaring the shit out of him. So that’s how you ended up having a girl’s day with Nancy, Eden and Robin. Sure, you’d started crying after showering your little baby in kisses and love and you’d had to be literally dragged out by the girls but Eddie knew you’d have a good time.

Just like he knew he could totally handle Penny on his own. Jonathan and Argyle had come along with the girls, but both were entirely too curious about Penny to leave. Not at all because Eddie had body blocked the door once they realized their ride was driving off. Alright, he was still scarred from day two out of the hospital. Max and Lucas had come over to the trailer to visit Penny—Lucas loved holding her, you found it so cute—when you had gone to change Penny’s diaper and immediately began crying out for help. Eddie had never bolted so fast in his entire life with Max and Lucas on his heels, and the sight that greeted them was horrifying in a new parent sort of way. Penny had shit so violently once you’d undone her diaper that it was splattered on the wall, she was peeing all over your hands, and she’d thrown up, the milky looking substance also leaking out of her little nostrils. She herself didn’t look at all phased by what she’d just done. So, yeah. Maybe he needed a little back up for now. “Who’s got beautiful, angel eyes? Who’s got beautiful angel eyes? You do! You do!” Eddie watched Argyle gently tap her little nose, and his heart warmed when he could see his baby smiling around her pacifier. He knew it was probably just gas since she was starting to learn how to use her face, but he liked to imagine she knew just how much everyone loved her; that she’d never have to feel like he did growing up, unloved and alone until Uncle Wayne had stepped in when his father had been arrested and he had no one else. His kid had family. And a damn good one at that. “You can pick her up, if you want.” “Whoa.” Jonathan warned. “Hey now.” Argyle took a physical step back from the newborn, eyeing her skeptically. “And risk dropping her—man, that’s not cool.”

“You won’t drop her, so long as you hold onto her. Kind of common knowledge, but simply don’t let go.” Eddie rolled his eyes, stretching forward from the couch to slip his finger into her tiny little hand. She gripped onto it immediately, and he leaned closer to give it a kiss, inhaling the scent of her skin. He couldn’t blame you for sniffing her all the time—she did smell ridiculously good.

“Fine, man. Then you get her out of that chair thingy, ‘cause I don’t wanna hurt her or something. I’m used to Eden’s siblings, they’re like uh a little older by like a lot and stupid invincible. One of her brothers came down the driveway on his bike just when I pulled up and I hit him with my car. Little dude just got right back up, kicked me and left!” Eddie’s eyes were wide as saucers as he carefully pulled Penny out of her bouncer—the three of them collectively awing in adoration when her lower half scrunched up on instinct as she brought her hands to the sides of her head— and stood up in front of Jonathan. “You get first dibs since you don’t currently have a likely hood of hitting my daughter with a car at some point in her life.” Jonathan immediately looked like he wanted to runaway, but ended up hesitantly accepting Penny into the crook of his arms as Eddie handed her over. It had been a while since he last held a baby, the last having been Will and he’d been a kid then, too.

He took to it naturally, though, his body relaxing as he held up her hand, thumb rubbing gently over her soft palm. Her squishy little fingers wrapped over his thumb as she stared up at him, most likely curious about a face she’d seen a couple of times before, but not so often this close. Or maybe she wasn’t thinking at all.

“She’s so. . . small.” That wasn’t what he meant, he’d meant she looked so innocent, so fragile to the world around her. She wasn’t even his kid, but the longer he held her, the more sure he became of the fact that he’d kick ass to keep her safe, something he didn’t do very often, but very effectively. “I’m an uncle.” Eddie smirked, filled with pride as his daughter won another skeptic over. Jonathan ran a hand over her head, mindful of her soft spot, in awe of how soft her hair was. Damn, she really was cute. And she did have Eddie’s eyes. “She’s a pretty baby.” He commented, moving his thumb around in her hold. “Not gonna lie, I thought she’d you know, be a little ugly when she came out, what with having been squished through a hole, but no. She was even a pretty newborn.” Eddie admitted, he hadn’t seen a whole lot of newborn babies before Penny, but he knew they looked like little aliens fresh out the womb. “You and baby mama must have been some pretty cute looking babies, then. Any kids Eden and I have are screwed, man. I was hairy as hell and I’ve seen her baby pictures, let’s just say they’re gonna get double takes.” Argyle ranted, but he too was focused on Penny and Jonathan, looking a little envious. Once Jonathan got his fair share, he shifted her around in his hold, making sure to support her head as he transferred her into Argyle’s ready and waiting arms. He seemed to change his tune after witnessing Jonathan hold her and successfully not throw her across the room like a football.

Unlike Jonathan who hadn’t wanted to move her around too much in his grasp, Argyle sat her up right, making sure to support her head at Eddie’s prompting. Penny looked startled as her body tried to slump forward, stopped by Argyle’s hold on her. The pacifier stopped moving, and Eddie tensed, waiting for the cry but it never came. Instead, the pacifier began to move again and she let out a soft grunt, but she didn’t seem to mind all that much.

He relaxed, sinking into the couch on Jonathan’s other side. Argyle noticed her drooping lids and deciding to be brave, placed her back into her bouncer as gently as he’d seen Eddie handle her.

Eddie couldn’t help but grin down at her, taken with the way they’d drop completely only to shoot back up. He was reminded of all the late night conversations the two of you had, and how you always fought sleep off, keen on talking to him instead of sleeping. Your eyelids would get all droopy, you’d close your eyes, and then catch yourself, snapping up and briefly awake before doing it all over again. Eddie wondered how many more memories of you looking at Penny would trigger for him. He couldn’t wait to figure it out. As if she knew he was thinking about her, Penny’s gaze wandered to him and he locked eyes with a pair identical to his own. Then she forced her pacifier out of her mouth and began to wail something fierce. They all jumped up immediately, eyes wide at the sudden drop in her mood. “What did I do? Was it something I said?” Argyle asked, blaming himself as he began to panic. Jonathan was running his hands through his hair, distressed. “No, you didn’t do anything,” Eddie reassured him as he picked Penny back up and walked to the small kitchen, grabbing a bottle from a recent feeding attempt. “You hungry, little bitty pretty one?” He held the bottle to her lips but that only seemed to make her angrier as she struggled against it, head moving away from the nipple. Her face was all squished up and took on a darker tint as her wails died down to whimpers. Eddie knew what that meant. He was quick to place the bottle back down, but the damage was done. Penny was silent for the briefest of moments before she began shrieking. Water started to pull in the inner corners of her eyes—a new development, up until two days ago, all she could do was cry but her body hadn’t produced tears yet—and she let her little lungs ring loud in the trailer. Eddie knew his neighbors were probably cursing up a storm but they could kick buckets for all he cared. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s not what you wanted, was it? My poor girl. Daddy’s gonna make it right.” Eddie soothed, cradling her to his chest with one hand holding the back of her head. It seemed to do some good, hearing his voice had stopped the piercing shrieks, but she was still crying and very loudly. He pulled her little baby bottoms back to check her diaper, but it was still clean so she couldn’t be upset about that. Eddie sighed, raising her a little higher on his chest so he could nuzzle her, pressing kisses into her sweet smelling hair.

Then it hit him. Penny was tired. That was it. She was just tired but unable to fully slip into blissful slumber on her own and she was upset about it. Eddie wanted to beat his head against the fridge for having overlooked something so obvious. He reached down to turn the knob of the radio, bringing it to life before he began searching for a station. Once he’d stumbled upon one crooning out oldies, he swayed, patting her bottom to further soothe her.

Penny’s cries died down almost immediately, turning into soft grunts instead as her lids began to droop again. It was after Eddie started singing along, his voice low and soft, that she was finally able to fall asleep, snuggled up to her daddy with a fist full of his hair that was most definitely going to be super fun getting out of her grip without waking her. Eddie turned to find Jonathan and Argyle watching them. Jonathan had a ghost of a smile on his face while Argyle stared at him in wonder. “Dude. You’re a dad. You just did a dad thing!” Jonathan grinned. “I agree. Looks like I’m the only freak in town now, you’re Eddie ‘The Dad’ Munson, now.” “Hell yeah, I’ll take it.” Eddie didn’t bother trying to hide his smile, he was cheesing’ it up. You’d called him something similar a couple of times. Teased him about being Eddie ‘The DILF’ Munson, which was really unfair given you hadn’t been cleared by your doctor to have sex yet, so he couldn’t make that a reality. “It’s crazy how this time last year, we were freshly graduated, you were eloping against every single adults’ opinion and now you have a baby. It’s mind boggling. But like, at the same time it’s not. . .I don’t know, help me out here.” Argyle slapped the back of his hand against Jonathan’s shoulder a few times.

“Being a dad suits you. You’re good at it. You’re a good dad and a good family man.” Jonathan supplied, meaning every word. He’d know, he had a shitty dad like Eddie did.

That one simple statement hit Eddie hard, and he held Penny just a little tighter to his chest. “Gotta give her everything I didn’t have.” — You nearly broke the door down when you’d gotten back to the trailer. Despite your hesitance to leave Penny, you’d actually enjoyed the time with your friends. Sure, you spent every single second you weren’t talking thinking about your little family, but you still had fun. The car ride back was spent wondering how much of a mess the place would be. Robin was expecting there to be a small kitchen fire, Eden was expecting one of the boys to be crying, Nancy was just curious to see how Jonathan had lasted in the presence of a baby. For future after college and established careers purposes, of course. You had faith in Eddie, had seen how quickly he had and still was adapting to being a dad. The others you couldn’t ball park so your money was on Argyle being the crybaby to which Eden quickly agreed.

But you hadn’t come home to any of that. The boys were all sat on the couch, fawning over your baby who had woken up in much better mood. “My baby!” You made grabby hands as they got up to greet you, and Eddie let you scoop her up from his arms in exchange for a kiss. You could hear Robin gagging when she realized she was third wheeling three different couples, so you assumed Nancy and Eden were also receiving ‘welcome back’ smooches. You leaned down to violently inhale Penny’s new baby smell, pulling back with a look of satisfaction on your face. “That’s the good stuff. How’d it go?” Eddie laughed as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and trailed a finger through Penny’s curls. “Oh, you know. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

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lecsainz · 1 year

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paddock encounters

pairings: toto wolff x daughter!reader / ollie bearman x wolff!reader / lewis hamilton x wolff!reader / george russell x wolff!reader / paul aron x wolff!reader

warnings: bumps in the paddock, lewis and george being like older brothers to Y/N and paul being the friend everyone has.

authors note: i just wanted to write something about ollie so that's it.

word count: 986

Y/N Wolff was sitting in the back seat of the car, on her way to the British Grand Prix at Silverstone with her dad, Toto Wolff, her stepmom, Susie, and her little brother Jack. As they drove through the English countryside, they chatted excitedly about the race ahead.

"So, Y/N, who are you rooting for today?" asked Toto, glancing back at his daughter in the rearview mirror.

"I don't know," replied Y/N with a shrug. "I guess I'll be happy as long as a Mercedes driver wins."

Susie chuckled. "You're biased, Y/N. But I can't blame you for that. It's in the family DNA."

Jack piped up from his car seat. "I want Lewis to win! He's my favorite!"

Y/N smiled indulgently at her little brother. "Lewis is pretty awesome, isn't he?"

Just then, the car pulled into the parking lot at Silverstone. As they got out of the car and made their way towards the paddock, Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. This was her world, the world of formula 1.

As they walked through the paddock, Y/N spotted George Russell and Lewis Hamilton, the two Mercedes drivers, chatting with some fans. She grinned and waved at them, and they waved back.

"Hey, guys!" called Y/N, running over to them. "How's it going?"

"Good, good," replied Lewis with a smile. "Excited for the race?"

"You know it," said Y/N, grinning. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

George Russell chuckled. "You're a true petrolhead, Y/N. You're going to end up working in this sport someday."

Y/N blushed slightly at the compliment. "Maybe I will. It's always been my dream."

As they chatted, Y/N couldn't help but feel a sense of belonging. These were her people, the drivers, the fans, the mechanics, the journalists. She had grown up in this world, and it felt like home.

She wandered around the paddock, taking in the sights and sounds of the British Grand Prix. As Y/N turned a corner, she bumped into someone and stumbled back.

"Oh, sorry about that." said Y/N, looking up to see a tall, lanky guy with curly hair.

"No problem," said the guy, smiling. "I'm Ollie."

"I'm Y/N," said Y/N, returning the smile. "Nice to meet you."

They stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say.

"So, are you a fan of the sport?" asked Ollie, gesturing towards the track.

Y/N nodded eagerly. "Yeah, I grew up in the world of f1. My dad's the boss of the Mercedes team."

"Wow, that's cool." said Ollie, looking impressed. "I'm actually a driver myself. I race in formula 2 for Prema and the Ferrari Academy."

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. "No way! That's amazing. I haven't really followed f2 that closely, but maybe I should start."

Ollie chuckled. "Yeah, maybe you should. We're the future of the sport, you know."

Y/N grinned. "I wouldn't doubt it. So, are you excited for your race later?"

Ollie nodded eagerly. "Absolutely. It's my home race, so I'm hoping for a good result."

Y/N smiled. "Well, I'll be sure to keep an eye out for you. Good luck!"

"Thanks." said Ollie, waving as he walked away.

As Y/N watched him go, she couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement. When she walked away, Lewis and George spotted her from a distance and exchanged knowing looks.

"Looks like our little Y/N has made a new friend." said Lewis with a smirk.

George chuckled. "Yeah, I bet Toto will be thrilled to hear that she's talking to one of the Ferrari Academy drivers."

Toto, who had been standing nearby, overheard their conversation and raised an eyebrow. "What are you two going on about?"

Lewis and George turned to face him, still wearing amused expressions. "Oh, just that Y/N's been chatting up Ollie Bearman." said Lewis.

Toto looked surprised. "Really? I didn't even know she knew who he was."

George shrugged. "Well, I don't think she did. But she seems to have taken a liking to him."

Lewis grinned. "Maybe we should start calling her 'Ferrari Girl' instead of 'Mercedes Girl'."

Toto shook his head, chuckling. "You two are ridiculous. Let's just hope that this new friendship doesn't distract her too much from her schoolwork."

As they walked away, Toto couldn't help but feel a sense of pride at how well Y/N had integrated into the world of f1. He knew that she had a bright future ahead of her, and he couldn't wait to see where her passion for the sport would take her.

A few days had passed since Y/N had met Ollie in the paddock, but she couldn't stop thinking about him. She had even asked Lewis and George if they knew anything about him, but they had just teased her about her crush.

One day, she was talking with Paul Aron, another driver in the Prema and Mercedes Academy programs. They were discussing the latest f1 race when Y/N brought up Ollie.

"You know Ollie Bearman, right?" she asked Paul.

Paul nodded. "Yeah, we've crossed paths a few times. He's a pretty cool guy."

"He seemed really nice when I talked to him." said Y/N. "Do you happen to have his phone number or something?"

Paul raised an eyebrow. "Why do you want his number?"

Y/N blushed. "I don't know, I just thought it would be cool to talk to him again. He seemed really interesting."

Paul chuckled. "Alright, I'll see what I can do. No promises, though."

A few days later, Ollie received a message from an unknown number. It was Y/N.

Y/N: “Hey, it's Y/N. Paul gave me your number. How's it going?”

Y/N's heart raced as he replied.

Ollie: “Hey, it's going well! How about you?”

And so began a new chapter in Y/N's life - a friendship (or maybe something more?) with Ollie Bearman. She didn't know where it would lead, but she was excited to find out.

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satoshy12 · 9 months

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Kryptonian Danny Ghost Phantom

Danny Fenton's life takes an unexpected turn when he's accidentally exposed to a Kryptonian artifact while in the Ghost Zone. The Kryptonite radiation triggers a transformation in Danny's human DNA, turning him into a half-Kryptonian/Ghost hybrid.

It was Frostbite who told him he wasn't human anymore but an Alien. Danny didn't seem to have much of a problem with it he was already a Halfa; and it was pretty cool to now be an Alien!

But he struggled to control his newfound powers and adjust to them like he did with the ghost powers. He discovers his newfound abilities, including flight, super strength, and heat vision.

But that means that while most of his villains didn't try to attack him, Fenton's body is too strong. Few others worked to be stronger than that, like Skulker. Well, mostly Skulker.

So while in a fight with Skulker with new weapons from Vlad, he crash-lands in Metropolis from the attack in the Ghost Zone.

The new weapon was a poison that would have a retrograde amnesia effect on Danny. Vlad wanted to slowly make Danny forget about everything before he took him in as his own son. Skulker could then have Jack's pelt, and as a ghost hunter, it would show he hunted down a hunter.

In Metropolis.

Dressed as Superman, Clark made his way to a place where he heard the crash, and saw a black-haired boy standing up from the crater. He tried to talk to the boy, but he seemed to only speak kryptonian! But not in an accent he knows, which means he just met a Kryptonian boy not related to him or a clone. He would say he is 2 or 3 years younger than Kara.

Danny was confused that his "human" body wouldn't speak English. It seemed like he was more hurt than he thought.

So as Clark tried to talk to him, Danny used his heat vision to hit Skulker behind him. Clark was shocked at first, thinking the boy attacked him, until he noticed he attacked the Being behind them.

And as Skulker ranted then about how he plans to "Hang his pelt on at the foot of his bed, As he is an endangered species!" well, those are the wrong words to say. As Superman got pretty angry, he attacked Skulker, who was pretty shocked that he was able to punch him. It must have been the portal's fault.

Clark was angry at the idea of someone hunting down the Kryptoanian to skin them! He was almost as angry as when he met Darkseid.

As Danny saw how the older hero could fight Skulker and was destroying his suit, he escaped until he could transform back to Phantom or find a way home.

Without the suit, Skulker is pretty weak.

Superman captured the tiny thing and turned his way back to find the boy. But he seems to be gone. Well, he would need Kara's or Karen's help; he didn't fully understand the accent.

Danny with white hair was walking down the streets. He would find a place to take a break. And help himself with his memories.

Whatever Skulker injects into him, he starts to forget what he was doing…. Wait, what again was his plan?

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seijorhi · 1 year

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Powder Keg

it has been far too long since i've indulged with these three

Bokuto Koutarou, Kuroo Tetsurou & Akaashi Keiji x Female Reader

w.c 6.1k

tw: implied non-con, yandere, implied violence and bad times all round

Not guilty.

There’s a moment after the verdict’s read, right before the courtroom erupts into noise where time slows. Your heartbeat thunders in your chest, violently – like it’s trying to rip its way free, and it becomes harder to breathe.

For days, you’ve avoided looking at them, treating the left side of the courtroom as though it simply did not exist.

Your head turns without conscious thought, and you watch it happen. In slow motion, you physically witness the verdict hit them.

Not guilty.

Relief. Joy. Bokuto pulls Kuroo into a hug, pounding his fist across his back as he beams.

Not guilty.

Akaashi shaking their lawyer’s hand, head tilted in a polite bow.

Not guilty.

The gavel slams down, a harsh, strangled sort of noise escapes you. Your knees, shaking as they are, suddenly give way. Cameras flash, your lawyer reaching for you as you sink back into your chair, numb – whatever he says to you gets drowned out, nothing but static and haze.

Three days spent trapped at their mercy while they broke your trust, lied to you, hurt you, fucked you. Cases don’t make it to court for trial unless the prosecution’s almost certain of a conviction, everyone knows that. You had the evidence, the rape kit, DNA, all of it. How– how could they–

The skin at the nape of your neck prickles, the tiny hairs standing on end. Lifting your head, you’re met with a cool gunmetal gaze, Akaashi’s expression giving away nothing.

He nods, though. A slow incline of his chin, his eyes never leaving yours. Bokuto and Kuroo are breaking apart, the latter already beginning to follow Akaashi’s line of sight, and you feel the bile rising up your throat.

In a sudden burst of energy, you lurch from your seat, racing out the side doors. The meagre lunch you’d managed to force down comes hurling right back up – the only saving grace being that you barely manage to make it to the bathroom in time.

On your knees, clutching the toilet and sobbing, you vomit until there’s nothing left but bile and pain. How could they– how could they do this to you?

How could they not believe you when you gave them everything?

You don’t glance up when the door swings open, nor at the tentative knock on the stall door – which as you hadn’t had the time or inclination to lock it, creaks open.

Your mother peers in. “Honey?”

“They think I’m a liar,” you croak out, finally lifting your miserable gaze. “They think I’m making it up.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“We believe you, we know you’re telling the truth. I’m sorry those assholes convinced everyone else otherwise,” your cousin murmurs, appearing behind her shoulder.

Together, they help you to your feet, your mother gently wiping away the tears while your cousin places a comforting hand on your back.

“Those bastards. Those fucking bastards! If the lay judges had any sense at all–” her voice, shaking with rage, cracks, a sob threatening to break through. Beyond words, she shakes her head, clamping her lips shut, and your cousin sighs.

“Come on, it’s going to be a circus out there. Better to get it over and done with.”

She isn’t wrong.

By the time you make it to the steps out front, reporters are everywhere, swarming. Their lawyer’s mid-way through a statement, smugness radiating from every slimy pore.

“– justice served today. These three young men have such promising futures ahead of them, and we can only be thankful that the lay judges and judges alike saw their true character amidst the wild accusations and, quite frankly, outright fabrications from this poor, misguided woman.”

And the reporters are pummelling you and your family with questions, demanding a comment, asking how you feel about the verdict passed down.

You can’t bring yourself to answer them, so you keep your mouth shut and focus on the ground in front of you, one step after another. You can’t stop or you’ll break all over again.

Your mother, however, has different ideas. “You let her down,” she spits. “This whole system let my daughter down today. Do you give all rapists a free pass, or just the ones on track to become olympians?!”

Which, naturally, only invites a flurry of rapid fire follow ups.

They’ve all decided that you’re a whore. A liar. A greedy, attention seeking slut who wanted nothing more than a few nights of fun to leverage for your five minutes of fame. They might not admit it outright, but you can hear it in their questions, see it in their looks.

The verdict only cements that belief.

Three days, every waking second spent clinging to the idea that once you got away, once they were done, you’d be free and everything would be fine.

You’d get justice.

The three of them would spend years rotting away behind bars, and it wouldn’t be enough, not ever, not for what they put you through. Somehow, though, you’d find a way to make peace with it.

And now… now they’re walking free like they did nothing wrong and you– you’re the one left standing there in the wake of a shattered reputation while people you’ve never met hurl abuse at you and your family, telling you you deserved what you got. That you wanted it.

The bolder ones tell you to do everyone a favour and just go kill yourself.

You catch one last look as the car pulls away; surrounded by their family, their crack legal team, supporters. The three of them – each with loosened ties, Bokuto having shed his jacket entirely – meet that gaze head on.

And the weight of it, burning and uncomfortable, lingers long after they disappear in the rearview mirror.

—

“Mr. Kuroo, sir, your two o'clock is waiting in conference room three.”

He hums, fingers tapping away across the screen of his phone

“And,” his assistant continues, “I have your coffee.”

At that, she finally grabs his attention. Stowing his phone back into the breast pocket of his jacket, he smiles, “You’re a lifesaver, have I mentioned that?”

“Once or twice.”

Accepting the cup gratefully, Kuroo laughs, “Yeah, well, remind me ‘bout that when we have your next salary review.”

She brightens at the praise, tucking her hair back behind her ear with a small nod. Kuroo, already halfway down the hall, doesn’t notice, too busy wracking his brain in an attempt to recall what his two o’clock appointment is actually regarding.

There were interviews for one of the junior positions, but those weren’t until next week, he vaguely recalls someone from legal wanting to talk about their upcoming campaign, maybe it’s about that? Usually they want to talk with the whole team, though. Long, drawn out meetings that leave him wanting to repeatedly slam his head against a wall.

Upon reaching the conference room in question, he realises that it’s not legal he’s scheduled to meet with.

Sitting with her legs neatly crossed, pen and paper in hand sits a woman of about thirty, a bottle blonde, with perky tits and a tight black, pencil skirt that clings to shapely thighs. She smiles when he opens the door, sticks out a perfectly manicured hand.

“Kuroo Tetsurou, I presume?”

He takes it, smirks as her eyelashes flutter and they shake hands.

Nope, definitely not someone from legal.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you are–?”

“Of course, my apologies. My name is Sato Kisumi, I’m a reporter from the Metro Times, we spoke last week…”

A vague memory of a phone call surfaces and Kuroo finds himself nodding. “Right, yeah, I remember. You wanted to talk about an article or something? Sorry, we’re a few weeks from launching our campaign for the new season and it’s been a hell of a day.”

She laughs, a sweet, bell-like sound, “No, no, it’s alright. If anyone understands how crazy it can be working towards a deadline, it’s a reporter.”

He settles himself down across from her, making himself comfortable.

“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

Kuroo shakes his head. There’s one already set up on the table, next to the tea his assistant must have procured for her when she arrived. Leaning forward, she clicks it on, “Wonderful.”

“So what’s this article for, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” her voice carries a teasing lilt. “We did speak about it on the phone.”

“Busy week, like I said.”

“Busy man,” she counters, red lips curling into something like a smile. “To be honest with you, it’s more of an exposé. I’m investigating professional athletes dodging charges for criminal offences. The taking of illegal substances and DUI’s of course, but more serious allegations, too. Spousal abuse, assault, rape, that sort of thing.”

Leaning back in his chair, Kuroo picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip, savouring the bitter, chocolate-y notes of the dark roast his assistant – godsend that she is – knows he favours.

He vaguely recalls the conversation – enough to remember that she neglected to tell him this part whilst she was angling for an interview. Then again, she’d hardly be the first reporter to lie for a chance to get their foot in the door. More than anyone, Kuroo can appreciate that kind of deception.

Now that the truth is laid bare, he’s faced with a choice.

If Kuroo had any sense at all – if he cared about his job and his reputation – he’d politely but firmly tell her to leave before she gets any more comfortable. It’s one thing to ignore and downplay what he’s sure will inevitably turn out to be a scathing indictment of the whole system when it’s published, another entirely to actively participate in it, regardless of intentions.

If he doesn’t tread carefully here, his boss will most certainly have his balls for it.

So he should kick her out. He should.

Instead, Kuroo lets out a light chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And you decided to start with the VP of JVA promotion? It’s an… interesting approach, I’ll give you that.”

Kisumi mirrors him, lifting the tea to her lips to take a slow sip. She sets the cup back down on the desk, taking a second to adjust it ever so slightly, the tip of her finger running along the edge of the rim. Then, with an air of nonchalance, she shrugs. “Well, what we’re seeing is that these athletes are usually being protected by their teams and management, and in some cases, with certain athletes, that extends all the way up to high ranking officials within their respective governing bodies. Victims and police are paid off, charges mysteriously disappear, negative press gets buried, like magic.”

“It’s a sad story ‘n all, I’m sure there’s some commentary in there about the failings of society, corruption and misplaced hero worship of star athletes or whatever it is you’re after, but I’m failing to see what that has to do with me. I run the promotions division, not public relations.”

“I’m not interested in talking to you because of your job title, Mr. Kuroo, although believe me, that someone like you could rise to an office like this is damning enough,” she says, no trace of her earlier sweetness, the flirtatiousness. No, now her eyes are cold, her smile, while it still adorns her lips, all too sharp. “I’m here because of a court case a few years ago, in which you and two friends – one of whom now plays for the national volleyball team – were accused of the kidnapping and rape of a fellow student.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh, leaning back into his seat. His eyes flicker to the recorder on the desk, the pen she wields, poised over the blank pad of paper, and back to her cool smile. “A very publicised court case that ended with a verdict of not guilty. No one bribed any judges or tampered with evidence, no one made it go away. That’s our justice system, that’s how it works. If you’re looking for something damning,” he throws the word back at her, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

“And you think that was a fair trial?”

“I think you’re wasting your time. Mine, too.”

He moves to rise, intent on ushering Kisumi out of his office when she asks, “You don’t remember me, Kuroo, do you?” Not playful anymore, not even angry; she spits his name like it’s poison, as though the very act of uttering his name aloud makes her skin crawl.

And that, more than anything, is enough to really pique his interest.

Kuroo finds himself studying her – really looking at her – beyond the blonde curls and the hateful scowl, beyond all that he’d dismissed earlier. And there is something that rings of familiarity – her eyes, maybe, the shape of her nose – but Kuroo’s short on time, and despite his amusement, what’s left of his good will is dwindling fast.

“Nah, but don’t take it personally, the whole prissy, up-tight bitch thing you’ve got going on isn’t really my thing.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t, you only ever saw her.” Kisumi makes a disgusted noise, “The whole trial, you wouldn’t stop staring. You and your friends ruined her and then you sat there making moon eyes for three days while your asshole of a lawyer tore her apart on the stand.”

The pieces fall together, a memory resurfaces; a blonde woman leaning forward to touch your shoulder, whispering in your ear as you tried in vain to keep your tears at bay.

And it’s a stupid thing, the faint tinge of jealousy that stirs inside of him as he eyes the woman sitting before him. She’s family – has to be, because Kuroo knew all your friends back then.

(Funny, wasn’t it, how none of them had shown up at the trial either.)

Pushing aside the ugly feeling – at least for now – Kuroo rises to his feet, allowing a smirk to curl at his lips. “Like I said, Miss Sato,” and oh, how he relishes the cold fury that sparks across her features. “You’re gonna have to do better than that – but not today. Get the fuck out of my conference room.”

With her lips pursed, she goes to do just that. Makes it all the way to the door, clutching the handle when abruptly she stops, turning to face him once more.

An eyebrow rises, “Something else?”

“She’s missing. She left years ago, which I’m sure you already knew, but now she’s gone-gone. She hasn’t called in weeks, and the cops won’t help. They said that she’s already proven she’s flighty,” Kisumi spits out a humourless laugh. “They won’t open an investigation when we can’t even tell them the last place she was staying. But I know my cousin, and I know the only reason she’d go this long without calling is if there was something physically stopping her from doing so.”

Her voice remains level, her breath on the other hand–

A chink in the armour.

The family resemblance might not be all that strong between you two, that look though – trying to pretend she’s not afraid when everything from the expression on her face to the tremor in her hands is screaming at him otherwise – all he can see is you.

He loves when you look at him like that. More than he should, but guilty pleasures and all that. He doesn’t want you scared, not… necessarily. Not as much as he wants you vulnerable.

Unlike you, who’d burst into tears, crumble and break, she straightens her spine, swallows down that emotion and continues. “I know the kind of man you are. All three of you. It’s because of you that she left in the first place, and I’m willing to stake my career on you being the reason she’s disappeared this time ‘round as well.”

“S’that right? You got any actual proof, or is this whole thing based solely on the fact that you don’t like me?”

Kisumi, rather than dignifying that with an answer, merely spares Kuroo one last disdainful glare and stalks from the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. A minor victory, but one that brings no small sense of satisfaction.

A shame then, that it doesn’t last.

His smirk slips away, vanishing like a slate scrubbed clean.

Pulling the phone from his breast pocket, Kuroo dials the last number he called, lifts the phone up to his ear, and waits.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

—

Akaashi isn’t one for the spotlight.

He doesn’t hate it per se, he just isn’t all that interested in chasing after it. Better to let everyone be blinded by the other two and let their guards slip around him.

He’s patient – has to be, dealing with Bokuto and Kuroo day in, day out. Calm. Observant enough to realise that the blonde sitting four seats down on the rattling train car has been following him for several days now.

Sato Kisumi.

Akaashi had looked her up after her meeting with Kuroo, begrudgingly having to admit that as an investigative journalist, she was rather impressive.

Kuroo was worried she’d be a problem, and Akaashi’s inclined to agree. Upset relatives were one thing, a well respected journalist with a personal vendetta against the three of them, a separate beast entirely.

One that wouldn’t necessarily be so easy to shake. Or put down.

A polite, feminine voice filters through the P.A system, announcing the imminent arrival of the next station. The train has another four stops before his, yet he rises smoothly when the train slows to a stop beside the platform, exiting amongst the throng of commuters without so much as a backwards glance.

She follows, however, as he knew she would, trailing after him when he makes his way out of the station and onto the busy streets of Shinjuku. There’s a ramen joint he’s particularly fond of a few minutes downtown, only a short walk away.

The quickest route would be to take the main road, lose himself in the throng of people. Akaashi, curious more than anything, decides to instead take the long way round, via the back alleys and narrow laneways, where every footstep echoes, and puddles splash underfoot.

He’s pleased, though not exactly surprised, that Kisumi follows at a distance.

A block away from his destination, he stops on the street corner, turning back to address her.

“Are you hungry?”

The question clearly takes her by surprise, and her answer comes slow. Distant honking from the street ahead, laughter and the rumble of voices tangled together interwoven with music and the shouting of kitchen – closer to the main road, it’s louder here. Easier to mask her presence.

Even so, she had to have realised he’d been toying with her from the start, perfectly aware she’d been tailing him. Why else would he have led her down the rabbit’s warren?

“… What?”

“Dinner,” he elaborates. “Are you hungry? I didn’t have a chance to eat today, and I figured that rather than spending all night following me in the hopes that I’ll – what, lead you to your cousin? – we could sit down and talk over some food. Ramen, actually. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To talk?”

She regards him warily, brows knitting together, considering the proposition. He can’t blame her for the reticence, exactly, but it is somewhat of a pointless exercise considering they both know that she’s going to say yes.

She might hate him. Despise him. She might even be afraid of him, but she went toe to toe with Kuroo and that doesn’t speak to someone meek or spineless. If she wants answers – if she wants you as badly as he thinks she does, she won’t be able to resist.

A heartbeat later, and he’s proven correct. Her jaw tightens, but she nods; a short, sharp jerk of her chin. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Despite the proclamation, Kisumi remains silent as they’re shown to one of the tables set up beneath the awning outside, shielding them from the drizzling rain, and when Akaashi orders for them both, two bowls of tonkotsu, with a side of gyoza to share. She just sits, shoulders back, arms folded gracefully across her chest, glaring daggers.

All of that fades away when the waitress comes by with their food. In an instant she softens, smiling and politely dipping her head in thanks. Only when the waitress disappears back inside and they’re alone again does Kisumi finally break her silence.

“I don’t suppose you’ll save me the trouble and tell me where my cousin is?”

Akaashi smiles at that, splitting his chopsticks to snatch one of the pot sticker dumplings and take a bite. He savours the mouthful, the rich flavours of garlicky pork, cabbage and chives bursting over his taste buds, chewing thoughtfully before posing another question to the blonde.

“Did she ever talk about how we met?”

Kisumi laughs, shaking her head as she pulls her bowl of ramen close and grabs her chopsticks. “No. No, somehow between all the tears and the breakdowns, her gripping my hand while she lay in that hospital bed and told the cops every detail about how you trapped her in that house, how the three of you touched her, raped her, we didn’t get around to chatting about the meet cute. Weird, right?”

“There was this ramen place on campus,” Akaashi begins, ignoring Kisumi’s dig entirely. “Kind of like this one, except it was open twenty-four seven. Busy as hell during the day, but after ten, eleven at night it got pretty quiet, and she always worked the late shift.”

There’s a quiet wistfulness in his tone that Akaashi doesn’t bother masking.

He remembers the way your face used to brighten when the bell above the door would announce their arrival, the cute little bounce in your step that he never could get out of his head.

When it was dead and you could get away with it, you’d come over and chat, sneaking them drinks, dumplings, an extra egg or slice of pork, even ‘forgetting’ to tally their orders up correctly when it came time to settle their bill. If your boss took notice, he never said anything – or if he did, then you never cared enough to stop.

You could make a few exceptions for your favourites, you’d told him when he’d asked you about it once, smiling that soft, pretty smile of yours. Blind to the way those words, and the image of you beaming so beautifully, would etch their way into his very being, refusing to give him a moment’s peace.

Bokuto and Kuroo would waste hours fighting over who you liked best, only for Akaashi to add fuel to the fire, dryly reminding them that arguing was pointless – you weren’t stupid or blind enough to prefer either one of them.

It was a slow thing, this descent into hell with you… and then it wasn’t.

And he wouldn’t trade what he has now for all the world, but some small part of him will always mourn those early days, the sweet naivety with which you used to treat them.

Kisumi, picking at her ramen rather than eating it, sucks on her teeth and exhales slowly, drawing him from his reminiscing. “So when did it change?” she asks.

“Hm?”

“When did you decide that that wasn’t enough? At what point exactly did the three of you sit down and make the decision to take her to that cabin, keep her there against her will and spend three days systematically abusing her for your own sick fucking pleasure?”

A flash of irritation sparks, and his eyes narrow. “She agreed to come with us, and we didn’t abuse her. We’d never.”

A silence descends between them, thick, wrought with tension and disbelief. And then, like a match struck, the blonde explodes.

“God, you’re so full of shit, you know that, right?!” Kisumi snarls, disgusted. “You might’ve been able to convince the court that it was rough and fun, that whatever damage you left behind was damage she wanted, but I was there for the aftermath. I saw the state you left her in!”

Each word is biting and vitriolic, her voice shaking with barely repressed rage. If she’s hoping for some sign that they’ve struck a chord, wounded him in some way, she’s sorely disappointed. Save for the cold, flat stare he regards her with, the only response Akaashi deigns to give is simply to resume eating, gathering another mouthful of noodles between his chopsticks and slurping them up.

That, it seems, is Kisumi’s breaking point. Shaking her head with a hollow scoff, she shoves her own, largely untouched bowl aside and stands.

“I’m going to find her, and when I do I am going to spend every waking second, every last yen I have making sure that the three of you go down for it.” And with that, she snatches up her purse, yanking it open to dig for her umbrella.

Another mouthful, braised chashu pork and scallions. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

—

Fingers drum restlessly against the leather steering wheel, tapping out an anxious beat.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ Kuroo had said, clapping him on the back.

The light shines from her bedroom window, the shadow of her figure moving within. Bokuto checks the clock again; 11:27.

He’d been so happy, over the fucking moon to come home. Three weeks away, three and a half hours on the train, he was itching, leg bouncing restlessly as the miles slowly crawled by. And even though all he wanted to do was find Kuroo so they could go home already, he made the effort for the fans that swarmed the second he got off the train.

Took the time to smile and pose for pictures, signed the autographs, laughing and chatting away. He gets it, he does – meeting your idols is pretty fucking awesome, and the last thing he’d ever wanna do would be to ruin that for some poor kid just because he’s in a rush to get home and rip your clothes off.

Still, even at the best of times patience was never his forte, and three weeks might as well have been a lifetime.

Anticipation had him on cloud nine, and nothing – nothing – was gonna bring him down.

At least, that’s what he’d thought.

‘Don’t you have an ounce of shame?’

It’d taken everything he had not to snap there and then. There were kids around, staring up at him with wide, confused eyes – their parents quick to usher them away.

Kuroo’d said she’d be a problem.

Akaashi agreed.

The bedroom light flicks off, and his pulse jumps. Go time.

Adjusting the cap on his head, he flips up the hood of his jacket and exits the car, avoiding the light from the street lamps above to cross the road. Her house is nice enough. Small, with a garden out front spilling with greenery and potted flowers. Her cat, lying on the windowsill between the blinds and the glass, notes his arrival on the doorstep with slow blinking eyes, only to yawn and dismiss him entirely, unbothered.

Faced with a locked door, Bokuto doesn’t bother wasting time or energy trying to pick it. He has no need – two solid, powerful kicks later, the wooden door splinters and cracks, giving way beneath his foot.

Shoving the wreckage of the door aside, Bokuto shoulders his way inside. There’s a sudden yowl – the cat, startled by the noise, launches itself from the window to skitter away to some safe, dark hidey-hole. From somewhere else within he hears a muffled thump, followed by a curse.

Good. He wants her to know he’s coming.

‘You can google it, you know? The rape and the trial, it’s on your wikipedia page – and those kids and their families, they still worship you. That’s your legacy.’

A slow building anger seeps through his veins, blood thrumming in anticipation.

‘Doesn’t it make you sick?’

She’s threatening to take you away. ‘Kaashi said she’s hellbent on it.

Bokuto can shoulder a lot. He dealt with the blow to his image – both during the trial and after it – and when you left last time, disappearing into thin air without so much as a goodbye, it broke something inside of him.

Still, he found a way to get through it. He had to, because he was getting you back.

And the taste of you lingers on his tongue from when it was buried inside of you only hours ago, a honeyed tang he’d swallow down by the mouthful if he could. Back home your hips and ass, the soft sweetness of your thighs, carry mottled imprints of his fingers – that overeager, desperate touch.

Three rounds he’d gone; sinking his cock into your pussy, fucking out all of his frustrations and pent up emotions ‘til he was spent and you were a shaking, shivering, heavenly mess. It was supposed to make things better. Calm him down a little and take the edge off.

It had the opposite effect.

Because he knows now what it’s like to lose a soulmate, he knows just how high the stakes are.

She swung first, Bokuto’s simply returning the favour.

There’s no point masking his footsteps as he stalks through the house, a singular goal in mind. Akaashi made him promise that he wouldn’t take this too far – and he won’t.

He wants to – fuck, he really, really wants to.

But he won’t.

The door to the bedroom’s cracked an inch – it groans in protest when he nudges it wider and crosses the threshold.

The thought of finding her, dragging her kicking and screaming out into the living room was something he’d been looking forward to, but Kisumi – rudely ruining his fun – isn’t hiding.

No, flattened against the wall opposite, shaking like a leaf, she grips her phone like it’s a lifeline. “I-I’ve called the cops. They’re on their way,” she calls out, and he realises that while his eyes have adjusted, hers haven’t. She thinks he’s a burglar, someone she can reason with.

He almost snorts.

Fumbling against the wall, it takes him a second or two to find the light switch and flick it on. Light floods the small bedroom in an instant, and Kisumi flinches, an arm coming up to shield her face from the sudden brightness.

When it falls though, and golden eyes meet her own, Bokuto’s rewarded with a look of shock and recognition, which quickly gives way to something much, much more satisfying.

Fear.

It’s in her eyes, widening horribly, the way her face drains of blood. The audible little hitch in her breathing that sends a delightful tingle down his spine.

And still, she tries to put on a brave face.

“The cops are already on their way,” she repeats, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Whatever you’re after– just… just go, and I swear I won’t say a word. I’ll keep your name out of it. We– we can pretend this never happened, alright?”

Bokuto grins at that. Shifts his weight as he lowers his centre of gravity.

The funny thing is, the stupid bitch doesn’t know just how right she’s about to be.

—

The beeping of the monitors brings back bad memories.

Truth be told, a lot of what happened that day is a blur. You don’t care to pry too deep, trying to pluck and sort through the trauma of what happened. You remember the hospital, though – gowned up, lying on the scratchy sheets, gripping Kisumi’s hand while you walked the detective through every harrowing minute you’d spent at their hands.

And now the situations are reversed, and it’s your cousin lying broken and damaged in the hospital, and you’re the one sitting at her bedside, keeping watch over her like the guardians of old. Holding her hand while you fight back tears.

The doctors say she’ll wake up soon, but they’ve been saying that for hours now.

All you can do is sit there and pray that she’ll wake up soon.

Pray that she’ll listen, and hear you.

You’re there when the doctors come by to check her vitals, when the food cart rolls by. They don’t stop for her, even if she were awake there wouldn’t be much point, what with her jaw wired shut and all.

Her whole body’s a mess. A broken wrist, broken ribs, her jaw shattered and face a bruised, swollen mess.

It’s a miracle she’s still alive.

Your stomach twists, nausea threatening to heave its way up your throat. No – it’s a miracle that he stopped.

The phone in your pocket vibrates, you ignore it for the third time. No doubt you’ll pay for it later, right now you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Please,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs with unshed tears. “Please.”

But it’s a while yet before she stirs, consciousness slowly pulling her back to you.

It begins with a muffled groan, a whimper when she shifts. Even with all the damage to her face, you can see the signs of distress taking shape – hurt, twisting at her features.

They’ve given her all the drugs they can, and she’s still in pain.

Your heart wrenches. “Sumi? Sumi, can you hear me?” you ask, clutching her hand tightly between both of yours.

She groans again, fighting to get both eyes open. The phone in your pocket buzzes, insistent. It doesn’t stop after one, going off again and again and again, raising your internal panic. But Kisumi’s blinking now, trying desperately to pull the world into focus. Figure out why it hurts to move, why her mouth won’t obey when she tries to talk.

And you see the tears well up in her eyes, the panic and fear, and you swallow down your own emotions because they don’t matter right now.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. I know it hurts, I know you’re scared, but you’re safe now. I promise you, you’re safe.” An echo of the words she’d once spoken to you. Your thumb strokes the back of her uninjured hand. “Don’t try to talk, just… listen to me, I don’t have long.”

Her fingers try to clumsily curl around your own, and she makes another noise – a garbled butchering of your name that breaks off into a frustrated wail – sending a fresh bolt of pain and guilt lancing through your chest. Tears sting in the corner of your eyes, bottom lip quivering.

This is all your fault.

“You can’t talk, your jaw they– they had to wire it shut,” you tell her while she chokes on another sob. You squeeze her hand, “Please, Sumi, I need you to listen to me. Don’t move, just… blink if you understand; once for yes, twice for no.”

A beat passes, and she blinks. Good.

“Do you remember what happened? The man who attacked you?”

… One blink.

You exhale unsteadily, clearing your throat. Kisumi’s eyes are wide as saucers, tracking every move with a laser focus, and your hand is wrapped so tightly around hers that if she wasn’t already drugged to high heaven she’d probably be whimpering. She’s afraid, you realise. Not of the hospital or the damage she’s yet to comprehend the extent of – she’s afraid because she remembers.

She’s afraid because you are.

“Kisumi… you need to stop this. Forget it happened, play dumb for the cops, drop the article and stop interfering. For your own sake as well as mine, I'm begging you. Otherwise… Otherwise–” your voice dies a quiet death as footsteps approach.

There’s no need to turn.

Kisumi’s face tells you everything when it blanches and she begins to tremble like a terrified puppy. Beside her, the heart rate monitor goes haywire, mirroring her pulse as it jumps erratically with the short, sharp gasps she sucks through clenched teeth.

And when a hand falls to your shoulder, both of you flinch.

“Ready to go, babe?”

To Kisumi, you force a tight, watery smile, “Let it go, okay? Promise me.”

You don’t wait for a response, there’s no point. You’ve poked the bear enough by ignoring their calls and texts, there’s no need to push your luck more than you already have.

Letting Kisumi’s hand slip from your grasp, you rise from your seat and turn, nodding. “Yeah.”

Kuroo smirks, coaxing your face up into a short kiss while his fingers entwine with yours, but it’s Bokuto, claiming your other arm, who grumbles like a petulant child, “You were s’posed to be done hours ago.”

“I‘m sorry. We can go home now.”

Neither one of them spare the battered blonde more than a cursory glance on their way out. You, on the other hand, risk a backwards glance in the moments before you’re tugged away.

Kisumi’s sobbing, broken and raw, hunched over as much as her injuries allow. Her bloodshot eyes meet yours, and your heart breaks one last time.

Promise me you’ll stop. They’ll kill you if you don’t.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo tetsurou x reader #yandere boktuo kotarou x reader #yandere akaashi keiji x reader #yandere kuroo #yandere bokuto #yandere akaashi #tw: noncon

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piived · 6 months

Text

𝐃𝐏𝐱𝐃𝐂 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞/𝐖𝐈𝐏 — ‘𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬’ ᴘᴛ. 2

part 1

“Hey- wha- Danny!” Jason yelled in panic and jerked forward, hands on the ledge to look down and body ready to vault after his idiot as quickly as he could, but was stopped by a familiar cackle, a sudden burst of light, and Danny himself standing, no floating, in front of him with stark white hair and green eyes that were quite literally glowing.

What the fuck.

“What the fuck,” he parroted his thoughts. His lips still tingled from where Danny had pressed his own against them and it was all together enough to make his brain short circuit.

“Yeah, so, uh, hi?” Danny waved lamely which turned into even lamer jazz hands, “Surprise?”

Jason blinked. And blinked again. “What the fuck,” he repeated again, this time with feeling. Danny winced a little and launched into an explanation.

“So, you know I died? Well, apparently while I was dying my DNA was also being infused with, like, a shit ton of ectoplasm which made sure I didn’t all the way die but I also didn’t come all the way back and ended up as half-ghost half-living — halfa is actually the term we use, but that’s not super important right now —” his words were nearly blending together with how fast he was trying to explain, “And, oh! I can transform at will and have been fighting ghosts since I was fourteen because they come through the same portal that I well, you know, died in, and I may also have some super cool powers and technically be King-to-Be of the Infinite Realms because I beat the last King in combat and inherited the throne, sooooo,” Danny finally stopped his word vomit. “Questions?” He finished meekly.

Jason stared and stared before tilting his head back and groaning. “Of fucking course my boyfriend would be a fucking ghost king. I am never going to live this down.” He scrubbed a hand down his face and turned to see Danny grinning lopsidedly at him. “What now?” He asked warily, suddenly feeling like a long nap would do him wonders and, really, the concrete roof was absolutely not the worst place he’d slept on before, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea—

Danny floated closer and Jason’s attention was stolen by the fact that his legs had transformed into a trail of… mist? Gas? What were ghosts even made of? Jason didn’t know but the sight was disconcerting and a little more than a bit distracting, especially paired with the skin-tight suit that had taken place of Danny’s usual baggier clothing. He took it all in with fascination and still a hint of disbelief.

“Boyfriend, huh?”

His eyes shot back up to Danny’s green ones and he flushed a bit at how close he had gotten without Jason noticing. He pinched his lips together when the question sunk in.

Well, in for a penny and all that.

Danny’s grin widened even more but Jason didn’t give him the time nor satisfaction to say something witty; he gave into his desires and cupped Danny’s face, noting both how strange it was to not have to lean down whatsoever to look Danny in the eyes (since he was still, y’know, floating) and how cold his skin was (Danny had always ran cold, but this was different, like the complete absence of any underlying heat that blood and skin produced).

Danny’s grin morphed into something softer and surprised, as if Jason had caught him off guard. Good. See how he likes it.

“Yes,” Jason stated, voice a bit gruff but soft between them, and Danny’s eyes darted back to his own from where they had been staring at Jason’s lips. Score. “Boyfriend,” and then, because he was a gentleman, thank you very much: “Only if you want, of cour—“ Jason was cut off by another press of lips on his own, only this time he was prepared and held on tighter, not letting Danny pull back as quickly.

Their lips stayed pressed together, soft and gentle and it made Jason ache with something fierce. He wasn’t used to tenderness. He wasn’t used to getting what he wanted. He wasn’t used to anyone wanting him back.

When they finally pulled away it was only to lean their foreheads against each other. Danny let out a breathless laugh and nudged his nose against Jason’s in a way that made his stomach flip at the casual affection. “Yes,” Danny said with another quick peck to Jason’s lips, “Boyfriends.”

Jason couldn’t stop the small, crooked grin if he had even wanted to try (and he really, really didn’t). It had been a long time since he had felt this good. This happy. Sure, he’d gotten a lot better in the past couple of years since he came back full of boiling green rage and the itch for violence at his fingertips, but Danny was the one to make him want to be better. Jason finally wanted to come back to himself, to allow himself the grace to forgive and be forgiven and move towards a future that wasn’t bathed in blood and tainted by the Pit Rage. He wanted a better relationship with his family. He wanted to do his city proud. And he wanted Danny by his side through it all, apparent Kingly status and everything.

“Good,” Jason said, drinking in the sight of Danny’s own giddy grin that showed off the longer and more pointed canines that Jason was definitely not imagining dragging along his skin. No siree. He shuddered, and it was definitely from the cold that Danny radiated. Nothing else.

Danny seemingly felt the shiver and pulled back a little more and with a flash of light he was back to his messy black hair and blue eyes, standing on the ledge with his arms around Jason’s shoulders much like they were before he had tried to give Jason a heart attack earlier. The temperature warmed a few degrees and Jason noted the fact to ask about later. “Good,” Danny parroted and then let out a little sigh, “Though, we really do need to talk about this so you actually know what you’re getting into. There’s… there’s a lot I need to explain.”

Jason nodded in agreement. He couldn’t imagine that anything Danny had to tell him would change the way he felt, but he would very much like to know everything. “My place or yours?”

Danny grinned mischeivously, “What, not the Batcave? The sooner I disclose my identity to all your bats the less chance of me slipping that I know and being hunted for sport, right? Plus, I think I could use Batman and Red Robin’s help on a couple of things assuming they’re amenable.”

Jason shook his head immediately, not wanting to imagine how the conversation would go with his entire family there to harass them without them being a hundred percent prepared (and very curious about what exactly Danny could need Bruce and Tim’s help with).

“Absolutely not. I’m not letting that conversation happen with you there until I know they can all behave themselves and not be asses about it. Jason was especially worried about Bruce’s reaction considering the man’s trust issues and his invasive need to pry and leave no stone left unturned. His siblings would be nosy and insufferable with their teasing but at least Jason was used to their antics and could shield Danny from the worst of it by giving them the short rundown before the full question panel had to happen. No, better for Jason to learn it all first and be able to prepare them both for the inevitable shitshow.

Danny shrugged, “Probably best to go to my place anyway; I stole a bunch of tech from my parents and it’s way easier to explain everything with some visual examples.”

Jason arched a brow, “What kind of tech?”

Danny’s grin was down right devilish as he transformed once more with a flash of light and held out an inviting hand as he floated a few feet away from the ledge, “How do you feel about going ghost hunting?”

Jason had a sudden feeling that Danny was going to be the death of him, but, strangley, the thought wasn’t nearly as frightening as it should have been. Maybe Danny was onto something when he said dying once really put things into persepctive. After all, there were much worse ways to go.

He confidently stepped onto the ledge and grabbed the offered hand tightly, “Bring it on, Ghost King.”

#lol here it is finally! i don’t have any more written for it but that may change if Lady Inspiration blesses me #i have a general outline of the lead up to this and what comes next but it will probably stay a drabble rather than an actual fic #anyways i hope you enoyed :) <3 #dpxdc #dpxdc dead on main #dead on main #dpxdc drabble #dead on main drabble #vee’s dpxdc writing #vee’s dpxdc drabbles #vee’s drabbles #vee’s writing

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rippersz · 4 months

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𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐃𝐨𝐠𝐬

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Fem!Named!Reader x Larissa Weems; (Fluffy, romantic, ships in the night, angst) (8K word count)

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Why are you here?

Why are you here if you’re so tired? So exhausted? So bored?

Why are you looking for meaning in a foreign country? And why can’t you find it? Don’t you know passion isn’t found in the street? Don’t you know it doesn’t just exist beneath the light rain and cold wind? Your shaking body won’t get you anywhere but across the cobblestone bridge - and even then, you must trudge. Wade through the distinct desire to fall asleep.

Why are you trying so hard to stay awake?

You have come here for a reason - for an escape - and yet, you are plagued with the same thing that haunted you back home. It is inescapable, this distinct feeling of emotional helplessness. You feel too much or you feel too little. You explode with desire, with sadness, with anger, or you are cool and detached. You cannot find an in between. You cannot find a warm, soothing balance. You walk the line of extremes and get upset when the grey areas cease to exist.

So you run away to France and think that you can find yourself in what? Hm? In the Eiffel? In the lights? In the love? Please. You have not felt love. You have not felt real love. You have not felt anything beyond passion and lust, and even then those feelings were artificial. Forced, almost. You have looked at men and you have seen their shoulders and you have witnessed the bobbing of their throats and the easy fluff of their hair and you have been thoroughly unimpressed. For what exists for you there? What is in their strong arms? What is in their DNA? What lies in them that cannot be discovered elsewhere? Why are you expected to view them and want them?

Why are you expected to love?

So many questions, not many answers. They swirl around inside like the milkiness of an oatmeal bath, opaque and bottomless. They swirl and you watch. Utterly mesmerized. Hypnotized until you feel the distinct desire to fall asleep. Constantly tired, you are. Always so exhausted, dragging your feet along the pavement. Blindly clutching the collar of the black coat that covers your arms and back. Its hood leaves your face bare for the elements. Wind sweeps and rain smacks and you are certain you’ll get sick from walking out so late at night in the cold.

What on Earth came over you? Who could ever be so stupid?

Shivers run the length of your body. You feel like a wet dog thrown out in the street, proving far too difficult for the family to continue dealing with. Too loud and too needy and too caked with mud everytime you walked into the house, so they had no choice but to discard you. It is better, after all, than having a defective animal. No one wants a dog who cannot love. No one wants a dog who cannot be understood. No one wants a stray. And no one-no one-wants a shivering pup walking slowly on unsteady legs. No one wants that. No one wants you.

Except for the sign in the distance, blurry and far away - past the stoplight and across the street. A golden light flickers brightly above an evergreen background, and you can just barely make out, through squinted eyes, the bold gold lettering. ‘Madame: A 1920’s Brasserie’. You can’t help but think that it’s a rather silly name. Madame. Can’t get more French than that. And, it appears, can’t get more authentic. The restaurant stands out in a way that borders on tacky. It is all dark mahogany, golden accents, and small details of matte red and green. The sconces on the walls glow like mini-fires, and you find yourself… drawn. Intrigued. It is inviting and it is late. The windows are dark; the world inside is its own. And you need an escape. A proper one. None of this wandering shit that leads you to nowhere but a random spot with aching feet and the distinct feeling of dissatisfaction. None of this waiting around emptiness.

You are cold and it looks warm and you are just an abandoned dog. How can they expect you to deny yourself some peace?

–

The very moment your boot slides over the threshold, tapping down lightly on a dark wooden floor, your body is changed. A veil of something different flows over your shoulders, draping behind you, and suddenly you feel as though you’ve stepped into another world.

Have you? Or were you just hit by a car in the middle of the road and slipped into the Afterlife?

If that had happened, and you were indeed dead, then the Afterlife was an absolute treat. It seems like a small speakeasy, with a stage at the very back of the restaurant - lit up by a few spotlights and otherwise empty aside from a single microphone stand and a piano. In the dark corner beside it, there’s a cello, a trumpet case, and a deconstructed set of drums. The lights are dimmed so intensely that only the flickers of tabletop candlelight and a few burning wicks by the bar help you squint through hazy darkness. It feels like a dream as smoky hands curl into the air and caress your lungs as you breathe, creating something intoxicating when paired with the heady scent of mixed perfumes. Mixed perfumes that all seem to belong to women. Only women. It’s not crowded but a few souls linger. Couples leaning into each other at their booths, their pupils melting into hearts. Friends sitting lazily at one of the center tables, toasting to something you can’t hear. A group of flirts. A lonely soul or two nursing martinis by the stage. A woman at the bar. The bartender. One server drawing in a notebook, tucked away from the rest of the world. All women. All… dated. Old fashioned. It feels like you’ve stepped into the 1950’s - or something like that. You’ve never been very good with time. But they are different. Wearing dresses with pulled in waists, collars, square necklines, bateau necklines, coats and hats and heels and gloves. Not a phone in sight. Some are in suits, too. Marlene Dietrich type suits. Tipping The Velvet type suits. Very dapper. Very clean. You’re overwhelmed.

Distantly, somewhere, the gentle keys of piano jazz fill the buzzing room - and you feel lightheaded. Dizzy with warmth. The rain purrs against the windows, blowing with the wind trying to get to you. But you have reached safety. Nirvana. And you find yourself itching to shrug out of your coat and disappear into a glass of something tangy and sweet.

“Amaretto sour,” you murmur to the lady behind the bar, sluggishly pushing back the hood from your head.

“Choose somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

The response is immediate. And annoying. You pause, halfway out of your coat, and look from the polished mahogany of the bar’s surface to the amused glint in the bartender’s eyes. There’s a cloth thrown over her shoulder and a dark loose vest sitting tight against her button up. White. Sleeves scrunched by the elbows. A smirk on her lips. Your gaze melts into a glare.

Stop looking at me like that. I’m just a dog. I don’t want whatever smiles you have to offer.

“I don’t know,” you growl, tugging the coat from your body so harshly it nearly tears your arms off.

But she doesn’t seem to mind your irritation, and better yet, she doesn’t really seem to care. Her eyes only track the way you throw your coat over the back of your chair and push yourself onto the high-top stool. You reason your anger is probably out of place in such a dreamy world, just like your choice of alcohol, but you’re too tired and cold to bother giving her a smile. And being kind has proven to be more and more exhausting as the days go by. It’s not like she deserves it anyway, being so casual with you. Standing so tall, with such confidence, not even the slightest bit weary or weathered from the long day. You don’t even know what time it is - only that it’s late. Past the twinkling stars kind of late. Way past sunset kind of late. So late that you think the restaurant may be closing but you’re not even sure. No one has left. The women are still happy, buzzed and delighted by the concoctions in their glasses. Still all lonely by the stage. Still knee-deep in the quiet place of Madame.

Still a silly fucking name.

“Bailey’s Colada then,” you drawl, running a hand through your messy curls. “And an extra shot of pineapple juice. I dunno.” You shrug, leaning into your hands as your elbows press into the wood of the bar. They’re cold, covering your eyes. Damp. Tense with the chill from the rain you just escaped. And eager to feel something grounding.

Too bad the bartender is still a bitch.

“I’ll give you one more try.” She thinks she’s so clever, smiling at you like that. She thinks she’s so charming.

You want to rip her happy eyes out.

You want to sleep.

“Just. Get. Me. A. Fucking. Drink.” Your gaze shoots daggers, piercing her right through the heart between the gaps of your fingers.

If you were any more aware of your surroundings, instead of just appreciative, then you’d notice that the only liquor they serve is the kind produced during the 1950’s. The popular drinks back in the day. True to the time. Devoted to the piece. Overall very good with details. But details are not something you have the energy to notice. And there’s not a damn thing on Earth that can tear you away from the drugged feeling of your eyes slowly drooping. Growing hazy with fatigue. Vision blurring. Body shivering, still dripping small beads of water from your coattails onto the floor. Distantly, you hear the bartender speak.

“Hey- are you okay?”

No, you want to say. No, fucker. Can’t you see I’m not okay? Just get me a damn drink and-

“If you don’t mind my interrupting,” a voice - deep, English, breaks through your haze. “I suggest a Tom Collins.”

Great. And I suggest you shut the Hell up.

“That work for you, princess?”

You want to reach across the bar and strangle her so bad that your cold fingers twitch, but something stops you. No- someone stops you.

“She’s exhausted, Leslie. Leave her be.”

Yeah. Finally a person who has a fucking clue.

You want to speak, and perhaps tell the person to go away, or throw your hands up in the air and yell ‘Halle-fucking-lujah!’, but before you can open your mouth, the seat next to you squeaks. It spins around, dragged lightly by a white-gloved hand, before it moves to accompany a figure. A figure with a lot of misplaced confidence and a lot of audacity. A lot of self importance and a lot of gall. A lot of… oh.

You swallow.

A lot of height, as well. A lot of height and a lot of elegance. She slips into the chair with practiced ease, placing her hands in the right places and her heels on the right rungs, tugging the chair to spin around and face- you. You. Of course you. You, who are the odd one out. You, who waltzed in from 2024. You, who are not one of them. You, an abandoned dog and you, who are cosplaying as a content human. Of course the stranger turns to face you. And of course she is beautiful. All pale skin and shining blue eyes and snowy curls pinned extravagantly atop her head. A jawline that is softer than fresh downy pillows and could cut glass if it grows tense. Long arms. Long legs. Red lips. A scar-so faint you have to squint-but a scar nonetheless. You wonder where she got it from. You wonder why you wonder.

“It’s palatable,” the stranger speaks. The tip of her nose moves with her words. It’s cute. She has a very distinct face. Sharp features. Eyes not too hooded but not too wide. They don’t look at you directly, and instead focus on a spot near your hand. On the mahogany, where it’s (thank god) clean.

The bartender turns her back to make the drink and you take that moment, away from her bastard prying eyes, to speak.

“I hope so.” It’s ruder than intended, but doesn’t seem to offend. Those red lips quirk into a smile, and she looks at you- finally- from beneath dark lashes. Her makeup is fresh. Her skin looks warm.

“The Amaretto Sour and Bailey’s Irish Cream only rose to fame in the 1970’s,” her covered fingers run along the smooth wood, “The Mai Tai, Tom Collins, and Sloe Gin Fiz, on the other hand…” She tilts her head, shrugs one shoulder, and flicks her eyes from you to the bar. It’s endearing, annoyingly enough. And you’re sure that for a second, the blush on her cheekbones is a figment of your imagination.

For some reason, you shoot her a wry smile.

“Lemme guess… popular in the 50’s?”

An auburn eyebrow ticks up, splashing feigned surprise across that pretty face.

“How did you know?” Her tone is pitched a bit too high as she gasps. A bit too hysterical. It makes you roll your eyes and look away, taking a moment to glance at the dark floor beneath your feet. You shake your head.

Maybe it’s her beauty. Maybe it’s her humor. Maybe it’s the fact that she understands you’re so tired you could fall asleep right there where you sit.

“Tom Collins,” the bartender steals your attention. The glass is full, sliding across the bar at top speed, and you can barely hope to reach out and catch it before the stranger’s white glove is stopping it from tipping right over the edge. Only a splash of the sweet drink spills onto clean leather. You watch. You get the distinct urge to lean over and lick it clean.

Just like any other mutt. Eager to lap up the scraps. Even when they’re not yours.

“Shouldn’t you be finishing up, Leslie? I thought the bar was closed.” Leathered fingers curl around the tall glass, squeaking lightly beneath the strength of her pressure.

“And why would you think that, Larissa?”

Larissa. Name fit for a dream.

The bartender doesn’t look too happy. There’s something acrid in her expression, something that pulls at her lips in a way most unpleasant. She looks sour. Jealous. Of her? No. No, not of her.

Of you?

Yes. Absolutely of you. You can see it in the way her green eyes shift- running from your face to Larissa’s and back again. Upset. Betrayed. Let down. It makes you want to smile. Larissa seems kind. The bitch behind the bar isn’t, you’ve decided. Not fucking kind at all. And you’re happy when Larissa’s pretty red lips stretch into a bright smile. The very lingerings of derision hide in the sweet lines beside her mouth.

“It’s a quarter after midnight, Leslie. And you close at-”

“11:30, yeah I know. Whatever.” And with that shit attitude, Leslie tugs the cloth from her shoulder and walks away; leaving you to your precious company.

Your precious company who takes the glass from the bar and holds it out to you, completely unphased by the cold condensation wetting her glove. It’s later than you thought it was, but you don’t have anywhere to be, do you? No. No, you don’t. So you hide your surprise and stare into Larissa’s eyes instead.

“A peace offering?”

Her smile, this time, is genuine. Wide and perfect, showing off those white teeth and the delightful little scrunch of her nose.

“Yes,” and the warmest chuckle rumbles up from her pale throat, “a peace offering.”

You nod and take the glass. It’s very cold, but you don’t feel it. Not when she’s looking at you like that. Watching you raise it in a silent toast and a quiet thanks. Her eyes follow you when you bring it to your lips, when you drink, and when you allow your expression to scrunch up only the tiniest bit. She lets out a loud laugh at the sight of that, and brings a large palm up to cover her open mouth, probably finding her exquisite joy to be too unladylike. You almost tell her to take it away, to allow herself to cackle freely, but it’s not your place. You’re just a dog. And you’re too busy swigging down more ‘zesty lemonade’ to pause and perhaps mention that her bright laugh is something to be marveled at. To be joined in.

You’ve never felt this way.

This way… what is this way? Amusement? No. You’ve felt that before. Happiness? No, because it’s not that. You’ve felt that - a long time ago. Contentment? No. You don’t feel safe. You don’t feel like you want to stay forever. In fact, you kind of want to leave. It suddenly feels too stifling. Too… romantic. Ah. That’s it. Romantic. Looking into those twinkling blue eyes and finding genuine intrigue there. Interest. She is beautiful and you want more. More conversation. More of her voice. Because there she sits, waltzing over to your spot, making your eyes widen, and giving you a drink. One that isn’t too bad either - after getting over the initial tartness that sort of stings your tongue. And she just sort of expects you to be okay with it? To not want more? And more? And more? You are a dog and you want to tell her that.

I am a dog, Larissa. I have learned to be desperate. I have known what it is to want for more. Can you give me more? Just another smile for a sweet stranger?

“I don’t mean to laugh,” her voice is gentle, becoming clearer once she takes her hand away from her mouth, “but your face was- it was…”

“What?” You lick your lips, tilting your head. “What was it like?” And you can’t help but pull another face, exaggerating it, crossing your eyes and frowning, smoldering, and sneering all at the same time. Thank goodness it seems to do the trick as in the next moment, you hear a surprised stuttering laugh fill the air. It makes for the most beautiful harmony with Madame’s soft piano music; lilting and light and gorgeous. A silver lining. A golden undertone. You follow in her beautiful steps and join her in laughing.

“Was it like that?” You grin, taking another sip. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Larissa gasps and nods, pressing a hand to her chest, “Precisely.”

Your combined chuckles eventually fade and silence falls like the rain outside. Softer, now. A light brush against the windows - like the storm decided to calm as soon as Larissa sat down beside you. But that’s a silly thought. Storms don’t bend to the actions of women.

Except, you ponder, watching Larissa pick invisible fuzzies off of her beige coat, they may make exceptions.

“Where are you from?” You say it so quickly you don’t even realize it comes from your own mouth. Just your luck that your inner thoughts betray you.

But Larissa only looks charmed, and possibly grateful for a conversation starter. She straightens up in her spot, giving you her full attention. It is excruciating. It kills the shivering you’ve been indulging in since your outside excursion - and fills you with something just short of… giddy.

“The United Kingdom originally, but Vermont is where I stay now,” she responds, resting her palms along the bar’s edge.

Vermont? Odd.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Long way from Vermont, aren’t you?”

Those red lips twitch with the ghost of a smile. True, you think she says in her head. Very true.

“Indeed,” blue eyes sparkle, “I figured I needed a holiday.” She tilts her head and you know the question is coming. “Are you a long way from home as well?” It’s a wonderful question. A good question. A perfect question, truly. You want to tell her yes but you’re not sure if that’s the truth.

“I-” Well. Abandoned dogs don’t have homes, Larissa. Can’t you see that in me? Can’t you recognize it? Don’t you know?

Apparently not. Her beautiful face is still open and inviting, unshaded by judgment. Unperturbed by your unfamiliarity. You don’t know how to react to that. How to respond to her kindness. Her patience. She is unknowingly opening a can of worms and you are knowingly staring at her, mouth flapping open and closed, trying to conjure up words that don’t sound like I have no home.

“Please don’t feel obligated to answer,” Larissa waves her hand in the air, “I understand it’s quite personal.”

Oh. How sweet you are to a stray.

“No, I just… I’m a little lost right now,” you admit with a sigh, tipping the glass back until you can swallow the rest of the liquor in one smooth gulp. Something shifts in Larissa’s expression while you lose yourself in the feeling of alcohol sitting in your throat. It’s a miniscule difference when you look at her again, but you spot it anyway. Sadness. Melancholy. Understanding. Pity. All scuttling around in the depths of her eyes and the furrow of her brows and the downturn of her lips.

Normally you hate pity. Normally you despise it. Normally you figure it isn’t for you. You don’t deserve it. You’re just a person with no wind and no destination and no path. You’re just a dog overdue. So why do you need pity? Why do you have it? Why do you get so angry at anyone who wants to give it to you? And why is Larissa any different? She’s still a stranger. Just one with a pretty face. And beautiful hair. And the most gorgeous voice…

“Doing a bit of soul searching then?” Her tone is intentionally light.

“Yeah,” the glass makes a small ‘clink’ against the bartop, “I guess so.”

Kind of. Sort of. Yes? And no. Whose soul are you searching for? Which life do you want? Why are you so lost, when they say that everyone has a place on Earth? Where is your place?

Do you have one?

“Why France?”

“Good question,” you shrug, not really knowing the answer yourself. “City of lights, I suppose.”

“Hmm,” Larissa nods, drumming her fingers against the wood. “City of love, as well. In case you haven’t heard.”

Yes. She’s right. Very right. You lick your lips and nod along. City of love, indeed. City of love with the way that dress looks on her, for sure. City of love with the way she looks at you, too. City of love with the way she smells. Like vanilla and jasmine. Strong, intense, a cologne that probably costs a million dollars - for a woman that looks like a million dollars. City of love. It’s written in the piano that fills your silences. In the air that breathes between your bodies. In the bubble of privacy that lives on when Leslie disappears from behind the bar with a heavy clang of its trapped door. She throws the cloth onto the wood, shoots one last glare at the two of you from over her shoulder, and fucks off into the dark of the stage area. Probably to pick up some other sad woman that’s just as lost as you.

On any other night, I may be the person she takes home. But right now I’m with Larissa. And that’s where I’m gonna stay.

“Not for her,” you snark, watching Leslie retreat before turning back to your company.

Larissa hums, but her eyes don’t follow the bartender like yours did. Instead, they stay on you. Glued to the side of your face, then to the full of your features when you give her a small disgusted expression. You’re rewarded with a light chuckle. “Yes, except for her,” she clears her throat. “Unfortunately, Leslie has always been…”

“Rude?” You start, putting an elbow on the bar and leaning on your palm, “Annoying? Flirty? Shitty? To name a few,” you roll your eyes, flipping your hand in the air.

Larissa only closes her eyes and snorts. “She has always been… eager? I guess that’s the right word. Eager.”

You don’t like the sound of that. Eager people are desperate people. Desperate people are loose cannons. They’d do anything for- well- anything. And Larissa is not an ‘anything’. Larissa is not a reward. And you are not a desperate, eager person. You are not a loose cannon. You’re just a lost one. A rusted lost contraption that was thrown off of the side of a pirate ship. Silly loose cannon, searching for land. No reward.

“For you?” The disapproval that colors your tone does not seem to surprise Larissa. In fact, it only makes her nod.

“Yes, I’m afraid. Though I can’t imagine why,” those broad shoulders of hers shrug, “I’m not nearly as fascinating as half of the women that grace this bar.”

That’s what you think.

“I beg to differ.” It comes out so confidently you kind of want to punch yourself in the mouth. What the fuck do you mean you beg to differ? What would you like to follow that up with? What would you like to say? Oh no, Larissa. You are WAY more fascinating than the people that ‘grace this bar’. You are WAY more intriguing. Leslie has good taste, sure, but a shit attitude about it. I can imagine why she fancies you. I can imagine why anyone would. Yeah right. You can’t say that. But you’re still curious, so instead of giving her a moment to register and respond, you ask the burning question. “How long have you been on holiday if you’re so sure?” But really the question is: How often do you come here?

The pink in porcelain cheeks has deepened. You’re sure it’s from your comment, but you refuse to allow the buzzing of your heart get any worse. It’s already filling your ears, drowning out the piano, and you yearn for the safety of contentment. The same contentment you didn’t feel before. Is this still romance? Or was this never romance at all?

“About three weeks. An extended stay. Though I must admit, I’m nervous about returning to work. I fear I’ve left it too long,” she frowns, twisting her lips in a way that says ‘But what can you do?’.

“Three weeks! What do you do for work?” If there were some more drink in your mouth, you probably would’ve spat it out by accident. Three weeks? Sort of a long time. A long time to be away from work and a long time to be alone.

Unless she isn’t alone… to which you’d actually like to leave right now if that’s the case.

There's hesitance in her eyes. "I'm... a school principal," she says slowly, looking away. “But I needed it. Prolonged stress isn’t good for me. Or for anyone, really.” Her voice softens, carried away by the music as she glances down at her hands. You get the strange desire to hold them. It pops up first as a soft urge in your mind before barrelling forward and pressing hard against the front wall of your thoughts. Reach out and hold them. Hold them. They are soft. They are the kind of hands that reach out and pet the strays. Feed the strays.

But you’re too scared you’ll bite.

“Preach,” you murmur, unsure of how to continue. What are the duties of a school principal? “But- ya know. Good for you I guess. Are you returning to Vermont soon?”

“My flight leaves at seven tomorrow. I’ll get back at approximately half past five in the morning if I’m lucky.”

“Hm. And if you’re unlucky?”

Another small smile.

“Then I’ll never get back.”

You find that to be quite interesting. She’s not worried about her job in a way that speaks to severe anxiety, but in a way that speaks to nervousness regarding her passion. Regarding the children she has to look after. The parents she has to (no doubt) reassure. The world that she is important in. The oil that runs through the machine. She keeps them going - and she has been gone for three weeks. You’re rather curious about the aftermath, and about the scene she will return to upon arrival, but it’s hopeless and misplaced. You will not see what happens. You will not spot the relief on her face. You will not know how life continues for her. Because she is leaving, this beautiful stranger, and she has a home. And you are a stray dog. Abandoned. Hungry. More, more, more. She does not want. She is satiated. Larissa has lived out her dream here, her relaxation, and now it is time to turn around and face the music. Return home. And be part of the family again.

How does that feel? Family?

“How long do you plan on staying?” She asks, looking just as curious as you feel.

A sigh rattles your bones as you lean your head back and push out your chest, relishing in the pops that run down your spine. Exhaustion is creeping again. You didn’t even notice it was gone.

“Probably… forever?” It’s not the truth.

“That can’t be true.”

“No,” you groan, “it’s not. So I don’t know. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll leave tomorrow, too. We’ll see, I guess.”

That pretty gaze burns into the side of your face. It is full of questions, even when you’re not meeting it, and you’re suddenly sort of scared to look at her again. Scared that she’ll know everything. Scared that she’ll realize what you really are. Not just lost, but hopeless. No way of being found. Because what will you do and where will you go? Nothing and nothing. That seems to be the answer these days. Nothing.

“Do you have any family you’re traveling with?”

Her voice is soft again. Colored with feeling. What is she feeling? Is it still pity? You glance at her, out of the corner of your eye, just to check. No. Yes? No. Maybe. Could be. Or it could be something else. Could be hope. Could be sadness. Could be something better. You can’t clock it, so you return with a question of your own. It stings you to say it- embarrasses you to wonder- but you can’t help yourself. You’re just a dog. You need more.

“Do you have anyone that will be waiting for you at 5 in the morning?”

Her eyebrows twitch for the smallest shade of a second. It’s barely there, but you see it anyway. You see how she frowns and recovers. Maybe that was too far. Maybe that was too blunt. Maybe you should just hold your fucking tongue and stop digging into other people’s business-

“Honestly? No. I’ll probably have to grab a taxi from the airport.”

Oh.

For some reason that’s worse. Worse than if she said yes. Worse than if she started to go on a tirade about a lover waiting for her. Worse than if she mentioned a gaggle of friends or even a coworker. How can she just have- that? That? A taxi? You can’t hide the way your face falls. You just can’t. And you can’t contain the way your heart breaks a little. Crackling like a burning fire, pounding away behind the frailness of your chest. Dropping pieces all over the floor of your innards as you see Larissa get lost staring into space. Probably looking over the different types of liquor bottles as she figures out how best to get a cab from the airport with the least amount of trouble. You kind of want to reach over and shake her shoulders. Take her out of her own head. Insist that it’ll be okay. But of course it’ll be okay - she never said it wouldn’t. She never made any indication that being alone was something she didn’t like.

However, she did walk over to you, didn’t she? And she did sit down next to you. And she was alone at the bar. So maybe the isolation is getting to her. Maybe she needs to go back home. Maybe you need to go with her.

Maybe you need to shut the fuck up.

“I don’t have any family,” you respond, figuring it’s only fair. “So it’s just me.”

Larissa gives you a distracted hum before she takes her eyes away from a place over your shoulder and moves them to your face. To your eyelashes and your eyebrows and your cheeks and your nose. You don’t know what she sees. Hopefully not a dog.

“And no prior commitments? No one waiting for you either?” She seems hesitant to ask, but you know it’s just because she doesn’t want to be impolite.

Oh, Larissa. You can’t offend dogs, Larissa. Others can but not you.

“No. No roots, if that’s what you mean.”

She nods. “I see.”

“Do you?”

A long leg goes sliding up to cross over the other and for a second, you’re lost in the smooth length of them. Her calves and thighs are gorgeous. The hem of her dress falls below the knee. A little restricting but classy. She is very beautiful. And slowly, as the night progresses, you’re beginning to fear what will happen when she leaves. Which is silly, because she’s still a stranger. She doesn’t even know your name. And she has a home to return to and you’re doomed for the rest of your life.

“I believe I do, yes.” And that’s enough of an answer for you.

From that sweet point on, you fall into silence.

The ambience of Madame hasn’t shifted in the slightest. The earlier smoke only renewed itself once certain cigarettes ran out - and the piano looped into another song. Probably playing over a speaker system you couldn’t see or a record player somewhere in the dark. No one takes center stage. No one leaves. It’s still empty drinks, empty hearts, empty heads, and full laughter. Easy chatter. Women getting closer. Women holding hands. Women with their palms on each other’s thighs. Women with lipstick marks on their cheeks. Women with perfectly pinned hair, like Larissa’s, are left with loose curls and messy ends - easily destroyed by a wandering hand or a particularly heavy kiss. You refuse to blush at the sight of that when you turn around and make eye contact with a woman at a booth, but your body doesn’t listen. Your body finds it scandalous. Your body finds it exciting.

There are no threats. There are no men. No shouts, no loud drinking, no busy football games, no beer-stained tables and hugs that hit a bit too hard. There’s no gag-worthy cologne and no clumsy feet stepping on the toes of ladies and no drunken asks for a number or company home. There’s only peace. Sweet and fragile, not even broken by the wind and rain that beats and floats against the windows. You wonder when the place closes if it’s already so late.

You wonder why there’s so many women.

“There was no um-” your throat grows hoarse before you clear it, putting a hand up to your mouth while you look at Larissa. She’s waiting patiently for you to continue. “There was no… advertisement? I guess? That said this place was- is it like… a lesbian… bar? Or something?” You sound more and more childish the higher your voice goes but Larissa’s smile is gentle.

“There’s no advertisement needed. Everyone knows Madame in Paris is a place of community acceptance. However, it’s apparently more popular in the Spring. Tourist season and all that.”

“Oh.” Oh.

Larissa’s brows furrow. “Something wrong?”

Well, yes. Sort of. Kind of. Uh…

“No I just- it’s not Spring now?” You frown, lifting your elbow from the bartop and putting your arm in your lap. What does she mean?

“No,” Larissa shakes her head slowly, stopping the light drum of her fingers. “It’s Autumn. November, actually.”

November? But…

“Huh,” you blink, “must be more lost than I thought. Weird.”

The very beginnings of a frown pull at those red lips, giving away her worry; and for some reason, you’re hasty to reassure her.

“But it’s probably just the exhaustion or something,” you huff out a self-deprecating smile, “No biggie. Maybe I’m like- too buzzed to comprehend. Or too hungry. I don’t know,” you gesture to your head, waving off the concern that she was going to show you.

But it doesn’t work.

“Perhaps you need dinner then,” Larissa tilts her head, looking at you from beneath her eyelashes.

In that moment, she’s perhaps the most glorious thing you’ve ever seen. Lit by low candle light. Shadowed by her own form of mystery. You kind of want to lean over and kiss her - which is weird, because her lips are just like any other person’s lips, and you’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly before. But dogs change sometimes, don’t they? Just like any other creature. Dogs change. And instead of wanting for more, they want for something different.

“Yeah. Perhaps I do.”

Your company takes a moment to look behind you, running her gaze over the interior of the restaurant. You see her blue eyes flit from couple to couple and group to group and crying woman to the next crying woman. You see her nose wrinkle when she spots all of the cigarettes and you see the twitch in her kitten-heeled foot before she’s uncrossing her legs and moving to stand. Every nerve in your body jumps to stand with her. To follow her lead and let her whisk you away. But you don’t know if that’s what she wants - and you don’t want to assume just to be let down. You don’t want her to look at you like ‘What the fuck are you standing up for?’ so you stay in your seat and watch her fix up her coat, straighten her gloves, and grasp the purse on the back of her chair. Everything about her is so elegant. Smooth. Maybe you’re hallucinating and she’s only a dream.

“I know a place nearby. Do you want to join me?”

You look from her hands to her face, caught frozen by the timber of her voice. Do you want to join me?

“Is- are you sure?” Your heart is screaming.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?” Larissa gives you a small confused smile.

You lick your lips. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Alright. Do you want to tell me on the way?”

No one ever asks. Everyone stopped a long time ago. There’s no need to wonder, to know, when everyone understands that you’ll just disappear sooner or later. Abandoned dog with an abandoned mind. But here she is asking - and it would be rude to ignore her.

“Sure.”

—

The weather is still brisk when you step outside. The rain is not as harsh and the wind not as bad, but the chill is just as strong. It seeps through your coat rather quickly and you have to shove your hands in your pockets to hide the way they shake. Larissa seems to be faring much better, walking along at a steady pace and adding to the clicks your boots leave behind on the pavement. Despite the dreary weather and the dark sky, threatening to break with another downpour at any moment, the streetlamps are beautiful. Guiding you both through the midnight haze and the swiftly settling fog. You feel like a ghost, floating along there by your company’s side, trying to keep yourself from staring up at her. The bar’s seating apparently did her no favors as when she stood up and led the way outside, you nearly tripped over yourself upon noticing the height difference. She is… she is something extraordinary. You wonder why you’re the one there beside her. Maybe Leslie had a better chance. Maybe you’re just a placeholder until she leaves.

“Are you going to make me guess?” She says eventually, pausing mid-stride to look down at you.

There’s only a few inches difference. Maybe a near foot. You’re not sure. You haven’t asked. But you want to. Curious dog.

“Sure,” you shrug, amused by the way she sighs and continues forward. “It’s not that hard.”

“Elizabeth,” she starts.

Cute.

“No.”

“Emily.”

“No.”

“…Erin?”

“No. What’s with all the ‘E’ names?”

“Would you prefer I start at ‘A’?”

“Might make it easier.”

“Nothing will make this easier.”

The walk feels like it goes on for ages the more she speaks. One name after the other after the other. You smile at the ones that are close and snort at the ones that could never suit you. Larissa only rolls her eyes and tries again. It’s silly and fun and lighthearted and you feel something inside you lighten. Though maybe it’s the Tom Collins, finally kicking in after a day of no food and one boozy drink. Larissa doesn’t seem to mind your occasional giggles and huffs - she even joins you, especially when you almost trip over your feet walking along the curb and she has to reach out and tug you back from the street and the ground. Her coat is cold but her body feels warm. There’s a small droplet of rain that hangs off of a strand of white hair behind her ear and you’re desperate to brush it away, but you don’t. You can’t. Can’t gather the energy to reach out. Can’t gather the energy to get your hopes up. So you move away and the game continues.

Down the street, along this turn and that, through rights and lefts and around lamp posts and street lights and intersections and parks. Far far away and all over the place. You walk for so long your legs begin to twinge - and then she says it.

“Jasmine?”

“Nope.”

“Lilith.”

“No.”

You’re waiting for a stoplight to turn red, but Larissa breezes past you. Head held high. Strides long. Back straight. The world does bend for her. And so do you.

As soon as you reach her side, she takes a steadying breath.

“Iris.”

Why your heart decides to take that moment and skip multiple beats is something you’ll never understand. Maybe it’s just the way she says it. The way it tumbles off of her tongue and slides from between her teeth and disappears into the ether. Maybe it’s the look she gives you and the way she stops when you’re a bit too quiet for too long and the corners of your mouth can’t help but quirk up. You’re not proud of her - that would be silly - but she certainly looks proud of herself. If that slowly spreading grin is anything to go by.

“Iris. Is that it?”

You nod and watch as her nose scrunches up with joy and her gloved hands make little muted claps in excitement. You think you can get used to the way she says it. Like it’s something to be cherished - something delicate and soft. Iris. Eye-riss. Iris. Slow and measured. Careful. She wants to take as much caution as she can when she says it. And when she finally goes to resume your walk, she lets out a little hum and glances down at you from the corners of her eyes.

“It’s a lovely name.”

Oh, Larissa. You’re killing me here.

“Larissa is nice, too. Very… elegant,” you respond, trying desperately to take the attention off of you. It’s been so long since you last heard a compliment like that, you’re unsure how to react. How to be normal about it. How to stop yourself from circling her body and pulling her close and pushing your head against her chest to listen to her heart. To see if she’s real. Because only fake people pay attention to strays - and she’s too wonderful to be anything aside from a figment of your dear imagination.

“That’s very kind of you, Iris.” Oh say it again. Please god, say it again.

But she doesn’t. And you don’t push it. And you don’t look at her for fear of bursting into flames. And you continue your walk until you come across a park bench and you sit down - drawing her attention and luring her back over to stand while you rest your legs.

“Feels like we’ve been walking forever! Where are you taking me?” You glare at her, all playful looks and pouts.

“To my lair. Are you scared yet?” She shifts on her white heels and you can’t help but give her a small chuckle.

“Me? Scared of you? Yeah, right. In your dreams, blondie.”

“Oh you haven’t seen anything yet. I can be quite terrifying when I want to be,” Larissa defends, crossing her arms and cocking out a hip.

“Yeah. To school children maybe,” you grin, spreading your arms out over the back of the bench to sit comfortably. “But not to me.”

“Hm. Not yet, anyway,” her tone is airy, making you blow air out of your nose with amusement.

“Uh huh.” You pause, close your eyes to bask in the chill that bites at your skin, and then open one to look at her. “How tall are you, anyway?”

She towers over you there - standing beside the wrought-iron arm of the bench while you sit and crane your head back. Outlined in the soft glow of the park lamps, you begin to wonder if Larissa is not an imaginary friend or a ghost but instead an angel. She certainly looks the part. You really wouldn’t be that surprised if huge ivory wings sprout from the defined lines of her shoulder blades.

“How long have you been wanting to ask that?” Oh, she’s teasing me now. You roll your eyes.

“Since you first stood up.” The truth is always best. And it makes her smile softly.

“Six foot, three.”

Your lips part, falling open before you catch yourself. Six feet and three inches?! Jesus, woman. You swallow around your delighted shock and push yourself off of the bench - bringing yourself to your full height on the backs of your heeled boots.

“There’s no way,” you snark, crossing your arms.

“Oh really?” Those red lips grow into a smirk and never in your life have you wanted to feel something more. Never.

“Yeah. Really.”

And of course that’s how you sign your heart away - for a split second later, there she stands. So close you can smell the old wine on her breath and see the individual lines in her face. It’s only half lit by golden light, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beginning to think your eyes were made for seeing her. And you’re beginning to think your body was made for standing so close. She smells like the rain now. Like the rain and the stars, which twinkle brightly behind her head as you resist the urge to step back and look at her. There is no backing down from this. There is only matching her height head-on, even though that’s impossible. But that’s the joke. So you move to stand on the tips of your toes and get into her personal space and only when you do, do you realize your mistake. She’s even closer. And her blue eyes have gone wide. You see a deep black abyss take over the oceans of her irises and suddenly, you think your name is very inadequate in comparison to the gorgeous cerulean of her gaze. To the way it envelopes you and electrifies you and warms you all at once. She is a vision. She is everything you want to look upon. And her eyes dart between your own, carrying shock and admiration with them. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what’s happening. This doesn’t feel like romance anymore. This isn’t contentment. You don’t know what this is. You don’t know why you want to lean into her and fall.

And you don’t know why she decides to pull away.

“I’m sorry,” she says so quickly, so quietly, you think it’s just a whisper of the wind. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Her eyes are still wide, but they’ve been captured by something terrible. Something sad. You open your mouth - to say what? - you don’t know. But she’s taking a few steps back and you close it. Her hair is still perfect, but there’s one strand loose. It flits wildly in front of her ear. A sign of her loss of control, perhaps. A sign that someone got through. She’s not a guarded woman and yet she is. She’s not private and yet she is. You didn’t have the deepest talk of all time and yet you did. You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to say to get her to stay. So you just say her name.

“Larissa-”

“It’s been very nice to meet you, Iris,” she murmurs, interrupts, clears her throat, and adjusts the purse on her shoulder. Those blue eyes glance around madly, like she’s scared of being caught. “But I’m afraid I have to go now. I have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Your flight leaves at seven.” You don’t know why that’s the thing you say. You don’t know what that’s going to do - but before you can even hope to say anything else, she nods and looks at you again. With unwavering strength. With a hint of an apology.

“Yes. It does.” Her lips press together firmly. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

And with that whisper, softer than the distant break of your heart, she’s turning around and walking off into the rain.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Lazily waves my hand around before walking away. - Rip x

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TAGS (please keep in mind Tumblr won't allow me to tag certain accounts): @oddball21 @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @opalthefrog @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @erablaise-blog @bellatrixsbrat @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @lex13cm @sugipla @hasthebaconinhispants @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @eveymay @one-pining-queer @azu-zu @niceminipotato @hopelessly-sapphic @barbarasstar @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @ladylarissaweems @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @h-doodles @zillahofviolets-bayolet @weemssapphic @the-bearr @amateurwritescm

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vexcor · 2 years

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You know, I've seen so many prompts and fics that involve Danny looking uncanningly similar to the waynes despite not being related, that the batfam themselves believe he's some sort of clone.

But I've actually never seen the same prompt done with Superman, of all people.

I mean, come on, black hair, weird blue eyes that glow a bit too much. Let's not forget the basic powers.

So first would be Clark spotting Danny somewhere in public and going "Wow a teenage version of me". He goes to walk on with his day but backpedals mentally.

Realization "Wait a teenage version of me?"

The second thing that comes to my mind is that Clark somehow spots Danny breathing cold mist onto a hot drink to cool it down. Hijinks ensue after that.

Super strength? Check

Laser eyes and laser hands (do we count that Danny can shoot lasers from his butt? Yes? Ok)? Check

Clark would probably think he's a meta at first, but then add the menagerie of powers and the idea that the kid might be a kryptonian on some level start to creep into his mind.

Until he sees the powers that Kryptonians don't have.

Invisibility?

Density Shifting? (Intangibility, but potato potatoe)

Minor Shapeshifting?

So he recaps.

Kid he doesn't know looks like a younger version of him that is going through a teenage phase.

Kid has most powers Clark has and some he does not have.

The weird color inverting transformation.

Que mental math gone wrong resulting in:

"Oh this kid is obviously some sort of clone that was experimented on to get more powers"

Who knows? Maybe Clark has the kid on careful watch and surveillance until a JL meeting where everyone catches up and he probably goes.

"Oh yeah I've been seeing this kid that looks like me and I think he might be a clone but also he may have martian DNA because he has powers I don't have and-"

#danny phantom #dp x dc #dp x dc prompt #superman totally freaking out #who cloned me this time?#Actually I think he might barge into lex's house #like an angry ex asking about a child he wasn't told about #clark is probably still a bit put off by clones but the previous #ahem #experiences #may have made him more accepting of the possibility #martian mandad and superdad on the case

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angryrantsofdomesticity · 2 years

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The Science behind Erasure

-it's actually ingenious!!

SO recently I wondered....if Aizawa does hero work after hours...does that mean he also has increased night vision?? Because it wouldn't makes sense for a hero who relies on his eyes to work at a time when he can't see....right?

(this led me on a scientific deep dive because I am a huge nerd.)

As we know, Aizawa's eyes light up (red) when he activates his quirk. It just so happens, red doesn't glare like other colors of light do. This means red light makes night vision easier. Why? Because your pupils don't need to re-adjust between the light source & the dark around you! This reduces eye strain & keeps your field of vision clear & consistent at night, while still illuminating your path!

Simultaneously, red light is difficult to see at a distance so it'll help keep your position safe from possible attackers. This is why military flash lights are usually red!

So YES!... Aizawa's quirk can improve his night vision... By acting like a red flashlight! But that's not all!

Then I started thinking of HOW his quirk works...He stares at someone, his eyes glow red, his hair floats...and somehow the enemy's power stops working??

As we know, Erasure deactivates the enemy's quirk gene. This happens when Aizawa glares at them. But HOW can he deactivate a gene by only seeing the outside of the body? Especially since Erasure doesn't erase physical mutations??

Turns out, red light has a longer wave length than other colors, allowing it to penetrate the body more easily! In fact red & Infrared light (invisible to humans) is often used in medical imaging to detect things like veins and blood vessels beneath the skin.

Simply put Aizawa's quirk penetrates the body kind of like an x-ray. The reason we can see his eyes light up, and NOT the target being illuminated( like the picture on the left below)?? It's because he likely also emits red light that crosses over into infrared spectrum. So the red light that actually enters the body is invisible to the naked eye.

However real x-rays fall on the opposite side of the light spectrum under Ultra violet light. They not only enter but pass through their target, So to be clear Aizawa probably does not have x-ray vision. You may have also heard of Infrared in terms of night vision goggles. Aizawa likely does not have thermal/night vision either. His eyes only EMIT visible red light which allows him to see better in the dark & Infrared which enters the body.

So while Aizawa's glowing red eyes may at first seem like a meaningless, but cool, feature of his quirk, it's really the tell into how erasure works!

However, glowing red eyes only tell us how aizawa's quirk REACHES the gene, not how he switches it off! So how does he do it?? With an electromagnetic field! The light spectrum is a small part of the larger electromagnetic spectrum & the only part of it visible to the human eye!

So, how do y'all know I'm not just making this up?

Because his hair floats!

What's the most familiar electromagnetic force humans encounter on a daily basis?--- STATIC ELECTRICITY! When aizawa switches on his quirk he essentially becomes a cat being rubbed with a balloon! The carbon nanofibers in his capture weapon conduct static electricity so that floats too!

Aizawa's Erasure works by emitting an electromagnetic field, which like the infrared light, penetrates the body of his target! Now that we know how his quirk reaches the inside of the body, the question is how does it disrupt the quirk function?

As it turns out, electricity can be fired at DNA to switch Genes on and off in real life! So Erasure specifically targets the quirk gene and immobilizes it temporarily with electricity!!!! That's crazy!!!

Since we know Aizawa can't erase the quirks of heteromorphic types it's safe to assume it's because physical mutations effect more than one gene & Erasure specifically targets a single quirk gene.

If Erasure got into the hands of AFO it could easily mean the end of the world, or any one who apposes AFO for that matter. Sure AFO could use Erasure as Aizawa does, but he could also scientifically manipulate it to target genes OTHER than the quirk gene. Meaning he could kill you, or even make your body fall apart, with just a look.

Congrats you made to the end! You now have a PHD is Shota Aizawa.

#shota aizawa #bnha analysis #eraserhead #erasure #boku no hero academia #mha #my hero academia #mha analysis #science #boku no hero academia analysis #eraserhead bnha #aizawa #aizawa shota #bnha meta #bnha manga #bnha anime #mr aizawa #bnha memes #bnha

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technologyculturedneo · 9 months

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It Burns | Lee Mark

"I bet you if the roles were reversed, if I went out there and fucked another woman while you were here with our child- you wouldn't even spare a moment to listen."

Pairing. Boyfriend!Lee Mark X Girlfriend!Reader

Genre. Angst. Established couple. Break up. Lovers to ex's.

Synopsis. With your half naked pictures circulating around social media, Mark waits for you to get home to have a talk.

Warning. Minor cusses. Low-key smut. Breakup. Your heart might get broken.

Playlist. Nct Dream My first love. Literally First burn Hamilton.

Part 2: It burns: The second time around

"So dad, you finally noticed," Mark's low chortle is a result of his 9 year old son, standing next to him reaching the height of his shoulder. Looking up into his dad's eyes, with sleezy cocky eyes he speaks. "You're getting old dad,"

Mark shuts his phone, chugging it into his pocket while looking for some stashed biscuits in one of the kitchen cabinets. "What? You think I'd feel intimidated by a shorter version of me?" His sister sent him a message, but it'd have to wait- especially since his son is feeling like a gigachad and is ready for his late night dessert.

"I'm a better version. Built differently from the ground up,"

"Boy please, you know you're built from the DNA of your mother and I," Mark plays along and moves to the next cabinet with his son still following. "Speaking of which, it's about time your mother gets back, don't you think?"

"Look at you avoiding the topic," his son smirks once before turning serious and looking smug. "Face it old man, soon I'll take over,"

"I'm not going anywhere," Mark, with another low chuckle, finally finds the stash in a medium sized basket. In a mocking tone Mark says, "Now mummy said, you'll get one, but I'mma be cool and give you 5 since you've grown a little,"

"A little?" His son pulls of a smolder causing Mark to stare at him in amusement and confusion. His son is a comedian. Mark tries to be serious... but his face exposes him as someone seconds away from bursting out in a laugh. "How does that make you feel dad?

Mark leans on the counter platform while his son tries to be cool and eats from the packet of his chocolate biscuits still dipping it in his milk like a child. Mark tries (evidently) hard to wipe the smile of his face and be serious, but he can't help when his shoulders shudder and he laughs.

"I'm a successor. Isn't that why you and mum made me?"

"Ethan, you're 9 and I'm 24. I'm a classic. Buddy you're just a remake no one asked for. A lazy cash grabber if I may add," Mark jokes maintaining his composure when Ethan, his 9 year old son does a 'pfft' in disbelief.

"You only exist to mow my lawn for free," Mark gets Ethan in a headlock ruffling his hair.

"What do you think I am? Child labor?" Ethan peeks at his dad with such smooth eyes- almost trying to charm him.

Mark ends up just looking at his son with a smile, not minding the almost so called intimidating persona. "It's called an allowance son, it's for you to know your place in the house,"

"My place?" Ethan scoffs getting back his smirk. In that moment Mark thinks to himself how he should cut down Haechan and Ethan's meeting time. Slowly but surely Mark can see Haechan in his son, and that's not something he'd be too thrilled about. It'd be fun, but Mark wouldn't be able to take his own son seriously- just like Haechan. "My place will soon be the man of the house,"

That's Mark's cue to laugh out loud standing up straight and smacking the back of Ethan's head. "Should I remind you who's in charge?"

"Dad you think those old tricks would still work on me?" Ethan stands in front of his dad with a proud and arrogant smirk. He's probably enjoying this as much as his dad. After all Ethan enjoyed fooling around with his dad- more than you, his mum. "I've outgrown you father. I'm sleeping on my own tonight. No need to tuck me. Be sure to tell mum I closed the light." And with that Ethan winks with a clicking sound leaving his lips. "I guess I should be the one telling you then, it's passed your bed time daddy."

Mark stands in amusement, astonishment and shock. He can only chuckle to himself once Ethan is gone. "Did he just call me daddy?" Staying alone in the kitchen, Mark reminisces on the conversation he had with his son and can't help but faintly chuckle every time. His son always seemed to amaze him every time. And tonight, he would definitely fill you in on Ethan's humor. "He thinks he has rizz,"

When he mentioned he had a day off today- he was expecting a netflix and chill with you (as he rarely saw you because of his tight work schedule) yet you were quick to exclude him from your plans with the girls and needed him to watch over Ethan. He didn't mind, he was relaxed about it too.

He takes a seat after drinking some water and checks the time.

You should've gotten home by now. But for some reason it's past 10pm and you're not in the house. Mark sighs and shrugs his shoulders deciding to wait for you in the living room.

But when time went by and he fetched Ethan like he normally did on all days, he thought you'd be home since Ethan finished school around 4pm. You were always home around 4-5pm. So naturally the house was always vibrant whenever he came home, but this time when he came home and the house was the same as he left it- he was a little downcasted but shrugged it off and made food with his son.

Well from there on, it became a regular father and son afternoon. Which again, Mark didn't mind.

Despite his hectic schedule, Mark always tried and never failed to make time for both his girlfriend and son. And this time Ethan got a whole lot of time with his dad.

Everyone was happy.

Mark checked in on you a couple of times, to which you responded with how you were alive. Mark smiled it off adding how he wanted you to have fun.

Honestly, Mark partially felt guilty most of the times when it came to you.

At the time, he was only 16 and you were 15. What the hell could the two of you possibly know about sex? It was an experiment you both tried. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Nothing wrong there. The problem is, it only takes one time for a seed to be planted. Neither of you had condoms, and were both sure that you weren't going to be pregnant.

That's until, the bump started to form.

Although it wasn't Mark's body, he was anxious. You kept brushing it off saying that it's because you loved eating like the food hungry pig you were.

But when days and months passed, and your friends jokes began to simmer down, and his friends would start making jokes of you actually being a mum, and your parents began worrying- it was bound for you to start taking things seriously.

There's no way you were pregnant. Mark was positive of that fact, mainly because he was religious and kept believing that it was a mistake and that God wouldn't let that happen.

You secretly went to the store with him to buy a pregnancy test. The cashier was surprised seeing you and him but you both joked it off that it was for your mum. So being safe at your house, you peed on the purple stick and both you and Mark relaxed and waited for the results. Nothing could prepare you both for the results of the test.

Mark claimed that it had to be fake and that you needed to go to the hospital. He went with you, hand in hand like the loving boyfriend he was and made sure to be more calm while you were freaking out and afraid of the results and most worryingly- your parents reactions.

There was nothing you both could do when the results came out. Your lips kept trembling. You wanted to cry- and you did cry.

You were pregnant.

Mark impregnated you.

The girl who got pregnant at 15.

Despite him always being the sweetest of boyfriends you could ever have asked for- you hated him. And you made sure to let him know how he ruined your life. Every word you said, every action that came after was a result of the shock you had after receiving the results. But your words were still in Mark's head. Permanently. And to this day Mark felt partially at fault that you never had a normal teenage life.

Despite your confidence, once you found out you were pregnant you were crushed at the rumors spreading about you. They always say that the only voice that's loud is your thoughts, but actually it can also be a bunch of strangers that you don't know. Everyone talked about you.

The girl who dropped out of school.

The disappointment child who threw her future away.

The dumb girl who forgot to use rubber.

You were slammed with comments virtually, physically and even inwardly.

Your parents, despite the shame you brought them, stuck to your side. Even though the comments of them being unfit and unworthy ran around their own respective families...they never let you go or talked down on you. And you were thankful for that.

Mark on the other hand; He didn't get worse of a treatment as you (it's what you like to believe). In fact no one even knew him to be the one who impregnated you. Except your friends and his friends, no one said a word to him. However, his parents weren't so supportive. They reprimanded him. And you know just how much Mark's parents mean to him, so for them to cast him out into the streets broke your heart. And bit by bit, you became calm and stopped telling him that you hated him and that it was all his fault.

Your parents took him in, and you both dropped out of school.

Without qualification, he managed to find work and has been working ever since. Despite Mark and his parents relationship being broken, his father was generous enough to continuously tell people that he had a son who was looking for work. Despite his father not seeing him- some of the best opportunities that came Mark's way were a product of his father's.

And with that, Mark made sure to never disappoint but rise to the table and make ends meet. For his girlfriend, his girlfriends parents, his parents, and of course the unborn child which they both chose to keep.

Mark was financially smart, so investments into right businesses, and profits in right settlements all came together and he was finally able to take care of his girlfriend and 2 year old child without being a hindrance to your family.

They never said it to his face, but he knew they accepted him into their house because you talked them into it.

But through it all, Mark never had a hard heart. He was remorseful and kept trying to make it up to you, your family and his family (who were slightly on communication terms...occassionally they wanted to meet their 'grandson' and Mark and you.)

It was awkward going from a solidly good relationship with his parents the moment you started dating, to being in whatever zone is going on between them and you. They don't hate you, but they're not saying much to you or Mark. They visit Ethan once a year and aren't that big into his life, our yours or even Mark. You don't know exactly how to feel.

But Mark doesn't wear it over his head, or shoulders...he's always....okay.

Which is why at 3am, driving back in an uber to your house (where you believe your husband could be sleeping) you try not to get too worked up and panicked when noting that all your drunk/texts (screenshots) and hinged pictures of you with your... You choke up on your tears and fan yourself for the tears to go away.

You told Mark you had to spend time with the girls- but really you had to resolve matters before it got out of hand. You've failed to resolve the matter, you've failed to keep it all at bay with Jaemin (a man who's not your boyfriend), you've failed in keeping Jaemin just as a secret. And now the whole of the internet has an idea that you were sleeping with somebody else's boyfriend, while you had your own. Shivering, still with tears in your eyes you look at your phone and try not to cry.

You breathe in and out calming yourself down, trying not to dsiplay emotions on your face. "Mark isn't gonna kill you. He won't get mad. You're okay, okay? Don't cry," You repeat over and over earning cryptic looks from the uber driver. But you could care less about that. Right now your mind is on the floating pictures all around social media with your best friend (the same person who released the pictures) Ryujin's caption:

Since you like meddling in people's relationships so much- why not spill a couple of your secrets too </3 Bitch who slept with my man.

Actually it's by grace, chance, luck that you and Mark stayed together. After finding out you were pregnant, some weeks passed and you both came clean to your parents. Mark was always there despite your anger, but lowkey even if you never said it out loud you were happy to always have him even in your roughest of moments. And right now, you hope that he can be understanding.

You don't want to hurt him. You don't want to break his trust. You don't even know why you kept meeting up with Jaemin when everything was just so perfect with Mark.

Paying the driver, getting out the car and stepping onto the porch of the new house Mark bought a week ago, you sigh out when seeing all the lights closed.

Walking up the drive way and using your key to open the doors, you pray in your head that Mark is sleeping.

Locking the doors, you make your way, tip toeing through the hallway to the living room and passed the kitchen... where Mark is seated while gripping tightly onto his phone and covering his mouth tightly.

"Mark..."

"Wait, I'm getting to the best part," Mark holds his finger up with a disheartened smile on his face and a dry forced laugh leaving his lips. "He said, can you come over and then you said, my boyfriend's out, why don't you come over. And he responds with a giggling emoji saying what about your son, and you..." Mark huffs and bites on his lip shutting his eyes tightly.

When he opens them again, his clear eyes coat with glossiness. But he let's out another laugh. It sounds painful, heartbreaking and sad. You can only gulp your own lump.

"You said," Mark laughs lightly continuing to read on his phone. "You said his dad and him both went for a sleep over at his parents house. Come over... I'm... I'm lonely. I need you in me." Mark's face scrunches up in bitterness but a forged and forced smile stiffly remains. "He sent emojis, dirty ones. He sent a pic. You sent a pic. And then. You ask him to send the...pictures he took of you."

Mark can't help it, when the smile refuses to remain on his face and he simply bites on his quivering lip covering his eyes.

This time when his voice comes out, it's barely above a whisper, but you can still hear. Even worse because you can hear the pain laced in each and every deep rooted word he says. "Pictures in our room. On our bed. I bought this house last week, and you already invited him in? For how long?" He can't even speak anymore as the words choke up on his throat. "You said I was crazy,"

"Mark please," You quietly step into the kitchen with prayer hands while shaking your head and the tears making your vision blurry.

"You said I was crazy for even thinking it- but I saw the way you looked at him, the way you looked at my sister's lover." Mark breathes out again, a broken chuckle leaving his lips.

The guilt can't grow any higher then it is. You and Mark's adopted sister were always close since school- and when she introduced you to Mark you grew into an even stronger and tighter bond with her. So it doesn't make sense how you not only broke Mark's heart, but you broke Ryujin's trust as well.

"You didn't even have the fucking guts to tell me yourself? I'm guessing you broke it off tonight because you got caught in HD 4K - and you think you can talk your way into my arms right?"

His breathless laugh spreads in the quiet kitchen as he looks up with his eyes as glossy as ever. A vein poking on his forehead.

"You think you can talk your way into my arms because I'm such a nice guy right?" Mark sniffs and uses his back arm to wipe his eyes. "I need to get out of here-"

"Mark please don't go-" The tears slip quietly from your eyes while you hold onto him- your arms circling around his waist. "Please, I promise it's over. I didn't mean it baby, I love-"

"I can't even ask you if it's true, because it's everywhere." He smiles tightly breaking free from your hug and moving back to the counter. "But I'm still gonna ask you this, when were you gonna tell me?"

You try to move forward again yet he slams his fist against the counter. "Just fucking answer the question- don't touch me. Just answer it. When were you gonna tell me?"

"I promise Mark, I was gonna tell you," You pucker your trembling lips, your face breaking into an ugly cry just as you see his own tears coating his eyes again.

His eyes are on yours just for a second before he shakes his head and looks away. He sniffs and buries his face deep in his hands. "You wanna know what's worse?" He cries, but it morbidly turns into a laugh. He panes his gaze towards you, with the most broken look you've ever seen from Him. "These messages..." He covers his face before looking at you, his glossy eyes staring into your own guilty soul. "They date back to 4 years ago. You've been..." His eyes shut as the words fall out inaudibly. "Ryujin is my sister, your best friend. And you slept with him. I don't even know why I'm even believing and trusting in you when the pictures of your nudes are everywhere on my feed-"

"Mark," You words choke up as you take a step... stopping a few inches from him.

"Can you at least answer me why you did it?"

You shake your head taking another hesitant step- but immediately retreat when he sharply spins and punches the top drawers and cabinets. "Mark stop- please stop! Ethan is sleeping lets not wake him up-"

"Ethan?" Mark has to calm himself down, as he feels his emotions suffocating him. "You're going to think of Ethan now after you've just slept with another man? Fucked him for 4 fucking years behind my back and didn't have the slightest bit of remorse or even shame when sending your body- letting him take pictures of you bare and fucking you in my bed where I sleep with you, in our house-"

"I never meant for it-"

"Don't touch me, I can't-" He cuts himself off leaning over the counter only showing his back. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," His curses so low. "We've been together for 9 years Y/n," His face scrunches and he bites on his lip. "And you chose to do this now? What happened? Speak to me. I need to hear your voice, please tell me that I really I am going crazy- that it's a fucking prank- because my stupid mind, body and soul refuses to believe that you cheated on me,"

He turns around and you move forward hugging him even as he pushes you off- you still attach your arms around him before trying to hold onto his hands. You try to pipe up trying to fight back on your own blurry eyes. "Mark I broke it off please don't-"

"Broke it off? Are you sure? Because the pictures of tonight, and the- the texts of your slutty conversation- the graphical back and forth nudes you've been sending- all those pictures are on the internet- everywhere- and you're telling me you broke it off? You're dressed like that and are smiling in every picture with him and you're telling me you broke it off?"

His eyes are in shock, there's sadness in his eyes. Mark who never cries looks like he's at his last straw before the tears would start rushing down. It doesn't even help that seeing you right now only takes you back to the images of tonight and how you looked like you were enjoying the feels of the man's hands being all over your body all those times.

When you left this morning, your attire of an open back- black long fitting dress with a dangerously high slit- didn't bother him. However now, after the pictures he saw of that same dress in a restaurant whereby you were smiling and confidently chatting with another man- that same dress that the man couldn't keep his hands off your legs- made his body quake with anger.

You cry and beg. "Mark please understand, it's over please just forget it. I'm sorry-"

"Online they're saying I'm insecure just because I've got a fine fucking woman, who's enjoying her life while the dad is at home with the child," Mark's lips rattle as he shakes his head in disbelief. "I bet you if the roles were reversed, if I went out there and fucked another woman while you were here with our child- you wouldn't even spare a moment to listen- you'd tell me everything that I've done wrong- you'd never forget, but now because it's you- I should be understanding? Okay? I should be... Cool with it all- that my fucking girlfriend is now accessible to anybody's viewing if they just type in your name right? I'm supposed to not make a fuss because I'm suddenly insecure that my girlfriend can go out, bag some guys, drink and party like she has no family."

You can't hold your tears anymore as they pour out your eyes, your tone in shreds as you stummer out. "Mark I love you so much, I would never-"

His eyes in sharp disbelief peer into your own remorseful eyes. "Don't even lie to me, I'm not fucking naïve!" It's starts with him thrusting his arm far back and throwing his phone against the wall breaking it into millions of pieces just like his heart- before his emotions run wild and he hits on the cabinets. "You don't fucking love me! You don't!" When he picks up the stool and thrashes it against the drawers breaking it- you step back in tears knowing that he's at his peak of anger.

"If you loved me you wouldn't have gone out there!" His voice broken with tears, broken with anger. He hammers the toaster on the floor. Knocks over the trays holding the glasses. "Behind my back! You fucking bitch! Do you even know how much we've suffered to be together!? My house! On my bed! With another man! You don't love me! How could you even! You fucking bitch do you even know how much I love you!?"

Pounds on the cabinets, still yelling his heart out making you cry as you back up. "Mark I'm sorry-"

Thuds, punches, slams against the counter, the glass cabinets. "Does any of this even matter to you?!"

"Mark Ethan-"

"4 years! Fucking 4 years Y/n!? Even you! You let him touch you for 4 years! You let him take my place for 4 years! FUCK!" Mark can't even hear- and when he breaks the glasses in one angry whip he furiously turns to you. "My parents made me chose between you and them and I fucking chose you- they didn't kick me out- I walked out of them because of you. And this is what you do? Y/n not even tw-two years? 4 years!?"

Mark grunts loudly and runs his hand over his head while looking at you. "You told the whole world how you brought a man into our bed?" The tears of anger sprawl out all over his face before he corners you against the wall. "How will you even explain to Ethan the pain you put me through? The embarrassment you put our family through? The shame- we were your legacy! We are your legacy! We fucking became family and then you-! You are my love! 4 years!"

Mark can't control himself anymore. Not wanting to hurt her as she's crying- he balls his fists and storms out the house.

Ethan, worried, anxious, shocked, sad and scared, crouches on the bottom stairs looking as his dad slams the door shut after he leaves. Too afraid to enter the kitchen with his wailing mother, he goes up the stairs quietly, gets under his covers and tries to sleep.

22 Hours after...

Your leg is shivering and bouncing up and down as you stare at your phone. Your tears still stinging your eyes. You messed up. You admit that you've messed up. That you possibly destroyed one for the best relationships you could ever ask for. You cried non stop the whole night in the kitchen, you couldn't even be quiet about it. The kitchen was in shreds with glass and broken objects everywhere. You couldn't even blame Mark for getting angry the way he did.

You felt so guilty and his reaction only made you feel even more guilty. You tried calling him, but remembered how he broke his phone. You tried calling Haechan and begged him to help you- he was just as pissed off at you the way Mark and his friends (Chenle and Jeno) were. But you still begged.

When morning came, you tried to compose yourself as you helped out a quiet Ethan get ready for school. You walked with him to school and came back home with the idea to start cleaning. You ignored all of Jaemin's calls and even blocked his number. You were also afraid to answer any of your other friends who would obviously call you out on your stupid behavior. You just cleaned with your head clouded and jumbled with thoughts.

It's not when Ethan came home by himself did you find yourself in the living room, your leg bouncing as you stared at your phone. Ethan wanted to talk with his dad. And you just told him to change out of his school uniform and that by the time he came down, he'd talk to his dad.

But up till now, looking at the message that was sent to Haechan, you hold in your lips together as you sniff. You know he's found Mark. If he hadn't he would've called you. But since he's not calling, you know Mark's safe.

But none the less after you sent the message that you wanted to speak to Mark, you knew that that kind of approach wouldn't work.

So you type out:

Ethan quietly comes up next to you with a saddened face and his hands together. You don't even know what to say except having your tears coat your eyes. Mark was right. How would you even begin to explain to him? And judging with how everything went down, you know that he most likely heard Mark's burst of anger and all the words that came out of him.

Please Haechan, Ethan wants to talk to his dad

Please, just this once help me out.

Before you can even open your mouth, your phone rings and you instantly pick it up. Your eyes double take on the contact and you gulp.

Mark's mother.

You compose yourself and lick your dry lips as you try not to cry. When you place the phone to your ear, you expect to hear his mother but... "Ethan?" Mark's voice.

You place the phone on speaker and turn to Ethan, signaling him that it's okay to talk. And he does, but his words are so heart quenching that you have to look away. "Dad," He chokes up on his tears and sniffs. "It hurts, badly."

"What hurts so bad my son?"

"My heart," He whimpers out. "I know I said my place is to be the man of the house, but I can't do it dad. I can't be the man dad,"

Mark over the phone can be heard breathing in and you can tell he's shaking his head in sadness. He tries to sound upbeat, but the words themselves aren't linking to how he wants to sound. "No buddy, don't apologize to me. It's me who was at fault, I'm sorry bud, I'm so sorry," Mark's voice is fragile, and you can hear how heavy they are. "Daddy didn't mean to lose his temper and break everything."

Ethan sniffs again and he hiccups. "Are you and mum gonna get a divorce? My friends said that when his parents broke up he started living with his mum, but dad I don't want you to leave. I don't want to be the man of the house, dad please don't leave mum, dad please come back, dad-"

"Darling put your mother on the phone." The stern yet smooth voice belonging to Mark's mother catches you off guard.

"Yes ma'am?" You answer timidly trying to hold onto Ethan as he runs away from you hiding his tears.

"I've got 3 questions to ask you. Do you want to be with my son?" She asks off the bat.

"Yes ma'am." Your spine becomes straight as if she's right in front of you. "I love-"

"Are you willing to give Ethan up if per say you and my son had to breakup?"

"Ma'am please-"

"Are you willing to give Ethan up?" She asks more precisely. "Yes or no?"

"No, I can't-"

"What are you last words to my son?"

Your heart falls. The color fades from your face as though all the life you once had has been sucked out. "Ma'am please don't do this, I love him-"

"4 years is a long time and frankly, you put my son through a lot with your behavior and attitude. So it's either you say your last words, or I cut the call." Stiff and solidly cold is her tone to you as you cry. "You are not fit to be his anymore. You don't deserve my son-"

You hiccup, your eyes swelling up from how much you've cried. "Can I talk to him? Can I please just talk to him-"

"No."

Even before the call to cut, you can feel it in your soul. You can feel just how it painful, how it hurts and you can feel how your whole being burns.

-fin

Part 2: It burns: The second time around

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