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ladyvader23 · 4 years ago

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The Tall Luke Conspiracy

The worst mistake of Vader’s entire career was letting the galaxy think his son was tall.

The boy was short. He always had been, from his childhood until he’d run away from home. He’d inherited his mother’s stature, among some of her other more stubborn qualities. Vader had always liked the height difference. Sometimes he pretended his son was younger than he was, much to Luke’s dismay.

But all of that changed because of the paparazzi when Luke was sixteen.

Vader had done his very best to shield Luke from the spotlight. He was therefore well aware of how desperate the media was to learn any information there was on the young prince. He coached Luke repeatedly on what to do if confronted by the mob, but he found that his son often wasn’t as up front about it as he should have been--mainly because he knew Vader would hunt them down and kill them.

Still. Luke had managed to evade the press, and it was usually a mere footnote in his daily briefing on the movements of his son through his spies.

At least, until he’d been forced to go off world. When he returned, his briefing on his son contained a tabloid with Luke’s picture on it and the title “Prince Luke’s Height Revealed!” in bold letters over the top.

He immediately sent for his son.

“What is this?” He demanded the moment Luke walked in.

A sheepish look appeared on Luke’s face. “Oh. Uh. No idea?”

Luke was a terrible liar. He always had been.

Vader scrolled to the headline article, scanning it quickly. “Then why is it that this reporter says they interviewed you and you told them you were five-nine?!”

Luke groaned. “It was an accident, I swear! It wasn’t even an interview, I got cornered--”

“You what?!” How dare they confront his son like that?! They knew who he was, they knew very well what he’d do to them and their entire miserable organization if they even thought about attacking Luke like that.

“It’s not a big deal. It’s just a height.”

“It is not even your height!” He knew exactly how tall his son was--five-five. He made sure to bring Luke to the doctor as necessary for check ups. He had since he was a little boy. He was well aware of anything to do with his son’s health.

“I panicked!” Luke held his hands out innocently. “I just wanted to get to school and it seemed like the most innocent question to distract them with before I made my escape! And it’s not even real, so who cares? They can’t somehow use it against me.”

Vader snarled, already making plans to take care of the reporters in question. “Next time, do not answer their questions and inform me or one of my spies immediately. We will handle this.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Luke mumbled.

Unlike Luke’s spur of the moment prediction, the height became far bigger news than either of them had thought. Even after Vader had taken care of the tabloid, other more credible news stations had reported on their prince’s height. Vader, mortified, immediately set up an appointment with the Emperor--he couldn’t very well get rid of the entire Imperial media, but the Emperor could silence them with a simple order. He had to take care of this; it was his son’s private business even if it was fake--

“Oh, I think the news is just what that boy needed.” Came the Emperor’s surprising--and infuriating--answer when Vader made the request.

Vader was silent for a few cycles, trying to choose his words carefully. “He is not five-nine.”

It wasn’t at all what he wanted to say. He wanted to say the media had no right to be snooping into a minor’s business, let alone a royal minor, but that was too much attachment. As it was, his master barely tolerated Luke’s life as it was.

“That is precisely the problem.” The Emperor growled. “Do you realize how embarrassing your pathetically small son is to the Empire? You, for all of your medical failings, are the perfect picture of strength and control.” He gestured to him. “Your son? He looks like he might get squished by a womp rat.”

Vader gritted his teeth against the Emperor’s insults against his son. Anyone else would be dead. “He is not done growing--”

“That boy is going to be short forever, Lord Vader. I have foreseen it.” Vader half wanted to ask if he’d specifically looked into the future to see if his son would grow or not, or if it was coincidence. “I will command all Imperial propaganda departments to proclaim five-nine as Luke’s official height. I do not wish to hear another word of this.”

So Vader was forced to comply.

And when, two years later, Luke betrayed him and defected to the Rebellion, he ended up regretting that decision.

While he raged and searched for his son across the galaxy, he employed numerous bounty hunters to assist. He ordered for Luke’s file to be given to any assisting, and he put a million credit “alive only” bounty on his head. In the moment, he’d forgotten about the ridiculous “tall Luke” propaganda campaign from a few years before--his sole focus was finding his son, convincing him of the error of his ways, and ensuring he never lost him again.

That was, until not only was no one able to bring him Luke, but he found out that many had actually captured Luke, only to let him go.

“You will tell me why you let my son go!” Vader snarled as he strangled a young bounty hunter. She’d actually sent him a holo proving she had him, but when he’d shown up to her ship, he was gone, and her ship crew had explicitly told him she’d let him go.

She struggled for breath, gasping as her skin paled. “Wrong....guy!”

Vader had not been expecting that answer. The holo had left him no doubt that she’d captured his son. He’d know him anywhere, even if he was dressed in Rebel fatigues. “Explain!”

She clawed at his hand around her throat. “He’s...five-seven!”

He stared at her. And stared. And stared, until she was lifeless in his hand. And even then, he stared, his mind roaring with the information she’d given him.

Finally, he dropped her, pulling his comm out before she’d even thudded to the floor.

“Yes, my lord?” Piett answered, standing to attention in the small image held in his hand.

“I need you to tell me what height is listed on my son’s bounty.” Vader ordered. He already knew, but he needed confirmation.

Piett was silent for a moment, and Vader watched as he checked for the information on his datapad. “All bounties and missing person files on Prince Luke show that he’s five-nine. Why?”

Vader closed his eyes.

Five-nine.

The boy, now eighteen, was five-seven.

He cursed Palpatine for allowing the Imperial propaganda machine to indulge in Luke’s tall-person fantasy. He cursed Luke for not listening to him when he’d told him not to engage with the paparazzi. Already, he could imagine exactly how Luke was managing to get away from everyone he sent after him:

“You’re Luke Skywalker!” The bounty hunter would say.

“No, I just look a lot like him.” Luke would retort. Force, Vader could imagine the smug tone in his son’s voice as he said it, too.

“I have your bounty right here!”

“I can’t be Luke Skywalker. I’m not tall enough.”

He’d insist until those stupid bounty hunters pulled out a measuring device to prove that he was, indeed, Prince Luke, and find that he was three inches shorter than the official Imperial bounty information.

“See?” Luke would say triumphantly, “I’m too short. But wouldn’t it be great if I was royalty? One can dream!”

Then he’d pleasantly chat the bounty hunter up until he was let go, and the bounty hunter would watch Luke fly away, probably debating on trying to pass him off as the real prince the entire time, not realizing they had, in fact, let Luke go. But the information on the prince had come directly from the Empire itself, from his own office, and he was his father--surely he’d have corrected that, right?

He wished a hole would open up in the floor and swallow him up. How could he have forgotten? He’d let Luke play his bounty hunters for months not even knowing it was his fault it was happening.

“My lord?” Piett asked, frowning. “Is there something wrong?”

Did he admit that he’d let the wrong height be published on all of Luke’s bounty information?

No.

It would make his job easier, but...no.

He couldn’t admit he, Luke’s father, had forgotten to put the correct basic information on the bounty for his own son. He had a reputation, and he wasn’t about to let Luke and his silly lie damage it.

“Place an order on all bounties instructing all suspects, regardless of how they look, are to be detained until I personally can inspect them.” He said instead. It would mean that he’d probably get contacted about suspects that most certainly were not Luke, but at least his son couldn’t keep exploiting the “Tall Luke” loophole.

“It will be done, my lord.”

He cut the transmission and glared at the body of the bounty hunter.

The moment I find you, Luke, he promised into a bond that had long grown silent, I will set straight your actual height on all Imperial material.

He could have sworn he heard the echo of Luke’s laughter, taunting him from somewhere far away.

#darth vader #luke skywalker #my writing #star wars #star wars fanfic #fanfic #tall luke conspiracy #crack

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spencersstrawberryjello · 3 years ago

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Scum of the Earth (Spencer Reid x fem!MC)

Summary: After a prison interview gone wrong, MC is left to recover from the disgusting things the prisoner said (with Spencer’s help, of course)

Content: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Mentions of violence related to crime, including rape and torture, as well as swearing

MC’s name and pronouns: no name mentioned, she/her

Word Count: 2420

A/N: Can you tell I watched Mindhunter right before I wrote this one? lmao

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“Pretty girl,” the man in front of me clicked his tongue, observing me from his position across the interview table, “The things I’d do to you…”

My hands trembled, but I forced myself to appear calm as I leaned in, a challenge in my eyes. “Would you do to me what you did to those girls?”

He let out a harsh laugh, one that sent a shock of fear straight through my body. He leaned back in his chair, giving me a shameless once over before he spoke again.

“Oh sweetheart, you’re better than any of those whores.”

“Whores? So you mean to tell me you weren’t attracted to them?”

“Of course I was attracted to them,” He scoffs, as if it was obvious, “How could I not be? No, I was attracted to them; I just didn’t respect them.”

“And you respect me?”

“Well you are an FBI agent, are you not?”

“People like you have a tendency to resent us more than respect us, if I’m honest with you.”

“People like me? You mean monsters. Is that how you see me, Agent? A monster?”

“Not monsters. I merely mean people in prison. We are the reason you’re in this hellhole, after all.”

“Dirty mouth,” He laughed, “Wonder what else you could do with that.”

“I -”

“You asked me if I’d do to you what I did to the other girls,” He leaned in now, his face inches from mine, his voice barely above a whisper, “The girls I raped. The ones that I tortured, that I murdered. Would you like to hear what’s running through my mind right now, honey?”

I couldn’t breathe, my throat tightening as cold fear coursed through my body. But my entire job was to figure out how this man thought. For research.

Nothing in my research could’ve prepared me for what he was about to say, though.

“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? To hear what’s running through your mind?” I replied. His mouth curled into a haunting grin, and he lowered his voice even more, as if he was trying to keep the people he knew were monitoring this interview from outside the room from hearing him.

“I’d take my time on you,” He started, his voice making every inch of my skin crawl, “Too good to waste…”

I had to force myself not to pull away as he began to detail exactly what he was thinking, his voice still too low for Hotch to hear him through the weak security camera microphones.

Never in my entire career did I imagine I’d be sitting across from vermin like him, listening as he described, in painstakingly visual imagery, how he’d force himself on me, how he’d torture me until I craved the sweet relief of death. How he’d finally murder me. My entire body was shaking, and I couldn’t do anything but bite back the nausea at the scenes he detailed for me.

I had half a mind to thank god that I remembered to turn on the recorder in my front pocket. There was no way that the mics on the security cameras were picking this up - there was a reason no one had pulled me out of the room yet - and the things he was saying were incredibly revealing, from a behavioral standpoint. But I couldn’t be excited about the new information when he was describing my own death in front of me.

It wasn’t until he reached up and ran his finger along the curve of my jaw that Hotch stormed back in. I hadn’t realized I was close enough to him for him to touch me, but I flinched away from his touch, making him laugh as guards returned to the room, pulling his arms behind his back and escorting him from the room as he laughed.

“Hope you got the information that you needed, sweetheart!” He called as he was removed from the area. I heard his laughter echo up and down the hall, and I immediately rose from the table, my hands still shaking.

“Can it, Lewis!” One of the guards demanded, but it was quiet as the sounds faded down the hall.

Hotch’s expression of anger turned to one of concern when he saw my expression, my face paled, my eyes far away.

“What was he saying to you?” He asked. I just pulled my recorder out of my pocket with trembling hands, holding it out to him and fumbling with the button to turn it off so I didn’t waste space.

“You can listen for yourself. I can’t -” I shook my head, trying to clear it.

“Ok,” He took it from me, slipping it into the pocket of his suit as he regarded me carefully, “Ok. Are you good to walk back out of here?”

I attempted to steady my breathing before nodding and grabbing my blazer off the back of the chair, slipping it on and following Hotch out of the prison. I felt a bit better with every step away from the prison we took, but his voice bounced around my mind, the scenes that my imagination created so vivid that I couldn’t seem to push them away.

Somehow, he knew exactly how to play on my history to get under my skin. He knew exactly what to say to make my skin crawl, and it made another wave of nausea wash over me just thinking about it. Because as bad as the horrors I’d just heard were, they brought about an even more terrifying question.

How did he know?

I had half a mind to ask, but there was a chance it was just a coincidence. I knew that if Hotch had any concerns after listening to the recording I’d made, he’d come to me about it. For the moment, I merely stared out the window, watching the scenery rush by on our way back to the jet. When we finally arrived at the airstrip, I wanted nothing more than to be alone.

Or at least, alone with one other person.

Spencer greeted us when we got back on the jet, and immediately he could tell that something was wrong. I was pretty sure my hands were still shaking, and he pulled me into a tight hug.

“How’d the interview go?” He asked. I wasn’t sure if the question was directed at me or Hotch, but I replied before he could.

“It was incredibly informative,” I broke the hug, pulling back to talk to the both of them, “His conversation directly with me revealed a lot about his thought process when doing what he did.”

“Directly with - you were in there by yourself?” Spencer immediately snapped his gaze to Hotch.

“Calm down, Spence, I volunteered to talk to him alone. You really think our resident Unit Dad here would just ditch me?” I joked, to which Hotch rolled his eyes as I continued explaining, “I thought that I might be able to elicit a more honest response from him if I was talking to him one on one.”

“Because you’re a pretty young woman,” Spencer stated, showing he understood my thought process. I just faked a scandalized gasp, one shaky hand on my chest.

“Dr. Reid, are you calling me pretty? You know, that’s very unprofessional behavior for the workplace.”

“I can think of some behavior that’s a bit more unprofessional,” He teased before pulling me in for a quick kiss. I heard Emily’s voice from behind us.

“Ugh, sit down!” She called. I offered her a choice gesture before moving away from Spencer, moving to sit in the corner near the back of the plane. Hotch held up my recorder as he walked by, signaling that he was going to listen to it and bringing the nausea back in full force.

I felt the color drain from my face again, though he didn’t notice. He’d already taken his seat, pulling out a laptop and headphones from his bag.

Spencer noticed though, from his seat across from me.

“Hey,” He grabbed my hands. I hadn’t even noticed they’d started trembling again. “What happened in there?”

“I - he’s a disgusting person, Spence. Like, scum of the earth disgusting.”

“Lewis?”

I nodded, and he moved from sitting across from me to sitting next to me, pulling me into a hug. I just buried my head against his chest, trying to distract my mind from the sound of George Lewis’s voice, and the images that came flooding back to me.

“What did he do to you?” Spencer asked. I shook my head.

“He didn’t do anything. It’s just what he said that shook me up.”

He was quiet, clearly waiting for me to continue. I drew in a shaky breath, not moving from his arms as I spoke.

“I… I was trying to get inside his head. I wanted to hear his thought process during the crimes the way that he viewed it, and I knew that using my femininity against him was the best way to do it. I was trying to get him to open up to me because he thought I was attractive…” I trailed off for a moment, the feeling of his hand on my face so real that I almost reached up to smack it away. I fought back the bubble of nausea rising in my stomach as I continued, going into as little detail as possible. “It worked, I guess. What he said was very telling.”

“Babe?” Spencer said after I fell into another lapse of silence. I pulled back to meet his eyes, and the concern in them stopped my heart, “What did he say?”

“...He described exactly what he would do to me if I were one of his victims. In painstaking detail, how he would rape me, torture me, kill me -” My whole body was shaking at this point, and I ducked my head back into his chest, feeling his arms tighten around me. “- I just can’t get his voice out of my head. Can’t get those images out of my head.”

“Reid?” I expected to hear Spencer respond, but instead I heard Hotch. I looked up to see him standing in the aisle, a dark look in his eyes, “Could I talk to you for a moment?”

“I -” He looked between me and Hotch, and I gave him a small smile.

“Go,” I assured him. I had a feeling that this little meeting was because Hotch had listened to the recording, anyway.

Spencer reluctantly got up, following Hotch over near the back of the cabin, where he’d set his computer on the counter. I watched as Spencer put the headphones in his ears, pressing play on the recording and listening. I couldn’t see his face, I could only see Hotch’s reaction as the clip went on, but Hotch looked pissed.

I mean, more than his resting pissed face, of course.

Spencer took the headphones out of his ears after a moment, slowly placing them back on the computer, his body language illustrating a state of shock. He glanced back at me, and I saw a dozen emotions raging across his expression. Of course, there were three that were the strongest.

Anger.

Shock.

And worry.

He immediately crossed the plane back to me, pulling me into a tight hug before moving to sit back down, still keeping me in his arms. He placed a kiss on the top of my head without speaking, one hand splayed on my back to keep me close to him.

“You listened to the interview?” I phrased it as a question, even though it was more of a statement.

“He never should’ve been allowed to say that stuff to you,” He said. I just shook my head.

“I provoked it. I wanted him to reveal what he was really thinking.”

“It still should never have gotten that far.”

“It worked though.”

“It worked at your expense,” He argued, “You shouldn’t have to do that.”

“I didn’t have to do anything. I chose to.”

“Are you ok?” He asked, the question catching me off guard. He pulled a bit back from the hug, prompting me to look up at him. “I heard the shit he said, baby. Are you ok?”

“I… I’ll be fine. It just really shook me up.”

“You're trembling - you have been since we got on the plane. You’ve been trying to hide it, but I noticed. And I can tell you’re trying not to be sick -"

“... Maybe a better way to phrase it is ‘scared the living shit out of me.’”

He laughed softly, leaning back against the arm of the chair before pulling me close again so I could rest my head against his chest. “That’s closer to what I’ve observed.”

We laid there silently for a moment, his arms wrapped tightly around me, one hand softly tracing indistinct patterns up and down my back as I felt his chest rise and fall against me. George Lewis’s voice echoed inside my mind, and I buried my head deeper into his chest, prompting him to hold me closer.

I was still shaking, and I wrapped my arms around him, gripping the back of his shirt to try to steady my hands. He placed a soft kiss on my forehead, and continued to run his hands along my back. The gentle motion was comforting as I forced the memories of the interview to the side, allowing myself to drift off into what I prayed would be a dreamless sleep.

-----------------------------------

“How is she doing?” Hotch asked. Spencer sighed, looking down at me now asleep in his arms.

“She was trembling, Hotch - I don’t know if I’ve seen something as simple as an interview affect her this badly before.”

“I know… is there any other reason you can think of that what Lewis said would have such an effect on her?”

He reflected for a moment, biting his lip and looking back down at me with indecision in his eyes. Finally, he looked back up at Hotch. “There could be. But it’s something you might want to talk to her about directly… it’s not really my business to share.”

“Is she in any danger?”

Spencer shook his head. “Just something that happened when she was younger. With her sister.”

Hotch nodded, giving Spencer’s shoulder a squeeze in a gesture of comfort before returning to his seat. Spencer returned to his soft touches around my body, his hands smoothing down my hair as I slept in a cold slumber.

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staywritten · 4 years ago

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Studio Time│Bang Chan

Synopsis: Your boyfriend is producing your groups comeback and you learn the downside of dating a perfectionist.

Genre: one shot, angst-ish? Happy ending, idol!Chan, idol!reader, fluff with more fluff at the end.

Word Count: 2108

I wrote this fic like 5yrs ago for a different artist lol But I re-read it recently and still really liked it so I re-vamped it for SKZ. Especially after that episode of Weekly Idol when the members said Chan was sweet to them but he was really serious when he was making music, so I figured this was the perfect fit.

When your label announced that your comeback album will be produced by Chan you weren’t really sure what to think. You prided yourself on keeping your careers separate, but on the other hand he was an amazingly talented producer and it wasn’t often that he produced for idol girl groups.

At this point of his career he was expanding outside of doing work for just Stray Kids. It was an opportunity at which both parties benefited. He could grow his portfolio in a way that wasn’t possible when just producing for Stray Kids and he was an up and coming name in the industry.

You two didn’t date publicly but your members and management were aware of the relationship, so some of the pressure was lifted. You didn’t have to pretend like you didn’t know each other.

Walking into the JYP building, you led your members to Chan’s signature studio. Despite coming to his studio pretty regularly, it was a little nerve racking coming to it for work. You felt just as nervous as you did when meeting a new producer. “Are you excited to work with Channie? How lucky are we! What kind of producer is he?” Your youngest member chimed, hooking her arm with you.

You nodded laughing, giving her hand a little pat. “I guess we are pretty lucky.” Not many producers would be open to input, but since your members had a close relationship with your boyfriend you figured the atmosphere would be lighter. “I’m not sure how he is as a producer honestly. He’s never let me see him work before. Like I’ve seen him make beats, but never recording.”

As you all walked into his studio you smiled seeing him sitting with Han on the couch. “Wally!” you chimed giving the bright green wall a little pat.

“What about me?” Chan pouted.

“What about you?” you teased, giving him a wink.

You did your group greeting and bowed, laughing at how silly it felt. Normally that would be saved for broadcast and fan meetings but it was a force of habit as a leader.

“Awww cute!” Chan chuckled before formally introducing himself just to cover the formalities. It wasn’t often you got to see your boyfriend while working, but you also had to keep in mind that you still had to work.

Chan walked over to you, pulling you into a hug. You wrapped your arms around his neck, smiling brightly. “I missed you” he grinned. You did your best to ignore the aweing from your other members and Han. His nose brushed down the bridge of yours.

“I saw you this morning” you played with the hair at his nape.

“I know, I missed you this afternoon” he laughed, pecking your lips, lingering just a moment too long.

You giggled, melting into his arms. “Aww, you’re being really cute today” you whispered, pulling back to look at him. “Don’t look at me like that” a smile tugged at your lips, as you gently grazed your nails against his scalp. “We have work yo do”

“Mmmm” he sighed into your touch. “I’m just excited to make this song. I worked so hard on it, it’s perfect for you” he smiled. “I made it just for you”

“I can’t wait” you chimed, pulling away from him. He whined letting you step back, a cute pout on his lips.

“Awww you guys are cute, it’s kinda gross” Han pretended to choke back a gag before laughing and grabbing his bag. “I gotta head to an interview, so I’ll catch you guys later.”

After the formalities, he played the demo track for you. Your members loved it. It was fun, playful and it had a bit of an edge to it. You couldn’t wait to record it. That was one of the plus sides about working with your boyfriend. You were actually very vocal at home about the direction you wanted to go in with your group.

This would be your first track of the new year, and all of your members were officially adults now. You wanted something teasing, and mature, yet still youthful and in true Chan fashion, he nailed it.

All that was left now was to record it.

One by one your members did their lines, recording their parts in manageable segments. Chan was very caring with them, almost holding their hand through the process. “Minah, try singing it like this.” he coached her through it, reiterating her part, and changing the articulation toward the end.

She was your youngest, and still wasn’t completely confident in her own voice yet so she was a lot to handle. She did her best to follow directions, but sometimes things were just out of her vocal range and when that happened Chan adjust accordingly. He coached her to give her the confidence that was needed to reach the note. Once she adjusted he clapped and gave her a thumbs up. “Very good, that was perfect! One more time, from the top.” In the end he changed up her part to best suit her voice and she had a cleaner take.

You were proud seeing him so kind. You couldn’t help but watch him with the brightest warmth in your eyes. Your group were like your baby sisters and he was being so good to them.

Unfortunately Minah wasn’t the most difficult take of the day, but he worked with each one of them carefully. In their defense it was a difficult song to sing. It was a very dynamic with lots of changes, not only was this a genre change from your groups usual music it pushed your vocalist and rappers to step up.

Soon enough it was your turn to record.

Although you couldn't really call it recording.

Chan wasted no time in stopping you every few words. Perhaps you were spoiled with how doting and sweet he was with your members. Because it seemed that he had no intentions of treating you in such a manner.

“Babe, can you do it seriously?”

“No- Again that sounds horrible”

“Do it again”

“Again, from the top.”

“Again”

“It’d be nice if I had a single sample I could use.”

“If you can’t do it, perhaps we should have someone else do it?”

“This is kind of embarrassing”

Was this even the same person? You understood constructive criticism. Constructive is what he was with your members. This was just being mean. You slipped off your headphones and glared at him when he stopped you again. That time you were in the middle of another take. It would have been nice to get a single line out with his opinion.

You hated that you wanted to cry.

You had to deal with some pretty tough critics. Producers, songwriters, choreographers, your CEO. Making an album was a high stress process with a lot of hands on deck. It was your job, so naturally it wasn’t going to go smoothly. Especially when everyone had different creative views, but this was the worst recording you’ve ever dealt with in the entirety of your music career.

You just hated being yelled at.

He knew that better than anyone. All those nights, you would come home from work and he’d have to console you after you’d been scolded. Chan knew that yelling immediately shut you down. You bit back your tears, wanting to hold it together for your members. You could see them struggling from behind the glass. It looked like they wanted to say something, at least tell Chan to ease up, but you shook your head and took a deep breath.

Normally you would avoid confrontation and just sing it the way the producer wanted, but you just couldn’t do it. Because what Chan wanted, wasn’t you.

You finally set the headphones on the rack inside before walking out. “Where are you going?” he frowned watching you take your backpack. “We don’t have anything for your part. We need to start from the beginning”

You shrugged. “Give my part to Jieun, she’ll do it better”

Jieun gasped before reaching out to you, shaking her head profusely. “What? But Unnie-”

“It’s fine” you gave her a small smile, trying to calm her. “I’ll call the company directly and tell them I can’t participate in the recording”

“But it’s our comeback track! You can’t not have a part in it” Minah grabbed your hand. She looked back at Chan “Tell her to stay.” Seeing the hesitation in his eyes she frowned more “Chan tell-”

“That’s enough.” you gave her head a small pat. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get out of here. I’ll check in on you later.” you looked to your second in command “Jieun you’re in charge.”

Chan rolled his eyes before crossing his arms over his chest. “So you’re just leaving? Do you always quit like this? Is that the way you lead?”

You froze, hearing his words.

Was he trying to hurt you? What could you have possibly done? He was fine earlier. You gripped your fist, your body shaking before leaving the room with your head held high. You knew when someone was trying to get a rise out of you, and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

On your way through the lobby you ran into Han. He smiled initially seeing you, but as you wiped away your tears he frowned. “Hey…” His gentle voice pulled you out of your thoughts. It was too gentle. Almost sympathetic. You looked up, scrambling to bring a smile on your face. That signature idol smile you gave to the cameras. “You don’t have to do that…” he gave your shoulder a small pat. “Do you wanna get some coffee?”

You sat across from Han at the cafe across the street. He didn't push you to speak. He just gave you a moment to sort out your feelings, let you take your time and figure out what to say.

He sipped on his drink. “Chan-Hyung was being a jerk huh?”

It wasn’t really a question. There was a certain understanding in his voice. You looked up at him, your eyes narrowing. “Is he always like that?”

He chuckled. “Sometimes. Chan is a perfectionist. Always was. Always will be. There are times when our group has come to blows because Chan can just be a little too much when criticizing. Threatening to remove Changbin-Hyung’s part from the song, getting frustrated in vocal ranges…real harsh criticisms...things like that. I don’t even think he’s aware of when he’s doing it.” he sighed. “Like when we record it just seems like the stress finally gets to him.”

Your shoulders slumped. “But he was really nice to my members…Absolutely sweet to them…he was only mean to me. Not that I would want him to yell at my girls-I’d literally kill him. But…” you sighed staring into your coffee. “Why was he being so mean…”

“He was probably being extra careful with your members…”

“What do you mean?”

“When we were recording our collaborative stage with Niziu, Chan was really nice to them. Doting, constructive, an angel. But that day was hell on us. It’s like he had pent up frustrations and just couldn’t hold it in any longer. I swear Minho-Hyung almost quit that day.”

“What type of bullshit excuse is that?”

He shrugged. “No excuse. Just how it is…Like he can only be himself with people that he knows will forgive him. He can be an ass sometimes, but he sure does put out amazing songs.”

“But at what cost?” you sighed, taking a sip of your coffee.

Later that night Chan came home, sheepishly poking his head inside to see you sitting on the couch. His eyes widened as he entered. “You’re still here?” his voice a little more surprised than he’d like to let on. A lingering bit of reliefe to his tone.

You sighed turning the page of your book “I was going to leave your ass. But I figured we should at least talk. Despite what you make think of me. I’m not a quitter” you set your book down before crossing your arms. “So talk.”

“Look, I’m sorry about earlier. It’s just-” he groaned, raking his hand through his curly hair. “The track wasn’t going where I wanted to. It was getting away from me…The only way I’d like the track was for your part to be exactly what I envisioned...for you to bring everything back”

It made sense he did give you the biggest part of the song. The chorus, and bridge were the most memorable of his demo and he gave them to you. He even had you sing the demo for the company to pitch the idea. At the time you thought it was sweet, you had no idea the burden it’d be.

It was obvious this song was made to be a solo for you.

“Your members did their best, but they just didn’t have the vocal range to do the song the way I envisioned it… So I made adjustments and compromises...” he sighed heavily. “And more adjustments...and more compromises...” he rubbed his temples. “Especially because if they can’t sing it at recording they wouldn’t be able to perform it on stage. So one change became another….” he sighed heavily, slumping into the chair. “I loved the song so much because it’s what I knew you wanted to release… But they just couldn’t...and…”

“I don’t think we can work together Chan…” you frowned. “You’re my boyfriend, and an amazing producer…but you can’t be both. In order for us to be happy with the track, and in order for me to be happy with our relationship we can’t work together.”

“We can still make it work. Let’s try again tomorrow.” he looked so hopeful. “I promise I won’t yell, and I-”

“You don’t understand Chan. You made me hate you.” your voice small, as you looked down.

He sank down into himself. His shoulders slumping, hurt etched on his delicate features. Never in his lifetime would he have thought you’d say that. “You…You hated me?”

“I did…for a little bit…You made me hate myself…You made me feel like an inadequate leader, you made me question myself.” you hugged your knees. “I can’t feel like that ever again. I’m responsible for six other girls who look up to me. It’s so easy to get ransacked in this industry, to be pushed and pulled into concepts. They need to believe in me. I need to believe in me and my ability, but with you… I couldn’t. So for my sake…Let’s drop the project.”

He closed his eyes before nodding. “Alright…” He hated that he made you feel that way. He never intended it on getting that bad. He just panicked when he listened to the track, and you were the last person to record. You were supposed to be the saving grace of it. He wasn’t going to release something he didn’t at least like. Once again his overly perfectionist ways almost cost him something he wasn’t willing to lose. “I am sorry…” he whispered.

Producing was one of his greatest joys in the world, and singing was yours. There was just something so utterly heartbreaking knowing that you could never share your passions together. “I know…I’m sorry too.”

He bundled you in his arms, letting you lay your head on his chest. He pressed a kiss on top of your head. “I have one more compromise”

“You don’t give up do you?” you felt your lips tugging to a smile. “What’s your compromise lover boy?”

“What about I talk to your company into giving you this song for a solo for later this year? And you, me and Jisung write up a new song for your group comeback?”

“There’s no time”

He chuckled. “If anyone can write a song in crunch mode it’s Han Jisung” he smoothed down your hair. “I think with your help we can write something that’s mroe ideal for your girls”

“But a solo-”

“Baby I wrote that song for you.” he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against yours. “That song was yours...And I need you to have it. You said your company was planning a solo debut anyway... so sing this.”

“Chan I love you so much...But I can’t record an album with you”

His beautiful brown eyes gazed into you. “I offered you a compromise, offer me one too”

You pouted. “Fine, since you’re in the mood to make a deal. I’ll take your solo song only if I record with Jisung, and Changbin.”

“Deal” You smiled gently scratching his scalp, and placing a kiss at the base of his throat. “Mmmm...” a groan echoed from his throat. “I’m so sorry about today Baby”

“It’s fine” you relaxed into his touch as he traced patterns into your skin absently. You grinned. “It’s nice to know that you’re not perfect”

He chuckled, throwing his head back. “I never claimed to be perfect”

“Oh yeah?” You sat back, crawling onto his lap. A smile on your lips as you gazed into his eyes. “Mr. Perfect hair” you played with the hair on his nape. “Perfect smile” you placed a kiss on his lips. “Perfect dimples” your thumb brushing against his dimple. “Perfect voice” you pressed a kiss on his adam’s apple. “You are perfect in a million different ways.” you giggled “You’re just not meant t be my producer”

“I can live with loving you in a million other ways.” he stood up, lifting you in his arms and carrying you into the bedroom, your laughs echoing and filling the house.

End.

Hey Friends! I hope you enjoyed that. It was nice revisiting an old fic and breathing some new life into it. If you liked it let me know <3

I’m sorry my Felix scenario is taking so long... I’ve rewritten it like 8 times and I’m getting a bit overwhelmed I’m gonna try and revisit it when my mind is clearer. I’ve been starting at the screen for far too long.

Masterlist

∘Tags List:

@skzsprinkles @tophuphu @hugs4chan @channieboyo @tonfilm @innivspearb @mini-meanhoe @poutychangbinnie

#stray kids #stray kids scenario #stray kids oneshots #stray kids imagines #stray kids imagine #bang chan #bang chan oneshots #christopher bang #bang chan scenarios #bang chan angst #skz angst #skz chan #kpop scenario #kpop imagines

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kissinginkitchens · 3 years ago

Text

You Bring Me Home—Chapter Four: You Can Hear it in the Silence

a/n: hello again!! So glad to have you back :) I hope you're all enjoying the story so far. It's been wonderful to read some of your comments and thoughts! I do have to give a special shoutout to @harrysblackcoat and @determined-overthinker for their continued support and feedback, it really means the world to me, so a huge thank you to you both!! I am tremendously grateful for all of you lovely readers and I hope you will enjoy chapter four as much as I enjoyed writing it! As always, my inbox is open, so feel free to drop by and chat with me after reading! Much love, Mel <3

Pairing: Hawai'i!Harry x Original Character

Warnings: swearing, allusions to sexual content

Word Count: 6.7k

read parts one, two, and three

“You kissed him?” Maleah gasps over FaceTime, her mouth so wide, Alani fears her jaw will detach from its socket.

She had finally decided to tell her best friend everything, excluding the Rolling Stone details, nearly two days after the last time she had seen Harry. The entire next day had been spent replaying every moment and listening to the recorded interview on her voice notes until the phone battery was completely drained. Alani’s stomach fluttered at the sound of Harry’s voice and it only made her miss him more. The part that she desperately needed her friend’s input on was what had happened immediately before she left.

“No,” Alani clarifies, quickly. “Well, almost. Maybe—I think,”

“I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks,” Maleah starts, brows furrowed as if her brain is malfunctioning. “And you’re already swooping in on my man?”

Alani feels her cheeks warm but she pushes past it and rolls her eyes. “There is no swooping going on,”

“I don’t know. You two were caught in the rain together, sounds like swooping to me,”

“But that’s the thing,” Alani huffs. “I don’t know what it is. And I don’t know if I’m just making a big deal out of nothing,”

Maleah nods understandingly and pushes any jealousy out of her mind, the love for her best friend winning out.

“Well, tell me exactly what happened before the kiss,”

“There was no kiss,” Alani emphasizes, thinking back to the last few minutes spent in Harry’s car.

The sun had already set when the two of them arrived at her house, leaving little light in the already darkly tinted Range Rover. But even in the darkness, Alani could see the intensity in Harry’s eyes. Their bodies had been close enough in the confined space that she could feel the warmth radiating from him, and his vanilla scent enveloped her in an intoxicating haze. For a moment, her eyes had darted to his plush lips and she imagined what it would feel like to close the space between them. She could have sworn that he had done the same, finding his eyes wandering just below the tip of her nose when she looked up. Before anything could happen, however, she found herself reaching for the door handle and stepping into the crisp night sky.

“But did you want him to kiss you?” Maleah questions.

Alani waits a beat, but she doesn’t have to think about the answer. “Yes,”

“Well there you go!” her friend responds enthusiastically. “Problem solved,”

“Problem not solved,” Alani corrects. “What about the fact that he’s, like, famous? I mean what happens when he has to go back to L.A. or London or whatever?”

“Woah, woah, woah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,”

Alani anxiously nibbles on the skin of her lower lip, not stopping even when she tastes blood. “But it’s true—”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to think about it right now,” Maleah assures her. “What if you just let things happen and… enjoy it for what it is?”

Alani doesn’t miss the double meaning in the last part. “Mi, you and I both know that I’ve never been one to just enjoy it for what it is,”

“I know this, and I love you,” Maleah starts slowly. “But as your best friend—and I say this with nothing but love—you need to get laid, for real,”

Alani groans, slumping further into her mattress. “But what if that’s all he wants? I just don’t think I’m ready for that,”

“And that’s perfectly fine,” her friend coos. “But from what you’ve told me so far, it doesn’t sound like that’s all he’s after,”

Alani considers this for a moment before Maleah continues.

“Look, let’s start with something simple: do you like him? I mean, do you like spending time with him and just generally being around him?”

“Yes,”

“Then start there,” Maleah suggests. “You can enjoy someone’s company without making it romantic, it’s just friendship. Don’t put pressure on something that you’re not ready for, or something that might not even be there,”

Alani feels a small weight lifted off her shoulders and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, no you’re right I shouldn’t psych myself out over something that didn’t even happen. I mean, for all I know he has a girlfriend,”

She waits a beat before a new concern enters her mind. “Wait, does he have a girlfriend?”

“I don’t know,”

“Well even if he does, it doesn’t matter,” Alani reaffirms. “Because we��re just friends,”

“When are you gonna see him again?” her friend asks.

Alani stomach drops. In all her concentration of the past, she hadn’t even considered what will happen when she has to face him again. “I don’t know,”

“Who initiated the last hang out?”

“He did,” Alani admits, thinking back to the hours he had spent reading in the café until her shift was over.

Maleah hums. “Well then it looks like the ball’s in your court,”

Alani is quiet for a moment, which her friend takes as her cue to offer some more reassurance.

“I’m sorry I don’t have more answers for you, Nani, but it’s gonna be okay. Promise, ”

Alani sighs, kneeling to look out the window next to her bed.

“No, Mi, it’s okay. I really appreciate you just being there, it means a lot,”

“Of course, babes. Keep me updated.”

“Will do.”

The call ends and Alani continues watching the palm trees sway in the wind. Will do—the very same last words that she had spoken to Harry that night. Her mind wanders back to the moment right before she had opened the door to escape and plays out an alternative scenario. What would have happened if she had leaned just an inch closer?

********

Harry pinches his lower lip between his index finger and thumb. Will do, he repeats in his mind— two words that he never knew could carry so much weight.

“I said ‘I think Manchester United is shit,’” Nick Grimshaw says loudly, shrugging at Mitch and Jeff Bhasker when his plan doesn’t work. “I dunno, that should’ve gotten him,”

“Oh hey, Alani,” Mitch speaks into his phone loud enough for Harry to hear. This piques the singer’s attention immediately, his heart racing. “Yeah he’s right here,”

“What the fuck?” Harry questions, zeroing in on Mitch.

“Who’s Alani?” Nick teases with eyebrows raised into his hairline.

Harry springs from his seat and corners Mitch, who holds his phone above his head. “Gimme the phone!”

“Hello,” Nick interrupts, watching the struggle continue. “Feeling neglected here, who’s Alani?”

The guitarist ducks and sprints to the opposite wall, Harry chasing close behind. They hop from couch to couch and swerve around fragile equipment while Mitch snickers and guards his phone close. Harry had no idea why Alani was calling and why she hadn’t reached out to him directly, but he’s dying to hear her voice again and is growing increasingly frustrated with his friend’s antics.

“Mitchell, stop fuckin’ around!”

“I’m sorry,” he relents, holding out the phone with an amused laugh. “It wasn’t her, wrong number,”

Harry huffs and returns to his seat disappointedly, a guitar resting in his lap. Nick, who had only been able to drop in for the weekend due to his busy schedule at the BBC, narrows his eyes at both boys before speaking up again.

“Once again, no one has answered my question.”

“She’s just a girl he’s been hanging out with,” Jeff explains nonchalantly. “He wants to have her babies.”

“Don’t,” Harry warns.

Despite already having his fun, Mitch can’t resist adding on. “It’s none of our business… but I’ve heard a summer wedding is in the works.”

“I’m gonna go drink now,” Harry announces, standing. “And none of you fuckers are invited.”

He wanders down the hallway and into the kitchen, immediately reaching for the tequila. Is it too early for margaritas? he wonders before deciding that he wants a second opinion. No new texts are displayed on his phone screen, much to his disappointment, but he decides to open the messages app anyway. He carefully types in Alani’s name and writes, then re-writes, the text several times before pressing send. As soon as the tag reads “delivered”, his body is filled with apprehension, but there’s no turning back.

Harry: Is 10 a.m. too early for margaritas?

There’s a minute of silence, then two, and Harry turns his phone face down onto the counter to reach for the ingredients. It dings just as he opens the bottle of tequila and he immediately lunges for it.

Alani: Never. Morning margs were invented for a reason.

Relief. He quickly types out a risky response.

Harry: Any chance I can convince you to join me?

He stares at the screen, willing the “delivered” to turn into a “read,” but it doesn’t budge. His lips ghost over the rim of the tequila bottle before he bites the bullet and takes a sip.

Alani: Working :( sorry. Another time maybe.

Defeat. He knows that “another time maybe” is a polite “never.” Another swig of tequila down the hatch.

Harry: Yeah, no worries.

Alani sets her phone down on her nightstand and brings the duvet up to her chin. She hopes with every muscle in her body that Harry doesn’t show up to the restaurant, though if he’s planning on drinking, perhaps she’s safe. Maybe I should do the same. She wonders, thinking about the rosé her mom keeps in the cupboard for special occasions. Surely heartache must be a good enough reason to crack it open. Regardless, Alani doesn’t think she has the stomach to keep it down at the present.

********

Harry pushes the remaining peas around on his plate with the prongs of his fork. His chin rests in the heel of his hand.

“And then I said ‘what’s the difference?’” his manager remarks, sending the rest of the group into a fit of wild laughter.

“You’re so fucking stupid.” Mitch comments through a chuckle.

The laughter slowly dies down and their eyes all wander to Harry who hasn’t budged for the past twenty-five minutes. They exchange worried glances, and Jeff begins to wonder if his initial advice for Harry to go out with Alani was a mistake.

“Hey, H,” he begins gently. “You feelin’ alright?”

Harry looks up from his plate and musters his best fake smile. “Yeah, jus’ tired,”

It was partially true; the crew had spent their entire afternoon at Honoli’i Beach practicing their surfing, though it was mostly unsuccessful for Harry—his life seemed to be a series of wipe-outs these days.

“I’m gonna go watch a Rom-Com in my room,” he announces, standing with his plate. “Probably doze off.”

The group exchanges “good nights” before Harry saunters down the hall to his room. Settling into the bed, he flicks through the movie selection and clicks on one that he knows by heart. He contemplates texting Alani again, scrolling through their brief conversation from three days ago. Against his better judgment, he types out another message and presses send.

Harry: Opinion on The Notebook?

He waits, attention briefly occupied by Rachel McAdams until the phone dings.

Alani: A classic, though not as good as Dirty Dancing if I’m being honest.

The corners of his mouth curl and he immediately types out another response.

Harry: You have a problem with The Goss?

Alani snorts, planting her spoon into the pint of strawberry ice cream to reply.

Alani: First, I have many gripes about you referring to Ryan Gosling as “The Goss”. Second, I was actually rooting for Lon Hammond, but maybe that’s just because I’m partial to James Marsden. And third, the scene where Baby and Johnny are dancing alone in his room. That’s all I have to say.

Harry hums, hanging on every word.

Harry: Confession: I’ve never actually seen Dirty Dancing…

Alani: We need to change that immediately.

His heart pounds. So she didn’t plan on ghosting him forever.

Harry: So Lon Hammond, that’s your type?

Alani doesn’t know why she finds it unsettling that Harry steers the conversation away from any possible talk of them hanging out again. She reminds herself that she had been the one to decline his invitation for margaritas and shovels another scoop of ice cream into her mouth.

Alani: Kind, supportive, successful, handsome? Yeah, I’d say so. Not to mention he forgave Allie for cheating.

Harry: But Noah built her a house. Her dream house, I might add.

Alani: I’m not discrediting Noah, I love a grand romantic gesture as much as the next person. Just think Lon deserved better.

Harry grins, entirely ignoring the movie at this point. Grand romantic gestures, he notes, good to know.

Harry: And what about the fact that Noah wrote it all down and reads their literal love story to her every time she forgets?

Alani: Maybe he deserves some rights for that.

Alani taps the spoon against her lower lip and thinks about Cecily’s words. Just let things happen. She desperately wants to, but she doesn’t know how. The thought of getting too close only to let it all slip through her fingers is too overwhelming, so she starts with something simple: do you like spending time with him? Alani doesn’t think she could enjoy anything more. Her mind wanders back to the passenger seat of Harry’s car and the image of his wrist draped over the steering wheel, lower lip captured between his fingers. She had noted this tick early on and found it endlessly endearing. Save for the awkward fifteen minutes of their very first interview, their conversations all seemed to come so easily. Alani enjoys his quick wit and the way he speaks slowly, as if carefully weighing each word. She likes that even though the entire reason for their relationship is for her to learn all that she possibly can about him, he makes an equal effort to get to know her. Alani compares Harry’s sincere reaction to hearing that she was a journalist to David’s snarky remark. Harry had believed in her from the get-go—he had trusted her. He makes her feel seen and known. Isn’t that what it means to be loved? To be known? His words echo in her mind.

Harry: How’s the article going?

Alani’s stomach drops. Fuck. In all her contemplation over the almost kiss, she had forgotten the truth behind her motives. She had lied. Harry had trusted her, and she had lied. Not yet, she thinks, I haven’t lied yet. It would only be a lie if she submits the article to Rolling Stone. Her throat tightens. But I’m so close. She thinks about telling him, but quickly shuts the thought down when she considers that she still doesn’t have enough material and can’t afford to risk it now. This is her chance, there’s no doubt about it. Why else would the universe have planted a world famous rockstar right at her feet just when she had decided to give up for good? Alani had to at least try, she owed it to herself, and she reasons that if Harry really cares about her, he will understand. He would have to.

Alani: It’s going.

Harry: Can I get a sneak peek anytime soon?

Alani: Soon. Good night, Harry.

She sends the last text and sets her phone face down next to her. If she was going to do this, she had to do it right—even if it meant putting some space between the two of them. She owed that much to Harry.

He sinks further into the mattress, not understanding what he had said or done wrong, but he grants Alani her space, anyway.

Harry: Good night Alani.

********

“You’re listening to KWPX The Wave and that was the latest single from Ariana Grande,”

Alani stops fiddling with the radio and sits back with a defeated huff. She had been in a rut with her own music lately and after spending nearly fifteen minutes in her driveway shuffling through songs, she decided to turn on the radio and leave it up to fate.

“Next up is a song from everyone’s favorite ex-boyband: One Direction,”

Goddamnit, Alani groans. She had forgotten what a bitch fate could be.

“Now, I have to say, DeeDee,” the radio DJ starts. “I was personally heartbroken to hear the news, and I know my daughters were too,”

“Oh definitely,” DeeDee replies. “And I can’t help but wonder what this means for all of them. I mean, what do you think they’re up to these days?”

The first DJ gives a snide chuckle before he continues. “Probably doing what every twenty-something year old millionaire does: booze, cruise, and schmooze—the pretty girls, especially,”

Alani scoffs, rolling her eyes at his insinuation. She had begun to resent all of the gossip and speculation surrounding Harry’s whereabouts, especially after learning how much privacy meant to him. Moreover, she hated the twinge of jealousy that coursed through her veins at the thought of him with another girl. Alani supposes that it wasn’t entirely out of the question since they were far from romantically involved. While he had occupied her mind over the past few weeks, she knew that it was highly unlikely that he paid her the same attention. The thought still brings bile to her mouth.

“Well whatever they’re up to, one thing seems to be pretty clear,” DeeDee speaks up again. “All eyes will be on Harry Styles. I mean, he’s really the one to watch in all of this, isn’t he?”

“I think you’re right. I’m curious to see what he’s got in store. Maybe he’ll join Justin Timberlake and Nick Jonas with the ex-boyband buzz cut. But without further ado, here’s Drag Me Down.”

Alani knows that she’ll have to talk to Harry eventually; over the past week and a half, she had dodged every invitation to hang out, left cut and dry responses to all of his texts, and even ducked into the restaurant’s walk-in fridge when he unexpectedly showed up one afternoon. While the temptation to indulge his friendly advances was high, professional boundaries needed to be established. She had already begun working on the article with material from the two previous interviews—and it wasn’t half bad—but there was still so much of the story to fill in. If Alani was going to make it all worthwhile, she had to keep digging and do it fast; she couldn’t afford to let her personal feelings get in the way.

Her car sputters slightly as she heads south on Mamalahoa Highway and the radio fades in and out. Alani checks all of her gauges—she had made sure that the gas tank was full before leaving—and doesn’t see anything unusual. A few miles later, it jerks again before coming to a complete stop.

“Fuck,” she cries, pounding her palms against the steering wheel. “No, no, no, no, no!”

Alani waits a moment before turning the key again, but the engine refuses to start. She whips her phone out of the cupholder and scrolls through her contact list.

Pua—no license.

Maleah—out of town.

Dad—also out of town, catering a wedding in Oahu.

Mom—probably scrubbed in on a major, life-saving surgery.

She continues scrolling until her finger lands on a name that makes her heart race and sink at the same time.

Harry Styles—no.

There’s no way she can justify calling him, not after giving him the cold shoulder all week. If texting back and forth was unprofessional, then asking to be rescued off the side of the road surely crossed several boundaries. Alani scans her surroundings, shielding her eyes from the blinding afternoon sun. There isn’t a car or person in sight for miles—what other choice does she have? With shaking fingers, she dials the number and presses the phone to her ear. Harry answers after the third ring.

“Hello?” he responds loudly over the sound of cymbals crashing and laughter in the background.

“Hi,” Alani greets, raising her voice to be heard. “It’s Alani,”

She hears shuffling on the other end and then Harry’s voice, softer this time.

“Oh hey. How are you?”

“Good, how are you?”

Harry senses that something is off, but he’s glad to hear from Alani, nevertheless. His friends continue their antics in the studio, despite his silent gestures to knock it off, so he heads outside.

“Uh, yeah I’m fine. S’good to hear from you,” he offers shyly.

Alani’s chest tightens.

“Ditto,” she replies. “Hey listen, um, I’m kind of in a bit of trouble I—”

She hesitates. What the hell am I doing?

“I need your help,”

Harry’s heart sinks, immediately filled with worry.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she reassures him. “It’s my car,”

“Where are you?”

“The highway, southbound. Just past exit 243, I think,”

“I’m on my way,”

“Thank you,” Alani offers gently. “Really, thank you.”

A soft smile spreads across Harry’s lips. “Anytime.”

He arrives in a pink Cadillac fifteen minutes later, pulling over behind Alani. She doesn’t recognize the car and her confusion only deepens when a man with short-cropped hair emerges. As he approaches, a wave of recognition and relief washes over her.

“Harry?”

“Hey,” he greets, walking up to the driver’s side. “Need a lift?”

Alani’s mouth hangs open ever so slightly, scanning his new appearance. He looks like a completely different person than the one she remembers, and he has the faintest trace of stubble above his lip and jaw.

“You cut your hair,”

“I did,” he confirms.

“It’s so short,”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I do,” Alani offers with a light laugh, feeling flustered under his gaze. “I mean it looks great, really suits you. Not that it matters what I think, it’s your hair,”

But it did matter. Everything she did, or didn’t do, said, and didn’t say— it all mattered to him for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. And it mattered more than she would ever know.

“So Stevie quit on you?”

Alani sighs. “I don’t know what’s wrong, honestly. All of the gauges look fine and I filled the tank this morning,”

Harry asks her to pop the hood and makes his way to the front of the Bronco. He looks around, not seeing any smoke or trace of other issues, though his knowledge of cars isn’t as comprehensive as he’d like in this situation.

Alani joins him, doing her own scan over the inside of the hood despite the fact that she has no idea what to look for. Her eyes wander to Harry’s strong hands as they prod the various bells and whistles, and she notices the way his tanned skin glistens under the sun. The cross pendant nestled behind his white t-shirt escapes when he leans over, swinging like a mesmerizing pendulum.

“I called a tow truck,” he says standing with his hands on his hips. “Should be here soon,”

“I’ll pay you back,” Alani offers quickly, her throat dry.

Harry waves her concern away with a hand and places the hood back. “Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re okay,”

“I really owe you one,” she says appreciatively.

He leans against the car with his arms crossed, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Have lunch with me and we’ll call it even.”

“Deal.”

The tow truck arrives ten minutes later and the driver gathers all of Alani’s information, letting her know which mechanic the car will be taken to and when she can pick it up. She sighs watching Stevie pull away down the road and imagines the dent it’ll make in her savings. Harry nudges her gently, motioning for her to get in his car.

“New ride?” she questions, running her fingers over the cotton candy paint.

“It belongs to the owner of the studio,” he explains. “All of the cars do except the Rover, she’s a rental. But Jeff took her out to get us lunch,”

“I’m so sorry for interrupting your plans,” Alani apologizes. And for kind of ghosting you, she thinks.

Harry shakes his head, shifting the gear between them. “Nah, you didn’t interrupt, we were just messing around. But I am curious to know what brought you all the way out here on a Tuesday afternoon. Skipping town?”

Alani giggles at the way he says “Tuesday,” but responds despite the curious look he flashes her. “Day off. I was gonna go to the beach,”

“Bummer,” Harry offers, thanking every deity that he can name. “We could still go,”

“Your friends won’t be mad?”

“They’ll be fine,”

Alani nods, her eyes studying the orange checkers on her trousers.

“What’re you hungry for?” Harry speaks up.

She thinks for a moment and is reminded of her original plans. “I could go for some sushi,”

“Know any good places?”

“Yeah, I’ll show you,” Alani’s curious gaze falls to the glove box before her, immediately wondering what’s inside. “Do you think the owner will be mad if I open this?”

Harry glances down at what she’s pointing to and shakes his head. “Knock yourself out,”

Alani pulls down the hatch and reaches inside; her fingers make contact with what feels like a pair of glasses. When her hand re-emerges with a pair that are pink and heart-shaped, she smiles.

“They have good taste,” she comments, putting them on.

Harry looks over and flashes a wide grin, the dimple that Alani has become so fond of emerging.

“Look good on you,”

“Try them on,” Alani suggests, handing them over.

He obliges and pushes his own pair up to make room for the other lenses.

“What d’you think?”

“I think you should keep them,” she says. “They suit you.”

And they really do; they compliment his face well and hint to the fun, easygoing parts of his personality that Alani has recently discovered.

She directs him to her favorite sushi spot near Bayfront Park, which is buzzing per usual. After they’ve been seated on the patio outside, Harry tucks the heart-shaped sunglasses into his t-shirt and contemplates addressing the elephant in the room: the ghosting. He doesn’t want to spook her, though, so he decides to pose the question lightly, but Alani speaks before he has the chance.

“So what’s with the haircut?”

Harry blinks, clearing his throat before he responds. “You hate it,”

“No!” She defends. “I like it, really, it looks great,”

“You wouldn’t bring it up if you didn’t absolutely hate it,” he teases in mock offense.

Alani rolls her eyes, a playful smile spreading across her face. “It just seems like a huge step and I’m curious, that’s all,”

He considers this, deciding to stop giving her a hard time, and responds. “Well if you must know, it’s for an audition,”

“For?”

“A movie,”

“A movie?” Alani’s eyes grow wide. “You’re gonna be in a movie?”

“Maybe,” he clarifies. “Dunno yet,”

“Wow,”

Harry leans forward, his elbows resting on the table. “What have you been up to? Any life changing decisions?”

Alani shrugs. “Same old. Work, my summer class,”

“And how’s your family?” he asks, which catches her off guard.

“Good. My sister’s… a moody teenager. My dad is catering a big wedding in Oahu right now. Mom’s saving lives like the badass woman she is,”

Harry laughs lightly at her comment and Alani tries to store the soundbite in the back of her mind for safe keeping.

“What about yours?” she questions.

“Fine, yeah. Mum’s good, so’s Gemma. Talk to them at least once a week just to check in,”

He pauses to take a sip of his water before continuing. “Ever since I was about...ten, maybe, ‘ve had this feeling like—protect mum at all costs. But she’s strong, has the greatest heart,”

Alani finds it sweet that Harry speaks so highly of Anne. Her own mom had always told her that a lot can be said about the character of a man by the way he treats his mother.

“I’m sure she misses having you around,” Alani comments, thinking of her own close relationship with her mom. “I don’t know if I could let my child leave home as early as you did,”

Harry brushes the tip of his nose with a knuckle and nods. “Was kinda hard at first, but she’s always been really supportive.”

“I bet she’s really proud.”

He offers a shy smile in response, scanning the scenery around them.

“I’m sure your family’s proud of you too.”

Alani and Harry continue their light conversation through the entire meal, sharing stories about their families and childhood. She finds herself wishing that she could have met a teenaged Harry, pre-fame and general world domination. He enjoys her anecdotes, soaking up every detail that he possibly can as if his life depends on it. The two of them go back and forth well after the meal is finished, only pausing when the waitress stops to check on them.

“Maybe we should go,” Alani suggests, checking her phone for the time. “I always hate when customers stay for hours,”

“Just like I did the first time at the café?” he asks, putting his signature on the bill.

Alani feels her cheeks warm and she quickly back pedals. “No! I mean—well, yeah, kinda—”

“And the truth comes out!”

“I was just annoyed because my sister kept bugging me to fill up your water. She was afraid you were gonna, like, get dehydrated and die or something.”

“Tell her I appreciate the concern.”

Alani laughs lightly, feeling a bit of relief when the breeze soothes her burning cheeks. The two of them make their way back into the restaurant and out the main entrance, padding down the boardwalk side by side. Harry never knows what to do with his hands, usually opting to stuff them into his pockets as he hurries down a busy street, but he desperately wishes to occupy them a different way. His pinky involuntarily brushes the back of Alani’s hand, but he pulls away quickly to avoid freaking her out. She wishes he hadn’t.

“What were you gonna do at the beach?” he asks to break the ice.

She thinks for a moment, watching the different couples huddled together on the beach. “Relax, get some air. Do a little reading,”

“What’re you reading?”

“Currently this book about Laurel Canyon in California and some of the musicians who lived there during the 60s. You might like it,”

Harry’s brow raises. “Think so?”

“Yeah, it’s got Joni, Crosby, Stills, and Nash, Mamas and the Papas, all those guys. They talk about their experiences of coming to terms with rapidly growing fame, the reality of the peace and love movement, the collaborative process. Seems like something you might find interesting—relatable, even,”

"I’ll check it out,” Harry promises with a nod.

Alani smiles gently and refocuses her attention on the horizon. “So what were you gonna do today?”

“Not much,” Think about you. “But speaking of books and stuff, I‘ve been meaning to ask. When you become, you know, the next Pulitzer Prize winner, do I get to be your plus one?”

She scoffs, squinting under the bright sun to look up at him. “I don’t know, I have to make it first,”

“And what does ‘making it’ mean to you?” Harry had been trying to re-define success, himself, and was curious to hear Alani’s thoughts on the subject.

She ponders the question for a minute, adjusting the straps of her orange tank-top to occupy her anxious fingers. “Move to New York, work for some big publication, something like that,”

“New York?” he asks, slightly taken aback. “And leave all this behind?”

“I think I’d like the change,” Alani reasons. “I love it here more than anything, but I think I’ve gotta make my own way, my own decisions. My grandma used to say that you ‘gotta swim before you drown because the ocean’s too vast and too interesting to get stuck treading water in the same place,’”

Harry nods, understandingly. “Wise woman,”

“Carolina,” Alani says, using the Spanish pronunciation that sounds like music to Harry’s ears. “That was her name, I was named after her,”

“Middle name?”

“Yeah,” she clarifies. “I’m half Mexican on my mom’s side,”

He hums. “Ever been?”

“To Mexico?” Alani asks, proceeding when he nods. “Yeah. Once when I was like, five, we went to Xcaret for my aunt’s wedding,”

“It’s beautiful there,” Harry notes.

“What’s your favorite place that you’ve been to?” Alani questions, imagining all the stamps that must be in Harry’s passport.

He thinks for a moment, a hum buzzing low in his throat as he sifts through his memory. “Probably Italy,”

“Lucky,” Alani muses, picturing the Gothic cathedrals that she longs to visit.

“You’d like it there.” Harry says, truly believing it. A part of him felt that she belonged in every beautiful place he could think of.

The two of them walk in silence for a few moments, each taking time to scope out the view around them. Alani sees a couple leaned against a staircase railing, looking deep in conversation, though probably not a pleasant one.

“You think they’re breaking up?” Alani asks gently, nodding her head in their direction. “Or just having the talk?”

Harry scans the scenery before his eyes land on the pair that she's referring to. “Ah yes, the talk. Ye olde chat,”

“What do you think you’d be if you weren’t a musician?” She poses suddenly. He laughs to himself at the way Alani jumps from topic to topic and reasons that her mind must always be going a mile a minute.

“A virgin,” Harry jokes, hoping that it’ll land. When she lets out a sudden, bright laugh, he looks over in relief.

“God, you are so…” Alani trails off, shaking her head.

He waits to see if she’ll finish the statement, but he doesn’t think she will. Truthfully, she doesn’t know what to say. The more Alani learns about Harry, the more he seems to surprise her. One minute he can be serious and thoughtful. The next, a ray of sunshine—aloof and carefree. She finds herself anticipating his every move, every word, and loving each minute that he allows her to. It makes her head spin at times, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

They journey down to the shore and discard their shoes in favor of feeling the cool sand beneath their toes. Alani tells Harry about the sea glass collection she had as a child, and he makes a mental note to scan the ground for any pieces she might like. She asks him if the beaches are nice in England, to which he responds a hard “no” compared to the ones in Hawaii or California. A couple of children splash in the shallow water nearby, and Alani doesn’t miss the fond look in Harry’s eye as he watches. Eventually, they wander back up to the main boardwalk when they spot a group of people happily sipping milkshakes. Harry noticed her eyes following them, practically drooling, so he suggested it before she had to.

“Want some?” Alani asks, her mouth full of strawberry.

Harry gladly accepts, taking a sip from the straw that she holds out to him. He hums, letting the taste sit on his tongue before he offers his own cup full of vanilla. She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear before leaning over for a taste. The flavor is sweet and comforting to her, despite popular opinion that it’s boring. Alani swipes her tongue across her lower lip and thinks for a moment that this is what his mouth must taste like. She wishes she could verify this thought.

“I’m really glad you got the strawberry,” he notes, stirring his drink with the straw. “I was having a serious crisis over what to get,”

“When in doubt, always go with the pink one,” Alani says, tapping her temple, and suddenly Harry remembers that the contents of her bag were all various shades of bubble gum and dusty rose.

“It’s the only true rock ‘n roll color,” he offers, taking another sip of his milkshake.

“Paul Simonon?” she questions with narrowed eyes, instantly recognizing his reference to a quote from The Clash’s bassist.

“Nothing gets past you.”

********

The clouds above start to resemble puffs of cotton candy, signaling that the day will soon draw to a close much to both Harry and Alani’s dismay. They lounge in the pink Cadillac, which is parked in an area that overlooks the entire beach, and take turns picking out the one lie amongst two truths about one another; it was a game that Harry had proposed.

“Is it,” Alani starts, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “The four nipples?”

Harry makes a buzzer sound effect through his own laughter, temple resting against his fist as his arm drapes over the seat.

“Wrong-o, sorry,”

“What?!” she exclaims, eyes wide. “You’re messing with me,”

“Am not,” he defends proudly.

Alani lets out a surprised chuckle, fighting the urge to let her eyes wander below his neck. “I don’t believe you,”

“I’d prove it,” he shrugs. “But then I’d have to flash you,”

“Guess we’ll never know, then,”

Their laughter settles down and the only sound between them is the crashing of waves in the distance. Harry lets his eyes trail down the slope of Alani’s nose to her cupid’s bow—dangerous territory. Little does he know, Alani does the same, noting the fact that his lips are heart-shaped and the perfect shade of strawberry. How sickeningly charming, she thinks. Her eyes lift back to Harry’s and there’s something hidden behind the sea-glass that she can’t quite read. The air becomes charged and the two of them are like magnets, drawn inexplicably towards one another. Alani inches closer, her heart pounding so violently in her chest, she’s afraid that he can hear it. The sound of his own blood rushing in his ears prevents this, however, as he leans in too. The space between them gets smaller, eyes fluttering shut in anticipation, when the high pitched ringing of Alani’s phone sends her jolting backward. Harry curses every deity that he can name.

“Hello?” she responds, turning her back to him. She listens for a minute, a soft “mhmm” escaping every few seconds. “Okay, yes, I’ll be there. Thank you,”

Alani dreads having to turn back to Harry and face the consequences of whatever lines were almost crossed. She chooses to simply ignore it all together, as if no time had passed between his shocking personal revelation and the ringing of her phone.

“Stevie’s ready.” she says weakly.

Harry swallows down his frustration and offers a polite smile. “Let’s go get her.”

The mechanic shop is twenty minutes from the beach; Harry and Alani spend the entire ride in silence. Neither of them address the almost kiss despite the fact that it hangs over their heads like a raincloud of uncertain emotion. She occupies her gaze with the scenery whizzing past while he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. Alani mourns the fact that their little bubble had been popped so soon, but she figures that it’s for the best. Don’t get attached, she reminds herself. Easier said than done. Harry also wallows in the aftermath of the interruption, wishing he had acted sooner. When they finally arrive at the shop, the mechanic reveals that the cause of her car troubles was a simple dead battery. Harry offers to foot the bill, but Alani refuses, deciding that she shouldn’t accept any more favors from him in order to restore the boundary.

“So I guess this is where we part ways,” Alani says gently, toying with her keys.

Harry scans his brain for something—anything—a single excuse to see her again, and soon. He doesn’t think he can take another week and a half of icy silence and he has a suspicion that she can’t either. After all, she had leaned in, too—hadn’t she?

“There’s this thing,” he blurts out. “A sort of jam sesh at the studio tomorrow night. There’s gonna be booze, otherwise I’d tell you to bring your sister. But I’d love for you to come, and I think it might be good for—the article, or something,”

Alani weighs the pros and cons in her mind, one of which he had already mentioned: a chance to listen to what he’s working on. It seemed professional and innocent enough, not to mention the fact that there’d be other people around to keep them in check. Once she decides it’s safe, she nods.

“Okay, sure,”

“I can pick you up,” Harry offers.

Alani shakes her head gently and offers a shy smile. “No, that's okay. Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there.”

They exchange good-byes and Alani thanks him for coming to her rescue, to which he offers a modest shrug. Harry speeds down the highway and back to the house, but three words linger in the silence.

I’ll be there.

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles writing #harry styles x oc #harry styles fluff #solo harry #one direction #harry fic #ybmh #sooo :))) how we feelin now

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toovirgins · 3 years ago

Text

Le Rêve - Part 3

Summary: John demands an explanation for what happened in part two. The only problem is the response that the explanation is met with.

Warning: NC-17-rated (Buckle up!)

Paul was a bloody mess.

He and John had not directly talked to one another since the car ride. Their interview answers had been chaste and polite, and they had sat as far away from one another as possible, ignoring the persistently quizzical looks from George and Ringo. Paul had desperately tried to act as typical as possible but had felt overwhelmed with humiliation and confusion—and the concerned looks of the interviewer coupled with the “get-it-together” jabs of George’s elbow didn’t do much to reorient him.

They had finished the interview in a hurry, tensions high. On the way back, the boys wordlessly altered their seating arrangements as Paul crawled first onto the floor, curling up as much as possible as Ringo now took his spot on John’s lap. Paul held his face in his hands the entire ride, murmuring a flurry of “I’m all right” and “Maybe a sort of stomach bug, that’s all” to the others’ concerns.

John didn’t seem upset with him, just… indifferent. Which was almost worse. He didn’t scowl at him or try to hit him or mutter bitter, backhanded comments in the interview. He also didn’t curl up next to him tickle his ear or thump the back of his head or straighten his tie, as was typical. He just sat there, as if Paul had never existed. A bad reaction, Paul felt, would be better than this. He had absolutely no clue whatsoever what was going through John’s mind. Was he angry? Confused? Paul’s breath hitched. Disgusted?

Maybe he was just waiting until later to confront him. Away from the others.

The thought of being alone with John made Paul’s stomach churn. God, he had royally screwed up this time. He was alone with John more than anyone in the world, and there was no way he could wholly avoid his songwriting partner for too long. A discussion was inevitable, but that didn’t mean that he wanted it to come any sooner.

Paul threw the pen and pad down on the carpet in a sudden burst of frustration, running his hands through his hair. As soon as they had exited the car upon arrival back at the hotel, he had hurried to his room, buttressing his distress with an “I’m going to be sick” call. He had been hunched over on his bed ever since, staring at the utterly blank paper pad in front of him. He had immediately locked the door—not that he thought John would try and come in anyway, after earlier. Just to be safe.

In all fairness, Paul did think he was going to be sick. His sudden infatuation with John pulled at him from every which way, filling him with questions. Notably: What did all of it mean? For him and John, yes, but more importantly: for him. For his own sexuality and future. His mind was racing at the prospects.

He had tried to get some writing done, but it was no use. Usually, it was a soothing process for him, but he was stuck at a particularly heavy part of the song and couldn’t bring himself to ask for John’s help on the verse, especially after John had approached him with the task. He had had something earlier, but today’s—ahem—disastrous turn of events had left him distracted and empty-handed.

Paul stood, pacing the room frantically and kicking John’s strewn-about clothes to the side. God, what he would give to shamelessly watch John strip them off—

No. Paul’s mind snapped in response. He gave himself a light smack on the forehead, as if to swat the thought away. That’s John, your best mate. Your best male friend. You can’t think about him in that way.

It was one thing for him to show up in the dream, and for the dream to taunt Paul’s waking thoughts. He reckoned if it had been George or Ringo in the dream, he’d be in the exact same struggle—with something that sensual and realistic and wrong playing out in his unconscious, it’d only be right to worry. To obsess over. To over-analyze.

But he just couldn’t start thinking of John in that capacity, outside of dream-state John. He had started off as a bird, anyroad. The real John could never be so eager an interested in Paul in-in that way. Paul had watched his mate bloody lads up time and again for calling him queer when they were younger. So, it would do him no good to start fantasizing about Real John. Dream John would have to be compartmentalized until Paul could get over whatever the fuck was happening to him.

Paul suddenly sighed defeatedly and gathered up the pen and paper from the ground. He rehearsed the incomplete ballad in his head, hoping that with the flow of the song would come the next few lines.

If I fell in love with you

Would you promise to be true

And help me understand?

‘Cause I’ve been in love before

And I found that love was more

Than just holding hands…

Paul groaned in frustration. Nothing. John’s verse was so natural, so pure and beautiful: hey, love isn’t what I’ve always thought. Could you help me figure it out? Paul felt he was dirtying up the ballad, every thought paling in comparison to the vision he knew John wanted. But they’d both been stuck there for a reason, and it was now Paul’s duty to push them forwards.

Than just holding hands…

“Any progress, mate?”

Paul’s head whipped around at lightning speed. He had never heard the door open, but there John stood in its frame, leaning against it with the most casual aura Paul had ever felt. His heart was pounding, chest rising and falling theatrically, almost offended by the carefree picturesque model of John in front of him.

“I—uh, no. Sorry,” Paul spluttered, holding the pen and paper out to John as an offering. “I thought I’d locked the door.”

John ignored the latter comment, slipping into the room and shutting the door behind him. “It’s all right. I kind of dug me self into a hole, there. Sounds like a definitive ending.” He took the items from Paul and set them on the bedside table.

Paul nodded, his voice shaking as it rang impossibly loud in the small room. “Yeah. Maybe launch into a pre-chorus or something, I don’t know. Shake up the rhythm a bit. But I wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

“Doesn’t always matter what I want,” John answered. Plainly.

“It’s your ballad,” Paul countered. “I know how you can get with these things. Ask me for help and expect me to read your mind, you do.”

John chuckled, almost to himself. “Sometimes,” he started, toying with the pen on the nightstand. “I’m more interested to hear what you want.”

His eyes found Paul’s, and they were curious. There was something testing in them, and Paul began to panic. He had a feeling they weren’t necessarily talking about the song anymore.

“Why?” was all he could think of to say.

John shrugged. “Because sometimes it’s something new, and daring. Something… that I didn’t think you were capable of.”

Paul cocked an eyebrow at what felt like a backhanded compliment. He almost hoped they weren’t talking about the song. Because, if they were, he was pretty sure John had just called his writing boring. A stubborn defensiveness rose in his throat. “What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

John blinked. “What the hell happened in the car, Paul?”

Paul froze. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. They were stuck in his throat, every word that had ever been. The entire alphabet circling his mind, the infinite possibilities of combinations, the skill of language on the tip of his tongue. But it all eluded him.

John continued slowly when it was clear he wasn’t going to receive an answer. “Because, based on the way you’ve reacted since then, I don’t think I’ve misinterpreted it. I think I know exactly what happened, but what I want to know is—why. Or-or how.”

Paul could lie. He could tell John that he didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Or that it was a misunderstanding, and he had thought John was acting strange. Or that he had popped a magical pill that was also an aphrodisiac, and it wasn’t anything personal or weird, because it was magical. Or he could tell the truth.

With his options laid out side by side like that, the answer felt quite clear.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Paul’s voice came out about eleven octaves higher than normal.

John quirked an eyebrow at him. His eyes surveyed the whole length of Paul’s body skeptically, as if trying to read his inner thoughts and feelings and desires. Paul squirmed under the gaze.

“That’s not true,” he decided finally. He was still standing across from the bed, his looming presence beginning to feel like one of dominance and control. He had the upper hand now, and whether Paul liked it or not, he was going to tell John the truth.

“It was a misunderstanding,” Paul tried. “But then you were acting strange, so I got nervous and reciprocated.”

“Wrong again.”

Paul was beginning to feel desperate. “I took a pill—”

John laughed suddenly, bizarrely. He cast his gaze to the side and bit his lip. “You’re going to have to try harder than that, Macca.”

Paul was quiet for a long time. The words were there, it wasn’t a matter of lexical access anymore—now he had to get his heart to say it. Because there was only one right answer to John’s question, and it wouldn’t answer a thing.

“I don’t know.”

Now it was John’s turn to be quiet. He simply stared in wonder as Paul continued unsteadily. “I-I had this dream. A few nights ago. And in the dream, I was getting on with a bird, and we were in the room, y’know? A-and we were. You know. But she was real strange at some parts, like she-she kept changing, and then…” He hesitated. “And then it was you. And you were doing everything that she was. And I woke up, w-with you, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. I try, I swear, and I-I’m not gay, it’s just—”

“Why don’t we give it a go, then?” John said softly.

Paul’s words died in his throat. “I—what?”

“You heard me.”

Paul blinked wildly. “John, if this is some sort of sick joke—”

“No.” John stepped closer now, his expression impossible to read. “If it was so damn good that you can’t get it out of your head, and you can’t even control yourself around me… Let’s give it a go, then.”

Paul swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was small. “What if I don’t want to?”

John thought about this for a moment. “You can stop me at any point. We act like it never happened. You say the word, mate, and it’s off.” He paused. “But I don’t think you want that.”

To his dismay, John was right. Paul didn’t want that. His heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears and almost drowning out the unbelievable things that John was suggesting. John had no idea what happened in the dream, and yet he was a wholly willing participant in the recreation? The idea, despite the whirlwind in Paul’s mind, sent a shock of tingles to his crotch.

“But… it’s… I’m not gay,” he tried again.

“Don’t think so much,” came John’s voice, gentle, as he caught Paul’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Paul’s breathing slowed. This was that side of John that he rarely got to see: soft, comforting, calm. Loving. It felt bizarrely out of place in the situation. “Just… just don’t worry about it. If you think, you’ll ruin it.”

Paul nodded quickly, his mind buzzing.

John lowered himself onto the bed, his gaze never leaving his mate’s face. “What did she do first?”

The question caught him off guard. “Who?”

“The bird.” John chewed his lip tentatively. “What did she do first? In the dream?”

“Oh! Erm…” Paul thought for a moment. He knew very well that the dream had started with them making out, but part of him held that thought back. For some inexplicable reason, kissing felt more intimate, more queer, than whatever was about to happen. So, he refrained from mentioning it. “She—um, sort of got in me lap, like.”

John’s eyes flashed in recognition. “The car.”

“Yeah.” Paul winced. “The car.”

“Oh.” John’s voice was curious, and he looked down at himself for a moment before his eyes reconnected with Paul’s. They were wide, intrigued, but somewhat shy, too. A nervousness that Paul had never seen in his friend before. A tremor ran through Paul’s body as he recognized that same piercing stare from the dream.

“Why don’t ya…” John scratched his face apprehensively. “Erm… move back. Against the headboard.”

Paul gradually obliged. He swung his bare feet over the side, shifting himself higher on the bed until his back comfortably rested against the cushioned headboard. John kicked his own shoes off as he did so and climbed up after him.

Both boys paused for a moment, eyes locked, and something passed between them. An understanding that wherever this was going, it was all right, because it was John and Paul. Lennon and McCartney. And everything would be all right.

Emboldened by the exchange, John swung a leg over Paul’s outstretched body and planted himself directly in his lap.

“Like this?” He breathed.

Paul’s fingers found their way to John’s hips, watching the scene in wonder. His voice was ragged and humiliating, cracking at the sudden contact that flooded his mind with millions of filthy thoughts and images. “I—yes. Like that.”

“Then what?” Their faces were mere inches apart, John’s face flushed and almost eager. His eyes continually darted around Paul’s face and body, as if he too couldn’t believe the position they were in. His lips were wet and parted, slightly swollen from his nervous chewing habit. He sucked in the tiniest breaths of the shared air between them, as if he was terrified that Paul would pull away and he’d be left to his own solemn airspace once more.

In the moment, Paul wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

But no, that was too far. The desire in his crotch could be written off as greedy, randy, sexual—a biological need, perhaps. It could be satisfied, and maybe that was all Paul needed to get over the fantasy. The wild, twisted pull in his heart was not so easily dismissed.

“Paul?” John repeated. His pupils were dilated, his chest slowly heaving.

“Right. Erm… then she started, sort of, rocking a bit, I suppose.” He cringed inwardly as the words spilled out now, both humiliated at his own forwardness and betrayed by the almost desperate response his body was giving to John’s presence.

John didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, however. He simply shifted to where his knees straddled Paul’s hips and placed his backside directly on Paul’s hardening member. A whisper of a groan escaped Paul’s lips as John slowly began rocking back and forth, grinding down into him.

“Like this?” John said again.

“Just like that.” Paul murmured as his eyes fluttered shut, cocking his head back against the bed. The feeling was all too familiar and quite simple to deal with—if Paul closed his eyes, he could nearly pretend that it was a female. One of those ladies from a Hamburg club giving him a lap dance. While the thought was entertaining and calming, part of Paul was alarmed at how easily John mimicked those movements, how convincing it all was.

“Paul,” John said suddenly, halting his movements.

Paul’s pulse quickened again. “Hmm?”

His friend broke out into a reluctant grin, chuckling at his own perplexity. “I can feel it. Already.”

Paul looked at him uncertainly. He knew he was hard as a rock now, all of the blood having rushed dizzyingly fast to the lower half of his body. The arousal and sudden shame made it hard to think. “Is it bad?”

John took a moment. “No.” He gave an experimental twist, slotting his body against Paul’s as he grinded down again, his face in the crook of Paul’s neck. A hand laced its way up the back of Paul’s neck and into his dark locks, giving a quick tug.

Paul couldn’t bite back the “ah, fuck,” that was pulled from his throat. The dizzying combination of sensations sent buzzing shocks through his dick, which now felt as though it was frantically trying to push its way out of his slacks.

“What next?” John asked, pausing the shift of his hips. There was an edge to his voice now as shaking fingers reached up to tease at Paul’s shirt buttons. “Maybe… she got you a bit undressed, is all.”

Paul nodded lazily. Why the hell not? It would make sense. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t really recall that happening. “Yeah… yeah, I think she did.”

John continued to rock in Paul’s lap, letting out curious hums at the minute twitches and moans coming from his friend. His long, delicate fingers struggled to successfully pop Paul’s buttons free, but Paul refrained from offering any assistance. He was amazed, shocked even, by the submissive display John was putting on show. A sudden jolt shot through his chest as he realized that John might do anything he asked him too.

John inhaled sharply as he undid the last button. Paul leaned forward a bit to shrug the white dress shirt off of his shoulders, casting it to the floor as it joined its friends.

John’s eyes wandered over his shirtless frame. They had seen one another in the most compromising of positions before—hell, they’d walked in on each other in the middle of a good shag countless times—but something was different now. This looking, feeling, touching… it was intentional, and it was just them. And it felt strange: an intoxicating concoction of arousal and desire and fear and confusion. Paul couldn’t help but wonder if he had wanted this for much longer before now and simply never realized it.

John’s calloused fingertips traced their way down Paul’s jawline, onto his neck, chest, stomach. Paul simply watched and felt, felt the way the touch that ran over him made his skin prickle and his face warm. John was regarding him cautiously, deliberately, as if he was a work of art that John was afraid to mar.

“I’m sorry if she teased you for this long,” John’s voice came, breathless. His fingers found the waistband of his trousers and hooked inside them. “When do I come in?”

“Right about now,” was Paul’s reply. His mind had entirely disregarded the remainder of the dream, not recalling and not caring. It was just him and John now, real John, who somehow really wanted to do this with him just as much as he wanted it to be done. Perhaps Paul had fallen asleep again while working on the song, and this was just a recreation of the first time. Another lucid fantasy.

The feeling of his cock popping free as John undid his zip let him know that this was all but a dream, though. He arched up off of the bed to help John shimmy the remainder of his trousers down his legs, kicking them off with fervor. The sudden change in John’s mood as the reins were passed to him caused Paul to check any reserved guilt or shame at the door. The tent in his boxers was no longer a burden but a beacon, an invitation for an inexplicably fervent John to do whatever he desired.

Then, the boxers were gone too. Tossed to the side with a particular carelessness that made Paul’s skin prickle with sweat. And that was that. Paul laid there, entirely naked and exposed under the watchful gaze of his best friend, his partner. John.

“I’m going to try something, Macca,” John started nervously, shifting so that he was directly between Paul’s thighs. Paul’s eyes went wide at the implication, at the scene. John’s mouth was only centimeters away from his flushed cock. And he eyed it, almost hungrily.

The sight made Paul moan, and John’s eyes flicked up fearfully. “You can stop me, Paul. Just tell me to stop, and I will. Tell me to stop…”

John almost sounded like he was talking to himself.

“Go on,” Paul whispered hoarsely.

John shot him one last daring glance before reaching out at grasping at Paul’s dick. The sudden sensation caused Paul to arch forward, brow knitted in roused concentration. His hands clutched at the bedsheets to steady himself as John began wanking him in an encouraging rhythm. “Bloody hell, John,” he groaned.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” A note of confidence, arrogance even, laced John’s voice.

“Y-yes. Very.”

Paul forced himself to open his eyes and jerked at the heated gaze that met his in return. John’s expression was dark with arousal, and his tongue flicked out teasingly between his teeth. The dynamic had wholly changed, John’s assuredness growing with every new step he was allowed to take, every dirty sound that was elicited from Paul’s throat.

When a bud of precum began to spill over, John wrapped his lips around the head and dipped his tongue over the slit, sucking it dry like the last few drops of an ice lolly.

Holy fuck.

“Shit. Ah, Christ!” Paul was babbling now as the sensation and notion struck him at once: John was giving him head. And it felt damn incredible. “God, John.”

The feeling of his throbbing member inside of John’s mouth was unreal. He could see it pulsing against the inside of his cheek as John bobbed his head, tongue and cheek muscles massaging him slowly to insanity. Paul cocked his head back and tossed it back and forth, unaware of how to respond to the situation.

Paul decided he had never gotten a blowjob before this. All those others were a silly game. Maybe it was John’s willingness and enthusiasm. Maybe it was that he, a male, probably knew how to best please another male. Maybe it was the taboo nature of the extremely explicit act they were engaged in, adding further logs to the fire. Whatever it was, Paul didn’t care. This—this was head.

John pulled off for a moment but continued stroking, the mixture of saliva and precum making the slide all the more easier. Paul felt lightheaded at the immense pleasure. “Christ,” John murmured, his voice unsteady. “Look at you, Paulie.”

Paul only moaned in response, hoping to draw John’s wonderful mouth back down.

John happily obliged, licking a long stripe up from his balls to the tip of his dick and swallowing it all down once more. Paul could note his inexperience, from the length he could take in and the variety in his movements, but somehow, the knowledge made it all better—the idea that John was doing this for the first time (or, one of the first times) to Paul. He made extra sure to gasp and groan loudly when John did something he particularly enjoyed, as if to almost teach the man what to do.

When John began to pull back for a breath, Paul hooked his ankles around the small of John’s back without thinking, pulling him closer.

“Fuck, Paul,” John groaned back. “God, I want you. I want you, Paulie.”

Paul hardly paid the confession any mind. John was babbling now, just like him, but Christ he would be lying if it didn’t turn him on more.

He let out another broken string of incoherent curses as John took more of him into his mouth than he thought possible. He grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and pulled him up aggressively, relishing in the light “Ah!” of surprise that escaped John’s lips.

“Dirty-talk me, John,” he practically begged, whispering into his mate’s ear. “Just—fuck—tell me what you want.”

Paul could feel John grin knowingly against his jaw. Uh-oh. The lad had an idea.

“You know, Paul, you’re not very quiet during sex.” John spoke into his ear teasingly, sensually. He began to pepper his jawline with kitten licks and nibbles. Paul only whimpered in response as John’s hand slowed to work him lazily. “Actually, you get quite loud. Make a whole fuss of it.”

“I—hadn’t noticed,” Paul panted.

John’s eyes glinted dangerously as he momentarily lifted himself. Their faces were only centimeters apart. “Paul? Do you want to know a secret, Paul?”

Paul’s mind barely registered the question. He nodded hazily, letting out another soft moan as John bent back down to lick at his earlobe.

“The thing is,” John started slowly, his hand beginning to pick up speed. “Sometimes you bring a bird up. Usually at a hotel, just like this. And we all know—me, George, Ritchie—we all know what’s going to happen when we see her come up.” John moved downward and began paying special attention to the junction of his neck and jawline. “But knowing what’s going to happen is different from hearing it.”

Paul immediately blushed, trying to discern where John was possibly going with this. Did he want him to be louder now? Or quieter later? Did he… Oh God, was John suggesting that they should—

“So here’s the secret,” John interrupted. “The other night, in Glasgow. I’m sure you remember.” He paused, as if to give Paul a chance to recount the night. His hand began pumping furiously, and he bit experimentally at Paul’s jaw. The mix of pleasure, shock, and pain, coupled with the words John was saying and the way he was saying them, was beginning to feel overwhelming. A string of filthy moans and groans were drawn out of him as he began to feel a familiar pull in the pit of his stomach. John looked at him expectantly for a moment, and Paul wasn’t sure if he was gauging his reaction or waiting for a response. Paul opted for the latter.

“I—fuck—remember.”

“Good. I do too,” John replied simply, sounding almost like a schoolteacher. Suddenly, his voice dipped low, and he placed his mouth directly in Paul’s ear to whisper the next bit. The second the words flowed out, John grinded down hard into Paul’s thigh, and Paul could feel an erection perhaps more pressing than his own.

“I gave me self a wank to it. And it wasn’t the girl.”

“Shit, John.” Paul’s mind instantly flooded with obscene images of John touching himself to the sound of Paul’s broken moans. His cock twitched in John’s hand and another series of moans and curses spilled out. He felt so close, John’s firm fist feeling so good around him, but part of him wanted to hold back. He began to panic.

If Paul let John touch him, that was one thing. It didn’t have to mean anything. They’d seen each other jerk themselves off countless times. He could convince himself that this was basically the same thing, just a slight shift of hands. He could ease his conscience by saying nothing had really happened.

But if Paul came on him, by his hand? He didn’t know if he could reconcile that one.

Paul bit his lip and tried to focus on anything but the image of John that was now burned onto his eyelids. It didn’t help that John was now rutting against his thigh and letting out involuntarily groans of his own. He couldn’t hold off much longer.

“John,” Paul started insistently. Before he could speak again, however, John pulled his face from where it was buried in his neck and pressed his lips against Paul’s own.

Paul was struck with surprise, but John wasted no time waiting for him to adapt. His tongue forcibly parted Paul’s lips and he licked into his mouth with fervor, as if this had been something he’d needed his whole life. Paul hesitated momentarily, but the roughness and intensity was impossible to ignore. He let his own tongue dance around with John’s. In a spur of dominance, Paul pushed back against John and licked into the other’s mouth, running his tongue along his mate’s teeth as if he wanted to trace every part of the man. Teeth clashed as both impossibly fought for more. When John retreated for air, Paul bit down on his bottom lip and grabbed him by the waist to pull him back in.

“Fucking hell, Paul,” John mumbled against his lips. He thrusted down particularly hard against Paul and moaned into his mouth, and Paul decided in that moment that it was the most sensual thing he’d ever experienced in his life.

“John.” He pulled back as much as possible from the kiss, turning his head so that John was met with his cheek when he went back in for more. “John, I can’t—” He thrust up weakly into John’s fist as if to emphasize his point. “John, stop, I-I’m gonna come—”

Just then, the door flew open.

Paul and John froze in their compromising position. Although it was only seconds later when John pushed himself off and scrambled to the other side of the bed, Paul grasping at the bedsheets to cover himself, it was too late.

George stared at them, open-mouthed, his hand still on the doorknob. No one spoke.

Paul, in that moment, solemnly decided they had no alibi. His mind ever-so-helpfully constructed an image of what they must have looked like: Paul, completely naked, his cock trapped between John’s skilled fingers, tongue-fucking each other as John dry humped his leg.

George’s eyes flitted between the two as their chests heaved. He made no motion, no effort to speak. Paul almost begged him to say something, watching as his mind worked furiously to come up with some excuse for what he just saw his mates doing.

Without a word, he turned and shut the door behind him.

“How could you not lock the fucking door?”

Paul turned his head towards the voice. His fingers trembled as he pulled the sheets tighter to his chin, twisting onto his side so the tent in the sheets wasn’t so humiliatingly evident. He felt dumbfounded. “What?”

“What do you mean, what?” John’s gaze looked frighteningly angry. “Are you absolutely daft? Are you actually just the pretty one? Paul, how could you not lock the fucking door?!”

Paul felt his own anger begin to rise in his chest. He felt helplessly defensive. “Are you mad? You started this! You’re the one that closed us in here. If anyone should’ve locked the door, it should have been you!”

“How was I supposed to know you were begging me to shag you? I just wanted to know what the hell was up with the car ride.”

Paul was aghast. “Begging you to shag me? I didn’t want to fucking tell you, John! I knew what would happen. You forced it out of me.” His voice grew cold. “You wanted it just as much as I did.”

John stared at him for a moment, his words faltering. Paul wondered if he had learned something tonight about John that he wasn’t supposed to know. He felt a sudden sick pride in his ability to shake him. The feeling, however, was short-lived when he noticed with a start how glassy John’s eyes were.

John sat up and ran his hands through his hair. His voice was shaking. “Shit, shit, shit. I bet he’s in the other room talking to Ringo right now. Telling him everything. There’s no other explanation for what he saw, Paul. They’re gonna tell Brian. Someone must have heard us, too, and they’ll get ahold of the press. Or the police. It’s over, everything we have is all over—”

“Hey,” Paul interrupted, softening his voice. He couldn’t bear to watch John spiral, especially in the tornado of emotions that was tearing through the room already. If John lost it, he would too. “It’s not going to get out. We’ll go get George and Ringo, and tell them what really happened, and—”

“What really happened, Paul?”

John was quiet now. His eyes were burning into him, pleading. Paul tensed up at the question, feeling his mind falling blank on any possible response. He didn’t know what answer John was pleading for. So he didn’t answer.

John met Paul’s eyes with the iciest stare Paul had perhaps ever seen. It suddenly felt as if a chill had come over the room.

“You’ve ruined everything.”

Paul watched numbly as John bent over on the edge of the bed, putting on his boots. He knew John was furious and spewing things he would soon regret, but another part of him knew that John was right. He had ruined everything.

“Where are you going?” He asked quietly, already fearing the answer.

John paused by the door. When he turned to look at Paul again, his expression was hard and unreadable.

“I’m not fucking queer.” And he slammed the door behind him.

Paul could only stare.

#the beatles #beatles fanfiction #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #beatles smut #mclennon smut #mclennon #part 3 #chapter fic #ao3 #smut warning

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yourcoffindoor · 4 years ago

Text

Bulletproof Heart Pt.4

AN: YAY its finally here! Thank you so much to everyone for reading and for your patience! This is the final part of this series. enjoy <3

"Y/N?" a gentle tap on the wall outside your bunk. It was Liz. "We have an interview with Spin in like 5 minutes."

You groaned and pulled your wrinkled sheet over your face, turning away from the sound of her voice, soft and hesitant as though she were afraid the slightest noise would shatter you further.

"You guys go without me," was your muffled reply, "I've hogged the spotlight enough anyway."

" Are you sure? They'll probably be pissed the lead singer isn't there."

"Then let them be pissed."

Liz lingered in silence for a moment before deciding it was best to leave you be. It had been a couple of weeks since you'd found out about Alex's little foray into filmmaking, and a gush of old trauma had emerged new again. All the work you had put in to rebuild yourself and to forge a new life had all but crumbled away in a matter of minutes, and you isolated yourself in response.

You stopped leaving the bus because of the stares. Once rumors had gotten out that there was video footage of you doing the deed, people seemed to glance over at you before whispering insidious somethings among their companions. You didn't need to hear their conversations to know just how humiliating their words were. Things took a turn for the worse when reporters began to have the audacity to ask you about the video, probing into if you were in a relationship with Alex. It was then that you realized he had sabotaged your moment, your success, and made it all about him.

You began to miss a few shows, something you had never done before. But you just couldn't bring yourself to give a damn. Your bandmates kept their distance, realizing you needed your space; but their concern was permanently painted on their faces.

"Hey Y/N," Gavin spoke hesitantly one afternoon, "You know...Gerard's been asking about you."

The sound of his name made your heart beat quicker. You hadn't made an effort to see him since the video came out. "Oh?"

"Yeah he really wants to see you. He's worried about you...we all are."

"I'm fine." you said curtly. "I mean, tell him not to. I'm fine. I just need to be alone."

"You sure? I think some social interaction might do you some good--"

"Gavin, I want to be alone. Please."

He merely nodded before heading out the bus door, finally giving you what you asked for.

Out of respect for the fans, you managed to pick yourself for performances again, but it felt like you were merely going through the motions, your passion nearly extinguished. You became angry at yourself for feeling this way, like you were giving up on yourself and your goals. Between sadness and guilt, there was no bright side you could look to as an escape.

Then, you ran into Alex.

This was what you had really been dreading. You knew how smug he must be, knowing he must've gotten under your skin, his favorite place to be. You'd snuck out of the bus for some much needed fresh air, but you didn't need to go far before you heard your name being called.

"Y/N! wait up!" a chill shot down your spine. You didn't turn around. Instead, you began walking faster.

"Hey, hey, hold on a second--" He grasped your arm, but you pulled it back so quickly it seemed to surprise him.

"Leave me the fuck alone."

"C'mon don't be mad."

You couldn't help but laugh at the nerve of his comment. "How could I not be? I didn't even know you had filmed me. I didn't get to agree to any of this! And then you decide to make it public? And you," you said, angry tears building up to a waterfall, pushing a fist into his chest, "you are a nightmare that won't go away! Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Alex was calm-- So calm that it only angered you further. "You're thinking about this the wrong way. The publicity could be great--I mean people are already eating it up. They love us together. Honestly? I did us both a favor." He smirked, making your skin crawl. "But there's something else, Y/N. Something you should remember." He leaned forward, speaking into your ear in a low, serpentine voice, "This is what happens when you think you can go off and make something of yourself without me."

You were speechless, your stomach dropping as if it had been kicked. "You're disgusting. I'm leaving."

"Going to see your friend Gerard? Hey, ask him what he thinks of our movie for me. I'm making another one with some My Chem fans anyway." He spoke to you with your back turned, already walking away, but you could hear him smiling.

You halted in your steps, torn between slapping Alex across the face, crying, or simply walking away. After a deep breath and far more self control than you knew you possesed, you chose the latter, swiftly walking back towards your bus to isolate once more.

****

The sun was revolting.

That was the first thought when Gavin flung open the curtain that marked the border of your bunk, your own personal ecosystem that no one had dared enter for the past few weeks. He kneeled on your mattress and reached over you to open the blinds on your wall, and you winced as the sun struck your face like a laser.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N!"

"Gavin, its August."

"Well it might as well be Christmas when you hear what I have to tell you."

You groaned and rubbed your eyes. "What is it? I'm prepared to be underwhelmed."

"I didn't even need to open that window! There's that bright and sunny optimism we've come to know and love."

You hit him with a pillow. "Out with it."

"Alex got--"

"ALEX GOT KICKED OFF WARPED TOUR!" Liz shouted, bursting into your bunk from out of nowhere.

"What the hell Liz! I wanted to tell her!"

"Too slow!"she teased.

Your head was reeling. "Wait, wait, wait....what? How?"

"Don't know all the details but it definitley had to do with his...activities. Turns out he was asking underage fans to flash him and his band to get backstage and shit. Someone snitched I guess, thank god. The whole band's been kicked off and banned from Warped tour.

For the first time in forever, you laughed.

You practically cackled. You laughed so much that it felt like you couldn't stop.

"I think we broke her." Liz muttered to Gavin.

"That's fucking amazing." you said, wiping tears from your eyes.

"It is, and its good to hear you laugh again." Gavin said. "Come out with us later, to celebrate."

"I will sometime, but I'm still not quite ready. People are gonna try to ask me questions, I just know it. I'm still not up for it."

Liz and Gavin nodded. "We'll be here when you are."

***

Later that afternoon a few quick knocks sounded from the bus door. You debated getting up to answer it, but human interaction was the last thing you wanted right now. There were a few more small knocks; and you able to ignore the unwanted visitor until, after a moment of silence, something slid under the door. Once you heard their footsteps disappear into the distance, you peeled yourself from your nest on the couch to investigate.

It was a white envelope with your name scrawled across the front. You hesitated for moment, wondering if another piece of your past was about to jump out and bite you. But after steeling yourself you pressed on, your fingers swiftly retrieving the mysterious contents.

You immediately smiled. It was a card with a drawing of you on the front, in a style that was unmistakably Gerard's. You were on stage wailing into the mic, confidently waving your middle finger. You couldn't help but laugh.

Fuck em all. The world needs you out there. If you're feeling up to it, come to our set tonight.

Hope to see you there.

-G

You closed the card and reveled in the much needed buzz of happiness it gave you. Gerard. You thought he would've have been angry with you since you had all but ghosted him these past few weeks, but that clearly wasn't the case. Your legs wanted to run after him, but you as you were covered in dorito dust and sadness, you decided to stay put. You'd make yourself somewhat presentable and then see their performance tonight.

***

You stood just off stage, just hidden enough in your oversized hoodie to feel comfortable. Right before they began their set, Gerard turned and saw you, eyes widening with a glad surprise as though he hadn't thought you'd actually come. His expression quickly melted into a welcoming smile, and you couldn't help but break out into soft grin of your own.

The band greeted the crowd, already energized and cheering them on. You'd expected them to launch into a song, but instead Gerard began speaking.

"This is a special set tonight guys, because someone very important to me is here. Someone so strong, so kickass that sometimes I wonder if she's even a real fucking human being." He glanced over at you, eyes electric and impassioned, immediately i heat rise to your shrouded cheeks. "Well some asshole tried to hurt her. Tried to make her feel small. But I want her to remember she's too fucking amazing to ever let someone make her feel that way."

You could feel the sting in your eyes as tears began to build.

"And that goes for all of you out there, cause these same assholes have been messing with fans too. So if you ever see shitty ass rock dudes in shitty ass rock bands asking you to show them your tits for backstage passes, I want you to spit right in their fucking faces and yell 'FUCK YOU!”

The crowd went crazy, and you couldn't help but let out a small cheer as well, despite the tears streaming down your face.

"Y/N," Gerard breathed, "This is for you." and with that, the band launched into one of the most passionate sets you'd ever seen. You stayed for it all, loving every moment. As soon as it was finished, Gerard thanked the crowd and made a beeline off stage, directly where you had been stationed all evening.

His eyes were dancing with happiness at the sight of you, pumping with the adrenaline of performing, sweat still dripping from his dark hair. "Hi," he said,pausing for amoment as though he was holding back from so much more, "you came!"

"After the invitation I received? How could I not?"

"So you liked it?"He beamed, his cheeks, pink from exertion, reddened further. "I wanted to do like a mini comic but I ran out of time." As he grinned, fresh crimson gleamed from a small split in his lower lip. What you thought had been makeup turned out to be a genuine injury.

"You're bleeding." you observed softly.

His brows furrowed in confusion, a finger darting to his lip. He dabbed it, smearing blood onto his chin.

"Damn, again? Don't worry, it's nothing."

You didn't hesitate to grab a tissue from your pocket, step forward and gently press it against his cut. He looked down at you with affection, causing you to look away as your heartbeat picked up its pace. Instead you analyzed his face and noticed it was patterned with small bruises.

"Doesn't look like 'nothing' to me. What happened?"

It had been just the two of you speaking intimately just off stage, but crew and media began pouring through and milling about the area. You realized just how close you were standing to Gerard, and pulled your hand back when you noticed people watching. A pew passerbys patted Gerard on the back, offering their compliments of the band's performance. He quickly thanked them, barely turning his attention from you, afraid you might run off. He grabbed your hand, leading you to a quiet area.

"I may have gotten into a fight."

"What!? You don't even leave your bus, how did you get into a fight?"

"I had to. Someone very important to me was being hurt."

You stared at him for a moment, putting the pieces together in your head. Gerard knowing about the video, Alex's sudden departure from the tour...

"Gerard, you didn't."

"I did, and I'd do it again, Y/N. Besides, you can't say he didn't have an ass-kicking coming to him."

You let out a soft laugh, but your vision began to blur as tears welled. A swirl of emotions welled inside of you, tumultuous and much more than you had anticipated feeling tonight. You were touched that Gerard was so concerned about you. Embarrassed that he had to get involved at all. Glad that he did, after all.

At the sight of your tears, he stepped closer. It was him now who tenderly wiped your face, brushing away stray tears with his thumb.

"Jesus, Y/N, I can stand a few punches to the face but I can't stand seeing you cry."

That was all you needed to hear to get oceans pouring from your eyes instead of streams. You embraced Gerard, burying your head into his shoulder. Gerard folded his arms around you in response.

"Y/N I want to tell you...I mean I hope you know...just how important you are to me and how I feel about you. You deserve to be happy."

"You're so nice to me that I almost don't know how to process it." you admitted beneath an awkard, tear-ridden laugh. "Thank you. You need to know you're important to me too. I..I just--" You planted an aggressive kiss on his cheek, unable to express your myriad of emotions in words.

"There, I think that expresses everything."

"Everything?"Gerard asked, brushing a strand oh hair behind your shoulder, "There's a few points I'd like to add."

His hand cupped the side of your face and your lips met, softly at first, a salty mixture of tears and coppery blood. The kiss quickly deepened, caught in your own world, unable to get enough of the taste of each other. That is until Gerard winced and pulled back, blood dripping from his lower lip. His cut had only deepened from your exertions.

"We'll have to postpone this until that's better." you said, handing him another tissue.

"Damn. Kinda regretting that fight now." He laughed.

"Don't regret it. Besides, its not an entirely bad look on you." you teased.

A bashful expression crossed his face as he brushed his hair back from his face.

"I hate to say it but I have a press thing to do in a few minutes with the guys. Meet me in my bus later?" He said, offering another peck on your cheek.

"I'd be crazy not to." you replied, ambushing him with one final hug before he walked off.

You realized something immediately. Despite everything, the heartache, the surprises--you regretted nothing. And as you lifted your fingers to your lips, still buzzing from impact, you knew this had been a tour that changed your life, after all.

Tomorrow, you'd be back onstage, ready to begin again.

Taglist: @pacifymebby

#gerard way fanfic #gerard way imagine #gerard way x reader #my chemical romance fanfiction

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sodone-withlife · 4 years ago

Text

one sentence

i saw sumayyah‘s answer to an anon’s ask (so all credit for this idea goes to them) about that scene in Omnivore where Rossi is offering Hotch his gun and this thing pretty much wrote itself (which is exceedingly rare lmao), so here is something that i thought would be just a few hundred words but ended up being a really long interpretation of the Foyet arc with hurt/minimal comfort with a good amount of pre-Mortch (or you can see them as platonic, i think it’s up for interpretation).

also, just a quick heads up, i love Papa Rossi, but for the purposes of this fic, it might seem a little bash-y towards him

warnings: quite a bit of suicidal ideation, (almost) attempted suicide, implied/referenced suicide, canon-typical violence, canonical character death

word count: 7.9k words

The highlighted words stared back at Hotch as Shaunessy’s words echoed in his mind.

A deal with the devil.

“Yes, that’s exactly right,” he told Garcia.

“Because I found it, do I get to know what it’s about?” the analyst asked, unrepentantly curious. Hotch sent her a look.

Might as well. Shaunessy’s not going to last much longer, and we’ll be called in… “The Reaper,” he said simply.

“Like—the Boston Reaper?” Garcia lowered her voice as she named the notorious killer. Hotch nodded. “I didn’t even know the BAU worked on that case,” she remarked.

“1998,” Hotch informed her, remembering caffeine-fueled sleepless nights and the palpable fear on the streets. “It was my first case for the BAU as lead profiler.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but we don’t have a profile for the Reaper in the system, do we?”

Not in the system, no. “That’ll be all Penelope, you can go home now,” Hotch told Garcia, turning to the bottom drawer of the shelf behind his desk as the analyst nodded and left. Pulling out a worn folder bursting with papers and photos, he placed the newspaper clipping and the evidence bag protecting the contract into it. He left it to the side and refocused on the folder in front of him filled with sheets of old handwritten notes filled with annotations and crossed-out sections.

There will be no sleeping tonight.

Early September, 1998

“You’re sending me?” Hotch was sitting ramrod straight in surprise, blindsided by Gideon’s sudden decision.

“Yeah,” Gideon answered simply, leaning back in his chair as much as he could in the cramped space and looking supremely unperturbed. “Do you not want to go?”

Hotch shook herself out of his shocked state, scrambling to gather his wits. “No—I mean, I’ll go, but—”

“But?”

Hotch carefully evaluated his words. “I’ve only been here a few months, and you’re sending me to Boston—alone—to help with the Reaper case? The case that has been going on for three years, longer than I’ve even been an agent, involving a killer that could probably put the Zodiac to shame?”

The older agent shrugged. “I have to stay and hold down the fort since we are severely understaffed, but I’ll always be a phone call away, and you’re mainly there just to act as eyes for the both of us. You’re not working on this alone.”

Hotch stiffened as a sudden—but careful—warm touch on his hand pulled him out of the spiral of self-doubt he had been teetering over and grounded him. He brought his eyes back to Gideon and was surprised to see complete openness and no signs of deception or maliciousness that he had been forced to learn long ago at the hands of his father.

“I’m not Dave,” Gideon began seriously, “I wasn’t the one who pulled you over here or the one you started out shadowing under, but I do talk to people. I know about your record in prosecution, in Seattle, and in SWAT, and it is very telling. You never doubted yourself before, and I have no doubt that you can handle yourself, so why are you starting now?”

He leaned back, clearly done with the impromptu pep talk that Hotch, still frozen, figured happened once in a blue moon based on what Rossi had told him about the unit before he retired. The cramped room was silent as Hotch felt Gideon watching him struggling with internal strife. Slowly, he released some of the tension that was coiled within him, and Gideon turned back to his stack of consults with an air of satisfaction.

“Start packing, Agent Hotchner. Boston awaits your presence.”

Late November, 1998

“Do you know what the hell is going on?” Hotch immediately asked when the call went through, pacing around his hotel room.

“And a good evening to you too.”

“Gideon.”

“What is it, Hotch?” his tone changed from dry to worried in a heartbeat, hearing the uncharacteristic urgency in his agent’s voice and the lack of nervousness that usually showed his agent’s discomfort towards using the less-formal form of address.

“Shaunessy, the lead detective,” Hotch spat out, throwing the case file that was in his hand on the bed. “He closed the case.”

“And that warrants a phone call at eleven PM, why?”

Hotch bit back a sharp retort, letting out a sharp breath. “You know I’ve been re-interviewing the victims’ friends and family, going through everything they had and lines of investigation that may have been dropped, working the profile along the way, but there have been no viable suspects, even with the accelerated killings,” he said quickly, a mess of emotions swirling inside him. “Gideon, no arrests have been made but he closed the case, just like that.”

“Remind me, when was the last victim?”

“Just over six weeks ago, a month after I got here. I know what you’re thinking,” Hotch said when Gideon didn’t respond, “that the case just went cold, but there were still things I had people following up on. It’s not cold,” he insisted.

“Well, there’s nothing you can do about it, Hotch. I know you don’t like it, but the locals have point on this.”

Hotch sighed, but it did nothing to calm him down. “I know,” he said, annoyed. “I’m catching an early train back to DC, I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”

January 2003

“The Reaper?”

Hotch slammed the folder shut and looked up from his desk, startled. He sent Gideon a glare, glad that no one else was there to see his composure slip, but he only looked vaguely concerned.

“It’s been just over four years,” Gideon commented neutrally. “You’ve had that folder at the bottom of your third drawer, and you’ve pulled it out at least forty different times since ‘98.”

Hotch stared up at him in a challenge. “Is there something wrong with that?”

Gideon shook his head. “Just be careful. Don’t get too drawn into the chase.”

~~~

Sighing as he rubbed the familiar ache on the back of his neck that always appeared during paperwork days and especially stressful cases, Hotch closed his battered folder of notes and opened it back up again. It was almost compulsive at this point, repeating every twenty minutes and each time with the hope something new would catch his attention.

Hotch shifted, the bedsheets suddenly feeling unbearably scratchy and coarse even through his slacks. The case details buzzed around his head incessantly, distracting him from feeling the physical exhaustion and strain caused by the lack of proper sustenance and the stress of a day filled with dead ends.

The sudden ringing shattered the silence of the room, knocking him from his focus. He got up from the bed and warily walked over to the source, picking up the hotel phone and bringing it up to his ear.

“Hotchner,” he said out of habit, only to freeze as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in reaction to the sudden, heavy breathing. “Who is this?” he demanded, throwing the folder he was still holding back on the bed with dread rising within him.

“If you stop hunting me, I’ll stop hunting them.” His question about the caller’s identity went unanswered, though the cursed words of the contract spoken by the same distorted voice that was heard on the 911 calls from ten years ago was confirmation enough.

Anger flared inside him at the audacity, and he snapped back, “You think I’d take that?”

“It’s a good deal,” the Reaper replied flatly.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said, some distant part of him wondering how Shaunessy felt when he himself got the offer ten years ago. “I thought you were smarter than this,” he was unable to help the derisive tone.

The silence was long enough for him to wonder how much he had caught him unawares with his response.

“You should take it.”

“And you’ve misjudged me.”

“This is your last chance,” he warned.

Hotch didn’t hesitate. “I don’t make deals. I’m the woman who hunts guys like you.” That got the reaction he was hoping for.

“There are no guys like me,” the killer growled, anger bleeding into his tone.

He scoffed. “You all think that.”

“You’ll regret this,” he warned.

It was said with such certainty that a chill shot down his spine, but it was overshadowed by his anger. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised, promptly hanging up without another word. He walked back around the bed, feeling a sudden need to put as much distance between him and the phone as possible. It was with some hysterical hilarity that he wondered if the next people to stay in this room would know about what had just happened—that a serial killer tried to threaten an FBI agent into surrendering in this room.

Those feelings faded away when a terrible feeling suddenly came over Hotch as he realized the Reaper knew which hotel—which room—he was staying in.

It wasn’t unusual during their cases for an unsub to contact another person in the midst of their crimes, but the memories of Elle in the hospital bed and Morgan in the interrogation room had been seared into his brain.

Both times, unsubs directly went after members of the team.

Unable to remain in the room any longer, he went around unceremoniously throwing his things inside his bags before leaving the hotel room. Paranoia quickly crept back into his consciousness as he quickly made his way down to the parking garage with a hand near his gun, intent on heading straight to the field office.

Only half an hour later, Hotch was staring at the glinting gold ring on the bus driver’s hand, feeling oddly detached from the situation as he was confronted with the consequences of that cursed phone call.

“6 bodies, not including the driver,” Rossi said from the back of the bus. “He put them down with a gun—or, more likely, guns—and finished them off with his knife.”

The call had come straight to the field office, just minutes after Hotch walked into the empty conference room that the team had taken command of. A beat cop had heard a series of gunshots and went to investigate, only to see the macabre painting of blood on the side of the bus with its occupants slumped over inside, unmoving. “Arthur Lanessa’s wedding ring,” Hotch heard himself say for the other agent’s benefit.

“What’d he take?” Rossi made his way down to him in the front.

He snapped back into the present with a sudden surge of anger. “Does it matter?” he asked bitingly, turning and storming away from the crime scene for the relative privacy of a nearby alley.

“Hey,” Rossi called in worry, taken aback by the brash response. “What’s going on with you?”

Hotch stopped some way into the alley and took a deep breath, taking his time before turning to Rossi, who had followed closely behind. “He called me tonight at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

“What did you say?”

“I hung up on him,” his eyes burned with the sting of tears—whether out of anger at the Reaper or himself, he wasn’t sure. “And then he does this.”

“So you think this is your fault?”

How could it be anything but? He looked away, trying to hide just how shaken he was. “It is.”

The familiar sound of the safety of a gun being released pulled his attention back to the man in front of him. “Well, here, use mine,” Rossi said, holding out his gun to him. “You convinced me. No, no, you hung up on him,” he pushed as he waved him off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You practically killed them yourself—”

You practically killed them yourself.

Killed them yourself.

Killed them.

Yourself.

You.

You did this.

You should have made the deal

Hotch flinched away from the touch of cold metal against his head only to freeze in his place, ice settling in his bones as he processed what was happening. Barely seeing the horror on Rossi’s face, he stared at the other man’s empty hand before he focused in on the gun that was resting against his own head, tilted at an angle. There were five things he knew:

I have a finger on the trigger.

My hand is trembling.

I am still one of the best shots of the agents that are not in a tactical team.

Make one move, fire the gun, only the hearing in my right ear will be gone and the darkness continues to creep towards me.

Make a different move, fire the gun, I’ll leave Jack the legacy of a coward and Haley the knowledge that her efforts back in high school and college were for naught.

You did this, a malicious voice in his head said, sounding oddly like his father. And suddenly, he recalled the memory of the blood droplets hitting him and the ringing in his ears the first time he witnessed a gun go off when he was nine.

Slowly, deliberately, Hotch met Rossi’s horrified and guilt-filled expression and lowered the gun from his head. Carefully measuring his steps, he moved forward and pressed the gun into the older agent’s hand, which dropped down to the side, the weight of the gun now accompanied by something unseen, something much heavier.

Not sparing him another glance, Hotch turned and walked back out of the alley.

This isn’t the time nor place to break.

But in the end, he didn’t have a choice.

“Foyet escaped.”

Hotch’s blood ran cold as he processed JJ’s words before he roughly placed his mug onto the desk and stood up from his chair, following JJ outside to the bullpen that was full of noise and movement.

“Guards found him in his cell vomiting blood and convulsing, they rushed him to the prison hospital,” JJ explained quickly as they made their way down the catwalk. Hotch twitched as he heard Rossi’s office door open behind him, the man coming out to see what the commotion was about.

“Get me the US Marshal’s Office,” Hotch ordered, making the executive decision to ignore the older agent in favor of getting down to business.

“I already called Don Reilly. I offered our assistance, he said they’d call us if they needed it.”

Prentiss rushed to the trio, holding a phone up to her ear. “The Boston field office just identified documents from Foyet’s house,” she reported.

Reid approached the agents gathered in the middle of the room, holding out a printout of what looked to be a set of blueprints. “They’re schematics for the electrical, heating, and water ducts of the East Woburn Correctional Facility.”

Hotch looked at him blankly. “He had the schematics.”

“And not just for Woburn—for every jail, prison, and courthouse in Massachusetts.”

“And ten years to plan,” Rossi added, a heavy silence following as everyone turned to the TV.

Finally, Garcia turned around. “They’re going to find him, right?” she asked worriedly.

Eyes still trained on Foyet's mugshot on the TV, Hotch was completely certain in his answer. “No, they’re not,” he said, just as the memory of Foyet’s words rose to the forefront of his mind, unbidden.

If you know me so well, how come so many had to die to bring you here?

I’m going to be more famous than you realize.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, trying to get a hold of the wave of nausea that suddenly overcame him. He brushed past the team, purposely heading out of the bullpen for one of the bathrooms that was further away for the sake of keeping the team and their concern off his back.

Within minutes he was throwing up bile and the small amount of alcohol he had drank back in his office into the sink, thanking the god he never believed in that the bathroom was rather secluded so there wouldn’t be anyone catching him in this moment of weakness. His eyes burned for the second time in less than twenty-four hours—only this time, a few traitorous tears managed to escape from underneath his eyelids.

The taste of bile was strong as he turned on the tap and splashed his face with cold water, stiffening when he heard the door swing open and closed. Looking up to the mirror, he was both relieved and unsurprised to see Morgan locking the door behind him.

“You’ve been avoiding Rossi,” Morgan commented quietly. Hotch huffed a sardonic laugh, straightening up and turning around to face him, leaning against the sink for support. It was a familiar situation, one first started years ago when it was just them and Gideon, and stopped after the team started growing. Then New York happened and Hotch had to de-stress in a gas station they stopped at on the drive back to Quantico, and their secret rendezvous started happening again, when cases hit too close to home for either of them.

Somehow he always knows what the root problem is. “Was I that obvious?”

Morgan shook his head. “You know you hide it well. I’ve just known you far longer than any of the others, besides Rossi, of course.” He didn’t go on, waiting on the other to decide the direction the conversation would go.

Deciding to go for complete honesty, Hotch swallowed, tilting his head up and avoiding Morgan’s eyes. “He called me at my hotel room and offered me the deal.”

To his credit, Morgan only stepped closer, face creased in concern and a hint of knowing. “I said no, and he shot up a bus,” Hotch continued tonelessly. “I lost it in an alley near the crime scene. Dave had pulled out his gun and was trying to make a point about self-flagellation, but—” he cut himself off and shook his head frustratedly.

“I don’t know what happened. One moment I was just angry, and the next moment I was aiming a gun at my head,” he met Morgan’s eyes desperately, stern facade completely gone. “I don’t know what I wanted to do—I don’t,” his voice cracked as he sagged against the sink and his trembling became more pronounced. He quickly covered his mouth as a sob tried to escape his throat, prompting Morgan to move.

It was surprising to both him and Morgan how willingly he melted into Morgan’s body when the man reached out to stabilize him, but the sensation of the embrace was oddly calming for both of them. Neither spoke as they stood in the bathroom, not even as Morgan felt his shirt getting wet from the tears that Hotch finally let fall, and not even as the crying became more audible.

Now, they would stay in the bathroom and soak up the comfort that they offered each other. They would talk about Foyet’s taunts and what Hotch confessed later.

But later never came, because life never waits, and neither do unsubs.

Soon, they were racing against the clock as Reid got infected with an engineered strain of anthrax

Soon, they were investigating one of the worst, stomach-turning crimes they had seen.

When they got back from the pig farm, Hotch only asked the team for a bare-bones report of the investigation and let them leave to the comfort of their homes while he stayed behind and dealt with the rest of the paperwork and red tape that was involved because of their foray into Canadian jurisdiction.

It was past midnight when Hotch finally left the office and entered his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, knowing there was no way he was going to fall asleep that night.

But Foyet was waiting, and Hotch was weakened by the exhaustion and stress of two all-nighters in a row.

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he could only take comfort in the fact that his death sealed Foyet’s fate. There was no way Morgan the team—hell, even Strauss, or anyone in the bureau—would stop hunting his killer to exact their revenge.

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it.

He slowly regained consciousness to the sharp smell of antiseptic and the unpleasantly familiar beeping of a heart monitor. Fatigue settling heavily over his whole body was the next sensation that registered in his foggy mind, and then the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Where am I?” he forced out through a dry throat, eyes still closed.

“In the hospital,” Rossi, his mind told him. He opened his eyes only to close them again when he was met with blindingly bright lights, letting out a pained breath.

“How did I get here?”

“Foyet drove you.”

Morgan. He drew in a shaky breath as dull, pulsing pain finally made itself known through the painkillers.

“Can you remember what happened?”

That’s Prentiss.

He vaguely felt his head loll to the side before the memories rushed back into the forefront of his mind. Foyet’s words, the same exact words he remembered thinking back in that alley echoed unpleasantly,

You should have made the deal.

Hotch swallowed again and forced his eyes open through the heavy fatigue. “What did he take?” he asked quietly, unwilling to delve deep into what he remembered and deciding to mentally run through the details about the Reaper case instead.

“What do you mean?” Rossi asked, uncomprehending.

“The Reaper always takes something from his victims.” you’re one of his victims now—shut up and think about that later “Do we know what he took?”

“There was a page missing from your day planner,” his eyes flew open and he looked over at Prentiss as she continued talking, “in the address section, the Bs.”

No— “What did he leave?” Hotch asked, eyes slipping shut as a trickle of fear went down his spine and his brain screamed out in denial.

“I don't know,” Prentiss said, floundering.

“He also leaves something with his victims,” he trailed off in a breathless whisper, unable to sustain the volume he had been speaking at as the throbbing grew stronger.

“I looked over your whole apartment,” Prentiss told him helplessly. “Nothing felt out of place.”

A thought came to him. “Where are my clothes?” Hotch asked, slowly trying to force his eyes open again. He turned his head, watching Prentiss bring a plastic bag over to the hospital bed. Careful to avoid looking directly at his bloodied clothes, Hotch managed to pull the bulging manila envelope closer to him on his chest.

His hands froze as his credentials slipped out and he noticed a folded paper tucked inside. Slowly, shakily, Hotch pulled them out of the envelope and carefully flipped it open.

He sank deeper into the bed as the breath he had been holding was almost punched out of him by the sheer terror that pulsed through him, the treasured picture of Haley and Jack staring back at him tauntingly. That’s my blood, he thought blankly, staring at the red streak he knew was deliberately painted over his family’s smiling faces.

“Haley’s maiden name is Brooks,” he finally said, almost numb to the implications. “I always listed her in the Bs in my personal information in case it fell into the wrong hands.”

Some kind of precaution it turned out to be.

“He knows where they live.”

And that was that. As Hotch was stuck in flashbacks and lied to Prentiss about what happened, Morgan led the SWAT team in sweeping Hotch’s old house and picked Jack up from his playdate. As Hotch talked with Haley and failed to not think about that night in the alley with the cold metal against his head, Morgan played with Jack outside and failed to not think about Foyet using his credentials so he could continue to torture his friend boss. As Hotch remained confined to the hospital bed, Morgan watched through an upper-story window as Haley and Jack were driven off into the distance to a location unknown to anyone but a select few in the Marshals service.

Nine stab wounds, thirty minutes down time, and six days in the cursed hospital.

The numbers circled through Hotch’s mind when he stepped back into his apartment and had to work through the panic that rose within as he stared towards the place where he knew Foyet had been hiding.

In the end, what brought him back from the edge was when his eyes caught the new security panel that had been installed over where he knew the bullet had made a hole and the sticky note with what he recognized as Morgan’s handwriting that was stuck over it, concisely written instructions on how to use it. If he looked around carefully enough for other signs of Morgan’s presence, he could see where the section of bloodstained carpet had been replaced, and that was only because there was the tiniest spot that had been missed.

The tiniest reminder was enough to send Hotch into a panic, but he knew there was no way he could tell Morgan about it.

Is this what you felt like, Elle? Unsafe in your own home, having to sweep each room for fear of another one of the monsters we hunt lurking in the shadows?

Slowly, numbly, Hotch worked his way through medical leave and physiotherapy, during which everyone in his team came over at least twice, Prentiss and Morgan the most often to help change his bandages. He knew they worried, but he couldn’t summon the will to care nor the words to thank them for keeping him company and preventing the darkness in his mind from taking over.

And maybe it was a good thing, because there were things they didn’t know, things that he lied to them about. He lied and he lied, and he knew that if he had the words, they would all come tumbling out, and what little of himself that he had left would be exposed for all to see.

Even if Morgan had tried to take everything he might be able to use, there was still his mind, and so if he had the words, they would all know how many times he envisioned holding cold metal against his head just as he had back in that alley.

On the thirty-fifth day after he was discharged from the hospital, when they were discussing Darren Call on the plane, they came close to finding out.

So why hasn’t he killed himself yet? Sprees usually end in suicide. If he's got nothing to live for, why hasn't he ended it?

It was much later, after a day of being on the receiving end of careful, worried glances, and overhearing Morgan’s firm declaration from inside his office that he realized his slip.

“I’m not going to stand by and watch this man kill himself,” Hotch had heard Morgan snap towards Rossi. Moments later, Morgan passed in front of his office window and made eye contact with him, making it clear that his choice of words was deliberate.

Suddenly Hotch was back in the alleyway with the gun pressed to his head and managed to talk himself off the ledge he didn’t know he was standing on while Rossi stood there, frozen and horrified that his brazen attempt at making a point had backfired so disastrously. His own words on the plane came back to him, then thought about what others would have seen when he walked into that house unarmed, and he understood.

He hadn’t been thinking at all when he went in to try and talk Darren Call down, but though he didn’t have a background in psychology, there were some things that didn’t need expert opinion to be said, and so he knew exactly his action could be classified as.

Don’t lie to yourself, you know exactly what that was.

Hotch swallowed convulsively and broke eye contact with Morgan, turning back to stare at paperwork until the other man walked back to his desk in the empty bullpen. As much as he tried, he couldn’t forget Morgan’s impassioned exclamation nor the depth of the worry that was present in his eyes when they made eye contact through the window.

Maybe that was the day when things shifted. It wasn’t a complete change—the team still hovered around Hotch in uncertain worry, his thoughts never completely disappeared, and he nearly broke down in the bathroom the day Jack turned four in witness protection after seeing what footage of his child on a playground Garcia could enhance.

There was, however, a different air to his and Morgan’s interactions after that case. Perhaps it was a long time coming, stemming from the painful understanding that was formed that day in the secluded bathroom when they found comfort in each other.

It wasn’t news that the higher-ups were watching him again, but then he walked back to his office after helping JJ triage consult requests to see Strauss fixing him with a stern stare. The next few days he spent trying to work through the frustration of recording and justifying every decision while trying and failing not to antagonize Morgan. And so while he waited for Morgan to come into his office, he could only hope that he hadn’t managed to destroy the strange friendship that had been built between them based on their shared knowledge of just how close he was to the ledge sometimes.

I should give him more credit, I don’t know how he puts up with me sometimes, and he has more than enough reason to report me to Strauss.

“Come on, Hotch, nobody's gonna replace you,” Morgan said, incredulous at the notion of Hotch getting replaced. “Fight Strauss. I'll go to the mat for you, so will everybody else. You know that.”

“Morgan, it won't work,” Hotch spoke over him, trying to get him to understand. “Decisions like this have their own momentum. Unless I step down—”

“Step down? What are you talking about?”

A foreign feeling Hotch recognized with some surprise as amusement wriggled its way into his consciousness as he anticipated Morgan’s reaction to his coming announcement, “I'm resigning as unit chief at the end of the week”

“What? No!” Hotch couldn’t stop his mouth from twitching as his feeling of amusement grew slightly stronger at the visceral reaction. “Hotch, look, yeah, ok, sometimes your actions, I may disagree with them, but it's not enough for you to leave this team.”

“I'm not leaving the team, I'm just no longer in charge,” Hotch corrected, continuing before Morgan could get in a word. “You are.”

He watched as Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock, before finally asking, “Me?” Detecting no deception from Hotch who had nodded, he continued. “Look, I had the chance to be unit chief in New York, and I said no. I turned it down because I like this team. Strauss can't just fire you like this.”

“She can reassign me, and we can avoid that if I promote internally.”

Unable to come up with a counterargument, Morgan was silent for a moment. “This is wrong,” he finally said.

A strange thrill went through Hotch at the confidence Morgan had in him—their relationship, while slightly different now, ultimately had been built on unstated respect and the ease with which both were able to call each other out on their bullshit; it wasn’t built on such blatant declarations of trust and confidence. Hotch opened his hands, shrugging helplessly. “It's the only way to keep the team together.”

Morgan nodded consideringly before carefully eyeing Hotch. “So all of this,” he gestured between them, bringing up the tension that had built up between them in the last case, “this is why you've been pushing me so hard, huh?”

“I haven't been pushing you that hard,” Hotch denied, only to get a disbelieving look from the other man. He let out a faint smile before regarding the other with a serious look again. “Morgan, I need to know right now. Will you do this?”

He couldn’t articulate the relief he felt when Morgan finally agreed and continued to feel for the rest of the night as he introduced Morgan to the other parts of the job. Just like every other positive emotion he had felt over the past few years, however, it was short-lived, as Hotch had freed up time to dedicate to the hunt, even as he often stayed later to help Morgan get adjusted. Within months, they were called into a family annihilator case and Hotch was confronting Karl Arnold, one of the few unsubs that had continued to haunt him even after the case was closed and they were killed or incarcerated.

Of course, Arnold had to get in the last word, and oh, did he get it in.

The cursed eye of providence, now drawn over a newspaper article about the attack months ago, never failed to create a surge of anger and fear within him, but never had it created such a storm of emotions before now. One torturous night of waiting as the envelope the taunts were sent in went through the lab, and the whole team was in the throes of the hunt, and in the process, fell victim to tunnel vision.

What if they had slowed down and remembered that Foyet worked with computers? Would they have managed to catch him at the apartment unawares? Would they have been better prepared for what Foyet had planned to do?

But there wasn’t anything Hotch could do except try and talk Foyet out of going through with his plans while trying to maintain as level of a head as possible.

“Your mother tried to protect you from your father, but she wasn’t strong enough, and you hated her for that, didn’t you? So, you decided that all women were weak,” Hotch suddenly brought up, hoping to catch him off guard as he vaguely wondered if the team was on the line, listening.

“Those are your words, not mine,” came the grating, annoyingly blasé reply.

“What were you, nine when you killed them?

“It was a car accident. And, now that I think about it, our childhoods are eerily similar, don’t you think?”

Caught unawares, Hotch jerked the steering wheel, barely managing to avoid crashing the car as Foyet continued. “But it was only your father who died, whereas your mother remarried.”

How—? He turned cold at the show of Foyet’s obsession, which was clearly much deeper than he or anyone in the team could have predicted.

“No response?” the killer taunted.

“My father swallowed a bullet because he couldn’t live with his self loathing or the cancer,” Hotch finally snapped, quickly directing the subject back towards Foyet. Even with the pit in his stomach growing as it became clearer that he was being toyed with, he couldn’t help but use every negotiation tactic he knew and taught at the Academy, desperately but futilely trying to dissuade the killer.

“Haven't you gotten what you wanted?” Hotch tried, somehow having regained his composure after the unpleasant bombshell. “You've set yourself apart from anybody we've ever dealt with. You're not just a famous serial killer, you're the Reaper. We're going to study you and your methods for years and years.”

“You know what I've been thinking?” Foyet finally asked after a few moments of silence, his next words sending his heart pounding in fear. “Haley looks really good with dark hair. She’s lost some weight. Must be all the stress you caused her. Where's the little man?” No, don’t you dare— “Oh. There he is. Does he like Captain America because of you?”

Hotch gripped his phone tightly as he heard the ringing of another phone. “That's your wife. Hold, please—Mrs. Hotchner,” Foyet took on an accent, tone turning jovial. “Open the gate and I'll drive in.”

Open the gate? That son of a—of course.

“Aaron?” the malicious glee was back, cutting right to Hotch’s core. “I really gotta go.”

Almost frozen with fear, he pushed the car faster, heading straight towards the old house and praying to whatever deity he could think of that he could get there in time. He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he got Morgan’s call, which was confirmation that the team had indeed been listening. He didn’t dwell on it and only continued to push the car, disregarding speed limits and almost hysterically glad that it was the middle of the day and the streets were relatively empty.

When his phone rang, it was with numb, mechanical movements that he answered, fully prepared to beg and bargain for his family’s life if he had to, only to sharply inhale at Haley’s dearly missed voice, which turned shaky with fear when she realized the danger she was in. As Foyet undercut their exchange with his maliciously satisfied taunts, telling Haley all that he could never bring himself to confess about the case, Hotch could only think about how he was just too far away, Haley, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for lying to you about everything, I’ll never forgive myself—

But then Jack was on the phone, and the pure innocence and eagerness with which his son greeted him after months of no contact was enough to send a fresh wave of tears coursing down his face.

“Is George a bad guy?”

“Yes, he is,” Hotch answered, wanting to scream at him to just run away, get as far away from him as you can when an old memory was suddenly brought forth from his subconscious. “Jack, I need you on this case with me. Do you understand?” he tried to keep his voice steady, hoping with his whole being that his son would remember. “I need you to work the case with me.”

“Ok, Daddy.”

“Jack, hug your mom for me,” he requested, voice cracking and desperately trying to contain the sobs that were steadily building. He could only imagine the warmth his son was feeling from his mother now, potentially the last memory he would ever have of her. Hearing his son’s too-inquisitive question about his mother’s mood left him viciously biting down on his bottom lip, trying to maintain some modicum of control over himself.

“Is he gone?” Hotch finally asked, nausea joining the storm of emotions within him at the nickname Foyet had given his son.

“Yes,” Haley confirmed, letting her fear shine through now that Jack wasn’t there to see it.

Each shaking breath was a stab straight to his core.“You’re so strong, Haley, you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Her response nearly sent him shattering into the pieces she had so carefully helped him put back together back in high school after his stepfather died.

“You’ll hurry, right?”

I can’t lie, I’m so sorry, Haley. I can’t lie to you. Not after everything I’ve already done, “I know you didn’t sign on for this.”

“Neither did you.”

Why does it have to be now that we finally talk about what caused the divorce?

“I’m sorry for everything.”

There was a short pause as Haley inhaled sharply, before leveling out into shaky breaths. “Promise me that you will tell him how we met and how you used to make me laugh.”

No, please— “Haley,” Hotch trailed off, unable to continue and almost paralyzed at the knowledge that these might be her last words because he’s too far away, I’m not going to—

“He needs to know that you weren't always so serious, Aaron. He needs to believe in love, because it is the most important thing, but you need to show him. Promise me,” she ordered him forcefully.

“I promise.”

The sound of three gunshots tore straight into his soul.

And then he was finding Haley’s body, trying not to let the seams break when renewed rage roared to life within him at the extinguishing of the light that had been inside her and lit up every room she walked in. Minutes later, he was straddling the demon that had haunted him for over a decade, the demon that he finally caught up to but at a terrible cost and then he was punching—

I’m going to kill that bastard son of yours and I’m going to tell him it was all your fault—

and punching—

You practically killed them yourself—

and punching—

You should have made the deal—

someone yelled his name—

Promise me.

“—dead. He’s dead,” someone was shouting as Hotch tried to lunge forward away from the person pulling him back and towards the man who killed my wife HE KILLED HALEY—

But all the fight that had been inside him suddenly disappeared, and he was left staggering backward, mouth open in a silent, rage-filled scream as someone—it’s Derek—kept a careful grip on his body, holding his shattered pieces together just long enough for him to gather his tattered seams close to his chest and fling himself away towards the stairs.

Hotch collapsed to his knees in front of the chest, seeing no indication of any taunting messages and daring to hope that his son was—

And the sight of his son, unharmed and blinking at the sudden change in brightness, nearly sent him into a mess of relieved tears that were also tears of unadulterated grief because I got his mother killed—

He held himself together and lifted his son out of the chest, seeing all the features he got from Haley—her his hair, her his eyes, her his inquisitiveness—and struggling to maintain his weakening control as he told Jack to go to Ms. Jareau, who was waiting with open arms in the doorway to the room that had once been his office.

Hearing their footsteps fade away and shaking with suppressed sobs, he slowly stood up, injuries that he sustained in the fight finally making themselves known as he made his way across the hall to the room he knew Haley was lying in—

He saw Morgan taking her pulse and for a moment he couldn’t help but hope that she was still—

But Morgan was pulling back and he was gently placing Haley’s right arm back on the ground and he wasn’t yelling for medics and—

“I’m so sorry, Aaron,” Morgan said softly as Hotch knelt down, his trembling becoming more palpable by the moment.

If he looked past the unseeing eyes and the blood that pooled everywhere and her lying on the floor and—

He could almost convince himself that she was sleeping. For a moment, he was almost afraid to touch her, afraid to disturb her in her sleep, but in the next moment—

He was pulling her cooling body close to his chest and burying his face into the crook of her neck, gut wrenching sobs escaping his lips as a wave of grief shattered the flimsy show of control he had put up for Jack’s sake, his son who just lost his mother because his father was addicted to the chase and I broke my promise, Haley, I’m so sorry—

She’s gone.

The solemn silence weighed heavily on the team as they waited for Hotch to finish testifying before Strauss and the brass. They had all expressed their outrage when they got the orders to come in for their statements, only two days after their leader nearly lost everything, but there was nothing they could do.

It had been painful to watch the man who had been a protector for so long, since childhood through his teenage years and into adulthood, try to maintain the post, disregarding his own health in favor of being the earliest in the office and last to leave, spending every free moment trying to get rid of the threat to his family. It was worse having to listen over the phone as his control started to slip while he tried so desperately to save his family from a madman.

With the sight of him savagely beating Foyet’s dead body into the ground, all vestiges of the infamous controlled facade gone, they all hoped for Hotch’s sake that Jack had found safety and were beyond relieved to see him in JJ’s arms. Reality caught up to them, however, when they watched as Morgan had to physically wrestle Hotch away from Haley’s body so she could be transported to the ME’s office.

When they got the full autopsy, they could only be glad that Hotch wasn’t there to find out all that Foyet did to his first love.

And within a year, Hotch’s family had been ruthlessly snatched from his desperate, flailing grip and torn into broken pieces before being shoved back at him, misshapen with pieces missing.

The faint sound of a door swinging closed had them all straightening up in their seats, turning to look into the bullpen where Hotch was walking up the stairs in front of his office, only to freeze right in front of the door with his hand just in front of the door knob.

They watched worriedly as he let his outstretched hand fall back to his side and slowly backed up from the door, almost as if he were in a trance and startled when Morgan suddenly jumped up and ran out of the room and through the bullpen towards the man.

Their confusion cleared up when they realized that Hotch wasn’t stopping as he backed up, somehow unaware that the stairs were right behind him and stumbled, only barely catching himself on the railing. For Jack’s sake, they forced themselves to stay seated but watched out of the corner of their eyes as he tried to stand back up, only for his knees to buckle underneath him.

Before he could hit the ground, Morgan quickly grabbed onto his arms, almost collapsing himself under his dead weight but managing to lower them both onto the ground, holding onto him in a way eerily reminiscent of what he had done when he pulled Hotch off of the barely-recognizable body of George Foyet.

Hotch was still staring at his office door as if he had seen a ghost, and it was with heartbreak that Morgan realized what it represented to him—it was the source of so much passion and temptation that had gotten the love of his life killed. Looking back at the conference room and seeing the eyes focused on the two men, Morgan carefully pulled Hotch up from the ground and slowly guided him out of the bullpen, knowing that the team had Jack taken care of.

They walked through the winding hallways and into the bathroom that he followed Hotch into the night it all started to go horribly wrong. This time, it was different and yet the exact same, and after Morgan locked the door behind them, he pulled Hotch towards him, mindful of his bruised ribs.

Surrounded by the four walls that heard so many of their small talks and witnessed their vulnerabilities, it wasn’t long before Hotch’s eyes began to burn as he finally melted into Morgan’s protective hold when the dam finally broke, letting out a wave of pain and anguish that was only made the slightest bit more bearable by the warmth of Morgan’s his friend’s care.

But even that couldn’t make that one sentence disappear.

You practically killed them yourself.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #hurting Hotch is so fun #aaron hotchner whump #hurt aaron hotchner #mortch #george foyet #haley hotchner #tw guns #tw suicidal ideation #tw suicide #tw character death #sodone one sentence

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lettersofwrittencollective · 4 years ago

Text

The Pull (106/?)

Summary: The Ragnulf’s are one of the oldest lines of werewolves known. A gift from ancient times was gifted to them. Though not all of the line will experience it. There are some who will experience a Pull. This Pull leads them to their true mate, a soulmate. The problem is, just because the wolf finds their true mate does not mean that they are the same for that person.

Author: @lettersofwrittencollective

Pairing: Stiles x Hale!Cousin OC (Reader)

Word count: 2336

Warnings: i think this is just angst at this point? But also not really??

Additional A/N: If you see *** at any point this means that there is a POV and /or location change (like a scene change in a show) and this is a thing that is going to be going on going forward, okay thanks!

<<Prev || The Pull Masterlist || Next>>

Derek had taken the group of you to the loft, letting you get cleaned up. You were grateful that he’d done so because it meant that you were able to get out of the gasoline drenched clothing .

Derek had pulled you to the side while Scott and the pack tried to decide what to do about the now apparently everywhere Deadpool and informed you that he was reaching out to Aaric and your dad.

“And what exactly do you think that’s going to accomplish?” you growl at Derek, “You’re here, Peter’s here...Stiles’ Dad is-”

“It’s going to keep you alive!” Derek cuts you off, hissing at you, “It’s going to keep the others alive,” Derek points out, your growling having absolutely no effect on him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, you were almost lit on fire earlier.”

You’re about to bite back at Derek that this was entirely not his call. These weren’t your family's lands to protect and for you to call in your father would be an insult that Scott might not understand now… but the rest of the supernatural world would… and eventually, so would he… This was Scott’s home but before you could say anything else, Scott’s telling all of you, “Kira found Brett,”

“Wait, Kira’s back?” you question and he nods his head. You’re happy to hear she’s here and honestly can’t wait till you get to see her. Malia, thankfully, brings everyone back on track. “Well is he okay?”

“They’re fine,” Scott answers, “But we’ve got to go.”

Malia nods her head and immediately makes her way out of the loft. You’re about to follow but the pups voice catches your attention and makes you stop.

“More assassins?” he’s asking and you can hear the waver in his voice. When Scott confirms that there might be a lot more, he clarifies, “and they’re different than the ones who just tried to set us on fire?”

“Pup,” you call out as you take a step towards him and Liam’s eyes turn to you. They’re glassy and worried and if the sight of them alone hadn’t been enough to break your heart, Liam’s next words do.

With a shake of his head, he tells you, “I’m not like you guys and I don’t mean I’m not strong or I’m never gonna learn how to be in control I mean everything else. You guys… you all try to protect everyone. Have you been doing that the whole time?”

You don’t answer him because if you’re being honest, this isn’t how you were at home. It’s not that you didn’t have troubles at home… it was that you had a pack that could protect your home. There were people in your pack that were designated to take care of the kinds of problems you’d been running into since coming to Beacon Hills. What Scott… what Scott, Stiles, Lydia, Derek... and Ali… What they’ve been doing since before you met them was insane if you thought about it.

“How are you all still alive?” the pups voice breaks you out of your thoughts.

“Not all of are,” Scott answers, making your breath catch in your throat and you know that he’s thinking of Alli and of Aiden… and how they haven’t gotten through the last few years without losses. You haven’t gotten out without losses.

If Aaric hadn’t been there… well things could have been worse. You turn to look at Derek who’s giving you a very pointed look and you realize that if you don’t tell your dad and Aaric and Ro… if you don’t ask for help… any more deaths are on your hands.

Nodding your head, you hear Scott offer to take Liam home when you get a text from Lydia telling you ta call her immediately.

***

“I’m completely and totally fine,” Stiles points out to Melissa as he tries to step past her.

“Uh-uh-uh.” Melissa tells him as she steps back into the doorway and puts her hands up, stopping him in his tracks, “You completely and totally have a concussion, Stiles. Lie back down. The doctor said you're not leaving without a CT scan.

“We still haven’t paid for the last one,” he points out.

Melissa’s face scrunches in confusion and she shakes her head, “Yes you have.”

“What? No, we haven’t,” Stiles counters but before he can counter there’s another voice. One that makes his heart soar.

“It’s been taken care of… either way you’re staying here Sti,” Natasha’s voice grumbles at him as she walks up behind Melissa.

“But what about-”

“Your dad’s got Meredith at the station,” she tells him as Melissa moves slightly so that Tasha can step into the room, kissing him softly, his arms immediately wrapping themselves around her, before she continues, “He said it could take some time to get her to talk and Lydia has promised that as soon as she does talk, she’ll call us.”

“Well finally,” Melissa’s voice pulls his attention and he sees the woman he considers a mother smiling at the two of them with a hand on her hip and a knowing smile stretched across her lips. She turns her attention directly to Stiles and points out, “So even if I let you go, what would you do?”

He wants to argue but knows he’s not gonna get away with it. Sighing, he agrees, “Okay fine. But can you do me one little favor?”

“Anything,” Melissa immediately answers and he asks her for a tape player.

“Tape player?” he hears Tasha ask as Melissa clarifies, “ Like cassettes?”

“Yes. Tapes,” Stiles confirms with a nod of his head and Melissa tells him she’ll see what she can do before heading out, closing the door behind her.

“Why do you need a cassette player?” Tasha asks as he feels her hands come up on either side of his neck. Biting back a groan, he glances down and sees her face scrunched in concentration.

“Lobita,” he groans, the nickname falling from his lips almost like second nature, and is rewarded with her sparkling lavender eyes snapping up to his, “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re okay,” she answers like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“That I’m okay?” he clarifies and she nods her head at him.

“Lydia said that Brunski was an ass... Apparently, he punched you?”

“He did,” he confirms for her.

Her hand comes up to cup the side of his face and Stiles can feel himself practically melt into her. Her thumb is trailing along his skin soothingly before he smiles and turns to kiss the inside of her palm.

“What happened with Jax?” he asks her and he can feel her stiffen against him. He can feel himself begin to worry that maybe, just maybe, she had changed her mind but then- she had kissed him when she came in.

Natasha pulled away from him slightly, but only her body, keeping her arms wrapped around him an he watched as she bit at her lip for a moment.

“Alright, good news is that Jax gets it, apparently he expected it,” she begins and Stiles is about to ask why she seems so worried but she moves a hand to his lips, “But I have to tell you something.”

You tell him about

***

Lydia’s at the station waiting for Noah to finish the interview with Meredith. She’s not entirely sure what she expects to happen or how she expects the evening to go but the reality is that they need answers.

Biting at her nails, she begins to do the math.

Really, they’re a bunch of kids that are going up a bunch of assassins. She wonders if, perhaps, she should talk to Natasha about reaching out to her dad. Surely the Ragnulf’s would be willing to help them… right?

She see’s Noah walking out of his office and immediately makes her way over, “What did she say?”

“Hard to tell…” he answers, “There were words. I’m not sure there were actual sentences.”

“Nothing…” Lydia sighs in frustration .

“I think we need a psychologist,” he hears Sheriff mutters, “Or a medium.”

Lydia’s tempted to laugh because really, what has her world become? Instead, she just scoffs, “Is she even competent enough to be charged with anything?”

“Hey!” she hears Noah scold her, “If Meredith is The Benefactor, then that means she was competent enough to trick Kate into opening the Hale Vault, competent enough to blackmail Brunski into helping her, and competent enough to create a hit list and pay out money for it’s completion - demanding proof. Girls practically a criminal mastermind.”

Pulling her phone out, she calls Natasha who answers pretty instantly, “Whats up Lyds?”

“Nothing… she’s.. She’s not talking,” Lydia answers the brunette.

“She’s not giving you anything? Not even a reason?” Natasha’s voice comes through the phone.

Stiles’ chuckle comes through the phone before he speaks up, “Dad’s only gonna be interested in the ‘why’ if it tells him the ‘how.’”

“You mean how to stop it?” Lydia clarifies and she watches Sheriff nod his head.

He must realize that Natasha and Stiles can’t see him because he points out, “Exactly and after what happened to Tasha, Scott and the others… this thing’s still going. The payments could be automatic. And as long as the killers are getting paid, and paid very well, that list is gonna keep getting smaller.”

“So we don’t need to just stop the Dead Pool…” Natasha begins before Stiles finishes, “We gotta stop the money.”

***

Scott parks his bike before he jumps off and is rushing in to the clinic. Kira must hear him because a moment later she’s at the reception area.

Scott can feel the relief at having her in front of him, safe. Pulling her into his arms he kisses her for all that he’s worth. Pulling away from her, he cups her face and moves a stray piece of hair behind her ear, “Is your mom…”

“Safe,” she answers, instantly, “Healing.”

“What about you?” he asks and Kira gives him a questioning look, confusion evident in her face and her scent so he clarifies, “Are you okay?”

“Right now? Very…” Kira replies before she’s pressing her lips to his again and Scotts grateful to have her here. To have her in his arms but a moment later, he remembers why he’s here and he forces himself to focus on that, “Did you find him? Did you find Brett?”

“Actually… I think I found all of them,” she tells him as she leads him to teh back of the office. As they near it, she calls out, “Satomi, this is who I was telling you about.”

“I know who Scott McCall is,” Satomi answers as he and Kira enter the back room. The other Alpha’s eyes heavy on him.

For the first time since he’s been faced with another Alpha, he feels liek the hairs on the back of his neck want to stand up and he feels like a part of him is somehow… more alert.

“Are we safe here?” a voice asks and Scott glances around, realizing that he’s actually surrounded by a multitude of other wolves. Most of the beta’s from the scent of it. Somehow he knows that none of them are warriors.

“We’re gonna need help,” he realizes, “A lot of help”

***

Throwing the guardsman into the door, they wait for half a beat before stepping into the old shipping house.

Argents got his gun ready and when he feels a body behind him he hits them with the butt of his gun, by the sound of it he connects with the head which means they’ll be out cold.

He hears Alarics low growl before the man beside him has moved to a wall. The man seems to be inspectiing it for half a second before he slams hsi hand through it, effectively smashing the wall and pulling out two more men.

He’s grabbed each of the men by their necks and is lifting them so that their feet are dangling in the air as they seem to scratch atAlaric’s hands.

“Alaric,” Chris calls out as he sees the older man moving his arms apart. He can hear the other man scoff as he slames the two bodies into each other, knocking them both out.

“They’ll be fine,” Alaric points out, “A headache like a bitch but they’re not dead.”

Chuckling softly, Argent shakes his head before making his way over to one of the doors.

Getting here had been a bitch in and of itself, the place was damn near impenetrable. At least it would have been if it hadn’t been for Alaric’s skills and his combined. They had gotten in and now they just had to find the damn thing,

Opening the sliding door, he nodded his head, “Found it.”

Row and row upon different plans lined the place. Most of it was wolfsbane but there was also Lilies, Sago Palm, Narcissus Bulbs, Azalea, Oleander, Cyclamen, Yew, Amaryllis and many others that he knew could be used to harm supernatural creatures

“Some of these are lethal,” Alarics voice spoke up and Argent nodded his head.

“You know if we get rid of this, “ Argent points out, “More’ll just pop up. Security will be tighter.”

“Don’t matter,” Alaric answers him with an affirmative humm, “We’ll take those out too. The Albini haven’t scared us before and we won’t start now. Grab the wolfsbane.”

Argent makes his way towards the plant.

The Ragnulfs had a plan. Apparently there was an idea for possibly using the plant to find a way to either innoculate against it or engineer some kind of… some kind of way to fight it.

Grabbing the yellow plant he tucks it away so they can get it back to the Ragnulf compound.

He’s going to ask to hold onto some… there are, after all, even some wolves the Ragnulfs will hunt down and he’s sure they won't deny him fault him for it.

<<Prev || The Pull Masterlist || Next>>

The Pull Taglist: @stiles-o-dylan24 @teen--marvel @kiwihoee @thegirlwhoimagined @bolaurel @missindecision @stixnstripesworld

@bolaurel

#Teen Wolf rewrite #teen wolf x oc #stiles Stilinski #stiles #stasha #stiles x natasha #stiles x original female character #stiles stilinksi x original female character #written as an insert #second POV

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footballerindreams · 4 years ago

Text

How I Met Your Mother - Park Jihoon (one shot)

---

Jihoon had been a successful MC for not only with Inkigayo, but also with some other shows. Heck he even had a chance to host the likes of MAMA and SMA, a feat that rarely happens.

And well, through hosting he was able to meet the future other half of his life.

He met Y/N when Jihoon was nominated for as best host of the year and Y/N was invited on the yearly event with her team of newscasters because one of her colleagues was nominated for Best Documentary. And fate let them sit at the same table…and beside each other.

Jihoon being an extrovert and a social butterfly that he is, he became immediately professionally close to her and to the team, sharing stories and jokes while the award show is going on.

Jihoon may not been able to win the award, but he was able to win the hearts of those people around him…especially Y/N.

The next day he and his fellow Treasure members were enjoying their day off and had a chance to watch the review of the award show that last night.

“Hyung! Look at this!” Doyoung shouted and Jihoon, Jeongwoo and Mashiho gathered in their living room and watch the show.

“Showbiz bits! Treasure member and last night’s nominee for best host Park Jihoon, is seen getting close with newscaster YFam/N Y/N. Last night’s award show has been memorable and most especially for the fans that were watching it. The number of times Mr. Park has been caught by the camera getting close with Ms. YFam/N, talking about something made a ruckus on the internet. Tweets over the two to be a potential couple has been massive and so far, the fans expect something more. Well, we’ll see about it.”

Mashiho, Doyoung and Jeongwoo looked back at their hyung and Jihoon is nervous.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jihoon backed out a bit.

The three suddenly smiled at him in an eerie way.

“You’re interested in her.” Mashiho started.

“What the hell are you talking about, I was actually talking to the rest of the people there. Not only to her?” Jihoon defended.

“Well, if you say that, and the way she looks at you, I think she likes you, hyung.” Doyoung said.

“Stop with the nonsense Doyoungie. Why would she like me? I’m just an idol.”

“Who would not like you, hyung? Girls are falling for you. Your smile, your wits. Not to mention that great body of yours. Oh, how I wish I have that too.” Jeongwoo said.

“Shut up Jeongwoo. There you go again with your low self-esteem.”

“Why don’t you give her a chance, hyung? Even probably as friends?” Mashiho suggested.

“I’m too busy right now to give attention to women. And so are you, you and you.” Jihoon said pointing his fingers one by one to his dongsaengs.

---

The next time Jihoon and Y/N saw each other was in the building of YG itself.

“Hi Park Jihoon-ssi.” Y/N waved and greeted.

Jihoon just got out of the cafeteria together with Hyunsuk and Junghwan, finished their breaktime by eating and chatting.

“Hey! Y/N-ssi! What brings you here?” Jihoon replied.

“Well, me and my team had an interview assignment here. We are going to meet Bobby-ssi.” Y/N gladly replied.

“Oh! With Bobby-hyung…I mean Bobby-sunbaenim. I did not know you are doing a music segment. You are usually in charge of weather forecasts.” Jihoon said.

“Yeah. New assignment. My boss said that I could fit as well for the segment and decided to give it to me and give it a try. This is the first time so I don’t have an idea what shall I do.”

“I know you can do it. I believe you.” Jihoon assured.

“Thank you so much, Jihoon-ssi.”

Hyunsuk suddenly and politely interrupted, “Uhm. Are you looking for Bobby-hyung? He’s at the 5th floor right now. I had a chat with him today. He said he has an interview in a short while. I guess he means you.”

“Thank you so much Choi Hyunsuk-ssi.” Y/N was about to go when she suddenly turned back and when to Jihoon.

“If you don’t mind, can I get your number? I might need help again with something here in YG and I think you are close with the other artists here aside for your members.”

---

Jihoon was in his room looking at his phone. Displayed was Y/N’s name and number.

“Damn Jihoon! You’re so lucky!” Hyunsuk said. Slapping the other’s shoulder.

“Ouch! Why slap me like that?” Jihoon rebutted and lock at his phone (for “protection”).

“What are you doing?! The girl is into you!” The older leader reprimanded.

“What’s the big fuss? She just asked my number for important reasons and she gave hers. That’s it.” The younger replied.

“You don’t have any idea, do you.” Hyunsuk is starting to get amused, frustrated, and mad at the same time.

Now Jihoon is nervous and curious. “What?”

“Y/N is one of the beauties of newscasting. Many, as in many guys want to date her. I heard that she got a lot of date offers from a lot of guys, especially in the music industry but it seems she rejected all of those.”

“And what’s your point?” Jihoon was now skeptical.

And Hyunsuk can’t take it, he gripped his hair hard. “Don’t you see it?! She talks to you! Twice already! Not to mention she asked your number, and she gave hers. Are you dumb or dumber?”

“Hyung, out of all the members here I was expecting you to be levelheaded. You sound like Jeongwoo and Doyoung.”

And Hyunsuk had enough. “ugh! Gosh. I’m outta here. My future wife called. She said Seung and Yong are looking for me.”

---

Y/LN Y/N calling…

“Hello?” Jihoon answered the phone.

“Hi Jihoon-ssi. I hope I’m not bothering you.” Y/N spoke.

“No. Not at all.”

“Oh. Thank heavens. Uhm, I had a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“Can we meet somewhere. I need to talk to you about certain things.”

“What kind of “certain things”?

“Treasure-related.”

“Ok? Where then?”

And the two met at a secluded but fine coffee shop in Bukchon.

“Nice to see you again, Y/LN-ssi.” Jihoon greeted as he sits down in front of the news reporter.

“Oh please Jihoon-ssi. Just call me Y/N.”

“Ok. Then about Treasure. Why me? Hyunsuk-hyung knows the members better since he is the oldest.

“Well actually, my coworker had contacted him and he said that he cannot come because he has a schedule too and he recommended you to come.”

Jihoon is always intuitive. When Y/N said that he knows that Hyunsuk planned it. He knows the other leader had no schedule for today.

“If he wasn’t my hyung, I already jiu-jitsued him.” He thought.

“Ok then. What do you want to know, Y/N.” Jihoon asked with a smile on his face.

Their conversation went on for hours. From Treasure, the members, their fun lives, and even their own personal lives. Jihoon was amazed to know about the girl in front of her. Coming from a middle class family, she challenged herself to become who she is today. He also knew that she is a big IKON fan and the only girl and youngest in the family.

Their secret coffee shop meeting became a regular one. In those meetings they became more closer and knew more about each other. Y/N realized that when Jihoon is excited, he automatically switches to his Busan dialect without him knowing and she finds it amusing.

But one day, everything was about to change.

“Jihoon-ah! Where are you?” Hyunsuk was in a panic looking for his dongsaeng in the dorm, barging in the door without even knocking. It was early in the morning.

Doyoung, being an early rise came out of his room. “What’s wrong hyung?”

“Where’s Jihoonie?”

“In his room, hyung. He’s probably still sleeping.”

Hyunsuk did not bother and went directly to Jihoon’s room and barged in, and waking up the boy in his bed.

“Jihoon, wake up.” Hyunsuk nudged him forcefully.

The Busan boy stirred and looked. “Wha-? Hyung? What’s wrong?”

And Hyunsuk shoved his phone in front of Jihoon’s face for him to read.

Park Jihoon and Y/LN Y/N dating?

Treasure member Park Jihoon was spotted with newscaster Y/LN Y/N in a coffee shop at Samchon-dong district. According to some witnesses within the area, they have seen the two regularly for the past few months spending time with each other, casually talking, drinking coffee, and eating desserts. Their meeting is estimated to be long as two hours and then they go out. Our correspondents in Dispatch tried to ask a statement from the coffee shop owner and management but they refused and opted not to speak saying the two are their regular customers and they do not intrude to any topics the two are talking about.

The two were started to be adored by the public after an award show being looking good together.

Now the question is, are they an item now? Or are they a thing? Our team will still get the statement of both YG Entertainment and Y/LN Y/LN’s broadcasting company over the matter. Stay tuned for more information.

“I know you will say you are just friends. But if it is something more or something questionable, please talk to each other about it. I care about you and her. Not just because I am one of the leaders of Treasure and I have to defend you and our reputation, which is really easy by the way, but because I don’t want you to regret and to be happy whatever relationship you have right now.” Hyunsuk asked.

Their conversation was interrupted by a call from Jihoon’s phone.

“Y/N” Jihoon answered.

“Can we- Can we meet and talk?” Y/N asked.

“Okay. Same place?”

“Yes.”

And they found each other again on the same coffee shop. But quieter than usual.

After a few minutes of silence and only the clinging of mugs can be heard, Y/N started to talk.

“Jihoon. It has been fun talking with you but I think this will be the last time.”

“What? Why?” Jihoon started to worry.

“I’m sure you’ve seen the tabloid. I don’t want to jeopardize your career-“

“You know well that I can stand up for whatever heck they throw at us-“

“And I don’t want to hope more that you will return my feelings for you. I’ve been liking you for some time, Jihoon. But it seems this is one-sided.” And Y/N started to stand up and get her bag. “Goodbye, Park Jihoon-ssi.”

And Jihoon sat there frozen, with his cup of coffee, and a slice of cake Y/N loves to eat.

---

Jihoon returns to their dorm that night.

“Hyung, do you want to eat, I cooked---, are you okay?” Mashiho asked.

Jihoon only gave a faint smile. “I’m okay Mashi. I’m just tired. I’ll go to sleep ahead.” And then he went off.

Mashiho only looked at him, knowing something happened.

---

Jihoon laid in his bed, sobbing. He does not understand why he is crying, but he feels the hurt that Y/N decided to stop their acquaintance. He already knew what he is to her and now he starts to ask questions; what is she to him? What are they? What do they have the whole time? These questions bombarded his head to sleep.

He woke up that morning surprised. Hyunsuk was beside his bed looking at him with concern.

“Hyung.” Jihoon said.

“Mashi called me last night. He said you came home with tears in your eyes. He was worried.” Hyunsuk said.

And Jihoon started crying again and hugged his hyung.

“I’m so stupid, hyung. I let her go. I don’t know if I was ignorant or am I just afraid of loving her and she ended everything because she thought we are going nowhere.”

“But do you love her?” Hyunsuk asked.

“This time, hyung…yes.” Jihoon was sure of his answer.

“Then it’s not yet too late.”

---

And Jihoon found himself in a bustling newsroom studio looking for Y/N. It took him some time to find her until he saw him in a green screen area of the room, looking beautiful as ever. He just stayed there on the side as the recording of that day’s news happen. As Y/N was saying her lines, she had a glimpse on the side and saw Jihoon. She continued like a professional she is, not being distracted by his presence.

After the recording, she stepped out of the newsroom and Jihoon started to follow her. She knows he came for her. So she walked faster trying to get away from him.

Jihoon noticed it and hurried up as well.

“Y/N, wait!”

HE catched up with her and held her hand to stop her.

“I know you don’t want to see me. But give me this only chance. I’m sorry. I was stupid. I was afraid. Not because of my career to be at stake, but because I did not realize I am in love with you and when I was, I felt that I will not be enough for you. That’s it. I said what I need to say. It’s up to you now. If you’re still going away, I will let you. I will accept my stupidity. I---”

And Jihoon was interrupted by a kiss on the lips. He was surprised at first but then he gave in. He never thought how soft Y/N’s lips were. He held her tight on the waist, not giving a damn of the people who are already surrounding them inside the newsroom.

---

Jihoon and Y/N confirmed their relationship two months after the newsroom incident. (The people there kept quiet about it until it was revealed.) And two years later they tied the knot. Their wedding was simple but so beautiful and classy. Some wedding planning critics dubbed it as the wedding of the decade. And a year later their daughter, Dahee, was born.

---

For @treasuredays

#park jihoon #treasure #park jihoon fanfiction #treasure fanfiction #kpop fanfiction

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cutest-bug · 3 years ago

Text

Interview with Adrien Agreste! Subject: The Oxygen Project.

Conducted by Alya Cesaire

Ok so I haven’t been able to stop thinking about this addition to a post I made on my main blog about Adrien low key trashing the Agreste brand the way Robert Pattinson does Twilight. I know it was meant to be more of a goofy idea but my head is full of angst and this is what I came up with at 4 a.m. lol.

Alya smiles warmly as Adrien settles into the seat across from her.

“Are you ready?” She asks. He gives her a slightly nervous smile but nods. She nods to Nino who hits record and Adriens face immediately smoothes over into a pleasant and unreadable mask. It’s actually a little freaky to watch.

It’s a Monday afternoon and they’re set up in the art room during their lunch period. Adrien looks as perfectly neutral as always. Non flashy designer labels and tousled hair that probably took 20 minutes to style. For once though, his actions will be a little less perfect and easy to swallow.

“Hi Adrien, thanks for agreeing to an interview on the Ladyblog, I’m glad we could finally do this.”

He smiles and considers for a moment before answering, tiling his head a degree, “The pleasure is mine Alya, especially since I’m the one who approached you about doing this.”

That’s true. Right after the class joined Mylene and Ivan for their protest of the Oxygen Project Adrien asked to speak with her. He was upset that he had been tricked into modeling for the project without knowing what it was for. While most of his die hard fans had gotten wind he didn’t support it, he wanted to farther remedy the situation and use his position to reach a wider audience. Of course there weren’t many platforms he could do that on behind his fathers back, hence asking for Alya’s help.

“Still, I know interviews aren’t your favorite. Otherwise I probably would have asked you a while ago.”

Adrien smiled again, a little more genuinely (the one she knew Marinette was so fond of), “I don’t really like probing questions from journalists about my personal life. The fact that you’ve never asked or taken advantage of knowing me means a lot. I trust you.”

“Personally I think it’s a little crazy you have to do all of those interviews at all. You’re only 15, your life shouldn’t be so public.”

Adrien lets the smile fall several degrees. It’s deliberate, he’s letting people see his discomfort, “Well, it kind of goes hand and hand with all of the modeling. I’m the face of the Agreste brand.”

Alya nods and looks down at the papers in her lap, “Which is the point of our interview today, really.” They had agreed on what was and wasn’t to be talked about before hand, however they don’t have a planned out dialogue. They agreed that they both do well with more organic conversation, and it’s important the interview comes off as very genuine.

Adrien nods in agreement and Alya continues, “Now that the plan for the Oxygen Project is officially canceled, it’s time to clear up what your involvement with the promotion of it was. Nearly everyone in Paris saw the ads that ran.” Unfortunately it had been to late for Mayor Bourgeois to cancel the first few days of ads. For nearly a week Adriens face played on every television in the city, telling everyone about what a great breath of fresh air the project would be.

Alya hands him the first photo in her lap. It’s of him with the class after they first arrived at the protest, looking interested but not particularly emotional yet. It’s from the video that she filmed, but there was a pretty low view rate on the protest coverage. The interview with Adrien will probably get anywhere from 3 to 5 times as many.

“What not everyone realizes is that you were present during the planned tree cutting ceremony and following protest. So what was going on for you at this point in the day Adrien?”

“Our whole class had just gone to the park to support Mylene and Ivan, our friends who lead the protest. Right after we arrived Mylene started arguing with the Mayor about whether the project was good for the environment or not.”

“That girl has a hidden fire!” Alya adds, “I have a section dedicated to activism on the blog now. The video from the whole day is there but I also posted some smaller segments explaining the conflict and a few more that Mylene recommended on how to get involved.”

Adrien gave his most genuine smile yet, “I watched those! I hope your viewers take the time to check them out. I know the super hero fights are exciting, I mean I’ve been glued to your blog from the start, but I’m glad people like Mylene and Ivan are reminding us to keep our eyes on the big picture too.”

Alya nods, “So am I. Ok, it was during this argument that the ad was first shown correct?”

Adrien lets the smile fall completely this time, “Yes. Apparently the plan was always to air it for the first time during the tree cutting ceremony. It was also the first time I’d seen it.”

“I’m sure most of our viewers have seen it already, so I’m not going to play it now,” Adrien shoots her a grateful look, “Adrien, she says kindly, “I remember how surprised you were when the ad played. Do you want to tell everyone why?”

Adrien looks down at his hands, “I hadn’t known what the ad was for when I filmed it. I thought it was another one of those silly perfume commercials.” Alya isn’t sure if him saying “silly” was a slip up or on purpose but she struggles not to laugh.

“Did someone tell you it was a perfume commercial or did you just assume when you were given the script?”

“I was told it was for perfume.”

“Can I ask who by?”

She thinks the discomfort is genuine this time. Everything else is the video isn’t that bad, but this line could bring hell for him.

“My father told me it was.”

This isn’t news for Nino or Alya but she pauses for a long moment to let viewers digest that before asking her next question, “Do you know why he lied to you?”

“I suppose he thought I wouldn’t be ok with doing it otherwise.”

Alya smiles, a little proud, before handing him another picture. She’ll edit them into the screen for viewers to see later, “Well he thought correctly. Here’s a picture of you standing with Mylene and our friend Marinette, forming a physical barrier so the trees wouldn’t be cut down,” she pauses for a moment while Adrien examines the picture, “I gotta say, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry.”

“I had just found out my image was going to be used to promote an anti-ecological plan that would harm our city. My friends had spent months trying to prevent it. I was furious.”

And Bam! As soon as she posts this video Adrien’s empty head, pretty face, good boy persona is shattered. He just admitted to having feelings. Angry ones. Directed at his father. Not to mention opinions on political matters. That is not the pretty face most of Paris is familiar with and fawns over.

“I’d be angry too,” Alya sympathizes.

Adrien puts the photo down and looks at her with a serious expression, “That’s the main reason I wanted to do this interview. For better or worse I have a lot of sway with my fans and public opinion. There’s still some controversy about the Oxygen Project being canceled so I want to be very clear that I do not stand with it,” he looks directly into the camera, “The oxygen project would have only helped the people profiting from it. The only ethical solutions for our city, and the whole world, are complicated, long term, sustainable options that will protect and rejuvenate our planet. No one has said it better than Mylene and Ivan so please go check out those videos under the activism section. Help if you can, and spread the word about the truth. It’s important that people know when they’re being lied to by a corporate campaign.”

Alya realized she stopped breathing for a moment because oh my god that was so good. She manages to quietly clear her throat and thank Adrien for the interview again. He plasters back on his polite smile and they give a brief hug before she gestures to Nino to stop filming.

“OH MAN! That was awesome!” Nino pulls Adrien into a one armed hug and doesn’t let go.

Adrien smiles a little bashfully, “You think? It wasn’t to much?”

“No way Adrien,” Alya cuts in, “the whole thing was great but that bit at the end? Amazing. Mylene will be thrilled.”

Nino pulls away from their friend a bit and clasps his shoulder, “Are you going to be ok though? Your old man is not going to be cool with like, any of that, is he?”

Adrien purses his lips and shrugs, “Don’t worry about my dad, I can handle him.”

Alya can see the fake nonchalance a mile away. Marinette is the queen of it after all, so she tells him, “Adrien this is really brave of you but I just want to make sure you know you’re in charge of this narrative. I probably won’t finish editing everything until tomorrow because I have a project to finish tonight. If you change your mind there’s no hard feelings. Or if there’s something you decide you want left out I’ll work some editing magic.”

Adrien smiles but her words don’t seem to relieve any tension, “Thanks Alya, it means a lot. By the way, where’s Marinette? I thought she was coming?”

“She’s probably just got caught up with something but I’ll see if she messaged me.” Alya checks her phone and realizes she left it on silent after the test last period. No texts from Marinette, but there is an akuma alert which explains her absence. She tries to ignore the immediate twinge of worry.

Adrien suddenly looks up from his own phone and rushes to grab his bag, “I actually got to go, my dad wants me home until the akuma attack is over. Best keep my head down until the bomb drops tomorrow right?” He rushes out before Alya or Nino can respond.

Nino sighs after his best friend runs out, “It’s so unfair he’s having to rectify his dad’s bad choices.”

Alya takes his hand, “I know. Something tells me this won’t be the last time he does so either. We’ll be there to support him though.” Her boyfriend gives her a soft smile and she kisses him on the cheek, “Come on, I want footage of that akuma fight.”

Nino glances down at his phone, “Actually it looks like the fight just ended a minute ago.”

“Wow that was short. It couldn’t have gone longer than the ten minutes we did the interview with Adrien for.”

“You’ll catch the next one,” he grins at her, “one way or another.”

She laughs, “okay turtle boy, let’s go get some lunch before we have to head back to class.”

They run into a slightly dejected Adrien on the way. He gives them an interview smile. They all find Marinette and get lunch. They keep the conversation light and avoid talking about the bomb Alya’s going to post tomorrow.

This is self indulgent. I really need Adrien taking some control of his life and standing up to his dad. Yes it’s painful but it’s so important that Adrien puts some distance between them in the public eye before Gabriel is revealed as Hawkmoth. I’m just hoping that can actually happen in canon but I have many fears this season.

#miraculous ladybug #adrien agreste #mega leech #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #theres adrienette is you squint lol #im going to be honest i don't think there's anywhere this is a perfect fit chronologically in the season #it's just inspired by mega leech and the general trend of the season #with adrien becoming more and more frustrated #and that hopefully leading to him taking more action in his personal life #i hope i hope #my post #my fic

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pochiperpe90 · 4 years ago

Text

Luca Marinelli: "Without growing you get lost"

When director Pietro Marcello asked him to play Martin Eden in his film in competition at Venice, Luca Marinelli was moved. "Many things have changed in recent years, maybe me as well"

From written words to moving images: «When you make a film based on a book, the book, at a certain point, tends to overlap. You no longer know what the novel is and what the screenplay is. Today I remember the end of Jack London's Martin Eden: that poignant conclusion, with him in the cabin reading that poem and deciding about his life».

Luca Marinelli, star of Pietro Marcello's Martin Eden, in competition at the next Venice International Film Festival and in theatre from September 4th with 01 Distribution, brings together memories and emotions, and gives them a precise order: everything starts from there, from the novel by the American writer.

"What was the soul of the book, which in my opinion is above any kind of discourse, political, social and idealistic; that soul, I said, was respected. Because it’s embodied in the character of Martin Eden. And then when you translate a book into a film it happens that some things take another form: it's normal in an adaptation." In the case of this film, says Marinelli, it all started from Marcello's point of view, from his vision: "Which perhaps is not like what someone else can have or like mine, because it’s a vision that belongs to the director: it’s the vision of the artist Pietro Marcello. The first scripts were certainly different, they were longer, denser, full of references to the book. The very first, if I'm not mistaken, was nearly 300 pages long. And this is because we were dealing with a masterpiece, and we didn't want to leave out anything».

Could this film be different?

“No, this film is how it was supposed to be. But with a book like this you can do anything: a 12-hours play, a film, a short film. Martin Eden is one of the best books ever written. Cinema imposes different times and measures from written narration; the balance that Pietro and Maurizio Braucci, co-screenwriter, found and the work they did were excellent, in my opinion".

Let's start with when they proposed you the role of Martin Eden.

“I remember my tears as I was watching “Bella e perduta”; I remember my emotion, and I also remember that immediately after I finished watching it I told myself that it would be nice to work with this director. It was 2015. Three years later they call me, and they tell me that Pietro Marcello wanted to meet me. Imagine my happiness. Knowing, then, that this film would be born from Jack London's book moved me even more».

What convinced you to accept?

«Martin Eden is a human being of great sensitivity, great curiosity and great empathy; he has an enormous desire to discover, to see, to touch with his hand. However, he suffers countless disappointments. He climbs a mountain only to learn, once he reaches the top, that a sad camp resides there, and that the best thing was never to get there, to the goal, but perhaps the very start. The journey".

And was it difficult to make this journey?

“It's a question that I have asked myself too, and the answer I have given myself is both yes and no. No, because being next to Pietro, Maurizio, colleagues and all the people who collaborated on the film, I found the right push and the right support to get into the character. But the difficulties, of course, are always there. What I really wanted to understand was Martin Eden. I abandoned myself to the first sensation I had while reading the book and the screenplay».

What was that feeling?

"A gigantic emotion. This character speaks directly to each of us because everyone shares something with him. Each of us wants to do, to exist. To reach a goal. Only then we come up against obstacles that make us lose hope - in part or in whole».

But when did the spark go off?

“I've always been passionate about writers like London or Stevenson. Adventurers, capable of creating worlds, of giving life to characters with their eyes open to the society around them. Entering a life like that, a life where the sea is so present, a life made of traveling, of seeing, made of pure passion, intrigued me a lot. And then there was Naples".

Compared to Jack London's book, Pietro Marcello's film is a rewrite set in the Neapolitan capital.

“I had never lived all this time in Naples; and I had never known it so much. I have not yet been able to fully understand it; not completely. Naples is a place apart. I have come to love it. Naples is a whole people. Something fantastic. It’s a place with a huge identity. A very strong identity. Think of the language: it’s not a dialect, it’s a language. And then you meet people who make you realize how beautiful it is to be Neapolitan: how welcoming it is, how fascinating it is, how deep it is. Naples, for me, was a great discovery».

Is sensitivity a condemnation?

"I don’t know. On one hand, yes, it can make you suffer more. But I wouldn't see it as a sentence. Sensitivity allows you to see the world; it leads you to respect what is around you».

But it also brings loneliness with it.

«Martin Eden distances himself from everything and from himself: he can no longer be in contact with anything or anyone, he is disappointed».

In this film, the clash between the class of intellectuals and the so-called people also finds space.

"I think that the true intellectual, like Pasolini was, manages to put himself on the same level as the society, to look at it in the eye, to speak to the common man without being opinionated, just showing what is there: what is happening".

At one point, you find yourself sharing the scene with Carlo Cecchi, who plays Russ Brissenden.

«I was very excited because I found my teacher. And it was great to be with him there, on the set, more than six years after we had last acted together."

You said you got excited

“Because in the film he plays Martin Eden's mentor, and Carlo was a mentor to me too. It was a real gift”.

How many things have changed over the years?

"Many."

And you? Have you changed as an actor?

“I don't know, I swear. But maybe I was better before (laughs)».

What do you mean?

"I started with the theater, where there is no safety net, there is no" stop, let's do it again!" and there is no possibility to stop, start over, rethink. I miss that courage».

Is theater a torment or an obsession?

"It’s never a torment or an obsession. Sometimes at night, however, I dream of going on stage and not remembering anything anymore».

Perhaps it’s today's cinema that tends to be not very brave.

«In my opinion it’s experiencing a new period. And it’s not a coincidence that Marcello's Martin Eden arrives right now, in this moment. Surely we could give a voice to many more people. Even that, if you like, is a question of courage».

Martin Eden also speaks of talent and perseverance. What is more important, in your opinion?

“They go hand in hand. Talent is the first thing you see. It’s the primordial spark. But you can't just rely on that. You have to be curious, eat life, live it to the fullest, intensely and consciously. But to live it, one must also commit oneself: and one must be prepared».

You need to read.

«For me a book is always a victory. Because you have been elsewhere and have lived a story that is different from yours."

What kind of reader are you?

“I wouldn't call myself an avid reader: but the more I grow, the older I get, the older I get and the more I read. Because I am more and more aware of how beautiful it is».

Reading isn’t just a hobby.

"Thoreau says: "As if you could kill time without injuring eternity". It’s important not to waste time; but it’s important to do it without causing anguish or fear. You have to be there, stay there, live in the moment. But without exaggerating».

When you were younger - when you were a child - what were you like?

“I've always been surrounded by curious people. Even my friends, the ones I had as a child and the ones I still have now, are curious. We liked to move, to go around, to be together; we lived the street. We also enjoyed listening to music, reading comics and books, and watching movies."

And curiosity soon turned into fascination.

“Acting has always fascinated me. And only at a certain point did I manage to find the right courage to try. And I don't know why: I really don't know. In the Academy this phrase was always repeated: “play seriously”. And maybe was this that interested me; or not".

We talked about teachers. Who were they to you?

«People like Carlo Cecchi or Anna Marchesini. They were moments, very important meetings».

How did you come in contact with Marchesini?

"We studied with her for three months at the Academy, and it was wonderful because for the first time I wrote something of my own. Each of us, each of the students, had to write something about himself, starting from his identity card - this was the initial task. And it was, believe me, very difficult».

What impressed you about her?

"The energy, the dedication, the beauty. I remember the moments with her, the wonderful phrases she said. What has always fascinated me to see was the passion she put into it».

Other teachers?

"My grandfather. I always liked the job he did: he was a carpenter. In the academy they told us many times: "you have to be a craftsmen". And I was always thinking of him».

What, in the end, do you have left of Martin Eden?

«The sense of collectivity. Passion. The importance of looking around. To always look at others and at themselves. The adventure of life, and the wonder it represents. What deeply tears Martin Eden apart is betraying himself and being disappointed in his own dreams. We can fight against this only if we are faithful to ourselves, to our beliefs, to our places of origin. And then, you know, all the rest remains: remains all that world».

VANITY FAIR

Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)

#Luca Marinelli #Interview #old interview #Martin Eden #Vanity Fair #English #english translation

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