#Beside my usual hesitations when posting or sending genuinely anything at all | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noona-clock · 4 years ago

Text

What’s Your Sign?: Capricorn

Genre: Dance Studio!AU

Pairing: Jaebum x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Words: 5,693

Author’s Note: Since I’m so fascinated by astrology, I decided to do a Zodiac series! I will be writing a one-shot fic for each sign featuring different members from different groups (and even an actor!). Each story will be posted on the 5th of the month during that sign’s season. Please reblog, comment, or send in an ask with your feedback! Thank you for your support 💜

It was clear he didn’t want to be here.

And by ‘he’ you meant the dark-haired guy in your dance lesson whose facial expression betrayed that he would rather be anywhere else and doing anything else right now.

But you were a dance instructor. You’d been teaching for almost five years by now, so you had seen your fair share of begrudging students.

(Though, if you were being completely honest with yourself, none of the begrudging students you’d had so far had been quite this handsome... but that is absolutely besides the point.)

As you introduced yourself to your new class and began to go over the basics, you mentally prepared yourself to spend a little extra time with him -- the handsome, begrudging student. You’d discovered that some one-on-one time with the dancers who didn’t actually want to be dancers went a long way in helping them get more comfortable and enjoy themselves.

Usually, people who had no desire to take your class were being forced by a third party -- for some reason or another -- and it was pretty clear why they had no desire to take your class: their dancing skills left a lot to be desired.

But, only a few minutes into your instructions, you were more than surprised and shocked to see that this guy actually had some natural talent.

A lot of it.

But he also didn’t have a partner, so that one-on-one time you’d prepared for was incredibly easy to manage.

After you’d told everyone to pair off and start practicing the basic waltz square you’d just shown them, you weaved your way through the parquet floor to him with a somewhat cautious smile on your face.

If he wasn’t thrilled to be in your class in the first place, it was safe to assume he wouldn’t be thrilled for you to be his partner, but... there wasn’t much you could do about it now!

“Hi,” you greeted softly when you approached. “I noticed there wasn’t a partner for you, so I’m happy to --”

“Sure,” he muttered.

Of course, his terse interruption made you pause, but you recovered quickly and simply smiled at him. You then stepped closer to him, resting one hand on his shoulder and extending your other arm out to the side so the two of you could get into a waltzing stance.

As soon as he’d slid one hand around your waist and took the other one, grasping your fingers firmly, you waited for him to lead into the four-step box formation.

...And you almost yelped with surprise when he did.

His hold on your waist and fingers quickly became even more firm, and he pushed you subtly but confidently backward, dancing with you smoothly.

You’re not sure why this surprised you so much.

But it did.

And that made you a little uneasy.

“So,” you breathed, clearing your throat quietly. “What’s your name?”

His gaze had been inconspicuously aimed at the floor, most likely watching his feet, but it shifted to look at you when you asked your question.

“Jaebum,” he answered without hesitation, though his voice was still very brusque.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied with a slight dip of your chin. “I’m Y/N.”

“Yes, I know,” he murmured. “You introduced yourself about five minutes ago.”

You raised your eyebrows, unsure if you were bewildered or offended by his incredibly impolite response.

Probably a bit of both.

“...Right,” you said. But you had to maintain your composure and civility, so you added, “What brings you here?”

Rather than answering quickly and succinctly like he had previously, Jaebum simply furrowed his brow at you.

“You just seem less than enthusiastic, so I was curious as to why you’re here in the first place,” you explained, figuring you could at least be honest to counteract his almost-rudeness.

His forehead smoothed out, and he tilted his head to signal that you did have a point.

“One of my best friends is getting married in a few months, and he wants the wedding party to do this... dance routine.”

“And you’re not too excited about it?”

Jaebum shook his head.

“Well, if it helps, you’re a really good dancer.”

Again, Jaebum furrowed his brow at you, shooting you a confused, sidelong glance. “I am?”

He sounded genuinely perplexed which made you genuinely perplexed. He really didn’t know? Had he never taken one single dance class before?

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “You’re a natural.”

And naturally gorgeous, you thought.

Oh my god, why did you think that?

Besides the fact that it was true, of course.

To distract yourself from that thought, you added, “You haven’t taken any sort of class before?”

“No, never.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you replied with the tiniest smirk you could muster. “You’ve barely even looked at your feet this whole time, and you haven’t tripped me once.”

Of course, Jaebum instinctively looked down at his feet and almost immediately stumbled.

“See? Once you looked down and thought too much about it, you messed up. You’ve got instinct.”

An expression of clear discomfort flashed across his face, and rather than insisting that you knew what you were talking about, you simply kept silent. You were only planning on continuing this exercise for another minute or so, and you would rather not make him any more uncomfortable than he already clearly was.

But when that minute was up... you realized... that you didn’t want to stop dancing with him.

Oh, boy.

A student who had made you feel uneasy twice in the first half-hour of class.

That was quite unprecedented.

And... very disturbing.

When the two of you got to a good stopping point, you murmured under your breath that it was time to move on.

Jaebum responded immediately, pausing his movements and loosening his hold on your hand and waist to allow you to step away.

“All right, great job,” you said, turning away to face the rest of the class and doing your best to avoid any sort of eye contact with Jaebum. “I know it may seem repetitive, but this is the foundation of a waltz. You need to be really familiar with these steps, know how to do them in your sleep, before you can move on.”

You had everyone go through the steps on their own while you played different music tracks, helping them find the four-count beat in each song and showing they could waltz to really any style of music.

All in all, it was a pretty typical class.

Except for Jaebum.

You had tried to get him -- and the way he’d briefly made you feel -- out of your mind, and while you had been mostly successful when you hadn’t been looking at him... you had been the opposite of successful when you had.

And once the hour was up, you found yourself doing something you truly hadn’t ever expected to do. The thought had never crossed your mind, yet you couldn’t stop your body from walking toward Jaebum, an anxious grin plastered on your lips.

“I was just --” you began, though you were quickly interrupted by a departing student who thanked you for a great class. “Oh, sure, you’re welcome.”

You pressed your lips together then, your gaze following the student and waiting for her to vanish through the studio door.

When she did, you looked back to Jaebum and saw that he was already looking at you, his gaze expectant. You jumped a little -- though, you weren’t quite sure why you were surprised that he was looking at you. You had been just about to say something to him.

After letting out a breathless chuckle, you inhaled sharply and continued on from earlier. “I was just wondering -- you said your friend is wanting to do some sort of routine? For his wedding?”

Jaebum nodded. “During the reception. The bridal party is all going to do a... ballroom dance... thing.”

“Do you know if the choreography is finished?”

“I believe so,” he answered, slightly lowering his brows.

You gulped.

“I -- I mean, I would be happy to help you learn it if you want to -- have the time. You could stay after class or come in whenever you’re free. I can shift things around if I need to, this job is pretty flexib --”

“Okay.”

And you were surprised yet again.

He had actually said yes? Even though you definitely sounded a bit like a bumbling idiot right now?

“Oh, good!” you said with a relieved sigh, your lips spreading into a grin.

“I can’t stay much longer today, but if you have time tomorrow?”

For some reason your instinct was to reply immediately -- in the positive, of course -- but you forced yourself to actually pull up your schedule in your head to look and make sure.

“I’m very free in the afternoon,” you told him after a few moments. “From after lunch until about four.”

Jaebum nodded tersely and said, “I can be here at two” before murmuring his thanks and heading toward the exit.

You stood there, in the same exact spot, for about five minutes after he left, mainly because you were dumbstruck. You had no idea why you’d done that, and you had no idea why you were so relieved (and excited) that he had accepted your offer.

You had literally never offered private lessons -- private free lessons! -- to a student before. Many students had requested them, absolutely, but you had never offered.

The only reason you could think of as to why you’d done this was because Jaebum was so... intriguing. He fit the stereotype almost exactly for the “Perfect Man.” Tall, dark, and handsome. Strong and silent.

...And did you mention handsome?

Very handsome.

But that was actually more of a reason not to give him private lessons. You wanted to spend more time with him, of course. But you shouldn’t.

You really, really, really shouldn’t.

Rather than wait in jittery anticipation for Jaebum to show up, you spent the first part of your day keeping as busy as you could.

You had two classes basically back-to-back in the morning, which definitely helped keep your mind off the perfectly handsome man arriving at the studio in the early afternoon. And once those classes finished, you took a lunch break and headed to a nearby deli for one of your favorite sandwiches.

Between lunch and Jaebum’s arrival time, you decided to clean the entire studio from top to bottom because that was just what you did when you were stressed or nervous: you cleaned.

A small cleaning crew visited the studio once a week to keep the floors and mirrors gleaming, of course, but it had been a little while since you’d wiped down your office and deep cleaned the reception area.

You dusted and vacuumed and scrubbed and decluttered and even rearranged some furniture just to change things up -- for almost two hours.

And it wasn’t until a quarter to two that you realized you’d made a rather large mistake.

Cleaning and rearranging furniture for two hours was hard work, and now -- fifteen minutes before Jaebum was set to arrive -- you found yourself exhausted and sweaty.

I mean, you were exhausted and sweaty a lot. Obviously. You were a dance teacher.

But the exhausted and sweaty parts of your day were always at the end of class, after you’d done all the work, not at the beginning.

...And your classes typically did not involve an incredibly good-looking man whom you were nervous about spending time with.

After putting away the cleaning supplies in the closet, you quickly ran into the bathroom to splash some water on your face. You then headed into your office and dug around in your bag for the emergency vial of perfume you kept in there -- just in case.

Thank goodness you did because it really came in handy in this moment.

Just as you stepped out of your office and back into the studio, closing the door behind you, you heard the clack of footsteps on the dance floor.

“Hello?” a soft but deep voice called out.

You jumped a little, your gaze snapping over to the studio entrance and landing on Jaebum.

A quick glance to the clock above the mirrors showed you that he was almost ten minutes early -- and that only heightened your intrigue.

You loved a man who was early.

“Hi!” you blurted out suddenly, realizing you hadn’t yet answered him. “Hi, come on in. Welcome.”

Jaebum reached into his pocket as he walked over to you, retrieving his phone and tapping on the screen with a wrinkled forehead. “My friend sent me the video of the choreography,” he muttered, his eyes flashing up at you briefly over his phone screen.

“Oh, perfect,” you grinned. You came to a stop in front of him, resting your hands on your hips as you waited for him to find the video and show you.

“Here,” he mumbled before doing just that -- turning his phone around and showing you the video.

You leaned in, and only then did you realize this was a bad idea.

Obviously, watching something on a person’s phone meant you had to be standing rather close to that person, leaning in until your heads were almost touching.

And that’s exactly what was happening right now.

You were standing rather close to Jaebum, your heads almost touching.

And, boy, did he smell amazing.

It took almost every ounce of willpower in you to concentrate on the video and not on how amazing he smelled.

When the video finished, you took a step back, hoping you hadn’t backed away from him too obviously. If you were going to be learning this choreography together, you certainly didn’t want him to think you couldn’t stand being close to him. Because that wasn’t even true!

It was just... difficult. In a good way. Kind of.

“That seems fairly straightforward,” you said, pushing all these thoughts out of your mind as best as you could.

“Yeah?” Jaebum asked, turning to look at you, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“Absolutely. You want to give it a shot?”

He nodded and took off his jacket, hanging it up on the rack by the door before joining you in the middle of the dancefloor. He set up his phone against the mirror, and you began guiding him through the choreography, step-by-step.

Only a few minutes in, and Jaebum stopped you. “How... how do you know the routine already? We watched it once, and you’re not even referring back to the video.”

A frown curved your lips, and you lifted your shoulders into a shrug. “I... don’t know? I just remember it.”

“Seriously?” he asked with a soft chuckle of disbelief. “How?”

“I don’t know,” you repeated. “I’ve always been this way, with dance especially. I can just picture it in my mind.”

“So, you have a photographic memory.”

...How had you never realized that before?

“I guess so?” you chuckled. “I just never thought it was different than what anyone else could do.”

A half-smile tugged at Jaebum’s lips as he got back into the dancing position, and he murmured, “No. I absolutely cannot do that.”

“Well, then, it’s a good thing I’m the dance teacher,” you retorted, trying to suppress a smirk.

He laughed softly, and you ignored the fluttering in your heart.

You spent the next hour and a half going through the first part of the routine, and even though Jaebum claimed he wasn’t able to learn choreography like you did, he still caught on quickly.

“No, you’re honestly doing a great job,” you assured him after deciding to stop for the day. “I told you, you’re a natural dancer. You have instinct!”

Jaebum simply shook his head, but you saw the smile he was trying to hold back.

As he went back toward the door to retrieve his jacket, he glanced over his shoulder at you and said, “Are you free to keep going? Go over the rest of the routine?”

“Absolutely! I wouldn’t leave you hanging like that for a wedding.”

“What if it was a birthday party?”

“Yes, maybe.”

You heard Jaebum’s deep, low chuckle, and even though you’d just spent over an hour touching him and dancing with him and being extremely close to him, the sound of his laugh still sent a shiver down your spine.

What was this guy doing to you?

“What does your schedule look like?” he asked as he slipped his jacket back on.

“Oh, here -- let me write it down for you,” you said, taking a step toward your office.

“Or --” Jaebum blurted out.

You paused, raising your eyebrows and shifting your gaze to him.

“Or you could... just text it to me.” He still had his phone handy from playing the dance video on repeat during the lesson, and he held it up as to emphasize his suggestion.

“Oh!” you chirped. “Well -- I mean, yeah, sure. That -- that works.”

Jaebum opened his mouth to say something, but then he stopped himself. He narrowed his eyes slightly at you and said, “If I just tell it to you, will you remember it without having to write it down?”

Your eyes widened with minor panic. “...Yes?” you replied uncertainly even though you were absolutely certain you could do that.

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle and shook his head.

After he told you his phone number, he murmured his thanks for the lesson and then headed through the door without another word.

You waited approximately ten seconds before scrambling to your office, fishing your phone out of your bag, and quickly entering the number into your contacts.

You wouldn’t have forgotten it, but... still. You didn’t want to take any chances. It wasn’t every day that an incredibly attractive and fascinating guy gave you his phone number.

Not that you would use it for anything other than sending him your schedule.

But. Yeah.

Jaebum was absolutely incredibly attractive and fascinating.

Either Jaebum was not a busy man or he...

Well, you weren’t actually sure what the other most viable option was.

Because the only things you could think were that he just really wanted to learn this dance routine for the wedding reception... or he just really wanted to spend time with you.

And that was definitely just wishful thinking.

Either way, Jaebum was -- apparently -- able to fit in a private lesson whenever your schedule allowed.

Did he not work? Or was he taking a lot of time off for this? Or maybe his job allowed him to be flexible like yours did.

There were so many questions you wanted to ask him and so little courage you had to actually ask them.

When he came back two days after your first private lesson, you began the lesson with those questions still occupying your thoughts but ended it with another question on your mind entirely.

And, for some reason (seemingly everything about Jaebum was a mystery, I guess, including your reactions to him), you found the question tumbling from your lips as he was putting his jacket back on to leave.

You had just spent another hour and a half teaching him the second half of the choreography; another hour and a half touching and dancing with him. Maybe that had bolstered your courage enough?

“Why do you not want to do this?” you asked, tilting your head curiously. “The dance at the wedding.”

Jaebum paused for a moment before turning to face you. “I just... What -- what do you mean?”

You felt your cheeks warms, but you continued on. “You were just so... not happy to be in that first class, and... I don’t know. Whenever I bring it up, you get this look on your face.”

His eyebrows flew halfway up his forehead. “I do?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled.

He stood there just for a second before letting out a sigh and taking a few steps toward you. “To be honest, I’m not thrilled about having to dance in front of a room full of people I don’t really know.”

While you couldn’t exactly relate to the sentiment, you still understood what it was like to be scared to do something. Or, at the very least, be uncomfortable about it.

“You’re going to do a great job,” you assured him, your heart starting to skip a beat here and there as he got closer to you.

Seriously? You had just been dancing with him. Touching him.

“I’m not saying I don’t trust you,” he said, shaking his head. “But... I’m just not... confident about it. And I don’t like that.”

Jaebum was such the epitome of the Strong and Silent type -- so far, at least -- that you couldn’t even imagine him not being fully confident in himself. And the way he danced definitely wasn’t something to be insecure about it!

“I don’t know,” he added with a roll of his eyes. “I just don’t see the point in doing a choreographed dance at a wedding.”

Okay, now that made you laugh.

“Because it’s fun,” you chuckled. “Receptions are basically just a big party, and most parties involve dancing, right?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugged. “But they don’t have to. And you can dance without doing some full-fledged routine.”

“This is true,” you agreed, though it was mainly just to appease him.

“In my opinion, weddings should be about the marriage. The relationship. The vows you make. Not cutting a cake or a DJ playing viral songs no one really wants to hear.”

...Well. You couldn’t argue with him there.

“So, when it’s your turn to get married, you don’t even need to have a reception.”

And your heart was acting funny again. Thinking about Jaebum getting married both made you hopeful that it would be your wedding, as well, and upset that -- realistically -- it would not be. You were just his dance teacher, and he was only taking lessons until the wedding. It was highly unlikely he would come back to continue his education, and even though you had his phone number now... why would you ever have a reason to use it?

“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “I absolutely plan on eloping. Or only inviting my family and having just a small ceremony.”

“Ah, good. Now I know not to be offended when I don’t receive an invitation.”

Um... okay? Why? Had you just said that?

Thankfully, Jaebum simply smiled that tiny half-smile of his and let out a soft chuckle.

Was it weird that after spending time with Jaebum only three times you already knew his signature smile?

Despite the fact you had taught Jaebum the entire dance backwards and forwards and there was literally nothing else you could do to help him, he continued to request private lessons. He continued to show up whenever you had a free hour or two, no matter the time or day.

And while this behavior would usually suggest some sort of romantic feelings on his part, he also continued to be Strong and Silent.

He talked to you during your lessons, of course, but he was never talkative. He was always polite, but he wasn’t super... friendly.

So, in conclusion, you were still as mystified and confused by Jaebum as ever.

He didn’t like dancing but he was amazing at it.

He didn’t need you to teach him anymore but he still showed up at your studio.

You just wished you could peek into that brain of his -- just for a minute! -- to see what he was thinking.

And, because you were his teacher, you never felt comfortable asking why. Why was he still asking for lessons when he didn’t need them? Why was he always so guarded around you? Why did he never ask about your personal life?

I swear, if Jaebum ever asked if you had a boyfriend, your heart would absolutely combust.

Maybe one day you would ask him all those questions, but by then, he wouldn’t be coming to your classes any longer, and what would be the point?

Apparently, you were thinking too much about all of this because, all of a sudden, Jaebum’s voice broke through the haze in your mind.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice forceful enough to make it obvious it wasn’t the first time he’d said it.

“Sorry,” you replied hastily with a shake of your head. “Zoned out.”

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked as he stood by the coat rack, getting ready to put his jacket back on before he left with hardly a word.

That had become his routine after every class, and you had come to expect nothing different.

“Hmm? Oh -- no, sorry. What did you say?”

“I said the wedding is this weekend, so I won’t need to come back any more.”

...Oh.

That was not what you wanted to hear.

“Oh,” you replied, doing your best to sound... well, not upset about it. “Well, I know you’re going to do an amazing job --”

“I’m more nervous than I thought I would be,” he interrupted.

You froze, your mouth slightly hanging open and your unspoken words hanging from your lips.

But then you quickly pulled yourself together and said, “You are?”

He nodded tersely.

But he didn’t elaborate.

So, you bit. “...Why?”

“Because I know how to dance it with you, and what if it’s different with someone else as my partner?”

“I mean, yeah, it’ll be different,” you confirmed. “But you know the steps through and through. Even if the bridesmaid is a terrible dancer, you’ll be able to carry her through it, I promise.”

Jaebum let out a sigh and his head tilted forward, his chin practically touching his chest.

“You’ll be fi --”

“What I really wanted to say is that I wish it could be you and not someone else,” he said, interrupting you again in a quiet but strong voice.

...You stared at him.

And blinked.

“...Excuse me?”

Without hesitating, Jaebum strode over to you, only stopping when he was as close to you as he was while you’d danced.

You tilted your head to look up into his eyes, though yours were still too wide with shock to say anything.

“I... I feel more comfortable dancing with you than doing... anything else. And the reason I kept asking to come back even after you taught me the whole dance is because... I just wanted to be with you.”

Okay, you were fairly certain you were no longer breathing.

You certainly couldn’t speak at the moment, so it was very possible that your heart and lungs had just stopped working.

“You are... incredible,” he continued. “Confident and talented and kind and beautiful.”

You repeated the word ‘beautiful’, though you couldn’t even hear your own voice so you must have simply mouthed it.

...Was he really saying all this to you?

To you?

And since it was obvious you weren’t going to actually say anything yet, Jaebum continued.

“You’re why I haven’t stopped coming back. I only joined your class because my friend practically forced me; he’s one of my closest friends, and I would do anything for him, but I truly could not care less about this dumb wedding dance. I would have happily fumbled my way through it if you hadn’t been so... wonderful.”

Okay, at this point, you kind of felt like you were more shocked to hear this many words coming out of his mouth at once. You’d been teaching Jaebum for almost three months, and you were fairly certain he hadn’t said more than two sentences back-to-back.

And you, who normally had no trouble speaking, could only reply with a whispered, “...Really?”

Jaebum simply nodded, and you felt more at ease. A simple nod was much more in character.

But you had no idea what else to say because there was too much you wanted to say.

Apparently, your racing thoughts showed through on your face because Jaebum stopped waiting for you to say something. “I... don’t really want to invite you to be my date to the wedding since... I’m a groomsman and all. You would have to sit by yourself, and I don’t want to make you do that.”

Ah, so, he was thoughtful, too.

“So... maybe you’d like to meet up after the wedding? I mean, like, go out. Not meet up. Go out. On a... date.”

“Yes,” you replied, finally able to force some actual words out of your mouth. “Yes, I would love to. Please.”

And then, Jaebum’s lips curved into a smile.

A real smile.

A full-on, teeth-showing smile -- not the half-smile you’d gotten used to.

Your heart stopped.

I mean, it felt like it stopped.

And you were immensely glad he hadn’t smiled like this before because oh my god. You wouldn’t have been able to go on teaching him. You would’ve fainted.

Even now, you had to reach out and grab a hold of his arms to steady yourself.

But Jaebum must have thought you were going in for the hug, so took another step closer to you and slid his arms around your waist, pressing his fingers into the small of your back and enveloping you in his embrace.

It took you approximately .0001 seconds to melt into him, feeling the strong wall of his chest and the secure cage of his arms around you.

You’d danced with him countless times by now. His hands had held your waist for hours, and yet... You had never experienced this sensation before.

And you knew right then and there that you never wanted to live another day without experiencing it again.

OTHER SIGNS: ARIES, TAURUS, GEMINI, CANCER, LEO, VIRGO, LIBRA, SCORPIO, SAGITTARIUS, AQUARIUS, PISCES

#kwritersworldnet #jaebum scenarios #jaebum imagines #jaebum au #jaebum fluff #jaebum fanfic #jaebum #jaebeom #got7 #got7 scenarios #got7 imagines #got7 au #got7 fluff #got7 fanfic #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop au #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic

243 notes · View notes

daisydoo90 · 3 years ago

Text

Okay so not my usual content but I just watched JWCC season 3 (late I know) and I thought I’d give my thoughts on it. I might’ve missed a few things due to the fact that I kept on getting distracted by my dog. Also I’m gonna try to keep my shipping preferences aside since I don’t think it’s super relevant to me analysis.

Spoilers ahead for season 3 if you haven’t watched it!

•Ben is by far the most interesting character this season. From what I’ve seen, a lot of people expected Ben to be excited about being with the camp fam, and though I do think he’s happy to be with them I also think it makes sense for him to be more distant. The group didn’t take Ben all that seriously until the end of the series during the monorail scene and he didn’t really get to bask in it because then he was a little busy getting thrown off the monorail. When the group found out he was alive, everything was a little to hectic with Mitch and Tiff to focus on Bens trauma. Bens been living out alone in the forest for around a month of course he’d be a little hesitant to then regroup with these people who (in his eyes atleast) didn’t treat him that well to begin with. Not even to mention Bumpy acting as a buffer between the group.

• On the concept of Ben, I also think him wanting to stay on the island makes complete sense. Bens been on the island for months, and from what it seems like his family life at home wasn’t great, and because of this I’m sure Ben would feel like the island is more of a home than he’s ever had. Plus (and this is just my interpretation) I think Ben feels like the island is where he can be himself, and he thinks that if he goes back home he’ll have to revert back to his old self.

•Ben coming back to the boat genuinely made me nearly cry.

•Speaking of emotional scenes-the Bumpy send off didn’t have as much-oomph? As I would’ve thought. I think Bumpy staying with her kind is the most sensible thing to do. I mean, what is Bens plan once they get back home?? Just keep Bumpy in his house?? Are you even legally allowed to have dinosaurs you picked up from islands as pets?? So her staying was a good idea. I just don’t think her send off was as emotional as I would’ve liked it? I mean I guess Ben realized it was better for Bumpy to be with her pack, but I just wish that Ben would’ve shown some more emotion during the scene because it felt real dry.

•I liked seeing Blue!!

•Brooklyn and Yaz’s development in the first episode was super nice!

•Also Kenji and Sammy’s friendship is everything.

•Love the design for the scorpias rex! They’re a good boy.

•Me shipping them aside, I would’ve loved for there to be one on one talk between Kenji and Ben. Besides Darius, Kenji seemed like one of the campers most affected by Bens “death” (I mean he was the person to keep his fannypack) so I was disappointed to see that there are little scenes with them, and when they are it was usually comedic scenes (which I still liked). I just wouldn’t enjoyed a serious convo between them about how Kenji felt about Bens fake death or something.

• Okay The Long Run was VERY gay and you cannot convince me that Yaz isn’t in love with Sammy after that.

•So this is the big rant because hough I like the references to the second movie the plot for the last two episodes just felt so-contrived?? I kinda get why the campers would trust the helicopters but the big thing that gets to me is why they care about Dr Wu making another hybrid dinosaur. I must’ve missed something because I am so confused on why they care. Darius says that another dinosaur would hurt the people they love but like-how?? Bens already decided to leave the island I’m pretty sure Wu didn’t say anything about making a hybrid dinosaur and then letting it roam in the streets. Is there something about him wanting to make another park??? Are they talking about Bumpy??? Someone please explain to me because I am genuinely BAFFLED at why they didn’t just choose to leave.

Okay I think that’s all I have to say. Maybe I’ll make a post correcting myself on some of the stuff I missed after I rewatch season 3 but right now I am way to tired.

#jurrasic world camp cretaceous #jwcc #ben pincus #kenji camp cretaceous #darius bowman #yasmina fadoula #sammy gutierrez #the more I read this the more incomprehensible it is #i spent way too much time on this

28 notes · View notes

gogiberries · 4 years ago

Text

Hi so I’ve had this in my head for a few days now

It’s basically how i see the Nanami x Gojo relationship (but it’s more sad than anything else tbh)

⚠️ spoilers ahead for those who haven’t read the manga!

Please enjoy this disgustingly long thread <3

- okay so the way they started was out of convenience/ desperation

- Geto left the school and abandoned Gojo

- Nanami lost Haibara

- So the two ended up just trying to find some sense of comfort and understanding in each other

- Gojo was the one to start it though

- I see Nanami as the type to just suffer silently with his pain and loss, so Gojo had to have made the first move

- They were still students and now they had to pair up for training more often

- Gojo did consider Shoko before Nanami, but he knew that she wouldn’t give him any chance because she saw the start and finish of him and Geto

- Gojo also didn’t want to go to some stranger because he couldn’t lay it all out to someone who didn’t understand sorcery and explain the heavy chip Geto left on his shoulder

- So Nanami, the guy who also just lost someone & who is up to date with the Geto stuff is a perfect candidate for Gojo

- Gojo starts teasu Nanami about how he needs to get stronger during sparring

(this just pushes the “have get stronger for Haibara/ not end up like him” notion in Nanami’s head)

- And one day Gojo just switches to heavy flirting

- Nanami is like ‘???’ but he chalks it up to Gojo just being his weird self

- But the flirting continues

- And Gojo being Gojo, he just keeps getting more direct until one day he just flat out asks if Kento has thought about fucking him

- Despite the constant flirting and suggestive stuff Gojo has been doing, Nanami is completely thrown off

- “What the fuck are you saying” is probably what he’d say, a slight blush forming on his face

- “Cmon dont lie, you’re saying it hasn’t crossed your mind once or twice when we spar?” Gojo would tease

- And Nanami would immediately deny it

- And Gojo would push it even further and say

“oh? That’s too bad, cause I sure have thought about fucking you“

- Now Nanami is blushing hard, face feeling too hot

- “Quit saying nonsense and stop lying” Nanami is too strong willed to give into/ believe in Gojo’s offer

- “I’m not~ do you want me to prove I’m not?” Gojo is also too strong headed and now refuses to back down from this thing he started

- Nanami says no, but they can both hear the hesitation in his voice

- Gojo takes this sliver of a chance to kiss the blonde

- Nanami goes to pull him off, but he doesn’t.

- Why? He’s not sure either, maybe it’s because he’s still a bit inexperienced with all of this, or maybe because he’s willing to accept this- whatever this is that Gojo is offering to help distract him from the pain he’s still trying to cope with from losing Haibara

- So he only backs up slightly to tell Gojo they should go somewhere more private

After that, their relationship, if you want to call it that for lack of a better term, begins

- Gojo definitely is the one who takes the most in this relationship

- At first, when he was trying to keep Nanami from regretting his actions and running away, Gojo was gentle and kind. Making sure Nanami felt understood and comfortable with their actions

- But once Gojo saw Nanami was staying, his caring attitude slowly faded

- He would stay to cuddle afterwards, but only until Nanami was asleep, leaving him to wake up by himself in the morning

[ maybe once in a while Gojo would leave a “Sorry I got called in for some mission” half assed excuse ]

- Not by force, but Gojo would make sure he’d get his needs met before Nanami did (definitely half assed in trying to meet Kento’s needs)

- Nanami isn’t stupid, he noticed the change in Gojo’s behavior early on, but being the masochist that he is, he put up with it because it still felt better than remembering Haibara and dealing with that

- Kento definitely noticed when Gojo was at his worst though. When Gojo was okay, he’d put up his usual goofy & cool dude front, and be selfish in bed, leaving the second they were done as if he was too “cool” and “strong” to show sad emotions.

- But when Gojo was really down and haunted with memories of Geto, he would stay the whole night.

- Gojo would be more gentle and slow with his actions, he wasn’t going out of his way to fully please Kento, but it was more like a sympathetic “c’mere let me do it for you” offer

- on those nights, after they were done, Gojo would lay there and hold-genuinely hold- Nanami.

- Nanami could see the accumulated exhaustion and pain in Gojo’s eyes on those days, and like Gojo, he wouldn’t go out of his way to help him. He might offer to be the bigger spoon or not question it when he stayed till morning, but Kento never would ask Gojo if he wanted to talk about it.

- Nanami would also allow himself to be selfish and enjoy the softer and more affectionate actions Gojo would do during these days

The sense of comfort and understanding they felt with one another was odd and definitely unhealthy, but it was better than being left alone with their own thoughts.

And it continued until Gojo was finally graduating and Nanami decided to share the news that he was going to start interning at some office

Gojo was taken back a bit by the announcement. Kento seemed like he would’ve just done the expected thing of graduating and going straight into sorcery work.

- “You really don’t like this sorcery stuff huh?” He’d probably ask him

- “It's all a bunch of shit” definitely a Nanami response

- Gojo was pretty indifferent in Kento’s post graduation plans, so he only gave him and understanding nod

During Nanami’s final year at the tech school, the two drifted apart without much trouble

- Maybe once in a while, when they were both overworked and stressed by their new schedules, they’d come back for one night to each another.

- It wasn’t much different than what they already had though

- Gojo would still only care about getting his first, and Nanami would use the time to space off and just distract himself from his reality

After Nanami graduated and started his salaryman career, their meetups stopped for a good while.

- Besides the fact that the two were now working even crazier schedules, Nanami was the one who wanted to full on quit.

- He was done with jujutsu tech & sorcery, and as he’s done with everything else in his life, he ran away from it

- He’d ignore Gojo’s out of the blue texts, or just give short and dry responses

- Gojo wasn’t really hurt about it, there weren’t any deep emotions formed below the surface of what he and Kento had.

- Though Gojo was very close to calling Nanami the day he dealt with Geto

But just how they were a few years ago as students, the two adults ended up back where they started, in an emotional void induced by stress and the years long accumulation of unattended issues that neither one of them knew how to handle.

- Nanami tried to quit, he really did. But going to company speed dating parties and or blind dates set up by coworkers was too much trouble for him. He was working way over 40hrs a week and had no time to develop a healthy relationship with someone.

- After some big deal falling through with his job, Nanami did what most adults who have little to no healthy coping skills would do. Get drunk and call his fuck buddy

- Gojo thought it was a mistake when Nanami sent him a text with only an address

- Gojo, also having almost no healthy coping skills, immediately called Nanami back to see what the text was about

- And oh.

- Nanami did send it on purpose

- Well. Who was Gojo to say no to a free night of being distracted with no strings attached?

Aaaaaand they were back, dancing the same dance they have been for years.

- Somewhere within those meetups, Gojo finally shared what happened to Geto.

- Nanami didn’t say much, he only said enough to convince Gojo that tonight wasn’t going to go as they usually do.

- Instead Nanami allowed Gojo to drink and let out any and all emotions he had about the incident.

- Gojo was embarrassed the next day thinking about what all he probably said. But he was grateful Nanami chose to be the responsible one and be next to him as he aired out his feelings

- Nanami never brought up that night’s conversation details to Gojo. He just let that night be what it was and moved on (the best thing for the both of them, more so for Gojo tbh)

Now present time, they still do their usual meetups, but maybe it’s the years of life slowly sanding them down because now, it feels more like a weird check up with one another than just a quick hookup

- It started with them just getting drinks for the night, nothing happened, they both just got drunk and passed out in Gojo’s Living room

- Then it slowly progressed from getting a quick bite to eat, to having planned dinners together

- Sometimes it leads to something, sometimes it doesn’t.

- Is it healthier than what they were doing at the beginning? Not really.

- They still don’t share their feelings that openly nor do they go out of their ways to comfort each other.

- But I guess just the mutual understanding from someone who has also lived through some fucked up stuff quietly sharing a drink or meal with you is somewhat comforting and helps you stay grounded.

End.

#sorry #there’s no good ending to this #also #if you read all of this you deserve some reward #is there errors and flaws? yes #but im just gonna close my eyes and ignore it lmao #nanago #nanami kento #satoru gojo #gojo x nanami #jjk headcanons

66 notes · View notes

nightswithkookmin · 4 years ago

Note

First, this is my THIRD TIME I send you my question. If you don't response I move.

Second, why still jikook shippers exist when jimin & jungkook was barely communicate. The fact, we can't ignore that, jimin & Jungkook avoid each other. Something between them was not good. I really miss their genuine interaction. Other hand Jk seems normal with other members. WHY?

👀 Ok but I'm really doing my best here 😒

There's literally 400 plus unanswered Asks in my inbox. If I answered one Ask each day it will still take like a whole year to clear my inbox and there will still be some unanswered Asks sitting in there.

Besides, I think I have answered this exact question? I have said I believe Jikook experienced a hiccup in their relationship between October and November last year post JM's birthday but I don't believe they broke up. Not sure how many times you want me to repeat that.

Most of the content with 'no interaction' and 'tension' between them were filmed around the same period within this timeline.

I will uploading a blog on that timeline soon. I have a rough draft of it sitting in my drafts somewhere. I've been answering a lot of Asks lately and I just haven't had time to write an actual blog post. Sigh.

Why Jikook Shippers still exist...

I ask myself this question every single day darling- why do people still ship Jikook when Jikook is more than a ship? They should be supporting them not just shipping them.

Also, I don't think real Jikook supporters support Jikook just because they interact. Those are the shippers. The trad shippers as I like to call them. I support Jikook because they are queer first and foremost and secondly because they are in love with eachother.

Just because they 'don't interact' in a moment, on camera, don't make them all of a sudden straight. It doesn't work like that.

Jimin is my bias and I know beyond a shadow of doubt he is queer. I love him more for it. I really love him more for it. You have no idea. I am not going to withdraw my support for him as an LGBTQ plus member in a conservative space just because he isn't interacting on camera with another member. That's just silly.

The love between them isn't going anywhere anytime soon. As long as they both want it and they both go out of their way to nurture it, it will always be there. I think that's what you should be paying attention to- whether or not they are nurturing their bond outside their interactions on camera during this period.

Because if they are not, then that's when they will become a real fanservice ship. No shade to a certain ship💀

JIMIN AND JK AVOID EACHOTHER. WHY?

Well damn I got nothing. Lol. My crystal ball is on the fritz. Would have to call Dumbledore for assistance. Help, Dumbledore! Lol.

Jokes aside, I see what you mean. But I keep saying Jikook are not broken up. It hasn't been smooth sailing all 7 years you know- ok take a few years. I don't think it will be either going forward either.

Jikook are not jikooking all the time. It's part of the contract they have with us. Lol. Sometimes it's because they are having relationships problems, other times it's their environment, a producer they ain't vibing with, bad hair day, the members getting on their nerves- a myriad of reasons Anon. A ton. I can only speculate. Could be anything from a break up to a lost change. Know what I mean?

They do have issues from time to time. They are human too. Sometimes they hide it behind smiles and perform knock off versions of their bond for us.

Other times they choose not to perform their bond, especially if whatever they are dealing with is serious- if it is, they set boundaries and respect eachother's boundaries to allow them to emotionally process and deal.

Most times too they push and poke at eachother's boundaries till the other cave. Especially if one of them feel whatever is getting in their way is a trivial issue.

During Jin's birthday VLive in December, they sounded a lot like they were enjoying eachother's company to me- apart from the part JM was throwing shade at us left right left, I didn't sense any tension between them then.

Chilee JM, whatever did we do to you?🤧

All we did was call you 'a liar' once and now you just keep rubbing your relationship in our face?😥 You really didn't have to tell us you were with Jungkook when Jin put you on speaker.😒 You really didn't. You knew he was putting you on speaker. Acting like Jin was bothering you or something. I see you. Smirk.

Their moments at GDA and the end of year award shows were equally telling of the state of their relationship.

In some content post Grammy you could see them hanging in the background playing games and what not.

Arriving together at KBS in the same car at 5am, leaving set together at 1am and heading lord knows where- cough, Itaewon.

Then this happened... was JK high? Chilee.

Like I know my bias is sexy and fine but JK you don't have to be scanning him like that😭

I've been saying, Jikook 'relax' in certain contents, act serious in others- as they should. They literally had the GMA performance before this shoot and people were screaming there was tension between them and what not and that JK seemed mad at Jimin. Mad bunny where?! Lmho.

The 'less open' one in that performance was JM not JK. To me. I felt he was putting up a tough exterior, acting like he don't kiss ass in that time period. Not sure if it was the haircut or his inner shadow hunter but something had shifted in him. Lol.

You could tell JK really wanted to show off their bond and chemistry in that event, and had perhaps wanted JM to engage like he'd done with him in previous performances?

But JM wasn't doing none of that for whatever reason- No, I don't think it was because he was mad at JK.

He just wasn't on his Jikook agenda.

They enjoy eachother and when they get lost in a moment it's usually for them not us. But they know and are well aware we like their bond and we love to see it. You'd often hear them, JM especially, ask the fans if they like certain moments especially after he's interacted with JK in a certain way or shared certain intimate details about their relationship with fans at fansigns.

They troll us, they tease us, they include us in certain moments- Jk deliberatly stealing JM's tear stained tissue( a reenactment of a popular Korean sitcom where a creepy ass lady stole her crushes used tissue to convey she adored him) him pointing at JM to indicate he desires JM, slowly taking off his shirt while holding JM's gaze, the you are me, I am you, what's tasty in Busan and all these other moments.

They each have their own Jikook agenda. But they are both not always in on it. Sometimes JM has no idea what JK is up to, other times it's JK who's clueless. Like the Holiday remix video where JK bolted after that intense fanservice moment with JM.

I don't think he knew JM was going to do what he did. It was shock and desire rolled into one for him. I just know it. Lmho.

As I said, the director probably had whispered something in JM's ear and had asked him to give them a moment.

JK was probably having wedding dreams flashbacks. His entire Itaewon gay future flashed before his eyes. I'm dead. Lmho.

Jk'd initiate in moments where JM wasn't initiating (during performances) and he'd bump shoulders or just shamelessly wrap his hands around Jimin and have a moment.

Same energy from JK different periods in the timeline- one before Grammy, one after.

May be you should be paying close attention to the things they do when they 'don't interact?' What they do when they do interact. Who initiates, whether the other reciprocates or not etc? The setting and environment equally counts as well.

Literally these two contents were filmed on the same day but half the fandom was screaming there was something off with Jikook in one just because Jikook didn't touch eachother.

JK was hesitating to initiate skinship with JM in one content, but didn't in the other- on the same day. What gives??

Contents filmed with Suga, Tae in dark hair, JM with an undercut were all filmed after 11th October and before 3rd November when Suga had his Surgery.

Content with JM in blue hair were filmed after 24th November.

JK's mood was pretty consistent to me till the pop up in late October, the holiday remix filmed after 3rd November but before Grammy, the Grammy reaction on 24th November and the recent run which was also filmed after Grammy where he seemed mostly closed off to JM's Jikook agenda- do you see what I mean when I say all those moments on 'tension' you and others mention were filmed within the same period?

Jimin's reaction has equally been consistent, going from putting up a tough exterior to being mellow and somewhat humbled or subdued.

Make of it what you will.

Not sure what you mean by genuine interactions. I think you have to embrace all aspects of them and their relationship. They have 'genuine' moments, they have fan service moments, they have good days, they have bad days. Sometimes they don't interact at all.

It's ok to miss them. But don't demand that they change or interact in a certain way to suit your shipping desires. That's dangerous.

They are human.

Signed,

GOLDY

57 notes · View notes

simplybakugou · 4 years ago

Text

After All This Time

↝ At a small high school reunion with a few of your old classmates from U.A., Bakugou has to deal with your drunkenness.

BINGO SPACE: High School Sweethearts

⋆ PAIRING: prohero!bakugou x drunk!reader ⋆ WARNINGS/TAGS: swearing, alcohol (all characters are aged up), fluff ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1581

A/N: this is another bingo piece of the event going on in the @bnhabookclub server! Thank you to @happygalaxymilkshake for requesting bakugou for this prompt. And am i doing all the bakugou prompts first because deep down i’m genuinely afraid of writing for another character in fear of portraying their characters inaccurately? Yes so for now enjoy some more bakugou lol

FULL BINGO MASTERLIST

✐posted 07.18.2020✐

“Cheers!” You exclaimed along with your friends, all of you clinking your glasses together.

Mina sighed as she took a sip from her drink. “Man, I can’t remember the last time we met up like this!”

Uraraka nodded, grinning from ear to ear as her cheeks reddened under the dim lights of the tavern. “It’s so nice to see you all here today.”

“Too bad the other girls couldn’t join,” you said, a frown on your face as your face grew hot from the alcohol.

“Momo, Toru, and Tsuyu have early patrols tomorrow,” Jirou said.

Mina snickered, latching onto your arm. “I’m surprised Bakugou let us hang out with you, Y/N.”

You rolled your eyes at her, gesturing to the table beside you with a shaky finger. “He’s right there, Mina. It’s not like he’s keeping me from you guys or anything. I’m just another busy hero like the rest of us here.”

It had been five years since you and the rest of class A graduated from U.A. Slowly yet surely each of you worked diligently to make your way up the rankings, especially the Big Three of your class, Midoriya, Todoroki, and your fiance Bakugou who you had been dating since your first year in U.A.

“I can’t believe you guys have been together for so long!” Uraraka exclaimed, giggling at the sight of the boys’ table which was chaotically louder than any other table at the tavern. Kirishima had to hold Bakugou back as Sero and Kaminari were teasing him, egging him on to amuse themselves as they knew their easily angered friend all too well. Iida, Todoroki, and Midoriya, who were the only ones who were able to make it amongst the other boys, had left early as they had to work early in the morning, not wanting to risk drinking too much.

You hiccuped, leaning onto Mina’s shoulder as the effects of the alcohol slowly ran through your system. Jirou laughed at the sight. “I forgot how much of a lightweight you were.”

You narrowed your brows at her. “I’m not a lightweight!”

You sat up straight, grabbing your glass in hand and raising it to your lips. “I can drink so much!”

The girls attempted to stop you from consuming anymore alcohol but it was too late; you had downed the rest of your drink, slamming the cup onto the table as you had to breathe heavily just to catch your breath.

Bakugou, who had finally calmed down from his friends’ teasing and prodding, glanced over to your table as he noticed you had guzzled your fifth drink in a short amount of time. It was only a matter of time before your drunken stupor would overtake your judgement and behavior and Bakugou could only groan as he began to recall how the countless amount of migraines he got after dealing with your drunkenness.

“I’m gonna head out,” Bakugou said, slipping his coat on and placing a few bills onto the table to pay for your meal and his.

“Aw, come on! You just got here!” Kaminari complained.

“Y/N’s almost shitfaced and it’s getting late,” Bakugou said, giving his short and brief goodbyes to his friends.

“Where’s she going?” Kirishima asked, pointing to your wobbly figure walking over to the other side of the tavern. The girls tried to catch up with you but were blocked by the numerous people who were packed into the vicinity.

“That shitty girl…” Bakugou mumbled, making his way through the crowd as he didn’t hesitate to shove his way through.

You stumbled on your feet, bumping into the person in front of you. You rubbed your head, apologizing to the person. “Sorry.”

The man looked down at you, annoyed that someone had ran into him until a smirk crept up his face as he recognized who you were. “You’re that pro, (H/N), right?”

You nodded slowly, grinning aimlessly at him as you could barely keep up with the loud and raucous atmosphere. “Mhm, that’s meee!”

The man took a step towards you and you took one back, slightly intimidated and bothered by how close he was trying to get. He managed to corner you to a wall right outside the restrooms, which was where you were trying to go initially. He rested his hand right above your head, making you uncomfortable with the proximity of his figure with yours. “What’s a little lady like you doing here alone?”

“She’s not alone, dipshit,” Bakugou said from behind him, grabbing the man by the arm and shoving him to the side.

Before the man could try and pick a fight with the infamous brash hero, one of his friends stepped up, pulling the man by the arm. “Dude, don’t you know Ground Zero and (H/N) have been dating forever?! You can’t just hit on her!” He informed the creepy man in a low and harsh tone. The friend turned to you and Bakugou, bowing his head apologetically. “I’m sorry about him, he doesn’t know how to act sometimes.”

Bakugou scoffed at the two men as they walked away, agitated beyond a reasonable doubt about a stranger trying to make a move on you. You grinned up at your fiance. “Thank you, Katsu,” you slurred, extending his name with a hiccup.

Bakugou sighed, shaking his head. “I really can’t take you anywhere can I?”

You ignored his comment, as you grabbed Bakugou’s hand. “You know, what that guy did was weird when he did it but… I wanna do it!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Look,” you said, raising your hands to Bakugou’s forearms as you pushed him to the wall. He stared down at you in confusion, the feeling diminishing as he grew amused by your actions. You brought your hands up to either side of him, putting him into a kabedon.

“Am I intimidating?” You slurred, laughing at yourself as you were convinced you were just as menacing in this position as the strange man was when he forced you in the same situation.

A few women on their way to the bathroom giggled at the sight before them, one of them taking pictures of the famous hero couple. Bakugou rested his hands on your shoulders as you were much shorter than he was. “Y/N, you’re the last person on this goddamn planet that I’d be scared of.”

You jutted your bottom lip out, looking up at him disappointedly as you were somehow drunkenly convinced you were intimidating. “Really?”

“Really.” Bakugou pushed you forward gently, bringing your arms down to your side. “Come on, we’ve gotta get home.”

“But I don’t wanna!” You whined, shaking your head.

“I don’t care. You’re already fucking drunk, let’s go.”

“Wait.” You straightened up, walking into the bathroom. “Let me pee first.”

Bakugou sighed, leaning against the wall. “Fine. Hurry up.”

Bakugou could see from the opposite end of the room his friends’ laughing expressions as he was placed in another weird situation thanks to your drunkenness. He flipped them off as they were taking videos themselves. Even the girls were laughing at the sight of your attempt at a kabedon, one that they were looking forward to teasing you about.

Bakugou ignored them, waiting and waiting for you to come out. After some time you still hadn’t returned from your bathroom break and he pulled out his phone, sending you a ‘what’s taking so long’ text.

You quickly responded with a ‘I’m not leaving’ text, one that was filled with numerous spelling errors in which Bakugou could barely understand what you were trying to say.

Bakugou closed his eyes as you had successfully annoyed him like you usually did. Fortunately, Mina approached him as she could see how agitated he was, as if there was invisible smoke rising from his ears.

“Need some help?” She asked.

“That shitty girl’s not getting outta there,” Bakugou muttered.

Mina snickered. “It’s been almost eight years and she still knows how to push your buttons.”

Bakugou crossed his arms over his chest as he waited again, watching as Mina entered the bathroom. He could hear your whining and complaining as Mina quite literally dragged you out of the stall.

“Go home!” Mina exclaimed, pinching your cheek as you continued to express how you wanted to stay and spend more time with your friends. Mina said her goodbyes to both you and Bakugou before returning to the table with the girls.

Bakugou sighed as he turned to you, the alcohol now taking its full effect on you as you felt as light as a feather. “I’m not gonna hear another word from you. We’re going home.”

You glared up at him. “Fine.”

Bakugou, who was glad to finally have been able to get you to leave, proceeded through the crowd, wanting to make way for you until you grabbed his wrist, ceasing his movements. “What is it?” He asked, wondering why you stopped him this time.

You grinned, raising your arms up. “Carry me!”

Bakugou smiled softly at you, swiftly hooking his arms under your knees and around your back as he held you in his arms. Since the day you first met, you never failed to give him a headache and aggravate him to no end. But he knew he wouldn’t want anyone else by his side.

After all this time, you were still making him fall for you just like you did when you were high schoolers.

If you’d like to be added to my taglist, please join here!

Taglist: @pinkcowgirleggpanda @xtsundere-princess @wesparklebitch @hot-pocket01 @iamthe-leaf @ahrinine @kirisclementine @lmaobroccoli @anastar-legion @urmomsshousee

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #katsukibakugou #bakugo #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo #bnha bakugou #bnha x reader #my hero academia #my hero academia imagines #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia imagines #boku no hero imagines

356 notes · View notes

imaginesandinserts · 4 years ago

Text

Irreverent Pt. 46 - Salve

Title: Irreverent Pt. 46 - Salve Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: M Words: ~10K

A/N: Flashback Chapter set between Chapter 14: Superheroes and Chapter 15: Foyet.

Irreverent Series Masterlist

The bar was thrumming with activity and the energy that accompanies people who've all had a long, hard day at work and would like to do nothing besides forget. The team had gotten back from a case in the evening, and with only Friday separating them and the weekend, had all decided to head out for a night of drinking.

You look around, your hands wrapped around a glass of scotch - Derek, Penelope, and Emily were dancing in the makeshift dancing area, JJ was playing darts with some guys, Spencer was cheating people out of their money at a game of pool, and Rossi had long ago excused himself to go sit by some woman at the bar. You'd be dancing too, but the unsub had gotten the jump on you during the takedown and you'd been nursing a sprained ankle ever since. Hotch had stayed with you - whether it was simply to keep you company or because none of the other activities appealed to him, you're unsure. Likely the former - he was pretty good at darts too.

He's sitting across from you in the booth, a glass of scotch in his hand as well. He doesn't make a face when he drinks it, which you have to admire - it was such a man thing. You only drank liquor to get drunk and had been surprised with the drink by Rossi, who had insisted that you needed to drink something stronger than a glass of wine after the day you'd had. You take another hesitant sip from your glass, trying hard not to give away how little you like it. He could've ordered you a mixed drink - something sweet so you didn't taste just pure alcohol.

"What've you got going on this weekend?" you ask Hotch. The case had been miserable all around and you wanted to talk about anything but that.

He looks up at you, the faint hint of a smile on his face. "Haley and I worked it out so that I can have Jack the entire weekend. I'll have to think of something to keep him occupied."

You knew that Hotch would be content to do nothing as long as it was with Jack, but he liked to make the most of their time together and did his best to plan things out that Jack would like. "I saw a poster that said the Air and Space Museum has some special exhibit on this month. It looked interesting." You knew Jack would enjoy that - his latest toy was a rocketship that went everywhere with him.

"Saturday?" he asks, eyebrow quirked up in question.

"Make it 11, and you've got a deal," you tell him, with a small smile. "I am no longer entertaining plans at 9am."

He lets out a slight huff. "If you just went to bed at a normal hour it wouldn't be that hard to wake up in the morning."

This was an old argument with the two of you. Hotch insisted on always being the first in line to any ticketed event. He hated waiting - he'd start to fidget and get annoyed and keep leaving the line to walk to the front and see what was taking so long.

"Take it or leave it." You were sticking your ground. He could use the lie in too, he'd just never admit it.

"We'll pick you up," he says, bringing his glass to his mouth and taking another sip, eyes meeting yours from above the rim.

It was interesting how you and Hotch had settled into this routine of constantly doing things with Jack. You reckon he likes having another adult around when he's out with Jack - it definitely made things easier to keep a little kid entertained. You'd once mentioned to Emily that you were having dinner with him and Jack and she'd looked at you a little oddly, saying that she'd been on the team forever and had never once had dinner with her boss and his kid. You'd responded by telling her that she probably wouldn't enjoy it all too much - Emily liked kids just fine, but her and Hotch tend to get on one another's nerves a bit after a while. They were far too different even if they did work well together. Hotch would try and fail at limiting her to two glasses of wine with dinner and she'd annoy him by just putting the dishes straight into the dishwasher without caring how she did it.

"Someone sent this over for you." You turn to see the waitress place a drink at your table, and indicate towards a man in a wrinkled suit, seated at the bar, who waves at you.

You can feel your face turn into a grimace as the waitress looks at you expectantly. You avoid looking at Hotch across the way. You didn't need to see his reaction. "Would you mind telling him thanks, but, no thanks for me?" you ask her apologetically.

She nods understandingly, taking the drink back and walking towards the bar.

You turn to look at Hotch, completely exasperated. It was nice. It was a nice gesture - sending a girl a drink. Friendly. Yet, you're just a little at your wit's end lately when it comes to men. It all just feels superficial.

Hotch can read you pretty well by now, so he asks if you're alright.

You look at his concerned face. You know why - usually you don't mind this sort of thing. Hell, you pretty much encourage it with the way you act, flirting with nearly everyone simply because you can. It's like a sport to you.

"Are you asking as my boss or as my friend?" you ask him, eyes cast down towards your drink, following patterns in the wood of the table.

"Friend," he says, adjusting to lean in a bit more towards you.

Sighing, you shift a bit, dropping your leg from where you'd been keeping it elevated next to him. "Lately, I just feel like I can't get guys to see me. Like every guy I meet, they either want to date me or kill me," you tell him, referring to your job. "But beyond that, it's like I don't even matter."

Hotch nods understandingly at your frustration, his face a grimace at your explanation. He's unable to deny that that is very much the case when it comes to women quite often - especially in your line of work. You're all far too aware of the horrors of dating, being called in on numerous cases on dating gone wrong. "Aren't you still seeing that guy - Kensington?" he asks with a slight uptick of his jaw.

"Well, if you can call seeing someone six times over the course of about an equal number of months, then yes I suppose so," you scoff lightly. "Twice we got called in on cases halfway, once he got interrupted by a work emergency, and then most recently I accompanied him to an event at which most of the other dates were the kind that demand a retainer in exchange for services rendered," you say, alluding to the super model types you'd kept company at Cedric's business event a couple of weeks back. You could fit into his world quite easily, but you didn't want to. You'd left that behind for a reason.

Hotch chuckles slightly at that, amused at your tone and manner in which you referred to women who were essentially either escorts or sugar babies. You didn't really fit that mold - of that he was quite certain. For one, you definitely didn't need the money.

"Don't get me wrong, I actually do like him. We get one another and our background and upbringing is similar enough. He makes me laugh. However our schedules - both of ours - are highly unconducive to dating and in his line of business he needs a girlfriend who can leave everything at the drop of a hat to stand by his side."

"So unless you leave your job or he leaves his, it won't work out," Hotch finishes your thought for you, a resigned expression on his face in commiseration.

"Exactly. Which is a shame because he's actually one of the good ones. He's rich but not pompous, educated and intelligent without being condescending about it, and actually shows genuine interest in me and my job. Believe it or not, as basic as those things might seem, they are actually difficult to find all in one man."

He hums. "I can imagine," he says, taking another sip of his drink, a slightly amused expression on his face. You rarely talked to him about your dating life so he was actually very interested in this insight. He wonders briefly if there's any significance to you having listed the fact that Kensington was wealthy before any of his other qualities. From what he knows of you, he doubts you'd truly care if your partner had money or not. More than likely it merely helped establish a commonality, nothing more. However, from what he does know of the men you've dated recently, they all appear to be quite well off nonetheless.

"Anyways, all that is to say that I'm not exactly looking to entertain complete strangers in bars at the moment. I don't trust my luck."

"Probably for the best, anyways," Hotch comments, appraising the crowd at the bar. There really didn't appear to be anyone worth talking to - especially none of your caliber, per his judgement.

"What about you? How's the post divorce dating scene?" you question, feeling a little bolder than you usually might, since the two of you are already discussing the matter. Turnabout was fair play.

He's a little surprised at your forwardness. You tend to do your best to not meddle in his personal business, despite the amount of time you two spend together. He believes it's your way of maintaining some modicum of professionalism to your outings. Your conversations tend to revolve around cases, your classes from college, an article in the newspaper, or the ever present game the two of you like to play of profiling complete strangers walking by. He says its to hone your skills, but really he just enjoys how invested you get - how competitive and passionate, color rising in your cheeks as you defend your assessment, annoyance tinging your tone as you disagree with him, admiration when he notes something you hadn't, and pride when he praises your observations, your cheeks flushed a prettier pink and your eyes sparkling with satisfaction.

"I wouldn't know," he discloses, a slight flush in his cheeks. He hadn't dated at all since the divorce. He hadn't had the time and he hadn't really had interest in anyone. Not when you exist, so overtly present in his day to day life. He knows he's - in some capacity - using the outings with you and Jack as the closest thing he's got to dating again. Not to say that it was that - dating. However the fact that his weekends were typically filled by you and his son made it so he wasn't exactly left wanting.

Your eyes widen a little in surprise. Their divorce had been a while back now - you knew for a fact that Haley was dating, having ran into her with some man when you'd offered to drop Jack off for Hotch when you all got called in on a case last minute. You hadn't mentioned it to him, but you're sure he knew as well. "You're joking. Really? No one?"

"You might recall, I got divorced because I didn't have the time for my existing relationship. A new one requires quite a bit more attention than that," he says dryly, self deprecation dripping from every word.

You hum, narrowing your eyes at him as you stir your drink with the toothpick it came with, spearing the cherry inside and popping it into your mouth.

"You should just go for it next time we're in some whatever town. Every female detective we've encountered constantly gets all moony eyed around you," you inform him matter-of-factly. They're all so obvious too, eyes always drawn to his ring finger in search of a wedding band, and upon finding it empty, hanging onto his every word. Flicking their hair and fluttering their lashes at him, keen on proving themselves to be competent by sticking their noses into the profile.

"That's hardly true," he contradicts, shaking his head, the color in his cheeks having creeped down his neck.

You chuckle at that. "Maybe you're not as good of a profiler as you think you are."

He glares at you, however the lightheartedness remains in his eyes so you know you're in the clear for your jab.

"Anyways, all I'm saying is, whenever you decide to get back on that proverbial horse, I think you won't find a shortage of options," you tell him kindly. After all, Hotch worked harder than any of you. He deserved to find happiness again.

He rolls his eyes at your statement ever so slightly. His right hand was a much less complicated and demanding lover for the time being - he was making do just fine.

"So, on to the next for you then?" he asks, attempting to divert attention back to you and your existent dating life rather than him and his non-existent one.

You shake your head, a humorless smile appearing on your face as you start to feel just slightly light headed from the alcohol. Maybe accepting random pain killers from Emily hadn't been quite the right move. "Nah," you mumble into your drink. "Cedric can stay, if only because I don't have an actual good reason to end it yet. Besides him, the other two on the back burner are quickly losing what little appeal they held to begin with. I might actually take a break."

Hotch smiles as if he doesn't quite believe you're capable of actually taking a break. Your reputation for never being without a date far preceded you.

Truth be told, at first it was simply easier to always be dating someone in the aftermath of the John wreckage. If you could constantly keep yourself occupied and distracted in that area, while you actually gave turning straight a fair shot, then maybe you'd make it through instead of going crawling back to his bed. Maybe you'd stop seeing his broken face when you told him you couldn't be with him. Maybe the memory of leaving him standing alone in front of that tattoo parlor in the Village wouldn't cause your heart to ache and rebel against your own actions. Maybe. Just maybe.

Now, the pain of Julian's death and the subsequent fallout with your family was merely hurtful when you chose to think of it or were reminded of it inadvertently It was no longer ever present. That seemed like progress. Like somehow despite everything - the pain and torture you'd inflicted upon both you and John had somehow been worth it if it meant you could go to sleep without thinking of Julian. Wake up without your father's face looming ever present in your mind.

You and Hotch look up when you see the rest of the team approaching the table one by one as the night drew to a close. It was last call and about time to head home so you could all have a hope of making an appearance at the office the next day.

"You want a ride home?" Hotch asks you, noticing your slight struggle to get out of the booth.

"It's totally out of your way," you protest, yanking your coat on and fishing for your keys in your pocket.

"I insist, come on. You can't drive properly with that sprain right now. He walks towards you and placing his hand at your lower back, guides you out of the bar behind the rest of the team. "Your car should be fine and we can grab it in the morning."

You know he's right, so you allow yourself to lean against him ever so much more, letting him help you out to his car. Hotch helps you in and closes the door behind you, before walking around to the driver's side. You take control of the music, plugging in your phone, intent on introducing him to more modern music. The two of you made it through seven Top 50 songs on the drive to your place, Hotch complaining throughout and not finding anything redeemable in any of the songs you'd chosen.

Aaron looked over at you as he neared your house, your head moving along to the music and your fingers dancing across your thighs to the tune, a large grin plastered on your voice as you tried to convince him that this this one he surely had to enjoy. He actually didn't mind most of the music you picked out to introduce him to - you didn't just pick anything, you always did your best to pick something you thought he'd truly enjoy. However, he worried that if he started to openly like any of them, you might stop trying so hard.

He pulled into your driveway and walked around to help you out of the car, lending you a hand along the path and up the steps to your door. He stands on the lower step as you unlock the door, before you turn around to tell him goodbye. When you turn, you're almost at his height due to the different steps you two are stood upon and you're not quite sure what compels you, but you reach for him and lean in to a hug, tucking your head onto his shoulder. If he's surprised he doesn't react as such, wrapping his arms around you as well briefly.

"Thanks Hotch."

"I'll pick you up at 8:30AM tomorrow. Is that alright?"

"Sounds good. I'll be the one standing right here, holding the cups of coffee."

He smiles, rolling his eyes just slightly, before turning around and walking away.

*------------*

He first becomes aware of only pain. A piercing, stabbing pain that he can feel everywhere, centered around the abdominal area. He can't move, everything feels heavy. Opening his eyes is a struggle and he manages to only open his eyes a fraction, before being forced to close them tight again. It was bright. White and too bright for his sensitive eyes.

He's slowly starting to realize where he is - becoming increasingly aware of the pain and the bandages, the needle connecting an I.V. to his arm - he's in a hospital. He tries to remember what happened - he'd dropped you off, waited until you made it inside and waved him off, before leaving. He'd gotten back to his apartment. It had been quiet. Eerily quiet. Then Foyet was there. After that all he recalls is pain and Foyet's voice - over and over and over.

Do I seem impotent now?

You should've made the deal.

This will never be over.

Aaron finds it too difficult to keep his eyes open and closes them once again, slipping under.

The next time he wakes, a technician was present and the girl quickly hurried out when she noticed him move.

Once the nurses became aware that he was conscious, it had been a flurry of activity - doctors and technicians in and out to ensure he was alright and to up the pain medication. Some talk about internal bleeding and nine stab wounds to which he'd simply nodded along. He tried to ask for Dave - someone who could make sense of all of this. They told him no visitors yet, but that family had been informed.

Once Dave enters, that's when he finds out everything. Foyet had dumped him outside the hospital. After he hadn't shown up to pick you up that morning, you'd raised the alarm and Garcia had tracked him down. Nothing was missing from his apartment from what they could tell, despite the mess. The only thing left out was his address book. Dave had it with him and Aaron looks through it, going immediately to the one page that mattered. It wasn't there.

Haley Brooks.

Rossi had sent you to go get Haley since the Marshalls were getting ready for her. You'd left Jack with JJ, assuring him that you'd be right back. He'd already seen his father and you'd watched from a distance as Hotch had adjusted to sit up, insistent on not letting his son see him as anything but alright, even in the context of a hospital bed. Haley had been with them and you watched as her eyes flitted from Hotch to Jack - fear for her son and what he might have to go through, due to his father's job, her main concern. She was worried for Hotch too, of course. She must be. However, their initial interaction that you'd witnessed hadn't been quite how you'd expect a wife to react to her husband being in a hospital. Though, you suppose, she wasn't really his wife anymore. Not that it mattered to him - you're pretty sure in his eyes, she might as well still be.

You approach, and you can hear Hotch and Haley in conversation about what's going to happen next. Foyet had taken only the page in his address book with her name on it, so his intentions were perfectly clear. Haley and Jack were being targeted by a serial killer. That meant they needed to be protected, and you knew that Hotch would have to break it to her.

"Do you know where they're taking us?" Haley asks. You can hear the uncertainty in her voice. You wait outside, trying not to eavesdrop but it was impossible not to overhear.

"No I don't. And that's the point. I can't know where you're going. If you have any contact with anyone, then he could track you."

"Jack has school, Aaron. He has friends. I have a job now." Her voice is accusing and you want to tell her that none of that matters right now. The only thing that matters is the two of them being safe.

"I know. And I'm sorry. We will catch him. And you'll come back, and I promise that I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you." Hotch's voice comes out low and you can hear the anguish caught in his throat as he speaks to the mother of his child - telling her to take their son and go. Breaking his own heart in the process by keeping Jack away from him. Knowing that that is exactly what Foyet wants. Wants him to suffer.

"Are you sure that we're in danger?" she asks, her voice suggesting that maybe he was overreacting. You feel a surge of anger course through you at that. For her to even suggest that he was overreacting when he was laid up in a hospital bed with multiple stab wounds was simply…you didn't have the words. He wouldn't make her go through this over nothing!

"Yes."

You decide to intervene then. Before she can question it further and agitate him more. He needed to rest. You knock quickly, alerting them both to your presence. "Haley, the Marshalls are ready for you."

She nods and grabs Hotch's hand. You avert your eyes to give them their privacy as Hotch tells her to be brave and strong. He'll see her and Jack after she's met with them.

Haley walks towards you and you point her to the tall female agent standing at the end of the ICU doors, wearing non-descript clothing in order to not garner too much attention. She nods and looks at you, and you see a hint of something pass through her eyes, like she wants to speak, but then seems to think better of it and walks towards the direction you'd pointed her in.

You watch her go, before turning to Hotch. His eyes followed her until she disappeared around the corner, and then he tilts his head back and closes his eyes. You hesitate for a second, before walking in. Your presence wouldn't be missed for a few minutes, you hope, so you walk towards the bed and take a seat in the chair to his left, waiting until he decides to look at you.

"How're you feeling?" His face is turned towards you as though he's partially surprised you're even there at all. You wonder if he would've preferred you have left him alone instead.

"They're got me some pretty strong meds," he tells you, indicating towards the I.V. drip connected to his arm.

You lean over and read the chart hanging from the side of the bed, eyes glancing over it. "They got you on all of the good stuff - Hydromorphone will get the job done for sure." You try to smile but you know it won't reach your eyes right now.

"How long did it take you to sound the alarm?"

You shift, tilting the chair to look at him better, your teeth worrying your bottom lip and eyes narrowed, trying to work out why he'd ask that. The smell of a hospital was starting to get to you a bit - that odd smell that feels like despair and cleaning supplies. "Ten minutes. At 8:35, I called your cell and you didn't pick up. I called again at 8:36 and 8:37 and 8:38. At 8:39 I told myself I was acting crazy and that the weird feeling I had wasn't anything really. I just needed some breakfast. At 8:40, I called Penelope and had her track you down." You remembered the ten minutes of pure panic you'd gone through when he hadn't been outside at exactly 8:30AM. With anyone else, it wouldn't be a cause for concern. With Hotch, you'd expected him to be there at 8:25AM and so you'd been ready to go by 8:15AM with a travel mug of coffee for the both of you in each hand. He also always texted you when he left his place to come to yours and you hadn't gotten an ETA text that morning. Maybe that's what had originally put you on edge.

He looks at you, an odd look on his face at your explanation as if he's trying to decide what to make of it - the entirely detailed and rambling explanation he got from you, likely catching him off guard a bit. Great, he thinks I'm insane.

A small smile makes its way to his face however, and you're glad he's still capable of that, despite everything. You haven't yet looked down at his bandages. Foyet had stabbed him nine times. You'd seen the notes that Rossi had taken - what Foyet had said to Hotch as he stabbed him. Talking about how Hotch has profiled him as being impotent. The mere act of stabbing Hotch while taunting him with that particular piece of the profile -it filled your stomach with churning acid. It was the closest to sexual assault that Foyet could inflict upon Hotch and you're trying hard not to think about the emotional and mental ramifications of it all for him. The physical was one thing - that's something that people can move past with time. The violation of one's home and one's body however - the toll that takes on ones being and sense of self - that's much more difficult to bury.

Just to even think that he was exaggerating - you're mad all over again at Haley. You shouldn't be. You know that isn't fair at all. She was having her whole life upended. And yet…he was the one in a hospital bed and you're having a hard time recalling her seeming at all concerned for him. She must've been, of course. But…he didn't deserve to be made to feel like shit because of it. It wasn't his fault. Knowing him, he really would spend the rest of his life making it up to her.

You avert your eyes to stare at the wheels at the bottom of the bed. They'd wheeled him, unconscious, past you when you'd first arrived at the hospital, not bothering to go into the office and instead arriving straight from your place via a cab. You'd been the first one there, having Garcia call the rest of the team. You'd called Rossi so that he could be the one to call Haley. He'd known her longer. You'd limped your way into the ICU, bypassing every single security check with a flash of your badge.

Pointless really. They wouldn't let you see him. Family first. You had to wait for Haley and Rossi to arrive - they were his emergency contacts. You briefly wondered if that was because he'd never bothered to update it after the divorce or if that was truly still the case - if she would be the person he'd want to have during an emergency.

"Can I say something?" Your voice comes out small and hesitant. He hadn't said anything in the wake of your explanation earlier.

He nods, looking at you curiously.

You wet your lips, clearing your throat a bit and sitting up straighter. It's not your place, and yet.. someone should say it. Someone should tell him.

"Sometimes, when we love people, we allow them to hurt us. We allow them to ignore our pain in favor of elevating their own. We allow them to bypass our feelings and our needs because we believe we aren't as worthy of having what we need acknowledged. I get why, of course. Especially right now, but.." You trail off, not knowing how to finish what you'd started in a way that didn't complete overstep the boundaries that you'd already crossed. He'd know you had heard. He didn't need to know that right now, you didn't exactly love his ex wife. You liked her just fine. But right then, you didn't appreciate how she'd treated him.

Hotch looks at you, breath caught by your words. He hadn't realized you'd overheard the conversation between him and Haley. There could be no other reason for you to be saying all of that. You'd said it all softly, hesitantly, knowing you were crossing some sort of line and yet you'd still said it because you felt he needed to hear it. We love.. We allow… We believe… You were speaking from some amount of personal experience. Your first question to him had been about how he was doing - unlike both Rossi and Prentiss who had asked him what happened. He's not sure why the distinction matters, yet it does.

Haley was right too, however. He can't be upset with her. This was all his fault. He hadn't made a deal with Foyet and now his family - his son - their lives were being upended. Haley had already put up with a lot during their marriage. The divorce should've meant that she no longer had to bear the consequences of his job. He can't help but feel guilty for that - for putting her in this situation. Especially when he's so overtly aware that he could've kept it from happening.

He watches as you sit in that chair, eyeing him apprehensively, chewing on your bottom lip. You care. He can tell you care. You care so overwhelmingly that it's hard to deny it. Sometimes he wishes you didn't. It would make things a lot easier on him if he could think that he felt something for someone that didn't even think about him - that he never crossed your mind even. However, there's far too much proof to the contrary. So instead he has to live with knowing that you care about him, that you think of him, that you likely - in some capacity - love him. The way one might love a friend or a mentor. Somehow that's worse because he has to then deal with you saying stuff like this. Things that make it seem like only you care.

He doesn't know what to say and he can feel tears forming that he's quick to blink away, hoping you hadn't noticed. He swallows and just nods, not trusting himself to say much of anything that didn't involve asking you to stay - possibly forever, because for the first time since he'd woken up in the hospital, he feels seen.

You try to smile and change the subject, fill him in on the Marshalls' plan with Haley and Jack. Offer to get him ice chips or some food that wasn't from the hospital cafeteria. He notices how at ease you seem in the hospital, and comes to the conclusion that maybe a family member had spent some time in one. You seem to know which nurses to talk to in order to get whatever you needed. You watch like a hawk when they come to do anything with his medications. He's pretty certain you would've slept there overnight had Rossi not asked you to help Morgan with something on the ongoing case.

He misses you as soon as you leave.

*------------*

You catch Jack and Haley on your way out. You know you won't be seeing Jack for a while. The Marshalls would be taking them today. Everything was going to change for them.

You nod at Agent Montgomery - the U.S. Marshall that's going to be on their case for the time being. She shifts, moving to the doorway to give you guys a moment.

Haley is seated at the table, her hands holding onto some paperwork. She meets your eyes briefly and nods before returning to the documents. There's a pen in her hands and you can't help but note that her fingers shake around it a bit.

Jack is seated at another table nearby, Agent Montgomery having cleared the breakroom for their meeting.

"Hey buddy." You kneel down to where Jack has been sitting, coloring a printout that one of the nurses must've provided. Jack turns to you, showing off his work. "That looks amazing, Jack!"

He beams with pride at your praise. "Thanks, Y/N."

"I have to head out, okay. I just wanted to say goodbye before I left."

Jack gets up and hugs you, wrapping his little pudgy arms tightly around your neck, allowing you to sweep him up entirely. You know this is the last time you'll get to hold him for quite a while, so you allow it to linger, hugging him back tight. "I love you, Jack." Whispered into his ear while you blink back tears.

You release him and stand, making sure he's settled back into his activity and occupied, before turning to Haley. She stands, walks with you a small distance away from Jack. It isn't fair, what's happening to her. You don't really hold anything against her. It's awful, entirely awful what's happening - her whole life was about to be uprooted because of your jobs. Because of all of your collective failure to catch Foyet the first time. It was your mistake and her and Jack were going to pay for it.

You look up at her and you can see how entirely scared she is of what's about to happen. To have to do this on your own was one thing. Doing it with a partner, another. To have to do it all alone while supporting a child - she wouldn't have anyone she knew to rely upon. All by herself and unable to trust anyone.

"We're going to find him. We're gonna catch him. I promise." You know words were of little solace but that's all you have to give right then.

She smiles, a watery smile to match the unshed tears in her eyes. There's a shaky nod before she moves forward, hugging you in much the same manner Jack had. She's a bit taller than you, so you try to stand straight, allowing her to lean against you. "Take care of him." Her voice is a whisper against your ear, as though she's entrusting you with something extremely precious. Which she is, you suppose. She's counting on you to make sure that Hotch would be alright. That Jack's father would be fine, awaiting his son's return.

"I will."

*------------*

It had been a week since Foyet had left Hotch outside the hospital. A week since Haley and Jack had been taken into WITSEC protective custody and given new identities in an unknown location. A week since Morgan had become the new acting Unit Chief of the BAU, taking over in Hotch's stead. To the public - to the outside world - and especially to Foyet, it had to seem like his attack on Hotch had left him completely alone and broken - no wife, no kid, no team to lead.

You hated it.

The team had been assigned a new case late Sunday evening after you'd all pretty much spent the past couple of days in the hospital. Hotch was discharged earlier in the day and was under strict orders to stay on bedrest for the time being. You'd all flown out early Monday morning and it was now Saturday evening, the case having stretched out the entire week due to the Unsub's kill schedule.

You got back home after submitting your report, grabbing a water and a pack of the little bunny crackers you keep on hand for Jack. You're pretty sure you won't be seeing Jack before those expire and someone should eat them. You shower and get dressed for bed, thinking about Hotch. You knew he was home and would be coming back to work next week, doing the absolute bare minimum bed rest that the doctor had mandated. You're fairly certain the doctor had been intimidated into it by Hotch's severe face, daring him to say anything longer than a week.

It's fairly late by the time you actually crawl into bed, plugging your phone into the charger by the nightstand and flickering off the lights, plunging the room into darkness save for the red glow of the alarm clock stating that it was now eleven o'clock. You wonder if anyone has checked in on him while the team has been away. Perhaps Jess, but she must also be out of her mind with worry about Haley and Jack.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you've grabbed your phone and scrolled to his name in your Favorites, pressing on it. You hold the phone up to your ear and listen as it rings, once, twice, thrice, until you hear the sound of it being picked up.

"Hotchner." His voice is low but doesn't sound sleepy, so you're at least confident that you hadn't woken him up. Having nothing to do but lay around must be messing with his carefully regulated sleep schedule.

You suppress a laugh at his formal no-nonsense greeting, even though he undoubtedly knows it's you. "Hey." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

"Is everything alright?" There's a slight edge evident in his voice and you realize that maybe calling him at eleven at night when his wife - ex-wife - and kid are being kept away safe wasn't exactly the right move.

"Yeah, yeah. Everything's alright. I'm sorry. I just called to check in. How are you?"

There's a pause where you can hear the ambient sounds of your house settling in along with him shifting - the rustling of a bedsheet and the groan of the frame as he moves to adjust himself. So he had been in bed when you called.

Finally, you hear, "I'm alright. Thank you for dropping off the food."

"Yeah, yeah of course," you respond, your heartbeat picking up a bit for some reason. You figure it's because you're unsure of the call itself still and knowing that Hotch was in bed and you'd likely disturbed him in some sense at least, makes you feel a little uneasy.

For his part, Aaron had been going stircrazy, sitting at home with nothing whatsoever to do. The Marshalls had taken Haley and Jack the very same day. Dave had taken him from the hospital and back to his apartment and Garcia and JJ had dropped by the same day with some groceries and a couple of ready to eat meals for him.

He spent most of Sunday sleeping, the strong painkillers making him drowsy. Monday morning, he awoke to his doorbell and his nurse, Eric, from the hospital was there to help him with the dressage. He didn't think that was covered by his insurance - he could only imagine how much home visits from a medical professional cost - and had told Eric there was some sort of mistake. However, Eric had insisted that someone at the hospital had already worked it out and insurance wasn't an issue - this was a covered service apparently. Since Aaron already knew him, and he really could use the help, he'd let him in. Eric had entered holding a large box of food as well, that he said had been left at the door along with a note. After Eric left, Aaron had opened the box to reveal pre-portioned meals - all homemade, all different, all things he could throw in a microwave easily. The note was just signed with your name, telling him to call if he needed anything else.

He'd slept through most of the days, awakening only to let Eric in daily. He ate only because he had to in order to take his medications. Otherwise his mind was a haze of thoughts and worries - worrying about Jack and Haley, about Foyet being around the next corner, about the team managing without him, and somewhere at the farthest reaches of his mind your face danced around - worried and concerned for him, despite doing your very best to appear otherwise.

When your name flashed across his phone late at night, at first he felt the thrust of panic - that something had happened. And then there's your voice, calm and even, asking him how he's doing. No one else had called him. Dave and Prentiss had texted once or twice over the week, but with a case going on, everyone had been busy.

There's a brush of silence after he thanks you for the food and he can hear you take a breath and shift ever so much. He realizes that you're calling him while most likely lying in bed. It causes his heart to speed up and a tight coil to begin tightening in his stomach. It's utterly benign - he has no reason to feel that way, and yet, yet he does.

"How was the case?" he asks, desperate for someone to speak with, not wanting the phone call to end.

You're slightly surprised but you easily talk him through the details of the case, the profiling process and how the team had approached it. You find yourself babbling on for a while as he asks you questions about the evidence, how the local detectives had been, how the team was doing.

Aaron listens to you, taking it all in. You're good at this, providing all the details you know he'd want. You notice everything, all the little things. How the local detectives had responded to Morgan being in charge - how it had been easier for JJ to liaise with them more closely instead. How Reid was getting much more comfortable with having a weapon in the field. There's a soft, sleepy quality to you despite your obvious willingness to tell him everything. Your voice like a salve, doing more for him than any of the medications the doctors had prescribed.

He's not sure when or how, but the conversation has meandered from the case to something Prentiss had told you once, to a story he had of Dave and Gideon back when he first joined the team, and then to a professor of yours from college who had been particularly invested in the Bundy trials in a near obsessive manner. He finds himself laughing for the first time since that night at the bar with you.

When his eyes next catch the time, it is past 2AM. You'd been on the phone for the past three hours. Before this, the longest phone call he's ever had was fifteen minutes.

"It's late," he whispers, almost as though he doesn't want you hear him. "You should get some sleep."

You glance at your clock and find yourself shocked at how long the two of you had been on the phone together. Who knew Hotch was even capable. Though, you figure, you'd been doing the bulk of the talking, rambling on about something or the other. He must be utterly exhausted of listening to your voice.

"You should too," you murmur through a yawn, your eyes flickering under the weight of your lashes.

"Good night, Y/N." You can hear a smile in his voice and it's almost as though you can feel him - the way he feels when he hugs you, warm and strong, firm against you, surrounding you completely with his being.

"Night Hotch."

*------------*

Hotch had been back a couple of weeks and the team was adjusting. While Morgan was indeed the public face of the team, Hotch was very still involved and working far too much behind the scenes. You've kept an eye on him, looking for signs of him overexerting himself. He is, of course. He's burying himself in work, diving in head first because that's likely easier than focusing on everything else. So far, all you've done is give him looks that say Shouldn't you be going home? and Is this really what you want to spend a Wednesday at 9PM doing? He doesn't acknowledge them openly but you know that he knows that you see exactly what he's trying to do. He'll leave once he realizes that you're staying if he is.

You're not quite sure how to check on him during the weekends. Before, you used to have Jack as the reason why you saw him. Now, without Jack, you're not quite sure how to go about seeing Hotch and making sure he's alright, without it somehow being seen as overstepping. You nudge Rossi to go check on him one of the days and then another, you invited the entire team over for dinner so that you know he ate. You know he won't let you cook for him if he's no longer on bedrest, even though the way he holds his gun and the sharp inhale he takes anytime he has to put the Kevlar on is extremely telling.

JJ wants everyone in the conference room on the other side of the floor since your regular one is taken and she calls you to inform everyone of the change in venue for the scheduled meeting. You glance up from your desk after having told Derek and Emily of the location change, trusting them to tell Spencer when he returns. JJ isn't expecting everyone for another half hour, and Emily had caught Rossi as he was heading out to lunch, so he's also aware. Emily and Derek follow in his steps, asking if you're going to join them, but you wave them on ahead.

You take the steps up to Hotch's office swiftly, knocking and turning the knob in one motion, only to find him standing behind his desk, no jacket or tie, shirt unbuttoned, a patch of red visible on his skin from one of the stab wounds inflicted by Foyet. He looks up at you and you can feel the surprise in his eyes. It was your fault, you should've waited. That was stupid. Your eyes can't seem to look away from the blood spotting the otherwise white wrappings that sit in a pile on the desk.

"I - I'm sorry," you stutter out, blinking and trying to make sense of the sight in front of you. You notice that his shirt was also equally marred, the blood having seeped through. You'd obviously interrupted him.

He draws a breath, and you can see him try to put on a mask of being unbothered by your sudden appearance. "Did you need something?"

'Um, JJ had to move the briefing to the other conference room," you inform him, still unable to look away. You're staring. You know are. It's dawning upon you how entirely you'd fucked up. Hotch was such a private person. He'd hate having someone see him in such a state of vulnerability.

He nods. "Thank you. Could you close the door, please?"

You don't move from your spot in the doorway.

"Y/N?"

You're not sure what exactly has overcome you, except this overwhelming need to take care of him. Especially now, right then when he's hurting. Bleeding quite literally. Hotch takes care of everyone. Every single one of you. But no one takes care of him. Not the way he needs to be cared for.

You cross the threshold, shutting and locking the door behind you. He seems entirely taken aback as you approach him silently. There's a voice in your head telling you that this, right here, this was the definition of overstepping. Yet, there is a more insistent compulsion residing within you, urging you forward until you've reached him. He looks at you, confusion in his features.

"Let me." You reach for the alcohol wipes on the table, meant to disinfect the affected region.

He doesn't say anything, but he also doesn't move, making it difficult for you to actually reach him as he's standing flush to his desk. He only looks at you, brows scrunched together, the pronounced cleft of his lower lip set tightly.

"Let me." You repeat yourself, moving forward and forcing him to back up a little and make room for you. You deftly move to sit on his desk, facing him, and beckon him towards you without looking up. If you looked up, you might lose your nerve.

You part your legs and much to your surprise, he actually moves forward, coming to settle between them. You can feel the heat of his body radiating off of him. You're suddenly very aware of the friction between his dress pants and the material of your own fitted ones.

You take the alcohol wipe and tear open the packaging, unraveling the cloth before cautiously moving towards him and dabbing at the area that seemed to have opened up slightly. He releases a sharp hiss and suddenly, his hand is at your waist, gripping tightly. You pause, looking up at his face. His eyes are shut, lips pressed tightly together. After a second, he nods, indicating at you to continue. He doesn't make a sound again as you clean up the area, though he does tighten his grip ever so slightly a couple more times.

You look at the items on his desk and pick up the jar of salve that he must put on prior to the dressings. Carefully, you unscrew the lid, looking up at him with a question in your eyes. He nods again, barely looking at you.

You try to do it quickly. Fingers picking up some of the salve and gingerly spreading it over the region, brushing past raised skin, puckered up as it heals. Slowly. Not fast enough for him.

Aaron watches as your head is bent, teeth biting down on your lower lip in concentration as you gently span the entirely of his chest and stomach. Soft, dainty fingers quickly working so as to put him out of his misery faster.

Of all people, he didn't want you to see him this way. So vulnerable, so exposed, so scarred. You'd thrown him off balance when you hadn't quickly scampered away after you realized your error in barging in. Approached him with such purpose that he hadn't known how to turn you away.

You reach for the fresh roll of gauze next, swallowing as you look up at him once again. "This would be easier if you take the shirt off."

He shrugs it off at your words, placing it on the back of his chair. There's a fresh shirt on the seat of his chair. He'd been prepared, it would seem.

"This might put a dent in the line of women waiting to pounce." He indicates towards his chest, self deprecation dripping from his weak attempt at humor, in an effort to cut whatever imaginary tension he had made up in his head.

You look at his face, seeing the vulnerability and insecurity as plain as can be. He doesn't need to verbalize his thoughts in order for you to know exactly what he's thinking. What he's been thinking.

Who would want someone this grotesque?

Who would want a man as broken as this?

Who could possibly bear the sight of him - marred forever? His very flesh a perpetual reminder of the terror he wades through, the monsters he encounters, the horror that is his life.

"No."

Your answer is simple, straightforward. Yet nothing has ever confused him more as he watches you hold one end of the gauze to the front of his chest near the top of the scarring, and then bring the roll around his back, over it to hold it in place, your small hands ghosting over his skin with the utmost propriety, intent in making this as painless, as easy, as comfortable for him as possible.

"I'm not going to tell you some patronizing bullshit about scars being beautiful."

You control your breath in easy measured paces, forcing him to follow along. One breath in. Pause. Breath out. Repeat. You continue to wrap the dressing around his chest slowly, your eyes fixed on the task at hand to ensure that it was all straight and even, tight but not too tight.

"They do, however, speak to all that you've endured. All that you've conquered. Overcome. Anyone who loves you will see you just as you are. They would think you absolutely incredible. Regardless of anything. Because of it all."

Aaron focuses on your voice, soft and melodic and yet sure. So very sure. How could you possibly be so sure?

"Someone who loves you will see the scars," your fingers press ever so slightly against his chest, "and they will know. They will know all that you've undergone to become who are - how you survived despite the odds."

You take a sudden shuddered breath as you recall the sight of him unconscious in the hospital bed, being wheeled past you. You're quick to shake it away.

"They will be grateful. To have you, scars and all."

You finish, tucking in the end of the gauze firmly and ensuring it wouldn't come loose with just the slightest of motions.

You look up at him then, finally meeting his eyes properly. Beautiful, deep brown eyes with flecks of gold brought on by the late afternoon sunlight that was filtering through the windows.

Aaron can't help but look at you. He rarely gets to see you this up close. So very close. If he were to just bend down the smallest amount, there'd be no space at all. Your hair bundled back into a professional low bun, soft wisps framing your face. The cupid's bow lips - pouty, pink, perfect lips. The upturned nose and the slight babyface cheeks that accompanied it. He realizes his hand is still gripped onto your waist and he's reluctant to remove it. Not yet. In a bit. Not yet.

"Thank you." His eyes are closed as he says it so he misses it when you nod your acknowledgement.

You lean past him, one hand grabbing his forearm for balance while the other reaches for the shirt on the chair. You'd started the job. Might as well finish it. You unbutton the collar and he takes it from you, quickly slipping it on, and yet not moving away. His hand returns to your waist. Staying where you could easily reach up and start buttoning it for him. So you do.

Aaron knows you don't need a response to everything you'd said. He also is quite certain that you believe it. No matter the entirely shallow world you'd been a part of, he knows that you aren't like that. You might be a little vain - the nice clothes and makeup, the care you put into your own appearance. However, you're not vain like this.

Aaron breathes out a deep sigh that he'd been holding for some time as you dexterously work each button into its proper hole. He really could get used to this. To you.

"Why do you always sit on stuff?" His voice is soft and low, calmer.

You glance up, noting the slight humor dancing behind his eyes while he waits for your answer.

You can't help but smile, a breath of laughter escaping you just barely. "I suppose…because I'm short," you admit, shaking your head as you continue down the trail of buttons. "Makes it easier for me to be at eye level if I sit on higher surfaces."

He laughs. A near boisterous laugh. His chest rumbles underneath your hands, causing your fingers to tremble.

You can't help but laugh along with him, releasing a deep held breath as you do.

He would be alright. He would.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds reader insert #irreverentseries #hotch x you #hotch x reader

63 notes · View notes

unmanageable-day · 4 years ago

Text

Come to me

masterlist

previous chapter: 21

PART 21.5 - next

Summary. After what happened in a relationship in the past, you found it difficult to trust someone with the gentleman image. ‘Gentleman’ seems like merely a concept and it was probably impossible for someone to be a genuine one. Now that you’re stuck with the number one gentleman at campus for a group project, how would you cope with the one and only Joshua Hong?

Genre. College!au, non-idol!au / friends to lover

Pairing. Joshua x y/n x S.Coups

WC / warnings. 2k / soft makeout sesh (can you call it that when no tongues involved??? or maybe its more like pecks session)

TAGLIST. @samemagicpoint @unravellyn @nonuuu @seventeeneration @skylions-den @wooziverse @infinitemoods — [ send ask or dm if you’re interested to be added in the list! ]

You found yourself being confused, sitting on a couch in a corner of a barbershop, flipping page after page of an outdated magazine mindlessly. Sometimes you stole a glance towards a man whose hair was getting cut and dyed. The man who dragged you there and made you accompany him. The reflection of him in the mirror threw a big smile at you.

"How do I look?" he asked as soon as he and you walked out of the barbershop.

"Just looking like S.Coups. What do you expect me to say?" You chuckled.

Grinning, he casually put his arm around your barely clothed shoulder. The direct contact to your skin simply got you flustered. This was the day you regret ever purchasing a skimpy top with spaghetti strap.

Early in the morning, a friend of yours, Somi, came crashing at your place, forcing you to go out with her. She even dug your closet to find an outfit that was not your everyday wear. And that was how the long forgotten floral sleeveless top was found. You cursed why it was found in peak summer season like this. It just made Somi so eager encouraging you to wear it. She even prepared a pair of jeans, mules, and a handbag that would match the top, according to her. And you can't say no when she looked at you with her pleading eyes.

"We will look awesome, Unnie. You see, the color of our top mixes so well together. We have to take pictures. I promise this cafe has the best ambience. You should update your insta, your feed is so dull because you shitpost too much on Twitter," she excitedly rambled.

You never wanted to go home so bad after Somi dragged you here and there until noon. The hot weather quite bothered you, especially that you felt more exposed than usual. Usually you would have your outer whenever you wore sleeveless shirt. Today was an exception because Somi hurried you and you couldn't grab an outer from the closet.

When Somi accidentally spilled some coffee and you may or may not have purposely wiped your hand that got chocolate sauce on your shirt, you thought it was a good chance to buy new clothes. The baby sister rushed you to the closest store, but you were wrong to think you could choose yourself. Because she immediately took 2-3 pieces of another sleeveless top even with spaghetti strap, pushed you to the changing room, and when you were done, she went straight to the cashier and paid the bill.

Wandering around the store before catching up on Somi, you intended to buy some outerwear. But your hands stopped as you were bewildered when someone called you. And it turned out to be Seungcheol shopping by himself. That was how Somi ditched you with a lame excuse because she got overly excited to see you with a fine looking guy.

"Afternoon snack? Boba milk tea?" Seungcheol offered with his gummy smile. He surely appreciated you waiting for him for more than 60 minutes at the barbershop.

These days you found yourself hanging out with him a lot. You surely remembered how flirtatious he was the first time you met him. He was definitely one person you wanted to avoid, or at least to not hang around with that much. Because, one, he was friends with Joshua Hong, and two, you can't stand him flirting and being cringey all the time. The weird thing was now you can't say no to him. This man strangely found his way to you and somewhat won a small part of your heart.

"Or maybe not?" you said as you looked up in the sky. The sunny day had turned into cloudy as the sky got darker. It looked like it was going to rain soon. The little handbag you carried cannot even fit a little umbrella you always brought anywhere anytime. Now you were panicking, already thinking to call a taxi to go home before it rained.

"I think it's wiser to go to my place since it's closer from here. I'll take you home when the rain stops."

"Your place?" you quietly asked, looking concerned. You remembered the three of them lived together. Joshua told you in the first weeks of your internship, about Jeonghan being sulky everyday because of how loud he was when the blender was working to made smoothies aka to provide your breakfast.

You were this close to running away with a taxi as little rain drops started falling and you could feel the cool breeze against your bare skin. Unfortunately not a single vacant taxi was sighted.

"Um.. nobody’s home. Jisoo and Jeonghan are going out," he explained, as if he could read your mind. The longer you took your time contemplating, the grey shade in the sky was getting more visible. Little rain drops started getting bigger and you were running out of choices. "Come on, we don't want you to get wet, do we?" Seungcheol gently took your hand and lead the way.

Again, you can't say no and you cursed yourself for being very indecisive. All you hoped now was this wasn't a bad idea, although you already had a not so good feeling about this.

"Phew, just in time," he remarked as the two of you reached the apartment lobby when the rain suddenly fell heavily. "Let's get upstairs, dry ourselves, and I'll lend you my jacket."

You shook, reassuring him that you were okay. "I'm fine," you said, wiping off the wet trace on your arms. But as soon as you entered the living room, you couldn't deny the chilly temperature that suddenly crept up your body.

"Towel?" he offered, handing over a pink colored fabric.

You muttered thanks as you continued wiping your arms and shoulders.

"Here, wear my cardigan." He tossed a black knit-wear before heading to the pantry to make some hot drink. "Don't just stand there. Go sit on the couch, turn on the TV or something," he chuckled.

You nervously made your way to the couch and sat up straight. Soon, Seungcheol joined you with two cups of hot peppermint tea. Seeing his cardigan crumpled in your hands, he took it and helped to put it around your shoulder. "Feel better?" he asked warmly as he adjusted his seat beside you. Nodding your head, you smiled back at him.

"The rain doesn't look like it will stop soon. Let's just wait a little bit longer, okay?"

It wasn't like you have other better choices anyway. Going home by bus or taxi and get drenched in the middle? No way.

"Is there anything you want to watch?"

"Not really. Just don't trick me to watch horror movies like Joshua did."

"He did that?" He chuckled. "That was messed up, I bet."

A nervous smile was curved on your lips. You were surprised yourself that you still remembered that one time watching movie with Joshua. That was something nobody ever knew. It just slipped off your mouth when Seungcheol asked.

His choice finally was a classic, award-winning movie. Seungcheol can't keep his mouth shut throughout the movie, commenting every scene or comparing with other movies. He subtly scooted closer, and the pointing gesture which he often does eventually decreased. His loud talking also started to become quieter.

"Why?" you spoke, noticing the sudden silent.

"Nothing." His lips pursed into little grin, his eyes finding yours. "Lean on me?"

At first you were hesitant. But there was something about him that always managed to mesmerize you. His opened arms, the warm smile on his face, and his soft gaze hypnotized you. The next thing you knew was you already resting your head against the crook of his neck, his arm looping around your shoulder, his hand fixing the oversized cardigan on you. You can smell his scent. Although the perfume did not have a strong aroma, it was quite fit to your liking.

The movie was reaching the end and post credit scene. Yet none of you did anything but enjoyed the silence with each other's company. You could feel Seungcheol's hand rubbing your upper arm gently. He clearly didn't have intention to release you from his embrace. In fact, he had never wanted to be as selfish as now.

"I wish the rain stops soon," you mumbled. You tried not to squirm too much. But not fidgeting at all didn't help to deal with the current situation. You started to wonder why you just threw yourself at him.

"I wish we can stay like this," he mumbled, almost whispering.

You pretended not to hear that. Suddenly you felt his lips slightly grazed against your forehead. You flinched but you couldn't go anywhere. His arm was still around your shoulder, securing you in place.

You knew this wasn't right.

"Um, we shouldn't.." you mumbled as you squirmed trying to sit up, hoping he would loose his firm grip but to no avail.

By the time you spoke breaking the silence, Seungcheol had readjusted his position, twisting his upper body so you were trapped between his arms. The back of your head stuck against the sofa, which you wished there was no headrest there so you could have escaped from this situation. Without warning but very slowly, he rested his forehead against yours, one of his hand creeping towards your hand that had your fingers curled into a fist. His thumb gave little rubs on the back of your palm, suggesting to be more at ease and also to open up so he could hold your hand properly. You could feel his minty breath as he leaned in closer and your noses brushed each other. In a matter of a second, his lips was pressed against yours then he slightly pulled away.

"I know I shouldn't.." he slowly whispered before going for another peck. Or two, which made you unconsciously gave in and shut your eyes as he sneaked his hand to hold the side of your exposed neck. And there goes another kiss. "But your lips.." Kiss. "So soft." Kiss. "And sweet." Kiss. "I think I could taste something like strawberry." Kiss.

You had no idea what had gotten into you accepting his kisses like this. You probably forgot how to breathe. If it wasn’t for the way he always took quick pauses between his kisses, you could have suffocated yourself. Not to mention, the way he gently rubbed the back of your hand, which somehow it worked to comfort you (and you probably will hate yourself for this).

What were you even thinking? Did he lead you on? Did you lead him on?

Slowly releasing your hand, his arm then made its way to wrap around your waist before finally planting the another kiss, a bit longer than the previous ones.

As he pulled away, you slowly opened your eyes and met his. The first thing you recognized was his long lashes and the thick brows. That was the first time you were struck by how pretty he was. Still holding you close, his hand traveled to tuck some hair strands behind your ear.

"Seungcheol, I..."

"Keep it." He cut your words with another peck.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Utterly shocked by the presence of someone else, you turned your head abruptly only to find certain someone to be as surprised as you were. "Jisoo.." you mumbled his name, your eyes quivering looking at him with the rest of the guys who dropped their jaws. You hurriedly released yourself from Seungcheol's arms and stood up. Yet you didn't know what to do. Should you explain what just happened? But then what is there to explain? And why should you?

Joshua didn't speak a word after that. He just locked his fiery eyes at Seungcheol, probably waiting for him to say something. Jeonghan and the other guys were nervous at the tense situation that they wouldn't dare to open their mouths.

You took a glimpse at Seungcheol. He was just standing beside you, one hand on his waist and the other one brushing his fringe. He looked like he did nothing. As if nothing just happened.

Jeonghan initiated to break the silence. "Y/n, it's still raining outside. Mingyu will take you home. Is that alright?" he asked you softly, approaching you then very subtly and gently pulling you away from Seungcheol.

You hesitantly nodded, not sure if you could just leave without saying anything. But what would you say at this point? Once again, you stole a glimpse both at Seungcheol and Joshua and weakly said, "Okay." before Jeonghan, Soonyoung and Mingyu escorted you out.

#seventeen imagines #seventeen texts #seventeen au #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen fics #seventeen sm au #seventeen drabbles #seventeen joshua #seventeen scoups #joshua imagines #scoups imagines #joshua x reader #scoups x reader #svt imagines #post by yourblinkies #kpop fanfiction

58 notes · View notes

ddaenggtan · 5 years ago

Text

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG, some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it.

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway.

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience.

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain.

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands.

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more."

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet.

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring.

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected.

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough.

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago.

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you.

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better.

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home.

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from.

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing.

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering.

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas.

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd.

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal.

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault.

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name?

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do.

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why.

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success.

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts.

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point.

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process.

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing."

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar.

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks.

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you."

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered.

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space.

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat.

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him.

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive.

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already.

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you.

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles.

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows.

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off .

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse.

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think.

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own.

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want.

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way.

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear .

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you.

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are.

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them.

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you.

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself.

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all.

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long.

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar.

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe.

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off."

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws.

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?"

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper.

"You are going to wish that you could die."

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it.

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body.

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight.

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats.

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have.

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages.

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself.

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom.

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns.

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.”

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs.

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says.

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them.

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you.

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers.

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out.

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues.

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest.

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head.

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is:

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead.

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway.

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer.

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you.

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.”

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal.

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference.

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is.

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new.

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will.

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking.

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore.

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that.

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you.

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings.

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment.

Someone says your name and you swing.

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor.

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway.

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to.

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building.

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too.

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you.

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love.

If you can love.

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed.

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself.

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is.

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there.

Until the night when it’s not.

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win.

You would take it back if you could.

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster.

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital.

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal.

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them.

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive.

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips.

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again.

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly.

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you.

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you.

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain.

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist.

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair.

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out.

“I didn’t-”

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have.

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking.

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her.

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough.

It’s never enough.

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan.

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster.

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing.

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it.

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips.

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with.

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go.

Frustrated, you pull back.

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown.

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress.

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees.

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh.

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free."

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath.

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat.

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve."

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits?

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again.

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time.

Not with Taehyung.

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him.

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating.

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could.

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up."

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind.

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been.

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately.

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you .

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you.

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder.

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come.

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.”

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for.

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose.

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena.

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake.

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs.

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have.

He’ll learn.

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it.

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face.

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes.

The giant swings.

867 notes · View notes

creative-frequency · 5 years ago

Text

Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader: Overtime

Word count: 2917 Pairing: Inquisitor!Cal Kestis x Reader Notes: Looks like this is turning into a series and I’m okay with that.

Previous Part

My Writing Masterlist

“There is a package for you.”

The post droid offers the small box forward and your brows scrunch together in thought. “What package?”

“Spare parts designated as ‘2-5-7-K’.”

That kriffing–

It’s the new AC control panel and the connectors that needed changing because the old ones were so worn that the door could break any moment. Your face flushes hot just thinking back to the last time you were near that door. Inquisitor Cal hasn’t been bothering you since – not while awake at least. It’s amazing how gentle scenarios your mind can dream up about someone who freaks you out.

Because you’re a coward, you send a droid to find the Inquisitor and ask him when would be alright to invade his privacy in order to fix the door and the air conditioning. From the bottom of your trembling heart you wish he will be off-planet on a mission during the repairs.

The droid comes back with a breathlessly recorded message. It probably found the Inquisitor in his usual prancing grounds at the dojo.

“Tomorrow morning [sounds of a lightsaber hitting something metallic] should be okay.”

You don’t know if it’s good or extremely bad that you won’t have more time to mentally prepare yourself to enter his quarters. And he didn’t say anything about his own whereabouts, so you’ll just need to assume the worst. Great.

Cal is surprised to hear from you even if it isn’t directly but through a droid. It messes up his rhythm and he breaks the training droid in an attempt at doing two different things at the same time.

Even if you haven’t seen him in the past few days, he has been watching you. It’s painfully evident that you’re not the most aware of your surroundings when working. The uneasy feeling that sometimes overcomes you in the middle of doing something utterly trivial, it’s all his influence: The intense stare tingling in the back of your neck. The sudden cool air current, almost like a breath on your cheek. All of it originates from how his pulse quickens when he sees you.

Cal cannot explain it but it’s not all bothersome. It’s intriguing. He feels something completely new as his eyes trace the shape of your face, the edges of your body under the uniform and the movements of your fingers and steps. You always seem to mind your own business but still are well-respected and over encumbered with work around the Fortress.

His mind tangles from thinking about how to start a conversation. He doesn’t have a reason; he just wants to try to have some kind of social contact with you. He has felt the need for companionship, just someone to talk to, ever since he was appointed an Inquisitor and it became obvious that his brothers and sisters would have nothing to say to him – a former Jedi, the rising star of the Rebellion. The past means nothing to him anymore but some people don’t let go so easily.

Cal doubles his training efforts to have the next day arrive faster.

For you, the morning arrives too soon.

You can barely sleep a wink. The dark liquid in your morning cup drains right into your soul, but the substitute for natural caffeine works like a faulty speeder engine. The jumpstart energy spike never comes and looks like it’s one of those days when you’re going to need to push the proverbial speeder.

Dragging your legs while a happily beeping droid carries the tools and spare parts beside you, you make your way towards the infamous 257K. Each step brings you closer to doom and demise.

Swallowing helps nothing as your heart beats in your throat and your whole body trembles. You hit your knuckles sharply against the metal door, silently praying to every pagan deity you can think of. Seconds feel like hours as you wait for a reply or the door to open, but nothing happens.

You knock again, possibly a bit more lightly, unable to believe your insane luck.

“Looks like no one’s home,” you say to the droid. Stupid relief spreads all the way to the tip of your toes. While humming to yourself, you use the maintenance key card to open the door to the residential quarters.

The rooms the Inquisitors and the Fortress key personnel get are so much larger and fancier than yours. While you have only one room plus bathroom, this one has at least three different rooms, fully furnished and including all sorts of appliances. But then again, you should consider yourself lucky to have your own room instead of sharing quarters like most of the maintenance level staff.

Looking around with interest and criticizing the familiar Imperial-style decorations in your mind, you fail to realize that you’re, in fact, not alone in the room.

The droid next to you beeps. The shape of a ginger bed hair waddles into your field of view – shirtless and yawning.

You’ve never been more certain about a moment becoming your last of existence.

“Relax. You don’t need to be afraid of me,” the Inquisitor says with mirth in his tone and his eyes skim your immobilized frame up and down. His voice his still hoarse from sleep.

“I didn’t mean to wake you, sir,” you peep in a tiny voice, barely forcing any sound outside your throat. There is absolutely no place on the man you can let your gaze befall, not the eyes, not the chest, definitely not on the lower body, so you scour the walls.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Cal assures. He feels something immensely satisfying at looking at you quiver in a mix of fear and respect, but it irks him when you refuse to meet his gaze.

You don’t believe any of his words but can’t help relaxing your shoulders.

“Thanks… I guess.”

Cal grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and settles to stare at you while emptying the drink. Seeing him shirtless doesn’t help to erase the filthy dreams from your memory. In truth, you’re genuinely sure they’ll start having some interesting plot twists from now on.

“So… I’ll switch the AC panel now,” you say aloud, pretending that the room is empty.

“Knock yourself out.”

You turn to eyeball the Inquisitor in bewilderment because of his choice of words.

“That’s what they say, right? It’s a figure of speech.” He sounds uncertain, but you nod slowly.

“Right, sir,” you say and decide to focus back on the job. The sooner it’s done, the sooner you’ll get out of this flytrap.

“You can drop the ‘sir’,” the Inquisitor says and hesitates for a bit. “It sounds weird.”

You try to wrestle your curiosity down but lose the battle. The Inquisitor earns your full attention with arms folded over your chest. Though his bare pecs instantly draw some of it, as well as the thin line of hair leading down into what you assume to be government-issued Inquisitorial pajama pants. They’re Imperial black and not at all complementing to his form. You bite your lip and feel the heat rise up your neck. So much for not staring.

“What should I call you then?” A bold question perhaps, but with each passing moment you feel less like he is going to run you through with a lightsaber.

He chuckles. “I’m Cal.”

You tap the name plate on your chest. “Well, this is me. I guess you would’ve already known that if you’d been interested in my ID last time.”

The mood in the room freezes. Cal looks at you with shock that quickly turns into a hint of a smirk. You wonder how fast he will catch you if you try to run. Learning to keep your big mouth shut in the presence of an Inquisitor would be a beneficial skill. It’s a wonder your career in the Empire is as long as it is.

You suck in a breath and stutter: “I-I didn’t mean–”

“You’re right.” He sits down on a stool by the kitchen nook’s counter and carefully places the almost empty water bottle on the surface.

“I’ll just start working now,” you say quietly and huff out the air in your lungs. Another dodged blaster bolt.

You try not to sneak glances at Cal while you work and he is hovering around in the kitchen and apparently making some breakfast for himself. The smell of real coffee soon fills the room and it’s so delicious that it almost brings tears to your eyes. It must be some really high quality stuff.

Cal miraculously lets you work in peace and the only sounds in the room are your short commands at the maintenance droid. You’re itching to turn and look at what the Inquisitor is doing, but resist the urge. Switching a thermostat unit and a control panel is not really a difficult or time-consuming task and you’re done in record time, eager to get out.

“Done already?” Cal asks as soon as you screw in the last piece.

“Yeah. I’ll take a look at the door next.” You wipe your brow even though the room is cool because of the broken AC. The unit starts immediately blowing warm air.

“Come here first. There’s enough for you too.” Cal taps the stool next to him and you feel the bottom of your stomach drop. You miss the slight shaking of his hand against the dark leather.

“Uh. I, um, can’t. I’m working. Sorry,” you mumble half of the words but the Inquisitor still stares at you with a persistent smile, looking almost like a normal person – a shirtless, strikingly attractive person with the ability to kill you with just his willpower.

He taps the stool again. “C’mon, I know you think it smells delicious. No one needs to know you’re taking an extra break. I’ve got your back, I swear.”

For some wicked, self-destructive reason, you find yourself trusting his words. Or possibly it’s the amazing scent of coffee that lures you slowly to plant your butt on the stool way too close to the half-naked Inquisitor and you don’t know what in the absurd situation makes you the most nervous.

“How do you know that? That I thought it smelled delicious?” you ask quietly as Cal reaches out to grab a cup, fills it and places it in front of you. The coffee is of the perfect mellow dark brown color and just inhaling the scent makes you quiver. “Thanks…”

Cal smiles as you dare a glance at him. “I just felt it.”

He really wants to add the loud flustered feeling you emitted the moment you realized he was in the room, but decides against it. Teasing you too much would be just cruel.

“I see,” you mumble.

“Try it.” Cal nods towards the cup.

You do as he orders and feel the flush of prickling warmth spread from your tongue to every inch of your body.

“It’s amazing.” You gawk at the cup. You’ve never tasted anything so good. The caffeine substitutes can’t even project a light to the real thing. You quite certainly would kill to be able to drink it every day.

“They call you the head of the droid army, right?” Cal asks casually just to make conversation.

You jolt at the comment. In any other situation it would’ve made you laugh.

He continues: “How long’ve you been here to earn a nickname like that?”

You take another sip of the coffee. Delicious. “A bit over two years. I was working on a Star Destroyer before but got transferred here.”

Cal hums in approval. “A promotion, then?”

“Yeah.” Working in a base is likely safer than being on a ship, so in that sense Cal is right. At the time it just didn’t feel like an upgrade to be dragged to a backwater planet like Nur.

You drink the coffee in an uncanny silence for a while and notice that Cal is doing nothing but leaning his elbows against the counter and looking at you. It’s disturbing and makes your already precocious pulse grow even faster. His cup is already empty.

“I’ve seen you train. It’s very impressive,” you say, unsure whether it’s an okay topic.

“Impressive, huh? Nice to know you think that way about me,” Cal teases and gets you flustered, again.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” you reply dejected. Your heart is running a mile a minute and he probably notices it with his stupid senses.

Cal leans towards you with an intense look in his eyes. You lean as far back as you dare without falling off the stool. Your eyes are torn between his freckles, lips and pecs. It’s all making you giddy and nervous.

“W-what?” you manage to splutter out.

“You’re just so… I…” He can’t finish the sentence. Why is he so fixated on you? It makes no sense but he lacks the motive to fight it. Cal’s gaze falls from your eyes to your lips and you’ve seen that look before.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask rather wryly, hoping the tone will mask your inner turmoil.

“Do you want me to?” Cal looks at you intently, hiding his astonishment.

You feel his shallow breaths on your skin as he gets closer and chills run up your spine. The whirlpool of emotions spins faster, making you feel dizzy and surreal. You’re scared and intrigued by the fiery look in his eyes.

“…If you want to.”

This is not actually happening.

“Yes or no?”

Cal takes your chin and you suck in a short breath.

“I’ve got somewhere to be soon, so you need to hurry up.” The words come out sassier than intended and you relish at seeing the smile that spreads to Cal’s face. His eyes flit downwards to your lips and he stops himself from hesitating any longer.

You let out the most obscene sound when his mouth pushes against your slightly open lips and you know it’s bad but you just don’t care. His fingers move up your jaw and touching your hair makes another wave of shivers course through you. You take his free hand and press it onto your waist, which leads to him pulling you up and the stool falls behind you. You hum at feeling the heat of his exposed skin against yours. The kiss deepens and your tongue peeks into his mouth. Cal pushes you against the counter and you’re finally trapped in his clutches.

You’re making out with the one of the most dangerous things in the Fortress, possibly in the whole Empire, and for some reason it’s the best thing that has happened to you on Nur.

“Why mmh–” you try to start when Cal breaks the kiss to draw in a heavy breath, but he doesn’t allow you to finish another word. His cheeks are equally flushed as yours, heart beating loudly in his ears but you both ignore the signs of nervousness and let the craving for being touched overflow.

Cal’s hands wander further down and cup your ass, pulling your hips flush to his. Even if the Imperial pajama pants don’t give much of a show, they certainly allow you to feel it. The want and flustering unease makes your cheeks burn. Cal realizes you can feel his arousal and your pace breaks when he shifts awkwardly.

You pull away from each other, panting and eyes wide. Cal wipes his mouth to the back of his hand and you’ve never seen anyone look so hot.

For a fleeting moment, the fiery, challenging look in his eyes persists and you’re burning to respond to it. Few short breaths dissipate the heavy mood enough to restore some sense into you.

“Wow, I–, that was… um,” your mouth opens and closes, some resemblance of words coming out in jarring patches.

Cal is definitely as equally flustered. The maintenance droid, whose existence you both had already happily forgotten, beeps to signal that it’s almost time for your next task. You’ll be late of schedule because of this.

“Uhh, I should… go.” You motion towards the general direction of the door but can’t take your eyes off the man before you. The man, who you just kissed. Who you don’t know at all. Who is an Imperial Inquisitor.

“Ah kriff, I forgot I’ve got somewhere to be too,” Cal huffs, glances at the chronometer on the wall and runs a hand through his hair. His chest heaves with each breath, trying to pace its rhythm.

You don’t know what to say. Just like that, Cal disappears into the other room and you stand baffled next to counter. Maybe trysts like this aren’t such a big deal to him. There is still some coffee in your cup and it would be a shame to waste it, so you down the liquid in hasty sips.

Before you’re done piling your things onto the droid, Cal emerges from what you assume to be his bedroom in full Inquisitor garb and the sight makes you feel a tingle that’s not altogether shaped by fear anymore.

“I hope you can fix the door before I get back.”

He winks.

The sound of his lightsaber blade erupting straight into the door control panel elicits a short scream out of you.

Before you can recover from the shock and start screaming at Cal, he is already gone with a grin and you’re facing some serious overtime at work.

Part 3

#cal kestis x reader #cal kestis #inquisitor cal kestis x reader #inquisitor cal kestis #jedi fallen order #swjfo #swjfo fanfiction #star wars #my writings

439 notes · View notes

mister-fleck · 5 years ago

Text

one bad day: arthur fleck x reader

prompt: “a nfsw one when he comes home after having a bad day.”

Arthur pushed a hand through his hair, turned over his wrist and sighed at the time displayed on his watch. The bus was nearly an hour late. It shouldn’t really surprise him — the drivers were underpaid and underfed, but it made his nerves grow regardless. He knew that you’d be worried if he wasn’t home soon. Perhaps grow weary with me. He mused, endlessly insecure. Perhaps grow angry.

It was your one month anniversary (something you had found silly, but Arthur cherished) and he was dying to be next to you. To hold you, to see your lips curl up into that smile you reserved just for him. Dismayed, Arthur shifted uncomfortably on the old wooden bench and continued to wait.

It didn’t help that his mother had been rushed to the hospital two hours previously. Arthur hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. Killing those three men had been invigorating, mouthwatering — but plainly careless. He was responsible for somebody other than himself, always had been, and his first taste of crime had placed a roadblock in his daily routine and lessened his capability as a caregiver. Given the hysterical frailty of his mother, he knew it must have been elementary for the two detectives to send her toppling to the ground.

“Such a fool,” Arthur chastised under his breath. He should be home. With you. You were his home.

“Talkin’ to yourself there, big shoots?”

A gruff bark of a voice made Arthur’s thin shoulders jump in alarm. Green eyes lifted and scanned the immediate area before landing on two muscular gentlemen, both of whom were approaching him with a purpose.

Unsure of how to handle the abrupt confrontation, Arthur quirked his lips into a nervous smile and chose not to respond. He always found it wise to stay quiet, stay compliant. He inhaled deeply. Grimaced. Gotham absolutely reeked with this garbage strike.

It was the second man’s turn to speak. They were only a few feet away now. “What’s that in your hand? A diary?”

Arthur looked down to the spiral notebook he kept curled in his fist, then back up at the strangers. He felt the familiar sensation of dread crawl up along his back and spread ice-cold throughout his chest.

“Just a creative journal,” he managed, feeling small. “Jokes.”

Within moments, Arthur was sandwiched between the two of them — the bench definitely not wide enough for three men to sit comfortably— and he felt his throat go tight.

“Let’s have a look, shall we?” The first man grunted, and his movements were so sudden that Arthur didn’t get a chance to react as the journal was ripped away from him.

Arthur’s face twisted sadly, brows furrowing, “Hey, p…please give it back —”

The man to his left, who smelled heavily of cheap whiskey and gasoline, snorted and shuffled roughly through the pages. “What the fuck is this shit? I have generalized anxiety disorder, but it sucks because it affects me specifically.” A pause. “Is this supposed to be funny?”

If Arthur had been any other man, in any other city, he would have asked himself why he was being harassed for just… existing.

Just then, something fluttered out from between the pages and fell to the ground at Arthur’s feet. A tattered black and white polaroid photograph — of you.

Immediately panicked, Arthur leapt forward to grab it from the grimey Gotham concrete (how Murray Franklin could call this city beautiful, he’d never understand) but a large, muddy boot stomped on top of it, halting his efforts.

“Hey!” Arthur croaked, his throat beginning to spasm painfully. He swallowed hard, a desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. “Stop that!”

The man to Arthur’s right snatched the photo from beneath his boot and wolf-whistled, “Now who do we got here?” His eyes lingered a moment too long. “A friend of yours?”

No longer caring about his journal, Arthur put all of his energy into trying to get ahold of the picture, pulling at the man’s beefy arm.

This photo meant everything to Arthur. It was the only tangible reminder he had to convince himself that you were real. That you existed. That you weren’t some… fantastical hallucination.

“That’s my girlfriend,” Arthur tried to defend, but it came out in a ragged, choked laugh. “Give — Give it — Give it back —“

Both men eyed Arthur before breaking into greasy chuckles themselves. “Can’t even say it with a straight face, can ya?” The one to his right mocked. “Like you could land a broad like this.” He grabbed at his crotch and grunted. “I’d love to give her a good dicking, wouldn’t you, Brad?”

The one named Brad swiped the photo — just out of Arthur’s reach — before grinning. “Hell yeah. I’d show her what a real man feels like. Poor bitch has probably never been properly fucked, I mean look at this guy —”

Through his strangled laughter, Arthur managed to give Brad an aggressive shove into the lamp post beside them, positively enraged. His palms itched. Fuck. He had left his gun at home. It was starting to rain.

Before Arthur could take another step further, he received a deep blow to the gut, followed by one to the side of his jaw — an unforgiving one-two punch that left him gasping for air on the ground.

Head spinning, Arthur heaved out a laugh that tore up his throat, tasting blood in his mouth. He saw Brad make his way over and readied himself for punishment when police sirens went off nearby. The two men froze, hesitated, then tossed Arthur’s belongings to the ground before tearing around the corner to get away from what could be an arrest.

A foreign sense of relief crashed over Arthur. Had somebody actually stopped to help him? He heard the gravelly noise of wet tires against pavement. The sirens cut off. Still convulsing with laughter, Arthur lifted his head off of the dirty sidewalk and made eye contact with the policeman, an older gentleman sporting a mustache.

“Th... Thank you —”

Arthur would never forget the look of genuine disgust on the officer’s face as he wordlessly drove away.

The bus never came.

Thirty minutes later, Arthur was limping into his apartment elevator, drenched in rain water. Sneakers and socks soaked from puddles. Lip busted, ribs bruised. Photograph safe in his pocket. No longer laughing.

He had tried to focus on you on his walk home. On how light you made him feel. On how you belonged to him. But the mocking phrases from earlier rattled around his skull despite his efforts to push them away.

What a real man feels like. Arthur angrily scrubbed a wet hand over his face, his face tight with frustration. Never been properly fucked.

Shoving his keys into the lock of his apartment, Arthur began to breathe heavily, jaw set. “I’ll show them properly fucked.”

—

There was no way to prepare yourself for Arthur when he stormed in unannounced. You had been pacing wildly in his kitchen, stomach in knots, gripping one of the throw pillows from your his couch just to have something to cling onto. He was two hours late. This was nothing like your Arthur.

You knew how cruel the world was, just as well as he did. How when the sun went down, crime went up when it came to Gotham City.

Although it made your heart plummet, you weren’t surprised to see dried blood across Arthur’s cheek — but the absolutely deadly look splashed across his usually gentle little face — that gave you pause.

“Arthur, where were you — mmf!“

Like some sort of sinister ballet, Arthur smoothly kicked the door closed behind him, shed his water-sodden jacket and shoved you against the fridge with a bruising kiss. His hands moved from cradling your face to gripping hungrily at your hips to scratching wildly at your sides — he was everywhere, all over you.

The deep-seeded concern that had been holding you hostage melted away, but the relief of knowing Arthur was safe didn’t hinder your trembling — that only increased, especially with the way Arthur was nipping sharply at your bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” he gritted out, kissing and biting an aggressive path down along your throat now. “My girl.”

Absolutely panting, you gripped at him, fingers tangling in his wet hair. His unrelenting kisses were making you light-headed. “Baby…” Lashes fluttering, you pressed your body up into him and let out a soft mewl as he bit harshly at your shoulder. “Fuck!”

Arthur pulled back, green eyes wild, and hoisted you onto his kitchen counter with a strength you weren’t aware he possessed.

“That’s right,” he husked, his voice an octave lower than what you’re used to. He took a moment to lick his lips and drink you in, seeming to just now realize that you were only wearing one of his dress shirts. It fell just short of your bare knees.

He raised an eyebrow, an entirely different man now, and yet still so beautifully Arthur.

You blushed under his stare, trying to explain yourself, but it wasn’t anything eloquent: “It smells like your cologne.”

Without another word, Arthur slid his hands up underneath the dress shirt, hooked his fingertips around the hem of your panties, and yanked them off.

You had never gotten so wet so quickly.

The two of you had made love before, three times exactly, each time sweet and experimental and a little needy, but this — the way Arthur was now on his knees and aggressively spreading your legs — this was a side of him you had never seen before.

Lifting your legs so they rested over his shoulders, he growled at you. “Hold on to me.”

His mouth was hot against you, lapping broadly, and a gasp tore out of your chest. You scrambled to grab ahold of his shoulders, his head, anything to keep you from falling down as pleasure crashed over you. He was eating you greedily and your body was on fire. “Arthur, god…”

Arthur moaned against you, a rumbling vibration that made you whimper breathily, one of your hands bunching up the fabric of his damp shirt, the other tugging at his hair. His fingernails dug into your thighs and you wondered through a pleasured gasp if he would bruise you.

You were going to cum soon, it was evident in the way your own whimpers went up in pitch, and Arthur seemed to force himself to stop. He pushed up onto his feet and began to undo the buckle of his belt.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he demanded, unzipping his pants and swatting away your hands when you tried to help him. You groaned at the sight of him. He was so hard. He grabbed your face and forced you to look him in the eye. “Tell me.”

“You, baby.” Your chest swelled with the darkest kind of love as you trembled, reaching forward to push hair out of his face. Arthur’s lips and chin were wet and it was the most handsome you had ever seen him. “I’m a-all yours.”

And with that Arthur slammed into you, looking crazed and satisfied, an animalistic groan ripping out of his throat as he adjusted to how wet and tight you were around him. “All mine.”

With everything so heightened and sensitive, you had to bury your face in Arthur’s hair, arms wrapped around his shoulders as he finally began to fuck you. “Oh my god, Arthur…!”

His pace was brutal, as was his grip on your waist and somewhere in the back of your mind you heard dinner plates slide off the counter and shatter at Arthur’s feet.

You’d make him dinner again some other time.

#joker #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #joker movie #joker x reader #drabble

1K notes · View notes

chloebeale · 4 years ago

Photo

UNTIL I’M OKAY (preview)

AUTHORS: @bottombeca & @snowbritt. RATING: M. PAIRING: Bechloe. WORDS: 1,794. ABOUT: Bechloe ‘Dead To Me’ AU.

This is purely a preview of chapter one, the entirety of which will be posted shortly. While this fic is based heavily on the show Dead To Me, it has been altered, adjusted and added to to create a Bechloe story and universe.

We hope you enjoy the below preview of our collaborative baby!

Warnings: Mentions of death and miscarriage.

***

All morning, there have been signs; signs that Beca shouldn’t be here. Firstly, Ryder’s cheeks had looked a little more flushed than usual. No, maybe he didn’t have a fever or anything, but Beca is not a doctor, he totally could be getting sick. Maybe she should’ve kept him home from school for the day, stuck around to take care of him.

Next, the Atlanta traffic, typically insufferable anyway, had been even worse this morning somehow.

It also doesn’t help that this isn’t necessarily voluntary on her part—court-ordered attendance doesn’t care about signs, or so the judge told her the last time she skipped.

And now this: a broken coffee machine. At least, Beca thinks it’s broken… She is positive there is no way anybody would try to pass off what she can only consider the sludge floating around in her styrofoam cup as actual coffee, right? Not that she has tasted it yet. Rather, she simply eyes it with a scrutinizingly raised brow, attention shifting distractedly to the view ahead.

If she has to endure cheap coffee and even cheaper cliches, at least there’s a view. The river will be a nice distraction when everything inevitably starts to get a little too weepy for her tolerance, she supposes.

Perhaps Beca is a little too caught up in the serenity of it all, in fact—the aforementioned view—because she seems to lose herself for the briefest of moments, at least long enough to bring the coffee cup up to her lips.

Instantly, she regrets it.

“Dude, what the—” She doesn’t know if she should choke it down or spit it back in the cup.

“That bad, huh?”

The voice to break into her quiet outburst is an unfamiliar one, though it comes from close enough by to have Beca’s attention drifting toward its owner. She is unfamiliar, too. Beca doesn’t register her own blank expression until the other woman speaks again.

“The coffee…” There is a distinct lightness to the nameless face’s voice, one that Beca really does not have the energy for this morning. “Kind of looks like you’re not enjoying it.”

“Oh, right,” Beca nods, tone disinterested. “Yeah. It tastes like shit.”

The melodic giggle to ring out from the stranger’s lips seems somewhat misplaced, all things considered. “Guess I’ll avoid it then,” she says, tucking a chunk of curled red hair behind her ear. She hesitates for the shortest moment, before pushing a bright, welcoming smile to her lips. “I’m Chloe, by the way. This is…” Chloe motions vaguely around them, “Kind of new to me.”

Beca is not here to make friends. In fact, she doesn’t even want to be here. Regardless, she nods politely in response to Chloe’s introduction—it is really not her fault Beca cannot control her temper, after all. “Beca.”

“Beca…” Chloe repeats in a breezy tone, almost as if trying to commit it to memory. “Pretty.”

Though Beca’s brows tug together slightly, she offers Chloe a small smile, one that definitely does not meet her eyes—then again, when does Beca’s smile meet her eyes these days?

Chloe’s wide gaze seems to be staring at her expectantly, as if awaiting a response. What is she even supposed to say to that?

Fortunately—if anything about this situation can be considered fortunate—a new voice cuts into their conversation.

“Ready to join the circle?”

If Jesse were here, Beca would make a mumbled comment to him about how semi-threatening the request sounds. But, he isn’t… And that is why Beca is even here at all. So, exchanging a brief glance with Chloe, whose subtle amusement appears evident, Beca sets down her cup of lukewarm sludge, before dutifully making her way toward an empty seat.

“Looks like we have a few fresh faces here today,” the previous voice announces cheerfully.

Beca glances up to the blonde wearing the neatly pressed Fallen Leaves t-shirt, taking note of the way she is now looking expectantly between Beca and the redhead seated beside her.

Taking no further prompting, Chloe sends a small wave toward the group, before introducing herself with a polite, “Hi. I’m Chloe.”

Following a brief silence, Beca registers the countless sets of eyes now training on her.

“Oh. Um, hi. I’m Beca,” she says awkwardly to the group, the distinct difference between she and Chloe’s greetings palpable. The way she straightens in her chair seems to display her level of discomfort, if the way the blonde shoots a sympathetic look her way is anything to go by.

“Well, welcome to Fallen Leaves,” she says, evidently taking over, “My name is Aubrey. As some of you know, I like to start out our grief group by sharing the loss that got me into this work.”

Beca braces herself for the first of what she’s sure will be many sob stories to come, though she takes comfort in the focus no longer being on her.

“During an acapella competition in college, under extreme pressure, I violently vomited on stage,” Aubrey begins to explain somberly. “My co-captain slipped in it and fell off the stage, breaking her neck in the process. It happened with the whole crowd watching, not to mention on live television.” She pauses briefly, giving the group a moment to digest the information and evidently ignoring the look of mild horror displayed across Beca’s face. “And I live with that every day.”

Shrinking back into her chair a little bit, Beca is beginning to regret everything that led to her being here today. She doesn’t want to talk about it with anyone—let alone someone who anxiety-puked their way into killing someone.

“Oh, my god,” Chloe murmurs sympathetically.

Aubrey presses her lips together. “Thank you. Is there a loss you’ve had that you’d like to share with us today?” Her gaze moves toward Beca briefly, though Beca is quick to shake her head in response.

“I do,” the voice beside her pipes up. The group’s attention, Beca and Aubrey’s included, moves toward Chloe, and Beca finds that she is grateful to lose the spotlight yet again.

Apparently, Chloe doesn’t share Beca’s disdain for all eyes on her. She looks comfortable enough as she shoots a small smile toward her audience. “Okay,” Chloe begins, straightening slightly in her seat. Just because she seems to be okay with the attention does not mean that whatever she is about to say is something she is comfortable with. In fact, it becomes quickly evident that it is not. “Well, um, my fiancé and I—ex fiancé—were trying to start a family. We tried a bunch of times, in fact,” Chloe explains, settling into her story.

Beca notes the way her gaze lowers, as if she is mentally disappearing somewhere else.

“About eight weeks ago, our baby died. It was sudden. Really sudden. I was…” Chloe’s voice gets small and strained as she wrings her fingers together.

Beca is about the least affectionate woman in all of Atlanta, but something about Chloe’s small voice and shrinking demeanor almost makes her want to reach out and settle a comforting hand against her shoulder. She doesn’t, of course; she just focuses her own sad gaze on Chloe as she continues.

“I was five months along, so we weren’t really expecting it, you know? Maybe we should have been. There were four before this. And the miscarriages… No one prepares you for how hard they really are. But this time, I guess I just thought we’d made it. That I was really going to have a family.”

Chloe is looking down at her hands, folded into each other to keep from fidgeting. “This time we’d set up the nursery. We hadn’t done that before, not since the first…” She clears her throat. “I keep coming back to this baby blanket that I’ll never get to wrap around my baby. Or lift it to my nose and breathe in her smell when I miss her.” She blinks a few times and looks back up, like she is coming back to the present. Beca notes that her eyes are a little harder to look into now. “So, yeah,” Chloe murmurs. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

That same somber expression, already familiar, has returned almost automatically to Aubrey’s face. “We’re here for you, Chloe,” she says, a genuine air to her comforting tone. “Let’s hear it for Chloe, guys.”

Like conditioned robots reading from a brief handed out before Beca’s arrival, everyone except for Beca, who is unintentionally watching Chloe, says in monotone, “We’re here for you, Chloe.”

Beca’s is the lone voice to say, much more personally, “That sucks. I’m really sorry.”

Despite the sea of eyes trained on Chloe, Chloe’s gaze lifts to meet Beca’s, auburn brows drawn tightly together. They seem to relax a little as she looks at Beca, though. Eventually, she just says, “Thank you,” quietly, a small nod of appreciation accompanying her words.

A moment passes between them before Aubrey speaks. “Thank you for sharing that.” While Beca may not be used to this, to people opening up so deeply and personally, Aubrey evidently is. It seems to be business as usual for her as she continues in a clear voice. “Last week, we started talking about the F-word.”

Instantly, Beca’s eyebrows jump up. She glances around at everyone else, but they don’t seem to find anything strange about this—something Beca finds strange in and of itself. Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe’s gaze catches Beca’s, and Beca notes that it looks as though she’s trying to suppress a confused chuckle.

“That’s right. Forgiveness,” Aubrey says. “Forgiveness can be really difficult. It can even take a lifetime. But no matter the circumstances, everyone is deserving of forgiveness.”

Beca can’t keep the indignant scoff from leaving her lips even if she wants to. Aubrey stops talking, her mouth slightly open in offense, while piercing eyes seem to narrow in on Beca directly.

“Do you have anything to share about forgiveness, Beca?”

Beca’s lips purse, armor falling briefly. “Yeah, I do,” she nods. “How do you forgive someone who hits your husband with their car and then drives away, leaving him to bleed to death on the side of the road?” Beca mutters flatly. “How do you forgive the person responsible for you lying awake every night, wondering how your boys are supposed to cope without their father? How do you forgive that?”

Wide eyes stare her way incredulously, but before anyone has the chance to respond, she leans back in her chair, closing herself off to further conversation. “You know what, I actually don’t want to get into it, so someone else can go,” Beca exhales sharply, trying to push her anger back into its usual box, stored up on the highest shelf where it belongs.

#beca mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe fic #bechloe fanfic #dead to me #until i'm okay #bottombeca #collab:bottombeca #mine #mine:writing

124 notes · View notes

thecleverdame · 5 years ago

Text

Gods of Twilight - 18

Alpha!Werewolf!Sam x Human!Reader

Master List (posting schedule is there as well)

Summary: You marry Sam, The King of Lebanon, as part of an alliance between two lands. You soon discover that nothing is as it appears and that your husband is hiding a secret that may end your relationship before it can begin.

Warnings: smut, dub-con, canon-level violence, domestic discipline, spanking. This chapter does contain some non-con elements.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

*This story is complete. All 27 chapters are available on Patreon. To get access to this and many other stories, subscribe for a pledge of 2.50 per month. CLICK HERE

Sam stands behind you with arms crossed over his chest, watching the midwife examine your bulging belly.

“You’re larger than I would expect for seven months,” she states evenly, feeling the underside of your stomach through your nightgown. “Are you in any discomfort?”

“No, I feel strong. Energized.”

“And you’ve been sleeping well?”

“I’ve slept better these last 2 months than ever before. My only complaint is how hard he kicks now. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make it through another two months if he’s going to grow stronger.”

“I’m afraid that’s part of motherhood.” Martha smiles.

“Show her,” Sam nods, his jaw locked.

He’s constantly worried about you. If it’s not an outside threat from some vengeful townsperson, it’s your health and this child.

Sighing, you lift your gown to show her your ribs. She does a double-take, looking at you in silent question and inching closer. There are black and blue marks up and down both sides of your stomach.

“This is the child?” she gasps, directing her question towards Sam.

“She’s in pain. It’s worse in the evenings,” he explains, running a hand over his mouth. “You should feel how hard he kicks, it’s unfathomable. I’m concerned he’ll break her ribs.”

“It’s that painful?” she asks you.

“Only during the night, and it’s never for too long.” You force optimism. One of you has to see the sunny side of things. “He gives me some relief during the day.”

Martha chews on her lower lip. She thinks hard and then stands up straight, pausing before speaking directly to Sam.

“I've lived here all my life, my king. I was born into service, just as my mother. I am loyal. I see the things that go on here, strange things. If there is something I should know, secrets you’ve hesitated to tell me for fear of gossip, I would encourage you to tell me now. We both want the same thing, to deliver a healthy child and keep your wife alive and thriving. In order to do that I need full information.”

Looking back at Sam you wait for his refusal, but instead he smashes his lips together as he contemplates her request.

“You can never tell another living soul,” he instructs.

“Of course, my king.”

“And if you do, you’ll die as the penalty.”

You look down at your hands, wishing desperately that you weren’t privy to this kind of ultimatum. It’s not often you see or hear this side of him and it’s unsettling to hear him whisper death threats in the confines of your bedroom.

“I understand,” Martha confirms without pause. “Now tell me everything.”

She sits and listens, calm and collected, as Sam explains about wolves and shifters. He offers all the details, explains how he came to be. And how this process usually works. She doesn’t bat an eye. On the contrary, she’s taking mental notes. Asking well thought out questions.

She doesn’t appear to be the least bit surprised.

“Is there anyone from your...” she struggles for the right word.

“Pack,” Sam helps her.

“Is there anyone from your pack that delivers the children? Is there a midwife?”

“Yes,” Sam nods, chewing on the inside of his cheeks as he looks from Martha to you.

“Then we should call her here to have a look at your wife. With our combined skills, we’ll have a better chance of accurately predicting what’s to come.”

“They’re unhappy that I’ve chosen to have a child with a woman who isn’t like the rest of the pack. I don’t trust anyone, other than you.”

Martha sighs, then nods. She could push the matter but she won’t. She knows her place and it's obvious how much he cares for you. If he thought it was a viable possibility he would have explored it already.

“I’ll be just fine,” you smile at your husband. “I’m strong and so is our baby. We’re both going to be just fine.”

10 Weeks Later

“Are you sure about this?” Martha asks. In these last weeks, she’s become your constant companion.

The carriage rocks side to side as you slowly ride toward the walls of the city.

“I need to walk. I need fresh air.” You close your eyes in concentration as the cramp in your back flares up. The pains are constant now. It’s not the child, or rather it’s not anything he’s doing. He’s simply large and active, and your body is having trouble dealing with the weight.

You begged Sam for a week. Pleaded with him to let you outside. Your muscles and hips ache and walking is the only activity that offers any relief at all. You’ve been around the halls of the castle so many times that it’s depressing to even think about being inside for another moment.

After several rounds of tears, he finally agreed to a brief outing.

The child will come any day now and Martha helped affirm his decision by suggesting that a brisk walk could be exactly what you needed to get the process moving.

Now you’re bound for the fields just outside of the city’s wall, accompanied by not only the King, but a dozen knights as well.

When the carriage finally stops, Sam helps you out into the sunlight of the early afternoon. There’s a chill in the air, but you’re plenty warm. You’ve grown thicker in these last months, eating more and more to satisfy your child’s constant hunger.

“Where would you like to walk?” Sam asks. His eyes are on the horizon. He’s always watching, looking for some invisible threat.

“There, closer to the trees.” You point across the field and Sam does the same as several knights trot ahead to ensure safe passage. Sam takes your arm and you walk, or a more appropriate term would be waddle, toward the lush pines.

You’re not fooled. There are things he’s not telling you, threats he keeps from you in the name of love. He doesn’t want to worry you, but in fact, his lack of forthrightness sends your mind reeling with the possibilities.

“Let me know if you grow tired and we’ll rest.”

“I’ve only been walking for a minute. I’m not impaired, I just move more slowly than I used to.”

“I’m surprised you want to be out here moving around at all.”

“It feels good. The pain goes away when I walk. I think he’s giving me this extra energy.” You smile upward, letting the sun wash over your face. “After he’s born will you take me riding? I long to be outside.”

“We’ll see,” Sam meanders at a snail's pace beside you. “You’re not too cold, are you? I can have Martha bring a cloak-”

“Stop,” you whine, looking to him. “Stop fussing over me and let me be. I want to walk in the country with my husband. It doesn’t have to become such a production.”

“I am only trying to do what’s best,” he counters and your heart sinks.

“I know, and I love you for it.” You pull yourself closer to him, leaning into his side as you walk. “I also wish for you to take me fishing. And star gazing on a summer night.”

“I had no idea you'd come up with such an extensive list.” He grins, his hand cupping your shoulder.

“Oh, that’s not all. I would like to travel. See faraway places, explore other kingdoms. Take our son to see the world. But I’ll start with an evening beneath the stars.”

“I will give you the moon itself once it’s safe. You’ll be free to roam far and wide.”

While your confines have worn your patience, your marriage has only grown stronger. There is genuine love and appreciation for each other. You have found a love that you never dreamed existed outside of your books. Despite his many great responsibilities, Sam finds a way to put you first, to make time for quiet moments together.

It’s what made the seclusion of this pregnancy bearable.

A lone rider approaches in the distance. Sam spots the horseman first, putting his hand out to stop you, but retracts it just as quickly. He must recognize whoever it is. As the rider comes closer you can make out the form of a petite woman with raven hair… Ruby.

“My king,” she’s breathless as she dismounts. “There’s been an attack to the north. Robert and Benjamin have been killed. Your brother was hurt but he’s alive. The men are coming together now in the Eastern Woods.”

“I have to go.” Sam shakes his head, turning to you, then back to Ruby. “Stay with my wife. Ensure that she gets to safety and then join us.”

“I will,” Ruby confirms, handing off the reins to Sam who mounts the steed.

“Be careful!” you call out, watching him ride away.

Ruby stands before you, examining your new appearance. Not many people have seen you since your belly began to grow. Her mouth goes tight, forcing a painful smile.

“You look as if you may pop at any moment.” She looks away, as if the sight of you makes her ill. “Come along, I need to get you to the carriage.”

She takes you by the arm, guiding you back toward the transport and Martha and Phillip are beside you in an instant.

“We need to move fast, my queen. There could be another attack planned.”

As if on cue, a dozen men on horseback burst from the tree line. The thundering hooves make the ground shake as they approach.

“Run!” Ruby grabs one hand and Martha the other, pulling you along as fast as your legs will carry you. As the riders close in, the Knights surrounded you in defense and Phillip plucks you off your feet and carries you in a sprint.

You’re halfway there when someone calls out a warning. Phillip is hit from behind and goes tumbling to the ground. You land underneath him, crushed by his weight as you wriggle free only to be met with the face of your assailant. He’s a hideous man with oily hair and yellowing teeth. He growls at you, smiling with a sickening grin as he brings a short knife down into your side.

You scream, clutching the wound as blood pours over your fingers. He’s coming back for a second stab as Ruby lurches toward him with a giant, jagged dagger in her hand. She rams it upward under his jaw and the blade cuts through blood and bone like a knife through butter. The instant she withdraws the knife, his lifeless body drops to the ground.

“Get up!” Martha is lifting you off the ground in some amazing feat of strength.

The two of you stumble thirty paces before a man charges with an ax raised in the air but Phillip gets to him before he can reach you. You scramble back toward the carriage, tripping over your own feet and falling to the ground.

Martha and Ruby manage to drag you inside the carriage and the instant the doors shut, you’re bound for the castle.

“He stabbed me!” You cry out in panic, frantically feeling your belly. “Did he kill my baby?”

Martha tries to find the wound, unable to examine it through your dress, but Ruby is already in motion. With a truly superhuman strength she tears your dress at the seams, then the layers underneath, leaving you naked from the waist up.

Your breasts and belly are coated in bright red blood, a sight that sends your heart into your throat.

“Please, don’t let anything happen to-”

“Calm down!” Martha yells, grabbing your jaw, forcing you to focus on her. “Stop, take a breath and calm down. You need to remain composed to prevent any further trauma.”

Martha and Ruby examine the stab wound, Ruby using the skirts of her dress to wipe the excess blood away.

“The knife caught you between the ribs,” Ruby explains, grabbing your hand with blood wet fingers. “Not your stomach.”

“You’re going to be just fine,” Martha soothes the hair back from your forehead as you lie between them on the floor of the coach.

A quick, tightening of your stomach takes your breath away. And then the pain comes and a wet sensation at your sex. You reach down, pulling up your dress and feeling between your own legs. When you withdraw your hand there’s nothing but more blood.

“He’s coming,” you gasp, looking at the blood on your palm. “I’m not ready.”

“Yes, you are my dear.” Martha pats your hand, then leans out the window and hollers to Phillip. “We need to move faster!”

“Where is Sam?” you plead. “I need him.”

“One of the knights will have gone to find him,” Ruby assures you. “He’ll come as soon as he hears you were injured.”

“What if they attack him?”

“He is the strongest of all of us and his men will protect him at all costs.”

The pain comes in waves, like the cramps from your monthly bleeding only so strong that it feels as if your stomach is tearing. You cry out as the carriage flees back toward the castle, feeling each bump along the way.

Phillip carries you up to your chambers, laying you on the bed as a swirl of activity bursts to life around you. The room is full of handmaids with Martha barking orders at all.

Time becomes a series of intervals between the pain of contractions. And they are coming closer and closer together.

It feels like hours before you hear Sam’s voice in the hall. Martha gets up and you listen to a muted conversation. He yells something and then there’s Dean voice, just as angry.

“Y/N?” You hear your husband’s voice, growing closer.

“Sam?” You reach out for him and his familiar hand takes yours. You sob in relief at the confirmation he’s alive and he won’t leave until this is over.

“I’m here,” his voice is close, as he leans down to talk to you.

“It’s not going very well,” you laugh, trembling as a feverish heat consumes you.

“You’re perfect,” his voice cracks. He clears his throat before continuing. “Martha assures me everything is going to be just fine.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His hand tightens around yours.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“It’s time,” you gulp, sweat rolling in beads down your forehead. The pain swells, a mighty crest that’s worse and more intense than everything that came before and your body begins to try to push the baby out.

“Push, just like we practiced.” Martha settles between your legs.

Bearing down, you push with all your might, feeling a second of relief before the contraction ebbs. Then the agony picks back up and you push again, something giving way and the child moves. It happens fast, one second you’re in unbearable torment and then all the pain stops and the baby leaves your body in a life-changing instant.

The room is silent. You wait for the squeal of your son, but there’s nothing. Sam’s hand is clamping over yours so tight he might break it.

“Is he alive?” you rasp, trying in vain to prop yourself up. You look up at Sam’s eyes, there are tears in each corner. “Is he alive?!”

“She is very much alive,” Martha appears above you with a wiggling little baby in her arms. “You have a daughter.”

You laugh, an exhausted chuckle and reach out for your child. Martha places her on your chest before exchanging a weighted look with your husband.

She’s a perfect, chubby girl with bright green eyes and a head of dark hair that is surely from her father. You cry freely, studying her face and gently touch her round, flushed cheeks.

“We have a daughter. I can’t believe it. Sam, look how beautiful she is.” You look up at Sam who’s breathing fast, his throat bobbing at the sight of you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he wavers. “I-I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” You focus back on your baby, trying to think what you’ll name her. You were so sure she’d be a boy.

“Give us the room.” Sam wipes at his eyes.

Sam is most handsome when he’s happy, beautiful when his heart is full. He should be elated, but right now he looks as if he's been shot with an arrow. You watch everyone leave, except Martha who comes to sit on the opposite side of your husband.

“What’s happening?” The fear is creeping in as you look from her to Sam, cradling the baby resting on your chest.

“Shhh,” Sam strokes your hair, lowering down onto his side. “Just lie here with me and hold our daughter.”

In these last months, Martha subdued nearly all your fears. You’d heard horror stories of women in unbearable pain and were frightened of feeling yourself tear when giving birth. But she assured you, time and time again, that because there is such intense pressure during labor you wouldn’t be able to feel anything that happened.

As you lie in the bed, it dawns on you that you still can’t feel anything below your waist. You try to wiggle your toes but there’s no sensation. You look down at your naked body. While you can’t see much there’s a clear slick of red between your thighs, soaking the bed.

You’re still bleeding, bleeding too much.

“What's happening to me?” you whisper, kissing the tiny fingers of your sweet girl.

“It’s not important. Just enjoy this time together. That’s all that matters.” Martha says.

“I’m right here with you.” Sam nuzzles his forehead against your cheek, snuggling closer to you and his child. He’s crying.

You don’t want to ask. Don’t want the confirmation, but you need to know. You’re not long for this world.

“How much time do I have?”

“It won’t be long now.” Martha turns away, swallowing her emotion and getting up off the bed. “I’ll be in the hall when you need me.”

There’s a faint wispy fizzing in the back of your brain and a profound coldness rising up from your belly into your chest.

“I’m not ready to leave you,” you whisper. Words are becoming harder, your tongue thick and heavy.

“I know, my love.” Sam wraps his arm around you over your ribs. “I’m not either.”

“I’m scared, and I want to...stay here with...you two.” The words come slowly. “I’m...so...tired…”

“Close your eyes and go to sleep. There’s nothing to be scared of, we’re here with you. We love you.”

You don’t want to close your eyes, but Sam’s body is warm and comforting around you. The baby on your chest is cooing, a little mouth eager to find a breast. This must be what heaven will be like. Maybe you’re already there.

There’s a fleeting thought, a hope that you’ll stay with them always, and they with you. Your heart simultaneously swells and breaks as the life that could have been flashes before your eyes. This time was short but happy and as the end comes all you feel is the enveloping warmth of love holding you tight.

Surrounded by your husband and daughter you take a final breath and close your eyes.

#alpha!sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfiction

204 notes · View notes