#but I've never written stand alone scenes so it was hard to capture the correct vibe

[riverswater]

ohh i wanna know about the scene you'd write the abusive louis (love that guy) fic for! pretty please? your brain has the best ideas

Re: this ^

Harry/Louis, 1.4k words. Tw for general abusive relationship crappiness and thoughts of domestic violence

The sheets are soft under him – washed the day before. Jasmin and white musk. The taste on his tongue is pleasurable as well, sharp mint. A grumble rises next to him. Louis doesn’t turn around, doesn’t play out his part. No point in it: the room is dark, Harry is drunk. Drank five cocktails and an unspecified number of shots, and Louis knows his boyfriend is not a smart guy, but sometimes he wonders what his goal is. Louis never brings him home with careful touches or gentle words, not anymore, Harry must know by now. But, still, he gets intoxicated to the point where he is a danger to himself, and Louis has to leave the party early. Play the part in front of other people. Human mask on, Louis mask on. Whoever that is, he dislikes him as well. Spineless, helpful, loyal. Boring.

He’s sitting with his back to the wall, and he is bored. He will leave the room as soon as Harry dozes out, maybe could leave now, already, while he still whines and turns around, foul breath and sweaty skin, but Louis doesn’t want the risk of him vomiting in his sleep or something. That would be boring, too. He’s not done with him.

Once he’s out, he’ll call Zayn, maybe, or maybe he’ll just hit the town. Saw a guy, the other day: tall, blonde. Slender. His number is still untouched. He could–

“What did you say?”

The room is silent. The air still.

“I–” Harry splutters, wails, sighs. He doesn’t turn to face him, but he curls on himself, pushing his back closer to Louis’s legs. Louis instinctively moves his limbs back. Harry is sick, he always is after a party. Tomorrow morning he will vomit the second his eyes will open. Luckily, Louis has a morning class, and won’t be required to assist him.

“I said,” Harry’s voice is a rogue whisper. Too much vodka. Louis finds him nauseating, at times. “Sometimes. Sometimes, I wish you’d hit me.”

So he didn’t hear wrong.

Interesting.

Louis relaxes back on the mattress, laying on his side, propped up by his left elbow. The lamppost light filters in, and he can make out the lines of Harry’s curls, his nose, part of his cheekbone. His eyes are closed shut, his brows knitted. Louis grins.

“And why is that?” He’s pushing, he knows it, but Harry has been eating out the palm of his hand for months now. He hasn’t called his sister since Louis told him to, back in January. He has fainted twice, only during this last semester. Niall hasn’t tried to contact him in weeks. He’s all his.

“You…” Harry lingers, stops. His eyes squeeze more, his lips curl. “Maybe. Maybe if I had bruises.” He dries his forehead with the back of his hand, harshly, uncoordinated. “If. If you cut me, or something. If I had signs. Maybe. Maybe people would notice.” He spits out the last part of his sentence, holds his breath, and pushes his face on the mattress, hard. Louis hopes he won’t drool. He changed the sheets yesterday.

Louis waits. He knows there is more. Harry has always been one for the dramatics.

“And. And,” he repeats with emphasis, as if that conjunction is meant to mean something by itself. “And if they’ll notice. If they’ll know. Maybe they… They’ll try to. Warn me off. And be by my side. Make me see who...” he doesn’t finish the sentence.

Louis finds it almost sweet how he can’t bring himself to say it. Not in the dark, not with his back to him, not while drunk. He’s his. All for him.

Harry whispers, his face still shoved onto the mattress: “Maybe then I would understand. I would be able to… I would. To leave you.”

Louis hums, considering. He throws his head back, face to the ceiling, and imagines it.

Not now, no. Harry is too drunk and pliant. No fun in that. He couldn’t even bring his hands up to cover his face. Maybe after one of Louis’ afternoon classes, when he comes back home and finds him with his feet (socks off) on the coffee table. Harry hasn’t done that in a long time.

He would march to him, rage oozing off his frame, grab him by his shoulder and cloak him in the face. “If I had bruises”, Harry said. So they would have to be visible. On the jaw, maybe. His teeth would cut the inside of his mouth, maybe he would bite his tongue. He would spit blood after a single hit. And then, and then… The terror in his eyes. The tears – Louis knows he would cry immediately, he would beg, he would apologize. And Louis wouldn’t care. It's almost tasty to picture. He would throw him on the floor, kneel on either side of his hips, or maybe with one knee on Harry’s chest, pinning him down, and hit him again. And again. He can almost smell the iron in the air, feel the tick, viscous liquid staining his knuckles and his work shirt.

He could destroy him, he knows that. Harry is so weak. A gust of wind could push him to the ground. It wouldn’t be special, to do that. There would be no skill, no thought, no planification. He could break his teeth, crack his bones, carve him, even, isn’t that what Harry said – “if you cut me”. And still, it wouldn’t be interesting.

He has no curiosity about hitting him. He knows how it would go. Harry wouldn’t even try to defend himself. He would paint himself as a martyr and let it happen. Boring.

He rolls his head back, looking at his boyfriend again. Harry’s face is now resting on his pillow, his eyes open and vacant, staring at their bedroom door.

“You know what I think,” Louis tells him. He can hear the smirk in his voice. “I think you wouldn’t leave me. Even with broken bones.”

Harry shuts his eyes and draws a quick breath in. Tucks his face in his own chest.

“I think”, Louis continues, moving closer to him, his lips inches away from Harry’s right ear. “Oh, wait. I know that much. You wouldn’t leave me. Even if the whole world was on your side. You know why?” He grins in the dark. Harry’s breath is quick, shallow. Louis leans in even closer, whispering: “Because they already are. They tried to warn you, I know they did. But you came back to me. They’re on your side, alright, but you? You’re on mine. You’re not leaving me, bruises or not.” Louis’ smile grows a tad more. He’s all teeth.

It’s risky to be this open, but for all purposes and intentions, he’s talking to a wall. Harry is incoherent. He would have never let himself say any of that shit if he had any spark left in his brain. Louis can breathe. He can take his mask off and breathe.

“And the best part?” Louis continues. There’s a hint of laughter in his voice. “You know as much. You love me. You don’t know how to live without me anymore.” Harry is shaking. Louis is not sure he’s still breathing and doesn’t care. “So, this fantasy, where some other swings by and saves you… it wouldn’t work. You want this. All of it. You want me.”

Louis scoots down on the bed, not wanting to bolt the scene anymore. The sound of Harry’s panic fills the room. Louis remains still, arms down his sides.

“You won’t remember this tomorrow,” he says to the dark. “And if you do, I’ll call you crazy. Crazy. How can you think so little of me? You know I love you. You know I’d do anything for you.” He hums. “You’re my boyfriend, I love you. You know that,” he says that last phrase in his sweet voice, the one he uses in front of other people, the one that sends girls into fits of awwws and I wish my boyfriend was that sweet with me. “Say it. Say what you know is true.”

Next to him, Harry is still trembling, quick gulps of air at an irregular pace.

“Harry.” His sweetness is gone.

Harry stops breathing. Louis waits.

“You love me,” Harry murmurs, sleepy. Satiated. “You’d never hurt me.”

Louis grins. “Good.” He’s not bored anymore.